THE
INTERPRETATION
OF
CULTURES
SELECTED ESSAYS
BY
Clifford Geertz
Basic Books, Inc., Puhlishers
NEW YORK
© 1973 by Basic Books, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-81196
SBN: 465-03425-X
Manufactured in the United States of America
76 77 10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Contents
Preface
PART I
4 Chapter 11 Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive
vii
Theory of Culture 3
PART II
Chapter 21 The Impact of the Concept of Culture on
the Concept of Man 33
Chapter 31 The Growth of Culture and the Evolution
of Mind 55
PART III
Chapter 41 Religion As a Cultural System 87
Chapter 51 Ethos, World View, and the Analysis of
Sacred Symbols 126
Chapter 61 Ritual and Social Change: A Javanese
Example 142
Chapter 71 "Internal Conversion" in Contemporary Bali 170
vi CONTENTS
PART IV
Chapter 8/ Ideology As a Cultural System
Chapter 9/ After the Revolution: The Fate of
Nationalism in the New States
Chapter 10/ The Integrative Revolution: Primordial
193
234
Sentiments and Civil Politics in the New States 255
Chapter 111 The Politics of Meaning 311
Chapter 12/ Politics Past, Politics Present: Some Notes on
the Uses of Anthropology in Understanding
the New States 327
PART V
Chapter 13/ The Cerebral Savage: On the Work of Claude
Levi-Strauss 345
Chapter 14/ Person, Time, and Conduct in Bali 360
-4- Chapter 15/ Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight 412
Acknowledgments 455
Index 457
Chapter 1 /Thick
Description: Toward an
Interpretive Theory of
Culture
I
In her book, Philosophy in a New Key, Susanne Langer remarks that
certain ideas burst upon the intellectual landscape with a tremendous
force. They resolve so many fundamental problems at once that they
seem also to promise that they will resolve all fundamental problems,
clarify all obscure issues. Everyone snaps them up as the open sesame
of some new positive science, the conceptual center-point around which
a comprehensive system of analysis can be built. The sudden vogue of
such a grande idee, crowding out almost everything else for a while, is
due, she says, "to the fact that all sensitive and active minds turn at
once to exploiting it. We try it in every connection, for every purpose,
experiment with possible stretches of its strict meaning, with generalizations
and derivatives."
After we have become familiar with the new idea, however, after it
has become part of our general stock of theoretical concepts, our expec-
4 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
tations are brought more into balance with its actual uses, and its excessive
popularity is ended. A few zealots persist in the old key-to-the-universe
view of it; but less driven thinkers settle down after a while to the
problems the idea has really generated. They try to apply it and extend
it where it applies and where it is capable of extension; and they desist
where it does not apply or cannot be extended. It becomes, if it was, in
truth, a seminal idea in the first place, a permanent and enduring part
of our intellectual armory. But it no longer has the grandiose, all-promising
scope, the infinite versatility of apparent application, it once had.
The second law of thermodynamics, or the principle of natural selection,
or the notion of unconscious motivation, or the organization of the
means of production does not explain everything, not even everything
human, but it still explains something; and our attention shifts to isolating
just what that something is, to disentangling ourselves from a lot of
pseudoscience to which, in the first flush of its celebrity, it has also
given rise.
Whether or not this is, in fact, the way all centrally important scientific
concepts develop, I don't know. But certainly this pattern fits the
concept of culture, around which the whole discipline of anthropology
arose, and whose domination that discipline has been increasingly concerned
to limit, specify, focus, and contain. It is to this cutting of the
culture concept down to size, therefore actually insuring its continued
importance rather than undermining it, that the essays below are all, in
their several ways and from their several directions, dedicated. They all
argue, sometimes explicitly, more often merely through the particular
analysis they develop, for a narrowed, specialized, and, so I imagine,
theoretically more powerful concept of culture to replace E. B. Tylor's
famous "most complex whole," which, its originative power not denied,
seems to me to have reached the point where it obscures a good deal
more than it reveals.
The conceptual morass into which the Tylorean kind of pot-au-feu
theorizing about culture can lead, is evident in what is still one of the
better general introductions to anthropology, Clyde Kluckhohn's Mirror
for Man. In some twenty-seven pages of his chapter on the concept,
Kluckhohn managed to define culture in turn as: (1) "the total way of
life of a people"; (2) "the social legacy the individual acquires from his
group"; (3) "a way of thinking, feeling, and believing"; (4) "an abstraction
from behavior"; (5) a theory on the part of the anthropologist
about the way in which a group of people in fact behave; (6) a "store-
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 5
house of pooled learning"; (7) "a set of standardized orientations to recurrent
problems" ; (8) "learned behavior"; (9) a mechanism for the
normative regulation of behavior; ( 10) "a set of techniques for adjusting
both to the external environment and to other men"; ( 1 1) "a precipitate
of history"; and turning, perhaps in desperation, to similes, as a map, as
a sieve, and as a matrix. In the face of this sort of theoretical diffusion,
even a somewhat constricted and not entirely standard concept of culture,
which is at least internally coherent and, more important, which
has a definable argument to make is (as, to be fair, Kluckhohn himself
keenly realized) an improvement. Eclecticism is self-defeating not because
there is only one direction in which it is useful to move, but because
there are so many: it is necessary to choose.
The concept of culture I espouse, and whose utility the essays below
attempt to demonstrate, is essentially a semiotic one. Believing, with
Max Weber, that man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he
himself has spun, I take culture to be those webs, and the analysis of it
to be therefore not an experimental science in search of law but an interpretive
one in search of meaning. It is explication I am after,
construing social expressions on their surface enigmatical. But this pronouncement,
a doctrine in a clause, demands itself some explication.
II
Operationalism as a methodological dogma never made much sense so
far as the social sciences are concerned, and except for a few rather too
well-swept corners-Skinnerian behaviorism, intelligence testing, and
so on-it is largely dead now. But it had, for all that, an important
point to make, which, however we may feel about trying to define charisma
or alienation in terms of operations, retains a certain force: if you
want to understand what a science is, you should look in the first instance
not at its theories or its findings, and certainly not at what its
apologists say about it; you should look at what the practitioners of it
do.
In anthropology, or anyway social anthropology, what the practioners
do is ethnography. And it is in understanding what ethnography is, or
more exactly what doing ethnography is, that a start can be made to-
6 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
ward grasping what anthropological analysis amounts to as a form of
knowledge. This, it must immediately be said, is not a matter of methods.
From one point of view, that of the textbook, doing ethnography is
establishing rapport, selecting informants, transcribing texts, taking genealogies,
mapping fields, keeping a diary, and so on. But it is not these
things, techniques and received procedures, that define the enterprise.
What defines it is the kind of intellectual effort it is: an elaborate venture
in, to borrow a notion from Gilbert Ryle, "thick description."
Ryle's discussion of "thick description" appears in two recent essays of
his (now reprinted in the second volume of his Collected Papers) addressed
to the general question of what, as he puts it, "Le Penseur" is
doing: "Thinking and Reflecting" and "The Thinking of Thoughts."
