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It's been a good field tripPaul Bohannan aa Professor Emeritus , University of Southern California , Los Angeles, USAPublished online: 20 Jul 2010.

To cite this article: Paul Bohannan (1997) It's been a good field trip, Ethnos: Journal of Anthropology, 62:1-2, 116-136, DOI:10.1080/00141844.1997.9981546

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Key Informantson the History of Anthropology:Paul Bohannan

Photo: Vncramjayanti

The history of anthropology is a growing field of study within the dis-cipline itself. Our series 'Key Informants on the History of Anthropology'is offered as a contribution to the discussion of how anthropology, as itis understood and practised today, evolved and took shape. In the in-vited paper 'It's been a Good Field Trip', Paul Bohannan reflects on therichness of his anthropological career, which extends from work amongthe Tiv of Nigeria to research about divorce in the United States, andhas ranged from positions as don at Oxford University to Dean at theUniversity of Southern California. In his essay, Paul Bohannan notesthat he has lived through over half the history of cultural anthropology,and has worked within the discipline since the 1940s. What lessonsmight be drawn from this extensive engagement with anthropology,and what directions might be fruitful ones for anthropology to take inthe future?

ETHNOS VOL. 0 2 : 1 - 2 , 1997© Scandinavian University Press, pp. 116-136

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It's Been a Good Field Trip

Paul BohannanProfessor Emeritus, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, USA

When I was born, in 1920, two months after the League of Nationswas formally established, Woodrow Wilson was in the WhiteHouse. It was the year after Kroeber made full professor, the year

Radcliffe-Brown first went to South Africa. Farmers had, that same year, be-come a minority group in the United States. Silent movies called 'jitneys' hadbecome familiar. There were 8 million cars in the United States. And womenwon the right to vote that year.

As I write this account in early 1997, Bill Clinton is beginning his secondterm - the votes of women were decisive in putting him there. Farming islargely in the hands of vast corporations. Television is on the brink of beingamalgamated with personal computers.

That means that, if you start in 1776 (the traditional date for the foundingof the United States), I have lived through a touch over a third of my coun-try's history. And if you separate the history of anthropology from its pre-history with the publication of Tylor's Primitive Culture and Morgan's Sys-tems of Consanguinity and Affinity, both in 1871,1 have lived through over halfthe history of cultural anthropology.

From this perch one can see how closely the history of anthropology istied to world history - and how closely anthropological careers are tied to thehistory of changing anthropological interests. My professional biography isa reflection of the history of anthropology, which is itself a reflection of worldhistory - put a little out of focus because it is idiosyncratic and fragmentary.

The year I graduated from high school - 1937, when I was 17 - Evans-Pritchard published Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic among the Azande. Tenyears later, I began to study with him.

At the time of my high-school graduation, however, I turned my back on

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Il8 PAUL BOHANNAN

university and ran off with a dance band. For three years I played either pianowith small bands for dances or electric organ in cocktail lounges. I was mak-ing $100 a week in 1939, which was a lot of money in those days. But theSecond World War had started in Europe. Americans said they were neutral- but we all knew that we were not. It seemed time to stop fooling aroundand get an education.

Myself and Social Science up to the End of World War IIIn the summer of 1941 - a few months after the publication ofEvans-Pritch-

ard and Fortes' African Political Systems - I was at the University of Arizonathinking I would become a chemist (my sister actually did it) or that I'd writefiction (for which I have proved several times in my life I have absolutely notalent). In order to be able to complete my undergraduate degree I neededan introductory social science course. The only one given at what I consid-ered a reasonable hour - 10 A.M. - was Introductory Anthropology. I enrol-led and bought the textbook - the heavy volume called General Anthropologythat Franz Boas had edited in 1938.

We met every weekday for five weeks. The teacher was a young womannamed Clara Lee Tanner. She was about 30. Her daughter had been bornsome three months earlier. She was fulfilled, she was beautiful, and she wasexcitingly interested in anthropology. She was - and is now widely acknowl-edged to be - an expert in Southwest Indian art. She has several magnificentbooks to prove it.

Clara Lee taught us what was then known about human origins. So maybeGenesis wasn't the last word! She taught us that, as she put it, man's soulemerged in the Magdalenian, as was evidenced by the cave art. So art is anintegral part of human history! She taught us that peoples of Africa and thelocal groups of Native Americans had insights into the nature of the worldthat were valuable not only to them, but to us. So maybe my parents and myteachers had as much to learn as I did! Maybe education takes up your wholelife! And Clara Lee also taught us - this was, after all, the summer of 1941 andpeople had not yet learned to consider such things unimportant - about thedistribution of the digging stick in South America.

But most of all, Clara Lee made me see the sweep of time and space thatanthropology embraced - its immense grasp across the boundaries of socialscience and the humanities and its capacity to see humankind - all of it - asa single species. Clara Lee is the first person I ever met who spoke for theentire species!

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And a personal revelation came as well: if I turned to anthropology, Iwould have to give up fewer of my interests - less of myself- than I wouldin any other pursuit. Fifty-five and more years later, I still think so.

By December ofthat same year, 1941, a few days after the attack on PearlHarbor, I volunteered for the Army. I would have been drafted in any case- we called ourselves 'handcuffed volunteers.' I gave the next five years tomy country - years that, I remember thinking then, I might otherwise havegiven to Greenwich Village. Looking at it today, I realize that I had had myGreenwich village while I was playing Strauss waltzes on the Hammondorgan to tipplers crying in their drinks. I remain glad that my war had apurpose - a good purpose. We saw ourselves as the good guys - good guyswho did what we had to do.

