Berry and DeCock, Computational Porosity

David M. Berry, and Christian DeCock (2026) “Computational Porosity: Benjamin, Lācis and Algorithmic Life.” Controversies of AI Society. https://doi.org/10.54337/aau.add.scai-11425

This interesting conference paper which will hopefully be further developed. The authors start off with a sophisticated discussion of Benjamin and Lacis’s concept of porosity, noting it as a product of the encounter between Naples and an exoticizing European gaze which then uses the concept to problematize the assumed arrangement of space in the North and elsewhere. Drawing on Jameson and Adorno, they also note the role the concept played in the development of Benjamin’s thought, particularly his concept of denkbild or “figure of thought.” B and DeC also point out the temporal, not just spatial, interpenetration of porosity. They tie the concept further to the Brechtian concepts (which Benjamin was influenced by) of estrangement (Verfremdung) and refunctioning (Unfunktionierung). [These specific aspects of Benjamin’s thought on porosity are not specifically returned to in the later discussion of computational porosity.]

"We argue that Benjamin and Lācis’s concept of porosity can be used to help understand how computational architectures structure contemporary social relations." (32)

The crucial difference is that computational porosity operates not through stone and concrete but through the material substrate of processors, networks and algorithms that increasingly mediate social existence. This includes the proliferation of enterprise software, algorithmic management systems, and platform-mediated labour that restructure how work is coordinated, controlled, and experienced in organisations.

They deploy the concept of computational porosity two ways:

1. “as a descriptive concept which helps understand how discretisation as a practice within computation is giving way to diffusion techniques”

2. “as a critical concept in the sense given by Benjamin and Lācis who saw it as an alternative to bourgeois ways of organising the lifeworld.”

Just as Naples resisted the rationalised planning of modern cities, computational porosity challenges organizational boundaries and hierarchies. In platform organizations, the distinction between employee and contractor, workplace and home, working time and leisure time becomes increasingly porous. Uber drivers, for instance, exist in a deliberately porous space where they are neither fully independent nor fully employed, where the car becomes simultaneously private property and workplace, where algorithms interpenetrate with human decision-making about when and where to work. (33)

The office diffuses into domestic home spaces and synchronous and asynchronous communication blur together making corporate surveillance and individual autonomy clash through activity monitoring software and flexible scheduling.

... computational systems create fluid boundaries between local and cloud processing, between human and machine cognition, and between private data and public circulation. The physical permeability [Benjamin and Lacis] identified in Naples’ buildings finds its contemporary parallel in the technical permeability of computational systems that allow data and processing to flow across previously distinct spheres and across planetary networks.

When we issue a voice command to ChatGPT or another LLM, the computation flows seamlessly between device, data centre and cloud, creating what appears as a unified interaction but which actually traverses across multiple computational domains. This technical arrangement mirrors the interpenetration of spaces that Benjamin and Lācis observed in Naples, though now operating through digital rather than architectural forms. Similarly, the diffusion processes that many AI systems now implement, make all cultural works diffuse and hybrid within the latent spaces of their neural networks, a process Berry (2025) calls diffusionisation. (33-4)

In a footnote:

The idea that porosity is now also an instrumental process, actuated through computational techniques for the diffusionisation of the lifeworld, raises interesting questions about how a practice of resistance can be integrated into the system. However, we want to suggest that porosity, as Benjamin and Lācis deploy it, points to the excess that cannot be captured fully, even when turned into a computational function. Thereby, computational porosity creates unforeseen lines of flight and potentials for resistance in social and political practice.

While computational porosity describes the broader phenomenon of interpenetrating boundaries between human and machine agencies, diffusionisation represents a specific technical manifestation of this porosity within AI systems. Through diffusion models, cultural artefacts are not simply stored or processed but become porous themselves as their features, styles, and meanings blur and intermingle within the latent spaces of neural networks. This technical process of diffusionisation thus intensifies the porosity Benjamin and Lācis observed in Naples’ architecture, as it operates not just on the level of infrastructure but on the very substance of cultural production itself. (34)

They describe using Google's “Smart Compose:”

As we compose, our thought processes become intertwined with algorithmic suggestions in ways that go beyond simple automation. The system learns from aggregate patterns of communication across millions of users, creating a kind of collective linguistic porosity where individual expression becomes mediated through statistically derived patterns.

This example thus layers all, or at least many of, the kinds of porosity they talk about (spatial, boundary-blurring, temporal, social, "diffusionist"). They also discuss agential porosity, “where human and machine decision-making become so entangled that attributing responsibility becomes difficult” (35). Through computational porosity, agency is distributed through [the assemblage] of human and non-human, with no clear [figure] in which it can be located. “This computational porosity obscures accountability whilst intensifying control and will create a number of difficulties unless reflexively understood.” They further discuss variations such as playful coding, and “workaround cultures” in which workers try to game the algorithms they are being controlled by.

Just as Neapolitans used architectural porosity to evade official functions and create alternative uses, workers develop tactics to game algorithmic management systems, exploit platform vulnerabilities, or repurpose enterprise software for unintended purposes. For example, call centre workers might share strategies for maximising metrics whilst minimising actual work, Deliveroo riders might use geographic quirks in the algorithm to secure better-paying orders, and remote workers might use mouse or keyboard automation to simulate work activity to evade surveillance software. These practices reveal the porous character of seemingly rigid computational management systems.

However, “The same flexibility that enables worker resistance also enables platforms to externalise costs, avoid employment obligations, and intensify exploitation through the blurring of work and non-work time” (35-6).

However, computational porosity is not merely analogous to architectural porosity. Rather, it represents an intensification and acceleration of the interpenetration of spaces and practices that Benjamin and Lācis observed. Contemporary computational systems do not simply enable movement between defined spheres but actively blur the boundaries between them. When we interact with AI systems or social media platforms, increasingly human and algorithmic agencies are diffused in complex ways. The “theatrical” dimension they identified in Naples’ architecture becomes literalised in computational systems that transform every interaction into a performance that can be captured. (36)

The concept of “explainability,” which Berry advocates in other writings, would create “epistemic porosity, where technical knowledge and democratic oversight must somehow coexist and interpenetrate” [it would be interesting to explore the connections between this concept and "legibility" per Enfield, et al.] Algorithmic management is another example of “temporal porosity” between past hiring decisions (e.g. encoded in training data), present applications, and future workforce composition.” There does not appear to be a set number of ways in which they want to discuss kinds of “porosity,” as they keep adding more, then circling back and revisiting ones discussed previously [perhaps one could argue there is a “porosity” to this mode of discussion.] It would be nice to have a set, clear list or overview paragraph of the forms or relations which computational porosity takes [not, of course, that Benjamin and Lacis bothered with anything of the sort], and how these tie back to their initial discussion of B&L’s porosity.

 [Whereas in my 2019 article I had looked at porosity primarily in terms of the relative openness or closedness of different spaces to interaction with each other, B&DeC seem more interested in how it creates mingled productions, blurred categories, “dissolved boundaries,” and recondite traces of (unevenly) distributed/delegated agency; this concern is likely linked to the project of “explainability” (which they do state in their conclusion); they are more interested in the politics of discursive articulation than in the politics of spatial articulation].

There are also possibilities for resistance: “For example, in adversarial machine learning, researchers and activists can deliberately exploit the porous boundaries of AI systems to reveal their limitations and biases. This recalls Benjamin’s (1930) attention to how Naples’ street urchins used the city’s new underground to subvert the purpose of this technology with playful chaos” (37). Apps like Signal “create deliberate impermeability within otherwise porous systems;” they give other examples workers’ collectives, unions, using apps.

