Abstract

Christopher Herbert, provoked by the Alan Sokal affair and by bullying critiques of “relativism,” has written this study to demonstrate the prominence of relativistic thought in the sciences of the last two centuries. Although he draws back from any claim that relativity and its opposite, philosophical realism, lead of necessity to particular political positions, he associates the former with liberal tolerance and the latter with mandatory worship in a repressive “church of ‘absolute truth’”. Nazi physicists such as Philipp Lenard, he argues, “knew better than to regard relativity as a ‘purely scientific matter,’ seeing it instead as a mode of awareness implacably hostile to their own”, and for him it is no less consequential.Herbert runs the risk, he allows, of incurring Sokal's laughter. “For the benefit of any reader who will be reassured by the admission, I will concede the methodological dangers of proceeding as I do in this book, constructing intellectual history out of a congeries of remote‐seeming texts on the strength of what may seem like freely interpretive reading, unbuttressed by claims of demonstrable direct ‘influence’”. His concession, however, is off the mark. Does anybody now regard “influence” as the only legitimate category of explanation in intellectual history? A serious argument for a common discourse, rooted perhaps in a shared reaction to contemporary events or circumstances, can provide sufficient justification for a wide‐ranging cultural account. But his study is held together by little more than a word, “relativity.” Did it really, as he implies, have the same meaning in the writings of Herbert Spencer as in those of Albert Einstein?Although it seems unpromising, the possibility cannot be excluded in principle. To make it plausible would require a searching investigation of their scientific aims, their philosophical positions, and perhaps also their political purposes. Einstein was a German, a mathematical physicist, whose political views tended to pacifism and socialism. Spencer, who worked at the intersection of biology and social science, sought a unifying principle in a progressive cosmic tendency to advance from homogeneity to heterogeneity and by the 1880s had grown bitterly resentful about the growth of the social state in Britain. It seems at first comical to construe them as allied in advocacy of the doctrine of Protagoras, as Herbert labels it, that man is the measure of all things. Herbert simply ignores considerations of this kind, and there is nothing deeper in the book to alter one's initial reaction. Instead, he reaches more widely, enlisting on the same relativistic team an improbable alliance of Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, Charles Darwin, marginalist economics, Ernst Mach, Karl Pearson, quantum theory, Saussurean linguistics, and, in our own time, Richard Rorty and Jacques Derrida. Few opponents of this Victorian relativity are identified, for almost everyone has said something that can be associated with one or another meaning of “relativity.” In asides and footnotes, Herbert reaches back to the Enlightenment philosophes, and even to Hobbes, as relativistic progenitors. Well may Sokal laugh.Herbert is not a historian, but a literary theorist. He has this in common with the intolerant scientific realists he chastises: that he has composed a work of history—to which he indeed applies the name “intellectual history”—without bothering to canvass the historical scholarship. Would a great university press publish a book on the rise of the novel by an author who had never looked to literary scholarship, or on landscape painting by one who disdained to read art history? Herbert seems a perfectly decent fellow, but his book suggests that the arrogance of theory is fully a match for the arrogance of science.