3 É DURKHEIM (1858–1917) - SAGE Publications · KeyConcepts Anomie Socialfacts Socialsolidarity...

Key Concepts

� Anomie

� Social facts

� Social solidarity

� Mechanical solidarity

� Organic solidarity

� Collective conscience

� Ritual

� Symbol

� Sacred and profane

� Collective representations

There can be no society which does not feel the need of upholding and reaffirm-ing at regular intervals the collective sentiments and the collective ideas whichmakes its unity and its personality. Now this moral remaking cannot be achievedexcept by the means of reunions, assemblies and meetings where the individuals,being closely united to one another, reaffirm in common their common sentiments.

(Durkheim 1912/1995:474–75)

Have you ever been to a professional sports event in a stadium full of fans? Or toa religious service and taken communion, or to a concert and danced in the aisles(or maybe in a mosh pit)? How did these experiences make you feel? What do

they have in common? Is it possible to have this same type of experience if or when youare alone? How so or why not?

3 ÉMILE DURKHEIM (1858–1917)

94

These are the sorts of issues that intrigued Émile Durkheim. Above all, he sought toexplain what held societies and social groups together—and how. In addressing these twinquestions, Durkheim studied a wide variety of phenomena—from suicide and crime, to abo-riginal religious totems and symbols. He was especially concerned about how modern,industrial societies can be held together when people don’t even know each other and whentheir experiences and social positions are so varied. In other words, how can social ties, thevery basis for society, be maintained in such an increasingly individualistic world?Yet Durkheim is an important figure in the history of sociology not only because of his

provocative theories about social cohesion, but also because he helped found the disciplineof sociology. In contrast to some of the other figures whose works you will read in this book,Durkheim sought to delineate, both theoretically and methodologically, how sociology wasdifferent from existing schools of philosophy and history, which also examined socialissues. Before we discuss his ideas and work, however, let’s look at his biography because,like Marx, Durkheim’s personal experiences and historical situation deeply influenced hisperception and description of the social world.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH �

Émile Durkheim was born in a small town in northeastern France in 1858. In his youth, hefollowed family tradition, studying Hebrew and the Talmud in order to become a rabbi.However, in his adolescence, Durkheim apparently rejected Judaism. Though he did notdisdain traditional religion, as a child of the Enlightenment (see Chapter 1) he came toconsider both Christianity and Judaism outmoded in the modern world.In 1879, Durkheim entered France’s most prestigious college, the École Normale

Supérieure in Paris, to study philosophy. However, by his third year, Durkheim hadbecome disenchanted with the high-minded, literary, humanities curriculum at theNormale. He decided to pursue sociology, which he viewed as eminently more scientific,democratic, and practical. Durkheim still maintained his interest in complex philosophi-cal questions, but he wanted to examine them through a “rational,” “scientific” lens. Hispractical and scientific approach to central social issues would shape his ambition to usesociological methods as a means for reconstituting the moral order of French society,which he saw decaying in the aftermath of the French Revolution (Bellah 1973:xiii–xvi).Durkheim was especially concerned about the abuse of power by political and militaryleaders, increasing rates of divorce and suicide, and rising anti-Semitism. It seemed toDurkheim that social bonds and a sense of community had broken down and social disor-der had come to prevail.1

Upon graduation from the École Normale, Durkheim began teaching in small lycées(secondary schools) near Paris. In 1887, he married Louise Dreyfus, from the Alsace regionof France. In the same year, Durkheim began his career as a professor at the University of

1As indicated in Chapter 1, France had gone through numerous violent changes in government sincethe French Revolution in 1789. Between 1789 and 1870, there had been three monarchies, twoempires, and two republics, culminating in the notorious reign of Napoleon III who overthrew thedemocratic government and ruled France for 20 years. Though the French Revolution had brought abrief period of democracy, it also sparked a terrifying persecution of all those who disagreed with therevolutionary leaders. Some 17,000 revolutionaries were executed in the infamous Reign of Terror, ledby Maximilien Robespierre. Consequently, political and social divisions in France intensified. Frenchconservatives called for a return to monarchy and a more prominent role for the Catholic Church. Indirect contrast, a growing but still relatively small class of urban workers demanded political rightsand a secular rather than religious education. At the same time, capitalists called for individual rightsand free markets, while radical socialists advocated abolishing private property altogether.

Émile Durkheim � 95

Bordeaux, where he quickly gained the reputation for being a committed and excitingteacher. Émile and Louise soon had two children, Marie and André.Durkheim was a serious and productive scholar. His first book, The Division of Labor in

Society, which was based on his doctoral dissertation, came out in 1893; his second, TheRules of Sociological Method, appeared just two years later. In 1897, Suicide: A Study inSociology, perhaps his most well known work, was published. The next year, Durkheimfounded the journal L’Année Sociologique, which was one of the first sociology journals notonly in France, but also in the world. L’Année Sociologique was produced annually until theoutbreak of World War I in 1914.In 1902, with his reputation as a leading social philosopher and scientist established,

Durkheim was offered a position at the prestigious Sorbonne University in Paris. As he haddone previously at Bordeaux, Durkheim quickly gained a large following at the Sorbonne.His education courses were compulsory for all students seeking teaching degrees in philos-ophy, history, literature, and languages. Durkheim also became an important administratorat the Sorbonne, serving on numerous councils and committees (Lukes 1985:372).Yet not everyone was enamored with either Durkheim’s substantial power or his ideas.

Durkheim’s notion that any social “thing”—including religion—could be studied sociolog-ically (i.e., scientifically) was particularly controversial, as was his adamant insistence onproviding students a moral, but secular, education. (These two issues will be discussed fur-ther below.) As Steven Lukes (1985:373), noted sociologist and Durkheim scholar,remarked, “To friends he was a prophet and an apostle, but to enemies he was a secularpope.”Moreover, Durkheim identified with some of the goals of socialism, but was unwilling

to commit himself politically. He believed that sociologists should be committed to educa-tion, not political activism. His passion was for dispassionate, scientific research.This apparent apoliticism, coupled with his focus on the moral constitution of societies

(rather than conflict and revolution), has led some analysts to deem Durkheim politicallyconservative. However, as the eminent sociologist Robert Bellah (1973: xviii) points out, “totry to force Durkheim into the conservative side of some conservative/liberal dichotomy” isinappropriate. It ignores Durkheim’s “lifelong preoccupation with orderly, continuous socialchange toward greater social justice” (ibid.:xvii). In addition, to consider Durkheim politi-cally conservative is erroneous in light of how he was evaluated in his day. Durkheim wasviewed as a radical modernist and liberal, who, though respectful of religion, was most com-mitted to rationality, science, and humanism. Durkheim infuriated religious conservatives,who desired to replace democracy with a monarchy, and to strengthen the military. He alsocame under fire because he opposed instituting Catholic education as the basic curriculum.Moreover, to label Durkheim “conservative” ignores his role in the “Dreyfus affair.”

Alfred Dreyfus was a Jewish army colonel who was charged and convicted on false chargesof spying for Germany. The charges against Dreyfus were rooted in anti-Semitism, whichwas growing in the 1890s, alongside France’s military losses and economic dissatisfaction.Durkheim was very active in the Ligue des droits de l’homme (League of the Rights ofMen), which devoted itself to clearing Dreyfus of all charges.Interestingly, Durkheim’s assessment of the Dreyfus affair reflects his lifelong concern

for the moral order of society. He saw the Dreyfus affair as symptomatic of a collectivemoral sickness, rather than merely anti-Semitism at the level of the individual. As Durkheim(1899, as cited by Lukes 1985:345) states,

[w]hen society undergoes suffering, it feels the need to find someone whom it can holdresponsible for its sickness, on whom it can avenge its misfortunes; and those againstwhom public opinion already discriminates are naturally designated for this role. Theseare the pariahs who serve as expiatory victims. What confirms me in this interpretation

96 � SOCIOLOGICAL THEORY IN THE CLASSICAL ERA

is the way in which the result of Dreyfus’s trial was greeted in 1894. There was a surgeof joy in the boulevards. People celebrated as a triumph what should have been a causeof public mourning. At least they knew whom to blame for the economic troubles andmoral distress in which they lived. The trouble came from the Jews. The charge had beenofficially proved. By this very fact alone, things already seemed to be getting better andpeople felt consoled.

In 1912, Durkheim’s culminating work, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, was pub-lished. Shortly after that, WorldWar I broke out, and Durkheim’s life was thrown into turmoil.His son, André, was killed in battle, spiraling Durkheim into a grief from which he never fullyrecovered. On October 7, 1916, as he was leaving a committee meeting at the Sorbonne,Durkheim suffered a stroke. He spent the next year resting and seemed to have made muchprogress toward recovering. But on November 15, 1917, while in Fontainebleau where he hadgone for peace and fresh air, Durkheim died. He was 59 years old (Lukes 1985:559).

INTELLECTUAL INFLUENCES AND CORE IDEAS �

As indicated previously, Durkheim wrote a number of books and articles on a wide variety oftopics. Nevertheless, there are two major themes that transcend all of Durkheim’s work. First,Durkheim sought to articulate the nature of society and, hence, his view of sociology as anacademic discipline. Durkheim argued that society was a supraindividual force existingindependently of the actors who compose it. The task of sociology, then, is to analyze socialfacts—conditions and circumstances external to the individual that, nevertheless, determine theindividual’s course of action. Durkheim argued that social facts can be ascertained by usingcollective data, such as suicide and divorce rates. In other words, through systematic collectionof data, the patterns behind and within individual behavior can be uncovered. This emphasis onformal methods and objective data is what distinguished sociology from philosophy andput sociology “on the map” as a viable scientific discipline. The significance of Durkheim’sposition for the development of sociology as a distinct pursuit of knowledge cannot beoverstated. As one of the first academics to hold a position in sociology, Durkheim was on thecutting edge of the birth of the discipline. Nevertheless, his conviction that society is sui generis(an objective reality that is irreducible to the individuals that compose it) and amenable toscientific investigation owes much to the work of Auguste Comte (1798–1857). Not only hadComte coined the term sociology in 1839, but he also contended that the social world could bestudied in as rational and scientific a way as physical scientists (chemists, physicists, biologists,etc.) study their respective domains. Moreover, Durkheim’s comparative and historicalmethodology was in large measure a continuation of the approach advocated earlier by Comte.

Auguste Comte (1798–1857): The Father of “Social Physics”

Born in southern France during a most turbulent period in French history, AugusteComte was himself a turbulent figure. Though he excelled as a student, he had littlepatience for authority. Indeed, his obstinate temperament prevented him from com-pleting his studies at the newly established École Polytechnique, Paris’s elite univer-sity. Nevertheless, Comte was able to make a name for himself in the intellectual

(Continued)

Significant Others



(Continued)

circles of Paris. In 1817, he began working as a secretary and collaborator to HenriSaint-Simon. Their productive though fractious relationship came to an end seven yearslater in a dispute over assigning authorship to one of Comte’s essays. Comte next setabout developing his system of positivist philosophy while working in minor academicpositions for meager wages. Beginning in 1926, Comte offered a series of private lec-tures in an effort to disseminate his views. Though attended by eminent thinkers, thegrandiosity of his theoretical system led some to dismiss his ideas. Nevertheless,Comte continued undeterred: from 1830 to 1842, he worked single-mindedly on hismagnum opus, the six-volume The Positive Philosophy (1830–42/1974). In the series,Comte not only outlines his “Law of Three Stages” (which posits that science developsthrough three mentally conceived stages: (1) the theological stage, (2) the metaphysi-cal stage, and (3) the positive stage) but also delineates the proper methods for his newscience of “social physics” as well as its fundamental task—the study of social statics(order) and dynamics (progress). The work was well received in some scientificquarters, and Comte seemed poised to establish himself as a first-rate scholar.Unfortunately, his temperament again proved to be a hindrance to his success, both per-sonal and professional. His troubled marriage ended soon after Positive Philosophywas completed, and his petulance further alienated him from friends and colleagueswhile costing him a position at the École Polytechnique. Comte’s life took a turn for thebetter, however, when in 1844 he met and fell in love with Clotilde deVaux. Their affairdid not last long; Clotilde developed tuberculosis and died within a year of their firstmeeting. Comte dedicated the rest of his life to “his angel.” In her memory, he foundedthe Religion of Humanity for which he proclaimed himself the high priest. The newchurch was founded on the principle of universal love as Comte abandoned his earliercommitment to science and positivism. Until his death in 1857, Comte sought not sup-porters for his system of science, but converts to his Positive Church.

NOTE: This account of Comte’s biography is based largely on Lewis Coser’s (1977) discussion inMastersof Sociological Thought.

Herbert Spencer (1820–1903): Survival of the Fittest

Born in the English Midlands, Herbert Spencer’s early years were shaped largely by hisfather and uncle. It was from these two men that Spencer received his education, an edu-cation that centered on math, physics, and chemistry. Moreover, it was from them thatSpencer was exposed to the radical religious and social doctrines that would inform hisstaunch individualism.With little formal instruction in history, literature, and languages,Spencer conceded to the limits of his education, and at the age of sixteen declined toattend university, opting instead to pursue a “practical” career as an engineer for theLondon and Birmingham Railway. Nevertheless, he would prove to be an avid student ofand a prolific writer on a range of social and philosophical topics.With the completion of the railway in 1841, Spencer earned his living by writing

essays for a number of radical journals and newspapers. Of particular note is a series

Significant Others

of 12 letters he published through a dissenting newspaper, The Nonconformist. Titled“The Proper Sphere of Government,” the letters are an early expression of Spencer’sdecidedly laissez-faire perspective. In them, Spencer argued that the role of govern-ment should be restricted solely to policing, while all other matters, including edu-cation, social welfare, and economic activities, should be left to the private sector.According to Spencer, government regulations interfere with the laws of human evo-lution that, if left unhampered, ensure the “survival of the fittest.” It is not hard to seethat Spencer’s view of government still resonates with many American politiciansand voters. Less sanguine, however, is the racism and sexism that was interjected intoSpencer’s argument. Following the logic of his view, those who don’t survive—thatis, succeed—are merely fulfilling their evolutionary destiny. To the extent thatwomen and people of color are less “successful” than white males, their “success”and “failure” hinge not only on individual aptitude and effort, but also on institu-tional and cultural dynamics that sustain a less-than-level playing field.


A second major theme found in Durkheim’s work is the issue of social solidarity, or thecohesion of social groups. As you will see, all of the selections in this chapter—fromThe Division of Labor in Society, The Rules of Sociological Method, Suicide, and TheElementary Forms of Religious Life—explore the nature of the bonds that hold individualsand social groups together. Durkheim was especially concerned about modern societieswhere people often don’t know their neighbors (let alone everyone in the larger commu-nity) or worship together, and where people often hold jobs in impersonal companies andorganizations. Durkheim wondered how individuals could feel tied to one another in suchan increasingly individualistic world. This issue was of utmost importance, for he main-tained that, without some semblance of solidarity and moral cohesion, society could notexist.In his emphasis on the nature of solidarity in “traditional” and “modern” societies,

Durkheim again drew on Comte’s work as well as that of the British sociologist HerbertSpencer (1820–1903).2 Both Comte and Spencer formulated an organic view of society toexplain the developmental paths along which societies allegedly evolve. Such a viewdepicted society as a system of interrelated parts (religious institutions, the economy, gov-ernment, the family) that work together to form a unitary, stable whole, analogous to howthe parts of the human body (lungs, kidneys, brain) function interdependently to sustain itsgeneral well-being. Moreover, as the organism (society and the body) grows in size, itbecomes increasingly complex, due to the differentiation of its parts.However, Durkheim was only partially sympathetic to the organic, evolutionary models

developed by Comte and Spencer. On the one hand, Durkheim’s insistence that social soli-darity is rooted in shared moral sentiments, and the sense of obligation they evoke, stemsfrom Comte (as well as from Jean-Jacques Rousseau; see Chapter 1). Likewise, his notionthat the specialized division of labor characteristic of modern societies leads to greater inter-dependency and integration owes much to Comte (as well as to Saint-Simon; see Chapter 2).

2Durkheim was influenced by a number of scholars, and not only by Comte and Spencer. Some ofthe more important figures in developing his views were the French Enlightenment intellectualsCharles Montesquieu (1689–75) and Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), Henri de Saint-Simon(1760–1825), Charles Renouvier (1815–1903), and the German experimental psychologist WilhemWundt (1832–1920).

Nevertheless, Durkheim did not embrace Comte’s assertion that all societies progress througha series of identifiable evolutionary stages. In particular, he dismissed Comte’s “Law of ThreeStages,” wherein all societies—as well as individual intellectual development—are said topass from a theological stage characterized by “militaristic” communities led by priests, to ametaphysical stage organized according to “legalistic” principles and controlled by lawyersand clergy, and finally to a positivist or scientific stage in which “industrial” societies aregoverned by technocrats and, of course, sociologists.In terms of Spencer, Durkheim was most influenced by Spencer’s theory on the evo-

lution of societies. According to Spencer, just as biological organisms become more dif-ferentiated as they grow and mature, so do small-scale, homogeneous communitiesbecome increasingly complex and diverse as a result of population growth. The individ-uals living in simple societies are minimally dependent on one another for meeting theirsurvival and that of the community as they each carry out similar tasks. As the size ofthe population increases, however, similarity or likeness is replaced by heterogeneity anda specialized division of labor. Individuals become interdependent on one another asessential tasks are divided among the society’s inhabitants. As a result, an individual’swell-being becomes tied more and more to the general welfare of the larger society.Ensuring the functional integration of individuals now becomes the central issue for thesurvival of the society.In this regard, Durkheim’s perspective is compatible with that of Spencer. As further dis-

cussed below, Durkheim hypothesized that a different kind of solidarity was prevalent inmodern—as opposed to smaller, more traditional—societies. Durkheim’s equation of tradi-tional societies with “mechanical” solidarity and modern societies with “organic” solidarity(discussed on pp. 103–105) shares an affinity with Spencer’s classification of societies aseither “simple” or “compound.”However, the two theorists diverge on the crucial point of integration. Spencer saw

society as composed of atomistic individuals, each pursuing lines of self-interested con-duct. In a classic expression of utilitarian philosophy, Spencer maintained that a stable,well-functioning social whole is the outgrowth of individuals freely seeking to maximizetheir advantages.By contrast, Durkheim (and Comte) took a far less utilitarian approach than Spencer.

Durkheim emphasized that society is not a result or aftereffect of individual conduct; rather,it exists prior to, and thus shapes, individual action. In other words, individual lines of con-duct are the outgrowth of social arrangements, particularly those connected to the develop-mental stage of the division of labor. Social integration, then, cannot be an unintendedconsequence of an aggregate of individuals pursuing their self-interest. Instead, it is rootedin a shared moral code, for only it can sustain a harmonious social order. And it is this moralcode, along with the feelings of solidarity it generates, that forms the basis of all societies.Without the restraints imposed by a sense of moral obligation to others, the selfish pursuitof interests would destroy the social fabric.

� DURKHEIM’S THEORETICAL ORIENTATION

As discussed previously, Durkheim was most concerned with analyzing “social facts”: hesought to uncover the preexisting social conditions that shape the parameters for individualbehavior. Consequently, Durkheim can be said to take a predominantly collectivist approachto order (see Figure 3.1).This approach is most readily apparent in Suicide. In this study, Durkheim begins

with one of the most seemingly individualistic, psychologically motivated acts thereis—suicide—in order to illuminate the social and moral parameters behind and withinthis allegedly “individual” behavior. So too, Durkheim’s emphasis on collective conscience


and collective representations indicates an interest in the collective level of society(see Figure 3.2). By collective conscience, Durkheim means the “totality of beliefs andsentiments common to average citizens of the same society” that “forms a determinatesystem which has it own life” (Durkheim 1893/1984:38–39). In later work, Durkheimused the term collective representations to refer to much the same thing. In any case,the point is that Durkheim’s main concern is not with the conscious or psychologicalstate of specific individuals, but rather with the collective beliefs and sentiments thatexist “independent of the particular conditions in which individuals are placed; theypass on and it remains” (ibid.:80).This leads us to one of the most common criticisms of Durkheim. Because of his pre-

occupation with social facts and the collective conscience, it is often claimed that heoverlooks the role of the individual in producing and reproducing the social order.Durkheim’s emphasis on the power of the group makes it seem like we’re just vesselsfor society’s will. Yet this criticism ignores two essential points: First, Durkheim notonly acknowledged individual autonomy, but also took it for granted as an inevitablecondition of modern societies. Durkheim sought to show how, in modern societies,increasing individuation could produce detrimental effects because individuals are oftentorn between competing normative prescriptions and rules. For instance, in Suicide,Durkheim maintains that, rather than rest comfortably on all-pervasive norms and val-ues, “a thirst arises for novelties, unfamiliar pleasures, nameless sensations, all of whichlose their savor once known . . . [but that] all these new sensations in their infinite quan-tity cannot form a solid foundation for happiness to support one in days of trial”(Durkheim 1897/1951:256). To be sure, the criticism could still be made that Durkheimignores individual agency in “traditional” societies based on mechanical solidarity. Inthese societies, Durkheim did in fact posit a lack of individual autonomy, perhapsreflecting the Enlightenment-driven, Eurocentric thinking of his day. (We discuss thisissue more fully below.)


Mead DURKHEIM

Simmel

Individual

Du Bois

Collective

Weber

GilmanMarx

Nonrational

Rational

Figure 3.1 Durkheim’s Basic Theoretical Orientation


Relatedly, to assert that his orientation was singularly collectivist overlooks Durkheim’sassumption that collective life emerges in social interaction. For instance, a major part of hisanalysis of the elementary forms of religious life involved showing how mundane objects,such as lizards and plants, take on the sacredness of the totem (the symbol of the tribe) byvirtue of individuals coming together to participate in ritual practices. Similarly, in his studyof suicide, Durkheim examined marriage and divorce rates not simply because he was fas-cinated by abstract, collective dimensions of social life, but also because he wanted touncover objective factors that measure the extent to which individuals are bound together inan increasingly individualistic world.This leads us to the issue of action. In our view, Durkheim is primarily nonrationalist

in his orientation (see Figures 3.1 and 3.2). He focused on how collective representationsand moral sentiments are a motivating force, much more so than “rational” or strategicinterests connected to economic or political institutions. Yet it is important to point outthat in emphasizing the external nature of social facts Durkheim also recognized thatsuch facts are not confined to the realm of ideas or feelings, but often possess a concretereality as well. For instance, educational institutions and penal systems are also decisivefor shaping the social order and individuals’ actions within it. Thus, social facts are capa-ble of exerting both a moral and an institutional force. In the end, however, Durkheimstressed the nonrational aspect of social facts as suggested in his supposition that thepenal system (courts, legal codes and their enforcement, etc.) ultimately rests on collec-tive notions of morality, a complex symbolic system as to what is “right” and what is“wrong.” This issue will be discussed further in the next section in relationship to thespecific selections you will read.