The most important anthropological influence that World War II broughtto me was studying with D. G. M. Bach. As a newly minted second lieutenant- a '90-day wonder' - I was stationed at Hammer Field in California, theairfield outside Fresno that today calls itself FAT, the Fresno Air Terminal.A man I knew - his name was Charlie, but that is all I remember - heard mesay that I would like to study a non-Indo-European language. Any non-Indo-European language. He called his friend Dr. Bach. Charlie then called me andtold me to call Bach. Dr. Bach was a Danish missionary who had spent manyyears in Japan. He spoke, read, and wrote Japanese. He agreed to teach me.For about six months, I spent two long evenings a week at his house and manyother evenings studying in my small room at Bachelor Officers' Quarters (Iwas fortunate enough to get one of the few singles). From him I learned towrite Chinese characters with the correct stroke order. From him I learnedto cope with postpositions instead of prepositions, and to understand thecomplex system of Japanese verb endings which change by the comparativesocial rank of the speaker and the person addressed. Those verb endingsmake the grammar of German gender seem easy.

A couple of Dr. Bach's old friends from Japan, who had become officersof the American army, were traveling through and dropped in to see him.They were out ransacking the bushes for anyone who knew Japanese. Dr.Bach told them about me. The next thing I knew, I had orders to report tothe Japanese Language School at the University of Michigan. There Dr.Joseph Yamagiwa had put together a team of Issei and Nisei teachers whotaught us not only the Japanese language but many of the intricacies ofjapa-nese culture.

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I vividly remember the morning after the first atomic bomb destroyedHiroshima. At our offices in Arlington, Virginia, Bayless Manning (later tobecome a distinguished New York attorney and for some years the Dean ofStanford Law School) leaned out the window shouting 'Obsolete!' at theArmy Air Corps planes flying overhead.

Three months later, I stood among the ruins of Hiroshima. I had beenassigned to the Strategic Bombing Survey - sent to Japan ostensibly to assessthe damage inflicted by American bombing. A less bruited-about purposewas to make a thorough economic survey of Japan. That latter goal was notwidely discussed because (we were told) our mission was paid for withmoney that had been earmarked for other purposes.

The trip across the Pacific took several days. We flew first from the SanFrancisco area to Hawaii, where we had a couple of days but could not leavethe base because nobody knew when our airplane would take off. We flewfrom there to Christmas Island, then to Saipan, where we spent a couple ofdays - we were not allowed off the base because there were still Japanesesoldiers holed up in the hills. Jules Henry, the anthropologist who spent mostof his professional life at Washington University, St. Louis, was also on thatplane. I found his ideas almost inspirational - how much he knew! And,incidentally, I think his Culture Against Man is one of the unjustly neglectedbooks of twentieth-century American anthropology.

In Japan, I found that I could read the daily papers, that I could make mywants known, and get my questions understood. I could myself understanda lot, but never all, of what Japanese were saying to one another. I was on thenon-ferrous metals team of the survey. We - a Navy lieutenant who was aneconomist, a civilian metallurgical engineer, a photographer, a driver, and me(an army captain) as 'language officer' - traveled, by train and jeep, through-out Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu (we never got to Hokkaido). I got quitefluent in discussing the production of copper, aluminum, and magnesium, ifnot much else.

When I was demobilized after the war, I decided to go back to the Uni-versity of Arizona to finish my B.A. I would like to have taken my degree inanthropology, but could not because some of the anthropology faculty hadnot yet been demobilized, arid it would have taken two years. I took it inGerman. I had enough German credits that with a course in Faust and acouple of independent studies in German lyric poetry, I could qualify. Someyears later, when I saw Faust, Part I, performed in the cathedral courtyard in

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Basel, I realized that my teacher, Friedrich Schmitts, was a great actor. A farbetter Mephistopheles than the guy in Basel.

Most of my courses, however, were in the anthropology department. Iregret that, although I read German fairly fluently and pronounce it wellenough, I have never taken time really to learn it.

Looking back from 1997,1 find that anthropology was, just after the war,preoccupied with a number of concerns.

LANGUAGE as the basic tool for understanding another culture was in theair. Malinowski had started all this - he had been forced by World War I tolearn Kilivila and only after he did it did he become aware how important itwas. American anthropology, under the leadership of Boas, took a differentturn: into linguistics instead of learning to speak the field language. Boasand other Americans recorded texts. Indeed, I remember, somewhere in thebooks of George Stocking, a letter from Boas to his wife telling her that theday had been wasted because the Indians were too busy performing cere-monies to dictate texts to him.

One of Evans-Pritchard's dining-out stories for putting down Americanswas his reply when Sol Tax once asked him if he collected texts: 'Of coursenot. If I need a text, I write it.' Boas, he insisted, never learned to speak Kwa-kiutl, and could never have written his own texts. That story hides two points:Boas was far more interested in linguistics than Evans-Pritchard; and Evans-Pritchard was far more interested in the interior meaning of the ethno-graphy - and far more traditional than he cared to let on.

CULTURE AND PERSONALITY was being discovered. Culture was no longermerely something out there - here was proof that it affected people wherethey lived.

ACCULTURATION OR SOCIAL CHANGE. It seems utterly astonishing todaythat the passage of time - and the idea of culture change - was introduced intoanthropology so late. In the United States, the American AnthropologicalAssociation some time in the 1930s appointed a committee made up of Lin-ton, Redfield, and Herskovits to decide whether or not the American Anthro-pologist should publish articles about what they called acculturation. Fortu-nately for their own reputations, they recommended publication. When I gotto Oxford in 1947, Godfrey and Monica Wilson's short book, The Analysis ofSocial Change, was deemed important in England (although nit-pickers in-sisted it should have been called 'An Analysis' rather than 'The Analysis').