Consider, he says, two boys rapidly contracting the eyelids of their right
eyes. In one, this is an involuntary twitch; in the other, a conspiratorial
signal to a friend. The two movements are, as movements, identical;
from an l-am-a-camera, "phenomenalistic" observation of them alone,
one could not tell which was twitch and which was wink, or indeed
whether both or either was twitch or wink. Yet the difference, however
unphotographable, between a twitch and a wink is vast; as anyone unfortunate
enough to have had the first taken for the second knows. The
winker is communicating, and indeed communicating in a quite precise
and special way: (I) deliberately, (2) to someone in particular, (3) to
impart a particular message, (4) according to a socially established
code, and (5) without cognizance of the rest of the company. As Ryle
points out, the winker has not done two things, contracted his eyelids
and winked, while the twitcher has done only one, contracted his eyelids.
Contracting your eyelids on purpose when there exists a public
code in which so doing counts as a conspiratorial signal is winking.
That's all there is to it: a speck of behavior, a fleck of culture, andvoila!-a
gesture.
That, however, is just the beginning. Suppose, he continues, there is a
third boy, who, "to give malicious amusement to his cronies," parodies
the first boy's wink, as amateurish, clumsy, obvious, and so on. He, of
course, does this in the same way the second boy winked and the first
twitched: by contracting his right eyelids. Only this boy is neither winking
nor twitching, he is parodying someone else's, as he takes it, laughable,
attempt at winking. Here, too, a socially established code exists (he
will "wink" laboriously, overobviously, perhaps adding a grimace-the
usual artifices of the clown) ; and so also does a message. Only now it is
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 7
not conspiracy but ridicule that is in the air. If the others think he is actually
winking, his whole project misfires as completely, though with
somewhat different results, as if they think he is twitching. One can go
further: uncertain of his mimicking abilities, the would-be satirist may
practice at home before the mirror, in which case he is not twitching,
winking, or parodying, but rehearsing; though so far as what a camera,
a radical behaviorist, or a believer in protocol sentences would record
he is just rapidly contracting his right eyelids like all the others. Complexities
are possible, if not practically without end, at least logically so.
The original winker might, for example, actually have been fake-winking,
say, to mislead outsiders into imagining there was a conspiracy
afoot when there in fact was not, in which case our descriptions of what
the parodist is parodying and the rehearser rehearsing of course shift
accordingly. But the point is that between what Ryle calls the "thin description"
of what the rehearser (parodist, winker, twitcher . . .) is
doing ("rapidly contracting his right eyelids") and the "thick description"
of what he is doing ("practicing a burlesque of a friend faking a
wink to deceive an innocent into thinking a conspiracy is in motion")
lies the object of ethnography: a stratified hierarchy of meaningful
structures in terms of which twitches, winks, fake-winks, parodies, rehearsals
of parodies are produced, perceived, and interpreted, and
without which they would not (not even the zero-form twitches, which,
as a cultural category, are as much nonwinks as winks are nontwitches)
in fact exist, no matter what anyone did or didn't do with his eyelids.
Like so many of the little stories Oxford philosophers like to make
up for themselves, all this winking, fake-winking, burlesque-fake-winking,
rehearsed-burlesque-fake-winking, may seem a bit artificial. In way
of adding a more empirical note, let me give, deliberately unpreceded
by any prior explanatory comment at all, a not untypical excerpt from
my own field journal to demonstrate that, however evened off for didactic
purposes, Ryle's example presents an image only too exact of the
sort of piled-up structures of inference and implication through which
an ethnographer is continually trying to pick his way:
The French [the informant said] had only just arrived. They set up twenty
or so small forts between here, the town, and the Marmusha area up in the
middle of the mountains, placing them on promontories so they could survey
the countryside. But for all this they couldn't guarantee safety, especially
at night, so although the mezrag, trade-pact, system was supposed to
be legally abolished it in fact continued as before.
8 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
One night, when Cohen (who speaks fluent Berber), was up there, at Marmusha,
two other Jews who were traders to a neighboring tribe came by to
purchase some goods from him. Some Berbers, from yet another neighboring
tribe, tried to break into Cohen's place, but he fired his rifle in the air.
(Traditionally, Jews were not allowed to carry weapons; but at this period
things were so unsettled many did so anyway.) This attracted the attention
of the French and the marauders fled.
The next night, however, they came back, one of them disguised as a
woman who knocked on the door with some sort of a story. Cohen was suspicious
and didn't want to let "her" in, but the other Jews said, "oh, it's all
right, it's only a woman." So they opened the door and the whole lot came
pouring in. They killed the two visiting Jews, but Cohen managed to barricade
himself in an adjoining room. He heard the robbers planning to burn
him alive in the shop after they removed his goods, and so he opened the
door and, laying about him wildly with a club, managed to escape through a
window.
He went up to the fort, then, to have his wounds dressed, and complained
to the local commandant, one Captain Dumari, saying he wanted his 'ari.e.,
four or five times the value of the merchandise stolen from him. The
robbers were from a tribe which had not yet submitted to French authority
and were in open rebellion against it, and he wanted authorization to go
with his mezrag-holder, the Marmusha tribal sheikh, to collect the indemnity
that, under traditional rules, he had coming to him. Captain Dumari
couldn't officially give him permission to do this, because of the French prohibition
of the mezrag relationship, but he gave him verbal authorization,
saying, "If you get killed, it's your problem."
So the sheikh, the Jew, and a small company of armed Marmushans went
off ten or fifteen kilometers up into the rebellious area, where there were of
course no French, and, sneaking up, captured the thief-tribe's shepherd and
stole its herds. The other tribe soon came riding out on horses after them,
armed with rifles and ready to attack. But when they saw who the "sheep
thieves" were, they thought better of it and said, "all right, we'll talk." They
couldn't really deny what had happened-that some of their men had
robbed Cohen and killed the two visitors-and they weren't prepared to
start the serious feud with the Marmusha a scuffle with the invading party
would bring on. So the two groups talked, and talked, and talked, there on
the plain amid the thousands of sheep. and decided finally on five-hundredsheep
damages. The two armed Berber groups then lined up on their horses
at opposite ends of the plain, with the sheep herded between them, and
Cohen, in his black gown, pillbox hat, and flapping slippers, went out alone
among the sheep, picking out, one by one and at his own good speed, the
best ones for his payment.
So Cohen got his sheep and drove them back to Marmusha. The French,
up in their fort, heard them coming from some distance ("Ba, ba, ba" said
Cohen, happily, recalling the image) and said, "What the hell is that?" And
Cohen said, "That is my 'ar." The French couldn't believe he had actually
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 9
done what he said he had done, and accused him of being a spy for the rebellious
Berbers, put him in prison, and took his sheep. In the town, his
family, not having heard from him in so long a time, thought he was dead.
But after a while the French released him and he came back home, but
without his sheep. He then went to the Colonel in the town, the Frenchman
in charge of the whole region, to complain. But the Colonel said, "I can't do
anything about the matter. It's not my problem."
Quoted raw, a note in a bottle, this passage conveys, as any similar
one similarly presented would do, a fair sense of how much goes into
ethnographic description of even the most elemental sort-how extraordinarily
"thick" it is. In finished anthropological writings, including
those collected here, this fact-that what we call our data are really our
own constructions of other people's constructions of what they and their
compatriots are up to-is obscured because most of what we need to
comprehend a particular event, ritual, custom, idea, or whatever is insinuated
as background information before the thing itself is directly examined.
(Even to reveal that this little drama took place in the highlands
of central Morocco in 19 12-and was recounted there in
1968-is to determine much of our understanding of it.) There is nothing
particularly wrong with this, and it is in any case inevitable. But it
does lead to a view of anthropological research as rather more of an observational
and rather less of an interpretive activity than it really is.
