Rational choice theory is a naturalist approach found most prominently in economics and political science. It presumes a particular view of reasoning already alluded to in Chapter 13 as self-regarding, self-interested action known as instrumental reasoning or instrumental rationality. According to instrumental reasoning, to be rational is to employ a means-end strategy. You have a goal (an end) in mind (determined by needs, desires, etc.) and you choose the most efficient strategy (means) to attain it. The most efficient means will provide you with the most of what you want with the least expenditure (of work, money, time, or other personal and social goods). Rational choice theory also presumes a theory of human nature consonant with this concept of rationality. Humans are in essence rational beings; that is, rational in the sense of instrumental rationality. Thus, humans are primarily (if not solely in more extreme views) self-interested beings. The interests of others may come into play at times, but primarily it is one’s own interests that define and determine one’s actions and choices. Humans are also, in this view, free and autonomous beings. We may not choose all of our needs and desires (some seem thrust upon us), but we do choose how we pursue those needs and desires and how we prioritize them. As long as we identify with those needs and desires and own them as our own, then in following them we are free. Finally, humans are essentially individuals. We form societies and other groups of people out of individual needs, to better meet those needs. It follows further then that rational choice theorists tend also to be methodological individualists.

HOBBES, BENTHAM, AND MILL

The beginnings of rational choice theory can reasonably be pinpointed in the work of Thomas Hobbes, especially his seminal book, Leviathan. Following tendencies in natural science in his day, Hobbes viewed humans as purely material beings, driven by desires and aversions. Our actions/behaviors can simply (too simply?) be explained as oriented toward our desires and away from those things to which we are averse: pains, frustrations, and so forth. This all occurs due to certain, but not understood certainly in Hobbes’s day, physical activities within the brain. As we all have a similar physical nature, we have similar physical needs and desires, which would, at least theoretically, lead to common rules or even laws of action or behavior. The next major development came from the utilitarian ethical theory of Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) and John Stuart Mill (1806–1873), which held that we are utility-maximizing creatures. Here, “utility” encompasses the concept of being useful, but also being a human want, which when fulfilled will contribute to happiness. Bentham opened one of his most important works, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, with these words: “Nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. It is for them alone to point out what we ought to do, as well as to determine what we shall do … every effort we can make to throw off our subjection, will serve but to demonstrate and confirm it” (Bentham, 2000, p. 14). The subjective experience of pain dissuades us from certain activities. For example, once a child touches a hot stove, that child will likely not repeat that act. The experience of pleasure leads us toward performing other acts. For example, the rewards we receive from hard work encourage us to continue to work hard. Bentham’s aforementioned statements are both descriptive claims about human nature and normative claims about morality. His language is somewhat fanciful and poetic. We are slaves to the masters of pain and pleasure. This is human nature. Thus, pain and pleasure “determine what we shall do.” We cannot escape that inevitability. Even when we voluntarily endure pain, we do so for some further pleasure in the future. As a matter of ethics, pain and pleasure also define “what we ought to do.” Because people in general enjoy pleasure and suffer from pain, we should seek to increase pleasure and decrease pain. This connection between ethics and social science is one we look at more generally in a later section of this chapter.

MARGINALISM

The next major step forward in the development of rational choice theory involves a development in economics by a school of economic theorists in the 19th century known as marginalists. Marginalists also viewed humans as utility-maximizing creatures, but went further in claiming that people could rank their pleasures. This process, called cardinal utility, would entail assigning a quantified number of utility units to any proposed pleasure received from a good. A night out with friends might be given five units. A meal at a fast-food restaurant might be given two units. A meal at a four-star restaurant might be given 10 units. In this way, we can quantify desire and satisfaction. The naturalism here is coming clear. Although marginalists (following Hobbes and the utilitarians) still used the language of intentional states, they were progressively attempting to remove the presumed intentionality behind that language and conceive desires, beliefs, and so forth from an external, objective, natural scientific point of view. Desires and pleasures for them were not intentional, experiential, phenomenological states, but objective realities that could be measured. This further would allow for interpersonal comparison of utilities. We could accurately understand how much one another desires the pleasure received from specific goods. From this, we could construct social, political, and economic policies, which would benefit people in general, which could distribute social goods in the most efficient manner and a manner that would provide the most benefit. It could also, theoretically, allow us to predict the actions of others, although such predictions require a dubious assumption about rational agents, that they always have clear and accurate information about the world in which they live. This is clearly not the case. But without an assumption about what agents know, we cannot accurately predict how they are going to act to fulfill their desires.