LANGUAGE, PERSONALITY, AND CHANGE. AH were new at the time, and allwere controversial.

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My First Golden AgeI got a good training in American cultural anthropology. Clara Lee had

started it. After the War, the biggest influence was Edward Spicer. Spicer hadbeen a student of RadclifFe-Brown during the latter's years at the Universityof Chicago. Although Spicer's anthropology was absolutely American, it wasspiced (as it were) with what was to become the heartland of British socialanthropology. He had read the French sociologists - and had followed Rad-clifFe-Brown's Australian work closely.

Ned Spicer encouraged me to drop into his office to talk. I occasionallywondered why he gave me hour after hour of his time. Years later, when I hadbecome an anthropology teacher, I came to understand why. However fullof good will a teacher may be - and Ned certainly was - his giving me thattime was not pure generosity. I found myself eagerly giving a lot of time tobright students whose questions were such an important stimulus. I hope Ihave repaid Spicer.

Ned and his wife Roz were involved in fieldwork among the Yaqui of bothArizona and Sonora. I still use his book on Potam, and his article, 'PersistentCultural Systems' which appeared in Science in 1971, a landmark in how togo about studying culture over time.

Ned took his classes on fieldwork trips to the Yaqui settlement of Pascuajust outside Tucson - and expected good notes and reasoned reports. He alsotook us to rituals at San Xavier mission a few miles out of town on the Papagoreservation - and again demanded sensibly complete notes and good reports.It was invaluable training.

Most of all, however, Ned and I talked about what was currently going onin anthropology. I was reading a lot - and he was guiding the reading. In allbut name, it was a big, long-term, complex tutorial. I went with him throughwhatever writings of RadclifFe-Brown were then extant. I vividly rememberstudying Ned's copy of a mimeographed manuscript that Sol Tax was laterto turn into RadclifFe-Brown's A Natural History of Society.

Ned himself was reading the then-new culture and personality material.I read it too - and was more impressed by the potentiality of the ideas thanby the actual written products that were emerging. Culture and personalityhas long-since turned into the little sub-field of psychoanalytic anthropology- and has never, I think, reached the heights that it might well have, giventhe power of the ideas.

Spicer hoped that I would either stay at Arizona and take my degree withhim or else go to the University of Chicago, where he had studied with Rad-

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cliffe-Brown (long since departed). I had other ideas. I was preparing to goto Harvard to study Japanese with Edwin Reischauer (a Harvard professorand later ambassador to Japan, who had been my colonel for two years duringthe war), and anthropology with Clyde Kluckhohn.

It never happened. One autumn evening the anthropology club met at thehome of Emil Haury, head of the Department and one of the most daringlyoriginal of Southwestern archaeologists. As I came in the door, Doc Hauryasked me, 'Do you want to go to England?'

'Sure,' I replied instantly. 'What for?''Apply for a Rhodes scholarship,' he said. 'The Dean is having a meeting

for interested people tomorrow afternoon.'My response was, 'Don't be silly, Doc. I don't play football.' The only

Rhodes scholar I had ever heard of then was Whizzer White, the ail-Ame-rican football legend from the University of Colorado who became JusticeByron White of the U.S. Supreme Court (to whom I had an opportunity totell this story many years later at a meeting of federal judges in Wyoming,where I was a guest speaker - about African law).

What Doc Haury had said did stick in my head, however. I went to themeeting. A few weeks later, in thé Athenaeum of Cal Tech in Pasadena, I wasdeclared one of the four scholarship winners from the six Western states, for1947. No more fortunate piece of luck has ever come my way.

During the next few weeks, with Ned Spicer's supervision, I read my waythrough some of Evans-Pritchard, who was the new professor at Oxford(Ned hadn't read it either). I was impressed by its reasoning and by the won-derfully detailed and careful ethnography. But, in the light of my Americantraining, I thought it limited. Today - when I envision Evans-Pritchard in theAfrican idiom 'He is my father and my mother' - I feel a little filial impietywhen I say I still think it limited, no matter how brilliant.

World History and Social Science - 1946-1956When I was doing research among old men living in flea-bag hotels in San

Diego in 1974,1 learned something important: I was trying to associate theirexperiences with world events. One old man told me, 'Look, that has nothingto do with me. What's important to me is the day my wife gave up on me andleft - the day I lost my job because I was drunk. The day I... '

Like that old man, I remember little about historical events during the im-mediately post-war years - my own life was proceeding with what seemedtotal independence from world events. The social history of Britain as I ex-

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perienced it in the postwar years can be summed up in their reaction to theimmense social changes that were occurring all around them: the Brits em-phasized not the change, but rather what they called the 'continuity.' Under-lying all that change was a search, not for the prewar Britain but for whatmight be called the eternal Britain. Americans looked at change in a verydifferent way: they emphasized the new and paid little or no attention to thecontinuity. I remember an Englishman telling me that the British had to learnfrom the Danes to be happy being a second-rate power and concentrate onthe Royal Ballet's being the best in the world.

Because I was in England, I missed direct experience of the era ofjosephMcCarthy and his anti-Communist witch-hunts. I do remember the Ameri-cans who came through who had been all but traumatized by those events.Yet, from England, one could see that the forces of good were just as strongas the forces of evil. It was a mighty battle - the kind of battle that appearsregularly in American history.