Nonrational

Rational

Figure 3.2 Durkheim’s Core Concepts

Individual Collective

Division of Labor

Anomie

Collective Conscience

Collective Representationssacred and profane

Social Solidaritymechanical solidarityorganic solidarity

1Durkheim’s distinction between mechanical and organic solidarity was developed, in part, as a criti-cal response to the work of the German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies (see Significant Others box,Chapter 6, pp. 274–275). In his book, Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft (Community and Society),Tönnies argued that simpler, traditional societies (Gemeinschaft) were more “organic” and beneficialto the formation of social bonds. In contrast to Tönnies’s conservative orientation, Durkheim con-tended that complex, modern societies were, in fact, more “organic” and thus more desirable becausethey promote individual liberties within a context of morally binding, shared social obligations.


Readings

In this section, you will read selections from the four major books that Durkheimpublished during his lifetime: The Division of Labor in Society (1893), The Rules ofSociological Method (1895), Suicide (1897), and The Elementary Forms of ReligiousLife (1912). We begin with The Division of Labor in Society, in which Durkheim setout the key concepts of mechanical and organic solidarity, and collective con-science.We then shift to excerpts from The Rules of Sociological Method. It is here,as you will see, that Durkheim first laid out his basic conceptualization of sociol-ogy as a discipline and delineated his concept of social facts. This is followed byexcerpts from Suicide: A Study in Sociology, which is notable, first, in that it exem-plifies Durkheim’s distinctive approach to the study of the social world, and second,because it further delineates Durkheim’s core concept of anomie.We conclude thischapter with excerpts from The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, which many the-orists consider Durkheim’s most theoretically significant work. In it, Durkheim takesan explicitly cultural turn, emphasizing the concepts of ritual and symbol, and thesacred and profane, and collective representations.

Introduction to The Division of Labor in Society

In Durkheim’s first major work, The Division of Labor in Society (1893), which was basedon his doctoral dissertation, Durkheim explains how the division of labor (or economic spe-cialization) characteristic of modern societies affects individuals as well as society as awhole. As you may recall, this issue had been of utmost concern to Marx as well. Marx con-tended that modern, competitive capitalism, and the specialized division of labor that sus-tained it, resulted in alienation. In contrast, Durkheim argued that economic specializationwas not necessarily “bad” for either the individual or the society as a whole. Instead, heargued that an extensive division of labor could exist without necessarily jeopardizing themoral cohesion of a society or the opportunity for individuals to realize their interests.How is this possible? Durkheim argued that there were two basic types of solidarity:

mechanical and organic.1Mechanical solidarity is typified by feelings of likeness.Mechanicalsolidarity is rooted in everyone doing/feeling the same thing. Durkheim maintained that thistype of solidarity is characteristic of small, traditional societies. In these “simple” societies, cir-cumstances compel individuals to be generalists involved in the production and distribution ofa variety of goods. Indeed, in small, traditional societies, specialization in one task to the exclu-sion of others is not possible because the society depends on each individual providing a hostof contributions to the group. For instance, men, women, and children are often all needed topick crops at harvest time, and all partake in the harvest-time celebrations as well.Durkheim argued that a significant social consequence of the shared work experience

characteristic of traditional societies is a shared collective conscience. People in traditional


Photo 3.1b Organic solidarity, based on specialization, is characteristic of large, modern industrialsocieties, such as Brasília (Brazil).

Photo 3.1a Durkheim maintained that different types of society exhibit different types of solidarity.Mechanical solidarity, based on likeness, is characteristic of small, traditional societies, such as this villagein Namibia (Africa).


societies tend to feel “one and the same,” and it is this feeling of “oneness” that is integralin the maintenance of social order.Yet, Durkheim saw that in large, complex societies, this type of solidarity was waning. In

large, modern societies, labor is specialized; people do not necessarily all engage in the samework or share the same ideas and beliefs. For Durkheim, organic solidarity refers to a type ofsolidarity in which each person is interdependent with others, forming a complex web of coop-erative associations. In such situations, solidarity (or a feeling of “oneness”) comes not fromeach person believing/doing the same thing, but from each person cultivating individual differ-ences and knowing that each is doing her part for the good of the whole.Thus, Durkheim arguedthat the increasing specialization and individuation so readily apparent in modern industrialsocieties does not necessarily result in a decline in social stability or cohesion. Rather, thegrowth in a society’s density (the number of people living in a community) and consequentincreasingly specialized division of labor can result in simply a different type of social cohesion.Significantly, however, Durkheim maintained that organic solidarity does not automati-

cally emerge in modern societies. Rather, it arises only when the division of labor is “spon-taneous” or voluntary. States Durkheim, “For the division of labor to produce solidarity, itis not sufficient, then, that each have his task; it is still necessary that this task be fitting tohim” (Durkheim 1893/1984:375). Moreover, a “normal” division of labor exists only whenthe specialization of tasks is not exaggerated. If the division of labor is pushed too far, thereis a danger for the individual to become “isolated in his special activity.” In such cases, thedivision of labor becomes “a source of disintegration” for both the individual and society(ibid.). The individual “no longer feels the idea of common work being done by those whowork side by side with him” (ibid.). Meanwhile, a rigid division of labor can lead to “theinstitution of classes and castes . . . [which] is often a source of dissension” (ibid.:374).Durkheim used the term anomie (a lack of moral regulation) to describe the “pathological”consequences of an overly specialized division of labor. This is a pivotal concept to whichwe will shortly return.Most interestingly, then, the important point is not that Durkheim ignored the potentially

harmful aspects of the division of labor in modern societies; on the contrary, Durkheimacknowledged that the division of labor is problematic when it is “forced” or pushed to anextreme. This position offers an important similarity as well as difference to that offered byMarx. As we noted previously, Marx saw both alienation and class conflict as inevitable (or“normal”) in capitalist societies. By contrast, rather than seeing social conflict as a “normal”condition of capitalism, Durkheim maintained that anomie results only in “abnormal” con-ditions of overspecialization, when the rules of capitalism become too rigid and individualsare “forced” into a particular position in the division of labor.

From The Division of Labor in Society (1893)

Émile Durkheim

INTRODUCTION: THE PROBLEM

The division of labor is not of recent origin,but it was only at the end of the eighteenthcentury that social cognizance was taken of

the principle, though, until then, unwittingsubmission had been rendered to it. To besure, several thinkers from earliest timessaw its importance;i but Adam Smith was thefirst to attempt a theory of it. Moreover, he

SOURCE: Reprinted and edited with the permission of The Free Press, a Division of Simon & Schuster Inc.,from The Division of Labor in Society by Émile Durkheim, translated by George Simpson. Copyright © 1947,1964 by The Free Press. All rights reserved.iAristotle, Nichomachean Ethics, E, 1133a, 16.

adopted this phrase that social science laterlent to biology.Nowadays, the phenomenon has developed so

generally it is obvious to all. We need have nofurther illusions about the tendencies of modernindustry; it advances steadily towards powerfulmachines, towards great concentrations of forcesand capital, and consequently to the extremedivision of labor. Occupations are infinitelyseparated and specialized, not only inside thefactories, but each product is itself a specialtydependent upon others. Adam Smith and JohnStuart Mill still hoped that agriculture, at least,would be an exception to the rule, and they saw itas the last resort of small-scale industry. Althoughone must be careful not to generalize unduly insuch matters, nevertheless it is hard to deny todaythat the principal branches of the agriculturalindustry are steadily being drawn into the generalmovement. Finally, business itself is ingeniouslyfollowing and reflecting in all its shadings theinfinite diversity of industrial enterprises; and,while this evolution is realizing itself withunpremeditated spontaneity, the economists,examining its causes and appreciating its results,far from condemning or opposing it, uphold it asnecessary.They see in it the supreme law of humansocieties and the condition of their progress. Butthe division of labor is not peculiar to theeconomic world; we can observe its growinginfluence in the most varied fields of society. Thepolitical, administrative, and judicial functions aregrowing more and more specialized. It is the samewith the aesthetic and scientific functions. It islong since philosophy reigned as the scienceunique; it has been broken into a multitude ofspecial disciplines each of which has its object,method, and though. “Menworking in the scienceshave become increasingly more specialized.”ii

MECHANICAL SOLIDARITY

We are now in a position to come to a conclusion.The totality of beliefs and sentiments

common to average citizens of the same society

forms a determinate system which has its ownlife; one may call it the collective or commonconscience. No doubt, it has not a specificorgan as a substratum; it is, by definition,diffuse in every reach of society. Nevertheless,it has specific characteristics which make it adistinct reality. It is, in effect, independent ofthe particular conditions in which individualsare placed; they pass on and it remains. It is thesame in the North and in the South, in greatcities and in small, in different professions.Moreover, it does not change with each gen-eration, but, on the contrary, it connectssuccessive generations with one another. It is,thus, an entirely different thing from particularconsciences, although it can be realized onlythrough them. It is the psychical type of society,a type which has its properties, its conditions ofexistence, its mode of development, just asindividual types, although in a different way.Thus understood, it has the right to be denotedby a special word. The one which we have justemployed is not, it is true, without ambiguity.As the terms, collective and social, are oftenconsidered synonymous, one is inclined tobelieve that the collective conscience is thetotal social conscience, that is, extend it toinclude more than the psychic life of society,although, particularly in advanced societies, itis only a very restricted part. Judicial,governmental, scientific, industrial, in short, allspecial functions are of a psychic nature, sincethey consist in systems of representations andactions. They, however, are surely outside thecommon conscience. To avoid the confusioniii

into which some have fallen, the best waywould be to create a technical expressionespecially to designate the totality of socialsimilitudes. However, since the use of a newword, when not absolutely necessary, is notwithout inconvenience, we shall employ thewell-worn expression, collective or commonconscience, but we shall always mean the strictsense in which we have taken it.We can, then, to resume the preceding

analysis, say that an act is criminal when it

iiDe Candolle, Histoire des Sciences et des Savants, 2nd ed., p. 263.iiiThe confusion is not without its dangers. Thus, we sometimes ask if the individual conscience varies as the col-lective conscience. It all depends upon the sense in which the word is taken. If it represents social likenesses, thevariation is inverse, as we shall see. If it signifies the total psychic life of society, the relation is direct. It is thusnecessary to distinguish them.


offends strong and defined states of thecollective conscience.iv

The statement of this proposition is notgenerally called into question, but it is ordinarilygiven a sense very different from that which itought to convey. We take it as if it expressed, notthe essential property of crime, but one of itsrepercussions. We well know that crime violatesvery pervasive and intense sentiments, but webelieve that this pervasiveness and this intensityderive from the criminal character of the act,which consequently remains to be defined. We donot deny that every delict is universally reproved,but we take as agreed that the reprobation towhich it is subjected results from its delictness.But we are hard put to say what this delictnessconsists of. In immorality which is particularlyserious? I wish such were the case, but that is toreply to the question by putting one word in placeof another, for it is precisely the problem tounderstand what this immorality is, and especiallythis particular immorality which society reprovesby means of organized punishment and whichconstitutes criminality. It can evidently come onlyfrom one or several characteristics common to allcriminological types. The only one which wouldsatisfy this condition is that opposition between acrime, whatever it is, and certain collectivesentiments. It is, accordingly, this oppositionwhich makes crime rather than being a derivativeof crime. In other words, we must not say that anaction shocks the common conscience because itis criminal, but rather that it is criminal because itshocks the common conscience. We do notreprove it because it is a crime, but it is a crimebecause we reprove it. As for the intrinsic natureof these sentiments, it is impossible to specifythem. They have the most diverse objects andcannot be encompassed in a single formula. Wecan say that they relate neither to vital interests ofsociety nor to a minimum of justice. All thesedefinitions are inadequate. By this alone can werecognize it: a sentiment, whatever its origin andend, is found in all consciences with a certaindegree of force and precision, and every actionwhich violates it is a crime. Contemporarypsychology is more and more reverting to the ideaof Spinoza, according to which things are good

because we like them, as against our liking thembecause they are good. What is primary is thetendency, the inclination; the pleasure and pain areonly derivative facts. It is just so in social life. Anact is socially bad because society disproves of it.But, it will be asked, are there not some collectivesentiments which result from pleasure and painwhich society feels from contact with their ends?No doubt, but they do not all have this origin. Agreat many, if not the larger part, come from othercauses. Everything that leads activity to assume adefinite form can give rise to habits, whence resulttendencies which must be satisfied. Moreover, it isthese latter tendencies which alone are trulyfundamental. The others are only special formsand more determinate. Thus, to find charm in suchand such an object, collective sensibility mustalready be constituted so as to be able to enjoy it.If the corresponding sentiments are abolished, themost harmful act to society will not only betolerated, but even honored and proposed as anexample. Pleasure is incapable of creating animpulse out of whole cloth; it can only link thosesentiments which exist to such and such aparticular end, provided that the end be in accordwith their original nature. . . .

ORGANIC SOLIDARITY

Since negative solidarity does not produce anyintegration by itself, and since, moreover,there is nothing specific about it, we shallrecognize only two kinds of positive solidaritywhich are distinguishable by the followingqualities:

1. The first binds the individual directly tosociety without any intermediary. In the second,he depends upon society, because he dependsupon the parts of which it is composed.

2. Society is not seen in the same aspect inthe two cases. In the first, what we call society isa more or less organized totality of beliefs andsentiments common to all the members of thegroup: this is the collective type. On the otherhand, the society in which we are solitary in the

ivWe shall not consider the question whether the collective conscience is a conscience as is that of the individ-ual. By this term, we simply signify the totality of social likenesses, without prejudging the category by whichthis system of phenomena ought to be defined.


second instance is a system of different, specialfunctions which definite relations unite. Thesetwo societies really make up only one. They aretwo aspects of one and the same reality, butnone the less they must be distinguished.

3. From this second difference there arisesanother which helps us to characterize and namethe two kinds of solidarity.

The first can be strong only if the ideas andtendencies common to all the members of thesociety are greater in number and intensity thanthose which pertain personally to each member.It is as much stronger as the excess is more con-siderable. But what makes our personality ishow much of our own individual qualities wehave, what distinguishes us from others. Thissolidarity can grow only in inverse ratio to per-sonality. There are in each of us, as we havesaid, two consciences: one which is common toour group in its entirety, which, consequently, isnot ourself, but society living and acting withinus; the other, on the contrary, represents that inus which is personal and distinct, that whichmakes us an individual.v Solidarity whichcomes from likenesses is at its maximum whenthe collective conscience completely envelopsour whole conscience and coincides in allpoints with it. But, at that moment, our individ-uality is nil. It can be born only if the commu-nity takes smaller toll of us. There are, here, twocontrary forces, one centripetal, the other cen-trifugal, which cannot flourish at the same time.We cannot, at one and the same time, developourselves in two opposite senses. If we have alively desire to think and act for ourselves, wecannot be strongly inclined to think and act asothers do. If our ideal is to present a singularand personal appearance, we do not want toresemble everybody else. Moreover, at themoment when this solidarity exercises its force,our personality vanishes, as our definition per-mits us to say, for we are no longer ourselves,but the collective life.The social molecules which can be coherent

in this way can act together only in the measurethat they have no actions of their own, as themolecules of inorganic bodies. That is why we

propose to call this type of solidarity mechan-ical. The term does not signify that it isproduced by mechanical and artificial means.We call it that only by analogy to the cohesionwhich unites the elements of an inanimate body,as opposed to that which makes a unity out ofthe elements of a living body. What justifies thisterm is that the link which thus unites theindividual to society is wholly analogous to thatwhich attaches a thing to a person. Theindividual conscience, considered in this light,is a simple dependent upon the collective typeand follows all of its movements, as thepossessed object follows those of its owner. Insocieties where this type of solidarity is highlydeveloped, the individual does not appear, as weshall see later. Individuality is something whichthe society possesses. Thus, in these socialtypes, personal rights are not yet distinguishedfrom real rights.It is quite otherwise with the solidarity which

the division of labor produces. Whereas theprevious type implies that individuals resembleeach other, this type presumes their difference.The first is possible only in so far as theindividual personality is absorbed into thecollective personality; the second is possibleonly if each one has a sphere of action which ispeculiar to him; that is, a personality. It isnecessary, then, that the collective conscienceleave open a part of the individual conscience inorder that special functions may be establishedthere, functions which it cannot regulate. Themore this region is extended, the stronger is thecohesion which results from this solidarity. Ineffect, on the one hand, each one depends asmuch more strictly on society as labor is moredivided; and, on the other, the activity of each isas much more personal as it is more specialized.Doubtless, as circumscribed as it is, it is nevercompletely original. Even in the exercise of ouroccupation, we conform to usages, to practiceswhich are common to our whole professionalbrotherhood. But, even in this instance, the yokethat we submit to is much less heavy than whensociety completely controls us, and it leavesmuch more place open for the free play of ourinitiative. Here, then, the individuality of all


vHowever, these two consciences are not in regions geographically distinct from us, but penetrate from all sides.

grows at the same time as that of its parts.Society becomes more capable of collectivemovement, at the same time that each of itselements has more freedom of movement. Thissolidarity resembles that which we observeamong the higher animals. Each organ, in effect,has its special physiognomy, its autonomy. And,moreover, the unity of the organism is as greatas the individuation of the parts is more marked.Because of this analogy, we propose to call thesolidarity which is due to the division of labor,organic. . . .

THE CAUSES

We can then formulate the following proposition:The division of labor varies in direct ratio withthe volume and density of societies, and, if itprogresses in a continuous manner in the courseof social development, it is because societiesbecome regularly denser and generally morevoluminous.At all times, it is true, it has been well

understood that there was a relation betweenthese two orders of fact, for, in order thatfunctions be more specialized, there must bemore co-operators, and they must be related toco-operate. But, ordinarily, this state of societiesis seen only as the means by which the divisionof labor develops, and not as the cause of itsdevelopment. The latter is made to depend uponindividual aspirations toward well-being andhappiness, which can be satisfied so muchbetter as societies are more extensive and morecondensed. The law we have just established isquite otherwise. We say, not that the growth andcondensation of societies permit, but that theynecessitate a greater division of labor. It is not

an instrument by which the latter is realized; itis its determining cause.vi

THE FORCED DIVISION OF LABOR

It is not sufficient that there be rules, however, forsometimes the rules themselves are the cause ofevil. This is what occurs in class-wars. Theinstitution of classes and of castes constitutes anorganization of the division of labor, and it is astrictly regulated organization, although it often isa source of dissension. The lower classes notbeing, or no longer being, satisfied with the rolewhich has devolved upon them from custom or bylaw aspire to functions which are closed to themand seek to dispossess those who are exercisingthese functions. Thus civil wars arise which aredue to the manner in which labor is distributed.There is nothing similar to this in the

organism. No doubt, during periods of crises, thedifferent tissues war against one another andnourish themselves at the expense of others. Butnever does one cell or organ seek to usurp arole different from the one which it is filling.The reason for this is that each anatomic elementautomatically executes its purpose. Its consti-tution, its place in the organism, determines itsvocation; its task is a consequence of its nature. Itcan badly acquit itself, but it cannot assumeanother’s task unless the latter abandons it, ashappens in the rare cases of substitution that wehave spoken of. It is not so in societies. Here thepossibility is greater. There is a greater distancebetween the hereditary dispositions of theindividual and the social function he will fill.The first do not imply the second with suchimmediate necessity. This space, open to strivingand deliberation, is also at the mercy of a


viOn this point, we can still rely on Comte as authority. “I must,” he said “now indicate the progressive conden-sation of our species as a last general concurrent element in regulating the effective speed of the social move-ment. We can first easily recognize that this influence contributes a great deal, especially in origin, in determininga more special division of human labor, necessarily incompatible with a small number of co-operators. Besides,by a most intimate and little known property, although still most important, such a condensation stimulatesdirectly, in a very powerful manner, the most rapid development of social evolution, either in driving individu-als to new efforts to assure themselves by more refined means of an existence which otherwise would becomemore difficult, or by obliging society with more stubborn and better concentrated energy to fight more stifflyagainst the more powerful effort of particular divergences. With one and the other, we see that it is not a ques-tion here of the absolute increase of the number of individuals, but especially of their more intense concourse ina given space.” Cours, IV, p. 455.


multitude of causes which can make individualnature deviate from its normal direction andcreate a pathological state. Because thisorganization is more supple, it is also moredelicate and more accessible to change.Doubtless, we are not, from birth, predestined tosome special position; but we do have tastes andaptitudes which limit our choice. If no care istaken of them, if they are ceaselessly disturbed byour daily occupations, we shall suffer and seek away of putting an end to our suffering. But thereis no other way out than to change the establishedorder and to set up a new one. For the division oflabor to produce solidarity, it is not sufficient,then, that each have his task; it is still necessarythat this task be fitting to him. Now, it is thiscondition which is not realized in the case we areexamining. In effect, if the institution of classesor castes sometimes gives rise to anxiety and paininstead of producing solidarity, this is because thedistribution of social functions on which it restsdoes not respond, or rather no longer responds, tothe distribution of natural talents. . . .

