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SCHOLARSHIP in the cultural fields faces enormous challenges today; indeed not only cultural scholarship but all the components of what has been known as liberal education find their very survival threatened. Of course, talk of crisis has been cheap; it is one of the most privileged tropes of cultural rhetoric in this century. Now, however, talk of crisis is all over the newspapers, and it pertains to the viability of the university as an institution. We are in a period of readjustment, during which higher education may be fundamentally redefined, and within this transformation the situation and legitimacy of departments of foreign languages and literatures appear to be in particular danger.
The forces bearing down on higher education are multifold. Most prominent are the economic concerns, beginning with the cutbacks in federal funding for universities. Government support for research and teaching, which developed in the middle third of the century, profoundly transformed American higher education. We can imagine the scope of the changes if we contrast the universities we know with the small, sleepy, and elitist institutions that existed before government involvement in education, although; the outcome of the current debates, as unpredictable as it may be, will surely not be a return to the status quo ante. But there is another economic consideration: as the price of tuition rises at private and public institutions, students and their families make choices driven increasingly by perceptions—or misperceptions—about the financial value of particular courses of study. For most students the study of foreign literature is hard to defend as a viable career-preparation option.
These economic worries are magnified by the current political climate's pronounced hostility to intellectuals and universities (a phenomenon curiously related perhaps to the fact that prominent figures, such as Newt Gingrich and Phil Gramm, are themselves academics). The conservative dismissiveness toward education is a diluted version of the fundamentalist right's hostility to secular humanism, which the right mistrusts because it regards the institutionalized pursuit of truth as a serious challenge to the orthodox transmission of “traditional values.” Unfortunately, the universities have not been able to mount a compelling defense of their role because of an internal loss of faith resulting from the dissemination of a corollary antihumanism through postmodern theory. If we are to advocate for foreign language and literature education no grounds that are more than transparently self-interested, we must be able to speak to the defining project of the university and liberal education and to the particular status of foreign language and literature within it.
Finally, the end of the cold war has also changed the status of foreign literatures. Government support for higher education depended extensively, if not initially, on the perception of foreign threats to American security: first Nazi Germany and then the Soviet Union. In this situation support for foreign language study was forthcoming, and the public appeared to recognize the importance of knowing about the world overseas. No matter how unstable the post-cold-war world may be, there is no longer a similar single outstanding threat, and the public seems skeptical about foreign entanglements. Is this a new isolationism, coupled with a turning inward toward domestic issues? Perhaps, but at the same time the awareness of the global economy has surely grown: in other words, the traditional grounds for knowledge about foreign cultures have shifted, and there is a need for alternative projects. Can the profession rise to the challenge?
A humanistic response is a return to the sources, recalling that our project is scholarship: a passionate interest in alterity, an object of inquiry outside ourselves that attracts our intense curiosity. Even as we try to internalize it, it remains outside, and indeed we define scholarship as the rules of inquiry that maintain that distance: “value-freedom” (see Max Weber), tests of evidence, objectivity. It is this dialectic of interest and disinterest that makes scholarship so exciting and so labile. Without interest—the desire to know, Plato's eros of philosophy—scholarship becomes mere routine; without disinterest—the enforced distance—learning risks becoming mere opinion or prejudice. That neither routinization nor enthusiasm leads to scholarship means we should not redefine out project either as the transmission of merely technical skills, that is routinized language learning, or as an undisciplined collection of indiscriminate material, found in some versions of interdisciplinary. However we respond to the external challenges to foreign language and literature learning, unless our answers are linked to an overarching project of scholarship, we will already have lost the fight. For the point we have to make pertains to the validity of including foreign languages and literatures as a core element in higher education. What strong argument can be made for a foreign language department when so much is being eliminated, and should our department have any differently to demonstrate the value of our mission?
In fact, departments of foreign languages and literatures have constantly pursued three distinct goals, which have existed in a sometimes productive and sometimes tense interrelation. First, and in its practionioners' eyes usually foremost, the scholarly study of works of literature has been the declared mission of these departments. The methodologies for this study changed over the years, and the transitions between them have often been dramatic, but the primacy of literary study was never fundamentally challenged. Language learning is of course the second goal of the department: to disseminate certain levels of familiarity with a foreign language—levels defined variously over the years and also linked to changing methods—to a largely monolingual American student public. While there may be exceptions, language instruction is not as well rewarded with prestige or remuneration as is literary scholarship. Of course, professors of literature (more often assistant professors) may teach some language courses, and specialists in language teaching may teach a beginning literature course, but otherwise it is generally perfectly clear in any department who teaches language and who teaches literature. A line of class division, corresponding precisely to the distribution of rewards by the university, runs through all our departments.