Right down at the factual base, the hard rock, insofar as there is any, of
the whole enterprise, we are already explicating: and worse, explicating
explications. Winks upon winks upon winks.
Analysis, then, is sorting out the structures of signification-what
Ryle called established codes, a somewhat misleading expression, for it
makes the enterprise sound too much like that of the cipher clerk when
it is much more like that of the literary critic-and determining their
social ground and import. Here, in our text, such sorting would begin
with distinguishing the three unlike frames of interpretation ingredient
in the situation, Jewish, Berber, and French, and would then move on
to show how (and why) at that time, in that place, their copresence produced
a situation in which systematic misunderstanding reduced traditional
form to social farce. What tripped Cohen up, and with him the
whole, ancient pattern of social and economic relationships within
which he functioned, was a confusion of tongues.
I shall come back to this too-compacted aphorism later, as well as to
the details of the text itself. The point for now is only that ethnography
10 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
is thick description. What the ethnographer is in fact faced withexcept
when (as, of course, he must do) he is pursuing the more automatized
routines of data collection-is a multiplicity of complex conceptual
structures, many of them superimposed upon or knotted into
one another, which are at once strange, irregular, and inexplicit, and
which he must contrive somehow first to grasp and then to render. And
this is true at the most down-to-earth, jungle field work levels of his activity:
interviewing informants, observing rituals, eliciting kin terms,
tracing property lines, censusing households . . . writing his journal.
Doing ethnography is like trying to read (in the sense of "construct a
reading of') a manuscript-foreign, faded, full of ellipses, incoherencies,
suspicious emendations, and tendentious commentaries, but written
not in conventionalized graphs of sound but in transient examples of
shaped behavior.
III
Culture, this acted document, thus is public, like a burlesqued wink or a
mock sheep raid. Though ideational, it does not exist in someone's
head; though unphysical, it is not an occult entity. The interminable,
because unterminable, debate within anthropology as to whether culture
is "subjective" or "objective," together with the mutual exchange of intellectual
insults ("idealist!"-"materialist!"; "mentalist!"-"behaviorist!";
"impressionist!"-"positivist!") which accompanies it, is
wholly misconceived. Once human behavior is seen as (most of the
time; there are true twitches) symbolic action-action which, like phonation
in speech, pigment in painting, line in writing, or sonance in
music, signifies-the question as to whether culture is patterned conduct
or a frame of mind, or even the two somehow mixed together,
loses sense. The thing to ask about a burlesqued wink or a mock sheep
raid is not what their ontological status is. It is the same as that of
rocks on the one hand and dreams on the other-they are things of this
world. The thing to ask is what their import is: what it is, ridicule or
challenge, irony or anger, snobbery or pride, that, in their occurrence
and through their agency, is getting said.
This may seem like an obvious truth, but there are a number of ways
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 11
to obscure it. One is to imagine that culture is a self-contained "superorganic"
reality with forces and purposes of its own; that is, to reify it.
Another is to claim that it consists in the brute pattern of behavioral
events we observe in fact to occur in some identifiable community or
other; that is, to reduce it. But though both these confusions still exist,
and doubtless will be always with us, the main source of theoretical
muddlement in contemporary anthropology is a view which developed
in reaction to them and is right now very widely held-namely, that, to
quote Ward Goodenough, ·perhaps its leading proponent, "culture [is
located] in the minds and hearts of men."
Variously called ethnoscience, componential analysis, or cognitive
anthropology (a terminological wavering which reflects a deeper uncertainty),
this school of thought holds that culture is composed of psychological
structures by means of which individuals or groups of individuals
guide their behavior. "A society's culture," to quote Goodenough
again, this time in a passage which has become the locus classicus of the
whole movement, "consists of whatever it is one has to know or believe
in order to operate in a manner acceptable to its members." And from
this view of what culture is follows a view, equally assured, of what describing
it is-the writing out of systematic rules, an ethnographic algorithm,
which, if followed, would make it possible so to operate, to pass
(physical appearance aside) for a native. In such a way, extreme subjectivism
is married to extreme formalism, with the expected result: an explosion
of debate as to whether particular analyses (which come in the
form of taxonomies, paradigms, tables, trees, and other ingenuities) reflect
what the natives "really" think or are merely clever simulations, logically
equivalent but substantively different, of what they think.
As, on first glance, this approach may look close enough to the one
being developed here to be mistaken for it, it is useful to be explicit as
to what divides them. If, leaving our winks and sheep behind for the
moment, we take, say, a Beethoven quartet as an, admittedly rather special
but, for these purposes, nicely illustrative, sample of culture, no one
would, I think, identify it with its score, with the skills and knowledge
needed to play it, with the understanding of it possessed by its performers
or auditors, nor, to take care, en passant, of the reductionists and
reifiers, with a particular performance of it or with some mysterious entity
transcending material existence. The "no one" is perhaps too strong
here, for there are always incorrigibles. But that a Beethoven quartet is
a temporally developed tonal structure, a coherent sequence of modeled
12 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
sound-in a word, music-and not anybody's knowledge of or belief
about anything, including how to play it, is a proposition to which most
people are, upon reflection, likely to assent.
To play the violin it is necessary to possess certain habits, skills,
knowledge, and talents, to be in the mood to play, and (as the old joke
goes) to have a violin. But violin playing is neither the habits, skills,
knowledge, and so on, nor the mood, nor (the notion believers in "material
culture" apparently embrace) the violin. To make a trade pact in
Morocco, you have to do certain things in certain ways (among others,
cut, while chanting Quranic Arabic, the throat of a lamb before the assembled,
undeformed, adult male members of your tribe) and to be possessed
of certain psychological characteristics (among others, a desire
for distant things). But a trade pact is neither the throat cutting nor the
desire, though it is real enough, as seven kinsmen of our Marmusha
sheikh discovered when, on an earlier occasion, they were executed by
him following the theft of one mangy, essentially valueless sheepskin
from Cohen.
Culture is public because meaning is. You can't wink (or burlesque
one) without knowing what counts as winking or how, physically, to
contract your eyelids, and you can't conduct a sheep raid (or mimic
one) without knowing what it is to steal a sheep and how practically to
go about it. But to draw from such truths the conclusion that knowing
how to wink is winking and knowing how to steal a sheep is sheep raiding
is to betray as deep a confusion as, taking thin descriptions for
thick, to identify winking with eyelid contractions or sheep raiding with
chasing woolly animals out of pastures. The cognitivist fallacy-that
culture consists (to quote another spokesman for the movement, Stephen
Tyler) of "mental phenomena which can [he means "should"] be analyzed
by formal methods similar to those of mathematics and logic"-is
as destructive of an effecttve use of the concept as are the behaviorist
and idealist fallacies to which it is a misdrawn correction. Perhaps, as its
errors are more sophisticated and its distortions subtler, it is even more
so.