CONCLUSION

But not only does the division of labor presentthe character by which we have defined morality;it more and more tends to become the essentialcondition of social solidarity. As we advance inthe evolutionary scale, the ties which bind theindividual to his family, to his native soil, totraditions which the past has given to him, tocollective group usages, become loose. Moremobile, he changes his environment more easily,leaves his people to go elsewhere to live a moreautonomous existence, to a greater extent formshis own ideas and sentiments. Of course, thewhole common conscience does not, on thisaccount, pass out of existence.At least there willalways remain this cult of personality, of

individual dignity of which we have just beenspeaking, and which, today, is the rallying-pointof so many people. But how little a thing it iswhen one contemplates the ever increasingextent of social life, and, consequently, ofindividual consciences! For, as they becomemore voluminous, as intelligence becomesricher, activity more varied, in order for moralityto remain constant, that is to say, in order for theindividual to remain attached to the group witha force equal to that of yesterday, the ties whichbind him to it must become stronger and morenumerous. If, then, he formed no others thanthose which come from resemblances, theeffacement of the segmental type would beaccompanied by a systematic debasement ofmorality. Man would no longer be sufficientlyobligated; he would no longer feel about andabove him this salutary pressure of societywhich moderates his egoism and makes him amoral being. This is what gives moral value tothe division of labor. Through it, the individualbecomes cognizant of his dependence uponsociety; from it come the forces which keep himin check and restrain him. In short, since thedivision of labor becomes the chief source ofsocial solidarity, it becomes, at the same time,the foundation of the moral order.We can then say that, in higher societies, our

duty is not to spread our activity over a largesurface, but to concentrate and specialize it. Wemust contract our horizon, choose a definite taskand immerse ourselves in it completely, instead oftrying to make ourselves a sort of creativemasterpiece, quite complete, which contains itsworth in itself and not in the services that itrenders. Finally, this specialization ought to bepushed as far as the elevation of the social type,without assigning any other limit to it.vii No doubt,we ought so to work as to realize in ourselves thecollective type as it exists. There are commonsentiments, common ideas, without which, as has

viiThere is, however, probably another limit which we do not have to speak of since it concerns individual hygiene. Itmay be held that, in the light of our organico-psychic constitution, the division of labor cannot go beyond a certainlimit without disorders resulting.Without entering upon the question, let us straightaway say that the extreme special-ization at which biological functions have arrived does not seem favorable to this hypothesis. Moreover, in the veryorder of psychic and social functions, has not the division of labor, in its historical development, been carried to thelast stage in the relations of men and women? Have not there been faculties completely lost by both?Why cannot thesame phenomenon occur between individuals of the same sex? Of course, it takes time for the organism to adapt itselfto these changes, but we do not see why a day should come when this adaptation would become impossible.

been said, one is not a man. The rule which ordersus to specialize remains limited by the contraryrule. Our conclusion is not that it is good to pressspecialization as far as possible, but as far asnecessary. As for the part that is to be played bythese two opposing necessities, that is determinedby experience and cannot be calculated a priori. Itis enough for us to have shown that the second isnot of a different nature from the first, but that italso is moral, and that, moreover, this dutybecomes ever more important and pressing,because the general qualities which are inquestion suffice less and less to socialize theindividual. . . .Let us first of all remark that it is difficult to

see why it would be more in keeping with thelogic of human nature to develop superficiallyrather than profoundly. Why would a moreextensive activity, but more dispersed, be superiorto a more concentrated, but circumscribed,activity? Why would there be more dignity inbeing complete and mediocre, rather than inliving a more specialized, but more intense life,particularly if it is thus possible for us to findwhat we have lost in this specialization, throughour association with other beings who have whatwe lack and who complete us? We take off fromthe principle that man ought to realize his natureas man, to accomplish his öικειoν εργoν, asAristotle said. But this nature does not remainconstant throughout history; it is modified withsocieties. Among lower peoples, the proper dutyof man is to resemble his companions, to realizein himself all the traits of the collective typewhich are then confounded, much more thantoday, with the human type. But, in moreadvanced societies, his nature is, in large part, tobe an organ of society, and his proper duty,consequently, is to play his role as an organ.

Moreover, far from being trammelled by theprogress of specialization, individual persona-lity develops with the division of labor.To be a person is to be an autonomous source

of action. Man acquires this quality only in so faras there is something in him which is his aloneand which individualizes him, as he is somethingmore than a simple incarnation of the generictype of his race and his group. It will be said thathe is endowed with free will and that is enough toestablish his personality. But although there maybe some of this liberty in him, an object of somany discussions, it is not this metaphysical,impersonal, invariable attribute which can serveas the unique basis for concrete personality,which is empirical and variable with individuals.That could not be constituted by the whollyabstract power of choice between two opposites,but it is still necessary for this faculty to beexercised towards ends and aims which areproper to the agent. In other words, the verymaterials of conscience must have a personalcharacter. But we have seen in the second book ofthis work that this result is progressivelyproduced as the division of labor progresses. Theeffacement of the segmental type, at the sametime that it necessitates a very great speciali-zation, partially lifts the individual consciencefrom the organic environment which supports it,as from the social environment which envelops it,and, accordingly, because of this doubleemancipation, the individual becomes more of anindependent factor in his own conduct. Thedivision of labor itself contributes to thisenfranchisement, for individual natures, whilespecializing, become more complex, and by thatare in part freed from collective action andhereditary influences which can only enforcethemselves upon simple, general things. . . .


�

Introduction to The Rules of Sociological Method

In The Rules of Sociological Method (Durkheim 1895/1966:xiii), Durkheim makes at leastthree essential points. Durkheim insists, (1) sociology is a distinct field of study, and(2) although the social sciences are distinct from the natural sciences, the methods of thelatter can be applied to the former. In addition, Durkheim maintains, (3) the social fieldis also distinct from the psychological realm. Thus, sociology is the study of social phe-nomena or “social facts,” a very different enterprise from the study of an individual’s ownideas or will.


Specifically, Durkheim maintains there are two different ways that social facts can beidentified. First, social facts are “general throughout the extent of a given society” at a givenstage in the evolution of that society (Durkheim 1895/1966:xv,13). Second, albeit related, asocial fact is marked by “any manner of action . . . capable of exercising over the individualexterior constraint” (ibid.). In other words, a “social fact” is recognized by the “coercivepower which it exercises or is capable of exercising over individuals” (ibid.:10). This doesnot mean that there are no “exceptions” to a social fact, but that it is potentially universal inthe sense that, given specific conditions, it will be likely to emerge (ibid.:xv).The “coercive power” of social facts brings us to a critical issue raised in The Rules of

Sociological Method: crime. Durkheim argues that crime is inevitable or “normal” in all soci-eties because crime defines the moral boundaries of a society and, in doing so, communicatesto its inhabitants the range of acceptable behaviors. For Durkheim, crime is “normal”—notbecause there will always be “bad” or “wicked” individuals in society (i.e., not for idiosyn-cratictic, psychological reasons, though those may well exist too), but because crime is“indispensable to the normal evolution of morality and law” (Durkheim 1895/1966:69). Ashe maintains, “A society exempt from [crime] is utterly impossible” because crime affirmsand reaffirms the collective sentiments on which it is founded and which are necessary for itsexistence (ibid.:67). The formation and reformation of the collective conscience is nevercomplete. Indeed, Durkheim maintains that even in a hypothetical “society of saints,” a “per-fect cloister of exemplary individuals,” “faults” will appear, which will cause the same “scan-dal that the ordinary offense does in ordinary consciousnesses” (ibid.:68,69). It is impossiblefor all to be alike . . . there cannot be a society in which the individuals do not differ more orless from the collective type” (ibid.:69,70). Simply put, you cannot have a society without“crime” for the same reason that you cannot have a game without rules (i.e., you can do A,but not B) and consequences to rule violations (if you do B, this will happen). Thus, whenchildren make up a new game, they make up not only rules, but also consequences for ruleinfractions (e.g., you have to kick the ball between the tree and the mailbox; if the ball touchesyour hands, you’re out). So too, one could argue, society is like a game. There are rules(norms and laws), and there are consequences or punishments if you break thosenorms/rules/laws (whether social ostracism or jail). Most importantly, it is the consequencesof the action (crime and punishment) themselves that help clarify and reaffirm what the rulesof the game are and thus the basis of society itself.

From The Rules of Sociological Method (1895)

Émile Durkheim

WHAT IS A SOCIAL FACT?

Before inquiring into the method suited to thestudy of social facts, it is important to knowwhich facts are commonly called “social.” Thisinformation is all the more necessary since thedesignation “social” is used with little precision.It is currently employed for practically all

phenomena generally diffused within society,however small their social interest. But on thatbasis, there are, as it were, no human events thatmay not be called social. Each individual drinks,sleeps, eats, reasons; and it is to society’s interestthat these functions be exercised in an orderlymanner. If, then, all these facts are counted as“social” facts, sociology would have no subject

SOURCE: Reprinted with permission of The Free Press, a Division of Simon & Schuster Adult PublishingGroup, from The Rules of Sociological Method by Émile Durkheim, translated by Sarah A. Soloway and JohnH. Mueller, edited by George E. G. Catlin. Copyright © 1938 by George E. G. Catlin. Copyright renewed © 1966by Sarah A. Soloway, John H. Mueller, George E. G. Catlin. All rights reserved.

matter exclusively its own, and its domain wouldbe confused with that of biology and psychology.But in reality there is in every society a

certain group of phenomena which may bedifferentiated from those studied by the othernatural sciences. When I fulfill my obligationsas brother, husband, or citizen, when I executemy contracts, I perform duties which aredefined, externally to myself and my acts, in lawand in custom. Even if they conform to my ownsentiments and I feel their reality subjectively,such reality is still objective, for I did notcreate them; I merely inherited them throughmy education. How many times it happens,moreover, that we are ignorant of the details ofthe obligations incumbent upon us, and that inorder to acquaint ourselves with them we mustconsult the law and its authorized interpreters!Similarly, the church-member finds the beliefsand practices of his religious life ready-made atbirth; their existence prior to his own impliestheir existence outside of himself. The system ofsigns I use to express my thought, the systemof currency I employ to pay my debts, theinstruments of credit I utilize in my commercialrelations, the practices followed in my profession,etc., function independently of my own use ofthem. And these statements can be repeated foreach member of society. Here, then, are ways ofacting, thinking, and feeling that present thenoteworthy property of existing outside theindividual consciousness.These types of conduct or thought are not only

external to the individual but are, moreover,endowed with coercive power, by virtue of whichthey impose themselves upon him, independentof his individual will. Of course, when I fullyconsent and conform to them, this constraint isfelt only slightly, if at all, and is thereforeunnecessary. But it is, nonetheless, an intrinsiccharacteristic of these facts, the proof thereofbeing that it asserts itself as soon as I attempt toresist it. If I attempt to violate the law, it reactsagainst me so as to prevent my act before itsaccomplishment, or to nullify my violation byrestoring the damage, if it is accomplished andreparable, or to make me expiate it if it cannot becompensated for otherwise.In the case of purely moral maxims; the public

conscience exercises a check on every act whichoffends it by means of the surveillance it

exercises over the conduct of citizens, and theappropriate penalties at its disposal. In manycases the constraint is less violent, but never-theless it always exists. If I do not submit to theconventions of society, if in my dress I do notconform to the customs observed in my countryand in my class, the ridicule I provoke, the socialisolation in which I am kept, produce, although inan attenuated form, the same effects as apunishment in the strict sense of the word. Theconstraint is nonetheless efficacious for beingindirect. I am not obliged to speak French withmy fellow-countrymen nor to use the legalcurrency, but I cannot possibly do otherwise. If Itried to escape this necessity, my attempt wouldfail miserably. As an industrialist, I am free toapply the technical methods of former centuries;but by doing so, I should invite certain ruin. Evenwhen I free myself from these rules and violatethem successfully, I am always compelled tostruggle with them. When finally overcome, theymake their constraining power sufficiently felt bythe resistance they offer. The enterprises of allinnovators, including successful ones, come upagainst resistance of this kind.Here, then, is a category of facts with very

distinctive characteristics: it consists of ways ofacting, thinking, and feeling, external to theindividual, and endowed with a power ofcoercion, by reason of which they control him.These ways of thinking could not be confusedwith biological phenomena, since they consist ofrepresentations and of actions; nor with psycho-logical phenomena, which exist only in theindividual consciousness and through it. Theyconstitute, thus, a new variety of phenomena; andit is to them exclusively that the term “social”ought to be applied.And this term fits them quitewell, for it is clear that, since their source is notin the individual, their substratum can be noother than society, either the political society asa whole or some one of the partial groups itincludes, such as religious denominations,political, literary, and occupational associations,etc. On the other hand, this term “social” appliesto them exclusively, for it has a distinct meaningonly if it designates exclusively the phenomenawhich are not included in any of the categoriesof facts that have already been established andclassified. These ways of thinking and actingtherefore constitute the proper domain of



sociology. It is true that, when we define themwith this word “constraint,” we risk shockingthe zealous partisans of absolute individualism.For those who profess the complete autonomyof the individual, man’s dignity is diminishedwhenever he is made to feel that he is notcompletely self-determinant. It is generallyaccepted today, however, that most of our ideasand our tendencies are not developed byourselves but come to us from without. How canthey become a part of us except by imposingthemselves upon us? This is the whole meaningof our definition. And it is generally accepted,moreover, that social constraint is notnecessarily incompatible with the individualpersonality.i

Since the examples that we have just cited(legal and moral regulations, religious faiths,financial systems, etc.) all consist of establishedbeliefs and practices, one might be led to believethat social facts exist only where there is somesocial organization. But there are other factswithout such crystallized form which have thesame objectivity and the same ascendancy over theindividual. These are called “social currents.”Thusthe great movements of enthusiasm, indignation,and pity in a crowd do not originate in any one ofthe particular individual consciousnesses. Theycome to each one of us fromwithout and can carryus away in spite of ourselves. Of course, it mayhappen that, in abandoning myself to themunreservedly, I do not feel the pressure they exertupon me. But it is revealed as soon as I try to resistthem. Let an individual attempt to oppose one ofthese collective manifestations, and the emotionsthat he denies will turn against him. Now, if thispower of external coercion asserts itself so clearlyin cases of resistance, it must exist also in the first-mentioned cases, although we are unconscious ofit. We are then victims of the illusion of havingourselves created that which actually forced itselffrom without. If the complacency with which wepermit ourselves to be carried along conceals thepressure undergone, nevertheless it does notabolish it. Thus, air is no less heavy because we donot detect its weight. So, even if we ourselves havespontaneously contributed to the production of thecommon emotion, the impression we havereceived differs markedly from that which wewould have experienced if we had been alone.Also, once the crowd has dispersed, that is, once

these social influences have ceased to act upon usand we are alone again, the emotions which havepassed through the mind appear strange to us, andwe no longer recognize them as ours. We realizethat these feelings have been impressed upon us toamuch greater extent than they were created by us.It may even happen that they horrify us, so muchwere they contrary to our nature. Thus, a groupof individuals, most of whom are perfectlyinoffensive, may, when gathered in a crowd, bedrawn into acts of atrocity. And what we say ofthese transitory outbursts applies similarly to thosemore permanent currents of opinion on religious,political, literary, or artistic matters which areconstantly being formed around us, whether insociety as a whole or in more limited circles.To confirm this definition of the social fact

by a characteristic illustration from commonexperience, one need only observe the manner inwhich children are brought up. Considering thefacts as they are and as they have always been, itbecomes immediately evident that all educationis a continuous effort to impose on the childways of seeing, feeling, and acting which hecould not have arrived at spontaneously. Fromthe very first hours of his life, we compel him toeat, drink, and sleep at regular hours; weconstrain him to cleanliness, calmness, andobedience; later we exert pressure upon him inorder that he may learn proper consideration forothers, respect for customs and conventions, theneed for work, etc. If, in time, this constraintceases to be felt, it is because it gradually givesrise to habits and to internal tendencies thatrender constraint unnecessary; but neverthelessit is not abolished, for it is still the source fromwhich these habits were derived. It is true that,according to Spencer, a rational education oughtto reject such methods, allowing the child to actin complete liberty; but as this pedagogic theoryhas never been applied by any known people, itmust be accepted only as an expression ofpersonal opinion, not as a fact which cancontradict the aforementioned observations.What makes these facts particularly instructive isthat the aim of education is, precisely, thesocialization of the human being; the process ofeducation, therefore, gives us in a nutshell thehistorical fashion in which the social being isconstituted. This unremitting pressure to whichthe child is subjected is the very pressure of the

iWe do not intend to imply, however, that all constraints are normal. We shall return to this point later.

social milieu which tends to fashion him in itsown image, and of which parents and teachers aremerely the representatives and intermediaries.It follows that sociological phenomena cannot

be defined by their universality. A thought whichwe find in every individual consciousness, amovement repeated by all individuals, is notthereby a social fact. If sociologists have beensatisfied with defining them by this characteristic,it is because they confused them with what onemight call their reincarnation in the individual. Itis, however, the collective aspects of the beliefs,tendencies, and practices of a group thatcharacterize truly social phenomena. As for theforms that the collective states assume whenrefracted in the individual, these are things ofanother sort. This duality is clearly demonstratedby the fact that these two orders of phenomena arefrequently found dissociated from one another.Indeed, certain of these social manners of actingand thinking acquire, by reason of their repetition,a certain rigidity which on its own accountcrystallizes them, so to speak, and isolates themfrom the particular events which reflect them.Theythus acquire a body, a tangible form, and constitutea reality in their own right, quite distinct from theindividual facts which produce it. Collective habitsare inherent not only in the successive acts whichthey determine but, by a privilege of which we findno example in the biological realm, they are givenpermanent expression in a formula which isrepeated from mouth to mouth, transmitted byeducation, and fixed even in writing. Such is theorigin and nature of legal and moral rules, popularaphorisms and proverbs, articles of faith whereinreligious or political groups condense their beliefs,standards of taste established by literary schools,etc. None of these can be found entirelyreproduced in the applications made of them byindividuals, since they can exist even withoutbeing actually applied.No doubt, this dissociation does not always

manifest itself with equal distinctness, but itsobvious existence in the important and numerouscases just cited is sufficient to prove that thesocial fact is a thing distinct from its individualmanifestations. Moreover, even when thisdissociation is not immediately apparent, it mayoften be disclosed by certain devices of method.Such dissociation is indispensable if one wishes toseparate social facts from their alloys in order to

observe them in a state of purity. Currents ofopinion, with an intensity varying according to thetime and place, impel certain groups either tomore marriages, for example, or to more suicides,or to a higher or lower birthrate, etc. Thesecurrents are plainly social facts. At first sight theyseem inseparable from the forms they take inindividual cases. But statistics furnish us with themeans of isolating them. They are, in fact,represented with considerable exactness by therates of births, marriages, and suicides, that is, bythe number obtained by dividing the averageannual total of marriages, births, suicides, by thenumber of persons whose ages lie within the rangein which marriages, births, and suicides occur.ii

Since each of these figures contains all theindividual cases indiscriminately, the individualcircumstances which may have had a share in theproduction of the phenomenon are neutralizedand, consequently, do not contribute to itsdetermination. The average, then, expresses acertain state of the group mind (l’âme collective).Such are social phenomena, when disentangled

from all foreign matter. As for their individualmanifestations, these are indeed, to a certainextent, social, since they partly reproduce a socialmodel. Each of them also depends, and to a largeextent, on the organopsychological constitution ofthe individual and on the particular circumstancesin which he is placed. Thus they are notsociological phenomena in the strict sense of theword. They belong to two realms at once; onecould call them sociopsychological. They interestthe sociologist without constituting the imme-diate subject matter of sociology. There exist inthe interior of organisms similar phenomena,compound in their nature, which form in their turnthe subject matter of the “hybrid sciences,” suchas physiological chemistry, for example.The objection may be raised that a phenomenon

is collective only if it is common to all members ofsociety, or at least to most of them—in otherwords, if it is truly general. This may be true; but itis general because it is collective (that is, more orless obligatory), and certainly not collectivebecause general. It is a group condition repeated inthe individual because imposed on him. It is to befound in each part because it exists in the whole,rather than in the whole because it exists in theparts.This becomes conspicuously evident in thosebeliefs and practices which are transmitted to us


iiSuicides do not occur at every age, and they take place with varying intensity at the different ages in which they occur.

ready-made by previous generations; we receiveand adopt them because, being both collective andancient, they are invested with a particularauthority that education has taught us to recognizeand respect. It is, of course, true that a vast portionof our social culture is transmitted to us in thisway; but even when the social fact is due in part toour direct collaboration, its nature is not different.A collective emotion which bursts forth suddenlyand violently in a crowd does not express merelywhat all the individual sentiments had in common;it is something entirely different, as we haveshown. It results from their being together, aproduct of the actions and reactions which takeplace between individual consciousnesses; and ifeach individual consciousness echoes thecollective sentiment, it is by virtue of the specialenergy resident in its collective origin. If all heartsbeat in unison, this is not the result of aspontaneous and pre-established harmony butrather because an identical force propels them inthe same direction. Each is carried along by all.We thus arrive at the point where we can

formulate and delimit in a precise way the domainof sociology. It comprises only a limited group ofphenomena. A social fact is to be recognized bythe power of external coercion which it exercisesor is capable of exercising over individuals, andthe presence of this power may be recognized inits turn either by the existence of some specificsanction or by the resistance offered against everyindividual effort that tends to violate it. One can,however, define it also by its diffusion within thegroup, provided that, in conformity with ourprevious remarks, one takes care to add as asecond and essential characteristic that its ownexistence is independent of the individual forms itassumes in its diffusion. This last criterion isperhaps, in certain cases, easier to apply than thepreceding one. In fact, the constraint is easy toascertain when it expresses itself externally bysome direct reaction of society, as is the case inlaw, morals, beliefs, customs, and even fashions.But when it is only indirect, like the constraintwhich an economic organization exercises, itcannot always be so easily detected. Generalitycombined with externality may, then, be easier toestablish. Moreover, this second definition is butanother form of the first; for if a mode of behaviorwhose existence is external to individualconsciousnesses becomes general, this can onlybe brought about by its being imposed upon them.