“The European Union’s AI Act and similar regulatory frameworks create new porous spaces between technical systems and collective governance, opening possibilities for workers to contest how algorithms organise their labour” (38). The authors find parallels between use of silicon computing, and the tuff stone of Naples.

Whilst computational systems create new forms of algorithmic governmentality and platform capitalism, their porous character potentially generates possibilities for alternative social arrangements; a “chance to correct the incapacity of peoples to order their relationships to one another in accord with the relationship they possess to nature through their technology” (39, quoting Benjamin)

The key question then becomes how to mobilise computational porosity towards democratic ends. Just as Naples’ citizens used the city’s porous spaces to create autonomous zones and informal economies, we might identify how computational porosity enables new forms of collective organisation and resistance. For instance, the porous boundaries between local and cloud computing could support decentralised infrastructure projects that prioritise community control over corporate profit. The diffusional character of contemporary AI systems might be redirected towards collective knowledge production rather than data extractivism.

The conclusion turns more specifically to the subject of AI:

we can see generative AI’s outputs as a form of involuntary surrealism as they often contain unexpected juxtapositions, distortions, and a Verfremdung-­effect that can either enlighten or mislead, depending on context. Just as the Surrealists collaged disparate elements to jolt consciousness, AI often unwittingly collages fact and fiction.

Large language models, trawling through billions of data points and recombining them, might surface hidden cultural obsessions or biases in strange new forms. Indeed, image generators trained on internet data often produce biased or stereotyped images, spuriously classifying people by race, gender, sexuality, and personality .... When these biases appear blatantly in AI outputs, they can become an estranging mirror held up to society’s prejudices. It makes visible what is often obscured in polished human-made media, the deep-set biases in our collective imaginary. Thus, AI’s remix aesthetic can become a tool for critique, a way to see the “dream wishes” of society laid out unsparingly, much as Benjamin read the arcades of Paris as the dream wishes of the 19th century. (40)

Benjamin had seen that contemporary media and technology could be used for both fascism and freedom. B&DeC note that much current discourse on AI focuses on fears related to “boundary violations” between the human and the simulated. Such anxieties over borders have long been weaponized by fascism, and a better ground for progressive politics is needed. 

The question becomes not just how to maintain boundaries, but how to cultivate forms of porosity that enable flourishing rather than domination. Indeed, porosity functions dialectically in workplace struggles as it simultaneously enables new forms of worker coordination and new modes of managerial control. Workers will need to increasingly engage in collective reverse-engineering of opaque systems, sharing knowledge about how algorithms calculate work, predict demand, or evaluate performance. A critical concept of porosity must therefore resist managerial appropriation by foregrounding questions of power, exploitation, and resistance.

They turn to the question of “explainable forms of life” in the algorithmic age as a political, not just technical, issue. "This requires new institutional arrangements and technical practices that enable collective deliberation about how computational systems shape social life" (41).

Seeing Like A State, Chapter 3

Summary of Chapter 3: Authoritarian High Modernism

This chapter introduces the concept of “High Modernism” which will be explored through subsequent chapters.

All the state simplifications that we have examined have the character of maps. That is, they are designed to summarize precisely those aspects of a complex world that are of immediate interest to the mapmaker and to ignore the rest. (87)

Yet they not only summarize facts, they transform them in portraying them; not just description, but prescription:

The state has no monopoly on utilitarian simplifications. What the state does at least aspire to, though, is a monopoly on the legitimate use of force. That is surely why, from the seventeenth century until now, the most transformative maps have been those invented and applied by the most powerful institution in society: the state. (87-8)

This had to wait until the mid-19^th to 20^th century, when state power grew to match its ambitions. “I believe that many of the most tragic episodes of state development in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries originate in a particularly pernicious combination of three elements” (88). These are:

1. “the aspiration to the administrative ordering of nature and society”. S terms this high modernism (after Harvey), an ideology shared by both right and [statist] left.

2. “the unrestrained use of the power of the modern state as an instrument for achieving these designs.” (88-9)

3. “a weakened or prostrate civil society that lacks the capacity to resist these plans”

The ideology of high modernism provides, as it were, the desire; the modern state provides the means of acting on that desire; and the incapacitated civil society provides the leveled terrain on which to build (dis)utopias. (89)

S sees Nazism as a reactionary form of Modernism. He discusses “progressive” variants of High Modernism:

Where the utopian vision goes wrong is when it is held by ruling elites with no commitment to democracy or civil rights and who are therefore likely to use unbridled state power for its achievement. Where it goes brutally wrong is when the society subjected to such utopian experiments lacks the capacity to mount a determined resistance.

A section on “the discovery of society” (90ff) details the role of the social sciences; S quotes Condorcet on the “moral sciences,” which are to be modeled after the physical sciences.

One essential precondition of this transformation was the discovery of society as a reified object that was separate from the state and that could be scientifically described. (91)

The development of statistics:

The existing social order, which had been more or less taken by earlier states as a given, reproducing itself under the watchful eye of the state, was for the first time the subject of active management. It was possible to conceive of an artificial, engineered society designed, not by custom and historical accident, but according to conscious, rational, scientific criteria. (92)

There is a link between class control, and colonialism, in this project:

It is important to recognize that, among Western powers, virtually all the initiatives associated with the “civilizing missions” of colonialism were preceded by comparable programs to assimilate and civilize their own lower-class populations, both rural and urban. The difference, perhaps, is that in the colonial setting officials had greater coercive power over an objectified and alien population, thus allowing for greater feats of social engineering. (378n19)

The difficulty with this resolution is that state social engineering was inherently authoritarian. In place of multiple sources of invention and change, there was a single planning authority; in place of the plasticity and autonomy of existing social life, there was a fixed social order in which positions were designated. (93)

In the 20^th century, industrial warfare and the response to the Depression both required a more thorough mobilization of society; as did the rebuilding of post-war states. Beyond this, both revolutionary and colonial societies exerted special concentrated power [meeting the three criteria listed above].

The “birth” of 20^th-Century High Modernism can be located in post-WWI Germany, under Walter Rathenau, who was motivated in part by his belief in productivism:

For many specialists, a narrow and materialist “productivism” treated human labor as a mechanical system which could be decomposed into energy transfers, motion, and the physics of work. The simplification of labor into isolated problems of mechanical efficiencies led directly to the aspiration for a scientific control of the entire labor process. (98)

Productivism had two lineages: 1) Taylorism; 2) the European school of “energetics.” S quotes Rabinbach (from the Human Motor book) on the point that productivism is “politically promiscuous,” embraced by both left and right (99). Productivism is a technological fix for class struggle; for capitalists, enabling control of worker; for the statist left, the elimination of capitalist management:

For much of the left, productivism promised the replacement of the capitalist by the engineer or by the state expert or official. It also proposed a single optimum solution, or ‘best practice,’ for any problem in the organization of work. The logical outcome was some form of slide-rule authoritarianism in the interest, presumably, of all.

Scott lists Thorstein Veblen, Sinclair Lewis, and Ayn Rand as all very different expounders of this ideology.

The world war was the high-water mark for the political influence of engineers and planners. Having seen what could be accomplished in extremis, they imagined what they could achieve if the identical energy and planning were devoted to popular welfare rather than mass destruction. (100)

Lenin was impressed with Rathenau’s example, and with Taylorism:

A command economy at the macrolevel and Taylorist principles of central coordination at the microlevel of the factory floor provided an attractive and symbiotic package for an authoritarian, high-modernist revolutionary like Lenin. (101)

S ends with three sources of resistance to “the authoritarian temptations of twentieth-century high modernism” in liberal democracies:

1. The “existence and belief in a private sphere of activity in which the state and its agencies may not legitimately interfere.” Scott notes that such private spheres have been much eroded, but the idea that there is a proper outside to the control of the state still forms a limit.