In my American training, I had been taught that the 'four fields' ofanthropology are closely inter-related: cultural, biological, linguistics, andarchaeology. That was many years before the fifth field, applied anthropology,was added. In Oxford, there were physical anthropologists - but they werein the school of anatomy. Christopher Hawks was professor of archaeology,but had no association with the Institute of Social Anthropology. I met himseveral times - but not in anthropological contexts. Beatrice Blackwood,whose Both Sides ofBuka Passage should have made her a charter member ofthe Institute, stayed at her job in the Pitt Rivers Museum. Linguistics was sofar out in left field that I cannot even recall meeting linguists. These all-but-demographic facts meant that my English training focused entirely onsocial anthropology. It is similar to, but accents a different syllable from, cul-tural anthropology. Radcliffe-Brown's dislike of the word 'culture' (whichresulted, in part, from his hassles with Ralph Linton) was still in evidence.The power of the French sociologists was unquestioned. I read all of Durk-heim that had then been published, and most of his co-workers. I once (inwhat now seems an earlier incarnation) owned a complete run oí U AnnéeSociologique.

On a personal level, I remember the food rationing, the shortage of meatand eggs, the dependence on winter root vegetables. I remember that Ibought lettuce imported from South Africa - and the old lady at the green-grocer's who, every time I bought it, assured me correctly that I couldn'tafford it. I remember that pub lunches in those days were cold sausage pies

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seasoned with mace (the American tradition of flavoring sausage is Polish)and a pint of bitter.

But what I really remember is the Friday seminars, the long walks in theparks, often with Evans-Pritchard, sometimes with Max Gluckman, and thefocused intensity of social anthropologists.

Britain in those days was more or less immune to what was going on inAmerican anthropology. I remember when Edward Shils came to one of theFriday seminars to talk to us about culture-and-personality. His correct as-sumption was that the Brits never heard of it. In the discussion that followed,the questions asked by Elizabeth Colson, Laura Bohannan, me and severalother people with American accents were far more sophisticated than thepresentation he had dumbed-down for his British audience. He finally asked,'Does anybody in this room speak with an English accent?' The British parti-cipants laughed - but they didn't ask him any questions. They were not readyeven to talk about a topic so astonishingly foreign to them.

Lévi-Strauss made presentations to those Friday seminars on at least twooccasions. I found much of what he said a wrong-headed form of free-asso-ciation. I admit that I was wearing my ethnocentric spectacles, which meantI could not see beyond my own premises. I never did succeed in getting thescales off my eyes in order to appreciate French structuralism. The difficultyis mine.

All of contemporary British social anthropology showed up in those sem-inars. I have heard Evans-Pritchard and Firth argue, none too civilly. I haveheard Audrey Richards gather all her forces and face Evans-Pritchard down.I have heard Schapera give an almost inspiring, and very thoroughly re-searched, paper about kinship in the novels ofjane Austen; Firth about Poly-nesian economy. I have several times heard Evans-Pritchard argue with Da-ryll Forde - both enjoyed it. In the pub after one session, Daryll kept askinghim 'Haven't you read' such and such. He kept mentioning newer and newerbooks. Evans-Pritchard cleverly kept bringing up older and older books. Forthat reason, Evans-Pritchard had more ammunition. He argued better thanForde, for all that he may well actually not have read as much (althoughbecause Evans-Pritchard was a sort of secret reader, I may be wrong aboutthat. He had, for example, read most of Freud, but he certainly didn't ad-vertise it).

It was a great experience, and because the group of anthropologists wassmall, one's early experience was of being an integral part of it. Youngsterswere treated as equals - which helped them become equals.

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Social anthropology was considered far more legitimate and important inBritain than cultural anthropology has ever been in the United States. Theempire was undergoing what the British called 'devolution' (but which mightjust as accurately have been called 'breaking up'). Margery Perham had anoffice close by and would not let us forget colonial history. I heard bothHarold Lasky and G. D. H. Cole lecture on devolution of empire. (I evenheard a very old Gilbert Murray talk about Jane Harrison.) I heard R. G. Col-lingwood lecture on the connection between philosophy and archaeology. Itwas heady stuff.

There were short lectures on the B.B.C. Third Programme - most of themlasted twenty minutes. Most of the senior anthropologists contributed lec-tures - the take was 20 guineas for 20 minutes. I even did two or three myself.One got published in The Listener, which gave me another (very welcome) 8guineas. We published unsigned reviews in The Times Literary Supplement-1did a number of them, and so did everybody else.

British society was, in those days, still rigidly stratified. When I begantutoring at Oxford, I came to realize the immense burden borne by verybright students who nevertheless 'knew' that their social background did notentitle them to be at the University. However, I found little anti-Americanism- there was some, but it took the form of verbal cleverness rather than hosti-lity. Americans were considered fair game and sometimes publicly deplored- but were not under-valued.

Perhaps the best thing about those seminars was the real straightforwardnesswith which they were carried out. In those days (this may have changed) theAmericans had two categories of behavior: polite and rude. The Brits, how-ever, added a third: civil. Civil was what everybody was in those seminars.That means that you pulled no punches when you criticized, but you also didnot jeer. That kind of civility I quickly came to prize. Americans to this daydo not understand this idea of civility. They tend to confuse all criticism withcarping and 'being negative.' An American has to be your close friend indeedbefore he will give you anything but praise when he reviews your manuscript(unless, of course, he is doing it anonymously for a professional journal,whereupon the venom taps can be turned on at full spigot). The Brits nevermade that kind of mistake: they understood that you really did want to knowthe weak points before publication - then you would not have to read aboutthem afterward in the reviews.