But these several phenomena present the samecharacteristic by which we defined the others.These “ways of existing” are imposed on theindividual precisely in the same fashion as the“ways of acting” of which we have spoken. Indeed,when we wish to know how a society is dividedpolitically, of what these divisions themselves arecomposed, and how complete is the fusion existingbetween them, we shall not achieve our purposeby physical inspection and by geographicalobservations; for these phenomena are social, evenwhen they have some basis in physical nature. It isonly by a study of public law that a comprehensionof this organization is possible, for it is this law thatdetermines the organization, as it equally determinesour domestic and civil relations. This politicalorganization is, then, no less obligatory than thesocial facts mentioned above. If the populationcrowds into our cities instead of scattering into thecountry, this is due to a trend of public opinion, acollective drive that imposes this concentration uponthe individuals. We can no more choose the style ofour houses than of our clothing—at least, both areequally obligatory. The channels of communicationprescribe the direction of internal migrations andcommerce, etc., and even their extent. Consequently,at the very most, it should be necessary to add to thelist of phenomena which we have enumerated aspresenting the distinctive criterion of a social factonly one additional category, “ways of existing”;and, as this enumeration was not meant to berigorously exhaustive, the addition would not beabsolutely necessary.Such an addition is perhaps not necessary, for

these “ways of existing” are only crystallized“ways of acting.” The political structure of asociety is merely the way in which its componentsegments have become accustomed to live withone another. If their relations are traditionallyintimate, the segments tend to fuse with oneanother, or, in the contrary case, to retain theiridentity. The type of habitation imposed upon usis merely the way in which our contemporariesand our ancestors have been accustomed toconstruct their houses. The methods of communi-cation are merely the channels which the regularcurrents of commerce and migrations have dug,by flowing in the same direction. To be sure, ifthe phenomena of a structural character alonepresented this performance, one might believethat they constituted a distinct species. A legalregulation is an arrangement no less permanent


than a type of architecture, and yet the regulationis a “physiological” fact.A simple moral maxim isassuredly somewhat more malleable, but it ismuch more rigid than a simple professionalcustom or a fashion. There is thus a whole seriesof degrees without a break in continuity betweenthe facts of the most articulated structure andthose free currents of social life which are not yetdefinitely molded. The differences between themare, therefore, only differences in the degree ofconsolidation they present. Both are simply life,more or less crystallized. No doubt, it may be ofsome advantage to reserve the term “mor-phological” for those social facts which concernthe social substratum, but only on condition of notoverlooking the fact that they are of the samenature as the others. Our definition will theninclude the whole relevant range of facts if we say:A social fact is every way of acting, fixed or not,capable of exercising on the individual an externalconstraint; or again, every way of acting which isgeneral throughout a given society, while at thesame time existing in its own right independent ofits individual manifestations. . . .iii

THE NORMAL AND THE PATHOLOGICAL

If there is any fact whose pathological characterappears incontestable, that fact is crime. All cri-minologists are agreed on this point. Althoughthey explain this pathology differently, they areunanimous in recognizing it. But let us see if thisproblem does not demand a more extendedconsideration. . . .Crime is present not only in the majority of

societies of one particular species but in all societiesof all types. There is no society that is notconfronted with the problem of criminality. Its formchanges; the acts thus characterized are not thesame everywhere; but, everywhere and always,there have been men who have behaved in such away as to draw upon themselves penal repression.

If, in proportion as societies pass from the lower tothe higher types, the rate of criminality, i.e., therelation between the yearly number of crimes andthe population, tended to decline, it might bebelieved that crime, while still normal, is tending tolose this character of normality. But we have noreason to believe that such a regression issubstantiated. Many facts would seem rather toindicate amovement in the opposite direction. Fromthe beginning of the [nineteenth] century, statisticsenable us to follow the course of criminality. It haseverywhere increased. In France the increase isnearly 300 per cent. There is, then, no phenomenonthat presents more indisputably all the symptoms ofnormality, since it appears closely connected withthe conditions of all collective life. To make ofcrime a form of social morbidity would be to admitthat morbidity is not something accidental, but, onthe contrary, that in certain cases it grows out of thefundamental constitution of the living organism; itwould result in wiping out all distinction betweenthe physiological and the pathological. No doubt itis possible that crime itself will have abnormalforms, as, for example, when its rate is unusuallyhigh. This excess is, indeed, undoubtedly morbid innature. What is normal, simply, is the existence ofcriminality, provided that it attains and does notexceed, for each social type, a certain level, which itis perhaps not impossible to fix in conformity withthe preceding rules.iv

Here we are, then, in the presence of aconclusion in appearance quite paradoxical. Letus make no mistake. To classify crime among thephenomena of normal sociology is not to saymerely that it is an inevitable, although regrettablephenomenon, due to the incorrigible wickednessof men; it is to affirm that it is a factor in publichealth, an integral part of all healthy societies.This result is, at first glance, surprising enough tohave puzzled even ourselves for a long time. Oncethis first surprise has been overcome, however, itis not difficult to find reasons explaining thisnormality and at the same time confirming it.


iiiThis close connection between life and structure, organ and function, may be easily proved in sociologybecause between these two extreme terms there exists a whole series of immediately observable intermediatestages which show the bond between them. Biology is not in the same favorable position. But we may wellbelieve that the inductions on this subject made by sociology are applicable to biology and that, in organisms aswell as in societies, only differences in degree exist between these two orders of facts.ivFrom the fact that crime is a phenomenon of normal sociology, it does not follow that the criminal is anindividual normally constituted from the biological and psychological points of view. The two questions areindependent of each other. This independence will be better understood when we have shown, later on, thedifference between psychological and sociological facts.


In the first place crime is normal because asociety exempt from it is utterly impossible.Crime, we have shown elsewhere, consists of anact that offends certain very strong collectivesentiments. In a society in which criminal acts areno longer committed, the sentiments they offendwould have to be found without exception in allindividual consciousnesses, and they must befound to exist with the same degree as sentimentscontrary to them. Assuming that this conditioncould actually be realized, crime would not therebydisappear; it would only change its form, for thevery cause which would thus dry up the sources ofcriminality would immediately open up new ones.Indeed, for the collective sentiments which are

protected by the penal law of a people at aspecified moment of its history to take possessionof the public conscience or for them to acquire astronger hold where they have an insufficient grip,they must acquire an intensity greater than thatwhich they had hitherto had. The community as awhole must experience them more vividly, for itcan acquire from no other source the greater forcenecessary to control these individuals whoformerly were the most refractory. . . .Imagine a society of saints, a perfect cloister of

exemplary individuals. Crimes, properly so called,will there be unknown; but faults which appearvenial to the layman will create there the samescandal that the ordinary offense does in ordinaryconsciousnesses. If, then, this society has the powerto judge and punish, it will define these acts ascriminal and will treat them as such. For the samereason, the perfect and upright man judges hissmallest failings with a severity that the majorityreserve for acts more truly in the nature of anoffense. Formerly, acts of violence against personswere more frequent than they are today, becauserespect for individual dignity was less strong. Asthis has increased, these crimes have become morerare; and also, many acts violating this sentimenthave been introduced into the penal lawwhich werenot included there in primitive times.v

In order to exhaust all the hypotheses logicallypossible, it will perhaps be asked why thisunanimity does not extend to all collectivesentiments without exception.Why should not eventhe most feeble sentiment gather enough energy toprevent all dissent? The moral consciousness of thesociety would be present in its entirety in all the

individuals, which a vitality sufficient to prevent allacts offending it—the purely conventional faults aswell as the crimes. But a uniformity so universaland absolute is utterly impossible; for the immediatephysical milieu in which each one of us is placed,the hereditary antecedents, and the socialinfluences vary from one individual to the next, andconsequently diversify consciousnesses. It isimpossible for all to be alike, if only because eachone has his own organism and that these organismsoccupy different areas in space. That is why, evenamong the lower peoples, where individualoriginality is very little developed, it neverthelessdoes exist.Thus, since there cannot be a society in which

the individuals do not differ more or less from thecollective type, it is also inevitable that, amongthese divergences, there are some with a criminalcharacter. What confers this character upon themis not the intrinsic quality of a given act but thatdefinition which the collective conscience lendsthem. If the collective conscience is stronger, if ithas enough authority practically to suppress thesedivergences, it will also be more sensitive, moreexacting; and, reacting against the slightestdeviations with the energy it otherwise displaysonly against more considerable infractions, it willattribute to them the same gravity as formerly tocrimes. In other words, it will designate them ascriminal.Crime is, then, necessary; it is bound up with

the fundamental conditions of all social life, andby that very fact it is useful, because theseconditions of which it is a part are themselvesindispensable to the normal evolution ofmorality and law.Indeed, it is no longer possible today to dispute

the fact that law and morality vary from one socialtype to the next, nor that they change within thesame type if the conditions of life are modified.But, in order that these transformations may bepossible, the collective sentiments at the basis ofmorality must not be hostile to change, andconsequently must have but moderate energy. Ifthey were too strong, they would no longer beplastic. Every pattern is an obstacle to newpatterns, to the extent that the first pattern isinflexible. The better a structure is articulated, themore it offers a healthy resistance to allmodification; and this is equally true of

vCalumny, insults, slander, fraud, etc.

functional, as of anatomical, organization. If therewere no crimes, this condition could not have beenfulfilled; for such a hypothesis presupposes thatcollective sentiments have arrived at a degree ofintensity unexampled in history. Nothing is goodindefinitely and to an unlimited extent. Theauthority which the moral conscience enjoys mustnot be excessive; otherwise no one would darecriticize it, and it would too easily congeal into animmutable form. To make progress, individualoriginality must be able to express itself. In orderthat the originality of the idealist whose dreamstranscend his century may find expression, it isnecessary that the originality of the criminal, whois below the level of his time, shall also bepossible. One does not occur without the other.Nor is this all. Aside from this indirect utility,

it happens that crime itself plays a useful role inthis evolution. Crime implies not only that theway remains open to necessary changes but thatin certain cases it directly prepares these changes.Where crime exists, collective sentiments aresufficiently flexible to take on a new form, andcrime sometimes helps to determine the formthey will take. How many times, indeed, it is onlyan anticipation of future morality—a step towardwhat will be! According to Athenian law,Socrates was a criminal, and his condemnation

was no more than just. However, his crime,namely, the independence of his thought,rendered a service not only to humanity but to hiscountry. It served to prepare a new morality andfaith which the Athenians needed, since thetraditions by which they had lived until then wereno longer in harmony with the current conditionsof life. Nor is the case of Socrates unique; it isreproduced periodically in history. It would neverhave been possible to establish the freedom ofthought we now enjoy if the regulations prohibitingit had not been violated before being solemnlyabrogated. At that time, however, the violation wasa crime, since it was an offense against sentimentsstill very keen in the average conscience. And yetthis crime was useful as a prelude to reforms whichdaily became more necessary. Liberal philosophyhad as its precursors the heretics of all kinds whowere justly punished by secular authorities duringthe entire course of the Middle Ages and until theeve of modern times.From this point of view the fundamental facts of

criminality present themselves to us in an entirelynew light. Contrary to current ideas, the criminal nolonger seems a totally unsociable being, a sort ofparasitic element, a strange and inassimilable body,introduced into the midst of society.vi On thecontrary, he plays a definite role in social life. . . .


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Introduction to Suicide: A Study in Sociology

Suicide (1897) is both a theoretical and methodological exemplar. In this famous study,Durkheim examines a phenomenon that most people think of as an intensely individualact—suicide—and demonstrates its social (rather than psychological) roots. His method fordoing this is to analyze rates of suicide between societies and historical periods and betweendifferent social groups within the same society. By linking the different suicide rates of par-ticular societies and social groups to the specific characteristics of that society or socialgroup, Durkheim not only demonstrates that individual pathologies are rooted in social con-ditions, but, in addition, shows how sociologists can scientifically study social behavior. Hisinnovative examination of suicide rates lent credibility to his conviction that sociologyshould be considered a viable scientific discipline.Most importantly, Durkheim argues that the places with the highest rates of alco-

holism and mental illness are not the areas with the highest suicide rates (thereby under-mining the notion that it is pathological psychological states that are solely determinativeof the individual act of suicide). Rather, Durkheim maintains that suicide rates are high-est in moments when and in places where individuals lack social and moral regulationor integration. In addition, as in his first book, The Division of Labor in Society, inSuicide Durkheim was particularly interested in delineating the fundamental differences

viWe have ourselves committed the error of speaking thus of the criminal, because of a failure to applyour rule (Division du travail social, pp. 395–96).

between traditional and modern societies. Durkheim sought to explain why suicide israre in small, simple societies while much more frequent in modern, industrial ones.Parallel to his argument in The Division of Labor, Durkheim argues that traditional andmodern societies differ not only in their rates of suicide, but in the types of suicide thatare prevalent as well.Specifically, Durkheim saw two main characteristics of modern, industrial society: (1) a

lack of integration of the individual in the social group and (2) a lack of moral regulation.Durkheim used the term egoism to refer to the lack of integration of the individual in thesocial group. He used the term anomie to refer to a lack of moral regulation. Durkheimargued that both of these conditions—egoism and anomie—are “chronic” in modern, indus-trial society; and that in extreme, pathological form, both egoism and anomie can result insuicide. Let’s look at these two different, albeit intimately interrelated, conditions in turn.For Durkheim, egoistic suicide results from a pathological weakening of the bonds

between the individual and the social group. This lack of integration is evident statistically,in that there are higher rates of suicide among single, divorced, and widowed persons thanamong married persons, and that there are higher rates of suicide among married personswithout children than there are among married persons with children. Additionally,Durkheim argued that egoism helps explain why suicide rates are higher among Protestantsthan among Catholics or Jews: Protestantism emphasizes an individual relationship withGod, which means that the individual is less bound to the religious clergy and members ofthe congregation. Interestingly, then, Durkheim maintains that it is not Catholic doctrine thatinhibits the act of suicide; rather, it is Catholics’ social bonds, their association with thepriests, nuns, and other lay members of the congregation, that deters them from this act.Protestant rates of suicide are higher because Protestants are more socially and spirituallyisolated than the more communally oriented Jews and Catholics.Durkheim saw an increase in egoistic suicide as a “natural” outgrowth of the individua-

tion of modern, industrial societies. For instance, today it is quite common—especially inbig cities—for people to live alone. By contrast, in many traditional societies it is virtuallyunheard of for anyone to live alone. Children live with parents until they get married; parentsmove in with children (or vice versa) if a spouse dies; unmarried siblings live with eitherparents or other siblings. As we noted above, Durkheim argued that in its extreme form thetype of social isolation found in modern societies can be—literally—fatal.Intertwined with an increasing lack of social integration in modern, industrial societies

is a lack of moral integration. Durkheim used the term anomie to refer to this lack of moralregulation. Anomic suicide is the pathological result of a lack of moral direction, when onefeels morally adrift. Durkheim viewed modern societies as “chronically” anomic, or char-acterized by a lack of regulation of the individual by the collective.Thus, for instance, modern industrial societies are religiously pluralistic, whereby people

are more able to freely choose among a variety of religious faiths—or to choose not to“believe” at all. Similarly, today many people choose to “identify”—or not—with a specificpart of their ethnic heritage. That we spend much time and energy searching for “identity”—“I’m a punk!” “I’m Irish!”—reflects a lack of moral regulation. To be sure, there are manywonderful benefits from this increasing individuation, which contrasts significantly fromsmall, traditional, homogeneous societies in which “who” you are is taken for granted. Insmall, closed, indigenous societies without so many (or any) options, where there is one reli-gion and one ethnic group, your place in that society is a cultural given—a “place” that maybe quite oppressive. Not surprisingly, then, Durkheim asserts that suppressing individuationalso can produce pathological consequences. (This point will be discussed further below.)The lack of moral regulation in modern societies is especially prevalent in times of intense

social and personal change. During such periods, the authority of the family, the church, andthe community may be challenged or questioned; without moral guidance and authority,


individuals may feel like they have no moral anchor. The pursuit of individual desires andgoals can overtake moral concerns. However, Durkheim maintains that anomie can result notonly from “bad” social change, such as losing one’s job or a political crisis, but from “posi-tive” social change as well. Consider, for instance, what happens when someone wins the lot-tery. Most people think that if they were to win the lottery, they would experience onlyhappiness. Indeed, some people buy lottery tickets thinking, “If I win the ‘big one,’ all myproblems will be solved!” However, Durkheim contends that sudden life-changing events canbring on a battery of social and personal issues that one might not expect.First, after winning the lottery, you might suddenly find yourself confronted with weighty

existential issues. Before the lottery, you may have simply worked—and worked hard—because you needed to earn a living. But now that you’ve won the lottery, you don’t knowwhat to do. By not having to work, you might start thinking about things, such as the mean-ing of life, that you had never thought about before. This feeling that you don’t know “whatto do” and “how to act” is a state of anomie.In addition, you might start to wonder how much friends and family should get from

your winnings. You might begin to feel like everyone just wants your money and that itis hard to tell who likes you and who just likes your newfound fame and fortune. Youmight feel like you can’t talk to your friends about your dilemma, that no one in your pre-vious social circle really “understands” you anymore. You may begin to find that youcan’t relate to the people from your old socioeconomic class, but that you can’t relate toanyone in your new class either. Thus, the sudden change brought about by winning thelottery can lead not only to feeling morally “anchorless” (anomie), but also to feelingsocially alone (egoism). A most extreme outcome of feeling this moral and social isola-tion would be suicide.As we noted previously, Durkheim argued that traditional and modern societies are

rooted in different social conditions. Compared to modern societies, social regulation isintensive in traditional societies, thus limiting the development of individuality. In extremeform, such restrictions can lead to altruistic suicide, where an individual gives his life for

Photo 3.2 In a modern-day incident of altruistic suicide, a number of South Vietnamese Buddhistmonks used self-immolation to protest the persecution of the country’s majority Buddhist population atthe hands of the Catholic president, Ngô Ðình Die^

·me. Here, Thích Quảng Ðức burns himself to death on

a Saigon street, June 11, 1963.


the social group. According to Durkheim, this is the primary type of suicide that occurs insmall, traditional societies where individuation is minimal. The classic type of altruistic sui-cide was the Aztecs’ practice of human sacrifice, in which a person was sacrificed for themoral or spiritual benefit of the group.1

Today many sociologists find fault with Durkheim’s distinction between “modern” and“traditional” societies. This binary opposition seems to be a function of the Eurocentrismof his day: social scientists tended to imagine that their societies were extremely “com-plex,” while “traditional” societies were just “simple.” Indeed, “traditional” and “modern”societies may have more in common than Durkheim let on. The degree of integration ofthe individual into the collective social group is a complex process rather than a perma-nent state. For instance, even though Durkheim saw altruistic suicide as more prevalent in“primitive” societies, sadly, it is far from absent in “modern” societies as well. Not unlikethe altruistic suicides in primitive societies, modern-day wars and suicide bombings arecarried out on the premise that sacrificing one’s life is necessary for the fight to preserveor attain a sacred way of life for the group as a whole. Nowhere are the similaritiesbetween these expressions of altruistic suicide (soldiers, suicide bombers, and “primitive”human sacrifice) more readily apparent than in the tragic case of the Japanese kamikaze(suicide) pilots of World War II. Shockingly, kamikaze flights were a principal tactic ofJapan in the last year of the war.2


From Suicide: A Study in Sociology (1897)

Émile Durkheim

ANOMIC SUICIDE

But society is not only something attracting thesentiments and activities of individuals withunequal force. It is also a power controllingthem. There is a relation between the way thisregulative action is performed and the socialsuicide-rate.

I

It is a well-known fact that economic crises havean aggravating effect on the suicidal tendency.In Vienna, in 1873 a financial crisis occurred

which reached its height in 1874; the number ofsuicides immediately rose. From 141 in 1872, theyrose to 153 in 1873 and 216 in 1874. The increase

SOURCE: Reprinted with permission of The Free Press, a Division of Simon & Schuster Adult PublishingGroup, from Suicide: A Study in Sociology by Émile Durkheim, translated by John A. Spaulding and GeorgeSimpson, edited by George Simpson. Copyright © 1951 by The Free Press. Copyright renewed © 1979 by TheFree Press. All rights reserved.1Durkheim briefly mentioned another type of suicide prevalent in “primitive” societies—”fatalistic suicide.” ForDurkheim, fatalistic suicide was rooted in hopelessness—the hopelessness of oppressed people, such as slaves,who had not the slightest chance of changing their personal situation.2In October 1944, some 1,200 kamikaze (which translates from Japanese as “god wind”) plunged to their deathsin an attack on a U.S. naval fleet in the Leyte Gulf in the Philippines. Six months later, some 1,900 kamikazedove to their deaths in the battle of Okinawa, resulting in the death of more than 5,000 American sailors. Mostof the kamikaze pilots involved were men in their teens or early 20s. They were said to have gone to their deaths“joyfully,” having followed specific rituals of cleanliness, and equipped with books with uplifting thoughts to“transcend life and death” and “[b]e always pure-hearted and cheerful” (Daniel Ford, Review of Kamikaze:Japan’s Suicide Gods, by Albert Axell and Hideaki Kase, Wall Street Journal, September 10, 2002).


in 1874 is 53 per centi above 1872 and 41 per centabove 1873. What proves this catastrophe to havebeen the sole cause of the increase is the specialprominence of the increase when the crisis wasacute, or during the first four months of 1874.From January 1 to April 30 there had been 48suicides in 1871, 44 in 1872, 43 in 1873; therewere 73 in 1874. The increase is 70 per cent.ii Thesame crisis occurring at the same time inFrankfurt-on-Main produced the same effectsthere. In the years before 1874, 22 suicides werecommitted annually on the average; in 1874 therewere 32, or 45 per cent more.The famous crash is unforgotten which

took place on the Paris Bourse during thewinter of 1882. Its consequences were felt notonly in Paris but throughout France. From1874 to 1886 the average annual increase wasonly 2 per cent; in 1882 it was 7 per cent.Moreover, it was unequally distributed amongthe different times of year, occurring princi-pally during the first three months or at thevery time of the crash. Within these threemonths alone 59 per cent of the total riseoccurred. So distinctly is the rise the result ofunusual circumstances that it not only is notencountered in 1881 but has disappeared in1883, although on the whole the latter year hada few more suicides than the preceding one:This relation is found not only in some

exceptional cases, but is the rule. The number ofbankruptcies is a barometer of adequatesensitivity, reflecting thevariations of economiclife. When they increaseabruptly from year toyear, some seriousdisturbance has certainlyoccurred. From 1845 to1869 there were sudden rises, symptomatic ofcrises, on three occasions. While the annualincrease in the number of bankruptcies duringthis period is 3.2 per cent, it is 26 per cent in1847, 37 per cent in 1854 and 20 per cent in1861. At these three moments, there is also to beobserved an unusually rapid rise in the numberof suicides. While the average annual increase

during these 24 years was only 2 per cent, it was17 per cent in 1847, 8 per cent in 1854 and 9 percent in 1861.But to what do these crises owe their

influence? Is it because they increase poverty bycausing public wealth to fluctuate? Is life morereadily renounced as it becomes more difficult?The explanation is seductively simple; and itagrees with the popular idea of suicide. But it iscontradicted by facts.Actually, if voluntary deaths increased because

life was becoming more difficult, they shoulddiminish perceptibly as comfort increases. Now,although when the price of the most necessaryfoods rises excessively, suicides generally do thesame, they are not found to fall below the averagein the opposite case. In Prussia, in 1850 wheat wasquoted at the lowest point it reached during theentire period of 1848–81; it was at 6.91 marks per50 kilograms; yet at this very time suicides rosefrom 1,527 where they were in 1849 to 1,736, oran increase of 13 per cent, and continued toincrease during the years 1851, 1852 and 1853although the cheap market held. In 1858–59 a newfall took place; yet suicides rose from 2,038 in1857 to 2,126 in 1858, and to 2,146 in 1859. From1863 to 1866 prices which had reached 11.04marks in 1861 fell progressively to 7.95 marks in1864 and remained very reasonable for the wholeperiod; suicides during the same time increased 17per cent (2,112 in 1862, 2,485 in 1866).iii Similarfacts are observed in Bavaria.According to a curve

constructed by Mayriv for the period 1835–61, theprice of rye was lowest during the years 1857–58and 1858–59; now suicides, which in 1857numbered only 286, rose to 329 in 1858, to 387 in1859. The same phenomenon had alreadyoccurred during the years 1848–50; at that timewheat had been very cheap in Bavaria as wellas throughout Europe. Yet, in spite of a slight