2. The “private sector in liberal political economy;” this is thought to be outside the capacity of the state to recreate or master, and thus limits the state’s “economic sovereignty” [quoting from The Foucault Effect].

3: Most importantly, democratic institutions and liberal freedoms; “the existence of working, representative institutions through which a resistant society could make its influence felt” (102), and thus limit the power of elites and bureaucrats.

The Revolution of Everyday Life, Chapter 11

 

Summary of Chapter 11: Mediated Abstraction, Abstracted Mediation

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Vaneigem’s summary:

Reality is today imprisoned within metaphysics in the same way as it was once imprisoned within theology. The way of seeing which Power imposes ‘abstracts’ mediations from their original function, which is to extend the demands that arise in lived experience into the real world. But mediation never completely loses contact with experience: it resists the magnetic pull of authority. The point where resistance begins is the look-out post of subjectivity. Until now, metaphysicians have only organised the world in various ways; our problem is to change it, by opposing them (1). The regime of guaranteed survival is slowly undermining the belief that Power is necessary (2). This leads to a growing rejection of the forms which govern us, a rejection of their ordering principle (3). Radical theory, which is the only guarantee of the coherence of such a rejection, penetrates the masses because it extends their spontaneous creativity. ‘Revolutionary’ ideology is theory co-opted by the authorities. Words exist at the frontier between the will to live and its repression; the way they are employed determines their meaning; history controls the ways in which they are employed. The historical crisis of language indicates the possibility of transcending it towards the poetry of action, towards the great game with signs (4).

The first section begins with some trying to find yourself stuff, which you can’t, because of alienation and “non-totality.”

… the world, in certain periods, takes on the very forms of the dominant metaphysic. No matter how demented it may seem to us to believe in God and the Devil, this phantom pair become a living reality from the moment that a society considers them sufficiently present to inspire the text of its laws. In the same way, the stupid distinction between cause and effect has been able to govern societies in which human behaviour and phenomena in general were analysed in such terms. Even now nobody should underestimate the power of the misbegotten dichotomy between thought and action, theory and practice, real and imaginary . . . these ideas are forces of organisation. The world of falsehood is a real world; people are killing one another there, and we had best not forget it. (95)

[V’s “dominant metaphysic” seems to be about binary oppositions everyone takes for granted in a given “period.” The action/theory opposition brings Simondon to mind?]

In the modern world, “grace” remains like a "pacemaker" (granted by government rather than God) in the modern secularized subject?

Oppression reigns because men are divided, not only among themselves but also inside themselves. What separates them from themselves and weakens them is also the false bond that unites them with Power, reinforcing this Power and making them choose it as their protector, as their father.

The most interesting aspect of this chapter is its discussion of the connection between mediations [e.g., technology, language, representation] and “Power” [hierarchical authority]:

As soon as mediation escapes my control, every step I take drags me towards something foreign and inhuman. Engels painstakingly showed that a stone, a fragment of nature alien to man, became human as soon as it became an extension of the hand by serving as a tool (and the stone in its turn humanised the hand of the hominid). But once it is appropriated by a master, an employer, a ministry of planning, a management, the tool’s meaning is changed: it deflects the action of its user towards other purposes. And what is true for tools is true for all mediations. (96) 

For the Situationalists, as for Marx and Engels, such mediation plays an essential role in the development of a human subject through interaction with their environment, in which they shape and learn about the world around them, and achieve self-consciousness. However, according to V, “Power” appropriates this mediation, inserting itself into the relation of subject-mediator-environment, thus stealing power from the individual subject, and diverting the outcome for its own ends. As “the magnetism of the governing principle always draws to itself the largest possible number of mediations,” this intervenes more and more assiduously, even cancerously, in all forms of art, work, and language.

Just as God was the supreme dispenser of grace, the magnetism of the governing principle always draws to itself the largest possible number of mediations. Power is the sum of alienated and alienating mediations.

V opposes alienating abstraction with spontaneity, but not simplistically, this is what he means by the “look-out post of subjectivity.”

Section 2 reinvokes the slave mentality, alienation in “a world of non-totality.”

In mankind’s struggle for survival, hierarchical social organisation was undeniably a decisive step forward. At one point in history the cohesion of a collectivity around its leader gave it the best, perhaps the only chance of self-preservation. (97)

This took different forms under feudalism and under the bourgeoisie.

If the bourgeoisie prefers man to God, it is because only man produces and consumes, supplies and demands. The divine universe, which is pre-economic, incurs their disapproval just as much as the post-economic world of the whole man. (98)

“By force-feeding survival to satiation point, consumer society awakens a new appetite for life.” This is an argument V has made before; he here adds that “Power no longer protects the people; it protects itself against the people.” [This seems a bit to beg the question as to whether it didn’t always do that? But the point he is trying to make is that people (in the wealthier nations, in the relatively wealthy time in which he is writing) are no longer terrified of starvation, etc. and so come to question the value of “Power” (aka hierarchy) which had previously seemed like a necessary aspect of social organization [V seems to be conceding that point simply to give the history a dialectic form]].

The third section celebrates "spontaneous poetry" as a practice of freedom:

Every time the total and immediate consummation of an action is deferred, Power is confirmed in its function of grand mediator. Sponta­neous poetry, on the other hand, is the anti-mediation par excellence.

“Power” (aka centralized power, domination/hierarchy) plays a role a bit like Althusser’s state Subject, inserted into or entangled into mediation (art, technology, “the Spectacle,” etc. as the relation of subjects with their environments). In the comfortable modern consumerist (and state socialist) world, “Ideological hypnosis is replacing the bayonet” (99). “But the more mediations are alienated, the more the thirst for the immediate rages, the more the savage poetry of revolutions tramples down frontiers.”

In its final phase, authority will culminate in the union of abstract and concrete. Power is already making the concrete abstract, even if it still occasionally resorts to the electric chair. The very face of the world, as illuminated by Power, is about to be organised according to a metaphysic of reality …

This ends with a lengthy quote on Form from the novel Ferdydurke by Witold Gombrowicz.

In section 4, radical theory (aka critique) is opposed by ideology, and revolutions and revolutionary movements have failed or been coopted by those who turn theory into ideology, such as the Leninists who “explained” revolution with bullets to the sailors of Kronstadt, and to the Makhnovists (100).

Whenever the powers-that-be get their hands on theory, it turns into ideology: an ad hominem argument against man himself. Radical theory comes out of the individual, out of being as subject: it penetrates the masses through what is most creative in each person, through subjectivity, through the desire for realisation. Ideological conditioning is quite the opposite: the technical management of the inhuman, of the weight of things. It turns men into objects which have no meaning apart from the Order in which they have their place. It assembles them in order to isolate them, makes the crowd into a multiplicity of solitudes.

    Ideology is the falsehood of language, radical theory the truth of language. (101)

The fight is unfair. Words serve Power better than they do men; they serve it more faithfully than most men do, and more scrupulously than the other mediations (space, time, technology ...). For all transcendence depends on language and is developed through a system of signs and symbols (words, dance, ritual, music, sculpture, building ...).

Language, as the servant of “Power,” abstracts, and forces complex living experience into reductive categories, in order to reproduce the familiar signs (or Forms, in the earlier Gombrowicz quote). “The repetition of familiar signs is the basis of ideology.” [A more nuanced version of this argument would be D&G on the refrain.]