Cardinal utility, however, assumes that we can clearly rank all our pleasures when in reality such objectified ranking seems dubious. Compare it to the nurse who asks a patient to rate his pain on a scale of 1 to 10. Any such judgment will be extremely limited in quantified objectivity because there is no real objective scale for pain. This limitation may not completely devalue this health care tool, but it does limit the amount and degree of clear, objective information that can be inferred from it. But to base all of economic theory on such a dubious process was too much for the science. Cardinal utility eventually gave way to ordinal utility, in which, instead of placing quantified values to various pleasures, people are only expected to order their preferences. This seems a bit of a slide back from quantification to qualification. The assumptions regarding to what degree we could quantify our intentional states were moderated. However, this meant that we could no longer compare desires and pleasures between people, reducing the predictive application and making policy determinations more difficult.

In order to get back on a naturalist track, economics took a behaviorist turn (Szenberg, Ramrattan, & Gottesman, 2006), eliminating reference to intentional states and applying mathematical tools such as statistics and game theory. A desire becomes no more than a “revealed preference” (Varian, 2006), a term that refers to no more than one’s behavior as evidence of choice. No assumptions are made about what intentional states might underlie that behavior. This behavior takes the place of assumed intentional states. This stripping down of human action/behavior to its purely empirical manifestations allows for the mathematization of economics and other social sciences and the development of game theory as a central tool in contemporary social science.

GAME THEORY

Game theory (von Neumann & Morgenstern, 2007) arose in the 1940s as a tool for economics originally, but has been adopted by many other social sciences and by philosophy as well. Game theorists hypothesize situations in which an agent’s behavior is constrained by the presence, choices, and behaviors of others. Game theorists hold that these strategic games reflect real life. These games are composed of hypothetical situations analogous to situations we face every day. In the words of game theory founder John von Neumann, “Real life consists of bluffing, of little tactics of deception, of asking yourself what is the other man going to think I mean to do. And that is what games are about in my theory” (Poundstone, 1992, p. 6). The most well-known game is the Prisoner’s Dilemma (PD). This game is immediately relatable to anyone who has watched a television crime drama. In this game you are arrested for a crime. Simultaneously your partner is also arrested. Whether you and/or your partner are actually guilty is not relevant to the game. The presumptions about self-interested human nature, instrumental reason, and the determination of your captors to convict somebody make guilt and innocence beside the question. The police place the two of you in separate interrogation rooms. They offer you a deal with several alternatives, which they tell you your partner is also being offered. (a) If you confess and testify against your partner but she does not confess, then you will go free and she will be sentenced to 10 years in prison. (b) But in the reverse situation, you will go to prison for 10 years and your partner will go free. (c) If you both confess, you will each receive 5 years of imprisonment. (d) If neither of you confesses, they will charge you both with a lesser crime and you each will receive a year in prison. As noted previously, guilt and innocence are irrelevant here, because it is assumed you (and your partner) are wholly concerned with getting as little prison time as possible—maximizing your utility—not with defending one’s integrity. Game theorists do not assume that an innocent rational person would make a stand on principle. Similarly, loyalty is not a relevant consideration. First, loyalty is emotion based and not rational. Furthermore, in such a blind situation, a suspect will only be as loyal as she can assume (trust) her partner will be. Assuming her partner is also a self-interested rational chooser, she will infer certain limits to loyalty. The question then is whether or not you should confess in order to pursue your self-interest: to spend as little time in prison as possible. A little rational analysis will provide a clear answer. If your partner confesses (options b or c), then you will receive 10 years if you do not confess and 5 years if you do confess. If your partner does not confess (options a or d), then you will receive 1 year if you do not confess and go free if you do confess. In either situation, you will receive less (or no) time in prison if you confess. However, here is where things get tricky. Remember that your partner is a self-interested rational chooser just as you are. Therefore, she will employ the same analysis. Therefore, she will most likely confess. You both confess, you both receive 5 years in prison. However, if you both had refused to confess, you would have each received only 1 year in prison. If the two of you had been allowed contact, you might have been able to make an agreement not to confess. But without such contact, it seems impossible to rationally reach either what is optimal for you alone (going free) or what is optimal for the two of you together (1 year in prison). You might “take a chance” and refuse to confess. However, that is a big risk. If your partner similarly does not confess, then you will each receive only 1 year. But if your partner does confess, then you will receive 10 years. That is too big of a gamble to be considered “rational” by most people—especially considering that your partner, as a self-interested, rational chooser, would likely confess.