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My Second Golden AgeI think of my period at Oxford - from 1947 to 1951 as a student, and from

1951 to 1956 as a don - as a Golden Age of anthropology. At least the firstfew years. The faculty (called 'staff1 in England, although in the United Statesthat word means the secretaries) was made up of Evans-Pritchard, MeyerFortes, and Max Gluckman. Three people that today we would probably callpost-docs had come with Gluckman from central Africa: Elizabeth Colson,John Barnes, and Clyde Mitchell. There were 12 or 13 students, among themwere John Middleton, Godfrey Lienhardt, John Beattie, Julian Pitt-Rivers,Mary Douglas, Laura Bohannan (to whom I was then married - we divorcedin the early 1970s). And, perhaps most important of the lot, but not as wellknown today, was Franz Baerman Steiner. Franz was a Jew from the Sude-tenland. He was in England when Hitler went in. All of his kinsmen werekilled - all of them. Fundamentally, Franz was a poet - his poetry is comingto be recognized in German-speaking countries, starting in Switzerland andspreading from there. But Franz got a D. Phil, from Oxford for a thesis onslavery. He came to our house for dinner often - and the talk was superb. Hehad an instructively new angle on everything. He died of a heart attack at theage of 37.1 still miss him.

Unknowingly, I had got off to a good start with Evans-Pritchard. One ofthe most puzzling things about Oxford to an American was that you didn'thave to 'register.' When I asked the porter at my college to whom I shouldreport, he answered, 'Me. And I know you're here.' So I called Evans-Pritchardat home - it was a few days before term started. He said he was coming intothe Institute and why didn't Laura and I meet him at eleven the next morning.The Institute was locked - it was still vacation - and he was a few minuteslate. He roared up on a bicycle, wearing disconnected parts of his old militaryuniforms, set off with a light blue knitted scarf. As he swung his leg off thebike, he said, 'Are you the Americans?' He then added, 'If you would admitus as the forty-ninth state, we would gladly join you.'

I had, two nights before, seen Noel Coward in Shaw's The Apple Cart inLondon. I said to Evans-Pritchard, 'The Apple Cart, Act II.' He looked at mequizzically. 'It is indeed?' I could not help laughing as I assured him it was.I did not know until years later that mine had been a good move in what Icame to call the senior common room game - a refined version of whatStephen Potter called 'one-upmanship.' All unknowingly, I had played it well.E-P never gave me any guff. But I have many times seen him give a lot of guffto good people the moment they got defensive or overblown.

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The years 1948-1950 were indeed a golden age in Oxford. But adjustmentsdid have to be made. Japan became impractical. At the time, I appeared tohave the best library of Japanese social science, in Japanese, to be found inEngland. I had sixteen books. No Japanese was taught in Britain at that time.Anywhere. The professor of classical Chinese philosophy was of little help-1 could learn what he wanted to teach, or nothing. I decided on the nothing.

Later, when I was teaching at Oxford, I discovered that there were over200 feet of books in Japanese in the basement of the New Bodleian Library.They had never been catalogued because nobody knew Japanese. They askedme to do it. They couldn't pay me, and I was busy. I don't know if they haveever been catalogued. Those were the days, after all, when references to anybook published before 1920 were written in ink on a scrap of paper andpasted onto the pages of huge scrap books, not always in strict alphabeticalorder. On several occasions, as I used them, I remembered the words ofArchibald MacLeish when he was Librarian of Congress - that the secondworst thing that can happen to a fact is to be inadequately catalogued. All thebooks after 1920 were in a sensible card catalog.

It soon became quite evident that I was in the right place for anthropology,but the wrong place for Japanese. In those days, you had to state the title ofyour B. Litt thesis at the time you enrolled - none of the advantages of look-ing around before you made the choice. My thesis title had the word Japanin it.

I talked to Evans-Pritchard about switching to Africa. He noted thatanthropologists would readily grant such a change of location, especially ifI did not change anything else about my thesis topic. But in those days,anthropology was in a combined faculty with Geography - and E-P alsonoted that geographers might think that going from Japan to Africa wasabout as big a leap as one could make. However, they allowed it, probablybecause of E-P's forcefulness - and he almost surely told them that I was ahelpless, simple-headed American who, in total naïveté, had made a seriousmistake which should be remedied. Never mind: I was on the path to be-coming an Africanist.

When it came time, somewhat less than two years later, to find a site forfieldwork, I hit upon the Ewe people who were split down the middle be-tween Togo and the Gold Coast - French on one side and British on theother. I wanted to compare the impact of the two administrative systems andthe two colonial cultures on the Ewe. Permissions from the French and fromthe British Colonial Office were forthcoming. I was fortunate enough to get

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American grants - from the Wenner-Gren Foundation and from the SocialScience Research Council. I was ready to go.

Then suddenly, I got two telegrams: one from the French and one fromthe British, canceling my permission to go either place. Many years later, Itold that story to Daniel Chapman, who was the first Ghanaian ambassadorto the United States, and an Ewe. Daniel quizzed me about the precise dates,then said that he might actually have been responsible for that. He had, asan observer at the United Nations, made a speech a day or two before mytelegrams came. He said that the Ewe people had no wish to choose betweenthe French or the British government, but they would like all to be togetherunder a single government. Then, with his tongue in his cheek, he had asked,'Why don't you just give us to the Americans?'

