Belgian philosopher Maarten Boudry revisits the 1971 debate between these two philosophical titans of the left, on the subject “Is there such a thing as ‘innate’ human nature independent of our experiences and external influences?” The difference between the two was that one, Chomsky, was an heir of the enlightenment, whereas Foucault’s project was to destroy enlightenment thinking. In a nutshell, modernism vs postmodernism.
What is this gulf that separates them? Noam Chomsky rose to prominence in the late 1950s with his groundbreaking critique of behaviorism. This school of psychology, founded by John Watson and developed by B. F. Skinner, holds that human behavior can be explained entirely in terms of learning through conditioning. At birth, the mind is little more than an undifferentiated lump of clay, gradually molded over the course of our lives. Rubbish, said Chomsky. As a linguist, he argued that the mind of a newborn is already equipped with a battery of innate capacities. How else could a child acquire a spoken language so effortlessly, on the basis of such remarkably sparse input? These innate structures — not only for language acquisition, but for other domains of social life as well — are shared across all of humanity.…
Foucault’s perspective could hardly be more different, as quickly becomes apparent in Eindhoven. The French maître-penseur harbors a deep suspicion of Chomsky’s notion of a universal human nature, quoting the Chinese revolutionary leader with approval: “Mao Zedong spoke of bourgeois human nature and proletarian human nature, and for him, they were not the same” (this was 1971, with the bloody Cultural Revolution still raging). For Foucault, concepts like “truth” and “knowledge” are inextricably bound up with prevailing structures of power. From which vantage point, he asks pointedly, does a professor at the renowned MIT speak when he invokes a universal human nature? What power structures lurk behind such a claim?
Foucault also dismisses Chomsky’s faith in moral progress as naïve. What is hailed as progress, he argues, often amounts to subtler and more insidious forms of oppression. He sets about puncturing Chomsky’s vision of an ideal society: even if we succeeded in reorganizing society in accordance with this supposed human nature, new forms of oppression would simply emerge, in a different guise and with different victims. Chomsky doesn’t buy that — but he concedes that, if Foucault were right, he could no longer support the anarchist revolution. By the same token, any decent person should now distance themselves from the communist revolutions in Russia and Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, which produced little beyond bloodshed and misery.
Hmm. Chomsky’s principled opposition to the Vietnam war later became a fixation on the evils of American society, and the west in general, with a concomitant blindness to the faults of revolutionary movements – none more so than the Khmer Rouge. He refused to countenance the genocide stories until they became undeniable. Anyway…
Then Foucault delivers a retort that visibly startles the linguist. Why, my dear Chomsky, should that come as a shock? Surely it is no reason to abandon the revolution. For the first time in history, the proletariat has an opportunity to seize the reins of power after centuries of oppression under feudal and capitalist systems. It is only to be expected that they might resort to “violent, dictatorial, and even bloody power.” High-minded ideals like justice and equality, Foucault explains, are typically a cover for power: “I can’t see what objection one could make to this,” he replies, genuinely puzzled. For Foucault, moral principles are not objective, but exist only within specific configurations of power — a view that seems to preclude the very idea of moral progress.
Chomsky would later reflect that Foucault was the “most amoral person” he had ever met — not immoral, but amoral: someone deeply skeptical of any standards of right and wrong.
Amoral and immoral, given the posthumous stories of Foucault’s sexual abuse of young boys in Tunisia.
The chasm that opened up that evening in Eindhoven was more than a quarrel between two intellectuals. It marked a fault line running through the modern world. Let’s give names to the two continents on which Chomsky and Foucault reside — the intellectual Arctic and Antarctic: modernity and postmodernism. A modernist believes in the Enlightenment project of continual human betterment through scientific knowledge and free debate. A postmodernist, by contrast, is deeply suspicious of these very ideas.
Or, to put it another way, all bad ideas come from France.