Yet lived experience keeps generating the radical gesture of spontaneity and poetry:

Even when it is co-opted and turned against its original purpose, poetry always gets what it wants in the end. The ‘Proletarians of all lands, unite’ which produced the Stalinist State will one day realise the classless society. No poetic sign is ever completely turned by ideology. (102)

Poetry is opposed by anti-poetry [about as apt a description of generative “AI” as any]:

The language that neglects radical actions, creative actions, human actions par excellence, from their realisation, becomes anti-poetry. It defines the linguistics of power: its science of information. This information is the model of false communication, the communication of the inauthentic, non-living. There is a principle that I find holds good: as soon as language no longer obeys the desire for realisation, it falsifies communication; it no longer communicates anything except that false promise of truth which is called a lie. But this lie is the truth of what destroys me, infects me with its virus of submission.

“Each word, idea , or symbol is a double agent” serving either the centralization of Power, or the liberatory “will to live.”

In a general way, the fight for language is the fight for the freedom to love, for the reversal of perspective. The battle is between metaphysical facts and the reality of facts: I mean between facts conceived statically as part of a system of interpretation of the world and facts understood in their development by the praxis which transforms them.

Power cannot be overthrown like a government. The united front against authority covers the whole spectrum of everyday life and enlists the vast majority of people. (102-3)

Three weapons in the service of freedom:

1) Poeticization. “‘Information’ should be corrected in the direction of poetry” (103), aka the poeticization or repoeticization of language, “leading eventually to a glossary or encyclopaedia” (which presumably translates the words used by Power into opposing or subversive meanings?)

2) Dialogue. “Open dialogue, the language of the dialectic; conversation, and forms of non-spectacular discussion.”

3) Sensual speech. “Sensual speech” is a concept from the mystic Jakob Boehme, which V states is a form of “propaganda by the deed.”

V discusses direct communication without words, as between lovers, and celebrates [Edward] Lear and [Lewis] Carroll, and Dada, as resistance in the realm of language.

By exposing falsified communication Dada began to transcend language in the direction of poetry. Today, the language of myth and the language of spectacle are giving way to the reality which underlies them: the language of deeds. This language contains in itself the critique of all modes of expression and is thus a continuous self-criticism. (104)

V ends with a dream of a post-revolutionary, seemingly post-linguistic? society, which makes Fourier seem boringly practical, though the final “do” is a double-entendre: to “speak” here means to speak within the ideological system of Forms and familiar signs, while to “do” is what we can do with language outside of this, when theory and practice have been reunited in totality:]

The language of the whole man will be a whole language: perhaps the end of the old language of words. Inventing this language means reconstructing man right down to his unconscious. Totality is hacking its way through the fractured non-totality of thoughts, words and actions towards itself. But we shall have to speak until we can do without words.

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Seeing Like A State, Chapter 2

Summary of Chapter 2: Cities, People, and Language

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The chapter starts off with the classic Borges quote on the one-to-one scale map, for which Scott cites (ahem) the fictional author rather than Borges himself (nevertheless he will mention Borges and this same story in a footnote to the next chapter). The focus is on how the state tries to redesign society to make it more governable, primarily through three means: urban design, imposition of permanent surnames, and standardization of language. For the first of these, Scott contrasts the medieval streets of Bruges with the modern grid of Chicago as two opposing ideal-types of urban form:

For those who grew up in its various quarters, Bruges would have been perfectly familiar, perfectly legible. Its very alleys and lanes would have closely approximated the most common daily movements. For a stranger or trader arriving for the first time, however, the town was almost certainly confusing, simply because it lacked a repetitive, abstract logic that would allow a newcomer to orient herself. The cityscape of Bruges in 1500 could be said to privilege local knowledge over outside knowledge, including that of external political authorities. It functioned spatially in much the same way a difficult or unintelligible dialect would function linguistically. As a semipermeable membrane, it facilitated communication within the city while remaining stubbornly unfamiliar to those who had not grown up speaking this special geographic dialect. (53-4)

Historically, the relative illegibility to outsiders of some urban neighborhoods (or of their rural analogues, such as hills, marshes, and forests) has provided a vital margin of political safety from control by outside elites. A simple way of determining whether this margin exists is to ask if an outsider would have needed a local guide (a native tracker) in order to find her way successfully. If the answer is yes, then the community or terrain in question enjoys at least a small measure of insulation from outside intrusion. (54)

A key motivation for the mapping of cities was to enable control. City planners looked at cities the way foresters looked at forests; Scott cites the influence of the Roman castra. “Other things being equal, the city laid out according to a simple, repetitive logic will be easiest to administer and to police” (55), with straight, wide streets for the marching of armies. Nevertheless he notes that street grids do not ensure governability: “No amount of formal order can overcome massive countervailing factors such as poverty, crime, social disorganization, or hostility toward officials. As a sign of the illegibility of such areas, the Census Bureau acknowledges that the number of uncounted African-Americans was six times the number of uncounted whites. The undercount is politically volatile since census figures determine the number of congressional seats to which a state is entitled” (369n12).

The aboveground order of a grid city facilitates its underground order in the layout of water pipes, storm drains, sewers, electric cables, natural gas lines, and subways—an order no less important to the administrators of a city. Delivering mail, collecting taxes, conducting a census, moving supplies and people in and out of the city, putting down a riot or insurrection, digging for pipes and sewer lines, finding a felon or conscript (providing he is at the address given), and planning public transportation, water supply, and trash removal are all made vastly simpler by the logic of the grid. (56-7)

Three aspects of geometric order bear emphasis:

1: “The first is that the order in question is most evident, not at street level, but rather from above and from outside.” (57) This is achieved through miniaturization, for instance models of buildings, or of cities. S notes the use of airplanes for the top-down view [cf. Certeau]; today drones, satellites, etc.

2. “A second point about an urban order easily legible from outside is that the grand plan of the ensemble has no necessary relationship to the order of life as it is experienced by its residents.” (58)

The formal order of a geometrically regular urban space is just that: formal order. Its visual regimentation has a ceremonial or ideological quality, much like the order of a parade or a barracks. The fact that such order works for municipal and state authorities in administering the city is no guarantee that it works for citizens. Provisionally, then, we must remain agnostic about the relation between formal spatial order and social experience. (58)

[The point here is not that it is unrelated but that there is no necessary or inherent relationship. Obviously, as Scott makes clear later, the formal order impacts and shapes social experience, and is intended to.]

3. “The third notable aspect of homogeneous, geometrical, uniform property is its convenience as a standardized commodity for the market.”

[This point is very relevant to SF history:]

Precisely because they are abstract units detached from any ecological or topographical reality, they resemble a kind of currency which is endlessly amenable to aggregation and fragmentation. … Bureaucratic and commercial logic, in this instance, go hand in hand.”

Plans to completely remake cities rarely come to pass, so most old cities are mixes of Bruges and Chicago (his two examples). He illustrates with the oft-told story of Haussmanization in Paris.

As happens in many authoritarian modernizing schemes, the political tastes of the ruler occasionally trumped purely military and functional concerns. Rectilinear streets may have admirably assisted the mobilization of troops against insurgents, but they were also to be flanked by elegant facades and to terminate in imposing buildings that would impress visitors. Uniform modern buildings along the new boulevards may have represented healthier dwellings, but they were often no more than facades. The zoning regulations were almost exclusively concerned with the visible surfaces of buildings, but behind the facades, builders could build crowded, airless tenements, and many of them did. (62)

The desired legibility is not just architectural [a la Lynch], but social [a la Jameson]:

Legibility, in this case, was achieved by a much more pronounced segregation of the population by class and function. Each fragment of Paris increasingly took on a distinctive character of dress, activity, and wealth—bourgeois shopping district, prosperous residential quarter, industrial suburb, artisan quarter, bohemian quarter. It was a more easily managed and administered city and a more ‘readable’ city because of Haussmann’s heroic simplifications. (62-3)

Poorer residents were displaced to outer suburbs such as Belleville, which become seats of resistance, involved in the Paris Commune as “partly an attempt to reconquer the city … by those exiled to the periphery by Haussmann” (63).