The generalized attack on privacy theories of meaning is, since early
Husserl and late Wittgenstein, so much a part of modern thought that it
need not be developed once more here. What is necessary is to see to it
that the news of it reaches anthropology; and in particular that it is
made clear that to say that culture consists of socially established structures
of meaning in terms of which people do such things as signal con-
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 13
spiracies and join them or perceive insults and answer them, is no more
to say that it is a psychological phenomenon, a characteristic of someone's
mind, personality, cognitive structure, or whatever, than to say
that Tantrism, genetics, the progressive form of the verb, the classification
of wines, the Common Law, or the notion of "a conditional curse"
(as Westermarck defined the concept of 'ar in terms of which Cohen
pressed his claim to damages) is. What, in a place like Morocco, most
prevents those of us who grew up winking other winks or attending
other sheep from grasping what people are up to is not ignorance as to
how cognition works (though, especially as, one assumes, it works the
same among them as it does among us, it would greatly help to have
less of that too) as a lack of familiarity with the imaginative universe
within which their acts are signs. As Wittgenstein has been invoked, he
may as well be quoted:
We . . . say of some people that they are transparent to us. It is, however,
important as regards this observation that one human being can be a complete
enigma to another. We learn this when we come into a strange country
with entirely strange traditions; and, what is more, even given a mastery of
the country's language. We do not understand the people. (And not because of
not knowing what they are saying to themselves.) We cannot find our feet
with them.
IV
Finding our feet, an unnerving business which never more than distantly
succeeds, is what ethnographic research consists of as a personal experience;
trying to formulate the basis on which one imagines, always excessively,
one has found them is what anthropological writing consists
of as a scientific endeavor. We are not, or at least I am not, seeking either
to become natives (a compromised word in any case) or to mimic
them. Only romantics or spies would seem to find point in that. We are
seeking, in the widened sense of the term in which it encompasses very
much more than talk, to converse with them, a matter a great deal more
difficult, and not only with strangers, than is commonly recognized. " If
speaking for someone else seems to be a mysterious process," Stanley
Cavell has remarked, "that may be because speaking to someone does
not seem mysterious enough."
14 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
Looked at in this way, the aim of anthropology is the enlargement of
the universe of human discourse. That is not, of course, its only aiminstruction,
amusement, practical counsel, moral advance, and the discovery
of natural order in human behavior are others; nor is anthropology
the only discipline which pursues it. But it is an aim to which a
semiotic concept of culture is peculiarly well adapted. As interworked
systems of construable signs (what, ignoring provincial usages, I would
call symbols), culture is not a power, something to which social events,
behaviors, institutions, or processes can be causally attributed; it is a
context, something within which they can be intelligibly-that is,
thickly-described.
The famous anthropological absorption with the (to us) exoticBerber
horsemen, Jewish peddlers, French Legionnaires-is, thus, essentially
a device for displacing the dulling sense of familiarity with
which the mysteriousness of our own ability to relate perceptively to
one another is concealed from us. Looking at the ordinary in places
where it takes unaccustomed forms brings out not, as has so often been
claimed, the arbitrariness of human behavior (there is nothing especially
arbitrary about taking sheep theft for insolence in Morocco), but the degree
to which its meaning varies according to the pattern of life by
which it is informed. Understanding a people's culture exposes their
normalness without reducing their particularity. (The more I manage to
follow what the Moroccans are up to, the more logical, and the more
singular, they seem.) It renders them accessible: setting them in the
frame of their own banalities, it dissolves their opacity.
It is this maneuver, usually too casually referred to as "seeing things
from the actor's point of view," too bookishly as "the verstehen approach,"
or too technically as "ernie analysis," that so often leads to the
notion that anthropology is a variety of either long-distance mind reading
or cannibal-isle fantasizing, and which, for someone anxious to navigate
past the wrecks of a dozen sunken philosophies, must therefore be
executed with a great deal of care. Nothing is more necessary to
comprehending what anthropological interpretation is, and the degree to
which it is interpretation, than an exact understanding of what it means
-and what it does not mean-to say that our formulations of other
peoples' symbol systems must be actor-oriented.•
1 Not only other peoples': anthropology can be trained on the culture of which
it is itself a part, and it increasingly is; a fact of profound importance, but which,
as it raises a few tricky and rather special second order problems, I shall put to
the side for the moment.
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 15
What it means is that descriptions of Berber, Jewish, or French culture
must be cast in terms of the constructions we imagine Berbers,
Jews, or Frenchmen to place upon what they live through, the formulae
they use to define what happens to them. What it does not mean is that
such descriptions are themselves Berber, Jewish, or French-that is,
part of the reality they are ostensibly describing; they are
anthropological-that is, part of a developing system of scientific analysis.
They must be cast in terms of the interpretations to which persons
of a particular denomination subject their experience, because that is
what they profess to be descriptions of ; they are anthropological because
it is, in fact, anthropologists who profess them. Normally, it is not
necessary to point out quite so laboriously that the object of study is
one thing and the study of it another. It is clear enough that the physical
world is not physics and A Skeleton Key to Finnegan's Wake not
Finnegan's Wake. But, as, in the study of culture, analysis penetrates
into the very body of the object-that is, we begin with our own interpretations
of what our informants are up to, or think they are up to,
and then systematize those-the line between (Moroccan) culture as a
natural fact and (Moroccan) culture as a theoretical entity tends to get
blurred. All the more so, as the latter is presented in the form of an actor's-eye
description of (Moroccan) conceptions of everything from violence,
honor, divinity, and justice, to tribe, property, patronage, and
chiefship.
In short, anthropological writings are themselves interpretations; and
second and third order ones to boot. (By definition, only a "native"
makes first order ones: it's his culture.) 2 They are, thus, fictions; fictions,
in the sense that they are "something made," "something
fashioned" -the original meaning of fictio-not that they are false, unfactual,
or merely "as if" thought experi ments. To construct actor-oriented
descriptions of the involvements of a Berber chieftain, a Jewish
merchant, and a French soldier with one another in 19 1 2 Morocco is
clearly an imaginative act, not all that different from constructing similar
descriptions of, say, the involvements with one another of a provincial
French doctor, his silly, adulterous wife, and her feckless lover in
2 The order problem is, again, complex. Anthropological works based on other
anthropological works (Levi-Strauss', for example) may, of course, be fourth
order or higher, and informants frequently, even habitually, make second order
interpretations-what have come to be known as "native models." In literate cultures,
where "native" interpretation can proceed to higher levels-in connection
with the Maghreb, one has only to think of Ibn Khaldun; with the United States,
Margaret Mead-these matters become intricate indeed.
16 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
nineteenth century France. In the latter case, the actors are represented
as not having existed and the events as not having happened, while in
the former they are represented as actual, or as having been so. This is
a difference of no mean importance; indeed, precisely the one Madame
Bovary had difficulty grasping. But the importance does not lie in the
fact that her story was created while Cohen's was only noted. The conditions
of their creation, and the point of it (to say nothing of the manner
and the quality) differ. But the one is as much a fictio-"a making"-as
the other.
Anthropologists have not always been as aware as they might be of
this fact: that although culture exists in the trading post, the hill fort, or
the sheep run, anthropology exists in the book, the article, the lecture,
the museum display, or, sometimes nowadays, the film. To become
aware of it is to realize that the line between mode of representation
and substantive content is as undrawable in cultural analysis as it is
in painting; and that fact in turn seems to threaten the objective status
of anthropological knowledge by suggesting that its source is not social
reality but scholarly artifice.
It does threaten it, but the threat is hollow. The claim to attention of
an ethnographic account does not rest on its author's ability to capture
primitive facts in faraway places and carry them home like a mask or a
carving, but on the degree to which he is able to clarify what goes on in
such places, to reduce the puzzlement-what manner of men are these?