Fortunately, however, I found the Tiv in central Nigeria, a good distancefrom any international border. They had a system of exchange marriage thatbadly needed explaining. Tiv turned out to be exactly what I needed. Theytaught me not only their culture, but my own. Their language still occurs tome from time to time - there are a few things I can readily say in Tiv that areawkward in English. I cannot express how grateful I am to them.

After fourteen months of field research, I came back to Oxford to write mydissertation (I would ultimately do another fourteen months among the Tiv).Evans-Pritchard met me a little before noon the day after I arrived and beganinstantly to ask questions. We closed the pubs that night at ten o'clock, withhis still asking questions. It is the most intense tutorial I ever had. I fell ex-hausted into bed - but I had a hunch I had passed.

Just as I was finishing my dissertation, I got two job offers - out of the blue(this sort ofthing doesn't happen any more, but it did then). I was offered aposition in the Nigerian Institute for Social and Economic Research to dofurther research on the Tiv. And Evans-Pritchard offered me a job in theInstitute for Social Anthropology at Oxford. It took me two or three days tomake up my mind: I took the job at Oxford on the assumption that it wouldbe easier to get from Oxford back to the Tiv than it would be to get from theTiv to Oxford.

My dissertation on Tiv land tenure was published by Her Majesty's Sta-tionery Service. I then wrote Justice and Judgment It had not been my in-tention to write a book about Tiv law. However, Tiv spent a lot of time set-tling disputes, and I had a lot of data on it. I had had the good fortune to sitthrough Max Gluckman's lectures on Lozi law. I learned a lot from thoselectures - and disagreed with some of Max's premises. He helped by reading

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my manuscript. He told me I was a solipsist if I really believed what was inthat book. I told him that he was ethnocentric if he believed what was in his.We agreed to disagree - some people never understood that we could remaingood friends.

Then, one day five years later, I made up my mind to go home. I went toa pub lunch that day with Godfrey Lienhardt and David Pocock - a pub lunchstill meant gelatinous pork pies and a pint of bitter. I had been in Oxford forover nine years. I had a British hair-cut and wore British clothes. I had learnedthe language - my Oxford accent was pretty good (good enough that it tookme a couple of years to eradicate the last traces of it). My ancestors had comefrom there, so I looked like one. When, in the course ofthat lunch, I madea nasty comment about an English politician (I have forgotten which one),I saw David and Godfrey exchange glances. I was not being rejected per-sonally -1 was, however, being put into a permanent category called 'Amer-ican.' In those days, the Brits recognized four categories of people: Brits,Americans, colonials, and foreigners.

I realized at that moment something I had known for a long time, but hadkept out of my awareness: you can readily become one of Her Majesty'ssubjects but you cannot become an Englishman. Did I want to spend the restof my life as an expatriate? I decided that evening that I would go home.

It was in the nature of the times that I wrote four letters to Americanuniversities, and by return of post (as the Brits say) I got two job offers -remember, it was 1956 and such things happened in those days, not just tome but to everybody. I accepted the one at Princeton.

I remain grateful to Oxford and its golden age. I cherish many friendsthere. But I have never been sorry that I recrossed the Atlantic. I am not anexpatriate by nature - except in the sense that every anthropologist feels likean expatriate when something about his own culture strikes him as inefficientor cruel or positively weird. But you do not flee. You look into it.

World History and Social Science from 1957 to 1987Several important things happened during my three years at Princeton.

First of all, Wilbert Moore let me sit in on his seminar for graduate studentsin sociology. Wilbert and I had become friends in the summer of 1952, whenwe both taught the summer session at Harvard. Getting his angle on Amer-ican sociology was most instructive - my experience in England had beensolely with French sociology of an earlier era.

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Another big impact came from precepting in the criminology coursetaught by Gresham Sykes. The preceptorial system was created by WoodrowWilson when he was president at Princeton. He much admired the tutorialsystem of Oxford and Cambridge but could not bring himself (in the Amer-ican milieu) to give up the system of courses on which all American universi-ties ran. So he compromised (something the world was to learn that he didoften). Instead of one-on-one tutorials he invented something he called thepreceptorial, which is a group of five to seven students who are meant to dis-cuss the topic and ask questions. The tutorial system demands a lot of teach-ing time - but it is easy teaching time because the professor has no prepara-tion to do. The real difficulty is that Wilson could not bring himself to giveup classes. For the tutor, which is two people with the door closed, you canbe as frank as you like; for the preceptor, there is always an audience to anyinterchange. However, the immense advantage of the preceptorial system isthat it provides a self-educating faculty. I sat through Sykes' lectures on crim-inology, did all the reading required of his students. Then I met sometimestwo, sometimes three, groups of seven or eight of those students every weekfor an hour of discussion. I learned a lot in the preceptorial system - probablymore than the students.

I taught the introductory anthropology course at Princeton - the first yearwith Melvin Tumin, a sociologist who had taken a lot of work with Mel Hers-kovits at Northwestern. The students attended two lectures a week and oneclass of 25 or so - like other introductory courses, it was considered too bigfor preceptorials. I lectured twice and met three of those classes every week,Other members of the faculty sat through my lectures and met other groupsof students. My overt aim in that course was to get my ideas about Americancultural anthropology and British social anthropology into one basket. Iworked hard. I wrote out my lectures (but obviously did not read them to thestudents). They eventually became Social Anthropology, a book that today Ifind haughty and stilted in ways that I had picked up in England. Much of itis dated - that is to be expected. But much of it is just badly written. That issomething I have spent the rest of my life trying to get right.

Princeton is a fine school - but a very small one. During my time there, I wasthe only anthropologist - and was in the Department of Economics and Socio-logy. I ended up getting most of my anthropological stimulus in New York.