1881 1882 1883

Annual total 6,741 7,213 (plus 7%) 7,267

First three months 1,589 1,770 (plus 11%) 1,604

iDurkheim incorrectly gives this figure as 51 percent.—Ed.iiIn 1874 over 1873.—Ed.iiiSee Starck, Verbrechen und Vergehen in Preussen, Berlin, 1884, p. 55.ivDie Gesetzmässigkeit im Gesellschaftsleben, p. 345.


temporary drop due to political events, which wehave mentioned, suicides remained at the samelevel. There were 217 in1847, there were still215 in 1848, and if theydropped for a momentto 189 in 1849, they roseagain in 1850 andreached 250.So far is the increase

in poverty from causingthe increase in suicide that even fortunatecrises, the effect of which is abruptly toenhance a country’s prosperity, affect suicidelike economic disasters.The conquest of Rome by Victor-Emmanuel

in 1870, by definitely forming the basis ofItalian unity, was the starting point for thecountry of a process of growth which is makingit one of the great powers of Europe. Trade andindustry received a sharp stimulus from it andsurprisingly rapid changes took place. Whereasin 1876, 4,459 steam boilers with a total of54,000 horse-power were enough for industrialneeds, the number of machines in 1887 was9,983 and their horse-power of 167,000 wasthreefold more. Of course the amount ofproduction rose proportionately during the sametime.v Trade followed the same rising course;not only did the merchant marine, communi-cations and transportation develop, but thenumber of persons and things transporteddoubled.vi As this generally heightened activitycaused an increase in salaries (an increase of35 per cent is estimated to have taken placefrom 1873 to 1889), the material comfort ofworkers rose, especially since the price of breadwas falling at the same time.vii Finally, accordingto calculations by Bodio, private wealth rosefrom 45 and a half billions on the average duringthe period 1875–80 to 51 billions during theyears 1880–85 and 54 billions and a half in1885–90.viii

Now, an unusual increase in the number ofsuicides is observed parallel with this collectiverenaissance. From 1866 to 1870 they were

roughly stable; from 1871 to 1877 theyincreased 36 per cent. There were in

And since then the movement has continued.The total figure, 1,139 in 1877, was 1,463 in1889, a new increase of 28 per cent.In Prussia the same phenomenon occurred on

two occasions. In 1866 the kingdom received afirst enlargement. It annexed several importantprovinces, while becoming the head of theConfederation of the North. Immediately thisgrowth in glory and power was accompanied by asudden rise in the number of suicides. There hadbeen 123 suicides per million during the period1856–60 per average year and only 122 duringthe years 1861–65. In the five years, 1866–70, inspite of the drop in 1870, the average rose to 133.The year 1867, which immediately followedvictory, was that in which suicide achieved thehighest point it had reached since 1816 (1 suicideper 5,432 inhabitants, while in 1864 there wasonly one case per 8,739).On the morrow of the war of 1870 a new

accession of good fortune took place. Germanywas unified and placed entirely under Prussianhegemony.An enormous war indemnity addedtothe public wealth; commerce and industry madegreat strides. The development of suicide wasnever so rapid. From 1875 to 1886 it increased90 per cent, from 3,278 cases to 6,212.World expositions, when successful, are

considered favorable events in the existence of asociety. They stimulate business, bring moremoney into the country and are thought toincrease public prosperity, especially in the citywhere they take place. Yet, quite possibly, theyultimately take their toll in a considerably highernumber of suicides. Especially does this seem

vSee Fornasari di Verce, La criminalita e le vicende economiche d’Italia, Turin 1894, pp. 7783.viIbid., pp. 108–117.viiIbid., pp. 86–104.viiiThe increase is less during the period 1885–90 because of a financial crisis.

1864–70 29 suicides per million 1874 37 suicides per million

1871 31 suicides per million 1875 34 suicides per million

1872 33 suicides per million 1876 36.5 suicides per million

1873 36 suicides per million 1877 40.6 suicides per million

to have been true ofthe Exposition of1878. The rise thatyear was the highestoccurring between1874 and 1886. It was8 per cent, that is, higher than the one caused bythe crash of 1882. And what almost proves theExposition to have been the cause of thisincrease is that 86 per cent of it took placeprecisely during the six months of theExposition.In 1889 things were not identical all over

France. But quite possibly the Boulanger crisisneutralized the contraryeffects of the Expos-ition by its depres-sive influence on thegrowth of suicides.Certainly at Paris, al-though the politicalfeeling aroused musthave had the sameeffect as in the rest ofthe country, thingshappened as in 1878.For the 7 months of theExposition, suicidesincreased almost 10 percent, 9.66 to be exact,while through theremainder of the yearthey were below what theyhad been in 1888 and what they afterwards were in1890.It may well be that but for the Boulanger

influence the rise would have been greater.What proves still more conclusively that

economic distress does not have the aggrava-ting influence often attributed to it, is that ittends rather to produce the opposite effect.There is very little suicide in Ireland, where thepeasantry leads so wretched a life. Poverty-stricken Calabria has almost no suicides; Spainhas a tenth as many as France. Poverty mayeven be considered a protection. In the various

French departments the more people there arewho have independent means, the more numerousare suicides. . . .If therefore industrial or financial crises

increase suicides, this is not because theycause poverty, since crises of prosperity havethe same result; it is because they are crises,that is, disturbances of the collective order.ix

Every disturbance of equilibrium, eventhough it achieves greater comfort and aheightening of general vitality, is an impulseto voluntary death. Whenever serious readjus-tments take place in the social order, whetheror not due to a sudden growth or to anunexpected catastrophe, men are moreinclined to self-destruction. How is thispossible? How can something consideredgenerally to improve existence serve todetach men from it?For the answer, some preliminary conside-

rations are required.


Departments Where Average Number ofSuicides Were Committed Persons of Independent

(1878–1887; per 100,000 Inhabitants) Means per 1,000Inhabitants in Each Group

Suicides Number of Departments of Department (1886)

From 48 to 43 5 127

From 38 to 31 6 73

From 30 to 24 6 69

From 23 to 18 15 59

From 17 to 13 18 49

From 12 to 8 26 49

From 7 to 3 10 42

ixTo prove that an increase in prosperity diminishes suicides, the attempt has been made to show that theybecome less when emigration, the escape-valve of poverty, is widely practiced (See Legoyt, pp. 257–59). Butcases are numerous where parallelism instead of inverse proportions exist between the two. In Italy from 1876to 1890 the number of emigrants rose from 76 per 100,000 inhabitants to 335, a figure itself exceeded between1887 and 1889. At the same time suicides did not cease to grow in nnumbers.

1888 1889 1890

The seven months of the Exposition 517 567 540

The five other months 319 311 356

II

No living being can be happy or even exist unlesshis needs are sufficiently proportioned to hismeans. In other words, if his needs require morethan can be granted, or even merely something ofa different sort, they will be under continual fric-tion and can only function painfully. Movementsincapable of production without pain tend not tobe reproduced. Unsatisfied tendencies atrophy,and as the impulse to live is merely the result of allthe rest, it is bound to weaken as the others relax.In the animal, at least in a normal condition,

this equilibrium is established with automaticspontaneity because the animal depends on purelymaterial conditions.All the organism needs is thatthe supplies of substance and energy constantlyemployed in the vital process should beperiodically renewed by equivalent quantities; thatreplacement be equivalent to use. When the voidcreated by existence in its own resources is filled,the animal, satisfied, asks nothing further. Itspower of reflection is not sufficiently developed toimagine other ends than those implicit in itsphysical nature. On the other hand, as the workdemanded of each organ itself depends on thegeneral state of vital energy and the needs oforganic equilibrium, use is regulated in turn byreplacement and the balance is automatic. Thelimits of one are those of the other; both arefundamental to the constitution of the existence inquestion, which cannot exceed them.This is not the case with man, because most

of his needs are not dependent on his body ornot to the same degree. Strictly speaking, wemay consider that the quantity of materialsupplies necessary to the physical maintenanceof a human life is subject to computation,though this be less exact than in the precedingcase and a wider margin left for the freecombinations of the will; for beyond theindispensable minimum which satisfies naturewhen instinctive, a more awakened reflectionsuggests better conditions, seemingly desirableends craving fulfillment. Such appetites,however, admittedly sooner or later reach a limitwhich they cannot pass. But how determine thequantity of well-being, comfort or luxurylegitimately to be craved by a human being?Nothing appears in man’s organic nor in his

psychological constitution which sets a limit tosuch tendencies. The functioning of individuallife does not require them to cease at one pointrather than at another; the proof being that theyhave constantly increased since the beginningsof history, receiving more and more completesatisfaction, yet with no weakening of averagehealth. Above all, how establish their propervariation with different conditions of life,occupations, relative importance of services,etc.? In no society are they equally satisfied inthe different stages of the social hierarchy. Yethuman nature is substantially the same amongall men, in its essential qualities. It is not humannature which can assign the variable limitsnecessary to our needs. They are thus unlimitedso far as they depend on the individual alone.Irrespective of any external regulatory force,our capacity for feeling is in itself an insatiableand bottomless abyss.But if nothing external can restrain this

capacity, it can only be a source of torment toitself. Unlimited desires are insatiable bydefinition and insatiability is rightly considered asign of morbidity. Being unlimited, theyconstantly and infinitely surpass the means attheir command; they cannot be quenched. Inextin-guishable thirst is constantly renewed torture. Ithas been claimed, indeed, that human activitynaturally aspires beyond assignable limits and setsitself unattainable goals. But how can such anundetermined state be any more reconciled withthe conditions of mental life than with thedemands of physical life? All man’s pleasure inacting, moving and exerting himself implies thesense that his efforts are not in vain and that bywalking he has advanced. However, one does notadvance when one walks toward no goal, or—which is the same thing—when his goal isinfinity. Since the distance between us and it isalways the same, whatever road we take, we mightas well have made the motions without progressfrom the spot. Even our glances behind and ourfeeling of pride at the distance covered can causeonly deceptive satisfaction, since the remainingdistance is not proportionately reduced. To pursuea goal which is by definition unattainable is tocondemn oneself to a state of perpetualunhappiness. Of course, man may hope contraryto all reason, and hope has its pleasures even when


unreasonable. It may sustain him for a time; but itcannot survive the repeated disappointments ofexperience indefinitely. What more can the futureoffer him than the past, since he can never reach atenable condition nor even approach the glimpsedideal? Thus, the more one has, the more onewants, since satisfactions received only stimulateinstead of filling needs. Shall action as such beconsidered agreeable? First, only on condition ofblindness to its uselessness. Secondly, for thispleasure to be felt and to temper and half veil theaccompanying painful unrest, such unendingmotion must at least always be easy andunhampered. If it is interfered with onlyrestlessness is left, with the lack of ease which it,itself, entails. But it would be a miracle if noinsurmountable obstacle were never encoun-tered. Our thread of life on these conditions ispretty thin, breakable at any instant.To achieve any other result, the passions first

must be limited. Only then can they beharmonized with the faculties and satisfied. Butsince the individual has no way of limiting them,this must be done by some force exterior to him.A regulative force must play the same role formoral needs which the organism plays forphysical needs. This means that the force canonly be moral. The awakening of conscienceinterrupted the state of equilibrium of theanimal’s dormant existence; only conscience,therefore, can furnish the means to re-establishit. Physical restraint would be ineffective; heartscannot be touched by physio-chemical forces.So far as the appetites are not automaticallyrestrained by physiological mechanisms, theycan be halted only by a limit that they recognizeas just. Men would never consent to restrict theirdesires if they felt justified in passing theassigned limit. But, for reasons given above,they cannot assign themselves this law ofjustice. So they must receive it from an authoritywhich they respect, to which they yieldspontaneously. Either directly and as a whole orthrough the agency of one of its organs, societyalone can play this moderating role; for it is theonly moral power superior to the individual, theauthority of which he accepts. It alone has the

power necessary to stipulate law and to set thepoint beyond which the passions must not go.Finally, it alone can estimate the reward to beprospectively offered to every class of humanfunctionary, in the name of the common interest.As a matter of fact, at every moment of history

there is a dim perception, in the moral con-sciousness of societies, of the respective value ofdifferent social services, the relative reward due toeach, and the consequent degree of comfortappropriate on the average to workers in eachoccupation. The different functions are graded inpublic opinion and a certain coefficient of well-being assigned to each, according to its place inthe hierarchy. According to accepted ideas, forexample, a certain way of living is considered theupper limit to which a workman may aspire in hisefforts to improve his existence, and there isanother limit below which he is not willinglypermitted to fall unless he has seriously bemeanedhimself. Both differ for city and country workers,for the domestic servant and the day-laborer, forthe business clerk and the official, etc. Likewisethe man of wealth is reproved if he lives the life ofa poor man, but also if he seeks the refinements ofluxury overmuch. Economists may protest invain; public feeling will always be scandalized ifan individual spends too much wealth forwholly superfluous use, and it even seems thatthis severity relaxes only in times of moraldisturbance.x A genuine regimen exists, therefore,although not always legally formulated, whichfixes with relative precision the maximum degreeof ease of living to which each social class maylegitimately aspire. However, there is nothingimmutable about such a scale. It changes with theincrease or decrease of collective revenue and thechanges occurring in the moral ideas of society.Thus what appears luxury to one period no longerdoes so to another; and the well-being which forlong periods was granted to a class only byexception and supererogation, finally appearsstrictly necessary and equitable.Under this pressure, each in his sphere

vaguely realizes the extreme limit set to hisambitions and aspires to nothing beyond. Atleast if he respects regulations and is docile to


xActually, this is a purely moral reprobation and can hardly be judicially implemented. We do not consider anyreestablishment of sumptuary laws desirable or even possible.

collective authority, that is, has a wholesomemoral constitution, he feels that it is not well toask more. Thus, an end and goal are set to thepassions. Truly, there is nothing rigid norabsolute about such determination. The eco-nomic ideal assigned each class of citizens isitself confined to certain limits, within whichthe desires have free range. But it is not infinite.This relative limitation and the moderation itinvolves, make men contented with their lotwhile stimulating them moderately to improveit; and this average contentment causes thefeeling of calm, active happiness, the pleasure inexisting and living which characterizes healthfor societies as well as for individuals. Eachperson is then at least, generally speaking, inharmony with his condition, and desires onlywhat he may legitimately hope for as the normalreward of his activity. Besides, this does notcondemn man to a sort of immobility. He mayseek to give beauty to his life; but his attemptsin this direction may fail without causing him todespair. For, loving what he has and not fixinghis desire solely on what he lacks, his wishesand hopes may fail of what he has happened toaspire to, without his being wholly destitute. Hehas the essentials. The equilibrium of hishappiness is secure because it is defined, and afew mishaps cannot disconcert him.But it would be of little use for everyone to

recognize the justice of the hierarchy offunctions established by public opinion, if hedid not also consider the distribution of thesefunctions just. The workman is not in harmonywith his social position if he is not convincedthat he has his deserts. If he feels justified inoccupying another, what he has would notsatisfy him. So it is not enough for the averagelevel of needs for each social condition to beregulated by public opinion, but another, moreprecise rule, must fix the way in which theseconditions are open to individuals. There is nosociety in which such regulation does not exist.It varies with times and places. Once it regardedbirth as the almost exclusive principle of socialclassification; today it recognizes no otherinherent inequality than hereditary fortune andmerit. But in all these various forms its object isunchanged. It is also only possible, everywhere,as a restriction upon individuals imposed bysuperior authority, that is, by collective

authority. For it can be established only byrequiring of one or another group of men,usually of all, sacrifices and concessions in thename of the public interest.Some, to be sure, have thought that this

moral pressure would become unnecessary ifmen’s economic circumstances were only nolonger determined by heredity. If inheritancewere abolished, the argument runs, if everyonebegan life with equal resources and if thecompetitive struggle were fought out on a basisof perfect equality, no one could think its resultsunjust. Each would instinctively feel that thingsare as they should be.Truly, the nearer this ideal equality were

approached, the less social restraint will benecessary. But it is only a matter of degree. Onesort of heredity will always exist, that of naturaltalent. Intelligence, taste, scientific, artistic,literary or industrial ability, courage and manualdexterity are gifts received by each of us atbirth, as the heir to wealth receives his capital oras the nobleman formerly received his title andfunction. A moral discipline will therefore stillbe required to make those less favored by natureaccept the lesser advantages which they owe tothe chance of birth. Shall it be demanded that allhave an equal share and that no advantage begiven those more useful and deserving? Butthen there would have to be a discipline farstronger to make these accept a treatmentmerely equal to that of the mediocre andincapable.But like the one first mentioned, this

discipline can be useful only if considered justby the peoples subject to it. When it ismaintained only by custom and force, peace andharmony are illusory; the spirit of unrest anddiscontent are latent; appetites superficiallyrestrained are ready to revolt. This happened inRome and Greece when the faiths underlyingthe old organization of the patricians andplebeians were shaken, and in our modernsocieties when aristocratic prejudices began tolose their old ascendancy. But this state ofupheaval is exceptional; it occurs only whensociety is passing through some abnormal crisis.In normal conditions the collective order isregarded as just by the great majority of persons.Therefore, when we say that an authority isnecessary to impose this order on individuals,



we certainly do not mean that violence is theonly means of establishing it. Since thisregulation is meant to restrain individualpassions, it must come from a power whichdominates individuals; but this power must alsobe obeyed through respect, not fear.It is not true, that human activity can be

released from all restraint. Nothing in the worldcan enjoy such a privilege. All existence being apart of the universe is relative to the remainder;its nature and method of manifestationaccordingly depend not only on itself but onother beings, who consequently restrain andregulate it. Here there are only differences ofdegree and form between the mineral realm andthe thinking person. Man’s characteristicprivilege is that the bond he accepts is notphysical but moral; that is, social. He is governednot by a material environment brutally imposedon him, but by a conscience superior to his own,the superiority of which he feels. Because thegreater, better part of his existence transcendsthe body, he escapes the body’s yoke, but issubject to that of society.But when society is disturbed by some painful

crisis or by beneficent but abrupt transitions, it ismomentarily incapable of exercising thisinfluence; thence come the sudden rises in thecurve of suicides which we have pointed outabove.In the case of economic disasters, indeed,

something like a declassification occurs whichsuddenly casts certain individuals into a lowerstate than their previous one. Then they mustreduce their requirements, restrain their needs,learn greater self-control. All the advantages ofsocial influence are lost so far as they areconcerned; their moral education has to berecommenced. But society cannot adjust theminstantaneously to this new life and teach themto practice the increased self-repression towhich they are unaccustomed. So they are notadjusted to the condition forced on them, and itsvery prospect is intolerable; hence the sufferingwhich detaches them from a reduced existenceeven before they have made trial of it.It is the same if the source of the crisis is

an abrupt growth of power and wealth. Then,truly, as the conditions of life are changed,the standard according to which needs wereregulated can no longer remain the same; for it

varies with social resources, since it largelydetermines the share of each class of producers.The scale is upset; but a new scale cannot beimmediately improvised. Time is required forthe public conscience to reclassify men andthings. So long as the social forces thus freedhave not regained equilibrium, their respectivevalues are unknown and so all regulation islacking for a time. The limits are unknownbetween the possible and the impossible, what isjust and what is unjust, legitimate claims andhopes and those which are immoderate.Consequently, there is no restraint uponaspirations. If the disturbance is profound, itaffects even the principles controlling thedistribution of men among various occupations.Since the relations between various parts ofsociety are necessarily modified, the ideasexpressing these relations must change. Someparticular class especially favored by the crisisis no longer resigned to its former lot, and, onthe other hand, the example of its greater goodfortune arouses all sorts of jealousy below andabout it. Appetites, not being controlled by apublic opinion become disoriented, no longerrecognize the limits proper to them. Besides,they are at the same time seized by a sort ofnatural erethism simply by the greater intensityof public life. With increased prosperity desiresincrease. At the very moment whentraditional rules have lost their authority, thericher prize offered these appetites stimulatesthem and makes them more exigent andimpatient of control. The state of de-regulationor anomy is thus further heightened by passionsbeing less disciplined, precisely when they needmore disciplining.But then their very demands make fulfill-

ment impossible. Overweening ambition alwaysexceeds the results obtained, great as they maybe, since there is no warning to pause here.Nothing gives satisfaction and all this agitation isuninterruptedly maintained without appease-ment. Above all, since this race for an unattain-able goal can give no other pleasure but that ofthe race itself, if it is one, once it is interruptedthe participants are left empty-handed. At thesame time the struggle grows more violent andpainful, both from being less controlled andbecause competition is greater. All classescontend among themselves because no

established classification any longer exists. Effortgrows, just when it becomes less productive.How could the desire to live not be weakenedunder such conditions?This explanation is confirmed by the

remarkable immunity of poor countries. Povertyprotects against suicide because it is a restraintin itself. No matter how one acts, desires haveto depend upon resources to some extent;actual possessions are partly the criterion ofthose aspired to. So the less one has the less heis tempted to extend the range of his needsindefinitely. Lack of power, compellingmoderation, accustoms men to it, whilenothing excites envy if no one has superfluity.Wealth, on the other hand, by the power itbestows, deceives us into believing that wedepend on ourselves only. Reducing theresistance we encounter from objects, itsuggests the possibility of unlimited successagainst them. The less limited one feels, themore intolerable all limitation appears. Notwithout reason, therefore, have so manyreligions dwelt on the advantages and moralvalue of poverty. It is actually the best schoolfor teaching self-restraint. Forcing us toconstant self-discipline, it prepares us to acceptcollective discipline with equanimity, whilewealth, exalting the individual, may alwaysarouse the spirit of rebellion which is the verysource of immorality. This, of course, is noreason why humanity should not improve itsmaterial condition. But though the moraldanger involved in every growth of prosperityis not irremediable, it should not be forgotten.