Third, departments of foreign languages and literatures have also served to convey a general knowledge of other cultures. This aspect of departmental activity may take place outside the classroom, through the network of visitors (often associated with other parts of the university) who pass through our doors or attend our function, as well as through the travel routes of our own members. It also includes extracurricular activities. On a trip through the United States early in this century, Max Weber complained that Columbia students were experiencing German culture in the form of beer parties, a vernacular familiarity for which Weber, the premier advocate of scholarship as consistent rationalization, not surprisingly had little tolerance (Marianne Weber 283). (In fact, representing another culture through its cuisine and holidays may sometimes appear trivial, but these events may strengthen an emotional affinity for the place as well as social bonds within the department.) At the same time, culture has been part of the curriculum and today, in the era of cultural studies, it is becoming even more prominent. Nevertheless, culture arguably ranks third after literature and language in official recognition by the profession.
This tentative overview of the functions of a department of foreign language and literature is not intended to imply a fundamental or essential separation among the aesthetic, linguistic, and cultural domains. Indeed, a closer examination reveals considerable overlap and interplay among them. Nevertheless the designation of these three spheres is also more than a heuristic exercise. This categorization for analytic purposes mirrors the structure of conventional relations in most departments. I argue in this essay that these conventional relations are rarely thought through and may be undermining the viability of the departmental enterprise. This diagnosis is confirmed if one considers the relation in greater detail: how do the three simultaneous department goals affect one another?
The line between literary study and language instruction dramatizes the problems particularly forcefully. In the two areas, the reward for success is not at all equal, and neither is legitimacy within the university. In the current climate the study of foreign literature is not challenged on intellectual grounds, although it is sometimes contested, like much of the humanities, on budgetary grounds; but the appropriateness of second language acquisition within the university is constantly questioned. The mistaken assumption that learning a second language is merely a technical skill sets the stage for the argument that language instruction should be spun off to private providers (commercial language schools) or to not-for-profit centers. Yet despite the lower rewards and the deficit in prestige and recognition, language instruction remains the major source of undergraduate enrollment. Most students come to the foreign language and literature department not for the literature (at least not initially) or for Weber's beer parties but for the ability to use the language.
This point stands in contrast to our department's selfunderstanding: we think of ourselves as literature departments, but our public comes to us for language (though, again, language and literature, not to mention culture, cannot be divorced from each other as neatly as that statement suggests). It is surely common in the United States for graduate students, no matter how well they may perform in the classroom, to regard language teaching as a chore, to resent courses in teaching pedagogy, and to value the literature seminars as the sole site of intellectual worth. In other words, the assertion of the primacy of literary study and the corollary denigration of language teaching reproduces an already dysfunctional professional structure. We are killing the profession if we are training graduate students to disdain what undergraduates most want and need.
The line between language and culture points as well in another direction from which developments may emerge. Since language and culture are tightly linked, the teaching of language necessarily includes considerations of culture, not just because of the usefulness of cultural materials as texts with which to demonstrate grammatical points, but because the whole semantic field of another language is part and parcel of the construction of a cultural universe as other. Therefore one can only applaud the move away from structural grammatical approaches to approaches that integrate cultural knowledge. In addition, a strict definition of the object of scholarship as the literary work of art may tend to weaken the integration of language instruction, since the real research goal is the analysis of the literary work abstracted from context. In contrast, a cultural studies approach thematizes the context from the start, including the linguistic specificity of the context. Thus a cultural studies redefinition of the field is more likely to preserve and promote the study of language than is an aggressively literary program (see Berman).