As noted previously, if you and your partner could communicate, the two of you might agree not to confess in order to ensure a mere 1-year sentence for each of you. However, it is not that simple. Even with such an agreement, each of you would still have to trust that the other would honor the agreement. If your partner goes back on the agreement and confesses, she will go free (a better result than 1 year in prison) and you will receive a 10-year sentence. Knowing this, you might also go back on your agreement and confess, in which case both of you confess and we are back to 5-year sentences for each of you. Part of what a game like this demonstrates is how our actions and choices are constrained by others. All things being equal, we would all prefer to go free. However, given the circumstances of the PD, it does not seem possible to achieve that goal through a rational process. The only way to do that is through an irrational “bet” on an unlikely outcome. We may never find ourselves in exactly this situation, but as von Neumann says, we do find ourselves in analogous situations quite commonly. It is amazing, especially in some cities, that in maneuvering through traffic there are as few auto accidents as there are. A large part of the reason may be that in recognizing our own goals of rational self-interest and inferring that thought process is active in other drivers, we fairly accurately predict the actions and movements of other drivers. In other PD-like situations in which we find ourselves, we may not act according to what rational choice theory might predict. In any transaction of goods, the “rational” thing to do (that which will increase your utility the most) would be to cheat: take the goods and keep your money. Because we live in a complex society in the midst of traditional social structures, a singular PD game may not accurately reflect our experiences and the rational thinking that must go into those experiences. Rather, what might be a more accurate reflection of our life experience is what is called an “iterated dilemma” (Poundstone, 1992). An iterated dilemma is a repeating game. Because we rarely are in unique, never to be repeated situations (like the one the PD sets out), it makes more sense to recognize that our rational reactions may be geared toward the realization that you will find yourself in this position again. Long-term self-interest may then trump short-term self-interest, and taking the goods and keeping your money would no longer be the rational, self-interested choice.

Even given iterated dilemmas and other complex developments of game theory, there are clear examples in life that seem to contradict the assumptions of game theory and rational choice theory in general. These examples are likely due to elements of human nature not recognized by the presumptions of rational choice theory, elements that are not rational—at least in terms of instrumental rationality. Take the example of another game, the ultimatum game (Lehrer, 2009; Ruffle, 1998). This game involves two players: an allocator and a recipient. The allocator has a sum of money, say $10. The allocator then is given the power to give a portion of that $10 to the recipient. But the recipient can choose to accept the deal, in which case both players will receive the amount agreed on, or refuse the deal and neither player will receive any money. Theoretically, from a rational choice perspective, the likely outcome would seem to be that the allocator would offer the recipient a small amount of money, say $1, leaving the allocator with $9. That would seem to follow from rational self-interest. And from rational self-interest, it would seem that the recipient would accept such a deal rather than reject it and receive nothing. Yet when this game is played with actual people, it rarely follows that pattern (Lehrer, 2009; Ruffle, 1998). When the allocator offers a “fairer” amount, say around $5, the recipient is more likely to accept the deal. In fact, allocators typically tend toward this “fairer” amount either out of a sense of fairness, altruism, or perhaps expectation of the rejection of an unfair proposal. It seems then that making decisions may involve more than a consideration of self-interest. It may involve moral feelings of fairness and altruism, which are in principle inconsistent with naked self-interest. In addition, according to Oosterbeek, Sloof, and van de Kuilen (2004), there is also evidence that cultural differences may play a part in how one responds to the ultimatum game.

