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"Crossing the Atlantic to bring together unpublished radio broadcasts, book reviews, and essays by historians, geographers, and political theorists, Archives of Infamy provides historical and archival contexts to the recent translation of Disorderly Families by Arlette Farge and Michel Foucault. This volume includes new translations of key texts, including a radio address Foucault gave in 1983 that explains the writing process for Disorderly Families; two essays by Foucault not readily available in English; and a previously untranslated essay by Farge that describes how historians have appropriated Foucault."--

"Drunken and debauched husbands; libertine wives; vagabonding children. These and many more are the subjects of requests for confinement written to the king of France in the eighteenth century. These letters of arrest (lettres de cachet) from France's Ancien Regime were often associated with excessive royal power and seen as a way for the king to imprison political opponents. In Disorderly Families, first published in French in 1982, Arlette Farge and Michel Foucault collect ninety-four letters from ordinary families who, with the help of hired scribes, submitted complaints to the king to intervene and resolve their family disputes. Gathered together, these letters show something other than the exercise of arbitrary royal power, and offer unusual insight into the infamies of daily life. From these letters come stories of divorce and marital conflict, sexual waywardness, reckless extravagance, and abandonment. The letters evoke a fluid social space in which life in the home and on the street was regulated by the rhythms of relations between husbands and wives, or parents and children. Most impressively, these letters outline how ordinary people seized the mechanisms of power to address the king and make demands in the name of an emerging civil order. Arlette Farge and Michel Foucault were fascinated by the letters' explosive qualities and by how they both illustrated and intervened in the workings of power and governmentality. Disorderly Families sheds light on Foucault's conception of political agency and his commitment to theorizing how ordinary lives come to be touched by power. This first English translation is complete with an introduction from the book's editor, Nancy Luxon, as well as notes that contextualize the original 1982 publication and eighteenth-century policing practices"--

Charles Taylor opens the essay "Foucault on Freedom and Truth" with the stark claim: "Foucault disconcerts." Foucault disconcerts, on Taylor's reading, because he appears to repudiate both freedom and truth. Where other Western thinkers have sought to "[make] ordinary life the significant locus of the issues that distinguish the good life," the Foucault of Discipline and Punish seems to refuse this Enlightenment valuation. After puzzling alongside Foucault, and the implications of his thought for freedom and truth, Taylor finally queries what drives Foucault to adopt a Nietzschean model of truth and argues to the contrary that we can trust in progressive change from one form of life to another because its politics intuitively derive from our personal discovery of "our sense of ourselves, our identity, of what we are." These changes entail that "we have already become something. Questions of freedom can arise for us in the transformations we undergo or project." For Taylor, the link between personal and political discovery is so tight, so intuitive, and such a clear barometer for progress and change, that the insistence on incommensurability, let alone its use to challenge Enlightenment values, simply is perverse. And so Taylor concludes his essay by asking of the late Foucault two questions: "Can we really step outside the identity developed in Western civilization to such a degree that we can repudiate all that comes to us from the Christian understanding of the will?" and "Is the resulting 'aesthetic of existence' all that admirable?"

What would it mean for political scientists to teach what we don't know? Such is the provocative question with which philosopher Jacques Ranciere's Ignorant Schoolmaster leaves his reader. 1 Through the fantastical story of Joseph Jacotot, a nineteenth century schoolteacher who teaches first French and then law to Flemish students (while being trained neither in law nor Flemish), Ranciere opens a series of questions about the educational mission of the university, the teacher-student relationship, and the connection of education to democracy. Too often, I fear, we political scientists answer his driving question quickly, in one of two ways. Either we insist, a little anxiously, that undergraduate education and research reinforce one another-and risk the implication that teaching thus is not a 'waste' of our time. Or we insist, a little glibly, that undergraduate education should radically risk not teaching students anything at all-if students learn nothing, they have only themselves to blame. The first response wrongly assumes that research only benefits teaching, rather than the other way around. And I would imagine that, following the financial crisis of 2008, few faculty would feel comfortable with the second response, or with adopting a teaching philosophy that defiantly refuses any claim to prepare students for working life. So I want to return to this question and puzzle it through more slowly: What does it mean to teach our undergraduates what we don't know? In the sections that follow, I tease out some answers along the three dimensions already mentioned: (1) those of the educational mission of the university, (2) the teacher-student relationship, and (3) the connection of education to democracy. I argue that replicating our research expertise in our undergraduate teaching simply replicates existing hierarchies; moving our teaching practices into our research, however, may upend these hierarchies in the classroom and in the knowledge we faculty produce. Adapted from the source document.

Agonistic theories of democratic practice lack an explicit model for ethical cultivation. Even as these theorists advocate sensibilities of "ethical open-ness and receptivity," so as to engage in the political work of "maintenance, repair, and amendment," they lack an account of how individuals ought be motivated to this task or how it should unfold. Toward theorizing such a model, I turn to Freud and clinical psychoanalytic practice. I argue that Freud's "second-education" ( Nacherziehung) offers an ethical cultivation framed around a "combative collaboration" between analyst and patient that teaches tolerance of discomfort; endurance of uncertainty; and narrative capacity. This second-education suggests two lessons for politics. First, that we might do well to reproduce its relational form more broadly across politics. And second, that we cultivate those "sacral spaces" capable of challenging the conditions for symbolic meaning as it stretches between personal and collective practices.

Contemporary accounts of individual self-formation struggle to articulate a mode of subjectivity not determined by relations of power. In response to this dilemma, Foucault's late lectures on the ancient ethical practices of "fearless speech" ( parrhesia) offer a model of ethical self-governance that educates individuals to ethical and political engagement. Rooted in the psychological capacities of curiosity and resolve, such self-governance equips individuals with a "disposition to steadiness" that orients individuals in the face of uncertainty. The practices of parrhesia accomplish this task without fabricating a distinction between internal soul and external body; by creating not a "body of knowledge" but a "body of practices"; and without reference to an external order such as nature, custom, tradition, or religion. The result is an "expressive subject" defined through expressive practices sustained by a simultaneous relationship to herself and to others. Individuals develop themselves not through their ability to "dare to know" but as those who "dare to act."