This tension is exerted on the third leg of the departmental triangle, the interaction and competition between literary and cultural projects, as well as their relation to the future of language studies, given the current climate. Literary formalism, from the New Criticism to deconstruction, focuses on the internal structure of the work of art; the literary text is the indisputable object of attention, and culture courses are consequently relegated to the margin. With the proliferation of nonformalist perspectives in literary scholarship, particularly cultural studies, this distinction has begun to blur. But the shift from literature to culture loses formalism's neat circumscription of the field of study. Both the older culture courses with their marginal status and the more sophisticated and theoretically self-aware cultural studies curricula necessarily examine a set of objects that are more heterogeneous than the fields of study of literary formalism are. 1 The tilt toward culture is a tilt toward interdisciplinarity that, taken seriously, requires some rethinking of the inner logic of the field and an appropriate redefinition of graduate training. 2 At the same time, graduate training, the training of future teachers of undergraduates, has to be brought in line with the undergraduate teaching mission, which—as the departmental triangle of literature, language, and culture demonstrates—is heterogeneous and interdisciplinary.
Yet if our departments are to retain vibrant scholarship and teaching, we must answer the challenge of interdisciplinarity and conduct a close review of the project of scholarship and the norms we apply to evaluate it. As Weber argued, in a way that is foundational to current practice, scholarship does not ignore or deny values—values are central to the human worlds we study—but neither does scholarship advocate particular values, hence his term value-freedom. Scholarship is concerned with the consequences of particular value choices, to the extent that rational examination can predict them, and thus it must be prepared to consider counterarguments; otherwise it is mere opinion or polemic, assertions of assumptions not subjected to appropriate cross-examination. In the same vein, scholarship must consider a broad range of evidence, or its arguments will have no standing and will not convince appropriately skeptical readers. Finally it must approach material methodically and consistently; if it treats different material in different ways, it must be able to defend these steps rationally, or it will be vulnerable to the accusation of distorting the evidence. Indeed, scholarship will be convincing in its claims only to the extent that it can evidence a methodical consistency.
Unfortunately this imperative is not immediately compatible with the tendency toward interdisciplinarity, and this tension has a historical dimension. The last unified method that prevailed in the literary disciplines was the paradigm of the New Criticism, which was exploded in the sixties. Since then a methodological pluralism has prevailed, and—perhaps to make a virtue out of necessity—it was reconstituted as interdisciplinarity. Surely interdisciplinary approaches have frequently led to greatly enriched understandings of the material under study. Much like modernist multiperspectivism, interdisciplinarity brought several points of view to bear on an object. Nevertheless there are drawbacks to interdisciplinarity. Interdisciplinary programs can attract enormously talented and energetic students, prepared to master several disciplines, but they can also attract indecisive students unable to make difficult intellectual choices. Similarly, interdisciplinary scholarship, at its best a source of innovative thinking, can risk structural inadequacy. Its claims may always evade rigorous questioning of any single particular discipline, insofar as it can slide into another discipline. Because it locates its achievements in the liminal terrain between two disciplines, its work may never be particularly accomplished by the strict standards of any of the component disciplines.
Deconstruction was embraced as passionately as it was in part because its neoformalism appeared to offer a way out of pluralism through the establishment of a potentially unified literary methodology. It failed for various reasons. Foremost among them was certainly the extremism of some of its tenets—for example, the claim of a fundamental incompatibility between speech and writing—as well as its political skeletons (Hamacher; Mehlman). More germane in this context, however, is deconstruction's blindness to student interests and needs: it represented a final effort to ensconce hermetic literary study as the genuine and privileged activity of departments of language and literature. With its own sense of the inescapable mendacity of language and the impossibility of communication, deconstruction had little to offer the student seeking active skills in a foreign language. It is not surprising that deconstruction, whose founding figures worked in France, became particularly prevalent in French departments. It is worth considering whether the decline in French enrollments is a consequence of the theoretical directions of the departments.
Lastly, deconstruction was unable to impose itself as a general method precisely because of the cultural turn and its corollary, that the, objects of study have indeed become heterogeneous. That heterogeneity resists any too strictly uniform method. This is not to deny that deconstruction has left its mark in more flexible habits of reading; but this legacy is not strictly deconstructive. The difficulty of maintaining any strict theory returns us again to the fundamental problem of departments today: if departments are the locus of scholarship and if scholarship is characterized by a consistent and rational inquiry—a “method”—department become more vulnerable as they become more devoted to interdisciplinary practices. This statement applies in particular to cultural studies as a possible agenda for departments of foreign languages and literatures. On the one hand, interdisciplinarity can still be invoked as a banner of iconoclasm against traditional departments, even though those battles have already largely been won. On the other hand, interdisciplinarity itself can be recognized as inherently problematic, for the reasons outline above: it produces a structural evidentiary deficit, pursuant to the liminal situation among several established disciplines and therefore outside all of them. Hence it is fair to suggest that interdisciplinarity may soon have to be regarded as a transitional phase, a mediation of a redefinition of the field, and not an end in itself. Overcoming interdisciplinarity would then imply a refounding of the field as a discipline with redefined goals and evaluative norms.