Or take an example from history. Following a survey of thousands of American troops in World War II (WWII), Brigadier General S. L. A. Marshall discovered that less than 20% of soldiers shot at the enemy when under attack (Lehrer, 2009). In dangerous combat, it would seem rational to do everything possible to preserve one’s own life. Killing the enemies before they kill you seems unavoidably rational. Yet, there seemed to be something preventing many soldiers (the vast majority in fact) from actually shooting at other human beings—even though they are marked as “enemies” and presumably shooting at them. Again, there seems to be some element of human nature in the way of moral feelings or a connection with others (even if they are “enemies”) that gets in the way of doing the “rational” thing. Following WWII, the army adopted new training techniques that drew from behaviorist sciences. Soldiers were trained with human-shaped targets (Lehrer, 2009). The idea was that once in actual combat they would not see the enemy as humans but simply respond, as per their training, shooting at the human-shaped targets. The enemy soldiers were no longer humans, but merely targets—dehumanized humans. Likely due to this training, that 20% figure rose to 55% in the Korean War and almost 90% in the Vietnam War (Lehrer, 2009).

Another problem, which is developed in a later section, is that the view of rationality assumed in rational choice theory may be too narrow and tacitly normative. Rationality includes more, say critics of rational choice theory, than simply attempting to maximize one’s utility. This view of rationality is tacitly normative in that it is presumed to be a neutral, descriptive concept of rationality, but is in fact a view of what rationality should be. Any actions or choices that run counter to this view of rationality are simply dismissed as irrational. Given the existence of other plausible models of rationality, this judgment moves from the descriptive to the normative. These two problems and the empirical problems raised previously lead to a further, more general problem. Realizing that rational choice often does not manifest as expected in real-world examples or even in laboratory settings such as the ultimatum game, we might see rational choice theory as an ideal. In Chapter 11, we saw that this strategy may be used in regard to natural scientific laws. Newton’s laws of motion, for example, do not take account of all possible variables regarding the motion of any piece of matter—say a ball rolling down an inclined plane. As such Newton’s laws are ideal laws, specifically about ideal situations, but still applicable to real-world situations—as has been shown through centuries of practice. Similarly, in regard to rational choice theory, not all people may act and react in the manner that is consistent with being a rational, self-interested chooser, but given a large enough sample, the theory may accurately (enough) predict how a society will respond, and what political or economic trends may be on the horizon. Underlying this “ideal” view is either the assumption that, although people individually do not always act “rationally,” their actions collectively average out to this view of rationality, or that this “ideal” view is a form of instrumentalism. The presumptions of the theory may not accurately depict reality, but predictive success allows the theory to be used as a reliable tool or instrument. Either way, it becomes an empirical question whether rational choice theory is adequate.