Moving on from urban design, Scott turns to the imposition by the State of permanent surnames (64ff). This was in contrast to local naming practices: “Like the network of alleys in Bruges, the assortment of local weights and measures, and the intricacies of customary land tenure, the complexity of naming has some direct and often quite practical relations to local purposes.” (64)

The adoption of permanent, inherited patronyms went far, but not the whole way. How is a state to associate a name, however unique and unambiguous, with an individual? Like identity cards, social security numbers, and pass systems, names require that the citizenry cooperate by carrying them and producing them on the demand of an official. Cooperation is secured in most modern state systems by making a clear identity a prerequisite for receiving entitlements; in more coercive systems, harsh penalties are exacted for failure to carry identification documents. If, however, there is widespread defiance, individuals will either fail to identify themselves or use false identities. The ultimate identity card, then, is an ineradicable mark on the body: a tattoo, a fingerprint, a DNA ‘signature.’ (371n38)

Campaigns to assign permanent patronyrns have typically taken place, as one might expect, in the context of a state’s exertions to put its fiscal system on a sounder and more lucrative footing. Fearing, with good reason, that an effort to enumerate and register them could be a prelude to some new tax burden or conscription, local officials and the population at large often resisted such campaigns. (65)

In Han China, surnames were imposed on commoners for tax collection, at the same time stabilizing/creating the patrilineal family as a legal entity. In Europe the traditional system of naming was also overhauled:

An individual’s name was typically his given name, which might well suffice for local identification. If something more were required, a second designation could be added, indicating his occupation (in the English case, smith, baker), his geographical location (hill, edgewood), his father’s given name, or a personal characteristic (short, strong). These secondary designations were not permanent surnames; they did not survive their bearers, unless by chance, say, a baker’s son went into the same trade and was called by the same second designation. (65-6)

He illustrates with the failed Florentine census (catasto) of 1427:

The matter of age, like the matter of landholding, was a vastly different concept in the state’s hands than it was in popular practice. ... In local practice, exact ages were unimportant. Approximate ages and birth order (e.g., oldest son, youngest son) were more useful; in the catasto this is reflected by the tendency to declare ages in units of five or ten years (e.g., thirty-five, forty, forty- five, fifty, and sixty years). For the state, however, exact age was important for several reasons. The age of ‘fiscal adulthood’ as well as liability for conscription was eighteen, and, beyond age sixty, one was no longer responsible for capitation taxes. As one might expect, there was a demographically improbable clustering of declarations just below age eighteen and just above sixty. Like the surname, the designation of age, in the strict, linear, chronological sense, originates as a state project. (372n45)

When making his declaration, a typical Tuscan provided not only his own given name but those of his father and perhaps his grandfather as well, in quasi-biblical fashion (Luigi, son of Giovanni, son of Paolo). Given the limited number of baptismal names and the tendency of many families to repeat names in alternate generations, even this sequence might not suffice for unambiguous identification. The subject might then add his profession, his nickname, or a personal characteristic. (66)

In the final analysis, the Florentine state was inadequate to the administrative feat intended by the catasto. Popular resistance, the noncompliance of many local elites, and the arduousness and cost of the census exercise doomed the project, and officials returned to the earlier fiscal system.

The older method of naming can still be seen in many surnames:

A great many northern European surnames, though now permanent, still bear. like a fly caught in amber, particles that echo their antique purpose of designating who a man’s father was ( Fitz-, 0’-, -sen, -son, -s, Mac-, -vich. At the time of their establishment, last names often had a kind of local logic to them: John who owned a mill became John Miller; John who made cart wheels became John Wheelwright; John who was physically small became John Short. As their male descendants, whatever their occupations or stature, retained the patronyms, the names later assumed an arbitrary cast. (67)

Surnames were imposed with spread of written documents, allowing people to be identified even though the official identifying them or using the document did not know them personally. For individuals and communities, adopting surnames aligned with, and facilitated, interactions with state structures like taxation (record of previous payments) and property (inheritance).

One imagines that for a long time English subjects had in effect two names—their local name and an “official,” fixed patronym. As the frequency of interaction with impersonal administrative structures increased, the official name came to prevail in all but a man’s intimate circle. Those subjects living at a greater distance, both socially and geographically, from the organs of state power, as did the Tuscans, acquired permanent patronyms much later.

For instance, the Scots and Welsh getting surnames later than English. S goes into the interesting example of the Philippines, where Spanish officials created a list of “nouns and adjectives drawn from flora, fauna, minerals, geography, and the arts” (69) which were used to assign surnames. Schools and other officials were ordered to require surname use, so people couldn’t just ignore them.

Surnames were imposed by various European states on Eastern European Jews. Other examples: US immigration, colonies, modernizing states.

Today, of course, there are now many other state-impelled standard designations that have vastly improved the capacity of the state to identify an individual. The creation of birth and death certificates, more specific addresses (that is, more specific than something like ‘John-on-the-hill’), identity cards, passports, social security numbers, photographs, fingerprints, and, most recently, DNA profiles have superseded the rather crude instrument of the permanent surname. But the surname was a first and crucial step toward making individual citizens officially legible, and along with the photograph, it is still the first fact on documents of identity. (71)

[Speaking of crude instruments, it is interesting that signatures are still used, often in very attenuated form (as in the digital scribble I used to sign for a UPS package, which was clearly not expected to be legible or match some “official” signature).]

Scott now turns to the imposition of a standard, official language, as a project of State control, with the particular example of France (drawing heavily on Eugen Weber’s Peasants into Frenchman, among other sources):

The great cultural barrier imposed by a separate language is perhaps the most effective guarantee that a social world, easily accessible to insiders, will remain opaque to outsiders. (72)

Where the command of Latin had once defined participation in a wider culture for a small elite, the command of standard French now defined full participation in French culture. The implicit logic of the move was to define a hierarchy of cultures, relegating local languages and their regional cultures to, at best, a quaint provincialism. At the apex of this implicit pyramid was Paris and its institutions: ministries, schools, academies (including the guardian of the language, l’Académie Française). (73)

This was accompanied by the centralization of travel in France with Paris as a hub; (which became a liability in wartime):

It was aimed at achieving, for the military control of the nation, what Haussmann had achieved in the capital itself. It thus empowered Paris and the state at the expense of the provinces, greatly affected the economics of location, expedited central fiscal and military control, and severed or weakened lateral cultural and economic ties by favoring hierarchical links. At a stroke, it marginalized outlying areas in the way that official French had marginalized local dialects. (76)

Conclusion:

Officials of the modern state are, of necessity, at least one step—and often several steps—removed from the society they are charged with governing. They assess the life of their society by a series of typifications that are always some distance from the full reality these abstractions are meant to capture.

...complex reality must be reduced to schematic categories. The only way to accomplish this is to reduce an infinite array of detail to a set of categories that will facilitate summary descriptions, comparisons, and aggregation. The invention, elaboration, and deployment of these abstractions represent, as Charles Tilly has shown, an enormous leap in state capacity—a move from tribute and indirect rule to taxation and direct rule. (77)

Direct rule sparked widespread resistance and necessitated negotiations that often limited the center’s power, but for the first time, it allowed state officials direct knowledge of and access to a previously opaque society.