III

If anomy never appeared except, as in the aboveinstances, in intermittent spurts and acute crisis,it might cause the social suicide-rate to varyfrom time to time, but it would not be a regular,constant factor. In one sphere of social life,however—the sphere of trade and industry—itis actually in a chronic state.For a whole century, economic progress has

mainly consisted in freeing industrial relationsfrom all regulation. Until very recently, it wasthe function of a whole system of moral forcesto exert this discipline. First, the influence of

religion was felt alike by workers and masters,the poor and the rich. It consoled the formerand taught them contentment with their lot byinforming them of the providential nature ofthe social order, that the share of each classwas assigned by God himself, and by holdingout the hope for just compensation in a worldto come in return for the inequalities of thisworld. It governed the latter, recalling thatworldly interests are not man’s entire lot, thatthey must be subordinate to other and higherinterests, and that they should therefore not bepursued without rule or measure. Temporalpower, in turn, restrained the scope of economicfunctions by its supremacy over them and bythe relatively subordinate role it assigned them.Finally, within the business world proper, theoccupational groups by regulating salaries, theprice of products and production itself,indirectly fixed the average level of income onwhich needs are partially based by the veryforce of circumstances. However, we do notmean to propose this organization as a model.Clearly it would be inadequate to existingsocieties without great changes. What westress is its existence, the fact of its usefulinfluence, and that nothing today has come totake its place.Actually, religion has lost most of its power.

And government, instead of regulating economiclife, has become its tool and servant. The mostopposite schools, orthodox economists andextreme socialists, unite to reduce government tothe role of a more or less passive intermediaryamong the various social functions. The formerwish to make it simply the guardian of individualcontracts; the latter leave it the task of doing thecollective bookkeeping, that is, of recording thedemands of consumers, transmitting them toproducers, inventorying the total revenue anddistributing it according to a fixed formula. Butboth refuse it any power to subordinate othersocial organs to itself and to make them convergetoward one dominant aim. On both sides nationsare declared to have the single or chief purposeof achieving industrial prosperity; such is theimplication of the dogma of economic mater-ialism, the basis of both apparently opposedsystems. And as these theories merely expressthe state of opinion, industry, instead of beingstill regarded as a means to an end transcending


itself, has become the supreme end ofindividuals and societies alike. Thereupon theappetites thus excited have become freed of anylimiting authority. By sanctifying them, so tospeak, this apotheosis of well-being has placedthem above all human law. Their restraint seemslike a sort of sacrilege. For this reason, even thepurely utilitarian regulation of them exercised bythe industrial world itself through the medium ofoccupational groups has been unable to persist.Ultimately, this liberation of desires has beenmade worse by the very development of industryand the almost infinite extension of the market.So long as the producer could gain his profitsonly in his immediate neighborhood, therestricted amount of possible gain could notmuch overexcite ambition. Now that he mayassume to have almost the entire world as hiscustomer, how could passions accept theirformer confinement in the face of such limitlessprospects?Such is the source of the excitement

predominating in this part of society, and whichhas thence extended to the other parts. There,the state of crisis and anomy is constant and, soto speak, normal. From top to bottom of theladder, greed is aroused without knowing whereto find ultimate foothold. Nothing can calm it,since its goal is far beyond all it can attain.Reality seems valueless by comparison with thedreams of fevered imaginations; reality istherefore abandoned, but so too is possibilityabandoned when it in turn becomes reality. Athirst arises for novelties, unfamiliar pleasures,nameless sensations, all of which lose theirsavor once known. Henceforth one has nostrength to endure the least reverse. The wholefever subsides and the sterility of all the tumult isapparent, and it is seen that all these newsensations in their infinite quantity cannot forma solid foundation of happiness to support oneduring days of trial. The wise man, knowing howto enjoy achieved results without havingconstantly to replace them with others, finds inthem an attachment to life in the hour ofdifficulty. But the man who has always pinnedall his hopes on the future and lived with his eyesfixed upon it, has nothing in the past as acomfort against the present’s afflictions, for thepast was nothing to him but a series of hastilyexperienced stages. What blinded him to himself

was his expectation always to find further on thehappiness he had so far missed. Now he isstopped in his tracks; from now on nothingremains behind or ahead of him to fix his gazeupon. Weariness alone, moreover, is enough tobring disillusionment, for he cannot in the endescape the futility of an endless pursuit.We may even wonder if this moral state is not

principally what makes economic catastrophesof our day so fertile in suicides. In societieswhere a man is subjected to a healthy discipline,he submits more readily to the blows of chance.The necessary effort for sustaining a little morediscomfort costs him relatively little, since he isused to discomfort and constraint. But whenevery constraint is hateful in itself, how cancloser constraint not seem intolerable? There isno tendency to resignation in the feverishimpatience of men’s lives. When there is noother aim but to outstrip constantly the pointarrived at, how painful to be thrown back! Nowthis very lack of organization characterizing oureconomic condition throws the door wide toevery sort of adventure. Since imagination ishungry for novelty, and ungoverned, it gropes atrandom. Setbacks necessarily increase withrisks and thus crises multiply, just when they arebecoming more destructive.Yet these dispositions are so inbred that

society has grown to accept them and isaccustomed to think them normal. It iseverlastingly repeated that it is man’s nature tobe eternally dissatisfied, constantly to advance,without relief or rest, toward an indefinite goal.The longing for infinity is daily represented asa mark of moral distinction, whereas it canonly appear within unregulated conscienceswhich elevate to a rule the lack of rule fromwhich they suffer. The doctrine of the mostruthless and swift progress has become anarticle of faith. But other theories appearparallel with those praising the advantages ofinstability, which, generalizing the situationthat gives them birth, declare life evil, claimthat it is richer in grief than in pleasure and thatit attracts men only by false claims. Since thisdisorder is greatest in the economic world, ithas most victims there.Industrial and commercial functions are

really among the occupations which furnish thegreatest number of suicides (see Table XXIV).


Almost on a level with the liberal professions,they sometimes surpass them; they areespecially more afflicted than agriculture,where the old regulative forces still maketheir appearance felt most and where the feverof business has least penetrated. Here is bestcalled what was once the general constitutionof the economic order. And the divergencewould be yet greater if, among the suicides ofindustry, employers were distinguished fromworkmen, for the former are probably moststricken by the state of anomy. The enormousrate of those with independent means (720 permillion) sufficiently shows that the possessorsof most comfort suffer most. Everything thatenforces subordination attenuates the effectsof this state. At least the horizon of the lowerclasses is limited by those above them, and forthis same reason their desires are moremodest. Those who have only empty spaceabove them are almost inevitably lost in it, ifno force restrains them.Anomy, therefore, is a regular and specific

factor in suicide in our modern societies; oneof the springs from which the annualcontingent feeds. So we have here a new type

to distinguish from the others. It differs fromthem in its dependence, not on the way inwhich individuals are attached to society, buton how it regulates them. Egoistic suicideresults from man’s no longer finding a basis forexistence in life; altruistic suicide, because thisbasis for existence appears to man situatedbeyond life itself. The third sort of suicide, theexistence of which has just been shown, resultsfrom man’s activity’s lacking regulation and hisconsequent sufferings. By virtue of its originwe shall assign this last variety the name ofanomic suicide.Certainly, this and egoistic suicide have

kindred ties. Both spring from society’sinsufficient presence in individuals. But thesphere of its absence is not the same in bothcases. In egoistic suicide it is deficient in trulycollective activity, thus depriving the latter ofobject and meaning. In anomic suicide,society’s influence is lacking in the basicallyindividual passions, thus leaving them withouta check-rein. In spite of their relationship,therefore, the two types are independent of eachother. We may offer society everything social inus, and still be unable to control our desires;

Liberal*Trade Transportation Industry Agriculture Professions

France (1878–87)† 440 — 340 240 300

Switzerland (1876) 664 1,514 577 304 558

Italy (1866–76) 277 152.6 80.4 26.7 618‡

Prussia (1883–90) 754 — 456 315 832

Bavaria (1884–91) 465 — 369 153 454

Belgium (1886–90) 421 — 160 160 100

Wurttemberg (1873–78) 273 — 190 206 —

Saxony (1878) 341.59§ 71.17 —

Table XXIV Suicides per Million Persons of Different Occupations

* When statistics distinguish several different sorts of liberal occupation, we show as a specimen the one in which thesuicide-rate is highest.

† From 1826 to 1880 economic functions seem less affected (see Compte-rendu of 1880); but were occupational statistics veryaccurate?

‡ This figure is reached only by men of letters.§ Figure represents Trade, Transportation, and Industry combined for Saxony. Ed.


one may live in an anomic state without beingegoistic, and vice versa. These two sorts ofsuicide therefore do not draw their chiefrecruits from the same social environments;one has its principal field among intellectualcareers, the world of thought—the other, theindustrial or commercial world.

IV

But economic anomy is not the only anomywhich may give rise to suicide.The suicides occurring at the crisis of

widowhood, of which we have already spokenxi

are really due to domestic anomy resulting fromthe death of husband or wife. A family cata-strophe occurs which affects the survivor. He isnot adapted to the new situation in which hefinds himself and accordingly offers lessresistance to suicide.But another variety of anomic suicide should

draw greater attention, both because it is morechronic and because it will serve to illustrate thenature and functions of marriage.In the Annales de demographie internationale

(September 1882), Bertillon published aremarkable study of divorce, in which he provedthe following proposition: throughout Europe thenumber of suicides varies with that of divorcesand separations [Table XXV illustrates suchvariations]. . . .

INDIVIDUAL FORMS OFTHE DIFFERENT TYPES OF SUICIDE

One result now stands out prominently from ourinvestigation: namely, that there are not one butvarious forms of suicide. Of course, suicide isalways the act of a man who prefers death to life.But the causes determining him are not of thesame sort in all cases: they are even sometimesmutually opposed. Now, such difference in causesmust reappear in their effects. We may thereforebe sure that there are several sorts of suicidewhich are distinct in quality from one another. Butthe certainty that these differences exist is notenough; we need to observe them directly andknow of what they consist. We need to see the

characteristics of special suicides grouped in dis-tinct classes corresponding to the types just dis-tinguished. Thus we would follow the variouscurrents which generate suicide from their socialorigins to their individual manifestations.This morphological classification, which was

hardly possible at the commencement of thisstudy, may be undertaken now that an aetiologicalclassification forms its basis. Indeed, we onlyneed to start with the three kinds of factors whichwe have just assigned to suicide and discoverwhether the distinctive properties it assumes inmanifesting itself among individual persons maybe derived from them, and if so, how. Of course,not all the peculiarities which suicide may presentcan be deduced in this fashion; for somemay existwhich depend solely on the person’s own nature.Each victim of suicide gives his act a personalstamp which expresses his temperament, thespecial conditions in which he is involved, andwhich, consequently, cannot be explained by thesocial and general causes of the phenomenon. Butthese causes in turn must stamp the suicides theydetermine with a shade all their own, a specialmark expressive of them. This collective mark wemust find.To be sure, this can be done only approx-

imately. We are not in a position to describemethodically all the suicides daily committed bymen or committed in the course of history. Wecan only emphasize the most general and strikingcharacteristics without even having an objectivecriterion for making the selection. Moreover, wecan only proceed deductively in relating them tothe respective causes from which they seem tospring. All that we can do is to show their logicalimplication, though the reasoning may not alwaysbe able to receive experimental confirmation. Wedo not forget that a deduction uncontrolled byexperiment is always questionable. Yet thisresearch is far from being useless, even withthese reservations. Even though it may beconsidered only a method of illustrating thepreceding results by examples, it would still havethe worth of giving them a more concretecharacter by connecting them more closely withthe data of sense-perception and with the details ofdaily experience. It will also introduce some littledistinctiveness into this mass of facts usuallylumped together as though varying only by


xiSee above, Book II, Ch. 3.

shades, though there are striking differencesamong them. Suicide is like mental alienation.For the popular mind the latter consists in a singlestate, always identical, capable only of superficialdifferentiation according to circumstances. Forthe alienist, on the contrary, the word denotes

many nosological types. Every suicide is,likewise, ordinarily considered a victim ofmelancholy whose life has become a burden tohim.Actually, the acts by which a man renounceslife belong to different species, of whollydifferent moral and social significance.

SuicidesAnnual Divorces per Million

per 1,000 Marriages Inhabitants

I. Countries Where Divorce and Separation Are Rare

Norway 0.54 (1875–80) 73Russia 1.6 (1871–77) 30England and Wales 1.3 (1871–79) 68Scotland 2.1 (1871–81) —Italy 3.05 (1871–73) 31Finland 3.9 (1875–79) 30.8

Averages 2.07 46.5

II. Countries Where Divorce and Separation Are of Average Frequency

Bavaria 5.0 (1881) 90.5Belgium 5.1 (1871–80) 68.5Holland 6.0 (1871–80) 35.5Sweden 6.4 (1871–80) 81Baden 6.5 (1874–79) 156.6France 7.5 (1871–79) 150Wurttemberg 8.4 (1876–78) 162.4Prussia — 133

Averages 6.4 109.6

III. Countries Where Divorce and Separation Are Frequent

Kingdom of Saxony 26.9 (1876–80) 299Denmark 38 (1871–80) 258Switzerland 47 (1876–80) 216

Averages 37.3 257

Table XXV Comparison of European States from the Point of View of Both Divorce and Suicide

Introduction to The Elementary Forms of Religious Life

In his final and most theoretically acclaimed book, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life(1912), Durkheim sought to explain the way the moral realm worked by focusing on reli-gion. Durkheim saw religious ceremonies not merely as a celebration of supernaturaldeities, but as a worshipping of social life itself, such that as long as there are societies, therewill be religion (Robertson 1970:13).In other words, for Durkheim, social life—whether in traditional or modern society—is

inherently religious, for “religious force is nothing other than the collective and anonymousforce” of society (Durkheim 1912/1995:210). The worship of transcendent gods or spirits

�


and the respect and awe accorded to their power is in actuality the worship of the socialgroup and the force it exerts over the individual. No matter how “simple” or “complex” thesociety, religion is thus a “system of ideas with which the individuals represent to them-selves the society of which they are members, and the obscure but intimate relations whichthey have with it . . . for it is an eternal truth that outside of us there exists something greaterthan us, with which we enter into communion” (ibid.:257). For Durkheim, this outsidepower, this “something greater” is society.In saying that social life is inherently religious, Durkheim defined religion in a very

broad way. For Durkheim, “religion” does not mean solely “churchly” or institutional things;rather, religion is a system of symbols and rituals about the sacred that is practiced by a com-munity of believers. This definition of religion is often called “functionalist” rather than“substantive” because it emphasizes not the substantive content of religion, such as partic-ular rituals or doctrines (e.g., baptisms or bar mitzvahs, or belief in an afterlife, higherbeings, etc.), but the social function of religion.For Durkheim, the primary function of religion is to encode the system of relations of the

group (Eliade and Couliano 1991:2). It focuses and reaffirms the collective sentiments andideas that hold the group together. Religious practices, accordingly, serve to bind partici-pants together in celebration of the society (Robertson 1970:15). As Durkheim(1912/1995:429) states,

[t]here can be no society which does not feel the need of upholding and reaffirmingat regular intervals the collective sentiments and the collective ideas which makes itsunity and its personality. Now this moral remaking cannot be achieved except by themeans of reunions, assemblies and meetings where the individuals, being closelyunited to one another, reaffirm in common their common sentiments.

This communal function of religion is carried out through the dual processes of ritual-ization and symbolization. A ritual is a highly routinized act such as taking communion. Asthe name reveals, the Christian ritual of communion not only commemorates a historicalevent in the life of Jesus, but also represents participation in the unity (“communion”) ofbelievers (McGuire 1997:187). Most interestingly, because they are practices (not beliefs orvalues), rituals can unite a social group regardless of individual differences in beliefs orstrength of convictions. It is the common experience and focus that binds the participantstogether (see Photos 3.3a and 3.3b).Because the central issue for Durkheim is communal practice and experience (rather than

symbolic content), Durkheim sees no essential difference between “religious” and “secular”ritual acts. “Let us pray” (an opening moment in a religious service) and “Let us stand forthe national anthem” (an opening moment of a baseball game) are both ritual acts that bondthe individual to a community. In exactly the same way, Durkheim suggested that there is noessential difference between religious holidays, such as Passover or Christmas, and secularholidays, such as Independence Day or Thanksgiving. Both are collective celebrations ofidentity and community (see Edles 2002:27–30). Individuals know they are moved; they justdon’t understand the real causes for their feelings. Religious ritual moments are ones inwhich the moral authority of the group is perceived as (or chalked up to) a spiritual force.As noted above, in addition to ritual practices, there is another important means through

which the communal function of religion is achieved: symbolization. A symbol is some-thing that stands for something else. It is a representation that calls up collective ideas andmeanings. Thus, for instance, a “cross” is a marker that symbolizes Christian spirituality ortradition. Wearing a cross on a necklace often means that one is a Christian. It identifies thewearer as a member of a specific religious community or specific shared ideas (e.g., a reli-gious tradition in which Jesus Christ is understood as the son of God). Most importantly,symbols such as the cross are capable of calling up and reaffirming shared meaning and the


Photo 3.3a Congregation Taking Communion at a Catholic Church

Photo 3.3b Fans at Sporting Event Doing “the Wave”

Both church goers and sports fans engage in communal ritual acts. As Durkheim (1912/1995:262) states,“It is by uttering the same cry, pronouncing the same word, or performing the same gesture in regard tosome object that they become and feel themselves to be in unison.”

feeling of community in between periodic ritual acts (such as religious celebrations andweekly church services). As Durkheim (1912/1995:232) states, “Without symbols, socialsentiments could have only a precarious existence.”In The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1912), Durkheim explains that symbols are

classified as fundamentally sacred or profane. The sacred refers to the extraordinary, that


which is set apart from and “above and beyond” the everyday world. In direct contrast to thesacred realm, is the realm of the everyday world of the mundane or routine, or the profane.Most importantly, objects are intrinsically neither sacred nor profane; rather, their meaning orclassification is continually produced and reproduced (or altered) in collective processes of rit-ualization and symbolization. Thus, for instance, lighting a candle can either be a relativelymundane task to provide light or it can be a sacred act, as in the case of the Jewish ritual oflighting a candle to commemorate the Sabbath (McGuire 1997:17). In the latter context, thisact denotes a sacred moment as well as a celebration. This points to the central function of thedistinction between the sacred and the profane. It imposes an orderly system on the inherentlyuntidy experience of living (Gamson 1998:141). Thus, for instance, ritual practices (e.g.,standing for the national anthem or lighting a candle to commemorate the Sabbath) transforma profane moment into a sacred moment, while sacred sites (churches, mosques, synagogues)differentiate “routine” places from those that compel attitudes of awe and inspiration. Thesymbolic plasticity of time and space is especially apparent in the way devout Muslims (whooften must pray in everyday, mundane settings in order to fulfill their religious duties) carryout the frequent prayers required by their religion. They lay down a (sacred) prayer carpet intheir office or living room, thereby enabling them to convert a profane time and space into asacred time and space. This temporal and spatial reordering transforms the profane realm ofwork or home into a spiritual, sacred domain. Such acts, and countless others, help order andorganize our experience of the world by carving it into that which is extraordinary or sacredand that which is unremarkable or profane.