 FUNCTIONALISM

MEANING AND APPLICATION

Functionalism developed from Durkheim’s methodological holism as a theory, which holds that all or most social practices and institutions can be explained by or even exist because of some function they serve in society. And further, these practices and institutions continue to exist because they aid in maintaining “ ‘social equilibrium’ or societal survival” (Kincaid, 1994, p. 417). This way of thinking is found not only in macrosocial sciences like sociology, economics, and political science but is common in folk psychology and in biology. If you were to ask any nonscientist (or scientist) why people go to work every day, the likely answer would be that they work in order to make money to live. This is a functionalist explanation. It explains this activity in reference to what the activity provides for individuals. On the other hand, a less likely non-functionalist explanation might be that they have been socialized into this repetitive behavior. If you were to ask a biologist why rabbits have long ears, the answer might be something along these lines: “The rabbit’s ears allow it to detect and avoid predators. As prey animals for many predators, rabbits need to be on constant alert. The size and shape of their ears capture many sound waves that would elude the ears of most animals. By capturing sounds early rabbits increase their chance of eluding or escaping an approaching predator.” This is an explanation anyone can understand and almost anyone can accept. The problem is that, according to modern biological science, it is false, or at best inaccurate. This is a functionalist explanation. It explains the particular structure of rabbits’ ears according to what they are supposed to do for the rabbit as an individual or as a species. However, such an explanation is too teleological, given the state of modern biology. Rather, the biologist is providing an explanation most lay persons can comprehend, but really means a more complex answer, such as: There was a time in which not all rabbits had long ears—possibly even a time when no rabbits had long ears, or were some other, proto-rabbit type animal. Then, due to a random mutation likely caused by ambient radiation, a few larger eared rabbits were born. These rabbits were better able to hear approaching predators because of their larger ears. Thus, they were better able to survive, reproduce and pass on this genetic mutation for large ears. Over time, small-eared rabbits, being less able to detect predators, eventually disappeared. So today all rabbits have long ears and what was once a mutation is a ‘normal’ part of genetic makeup. This more complicated explanation employs, instead of teleological thinking, mechanistic thinking, appealing to evolutionary theory for an impersonal, material mechanism to explain this biological phenomenon. Yet, as noted in the previous chapter, teleological explanations have not disappeared from the social sciences as completely as they have from the natural sciences.

Functionalism is intuitively appealing because it seems consistent with a natural way of thinking or of looking at the world. We assume that things and activities exist and occur for a reason (a purpose). This assumption helps us to make sense of our world, to bring together disparate parts and events under a relatively small number of principles. It is also intuitively appealing because when presented with a new and mysterious phenomenon (physical, psychological, or social), the easiest first question to investigate is often what purpose it serves. The history of its development may be obscure; the inner structure of the phenomenon may be hidden in a proverbial “black box,” but usually a function can be easily identified. Identifying functions can also allow us to make unexpected and possibly revealing and insightful connections between seemingly disparate activities and practices. One might understand the American educational system by its function to ensure and perpetuate democracy. An educated public is necessary to ensure participatory democracy. Voting registration campaigns also function to ensure and perpetuate democracy in our society. Yet, these two institutions may not immediately be seen as in the same category. Placing them in the same functional category reveals connections and similarities between them and may also point to deeper values in our society. Along these same lines, a functional analysis can bring out deeper meanings of social practices and institutions. Merton (1973, 1996) refers to manifest and latent functions. Manifest functions are, as the name suggests, obvious and on the surface. Yet, for that reason, they might not provide much insight or deep understanding. A deeper analysis, or complementary theoretical structure, may reveal an unexpected, unseen function. For example, it is not uncommon for Marxists and critical theorists to find the latent function of maintaining the extant capitalistic power structure in social practices and institutions that on the surface may not seem related to such a function at all. Often these latent functions are identified as the “real” functions. The manifest functions may be not merely superficial but illusory. It takes the observation and study of a social scientist to see through this illusion (false consciousness) to the “truth” of such institutions and practices.