Foreign cultural literacy entails a student's familiarity with and facility in the language, values, and narratives of a culture not his or her own. “Language” implies passive and active skills, with particular reference to the interplay of language and culture; “values” implies the peculiar norms and judgments that may distinguish the other culture; and “narrativeness” suggests the stories another culture tells about itself—not just literary epics but also national history and so forth. An undergraduate curriculum with the goal of foreign cultural literacy would be radically different from a traditional survey of “national” literature. Such a change would imply that the undergraduate curriculum would be oriented to providing the student with a cohesive yet broad knowledge of, for example, France, Germany, or Italy rather than a linear track of the literary histories of France, Germany, or Italy. One can only agree with the objection that literature itself is a vehicle with which to teach about the other culture. But it is not the sole vehicle, nor is it necessarily the best; that is, the shift toward a pedagogy for a foreign cultural literary would significantly deprivilege literature in the debate over the goals of departments. The scholarly corollary to the foreign cultural literacy curriculum is cultural studies, which is properly defined as the inquiry into the constitution, representation, and contestation of collective identities: What makes people believe they are part of a national group or excluded from it? How is this membership articulated and debated? Like familiar literary study, cultural studies may look at literary issues such as myth, symbols, and criticism—the capacity of a culture to question its myths. The similarity with literary study ends there, however, for while that study tends to be concerned primarily with the literary text (no matter how richly context may be invoked), cultural studies looks at extremely diverse objects, practices, and texts. This is a methodological problem, to the extent that the scholars in the field are regularly called on to examine very different sorts of objects. In this sense a foreign language and literature departments ought to be regarded more like a department of religious studies, which is inherently interdisciplinary and whose scholars work on written texts, practices, rites, archaeology and architecture, language skills, and so on. It is such disciplinary hybridity, including the importance of several distinct sets of scholarly skills, that characterizes cultural studies as an emerging discipline.
Cultural studies looks at diverse objects, and its practitioners have to be able to range widely. They surely should examine literary works, but they also study other aesthetic objects, such as films, songs, and buildings, just as they may focus on material from other realms of social life, such as political discourse, everyday language, and signs of status. The overriding concern of cultural studies is not the format constitution of a particular object, for example, the generic imperative of a particular type of literature, but rather the way another people structures its world, that is, its mental and discursive self-understanding. As cultural studies engages with another culture to understand the nuances of its value systems and so on, “foreign cultural literacy” represents the curricular goal of imparting this understanding to American college students.
These definitions of cultural studies (the intellectual agenda) and foreign cultural literacy (the pedagogic goal) imply that the mission of the department involves matters of heterogeneity in two ways. The move to expand the field of inquiry beyond the narrow set of literary objects generates a larger set of the objects that may be formally dissimilar but are linked by their context. Approached alternatively, the issue entails the recognition that a culture necessarily includes a range of diverse beliefs, values, practices, and so forth and that the construction of an academic field of study developed to a culture consequently will require a diverse set of scholarly skills, in contrast, arguably, to a field of study focusing on similar elements drawn from diverse cultures. Comparative literature might look at a particular genre and its formal permutations separately from contextual dependency; cultural studies examines the context and the collective identity constituted within it, through literary genres and other materials. German studies has a weighty tradition of studying canonic literature, but the study of film has been recognized and noncontroversial for the past decade and a half. If we can move from Goethe to Fassbinder, then why should not cultural studies also include Christo's wrapping of the Reichstag—not from a narrow art historical perspective, locating the event within the development of postmodern form, but as a cultural episode, including the debate in the Bundestag, which certainly revealed much about a range of German self-understandings. And if that parliamentary speech is fair game, then why not political speech and action in general, including, say, Helmut Kohl as a figure of speech, a political actor, an agent of discourse? And if Kohl, then why not everyday speech? Cultural studies thus shares a border with sociolinguistics and linguistic discourse analysis, another site of the possible alliance between cultural studies and the language-instruction function within departments.