From The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1912)

Émile Durkheim

PRELIMINARY QUESTIONS

Religious phenomena are naturally arranged in twofundamental categories: beliefs and rites. The firstare states of opinion, and consist in representations;the second are determined modes of action.Between these two classes of facts, there is all thedifference that separates thought from action.The rites can be defined and distinguished

from other human practices, moral practices, forexample, only by the special nature of theirobject. A moral rule prescribes certain mannersof acting to us, just as a rite does, but which areaddressed to a different class of objects. So it isthe object of the rite that must be characterized,if we are to characterize the rite itself. Now it isin the beliefs that the special nature of thisobject is expressed. It is possible to define therite only after we have defined the belief.All known religious beliefs, whether simple or

complex, present one common characteristic: they

presuppose a classification of all the things, realand ideal, of which men think, into two classes oropposed groups, generally designated by two dis-tinct terms which are translated well enough by thewords profane and sacred (profane, sacré). Thisdivision of the world into two domains, the onecontaining all that is sacred, the other all that is pro-fane, is the distinctive trait of religious thought; thebeliefs, myths, dogmas and legends are either rep-resentations or systems of representations whichexpress the nature of sacred things, the virtues andpowers which are attributed to them, or their rela-tions with each other and with profane things, Butby sacred things one must not understand simplythose personal beings which are called gods orspirits; a rock, a tree, a spring, a pebble, a piece ofwood, a house, in a word, anything can be sacred.A rite can have this character; in fact, the rite doesnot exist which does not have it to a certain degree.There are words, expressions and formulaewhich can be pronounced only by the mouths of

SOURCE: Reprinted from The Elementary Forms of Religious Life by Émile Durkheim, translated from theFrench by Joseph Ward Swain. (2008). Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, Inc.


consecrated persons; there are gestures and move-ments which everybody cannot perform. If theVedic sacrifice has had such an efficacy that,according to mythology, it was the creator of thegods, and not merely a means of winning theirfavour, it is because it possessed a virtue compara-ble to that of the most sacred beings. The circle ofsacred objects cannot be determined, then, once forall. Its extent varies infinitely, according to the dif-ferent religions. That is how Buddhism is a reli-gion: in default of gods, it admits the existence ofsacred things, namely, the four noble truths and thepractices derived from them.i

Up to the present we have confined ourselvesto enumerating a certain number of sacredthings as examples: we must now show by whatgeneral characteristics they are to be distin-guished from profane things.One might be tempted, first of all, to define

them by the place they are generally assigned inthe hierarchy of things. They are naturally con-sidered superior in dignity and power to profanethings, and particularly to man, when he is onlya man and has nothing sacred about him. Onethinks of himself as occupying an inferior anddependent position in relation to them; andsurely this conception is not without some truth.Only there is nothing in it which is really char-acteristic of the sacred. It is not enough that onething be subordinated to another for the secondto be sacred in regard to the first. Slaves areinferior to their masters, subjects to their king,soldiers to their leaders, the miser to his gold,the man ambitious for power to the hands whichkeep it from him; but if it is sometimes said of aman that he makes a religion of those beings orthings whose eminent value and superiority tohimself he thus recognizes, it is clear that in anycase the word is taken in a metaphorical sense,and that there is nothing in these relations whichis really religious.ii

On the other hand, it must not be lost toview that there are sacred things of everydegree, and that there are some in relation towhich a man feels himself relatively at hisease. An amulet has a sacred character, yet therespect which it inspires is nothing exceptional.Even before his gods, a man is not always in

such a marked state of inferiority; for it veryfrequently happens that he exercises a veritablephysical constraint upon them to obtain whathe desires. He beats the fetish with which he isnot contented, but only to reconcile himselfwith it again, if in the end it shows itself moredocile to the wishes of its adorer. . . . To haverain, he throws stones into the spring or sacredlake where the god of rain is thought to reside;he believes that by this means he forces him tocome out and show himself. . . . Moreover, if itis true that man depends upon his gods, thisdependence is reciprocal. The gods also haveneed of man; without offerings and sacrificesthey would die. We shall even have occasion toshow that this dependence of the gods upontheir worshippers is maintained even in themost idealistic religions.But if a purely hierarchic distinction is a cri-

terium at once too general and too imprecise,there is nothing left with which to characterizethe sacred in its relation to the profane excepttheir heterogeneity. However, this heterogeneityis sufficient to characterize this classification ofthings and to distinguish it from all others,because it is very particular: it is absolute. Inall the history of human thought there existsno other example of two categories of thingsso profoundly differentiated or so radicallyopposed to one another. The traditional opposi-tion of good and bad is nothing beside this; forthe good and the bad are only two opposedspecies of the same class, namely morals, just assickness and health are two different aspects ofthe same order of facts, life, while the sacredand the profane have always and everywherebeen conceived by the human mind as two dis-tinct classes, as two worlds between which thereis nothing in common. The forces which play inone are not simply those which are met with inthe other, but a little stronger; they are of a dif-ferent sort. In different religions, this oppositionhas been conceived in different ways. Here, toseparate these two sorts of things, it has seemedsufficient to localize them in different parts ofthe physical universe; there, the first have beenput into an ideal and transcendental world, whilethe material world is left in full possession of

iNot to mention the sage and the saint who practice these truths and who for that reason are sacred.iiThis is not saying that these relations cannot take a religious character. But they do not do so necessarily.


the others. But howsoever much the forms of thecontrast may vary,iii the fact of the contrast isuniversal.This is not equivalent to saying that a being

can never pass from one of these worlds into theother: but the manner in which this passage iseffected when it does take place, puts into reliefthe essential duality of the two kingdoms. Infact, it implies a veritable metamorphosis. Thisis notably demonstrated by the initiation rites,such as they are practiced by a multitude ofpeoples. This initiation is a long series of cere-monies with the object of introducing the youngman into the religious life: for the first time, heleaves the purely profane world where he passedhis first infancy, and enters into the world ofsacred things. Now this change of state isthought of, not as a simple and regular develop-ment of pre-existent germs, but as a transforma-tion totius substantiae—of the whole being. It issaid that at this moment the young man dies,that the person that he was ceases to exist, andthat another is instantly substituted for it. He isre-born under a new form. Appropriate cere-monies are felt to bring about this death and re-birth, which are not understood in a merelysymbolic sense, but are taken literally. . . . Doesthis not prove that between the profane beingwhich he was and the religious being which hebecomes, there is a break of continuity?This heterogeneity is even so complete that it

frequently degenerates into a veritable antago-nism. The two worlds are not only conceived ofas separate, but as even hostile and jealous rivalsof each other. Since men cannot fully belong toone except on condition of leaving the othercompletely, they are exhorted to withdraw them-selves completely from the profane world, inorder to lead an exclusively religious life. Hencecomes the monasticism which is artificiallyorganized outside of and apart from the naturalenvironment in which the ordinary man leadsthe life of this world, in a different one, closed tothe first, and nearly its contrary. Hence comesthe mystic asceticism whose object is to root outfrom man all the attachment for the profane

world that remains in him. From that come allthe forms of religious suicide, the logical work-ing-out of this asceticism; for the only mannerof fully escaping the profane life is, after all, toforsake all life.The opposition of these two classes mani-

fests itself outwardly with a visible sign bywhich we can easily recognize this very specialclassification, wherever it exists. Since the ideaof the sacred is always and everywhere sepa-rated from the idea of the profane in the thoughtof men, and since we picture a sort of logicalchasm between the two, the mind irresistiblyrefuses to allow the two corresponding things tobe confounded, or even to be merely put in con-tact with each other; for such a promiscuity, oreven too direct a contiguity, would contradicttoo violently the dissociation of these ideas inthe mind. The sacred thing is par excellence thatwhich the profane should not touch, and cannottouch with impunity. . . .Thus we arrive at the first criterium of reli-

gious beliefs. Undoubtedly there are secondaryspecies within these two fundamental classeswhich, in their turn, are more or less incompara-ble with each other. . . . But the real characteris-tic of religious phenomena is that they alwayssuppose a bipartite division of the whole uni-verse, known and knowable, into two classeswhich embrace all that exists, but which radi-cally exclude each other. Sacred things are thosewhich the interdictions protect and isolate; pro-fane things, those to which these interdictionsare applied and which must remain at a distancefrom the first. Religious beliefs are the repre-sentations which express the nature of sacredthings and the relations which they sustain,either with each other or with profane things.Finally, rites are the rules of conduct which pre-scribe how a man should comport himself in thepresence of these sacred objects.When a certain number of sacred things sus-

tain relations of co-ordination or subordinationwith each other in such a way as to form asystem having a certain unity, but which is notcomprised within any other system of the same

iiiThe conception according to which the profane is opposed to the sacred, just as the irrational is to the rational,or the intelligible is to the mysterious, is only one of the forms under which this opposition is expressed. Sciencebeing once constituted, it has taken a profane character, especially in the eyes of the Christian religions; fromthat it appears as though it could not be applied to sacred things.


sort, the totality of these beliefs and their corre-sponding rites constitutes a religion. From thisdefinition it is seen that a religion is not neces-sarily contained within one sole and single idea,and does not proceed from one unique principlewhich, though varying according to the circum-stances under which it is applied, is neverthelessat bottom always the same: it is rather a wholemade up of distinct and relatively individualizedparts. Each homogeneous group of sacredthings, or even each sacred thing of some impor-tance, constitutes a centre of organization aboutwhich gravitate a group of beliefs and rites, or aparticular cult; there is no religion, howsoeverunified it may be, which does not recognize aplurality of sacred things. . . .However, this definition is not yet complete,

for it is equally applicable to two sorts of factswhich, while being related to each other, mustbe distinguished nevertheless: these are magicand religion.Magic, too, is made up of beliefs and rites.

Like religion, it has its myths and its dogmas;only they are more elementary, undoubtedlybecause, seeking technical and utilitarian ends,it does not waste its time in pure speculation. Ithas its ceremonies, sacrifices, lustrations,prayers, chants and dances as well. The beingswhich the magician invokes and the forceswhich he throws in play are not merely of thesame nature as the forces and beings to whichreligion addresses itself; very frequently, theyare identically the same. Thus, even with themost inferior societies, the souls of the dead areessentially sacred things, and the object of reli-gious rites. But at the same time, they play aconsiderable role in magic. . . .Then will it be necessary to say that magic is

hardly distinguishable from religion; that magicis full of religion just as religion is full of magic,and consequently that it is impossible to sepa-rate them and to define the one without theother? It is difficult to sustain this thesis,because of the marked repugnance of religionfor magic, and in return, the hostility of thesecond towards the first. Magic takes a sortof professional pleasure in profaning holythings. . . . On its side, religion, when it hasnot condemned and prohibited magic rites,has always looked upon them with disfa-vor. . . . Whatever relations there may be

between these two sorts of institutions, it is dif-ficult to imagine their not being opposed some-where; and it is still more necessary for us tofind where they are differentiated, as we plan tolimit our researches to religion, and to stop atthe point where magic commences.Here is how a line of demarcation can be

traced between these two domains.The really religious beliefs are always com-

mon to a determined group, which makes pro-fession of adhering to them and of practicing therites connected with them. They are not merelyreceived individually by all the members of thisgroup; they are something belonging to thegroup, and they make its unity. The individualswhich compose it feel themselves united to eachother by the simple fact that they have a com-mon faith. A society whose members are unitedby the fact that they think in the same way inregard to the sacred world and its relations withthe profane world, and by the fact that theytranslate these common ideas into commonpractices, is what is called a Church. In all his-tory, we do not find a single religion without aChurch. Sometimes the Church is strictlynational, sometimes it passes the frontiers;sometimes it embraces an entire people (Rome,Athens, the Hebrews), sometimes it embracesonly a part of them (the Christian societies sincethe advent of Protestantism); sometimes it isdirected by a corps of priests, sometimes it isalmost completely devoid of any official direct-ing body. But wherever we observe the religiouslife, we find that it has a definite group as itsfoundation. . . .It is quite another matter with magic. To be

sure, the belief in magic is always more or lessgeneral; it is very frequently diffused in largemasses of the population, and there are evenpeoples where it has as many adherents as thereal religion. But it does not result in bindingtogether those who adhere to it, nor in unitingthem into a group leading a common life.There is no Church of magic. Between themagician and the individuals who consult him,as between these individuals themselves, thereare no lasting bonds which make themmembers of the same moral community, com-parable to that formed by the believers in thesame god or the observers of the same cult. Themagician has a clientele and not a Church, and


it is very possible that his clients have no otherrelations between each other, or even do notknow each other; even the relations which theyhave with him are generally accidental andtransient; they are just like those of a sick manwith his physician. The official and publiccharacter with which he is sometimes investedchanges nothing in this situation; the fact thathe works openly does not unite him more reg-ularly or more durably to those who haverecourse to his services.It is true that in certain cases, magicians form

societies among themselves: it happens that theyassemble more or less periodically to celebratecertain rites in common; it is well known what aplace these assemblies of witches hold inEuropean folk-lore. But it is to be remarked thatthese associations are in no way indispensable tothe working of the magic; they are even rare andrather exceptional. The magician has no need ofuniting himself to his fellows to practice his art.More frequently, he is a recluse; in general, farfrom seeking society, he flees it. . . .Religion, on the other hand, is inseparable

from the idea of a Church. From this point ofview, there is an essential difference betweenmagic and religion. But what is especiallyimportant is that when these societies of magicare formed, they do not include all the adherentsto magic, but only the magicians; the laymen, ifthey may be so called, that is to say, those forwhose profit the rites are celebrated, in finethose who represent the worshippers in the reg-ular cults, are excluded. Now the magician is formagic what the priest is for religion, but a col-lege of priests is not a Church, any more than areligious congregation which should devoteitself to some particular saint in the shadow of acloister, would be a particular cult. A Church isnot a fraternity of priests; it is a moral commu-nity formed by all the believers in a single faith,laymen as well as priests. But magic lacks anysuch community. . . .But if the idea of a Church is made to enter

into the definition of religion, does that notexclude the private religions which the individ-ual establishes for himself and celebrates byhimself? There is scarcely a society where theseare not found. Every Ojibway . . . has his ownpersonal manitou, which he chooses himself andto which he renders special religious services;

the Melanesian of the Banks Islands has histamaniu . . . the Christian, his patron saint andguardian angel, etc. By definition all these cultsseem to be independent of all idea of thegroup. Not only are these individual religionsvery frequent in history, but nowadays manyare asking if they are not destined to be the pre-eminent form of the religious life, and if the daywill not come when there will be no other cultthan that which each man will freely performwithin himself. . . .But if we leave these speculations in regard

to the future aside for the moment, and confineourselves to religions such as they are at presentor have been in the past, it becomes clearly evi-dent that these individual cults are not distinctand autonomous religious systems, but merelyaspects of the common religion of the wholeChurch, of which the individuals are members.The patron saint of the Christian is chosen fromthe official list of saints recognized by theCatholic Church; there are even canonical rulesprescribing how each Catholic should performthis private cult. In the same way, the idea thateach man necessarily has a protecting genius isfound, under different forms, at the basis of agreat number of American religions, as well asof the Roman religion (to cite only these twoexamples); for, as will be seen later, it is veryclosely connected with the idea of the soul, andthis idea of the soul is not one of those whichcan be left entirely to individual choice. In aword, it is the Church of which he is a memberwhich teaches the individual what these per-sonal gods are, what their function is, how heshould enter into relations with them and howhe should honour them. When a methodicalanalysis is made of the doctrines of any Churchwhatsoever, sooner or later we come upon thoseconcerning private cults. So these are not tworeligions of different types, and turned in oppo-site directions; both are made up of the sameideas and the same principles, here applied tocircumstances which are of interest to the groupas a whole, there to the life of the individual. . . .There still remain those contemporary aspi-

rations towards a religion which would consistentirely in internal and subjective states, andwhich would be constructed freely by each ofus. But howsoever real these aspirations may be,they cannot affect our definition, for this is to be


applied only to facts already realized, and not touncertain possibilities. One can define religionssuch as they are, or such as they have been, butnot such as they more or less vaguely tend tobecome. It is possible that this religious individ-ualism is destined to be realized in facts; butbefore we can say just how far this may be thecase, we must first know what religion is, ofwhat elements it is made up, from what causes itresults, and what function it fulfils—all ques-tions whose solution cannot be foreseen beforethe threshold of our study has been passed. It isonly at the close of this study that we canattempt to anticipate the future.

Thus we arrive at the following definition: Areligion is a unified system of beliefs and prac-tices relative to sacred things, that is to say,things set apart and forbidden—beliefs andpractices which unite into one single moralcommunity called a Church, all those whoadhere to them. The second element which thusfinds a place in our definition is no less essen-tial than the first; for by showing that the idea ofreligion is inseparable from that of the Church,it makes it clear that religion should be an emi-nently collective thing. . . .

ORIGINS OF THESE BELIEFS

It is obviously not out of the sensations which thethings serving as totems are able to arouse in themind; we have shown that these things are fre-quently insignificant. The lizard, the caterpillar,the rat, the ant, the frog, the turkey, the bream-fish, the plum-tree, the cockatoo, etc., to citeonly those names which appear frequently in thelists of Australian totems, are not of a nature toproduce upon men these great and strongimpressions which in a way resemble religiousemotions and which impress a sacred characterupon the objects they create. It is true that this isnot the case with the stars and the great atmo-spheric phenomena, which have, on the contrary,all that is necessary to strike the imaginationforcibly; but as a matter of fact, these serve onlyvery exceptionally as totems. It is even probablethat they were very slow in taking this office. Soit is not the intrinsic nature of the thing whosename the clan bears that marked it out to becomethe object of a cult. Also, if the sentiments which

it inspired were really the determining cause ofthe totemic rites and beliefs, it would be the pre-eminently sacred thing; the animals or plantsemployed as totems would play an eminent partin the religious life. But we know that the centreof the cult is actually elsewhere. It is the figura-tive representations of this plant or animal andthe totemic emblems and symbols of every sort,which have the greatest sanctity; so it is in themthat is found the source of that religious nature, ofwhich the real objects represented by theseemblems receive only a reflection.

Thus the totem is before all a symbol, amaterial expression of something else. But ofwhat?

From the analysis to which we have beengiving our attention, it is evident that itexpresses and symbolizes two different sorts ofthings. In the first place, it is the outward andvisible form of what we have called the totemicprinciple or god. But it is also the symbol of thedetermined society called the clan. It is its flag;it is the sign by which each clan distinguishesitself from the others, the visible mark of itspersonality, a mark borne by everything whichis a part of the clan under any title whatsoever,men, beasts or things. So if it is at once thesymbol of the god and of the society, is that notbecause the god and the society are only one?How could the emblem of the group have beenable to become the figure of this quasi-divinity,if the group and the divinity were two distinctrealities? The god of the clan, the totemicprinciple, can therefore be nothing else than theclan itself, personified and represented to theimagination under the visible form of the animalor vegetable which serves as totem.

But how has this apotheosis been possible, andhow did it happen to take place in this fashion?

II

In a general way, it is unquestionable that asociety has all that is necessary to arouse thesensation of the divine in minds, merely by thepower that it has over them; for to its membersit is what a god is to his worshippers. In fact, agod is, first of all, a being whom men think ofas superior to themselves, and upon whom theyfeel that they depend. Whether it be a conscious


personality, such as Zeus or Jahveh, or merelyabstract forces such as those in play intotemism, the worshipper, in the one case as inthe other, believes himself held to certainmanners of acting which are imposed upon himby the nature of the sacred principle with whichhe feels that he is in communion. Now societyalso gives us the sensation of a perpetualdependence. Since it has a nature which ispeculiar to itself and different from ourindividual nature, it pursues ends which arelikewise special to it; but, as it cannot attainthem except through our intermediacy, itimperiously demands our aid. It requires that,forgetful of our own interest, we make ourselvesits servitors, and it submits us to every sort ofinconvenience, privation and sacrifice, withoutwhich social life would be impossible. It isbecause of this that at every instant we areobliged to submit ourselves to rules of conductand of thought which we have neither made nordesired, and which are sometimes even contraryto our most fundamental inclinations andinstincts.Even if society were unable to obtain these

concessions and sacrifices from us except by amaterial constraint, it might awaken in us onlythe idea of a physical force to which we mustgive way of necessity, instead of that of a moralpower such as religious adore. But as a matter offact, the empire which it holds over consciencesis due much less to the physical supremacy ofwhich it has the privilege than to the moralauthority with which it is invested. If we yield toits orders, it is not merely because it is strongenough to triumph over our resistance; it isprimarily because it is the object of a venerablerespect.We say that an object, whether individual

or collective, inspires respect when therepresentation expressing it in the mind is giftedwith such a force that it automatically causes orinhibits actions, without regard for anyconsideration relative to their useful or injuriouseffects.When we obey somebody because of themoral authority which we recognize in him, wefollow out his opinions, not because they seemwise, but because a certain sort of physical

energy is imminent in the idea that we form ofthis person, which conquers our will and inclinesit in the indicated direction. Respect is theemotion which we experience when we feel thisinterior and wholly spiritual pressure operatingupon us. Then we are not determined by theadvantages or inconveniences of the attitudewhich is prescribed or recommended to us; it isby the way in which we represent to ourselvesthe person recommending or prescribing it. Thisis why commands generally take a short, per-emptory form leaving no place for hesitation; itis because, in so far as it is a command and goesby its own force, it excludes all idea ofdeliberation or calculation; it gets its efficacyfrom the intensity of the mental state in which itis placed. It is this intensity which creates whatis called a moral ascendancy.Now the ways of action to which society is

strongly enough attached to impose them uponits members, are, by that very fact, marked witha distinctive sign provocative of respect. Sincethey are elaborated in common, the vigour withwhich they have been thought of by eachparticular mind is retained in all the other minds,and reciprocally. The representations whichexpress them within each of us have an intensitywhich no purely private states of consciousnesscould ever attain; for they have the strength ofthe innumerable individual representationswhich have served to form each of them. It issociety who speaks through the mouths of thosewho affirm them in our presence; it is societywhom we hear in hearing them; and the voice ofall has an accent which that of one alone couldnever have.iv The very violence with whichsociety reacts, by way of blame or materialsuppression, against every attempted dissidence,contributes to strengthening its empire bymanifesting the common conviction through thisburst of ardour.v In a word, when something isthe object of such a state of opinion, therepresentation which each individual has of itgains a power of action from its origins and theconditions in which it was born, which eventhose feel who do not submit themselves to it. Ittends to repel the representations whichcontradict it, and it keeps them at a distance; on

ivSee our Division du travail social, 3rd ed., pp. 64 ff.vIbid., p. 76.


the other hand, it commands those acts whichwill realize it, and it does so, not by a materialcoercion or by the perspective of something ofthis sort, but by the simple radiation of themental energy which it contains. It has anefficacy coming solely from its psychicalproperties, and it is by just this sign that moralauthority is recognized. So opinion, primarily asocial thing, is a source of authority, and it mighteven be asked whether all authority is not thedaughter of opinion.vi It may be objected thatscience is often the antagonist of opinion, whoseerrors it combats and rectifies. But it cannotsucceed in this task if it does not have sufficientauthority, and it can obtain this authority onlyfrom opinion itself. If a people did not have faithin science, all the scientific demonstrations in theworld would be without any influence whatsoeverover their minds. Even to-day, if science happenedto resist a very strong current of public opinion, itwould risk losing its credit there.vii