CRITICISMS

As common and easy to understand as functional explanations seem to be, functionalism as a theory has met with many criticisms. Hempel (1959/1994), for example, rejecting what he calls “functional indispensability” (p. 359), points out that functionalism can only explain that a practice or institution of some type is necessary for the function in question, not necessarily the practice or institution under study. If the rain dance of a society is functionally explained as maintaining and encouraging social cohesion, there may be an indefinite number of ceremonies that could fulfill that function. This functional explanation does not explain why this particular practice developed and continues in a society—that is, why this particular practice is “indispensable” for fulfilling this function. Another problem, raised by functional sociologist Robert Merton (1968), is that not all practices and institutions in societies seem to clearly fulfill some beneficial function for society. Merton, then, proposes a more modest functionalism that affirms a functional explanation only in situations in which a beneficial effect for society is identified. But even this more modest form of functionalism has problems. Recall the problem noted with the more general theory of methodological holism (Chapter 13). When we say that a practice or institution is understood through the function or purpose it serves to society, what is this “society” we refer to? What is the relationship between this practice and society? Does society “cause” this practice to begin and develop? If so, what sort of entity is society? Functionalism raises and largely leaves open these and other fundamental questions. One attempt to answer such questions is to appeal to Durkheim’s concept of collective consciousness (Chapter 13). This option, however, is too metaphysical for most contemporary philosophers and social scientists. A more empirical option is to suggest that social development is an analog of biological development. That is, change in biology is determined not by teleological forces but by the evolutionary mechanism of natural selection (Elster, 1983/1994). To carry through this analogy, however, a similar mechanism is needed in society. Yet, no such mechanism has been clearly identified. In addition, in social change and the development of social practices and institutions, human consciousness can conceivably play a role that is not conceivable in biological evolution. Societies do not simply blindly develop according to social needs, but can in some measure recognize those needs and affect their own development. Of course, now we are again going down the mysterious path of attributing intentionality to aggregates of people rather than individual persons. Moreover, to accept an evolutionary analog solution would deform the original intent of functionalism and functional explanations. It would turn functional explanations into causal explanations, and thus not provide the type of “understanding” originally intended.

Finally, a criticism along moral rather than logical lines is that functionalism may be seen as “an unintended bulwark against social change” (Rosenberg, 2008, p. 163). That is, if a social practice or institution is not only understood but justified through that understanding, there is no reason to change. This would be true even if a society were morally repugnant. If the institution performs a necessary function for society—especially doing so in an efficient manner—then that appears to be a justification for it and no good reason can be gleaned from such an analysis to change it. Perhaps one historical example of this problem is the oft-cited claim that Mussolini made the trains run on time. The implication is that fascism is efficient and fulfills the necessary functions for society. Thus, from a functional perspective, fascism appears justified as a political system.¹

 HERMENEUTICS

We have already encountered “hermeneutics” as a general term referring to interpretation and noted its original application to the study of Biblical interpretation. “Hermeneutics” also refers to a particular interpretive approach to social science. What distinguishes this use of the term hermeneutics from the hermeneutic aspect of interpretivist social science in general is an attention to social context. The two figures most identified with hermeneutics as an intellectual movement or school are the German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer (1900–2002) and the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur (1913–2005). They both emphasized that understanding human action required looking not only at the individual and the mind of the individual but the social and historical context in which that individual acts. One cannot interpret actions solely from the beliefs, desires, and so forth of an individual. For human actions (and the beliefs and desires that lie behind them) only make sense within a social and historical context of other actions, beliefs, and desires. Nor, of course, can one understand human action from a naturalist perspective that neglects intentionality.