-to which unfamiliar acts emerging out of unknown backgrounds naturally
give rise. This raises some serious problems of verification, all
right-or, if "verification" is too strong a word for so soft a science (I,
myself, would prefer "appraisal"), of how you can tell a better account
from a worse one. But that is precisely the virtue of it. If ethnography
is thick description and ethnographers those who are doing the describing,
then the determining question for any given example of it, whether
a field journal squib or a Malinowski-sized monograph, is whether it
sorts winks from twitches and real winks from mimicked ones. It is not
against a body of uninterpreted data, radically thinned descriptions, that
we must measure the cogency of our explications, but against the power
of the scientific imagination to bring us into touch with the lives of
strangers. It is not worth it, as Thoreau said, to go round the world to
count the cats in Zanzibar.
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 17
v
Now, this proposition, that it is not in our interest to bleach human behavior
of the very properties that interest us before we begin to examine
it, has sometimes been escalated into a larger claim: namely, that as
it is only those properties that interest us, we need not attend, save cursorily,
to behavior at all. Culture is most effectively treated, the argument
goes, purely as a symbolic system (the catch phrase is, "in its own
terms"), by isolating its elements, specifying the internal relationships
among those elements, and then characterizing the whole system in
some general way-according to the core symbols around which it is
organized, the underlying structures of which it is a surface expression,
or the ideological principles upon which it is based. Though a distinct
improvement over "learned behavior" and "mental phenomena" notions
of what culture is, and the source of some of the most powerful theoretical
ideas in contemporary anthropology, this hermetical approach to
things seems to me to run the danger (and increasingly to have been
overtaken by it) of locking cultural analysis away from its proper object,
the informal logic of actual life. There is little profit in extricating a
concept from the defects of psychologism only to plunge it immediately
into those of schematicism.
Behavior must be attended to, and with some exactness, because it is
through the flow of behavior--or, more precisely, social action-that
cultural forms find articulation. They find it as well, of course, in various
sorts of artifacts, and various states of consciousness; but these
draw their meaning from the role they play (Wittgenstein would say
their "use") in an ongoing pattern of life, not from any intrinsic relationships
they bear to one another. It is what Cohen, the sheikh, and
"Captain Dumari" were doing when they tripped over one another's
purposes-pursuing trade, defending honor, establishing dominancethat
created our pastoral drama, and that is what the drama is, therefore,
"about." Whatever, or wherever, symbol systems "in their own
terms" may be, we gain empirical access to them by inspecting events,
not by arranging abstracted entities into unified patterns.
A further implication of this is that coherence cannot be the major
test of validity for a cultural description. Cultural systems must have a
minimal degree of coherence, else we would not call them systems; and,
18 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
by observation, they normally have a great deal more. But there is nothing
so coherent as a paranoid's delusion or a swindler's story. The force
of our interpretations cannot rest, as they are now so often made to do,
on the tightness with which they hold together, or the assurance with
which they are argued. Nothing has done more, I think, to discredit cultural
analysis than the construction of impeccable depictions of formal
order in whose actual existence nobody can quite believe.
If anthropological interpretation is constructing a reading of what
happens, then to divorce it from what happens-from what, in this time
or that place, specific people say, what they do, what is done to them,
from the whole vast business of the world-is to divorce it from its applications
and render it vacant. A good interpretation of anything-a
poem, a person, a history, a ritual, an institution, a society-takes us
into the heart of that of which it is the interpretation. When it does not
do that, but leads us instead somewhere else-into an admiration of its
own elegance, of its author's cleverness, or of the beauties of Euclidean
order-it may have its intrinsic charms ; but it is something else than
what the task at hand-figuring out what all that rigamarole with the
sheep is about--calls for.
The rigamarole with the sheep-the sham theft of them, the reparative
transfer of them, the political confiscation of them-is (or was) essentially
a social discourse, even if, as I suggested earlier, one conducted
in multiple tongues and as much in action as in words.
Claiming his 'ar, Cohen invoked the trade pact; recognizing the
claim, the sheikh challenged the offenders' tribe ; accepting responsibility,
the offenders' tribe paid the indemnity; anxious to make clear to
sheikhs and peddlers alike who was now in charge here, the French
showed the imperial hand. As in any discourse, code does not determine
conduct, and what was actually said need not have been. Cohen
might not have, given its illegitimacy in Protectorate eyes, chosen to
press his claim. The sheikh might, for similar reasons, have rejected it.
The offenders' tribe, still resisting French authority, might have decided
to regard the raid as "real" and fight rather than negotiate. The French,
were they more habile and less dur (as, under Mareschal Lyautey's seigniorial
tutelage, they later in fact became), might have permitted Cohen
to keep his sheep, winking-as we say-at the continuance of the trade
pattern and its limitation to their authority. And there are other possibilities:
the Marmushans might have regarded the French action as too
great an insult to bear and gone into dissidence themselves ; the French
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 19
might have attempted not just to clamp down on Cohen but to bring the
sheikh himself more closely to heel; and Cohen might have concluded
that between renegade Berbers and Beau Geste soldiers, driving trade in
the Atlas highlands was no longer worth the candle and retired to the
better-governed confines of the town. This, indeed, is more or less what
happened, somewhat further along, as the Protectorate moved toward
genuine sovereignty. But the point here is not to describe what did or
did not take place in Morocco. (From this simple incident one can
widen out into enormous complexities of social experience.) It is to
demonstrate what a piece of anthropological interpretation consists in:
tracing the curve of a social discourse; fixing it into an inspectable
form.
The ethnographer "inscribes" social discourse; he writes it down. In
so doing, he turns it from a passing event, which exists only in its own
moment of occurrence, into an account, which exists in its inscriptions
and can be reconsulted. The sheikh is long dead, killed in the process of
being, as the French called it, "pacified"; "Captain Dumari," his pacifier,
lives, retired to his souvenirs, in the south of France; and Cohen
went last year, part refugee, part pilgrim, part dying patriarch, "home"
to Israel. But what they, in my extended sense, "said" to one another on
an Atlas plateau sixty years ago is-very far from perfectly-preserved
for study. "What," Paul Ricoeur, from whom this whole idea of the inscription
of action is borrowed and somewhat twisted, asks, "what does
writing fix?"
Not the event of speaking, but the "said" of speaking, where we understand
by the "said" of speaking that intentional exteriorization constitutive of the
aim of discourse thanks to which the sagen-the saying-wants to become
Aus-sage-the enunciation. the enunciated. In short, what we write is the
noema ["thought," "content," "gist"] of the speaking. It is the meaning of
the speech event, not the event as event.
This is not itself so very "said"-if Oxford philosophers run to little
stories, phenomenological ones run to large sentences; but it brings us
anyway to a more precise answer to our generative question, "What
does the ethnographer do?"-he writes.a This, too, may seem a less
than startling discovery, and to someone familiar with the current "liter-
3 Or, again, more exactly, "inscribes." Most ethnography is in fact to be found
in books and articles, rather than in films, records, museum displays, or whatever;
but even in them there are, of course, photographs, drawings, diagrams, tables,
and so on. Self-consciousness about modes of representation (not to speak of
experiments with them) has been very lacking in anthropology.
zo THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
ature," an implausible one. But as the standard answer to our question
has been, "He observes, he records, he analyzes"-a kind of veni, vidi,
vici conception of the matter-it may have more deep-going consequences
than are at first apparent, not the least of which is that distinguishing
these three phases of knowledge-seeking may not, as a matter
of fact, normally be possible; and, indeed, as autonomous "operations"
they may not in fact ·exist.