This expansion of the field of study might be labeled an anthropological turn, insofar as the high culture of traditional literary studies gives way to a perhaps unlimited selection of material from the life of the community. A suspicious viewer might detect here a postmodern levelling of distinctions: where traditional literary scholarship, when it was not tendentiously conservative, insisted on a radical difference between the autonomous work of art and its social context, it described an archimedean point of criticism. This was in effect the argument of the critical theory of the Frankfurt school. By moving toward cultural studies, literary scholarship would abandon Theodor Adorno's canonic expectations, or, rather, it would certainly go far beyond them. Without aesthetic autonomy as a foundation for criticism, cultural studies becomes susceptible to the complaint that it has become postcritical, which is effectively homologous to the suggestion that cultural relativism, however radical it may claim to be,in effect surrenders the possibility of criticism by understanding other cultures' values as beyond any imaginable universalist sanction. This complaint points toward the ambiguous political standing of cultural studies.
The diversity of the object of study might reasonably be expected to require methodological diversity, which would conflict with the need for equitable disciplinary norms. There is no obvious resolution to this tension except that the field will have to remain aware of the problem and work toward institutional solutions. For example, graduate programs may need to equip students with the fundamentals of scholarship in contiguous areas and not only in literary studies. And departments may simply need to recognize methodological differences across subfields within a larger field defined as broadly cultural rather than as narrowly literary.
If this diversity of methods produces a structural heterogeneity in departments of foreign languages and literatures, these departments are simultaneously involved in another, substantive heterogeneity. For now we can recognize that the key mission of teaching and research is not preserving a literary canon, although it most certainly will involve the study of literary works and traditions. This literature is however a vehicle, not a goal in itself. The genuine object of study is the other culture, namely, the object scholarship is itself heterogeneity, which, as we have seen, evidently requires heterogeneous approaches, and it is the challenge of departments to coordinate these methods with norms and standards of scholarship.
The opportunity to teach about difference, that is, the thematic alterity of the departmental curriculum, is extraordinarily important and political in that it has the potential to engage the community in reflection on its own constitution. It is political in that it speaks directly to a matter of public concern: how publics are constructed. Fields of scholarship that, out of ignorance or arrogance, bypass public interest may likely become marginalized within higher education. It is therefore a virtue for a scholarly field to have a public mission. But it is equally important to underscore that this political character is by no means a strictly partisan matter. Our departments can advocate the right to difference as a political option, but this position is not necessarily neatly of the left or of the right. The left-wing variant is perhaps evident: teaching difference is teaching tolerance and could be seen converging with Adorno's advocacy of difference. In this light it is not surprising that members of the right wing are hostile to foreign language teaching, because they understand quite rightly that learning another language is inseparable from learning another culture; it is precisely the relativism of a cultural plurality that they would like to avoid.
But the notion of a right to difference is itself a right-wing slogan, put forward by Alain de Benoist to defend French particularity against other cultures, namely, the culture of Islamic immigrants (Piccone). Benoist reveals how learning about other traditions can support a conservative agenda: it casts the world as a site of multiple, mutually unintelligible value systems, which cannot really merge, a sort of multicultural apartheid or, at least, a radical localism. My point is not to side with either the left- or right-wing reading of the cultural turn in literary studies but solely to indicate that it is not a one-dimensional development politically, which is surely for the good. It leaves room for debate and criticism and must abjure dogma.
These sometimes abstract reflections have some direct consequences for undergraduate and especially graduate instruction. They mean first of all that we can clearly identify the goal of the undergraduate curriculum as a reflective involvement in another culture. By “reflective” I mean going beyond an enthusiastic fascination with alterity in order to achieve a cultural literacy with intellectual foundations. The term also suggests that students learning about another culture reflect on their own. The goal cannot be the attainment of some perpetually elusive state of native fluency; rather, it must be the capacity to explore the dialectic resonance between two cultures. Therefore we should be able to state clearly that the point of undergraduate study in our field is not the mastery of national literary canons but the broad familiarity with the other cultural world, and we should be able to structure curriculum and degree requirements appropriately.