For this biopolitical point S gives the example of the CDC, and the lifesaving capacities this creates.

The techniques devised to enhance the legibility of a society to its rulers have become vastly more sophisticated, but the political motives driving them have changed little. Appropriation, control, and manipulation (in the nonpejorative sense) remain the most prominent.

[By “nonpejorative” S means he is making basically the same point Foucault makes: this state logic is not “good or bad, but dangerous.”]

The interventions it does experience will typically be mediated by local trackers who know the society from inside and who are likely to interpose their own particular interests. Without this mediation—and often with it—state action is likely to be inept, greatly overshooting or undershooting its objective.

An illegible society, then, is a hindrance to any effective intervention by the state, whether the purpose of that intervention is plunder or public welfare. As long as the state’s interest is largely confined to grabbing a few tons of grain and rounding up a few conscripts, the state’s ignorance may not be fatal. When, however, the state’s objective requires changing the daily habits (hygiene or health practices) or work performance (quality labor or machine maintenance) of its citizens, such ignorance can well be disabling. A thoroughly legible society eliminates local monopolies of information and creates a kind of national transparency through the uniformity of codes, identities, statistics, regulations, and measures. At the same time it is likely to create new positional advantages for those at the apex who have the knowledge and access to easily decipher the new state-created format. (78)

A telling illustration is the use of such knowledge by Nazis in the Holocaust. In the case of Amsterdam, the use was made of the legibility created by existing Dutch population and business registries, to which the Nazis “supplied the murderous purpose” [which phenomenon I have elsewhere called the “complicity” of the liberal state].

That legibility, I should emphasize, merely amplifies the capacity of the state for discriminating interventions—a capacity that in principle could as easily have been deployed to feed the Jews as to deport them.

Legibility implies a viewer whose place is central and whose vision is synoptic. State simplifications of the kind we have examined are designed to provide authorities with a schematic view of their society, a view not afforded to those without authority. Rather like U.S. highway patrolmen wearing mirrored sunglasses, the authorities enjoy a quasi- monopolistic picture of selected aspects of the whole society. This privileged vantage point is typical of all institutional settings where command and control of complex human activities is paramount. The monastery, the barracks, the factory floor, and the administrative bureaucracy (private or public) exercise many statelike functions and often mimic its information structure as well. (79)

State simplifications can be considered part of an ongoing ‘project of legibility,’ a project that is never fully realized. The data from which such simplifications arise are, to varying degrees, riddled with inaccuracies, omissions, faulty aggregations, fraud, negligence, political distortion, and so on. A project of legibility is immanent in any statecraft that aims at manipulating society, but it is undermined by intra-state rivalries, technical obstacles, and, above all, the resistance of its subjects. (80)

Scott lists five characteristics of state simplifications:

1. They are interested, utilitarian;
2. They are documentary (written, recorded);
3. They are static (S defends this in a footnote: “Even when these facts appear dynamic, they are usually the result of multiple static observations through time that, through a ‘connect the dots’ process, give the appearance of continuous movement. In fact, what actually happened between, say, observation A and observation B remains a mystery, which is glossed over by the convention of merely drawing a straight line between the two data points” (375n79));
4. They are mostly aggregate facts (allowing for greater impersonality);
5. For most purposes, they are standardized for practical purposes.

There are at least three steps to manufacturing facts which are standardized and aggregatable [which could be glossed as coding, counting, and calculation]:

1. “the creation of common units of measurement or coding”;
2. “each item or instance falling within a category is counted and classified according to the new unit of assessment”;
3. “the creation of wholly new facts by aggregation, following the logic of the new units.”

Combining several metrics of aggregation, one arrives at quite subtle, complex, heretofore unknown truths, including, for example, the distribution of tubercular patients by income and urban location. (81)

Though S calls these “state simplifications,” he does not mean to say by this that they are simple or foolish per se. Rather, the term simplification has here two senses:

1. “First, the knowledge that an official needs must give him or her a synoptic view of the ensemble; it must be cast in terms that are replicable across many cases. In this respect, such facts must lose their particularity and reappear in schematic or simplified form as a member of a class of facts.”
2. “Second, in a meaning closely related to the first, the grouping of synoptic facts necessarily entails collapsing or ignoring distinctions that might otherwise be relevant.”

Taking the example of measuring employment, S devotes a substantial footnote (375n82) to three problems created in the use of statistics:

1. The “hegemony of the categories,” i.e. a complex and diverse world of unique and varying circumstances must be radically simplified to fit [Procrustean] categories;
2. The fact of observation and measurement shapes the response of those being measured, for instance unemployment statistics being exaggerated, because of people working “off the books” to avoid taxation;
3. Those creating the statistics are also interested in the outcomes, and could [“massage”] the data to create desired impressions.

S notes that “accuracy is meaningless if the identical procedure cannot reliably be performed elsewhere” (81). [Though this sort of begs the question of just what “accuracy” would be, if not a feature of some “better,” more precise and exhaustive system of measurement? It is like contrasting any given map to Borges’ perfect (but useless) 1:1 map].

But Scott’s ultimate argument is that the State not only tries to create the map to suit the territory, but also seeks to transform the territory, to better suit the map.

The utopian, immanent, and continually frustrated goal of the modern state is to reduce the chaotic, disorderly, constantly changing social reality beneath it to something more closely resembling the administrative grid of its observations. (82)

The aspiration to such uniformity and order alerts us to the fact that modern statecraft is largely a project of internal colonization, often glossed, as it is in imperial rhetoric, as a ‘civilizing mission.’ The builders of the modern nation-state do not merely describe, observe, and map; they strive to shape a people and landscape that will fit their techniques of observation.

If you wish to have any standing in law, you must have a document that officials accept as evidence of citizenship, be that document a birth certificate, passport, or identity card. The categories used by state agents are not merely means to make their environment legible; they are an authoritative tune to which most of the population must dance. (83)

 

Seeing Like A State, Chapter 1

 

Summary of Chapter 1: Nature and Space

Certain forms of knowledge and control require a narrowing of vision. The great advantage of such tunnel vision is that it brings into sharp focus certain limited aspects of an otherwise far more complex and unwieldy reality. This very simplification, in turn, makes the phenomenon at the center of the field of vision more legible and hence more susceptible to careful measurement and calculation. Combined with similar observations, an overall, aggregate, synoptic view of a selective reality is achieved, making possible a high degree of schematic knowledge, control, and manipulation. (11)

This chapter is an exploration of the historical application of the above premise, particularly through the development of scientific forestry, tax reform, the imposition of standard measurements, and cadastral mapping; with the ensuing suffering, abuse, and centralization of power associated with this practical “myopia.” This history also shows the complicity of the modern, centralizing state with the emergence of markets and capitalism. “The logic of the state-managed forest science was virtually identical with the logic of commercial exploitation” (15). Scott adds in a footnote:

I was tempted to add that, with regard to the use of forests, the view of the state might be longer and broader than that of private firms, which can, and have, plundered old-growth forests and then sold their acreage or surrendered it for back taxes (e.g., the “cutover” in the Upper Midwest of the United States at the turn of the century). The difficulty is that in cases of war or a fiscal crisis, the state often takes an equally shortsighted view. (360n12)

This utopian dream of scientific forestry was, of course, only the immanent logic of its techniques. It was not and could not ever be realized in practice. Both nature and the human factor intervened. The existing topography of the landscape and the vagaries of fire, storms, blights, climatic changes, insect populations, and disease conspired to thwart foresters and to shape the actual forest. Also, given the insurmountable difficulties of policing large forests, people living nearby typically continued to graze animals, poach firewood and kindling, make charcoal, and use the forest in other ways that prevented the foresters’ management plan from being fully realized. Although, like all utopian schemes, it fell well short of attaining its goal, the critical fact is that it did partly succeed in stamping the actual forest with the imprint of its designs. (19)

The monocropped forest was a disaster for peasants who were now deprived of all the grazing, food, raw materials, and medicines that the earlier forest ecology had afforded.