The situation is even more delicate, because, as already noted, what
we inscribe (or try to) is not raw social discourse, to which, because,
save very marginally or very specially, we are not actors, we do not
have direct access, but only that small part of it which our informants
can lead us into understanding.4 This is not as fatal as it sounds, for, in
fact, not all Cretans are liars, and it is not necessary to know everything
in order to understand something. But it does make the view of anthropological
analysis as the conceptual manipulation of discovered facts, a
logical reconstruction of a mere reality, seem rather lame. To set forth
symmetrical crystals of significance, purified of the material complexity
in which they were located, and then attribute their existence to autogenous
principles of order, universal properties of the human mind, or
vast, a priori weltanschauungen, is to pretend a science that does not
exist and imagine a reality that cannot be found. Cultural analysis is (or
should be) guessing at meanings, assessing the guesses, and drawing explanatory
conclusions from the better guesses, not discovering the Continent
of Meaning and mapping out its bodiless landscape.
VI
So, there are three characteristics of ethnographic description: it is interpretive;
what it is interpretive of is the flow of social discourse; and
the interpreting involved consists in trying to rescue the "said" of such
discourse from its perishing occasions and fix it in perusable terms. The
kula is gone or altered; but, for better or worse, The Argonauts of the
4 So far as it has reinforced the anthropologist's impulse to engage himself
with his informants as persons rather than as objects, the notion of "participant
observation" has been a valuable one. But, to the degree it has lead the anthropologist
to block from his view the very special, culturally bracketed nature of
his own role and to imagine himself something more than an interested (in both
senses of that word) sojourner, it has been our most powerful source of bad faith.
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 21
Western Pacific remains. But there is, in addition, a fourth characteristic
of such description, at least as I practice it: it is microscopic.
This is not to say that there are no large-scale anthropological interpretations
of whole societies, civilizations, world events, and so on. Indeed,
it is such extension of our analyses to wider contexts that, along
with their theoretical implications, recommends them to general attention
and justifies our constructing them. No one really cares anymore,
not even Cohen (well . . . maybe, Cohen), about those sheep as such.
History may have its unobtrusive turning points, "great noises in a little
room" ; but this little go-round was surely not one of them.
It is merely to say that the anthropologist characteristically approaches
such broader interpretations and more abstract analyses from
the direction of exceedingly extended acquaintances with extremely
small matters. He confronts the same grand realities that othershistorians,
economists, political scientists, sociologists-confront in
more fateful settings: Power, Change, Faith, Oppression, Work, Passion,
Authority, Beauty, Violence, Love, Prestige; but he confronts
them in contexts obscure enough-places like Marmusha and lives like
Cohen's-to take the capital letters off them. These all-too-human constancies,
"those big words that make us all afraid," take a homely form
in such homely contexts. But that is exactly the advantage. There are
enough profundities in the world already.
Yet, the problem of how to get from a collection of ethnographic
miniatures on the order of our sheep story-an assortment of remarks
and anecdotes-to wall-sized culturescapes of the nation, the epoch, the
continent, or the civilization is not so easily passed over with vague allusions
to the virtues of concreteness and the down-to-earth mind. For a
science born in Indian tribes, Pacific islands, and African lineages and
subsequently seized with grander ambitions, this has come to be a major
methodological problem, and for the most part a badly handled one.
The models that anthropologists have themselves worked out to justify
their moving from local truths to general visions have been, in fact, as
responsible for undermining the effort as anything their criticssociologists
obsessed with sample sizes, psychologists with measures, or
economists with aggregates-have been able to devise against them.
Of these, the two main ones have been: the Jonesville-is-the-USA
"microcosmic" model; and the Easter- Island-is-a-testing-case "natural
experiment" model. Either heaven in a grain of sand, or the farther
shores of possibility.
The Jonesville-is-America writ small (or America-is-Jonesville writ
22 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
large) fallacy is so obviously one that the only thing that needs explanation
is how people have managed to believe it and expected others to
believe it. The notion that one can find the essence of national societies,
civilizations, great religions, or whatever summed up and simplified in
so-called "typical" small towns and villages is palpable nonsense. What
one finds in small towns and villages is (alas) small-town or village life.
If localized, microscopic studies were really dependent for their greater
relevance upon such a premise-that they captured the great world in the
little-they wouldn't have any relevance.
But, of course, they are not. The locus of study is not the object of
study. Anthropologists don't study villages (tribes, towns, neighborhoods
. . . ) ; they study in villages. You can study different things in
different places, and some things-for example, what colonial domination
does to established frames of moral expectation-you can best
study in confined localities. But that doesn't make the place what it is
you are studying. In the remoter provinces of Morocco and Indonesia I
have wrestled with the same questions other social scientists have wrestled
with in more central locations-for example, how comes it that
men's most importunate claims to humanity are cast in the accents of
group pride?-and with about the same conclusiveness. One can add a
dimension-one much needed in the present climate of size-up-andsolve
social science; but that is all. There is a certain value, if you are
going to run on about the exploitation of the masses in having seen a
Javanese sharecropper turning earth in a tropical downpour or a Moroccan
tailor embroidering kaftans by the light of a twenty-watt bulb.
But the notion that this gives you the thing entire (and elevates you to
some moral vantage ground from which you can look down upon the
ethically less privileged) is an idea which only someone too long in the
bush could possibly entertain.
The "natural laboratory" notion has been equally pernicious, not
only because the analogy is false-what kind of a laboratory is it where
none of the parameters are manipulable?-but because it leads to a notion
that the data derived from ethnographic studies are purer, or more
fundamental, or more solid, or less conditioned (the most favored word
is "elementary") than those derived from other sorts of social inquiry.
The great natural variation of cultural forms is, of course, not only anthropology's
great (and wasting) resource, but the ground of its deepest
theoretical dilemma: how is such variation to be squared with the biological
unity of the human species? But it is not, even metaphorically,
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 2.3
experimental variation, because the context in which it occurs varies
along with it, and it is not possible (though there are those who try) to
isolate the y's from x's to write a proper function.
The famous studies purporting to show that the Oedipus complex was
batkwards in the Trobriands, sex roles were upside down in Tchambuli,
and the Pueblo Indians lacked aggression (it is characteristic that they
were all negative-"but not in the South"), are, whatever their empirical
validity may or may not be, not "scientifically tested and approved"
hypotheses. They are interpretations, or misinterpretations, like any
others, arrived at in the same way as any others, and as inherently inconclusive
as any others, and the attempt to invest them with the authority
of physical experimentation is but methodological sleight of
hand. Ethnographic findings are not privileged, just particular: another
country heard from. To regard them as anything more (or anything less)
than that distorts both them and their implications, which are far profounder
than mere primitivity, for social theory.
Another country heard from: the reason that protracted descriptions
of distant sheep raids (and a really good ethnographer would have gone
into what kind of sheep they were) have general relevance is that they
present the sociological mind with bodied stuff on which to feed. The
important thing about the anthropologist's findings is their complex specificness,
their circumstantiality. It is with the kind of material produced
by long-term, mainly (though not exclusively) qualitative, highly participative,
and almost obsessively fine-comb field study in confined contexts
that the mega-concepts with which contemporary social science is
affticted-legitimacy, modernization, integration, conflict, charisma,
structure, . . . meaning-can be given the sort of sensible actuality that
makes it possible to think not only realistically and concretely about
them, but, what is more important, creatively and imaginatively with
them.