Shortly after I got to Princeton, my telephone rang and a rich Hungarianaccent said, 'Zis iss Polanyi.' I had met Michael Polanyi in Manchester. Iassumed it was him. We set up a time to meet. It wasn't Michael - so it must

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be Karl. Karl Polanyi became an influential friend and teacher. He had ori-ginally called me because I had edited and seen through the press one ofFranz Steiner's papers on the economics of simple societies. Karl told me hehad thought he was the only person who knew the ideas that were in Steiner'spapers.

I attended seminars in Karl's apartment in New York - so did ConnieArensberg and a lot of other anthropologists. It was in those seminars thatI met George Dalton, who was teaching at the time at Boston University, andwith whom I did several collaborations, particularly Markets in Africa.

When Princeton enlarged its graduate school - from 650 to 875 students-1 realized it was too small and began to look elsewhere. Because of its Africaprogram, I applied for a job at Northwestern - and got it.

I went to Northwestern when I was 39 years old. I stayed for 16 years.They were good years.

Two more ventures should be chronicled: in 1963-64,1 accepted an invi-tation to go to the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences atStanford. That year Ralph Tylor, the director, got his final quinquennial grantfrom the Ford Foundation. In order to stretch his time, he asked those of uswho could do so to bring our salaries. I wrote a four-page application to theNational Institute of Mental Health - and got a grant to study divorce cross-culturally (ten years later, it would have been necessary to write a 50-pageapplication with a 10-page bibliography). I chose divorce as my subject be-cause I had, at Princeton, precepted in courses about 'social disorganization;'I had edited, and written part of, a book on Homicide and Suicide in Africa, andwanted to continue that kind of research. I turned my year at the Center intofieldwork. I talked to divorcees, family lawyers, judges, detectives, psycho-therapists, behavioral scientists, and the people who headed up the localchapter of Parents without Partners. I discovered that quite a bit was knownabout divorce, but each bit of knowledge was walled offfrom the others - thesocial psychologists, the social workers, the lawyers, the therapists neverread each other. The great need was for synthesis - and input from the di-vorcees themselves.

It soon became evident that I knew absolutely nothing about divorce orthe experience of it (my own was later). Studying divorce in California mademe face squarely the problems of research in my own society - there are asmany alien situations right around the corner as there are in Bongoland.

When I returned to Northwestern from the Center, I went into psycho-analysis - a therapeutic analysis, not a training one (as I have heard people

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like Talcott Parsons claim defensively that theirs were). It took me back to myreading of culture and personality - now out of date. Three years later, I ap-plied to the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis for training. I was acceptedand, over a period of two years, finished all of the didactic courses. My majordisappointment was that psychoanalysts did not - would not - consider cul-ture in their work. Most of them thought they understood culture becausethey had read Totem and Taboo. Two or three of them actually did understandit - I think particularly of Thérèse Benedek.

I overtly chose not to apply to the American Institute for Psychoanalysisfor permission to take patients. In an interview, I told Louis Shapiro (who wasresponsible in the Institute for requesting such permissions) that I saw nopoint in doing this because I was impossibly impatient, because I had not anounce of the physician/healer in me, and besides, I could not see myself atmy first case conference beginning, as so many other of the clinical conferencesbegan, 'The patient is a 26-year-old female Jewish social worker.' Lou tooka while deciding whether to laugh - but he did. What he said was that it wasprobably just as well not to try to turn a good anthropologist into a bad ana-lyst. I agreed.

My experience of taking the courses at the Institute did, however, cementa permanent interest in human development, cross-culturally. I have neverpublished on this topic because I don't know how - I did teach it for someyears. There is, as far as I know, still no single book summarizing the con-siderable amount that is known about cultural variation in human development.

Another interest got turned on by Earl Count - that astonishing man withthe noble name who lived and worked for 97 years, the last thirty or sowriting book reviews for Phi Beta Kappa. Just after he retired from HamiltonCollege, Earl spent two quarters at Northwestern en route to his permanentretirement home in the San Francisco area. He spoke, and read, in Bulgarianand Russian; in Turkish; in German, Italian and French - indeed, whatseemed like all known languages. It is a pity that he did not write well in anyof them - although his writing in German was clearer and less stiff than thatin English. Earl was convinced that bioanthropology and cultural anthropologywere a single topic. He and Donald Sade (who had been his student as anundergraduate) gave a seminar at Northwestern on primatology. I attendedregularly - and soon became a convert.

The Count seminar was held some years before the publication of E. O.Wilson's Sociobiology. I am convinced that the rejection of Wilson's book bymuch of cultural anthropology happened because the anthropologists mis-

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understood it - in part because Wilson himself, when he wrote that book, didnot know much about the social sciences. He later learned - which I findadmirable. I remain appalled at cultural anthropologists who reject or turntheir backs on the physical attributes of the creature they are studying. Mostof them continué to turn their backs on the successors of sociobiology likeevolutionary psychology - one reason, by the way, why psychology insteadof anthropology got its name attached to this specialty. If cultural anthro-pology does not deal with the animal, it will fail to understand the founda-tions of culture.

I taught for six years - from 1976 to 1982 in the wonderfully free-wheel-ing department at the University of California Santa Barbara. I then went tothe University of Southern California, where I was Dean of Social Sciencesand Communication for five years. Being Dean is like fieldwork - you haveto look for what underlies what the faculty says about themselves, their in-stitution, and their colleagues. Like any other group of people you study, theywill almost surely be unable to tell you directly. When faculty members cometo the Dean with a problem, they often present only superficial symptoms -they have not worked out what their basic problem is. Almost none of themhave any knowledge of, or interest in, what the Dean's problems may be.Most hilarious of all, some of them think that the Dean has some kind ofpower.