GADAMER

Let us begin with what is, especially within a modern context, the most counterintuitive and thereby likely the most interesting aspect of Gadamer’s thought. Prejudice is typically taken to be a bad thing—both in science and more generally in culture and society. It is widely accepted that prejudices prevent us from proper learning, from coming together socially, from understanding one another, from making clear and objective judgments. According to Gadamer, however, prejudice is not only beneficial to these goals but necessary for them (1975/2004). Gadamer emphasizes that we, as humans, are not only social beings but historical beings as well. What we are and how we understand ourselves are largely determined by our sociohistorical circumstances. When we interpret ourselves, we are doing so from a particular historical moment. We have reached where we are historically from a particular path. This path imbues us with prejudicial beliefs that structure our thinking in a very deep sense. Without these prejudices, our thinking would be unstructured. However, while we are in the historical moment we find ourselves, we cannot identify those prejudices. Only “temporal distance” can provide us with the viewpoint to see these prejudices. We cannot get behind our current prejudices, as it were, to an objective, or “god’s eye view.” Because they structure thinking and are part not only of our intentional states but our sociohistorical existence, prejudices bring these together, allowing for effective social action. The student who raises her hand in response to a teacher’s question does so within a sociohistorical context in which that gesture has a specific meaning. More deeply, such a gesture is also a sign of respect for the teacher. This gesture, as a sign of respect, is so only within a sociohistorical context. Within another historical moment, the gesture might have a different meaning, or respect might be signified by different action. The woman who requests a breast examination from her physician because of an advisory from the Centers for Disease Control does so with a whole slew of prejudicial beliefs regarding the authority of science and the authority of a benevolent democratic government. We may be tempted to say (as a rational choice theorist might) that she is simply weighing the pros and cons, performing a benefit–risk analysis. However, even to perform this analysis requires the structure of prejudices like those mentioned.

Employing a metaphor of Gadamer’s, our historical situation is a horizon (Gadamer, 1975/2004). The limits of that horizon are the limits of our understanding. There may be something beyond that horizon, but it is beyond our understanding, beyond the current prejudices necessary for interpretation. Because Gadamer focuses less on individuals than on sociohistorical groups, understanding for him is never an individual act. It is first, as we have been saying, a function (or “effect,” to use Gadamer’s word) of history and society, and second, a dialectical or dialogical process. That is, understanding and interpretation occur in discursive interaction with others. Language then is central to who we are as intentional beings and our attempts to understand. Discourse occurs within a language and our being in the world is structured by our language. When we interact discursively we do so because we share a language and to some extent share a horizon. Without this sharing of language, we would not be able to create understanding, to fuse our horizons. When we come together in dialogue in an attempt to create understanding, our horizons fuse (Gadamer, 1975/2004). When we come to new understandings, we create new horizons. What was strange and unfamiliar becomes integrated into our new horizon. There is no ultimate goal, however. There is no point at which we will achieve the broadest, most inclusive of horizons which will provide some absolute or purely objective knowledge. It is an ongoing, never-ending process of understanding and interpretation. However, this need for a common language raises the problem of the hermeneutical circle. The interpretation of any text or action requires understanding its place within the whole of language, and understanding the whole of any language implies being able to understand any part (particular text or action) of it. For Gadamer, however, this circle merely provides further support for his view. There is no external, objective perspective to judge or understand from. All perspectives, all attempts at interpretation and understanding, are from within a historical moment.

Because there is no end (ultimate goal) to human understanding, but a continual process of horizon fusing, the objective, nonintentional knowledge that naturalistic social sciences pursue will not be achieved. Knowledge is always contextual and limited by our historical moment. There seems a clear parallel here to Kuhn’s theory of paradigms and scientific change. And indeed, Gadamer’s analysis here could apply to the question of natural science as well as it does to social science. That is, even the knowledge gained from natural science is limited by our prejudicial horizons. Although Gadamer’s view allows for future historical change in ourselves and our interpretation (i.e., we are not frozen at some historical moment unable to change our way of being), this prejudicial view of his has been criticized as a form of ideological conservatism (Habermas, 1970/1988). The concern is the apparent championing of prejudice over critical rationality will turn back the advances of modernism and return us to an epistemic and political orientation in which tradition and authority rule. Even though historical change is possible, a clear reason to change (to improve ourselves) is lacking. The view then risks a descent into epistemic, moral, and political relativism.