The methodological problem which the microscopic nature of ethnography
presents is both real and critical. But it is not to be resolved by
regarding a remote locality as the world in a teacup or as the sociological
equivalent of a cloud chamber. It is to be resolved-or, anyway, decently
kept at bay-by realizing that social actions are comments on
more than themselves; that where an interpretation comes from does not
determine where it can be impelled to go. Small facts speak to large issues,
winks to epistemology, or sheep raids to revolution, because they
are made to.
THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
VII
Which brings us, finally, to theory. The besetting sin of interpretive approaches
to anything-literature, dreams, symptoms, culture-is that
they tend to resist, or to be permitted to resist, conceptual articulation
and thus to escape systematic modes of assessment. You either grasp an
interpretation or you do not, see the point of it or you do not, accept it
or you do not. Imprisoned in the immediacy of its own detail, it is presented
as self-validating, or, worse, as validated by the supposedly developed
sensitivities of the person who presents it; any attempt to cast
what it says in terms other than its own is regarded as a travesty-as,
the anthropologist's severest term of moral abuse, ethnocentric.
For a field of study which, however timidly (though I, myself, am not
timid about the matter at all), asserts itself to be a science, this just will
not do. There is no reason why the conceptual structure of a cultural interpretation
should be any less formulable, and thus less susceptible to
explicit canons of appraisal, than that of, say, a biological observation
or a physical experiment-no reason except that the terms in which
such formulations can be cast are, if not wholly nonexistent, very nearly
so. We are reduced to insinuating theories because we lack the power to
state them.
At the same time, it must be admitted that there are a number of
characteristics of cultural interpretation which make the theoretical development
of it more than usually difficult. The first is the need for
theory to stay rather closer to the ground than tends to be the case in
sciences more able to give themselves over to imaginative abstraction.
Only short flights of ratiocination tend to be effective in anthropology;
longer ones tend to drift off into logical dreams, academic bemusements
with formal symmetry. The whole point of a semiotic approach to culture
is, as I have said, to aid us in gaining access to the conceptual
world in which our subjects Jive so that we can, in some extended sense
of the term, converse with them. The tension between the pull of this
need to penetrate an unfamiliar universe of symbolic action and the requirements
of technical advance in the theory of culture, between the
need to grasp and the need to analyze, is, as a result, both necessarily
great and essentially irremovable. Indeed, the further theoretical development
goes, the deeper the tension gets. This is the first condition for
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 25
cultural theory: it is not its own master. As it is unseverable from the
immediacies thick description presents, its freedom to shape itself in
terms of its internal logic is rather limited. What generality it contrives
to achieve grows out of the delicacy of its distinctions, not the sweep of
its abstractions.
And from this follows a peculiarity in the way, as a simple matter of
empirical fact, our knowledge of culture . . . cultures . . . a culture . . .
grows: in spurts. Rather than following a rising curve of cumulative
findings, cultural analysis breaks up into a disconnected yet coherent sequence
of bolder and bolder sorties. Studies do build on other studies,
not in the sense that they take up where the others leave off, but in the
sense that, better informed and better conceptualized, they plunge more
deeply into the same things. Every serious cultural analysis starts from
a sheer beginning and ends where it manages to get before exhausting
its intellectual impulse. Previously discovered facts are mobilized, previously
developed concepts used, previously formulated hypotheses tried
out; but the movement is not from already proven theorems to newly
proven ones, it is from an awkward fumbling for the most elementary
understanding to a supported claim that one has achieved that and surpassed
it. A study is an advance if it is more incisive-whatever that
may mean-than those that preceded it; but it less stands on their
shoulders than, challenged and challenging, runs by their side.
It is for this reason, among others, that the essay, whether of thirty
pages or three hundred, has seemed the natural genre in which to present
cultural interpretations and the theories sustaining them, and why,
if one looks for systematic treatises in the field, one is so soon disappointed,
the more so if one finds any. Even inventory articles are rare
here, and anyway of hardly more than bibliographical interest. The
major theoretical contributions not only lie in specific studies-that is
true in almost any field-but they are very difficult to abstract from
such studies and integrate into anything one might call ..culture theory"
as such. Theoretical formulations hover so low over the interpretations
they govern that they don't make much sense or hold much interest
apart from them. This is so, not because they are not general (if they
are not general, they are not theoretical), but because, stated independently
of their applications, they seem either commonplace or vacant.
One can, and this in fact is how the field progresses conceptually, take a
line of theoretical attack developed in connection with one exercise in
ethnographic interpretation and employ it in another, pushing it for-
z6 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
ward to greater precision and broader relevance; but one cannot write a
"General Theory of Cultural Interpretation." Or, rather, one can, but
there appears to be little profit in it, because the essential task of theory
building here is not to codify abstract regularities but to make thick description
possible, not to generalize across cases but to generalize within
them.
To generalize within cases is usually called, at least in medicine and
depth psychology, clinical inference. Rather than beginning with a set
of observations and attempting to subsume them under a governing law,
such inference begins with a set of (presumptive) signifiers and attempts
to place them within an intelligible frame. Measures are matched to theoretical
predictions, but symptoms (even when they are measured) are
scanned for theoretical peculiarities-that is, they are diagnosed. In the
study of culture the signifiers are not symptoms or clusters of symptoms,
but symbolic acts or clusters of symbolic acts, and the aim is not
therapy but the analysis of social discourse. But the way in which
theory is used-to ferret out the unapparent import of things-is the
same.
Thus we are lead to the second condition of cultural theory: it is not,
at least in the strict meaning of the term, predictive. The diagnostician
doesn't predict measles; he decides that someone has them, or at the
very most anticipates that someone is rather likely shortly to get them.
But this limitation, which is real enough, has commonly been both misunderstood
and exaggerated, because it has been taken to mean that cultural
interpretation is merely post facto: that, like the peasant in the old
story, we first shoot the holes in the fence and then paint the bull's-eyes
around them. It is hardly to be denied that there is a good deal of that
sort of thing around, some of it in prominent places. It is to be denied,
however, that it is the inevitable outcome of a clinical approach to the
use of theory.
It is true that in the clinical style of theoretical formulation, conceptualization
is directed toward the task of generating interpretations of
matters already in hand, not toward projecting outcomes of experimental
manipulations or deducing future states of a determined system. But
that does not mean that theory has only to fit (or, more carefully, to
generate cogent interpretations of) realities past; it has also to survive
-intellectually survive-realities to come. Although we formulate our
interpretation of an outburst of winking or an instance of sheep-raiding
after its occurrence, sometimes long after, the theoretical framework in
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 27
terms of which such an interpretation is made must be capable of continuing
to yield defensible interpretations as new social phenomena
swim into view. Although one starts any effort at thick description, beyond
the obvious and superficial, from a state of general bewilderment
as to what the devil is going on-trying to find one's feet-one does
not start (or ought not) intellectually empty-handed. Theoretical ideas
are not created wholly anew in each study; as I have said, they are
adopted from other, related studies, and, refined in the process, applied
to new interpretive problems. If they cease being useful with respect to
such problems, they tend to stop being used and are more or less abandoned.