In contrast to most crops, which rotate at a rate of only a year or so, forests take about 80 years to rotate, so each rotation involves the careers of several generations of foresters. At Scott's time of writing many of these forests were only at the end of their third rotation. The first rotation produced promising results, but by the second rotation the negative ecological consequences became clear. These include damage to soil, erosion, loss of nutrients, and increase of pests created by the pest-favorable conditions of monocropping

The “virtual ecology” of so-called “forest hygiene” was an attempt to work around the problem with artificial solutions (such as installing boxes for owls, to make up for the lack of hollow trees), while retaining the core of the problem, which is the monocropping.

The metaphorical value of this brief account of scientific production forestry is that it illustrates the dangers of dismembering an exceptionally complex and poorly understood set of relations and processes in order to isolate a single element of instrumental value. The instrument, the knife, that carved out the new, rudimentary forest was the razor-sharp interest in the production of a single commodity. Everything that interfered with the efficient production of the key commodity was implacably eliminated. Everything that seemed unrelated to efficient production was ignored. Having come to see the forest as a commodity, scientific forestry set about refashioning it as a commodity machine. Utilitarian simplification in the forest was an effective way of maximizing wood production in the short and intermediate term. Ultimately, however, its emphasis on yield and paper profits, its relatively short time horizon, and, above all, the vast array of consequences it had resolutely bracketed came back to haunt it. (21)

Such dangers can only partly be checked by the use of artificial fertilizers, insecticides, and fungicides. Given the fragility of the simplified production forest, the massive outside intervention that was required to establish it—we might call it the administrators' forest—is increasingly necessary in order to sustain it as well. (22)

The administrators’ forest cannot be the naturalists’ forest. Even if the ecological interactions at play in the forest were known, they would constitute a reality so complex and variegated as to defy easy shorthand description. The intellectual filter necessary to reduce the complexity to manageable dimensions was provided by the state’s interest in commercial timber and revenue.

If the natural world, however shaped by human use, is too unwieldy in its “raw” form for administrative manipulation, so too are the actual social patterns of human interaction with nature bureaucratically indigestible in their raw form. No administrative system is capable of representing any existing social community except through a heroic and greatly schematized process of abstraction and simplification. It is not simply a question of capacity, although, like a forest, a human community is surely far too complicated and variable to easily yield its secrets to bureaucratic formulae. It is also a question of purpose.

Their abstractions and simplifications are disciplined by a small number of objectives and until the nineteenth century the most prominent of these were typically taxation, political control, and conscription. They needed only the techniques and understanding that were adequate to these tasks. (23)

He turns to the example of taxation in authoritarian France. The relative blindness of the premodern state meant that much detail about actual landholdings, etc. in the countryside were in fact unknown to the state, because the state dealt through intermediaries such as local elites. The state embarks on a process of transforming the dense and multi-layered feudal order into a transparent nation of individual citizen-taxpayers; the analogy Scott is making with scientific forestry nevertheless breaks down (he points out) because trees are different from humans:

The trees themselves, however, were not political actors, whereas the taxable subjects of the crown most certainly were. They signaled their dissatisfaction by flight, by various forms of quiet resistance and evasion, and, in extremis, by outright revolt. A reliable format for taxation of subjects thus depended not just on discovering what their economic conditions were but also on trying to judge what exactions they would vigorously resist. (24)

Each undertaking also exemplified a pattern of relations between local knowledge and practices on one hand and state administrative routines on the other, a pattern that will find echoes throughout this book. In each case, local practices of measurement and landholding were “illegible” to the state in their raw form. They exhibited a diversity and intricacy that reflected a great variety of purely local, not state, interests. That is to say, they could not be assimilated into an administrative grid without being either transformed or reduced to a convenient, if partly fictional, shorthand.

And yet this “shorthand” would then be treated as, and transform, reality. Drawing on the work of Witold Kula in Measures and Men, Scott turns to the encounter between the rationalizing state and local, non-state forms of measurement. Both state and non-state measurement practices are shaped by the purposes for which they are used, but these being very different purposes, very different “immanent logics” result:

Virtually any request for a judgment of measure allows a range of responses depending on the context of the request. In the part of Malaysia with which I am most familiar, if one were to ask “How far is it to the next village?” a likely response would be “Three rice-cookings.” The answer assumes that the questioner is interested in how much time it will take to get there, not how many miles away it is. In varied terrain, of course, distance in miles is an utterly unreliable guide to travel time, especially when the traveler is on foot or riding a bicycle. The answer also expresses time not in minutes—until recently, wristwatches were rare—but in units that are locally meaningful. Everyone knows how long it takes to cook the local rice. Thus an Ethiopian response to a query about how much salt is required for a dish might be “Half as much as to cook a chicken.” The reply refers back to a standard that everyone is expected to know. Such measurement practices are irreducibly local, inasmuch as regional differences in, say, the type of rice eaten or the preferred way of cooking chicken will give different results. (25)

There is, then, no single, all-purpose, correct answer to a question implying measurement unless we specify the relevant local concerns that give rise to the question. Particular customs of measurement are thus situationally, temporally, and geographically bound. (26)

Modern abstract measures of land by surface area—so many hectares or acres—are singularly uninformative figures to a family that proposes to make its living from these acres. Telling a farmer only that he is leasing twenty acres of land is about as helpful as telling a scholar that he has bought six kilograms of books.

Farms, for example, are described not in terms of acreage but as a “farm of one cow,” “farm of two cows” etc; “three morgens (day’s work) of land,” etc.

The measurements are decidedly local, interested, contextual, and historically specific....Directly apprehended by the state, so many maps would represent a hopelessly bewildering welter of local standards. They definitely would not lend themselves to aggregation into a single statistical series that would allow state officials to make meaningful comparisons.

Yet non-state measuring practices, on their part, were not somehow “objective” in contrast to state measurement, they were also shaped by power relations, reflecting the interests of different classes and subject positions; there was always a “politics of measurement.”

Perhaps the stickiest of all measures before the nineteenth century was the price of bread. As the most vital subsistence good of premodern times, it served as a kind of cost-of-living index, and its cost was the subject of deeply held popular customs about its relationship to the typical urban wage. Kula shows in remarkable detail how bakers, afraid to provoke a riot by directly violating the “just price,” managed nevertheless to manipulate the size and weight of the loaf to compensate to some degree for changes in the price of wheat and rye flour. (29)

[This is relevant also to the history of steam beer, as the price was sticky (stuck at five cents) and the glass size was apparently also sometimes fixed; also to the history of adulteration and the insistence on purity as a form of moral economy.]

Local forms of measurement were responsive to local circumstances and always malleable, which meant they each had their own, divergent, histories and political contexts.

The king’s ministers were confronted, in effect, with a patchwork of local measurement codes, each of which had to be cracked. It was as if each district spoke its own dialect, one that was unintelligible to outsiders and at the same time liable to change without notice.

This made it very difficult for the early modern state to monitor food supply, a crucial issue. Absolutist rulers sought conformity of rules and measures in their realms, but this was resisted by local elites to whom the existing system reserved some power. “The very particularity of local feudal practices and their impenetrability to would-be centralizers helped to underwrite the autonomy of local spheres of power.” (30)

Three factors, in the end, conspired to make what Kula calls the “metrical revolution” possible. First, the growth of market exchange encouraged uniformity in measures. Second, both popular sentiment and Enlightenment philosophy favored a single standard throughout France. Finally, the Revolution and especially Napoleonic state building actually enforced the metric system in France and the empire.