As Dean, I came to realize that there is no good way to run a university.You bring in creative people - then tell them to shape up. The good ones can'tor won't. And should not - you brought them in because they were creativethinkers! There must, it always seems, be a better way to run a university thanthe way it is currently done. The culture of universities is, however, limited.People forget their own history. So they suggest as a remedy something thatfailed fifteen years ago. The result is a sort of repeating cycle of reforms.

At the end of my five years, I was 67. The Provost offered me another fiveyears. The prospect was daunting. I retired.

Since 1987Being retired has been the best period of my life. I wrote another textbook

in cultural anthropology, We, the Alien, to tell students what I thought culturalanthropology was about (I am particularly pleased with its Spanish translationand still hope for ajapanese translation). I wrote How Culture Works to tell mycolleagues what I think it shouJdbe about. I have just finished a manuscripton the seven deadly sins - the point par excellence where the physical drives

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intersect with cultural strictures. I hope it will tell people who are not anthro-pologists about the linkages of their drives and their culture.

I am working on a small book for university courses, requested by TheWaveland Press, called How Ethnography Enriches Our Lives. I am toying withthe idea of a book on power, a subject to which anthropology could make ahuge contribution - but has not, as yet (except in terms of supplying lots ofdata). I have not yet made up my mind whether I really want to do all thatreading.

This brings me to two final points. First of all (echoing Robert Textor),anthropologists should study the future - not, of course, what will actuallyhappen, but the factual ethnography in the here-and-now of what people fearmight happen or hope might happen. Those are data. The self-fulfilling pro-phesy may take over. Certainly goals can be explained if we look at people'sfears and hopes.

The second point is science-fiction. Science fiction writer Larry Nivenonce told me that a science-fiction writer has to know two disciplines - an-thropology and physics. And, he noted, you can finesse the physics. In fic-tion, a writer can merely declare cultural changes to have occurred on somedistant planet or in some alternate reality. Go ahead - it's 'only' fiction:change the family form or the production processes on the Planet of Oxy-moron and see what happens to everything else! It is, of course, true that fic-tion is a pack of lies. It is also true that fiction conceals powerful truths thatlie beyond what ordinary lives let us experience.

Culture, we will find, really is part of our physiological attributes - attri-butes of a choice-making species who have got comfortable with blatant con-tradictions so long as we can keep them from appearing in a single social con-text which demands that we choose between them. There have 'always' beenpeople who want to get rid of the idea of culture -1 find it as absurd as tryingto get rid of the idea of evolution. The attempt to banish it seems to havestarted with RadclifFe-Brown while he was at Chicago, and with the Chappeland Coon textbook. Culture nevertheless continues to rear its head in spiteof attempts of a few people in every generation who want to get rid of itbecause they cannot understand its simplicity. The parts of culture really dohang together. And it really is as important as genes in determining what webecome whether you call it 'mêmes' like Richard Dawkins or 'traits' like Boas.And that- how genes and hormones fit together with culture - is one of thethings anthropologists will have to figure out in the twenty-first century.

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ReferencesBlackwood, Beatrice. 1935. Both Sides of Buka Passage: An Ethnographic Study of Social,

Sexual, and Economic Questions in the Northwestern Solomon Islands. Oxford:Clarendon Press.

Boas, Franz. 1938. General Anthropology. Boston: Heath.Bohannan, Paul. 1954. Tiv Farm and Settlement. London: Her Majesty's Stationery

Office.- . 1954. Translation: A Problem in Anthropology. The Listener, May 13, p. 815.—. 1957. Justice and Judgment among the Tiv. London: Oxford University Press.—. 1960. African Homicide and Suicide. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.- . 1963. Social Anthropology. Forth Worth, TX: Holt, Rinehart & Winston.—. 1965. Markets in Africa (a symposium edited with George Dalton. Evanston, IL:

Northwestern University Press.- . 1993. We, the Alien: An Introduction to Cultural Anthropology. Prospect Heights:

Waveland Press.—. 1995. How Culture Works. New York: The Free Press—. 1998. How Ethnography Enriches our Lives. Forthcoming from Waweland Press.Chappie, Eliot & Carleton Coon. 1942. Principles of Anthropology. New York: H. Holt.Evans-Pritchard. E.E. 1937. Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic among the Azande. Oxford:

Clarendon Press.Gluckman, Max. 1954. The Judicial Process among the Barotse of Northern Rhodesia.

Manchester: Manchester University Press.Henry, Jules. 1963. Culture against Man. New York: Random House.Morgan, Lewis H. 1871. Systems of Consanguinity and Affinity of the Human Family.

Smithsonian Contributions to Knowledge, No. 17. Washington: Smithsonian Press.Radcliffe-Brown, A. R. 1957. A Natural History of Society. Glencoe: Free Press.Spicer, Edward H. 1971. Persistent Cultural Systems. Science, 174(4011):795-800.Steiner, Franz Baermann. 1954. Notes on Comparative Economics. British Journal of

Sociology, 5:118-29.Tylor, Edward Burnett. 1871. Primitive Culture: Researches into the Development of

Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Art and Customs. London: J. Murray.Wilson, Edward O. 1975. Sociobiology: The New Synthesis. Cambridge, Mass. and

London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.Wilson, Godfrey & Monica Wilson. 1945. The Analysis of Social Change. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press.

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