A second implication for the undergraduate curriculum is that once the goal is defined in terms of cultural literacy, we can begin to give serious attention to attrition. We have complained for years that few of the many students who begin first-year language instruction reach the undersubscribed literature courses, and we have attributed the pattern to all sorts of external factors. But perhaps it is a consequence of the conventional manner in which we (in the commonly taught languages) organize the first two years, weeding out students until only the best are given access to the literature, in the original, of course. If most students are not primarily interested in literature and literary language, then we ought to be able to devise curricula that move students more rapidly into thematic or content-based courses, which, we would hope, would retain students' interest more effectively than second-year grammar reviews. This practice would ensure that regular tenure-line professors would teach courses with a language-acquisition agenda as well as a cultural topic. Given the economy of higher education and the public's suspicion of college programs in which students are not taught by genuine professional faculty members, reform of this sort is crucial and inevitable.
It is in graduate training, however, that a cultural redefinition of the field and a greater emphasis on language will have the greater effect. The following five points represent a minimal program for changing the training of the undergraduate teachers of the future if the field is to remain viable:
By redefining our goal in teaching and research as foreign cultural literacy, which includes but is not restricted to literature, we will give up the fixation on preserving a canon of great works. Few of those texts will really disappear from the curriculum, but they will assume a different status within our departments, which will serve as our universities' windows on other places and cultures. As the social sciences continue to move toward greater quantification and methodological formalism, losing their former interest in area studies, our departments are the key sites—often the only remaining sites—in the university in which knowledge about other places is preserved. We represent to the university the capacity for cultures to be different and to retain and transform their own identities. This is a vital task and a crucial service to the university and to our broader culture. But to carry it out we must ensure that our programs and courses are structured to maintain this knowledge and the access to the full breadth of other cultures.
The author is Professor of German Studies and Comparative Literature and Director of the Overseas Studies Program at Stanford University. This article is based on his presentation at ADFL Seminar West, 22–24 June 1995, in Eugene, Oregon.
1 The inclusion of a more extensive set of material for study took place along several lines. The sociohistorical approach to literature drew on political, historical, sociological, and economic research to explore the context of literature; literary scholars examined context as well as text, even if formalists then claimed that contexts were only texts by other names. Study had proceeded beyond the literary range, strictly defined. The influence of an anthropologically inflected cultural studies further transformed the notion of culture from one limited to high cultural objects to one that includes texts and practices from everyday life. Finally, the critique of the canon, often driven by a vague political mission of leveling, included new material for study. By now, the inclusion of popular culture as a topic of study is no longer controversial. A more urgent challenge to the profession would be to retrieve the objects of high culture—the “canon”—and teach them as objects of culture, instead of surrendering them as “works of art” to formalist evisceration (see Clifford and Marcus; Cultural History ).
2 In German, interdisciplinarity comes in two more or less distinct guises. The German Studies Association in particular has promoted a project for German studies for the past decade and a half. Designed to bring scholars of Germany from various disciplines together, the project has in fact tended to reinforce disciplinary borders, leading to what one might call a serial disciplinarity: historians with historians, political scientists with political scientists, and so on. While literary scholars tend to be eager for cross-disciplinary collaboration, representatives of the other disciplines are less eager to give up their home allegiances, presumably reflecting their differing security within the American university: historians are not threatened, literary scholars are. In contrast, steps toward a cultural studies of Germany have been taken primarily by a new generation of Germanists trained in literature who are actively redefining the nature and the range of the field. Finally, despite this redefinition, the strength of traditionalist paradigms—formalist study of literature—should not be underestimated. The preference for a self-referential (and therefore deeply depoliticized) and hermetic construction of literature has strong roots in modern history and may present the normal position of the Western university. But the university may no longer have the budget for departments whose central mission involves hermeticism.
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Clifford, James, and George E. Marcus, eds. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley: U of California P, 1986.
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Hamacher, Werner, et al., eds. On Paul de Man's Wartime Journalism. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989.
Mehlman, Jeffrey. “Writing and Deference: The Politics of Literary Adulation.” Representations 15 (1986): 1–14.
Piccone, Paul. “Confronting the French New Right.” Telos 98–99 (1993–94): 3–22.
Steiner, George. Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say? London: Faber, 1989.
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Weber, Max. “Science as a Vocation.” From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology. Ed. H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills. New York: Oxford UP, 1946. 129–56.
© 1996 by the Association of Departments of Foreign Languages. All Rights Reserved.
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