The impersonality of long-distance trade, and mass production, favored metricalization:

Whereas artisanal products were typically made by a single producer according to the desires of a particular customer and carried a price specific to that object, the mass-produced commodity is made by no one in particular and is intended for any purchaser at all. In a sense, the virtue of the mass commodity is its reliable uniformity. (30-1)

For centralizing elites, the universal meter was to older, particularistic measurement practices as a national language was to the existing welter of dialects. Such quaint idioms would be replaced by a new universal gold standard, just as the central banking of absolutism had swept away the local currencies of feudalism. The metric system was at once a means of administrative centralization, commercial reform, and cultural progress.

This would also, of course, make taxation easier. Scott discusses the Encyclopedists and the ideal of an unmarked French citizen, in a unified nation in which all are equal. “In place of a welter of incommensurable small communities, familiar to their inhabitants but mystifying to outsiders, there would rise a single national society perfectly legible from the center.” (32)

There was of course resistance; toise sticks for local measurements were confiscated and replaced with meter sticks, but the people marked the old lengths on them.

Scott turns to the subject of land tenure reform by states, with a Javanese proverb: “The capital has its order, the village its customs” (33). He provides a detailed example of how use rights to common lands and resources could have been distributed in a hypothetical Southeast Asian village (33-4), a key element of which is plasticity:

To describe the usual practices in this fashion, as if they were laws, is itself a distortion. Customs are better understood as a living, negotiated tissue of practices which are continually being adapted to new ecological and social circumstances-including, of course, power relations. Customary systems of tenure should not be romanticized; they are usually riven with inequalities based on gender, status, and lineage. But because they are strongly local, particular, and adaptable, their plasticity can be the source of microadjustments that lead to shifts in prevailing practice. (34-5)

The law could never reproduce such a plastic, adaptive system:

Imagine a lawgiver whose only concern was to respect land practices. Imagine, in other words, a written system of positive law that attempted to represent this complex skein of property relations and land tenure. The mind fairly boggles at the clauses, sub-clauses, and sub-sub-clauses that would be required to reduce these practices to a set of regulations that an administrator might understand, never mind enforce. And even if the practices could be codified, the resulting code would necessarily sacrifice much of their plasticity and subtle adaptability. The circumstances that might provoke a new adaptation are too numerous to foresee, let alone specify, in a regulatory code. That code would in effect freeze a living process. (35)

And what of the next village, and the village after that? Our hypothetical code-giver, however devilishly clever and conscientious, would find that the code devised to fit one set of local practices would not travel well. Each village, with its own particular history, ecology, cropping patterns, kinship alignments, and economic activity, would require a substantially new set of regulations. At the limit, there would be at least as many legal codes as there were communities.

(He later gives example of postrevolutionary France attempt at a code rural, which fails for precisely these reasons). This is only a nightmare from the perspective of administrators seeking a single, universal code legible to their purposes of administration; to the villagers living with such traditional practices, they are perfectly legible. “Indeed, the very concept of the modern state presupposes a vastly simplified and uniform property regime that is legible and hence manipulable from the center.” [And this is perhaps another aspect of the radicality of a proposal like ‘bolo’bolo: that it creates a situation of ungovernable local diversity].

To promote control over land the state creates and imposes the abstract individual subject as property-holder:

The historical solution, at least for the liberal state, has typically been the heroic simplification of individual freehold tenure. Land is owned by a legal individual who possesses wide powers of use, inheritance, or sale and whose ownership is represented by a uniform deed of title enforced through the judicial and police institutions of the state. Just as the flora of the forest were reduced to Normalbäume, so the complex tenure arrangements of customary practice are reduced to freehold. (36)

The individual “taxpayer” becomes a legible unit imposed on the existing diversity, in the same way as the “normal” tree of the forest had been in scientific forestry. [Another reason for the importance of the concept of the Unique as a counter to the universalizing aspects of right-articulated individualism]. Nevertheless the project of course encounters various difficulties of local complexity and resistance by local elites,

It was claimed, although the evidence is not convincing, that common property was less productive than freehold property. The state’s case against communal forms of land tenure, however, was based on the correct observation that it was fiscally illegible and hence fiscally less productive. [emphasis added]

The state’s project of legibilization/rationalization worked in the service of [primitive accumulation]:

As long as common property was abundant and had essentially no fiscal value, the illegibility of its tenure was no problem. But the moment it became scarce (when “nature” became “natural resources”), it became the subject of property rights in law, whether of the state or of the citizens. The history of property in this sense has meant the inexorable incorporation of what were once thought of as free gifts of nature: forests, game, wasteland, prairie, subsurface minerals, water and watercourses, air rights (rights to the air above buildings or surface area), breathable air, and even genetic sequences, into a property regime.

“It is worth noting that, like the modern tax system, the modern credit system requires a legible property regime for its functioning” (366n79). The “objectivity” of the new system is achieved through abstraction and universality:

The value of the cadastral map to the state lies in its abstraction and universality. In principle, at least, the same objective standard can be applied throughout the nation, regardless of local context, to produce a complete and unambiguous map of all landed property. The completeness of the cadastral map depends, in a curious way, on its abstract sketchiness, its lack of detail—its thinness. Taken alone, it is essentially a geometric representation of the borders or frontiers between parcels of land. What lies inside the parcel is left blank—unspecified—since it is not germane to the map plotting itself. (44)

The complicity of the state and the regime of privatized property:

Before comprehensive cadastral surveys, some land was open to all and belonged to no one, though social arrangements might regulate its use. With the first cadastral map, such land was generally designated as state land. All land was accounted for; everything not owned privately became the property of the state. (367n82)

Such maps are for outsiders, as locals would not need them; thus they are tied to marketization of land.

The cadastral map is very much like a still photograph of the current in a river. It represents the parcels of land as they were arranged and owned at the moment the survey was conducted. But the current is always moving, and in periods of major social upheaval and growth, a cadastral survey may freeze a scene of great turbulence. (46)

He gives the example of the ridiculous door and window tax, which caused peasants to remove all windows from their dwellings, with health consequences that lasted a century. In colonial contexts, cadastral mapping created a shift in power relations, as traditional systems rooted in local knowledge and memory were replaced with written codes in languages only accessible to foreign officials and intermediaries.

The gulf between land tenure facts on paper and facts on the ground is probably greatest at moments of social turmoil and revolt. But even in more tranquil times, there will always be a shadow land-tenure system lurking beside and beneath the official account in the land-records office. We must never assume that local practice conforms with state theory. (49)

A strong civil society could hold off or resist cadastral mapping, so colonies often preceded the conquering nation in being mapped. He gives several examples of neat grid maps being imposed from a distance over land unsuited to it as part of commodification; (not mentioned, but very relevant, is the example of California, and San Francisco in particular).

A final paragraph foreshadows the subject of the next chapter:

Although the purposes of the state were broadening, what the state wanted to know was still directly related to those purposes. The nineteenth-century Prussian state, for example, was very much interested in the ages and sexes of immigrants and emigrants but not in their religions or races; what mattered to the state was keeping track of possible draft dodgers and maintaining a supply of men of military age. The state's increasing concern with productivity, health, sanitation, education, transportation, mineral resources, grain production, and investment was less an abandonment of the older objectives of statecraft than a broadening and deepening of what those objectives entailed in the modern world. (52)