If they continue being useful, throwing up new understandings,
they are further elaborated and go on being used.5
Such a view of how theory functions in an interpretive science suggests
that the distinction, relative in any case, that appears in the experimental
or observational sciences between "description" and "explanation"
appears here as one, even more relative, between "inscription"
("thick description") and "specification" ("diagnosis")-between setting
down the meaning particular social actions have for the actors whose
actions they are, and stating, as explicitly as we can manage, what the
knowledge thus attained demonstrates about the society in which it is
found and, beyond that, about social life as such. Our double task is to
uncover the conceptual structures that inform our subjects' acts, the
"said" of social discourse, and to construct a system of analysis in
whose terms what is generic to those structures, what belongs to them
because they are what they are, will stand out against the other determinants
of human behavior. In ethnography, the office of theory is to provide
a vocabulary in which what symbolic action has to say about itself
-that is, about the role of culture in human life-can be expressed.
Aside from a couple of orienting pieces concerned with more foundational
matters, it is in such a manner that theory operates in the
5 Admittedly, this is something of an idealization. Because theories are seldom
if ever decisively disproved in clinical use but merely grow increasingly awkward,
unproductive, strained, or vacuous, they often persist long after all but a handful
of people (though they are often most passionate) have lost much interest in
them. Indeed, so far as anthropology is concerned, it is almost .more of a problem
to get exhausted ideas out of the literature than it is to get productive ones in,
and so a great deal more of theoretical d iscussion than one would prefer is critical
rather than constructive, and whole careers have been devoted to hastening
the demise of moribund notions. As the field advances one would hope that this
sort of intellectual weed control would become a less prominent part of our activities.
But, for the moment, it remains true that old theories tend less to die
than to go into second editions.
z8 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
essays collected here. A repertoire of very general, made-in-the-academy
concepts and systems of concepts-"integration," "rationalization,"
"symbol," "ideology," "ethos," "revolution," "identity," "metaphor,"
"structure," "ritual," "world view," "actor," "function,"
"sacred," and, of course, "culture" itself-is woven into the body of
thick-description ethnography in the hope of rendering mere occurrences
scientifically eloquent.& The aim is to draw large conclusions
from small, but very densely textured facts ; to support broad assertions
about the role of culture in the construction of collective life by engaging
them exactly with complex specifics.
Thus it is not only interpretation that goes all the way down to the
most immediate observational level: the theory upon which such interpretation
conceptually depends does so also. My interest in Cohen's
story, like Ryle's in winks, grew out of some very general notions indeed.
The "confusion of tongues" model-the view that social conflict
is not something that happens when, out of weakness, indefiniteness, obsolescence,
or neglect, cultural forms cease to operate, but rather something
which happens when, like burlesqued winks, such forms are
pressed by unusual situations or unusual intentions to operate in unusual
ways-is not an idea I got from Cohen's story. It is one, instructed
by colleagues, students, and predecessors, I brought to it.
Our innocent-looking "note in a bottle" is more than a portrayal of
the frames of meaning of Jewish peddlers, Berber warriors, and French
proconsuls, or even of their mutual interference. It is an argument that
to rework the pattern of social relationships is to rearrange the coordinates
of the experienced world. Society's forms are culture's substance.
VIII
There is an Indian story-at least I heard it as an Indian story-about
an Englishman who, having been told that the world rested on a platform
which rested on the back of an elephant which rested in turn on
6 The overwhelming bulle. of the following chapters concern Indonesia rather
than Morocco, for I have just begun to face up to the demands of my North Af·
rican material which, for the most part, was gathered more recently. Field work
in Indonesia was carried out in 1952- 1 954, 1 957- 1958, and 197 1 ; in Morocco in
1964, 1965- 1966, 1 968- 1 969, and 1972.
Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture 29
the back of a turtle, asked (perhaps he was an ethnographer; it is the
way they behave), what did the turtle rest on? Another turtle. And that
turtle? "Ah, Sahib, after that it is turtles all the way down."
Such, indeed, is the condition of things. I do not know how long it
would be profitable to meditate on the encounter of Cohen, the sheikh,
and "Dumari" (the period has perhaps already been exceeded); but I
do know that however long I did so I would not get anywhere near to
the bottom of it. Nor have I ever gotten anywhere near to the bottom of
anything I have ever written about, either in the essays below or elsewhere.
Cultural analysis is intrinsically incomplete. And, worse than
that, the more deeply it goes the less complete it is. It is a strange science
whose most telling assertions are its most tremulously based, in
which to get somewhere with the matter at hand is to intensify the suspicion,
both your own and that of others, that you are not quite getting
it right. But that, along with plaguing subtle people with obtuse questions,
is what being an ethnographer is like.
There are a number of ways to escape this-turning culture into
folklore and collecting it, turning it into traits and counting it, turning it
into institutions and classifying it, turning it into structures and toying
with it. But they are escapes. The fact is that to commit oneself to a semiotic
concept of culture and an interpretive approach to the study of it
is to commit oneself to a view of ethnographic assertion as, to borrow
W. B. Gallie's by now famous phrase, "essentially contestable." Anthropology,
or at least interpretive anthropology, is a science whose progress
is marked less by a perfection of consensus than by a refinement
of debate. What gets better is the precision with which we vex each
other.
This is very difficult to see when one's attention is being monopolized
by a single party to the argument. Monologues are of little value here,
because there are no conclusions to be reported; there is merely a discussion
to be sustained. Insofar as the essays here collected have any
importance, it is less in what they say than what they are witness to: an
enormous increase in interest, not only in anthropology, but in social
studies generally, in the role of symbolic forms in human life. Meaning,
that elusive and ill-defined pseudoentity we were once more than content
to leave philosophers and literary critics to fumble with, has now
come back into the heart of our discipline. Even Marxists are quoting
Cassirer; even positivists, Kenneth Burke.
My own position in the midst of all this has been to try to resist sub-
30 THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES
jectivism on the one hand and cabbalism on the other, to try to keep the
analysis of symbolic forms as closely tied as I could to concrete social
events and occasions, the public world of common life, and to organize
it in such a way that the connections between theoretical formulations
and descriptive interpretations were unobscured by appeals to dark sciences.
I have never been impressed by the argument that, as complete
objectivity is impossible in these matters (as, of course, it is), one might
as well let one's sentiments run loose. As Robert Solow has remarked,
that is like saying that as a perfectly aseptic environment is impossible,
one might as well conduct surgery in a sewer. Nor, on the other hand,
have I been impressed with claims that structural linguistics, computer
engineering, or some other advanced form of thought is going to enable
us to understand men without knowing them. Nothing will discredit a
semiotic approach to culture more quickly than allowing it to drift into
a combination of intuitionism and alchemy, no matter how elegantly the
intuitions are expressed or how modern the alchemy is made to look.
The danger that cultural analysis, in search of all-too-deep-lying turtles,
will lose touch with the hard surfaces of life-with the political,
economic, stratificatory realities within which men are everywhere
contained-and with the biological and physical necessities on which
those surfaces rest, is an ever-present one. The only defense against it,
and against, thus, turning cultural analysis into a kind of sociological
aestheticism, is to train such analysis on such realities and such necessities
in the first place. It is thus that I have written about nationalism,
about violence, about identity, about human nature, about legitimacy,
about revolution, about ethnicity, about urbanization, about stat1,1s,
about death, about time, and most of all about particular attempts by
particular peoples to place these things in some sort of comprehensible,
meaningful frame.
To look at the symbolic dimensions of social action�art, religion,
ideology, science, law, morality, common sense-is not to turn away
from the existential dilemmas of life for some empyrean realm of deemotionalized
forms; it is to plunge into the midst of them. The essential
vocation of interpretive anthropology is not to answer our deepest questions,
but to make available to us answers that others, guarding other
sheep in other valleys, have given, and thus to include them in the consuitable
record of what man has said.