RICOEUR

The concept that most marks Paul Ricoeur’s contribution to hermeneutics is “narrative.” He shares Gadamer’s emphasis on language, discourse, the action/text analogy, and the embeddedness of action within a social context and a universe of other actions. Rather than texts, actually, Ricoeur analogizes actions to discourses (Ricoeur, 1981). Discourses occur within the medium of a language, and actions occur within the medium of social rules. The language as a whole gives a particular discourse its meaning, as do the rules guiding actions. Discourses also are concrete and particular, like actions. Distinct from natural sciences, then, the social sciences do not aim at laws to explain general events but at understanding concrete, particular actions. Another distinction from the natural sciences might be found in the openness of interpretation. One might imagine the study of natural science as finite. There is, presumably, a natural world of limited facts and laws for natural scientists to study. To learn everything may take an extremely long time, but it is at least conceivable that the natural world could be exhausted of facts and laws. Human action, however, like a text or a discourse, is always open to new interpretations and new meanings (Ricoeur, 1981). This is especially true due to the open future providing new interpretations. This leaves the full meaning of any action never fully determined but always “in suspense” (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 208). With new meanings and new interpretations possible, there is then always something new to learn about human action. But this does not mean that all interpretations are equal. Interpretations can be evaluated, not in the strict logical sense that claims to knowledge in natural science are evaluated, but through a process Ricoeur describes as guessing and validating (1981). We make a guess at what an action means and then in a dialectical process attempt to validate that guess. This sense of validation is “comparable to the juridical procedures of legal interpretation … a logic of uncertainty and of qualitative probability” (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 212). He brings some sense to this notion of validation by the analogy to legal interpretation, which has a long history in our culture. Legal interpretations are rarely final, but they are not simply relativistic or subjective either. They are interpretations within loose bounds of rules, social structure (the legal system, legal academia), and history. And they are interpretations often open to reasonable disagreement. This is why higher courts are composed of multiple judges. Similarly, a text or action exists “in a limited field of possible constructions” (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 213). So, not all interpretations are equal but exist themselves within an open field of discourse, in which we can “arbitrate between them … seek for an agreement, even if this agreement remains beyond our reach” (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 213).

Just as the meaning of discourses is dependent in part on the relation of a discourse to other discourses, the meanings of actions depend in part on their relationships with other actions. All action is, in essence, interaction. Further, our actions have effects we do not intend. They “escape us,” says Ricoeur (1981, p. 206). That is part of their nature as social phenomena. The student who raises her hand to answer a question may make another student feel inferior for not knowing the answer. The man who raises his arm to hail a taxi may unknowingly receive a taxi whose driver purposely passed by an African American pedestrian also raising his hand. Therefore, this innocently intended gesture could perpetuate racism. The woman who seeks a breast examination may, in that very action, encourage or inspire other women to be tested. Our actions are of the world, not just of ourselves.

The means of holding together all these elements and all these open and conflicting interpretations are through narrative. Narrative provides direction, order, coherence, and cohesiveness to the interpretations that comprise our understanding of the world and ourselves: in the words of Paul Ricoeur, “encompassing them in successive totalities” (1981, p. 279). The social sciences then become a “literary artifact” (Ricoeur, 1981). As such, the proper tools for studying human action may be found in the humanities (literary studies, semiotics, etc.). This may seem odd to many, as much literature is fictional in nature and social sciences—like natural sciences—presumably aim to discover truth and knowledge. But social science is both a literary artifact and a representation of reality. As a “self-sufficient system of symbols,” it is a literary artifact (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 291). As it “depicts … claims to hold for real events in the real world,” it is a representation of reality (Ricoeur, 1981, p. 291).

There are two more points worth noting regarding hermeneutics. As an approach to social science, it rarely stands on its own. It more often works in relation to other interpretive approaches, such as the ones to follow in this chapter: phenomenology, critical theory, and postmodernism. Second, any hermeneutic approach will inevitably have to face a rather intractable problem. The hermeneutic circle that any system of hermeneutics finds itself in makes it difficult to confirm a specific theory of hermeneutics itself. The theory only makes sense within the system that it is describing. So one cannot step outside and evaluate it. But then this goes again for all interpretive/interpretable systems. And if all human life and action can only be understood through an interpretive lens, then the only knowledge we can hope for is that trapped within an interpretive scheme—even if the interpretive scheme we are trapped within tomorrow might be a different one.

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