Since it is in spiritual ways that socialpressure exercises itself, it could not fail to givemen the idea that outside themselves there existone or several powers, both moral and, at thesame time, efficacious, upon which theydepend. They must think of these powers, atleast in part, as outside themselves, for theseaddress them in a tone of command andsometimes even order them to do violence totheir most natural inclinations. It is undoubtedlytrue that if they were able to see that theseinfluences which they feel emanate fromsociety, then the mythological system of inter-pretations would never be born. But social

action follows ways that are too circuitous andobscure, and employs psychical mechanismsthat are too complex to allow the ordinaryobserver to see when it comes. As long asscientific analysis does not come to teach it tothem, men know well that they are acted upon,but they do not know by whom. So they mustinvent by themselves the idea of these powerswith which they feel themselves in connection,and from that, we are able to catch a glimpse ofthe way by which they were led to representthem under forms that are really foreign to theirnature and to transfigure them by thought.But a god is not merely an authority upon

whom we depend; it is a force upon which ourstrength relies. The man who has obeyed his godand who for this reason, believes the god is withhim, approaches the world with confidenceand with the feeling of an increased energy.Likewise, social action does not confine itself todemanding sacrifices, privations and effortsfrom us. For the collective force is not entirelyoutside of us; it does not act upon us whollyfrom without; but rather, since society cannotexist except in and through individual con-sciousness,viii this force must also penetrate usand organize itself within us; it thus becomes anintegral part of our being and by that very factthis is elevated and magnified.There are occasions when this strengthening

and vivifying action of society is especiallyapparent. In the midst of an assembly animatedby a common passion, we become susceptible ofacts and sentiments of which we are incapablewhen reduced to our own forces; and when the

viThis is the case at least with all moral authority recognized as such by the group as a whole.viiWe hope that this analysis and those which follow will put an end to an inexact interpretation of our thought,from which more than one misunderstanding has resulted. Since we have made constraint the outward sign bywhich social facts can be the most easily recognized and distinguished from the facts of individual psychology,it has been assumed that according to our opinion, physical constraint is the essential thing for social life. As amatter of fact, we have never considered it more than the material and apparent expression of an interior andprofound fact which is wholly ideal: this is moral authority. The problem of sociology—if we can speak of asociological problem—consists in seeking, among the different forms of external constraint, the different sortsof moral authority corresponding to them and in discovering the causes which have determined these latter. Theparticular question which we are treating in this present work has as its principal object, the discovery of theform under which that particular variety of moral authority which is inherent in all that is religious has beenborn, and out of what elements it is made. It will be seen presently that even if we do make social pressure oneof the distinctive characteristics of sociological phenomena, we do not mean to say that it is the only one. Weshall show another aspect of the collective life, nearly opposite to the preceding one, but none the less real.viiiOf course this does not mean to say that the collective consciousness does not have distinctive characteristics ofits own (on this point, see Représentations individuelles et représentations collectives, in Revue de Métaphysiqueet de Morale, 1898, pp. 273 ff.).


assembly is dissolved and when, findingourselves alone again, we fall back to ourordinary level, we are then able to measure theheight to which we have been raised aboveourselves. History abounds in examples of thissort. It is enough to think of the night of theFourth of August, 1789, when an assembly wassuddenly led to an act of sacrifice andabnegation which each of its members hadrefused the day before, and at which they wereall surprised the day after.ix This is why allparties political, economic or confessional, arecareful to have periodical reunions where theirmembers may revivify their common faith bymanifesting it in common. To strengthen thosesentiments which, if left to themselves, wouldsoon weaken, it is sufficient to bring those whohold them together and to put them into closerand more active relations with one another. Thisis the explanation of the particular attitude of aman speaking to a crowd, at least if he hassucceeded in entering into communion with it.His language has a grandiloquence that wouldbe ridiculous in ordinary circumstances; hisgestures show a certain domination; his verythought is impatient of all rules, and easily fallsinto all sorts of excesses. It is because he feelswithin him an abnormal over-supply of forcewhich overflows and tries to burst out from him;sometimes he even has the feeling that he isdominated by a moral force which is greaterthan he and of which he is only the interpreter.It is by this trait that we are able to recognizewhat has often been called the demon oforatorical inspiration. Now this exceptionalincrease of force is something very real; itcomes to him from the very group which headdresses. The sentiments provoked by hiswords come back to him, but enlarged andamplified, and to this degree they strengthenhis own sentiment. The passionate energies he

arouses re-echo within him and quicken his vitaltone. It is no longer a simple individual whospeaks; it is a group incarnate and personified.Besides these passing and intermittent states,

there are other more durable ones, where thisstrengthening influence of society makes itselffelt with greater consequences and frequentlyeven with greater brilliancy. There are periods inhistory when, under the influence of some greatcollective shock, social interactions havebecome much more frequent and active. Menlook for each other and assemble together morethan ever. That general effervescence resultswhich is characteristic of revolutionary orcreative epochs. Now this greater activity resultsin a general stimulation of individual forces.Men see more and differently now than innormal times. Changes are not merely of shadesand degrees; men become different. Thepassions moving them are of such an intensitythat they cannot be satisfied except by violentand unrestrained actions, actions of superhumanheroism or of bloody barbarism. This is whatexplains the Crusades,x for example, or many ofthe scenes, either sublime or savage, of theFrench Revolution.xi Under the influence of thegeneral exaltation, we see the most mediocreand inoffensive bourgeois become either a heroor a butcher.xii And so clearly are all thesemental processes the ones that are also at theroot of religion that the individuals themselveshave often pictured the pressure before whichthey thus gave way in a distinctly religious form.The Crusaders believed that they felt Godpresent in the midst of them, enjoining them togo to the conquest of the Holy Land; Joan ofArcbelieved that she obeyed celestial voices.xiii

But it is not only in exceptional circum-stances that this stimulating action of societymakes itself felt; there is not, so to speak, amoment in our lives when some current of

ixThis is proved by the length and passionate character of the debates where a legal form was given to the reso-lutions made in a moment of collective enthusiasm. In the clergy as in the nobility, more than one person calledthis celebrated night the dupe’s night, or, with Rivarol, the St. Bartholomew of the estates (see Stoll, Suggestionund Hypnotismus in de Völkerpsychologie, 2nd ed., p. 618, n. 2).xSee Stoll, op. cit., pp. 353 ff.xiIbid., pp. 619, 635.xiiIbid., pp. 622 ff.xiiiThe emotions of fear and sorrow are able to develop similarly and to become intensified under these same con-ditions. As we shall see, they correspond to quite another aspect of the religious life (Bk. III, ch. v).


energy does not come to us from without. Theman who has done his duty finds, in the mani-festations of every sort expressing the sympathy,esteem or affection which his fellows have forhim, a feeling of comfort, of which he does notordinarily take account, but which sustains him,none the less. The sentiments which society hasfor him raise the sentiments which he has forhimself. Because he is in moral harmony withhis comrades, he has more confidence, courageand boldness in action, just like the believer whothinks that he feels the regard of his god turnedgraciously towards him. It thus produces, as itwere, a perpetual sustenance of our moralnature. Since this varies with a multitude ofexternal circumstances, as our relations with thegroups about us are more or less active and asthese groups themselves vary, we cannot fail tofeel that this moral support depends upon anexternal cause; but we do not perceive wherethis cause is nor what it is. So we ordinarilythink of it under the form of a moral powerwhich, though immanent in us, representswithin us something not ourselves: this is themoral conscience, of which, by the way, menhave never made even a slightly distinctrepresentation except by the aid of religioussymbols.In addition to these free forces which are

constantly coming to renew our own, there areothers which are fixed in the methods andtraditions which we employ.We speak a languagethat we did not make; we use instruments that wedid not invent; we invoke rights that we did notfound; a treasury of knowledge is transmitted toeach generation that it did not gather itself, etc. Itis to society that we owe these varied benefits ofcivilization, and if we do not ordinarily see thesource from which we get them, we at least knowthat they are not our own work. Now it is thesethings that give man his own place among things;a man is a man only because he is civilized. So hecould not escape the feeling that outside of himthere are active causes from which he gets thecharacteristic attributes of his nature and which,

as benevolent powers, assist him, protect him andassure him of a privileged fate. And of course hemust attribute to these powers a dignity corres-ponding to the great value of the good things heattributes to them.xiv

Thus the environment in which we live seemsto us to be peopled with forces that are at onceimperious and helpful, august and gracious, andwith which we have relations. Since theyexercise over us a pressure of which we areconscious, we are forced to localize themoutside ourselves, just as we do for the objectivecauses of our sensations. But the sentimentswhich they inspire in us differ in nature fromthose which we have for simple visible objects.As long as these latter are reduced to theirempirical characteristics as shown in ordinaryexperience, and as long as the religiousimagination has not metamorphosed them, weentertain for them no feeling which resemblesrespect, and they contain within them nothingthat is able to raise us outside ourselves.Therefore, the representations which expressthem appear to us to be very different fromthose aroused in us by collective influences. Thetwo form two distinct and separate mental statesin our consciousness, just as do the two forms oflife to which they correspond. Consequently, weget the impression that we are in relations withtwo distinct sorts of reality and that a sharplydrawn line of demarcation separates them fromeach other: on the one hand is the world ofprofane things, on the other, that of sacred things.Also, in the present day just as much as in

the past, we see society constantly creatingsacred things out of ordinary ones. If it happensto fall in love with a man and if it thinks it hasfound in him the principal aspirations that moveit, as well as the means of satisfying them, thisman will be raised above the others and, as itwere, deified. Opinion will invest him with amajesty exactly analogous to that protecting thegods. This is what has happened to so manysovereigns in whom their age had faith: if theywere not made gods, they were at least regarded

xivThis is the other aspect of society which, while being imperative, appears at the same time to be good andgracious. It dominates us and assists us. If we have defined the social fact by the first of these characteristicsrather than the second, it is because it is more readily observable, for it is translated into outward and visiblesigns; but we have never thought of denying the second (see our Règles de la Méthode Sociologique, prefaceto the second edition, p. xx, n. 1).


as direct representatives of the deity. And thefact that it is society alone which is the authorof these varieties of apotheosis, is evident sinceit frequently chances to consecrate men thuswho have no right to it from their own merit.The simple deference inspired by men investedwith high social functions is not different innature from religious respect. It is expressed bythe same movements: a man keeps at a distancefrom a high personage; he approaches him onlywith precautions; in conversing with him, heuses other gestures and language than thoseused with ordinary mortals. The sentiment felton these occasions is so closely related to thereligious sentiment that many peoples haveconfounded the two. In order to explain theconsideration accorded to princes, nobles andpolitical chiefs, a sacred character has beenattributed to them. In Melanesia and Polynesia,for example, it is said that an influential manhas mana, and that his influence is due to thismana.xv However, it is evident that his situationis due solely to the importance attributed to himby public opinion. Thus the moral powerconferred by opinion and that with whichsacred beings are invested are at bottom ofa single origin and made up of the sameelements. That is why a single word is able todesignate the two.In addition to men, society also consecrates

things, especially ideas. If a belief is unanimouslyshared by a people, then, for the reason which wepointed out above, it is forbidden to touch it, thatis to say, to deny it or to contest it. Now theprohibition of criticism is an interdiction like theothers and proves the presence of somethingsacred. Even to-day, howsoever great may be theliberty which we accord to others, a man whoshould totally deny progress or ridicule thehuman ideal to which modern societies areattached, would produce the effect of a sacrilege.

There is at least one principle which those themost devoted to the free examination ofeverything tend to place above discussion and toregard as untouchable, that is to say, as sacred:this is the very principle of free examination.This aptitude of society for setting itself up

as a god or for creating gods was never moreapparent than during the first years of theFrench Revolution. At this time, in fact, underthe influence of the general enthusiasm, thingspurely laïcal by nature were transformed bypublic opinion into sacred things: these were theFatherland, Liberty, Reason.xvi A religion tendedto become established which had its dogmas,xvii

symbols,xviii altarsxix and feasts.xx It was to thesespontaneous aspirations that the cult of Reasonand the Supreme Being attempted to give a sortof official satisfaction. It is true that thisreligious renovation had only an ephemeralduration. But that was because the patrioticenthusiasm which at first transported the massessoon relaxed.xxi The cause being gone, the effectcould not remain. But this experiment, thoughshort-lived, keeps all its sociological interest. Itremains true that in one determined case wehave seen society and its essential ideas become,directly and with no transfiguration of any sort,the object of a veritable cult.All these facts allow us to catch glimpses of

how the clan was able to awaken within itsmembers the idea that outside of them there existforces which dominate them and at the same timesustain them, that is to say in fine, religiousforces: it is because there is no society with whichthe primitive is more directly and closelyconnected. The bonds uniting him to the tribe aremuchmore lax andmore feebly felt.Although thisis not at all strange or foreign to him, it is with thepeople of his own clan that he has the greatestnumber of things in common; it is the action ofthis group that he feels the most directly; so it is

xvCodrington, The Melanesians, pp. 50, 103, 120. It is also generally thought that in the Polynesian languages,the word mana primitively had the sense of authority (see Tregear, Maori Comparative Dictionary, s.v.).xviSee Albert Mathiez, Les origines des cultes révolutionnaires (1789–1792).xviiIbid., p. 24.xviiiIbid., pp. 29, 32.xixIbid., p. 30.xxIbid., p. 46.xxiSee Mathiez, La Théophilanthropie et la Culte décadaire, p. 36.


this also which, in preference to all others, shouldexpress itself in religious symbols. . . .

III

One can readily conceive how, when arrived atthis state of exaltation, a man does not recognizehimself any longer. Feeling himself dominatedand carried away by some sort of an externalpower which makes him think and act differentlythan in normal times, he naturally has theimpression of being himself no longer. It seemsto him that he has become a new being: thedecorations he puts on and the masks that coverhis face and figure materially in this interiortransformation, and to a still greater extent, theyaid in determining its nature. And as at the sametime all his companions feel themselvestransformed in the same way and expressthis sentiment by their cries, their gestures andtheir general attitude, everything is justas though he really were transported into aspecial world, entirely different from theone where he ordinarily lives, and into anenvironment filled with exceptionally intenseforces that take hold of him and metamorphosehim. How could such experiences as these,especially when they are repeated every day forweeks, fail to leave in him the conviction thatthere really exist two heterogeneous and mutuallyincomparable worlds? One is that where his dailylife drags wearily along; but he cannot penetrateinto the other without at once entering intorelations with extraordinary powers that excitehim to the point of frenzy. The first is the profaneworld, the second, that of sacred things.So it is in the midst of these effervescent

social environments and out of this effer-vescence itself that the religious idea seems to beborn. The theory that this is really its origin isconfirmed by the fact that in Australia the reallyreligious activity is almost entirely confined tothe moments when these assemblies are held. Tobe sure, there is no people among whom thegreat solemnities of the cult are not more or lessperiodic; but in the more advanced societies,there is not, so to speak, a day when some prayeror offering is not addressed to the gods and someritual act is not performed. But in Australia, onthe contrary, apart from the celebrations of the

clan and tribe, the time is nearly all filled withlay and profane occupations. Of course there areprohibitions that should be and are preservedeven during these periods of temporal activity; itis never permissible to kill or eat freely of thetotemic animal, at least in those parts where theinterdiction has retained its original vigour; butalmost no positive rites are then celebrated, andthere are no ceremonies of any importance.These take place only in the midst of assembledgroups. The religious life of the Australianpasses through successive phases of completelull and of superexcitation, and social lifeoscillates in the same rhythm. This puts clearlyinto evidence the bond uniting them to oneanother, but among the peoples called civilized,the relative continuity of the two blurs theirrelations. It might even be asked whether theviolence of this contrast was not necessary todisengage the feeling of sacredness in its firstform. By concentrating itself almost entirely incertain determined moments, the collective lifehas been able to attain its greatest intensity andefficacy, and consequently to give men a moreactive sentiment of the double existence theylead and of the double nature in which theyparticipate. . . .Now the totem is the flag of the clan. It is

therefore natural that the impressions aroused by theclan in individual minds—impressions of depen-dence and of increased vitality—should fixthemselves to the idea of the totem rather than thatof the clan: for the clan is too complex a reality tobe represented clearly in all its complex unity bysuch rudimentary intelligences. More than that, theprimitive does not even see that these impressionscome to him from the group. He does not know thatthe coming together of a number of men associatedin the same life results in disengaging new energies,which transform each of them.All that he knows isthat he is raised above himself and that he sees adifferent life from the one he ordinarily leads.However, he must connect these sensations to someexternal object as their cause. Nowwhat does he seeabout him?On every side those thingswhich appealto his senses and strike his imagination are thenumerous images of the totem. They are thewaninga and the nurtunja, which are symbols ofthe sacred being. They are churinga and bull-roarers, upon which are generally carvedcombinations of lines having the same significance.


They are the decorations covering the different partsof his body, which are totemic marks. How couldthis image, repeated everywhere and in all sorts offorms, fail to stand out with exceptional relief in hismind? Placed thus in the centre of the scene,it becomes representative. The sentiments experi-enced fix themselves upon it, for it is the onlyconcrete object uponwhich they can fix themselves.It continues to bring them to mind and to evokethem even after the assembly has dissolved, for itsurvives the assembly, being carved upon theinstruments of the cult, upon the sides of rocks,upon bucklers, etc. By it, the emotions experiencedare perpetually sustained and revived. Everythinghappens just as if they inspired them directly. It isstill more natural to attribute them to it for, sincethey are common to the group, they can beassociated only with something that is equallycommon to all. Now the totemic emblem is theonly thing satisfying this condition. By definition,it is common to all. During the ceremony, it is thecentre of all regards. While generations change, itremains the same; it is the permanent element ofthe social life. So it is from it that those mysteriousforces seem to emanate with which men feel thatthey are related, and thus they have been led torepresent these forces under the form of the animateor inanimate being whose name the clan bears.When this point is once established, we are in

a position to understand all that is essential inthe totemic beliefs.Since religious force is nothing other than the

collective and anonymous force of the clan, andsince this can be represented in the mind only inthe form of the totem, the totemic emblem is likethe visible body of the god. Therefore, it is fromit that those kindly and dreadful actions seem toemanate, which the cult seeks to provoke orprevent; consequently, it is to it that the cult isaddressed. This is the explanation of why it holdsthe first place in the series of sacred things.But the clan, like every other sort of society,

can live only in and through the individualconsciousnesses that compose it. So if religiousforce, in so far as it is conceived as incorporatedin the totemic emblem, appears to be outside ofthe individuals and to be endowed with a sort oftranscendence over them, it, like the clan ofwhich it is the symbol, can be realized only inand through them; in this sense, it is imminentin them and they necessarily represent it as such.

They feel it present and active within them, forit is this which raises them to a superior life.This is why men have believed that they containwithin them a principle comparable to the oneresiding in the totem, and consequently, whythey have attributed a sacred character tothemselves, but one less marked than that of theemblem. It is because the emblem is the pre-eminent source of the religious life; the manparticipates in it only indirectly, as he is wellaware; he takes into account the fact that theforce that transports him into the world ofsacred things is not inherent in him, but comesto him from the outside. . . .But if this theory of totemism has enabled us

to explain the most characteristic beliefs of thisreligion, it rests upon a fact not yet explained.When the idea of the totem, the emblem of theclan, is given, all the rest follows; but we muststill investigate how this idea has been formed.This is a double question and may be subdividedas follows: What has led the clan to choose anemblem? and why have these emblems beenborrowed from the animal and vegetable worlds,and particularly from the former?That an emblem is useful as a rallying-

centre for any sort of a group it is superfluousto point out. By expressing the social unity ina material form, it makes this more obvious toall, and for that very reason the use ofemblematic symbols must have spread quicklywhen once thought of. But more than that, thisidea should spontaneously arise out of theconditions of common life; for the emblem isnot merely a convenient process for clarifyingthe sentiment society has of itself: it alsoserves to create this sentiment; it is one of itsconstituent elements.In fact, if left to themselves, individual

consciousnesses are closed to each other; theycan communicate only by means of signs whichexpress their internal states. If the com-munication established between them is tobecome a real communion, that is to say, a fusionof all particular sentiments into one commonsentiment, the signs expressing them mustthemselves be fused into one single and uniqueresultant. It is the appearance of this that informsindividuals that they are in harmony and makesthem conscious of their moral unity. It is byuttering the same cry, pronouncing the same


word, or performing the same gesture in regardto some object that they become and feelthemselves to be in unison. It is true thatindividual representations also cause reactions inthe organism that are not without importance;however, they can be thought of apart from thesephysical reactions which accompany them orfollow them, but which do not constitute them.But it is quite another matter with collectiverepresentations. They presuppose that minds actand react upon one another; they are the productof these actions and reactions which arethemselves possible only through materialintermediaries. These latter do not confine them-selves to revealing the mental state with whichthey are associated; they aid in creating it.Individual minds cannot come in contact andcommunicate with each other except by comingout of themselves; but they cannot do this exceptby movements. So it is the homogeneity of thesemovements that gives the group consciousness ofitself and consequently makes it exist. When thishomogeneity is once established and thesemovements have once taken a stereotyped form,they serve to symbolize the correspondingrepresentations. But they symbolize them onlybecause they have aided in forming them.Moreover, without symbols, social senti-

ments could have only a precarious existence.Though very strong as long as men are togetherand influence each other reciprocally, they existonly in the form of recollections after theassembly has ended, and when left tothemselves, these become feebler and feebler;for since the group is now no longer present andactive, individual temperaments easily regainthe upper hand. The violent passions which mayhave been released in the heart of a crowd fallaway and are extinguished when this isdissolved, and men ask themselves withastonishment how they could ever have been socarried away from their normal character. But ifthe movements by which these sentiments areexpressed are connected with something thatendures, the sentiments themselves becomemore durable. These other things are constantlybringing them to mind and arousing them; it isas though the cause which excited them in thefirst place continued to act. Thus these systems

of emblems, which are necessary if society is tobecome conscious of itself, are no lessindispensable for assuring the continuation ofthis consciousness.So we must refrain from regarding these

symbols as simple artifices, as sorts of labelsattached to representations already made, inorder to make them more manageable: they arean integral part of them. Even the fact thatcollective sentiments are thus attached to thingscompletely foreign to them is not purelyconventional: it illustrates under a conventionalform a real characteristic of social facts, that is,their transcendence over individual minds. Infact, it is known that social phenomena are born,not in individuals, but in the group. Whateverpart we may take in their origin, each of usreceives them from without.xxii So when werepresent them to ourselves as emanating froma material object, we do not completelymisunderstand their nature. Of course they donot come from the specific thing to which weconnect them, but nevertheless, it is true thattheir origin is outside of us. If the moral forcesustaining the believer does not come from theidol he adores or the emblem he venerates, still itis from outside of him, as he is well aware. Theobjectivity of its symbol only translates itseternalness.Thus social life, in all its aspects and in every

period of its history, is made possible only by avast symbolism. The material emblems andfigurative representations with which we aremore especially concerned in our present study,are one form of this; but there are many others.Collective sentiments can just as well becomeincarnate in persons or formulæ: some formulæare flags, while there are persons, either real ormythical, who are symbols. . . .

CONCLUSION

As we have progressed, we have established thefact that the fundamental categories of thought,and consequently of science, are of religious ori-gin. We have seen that the same is true for magicand consequently for the different processeswhich have issued from it. On the other hand, it

xxiiOn this point see Régles de la méthode sociologique, pp. 5 ff.


xxiiiOnly one form of social activity has not yet been expressly attached to religion: that is economic activity.Sometimes processes that are derived from magic have, by that fact alone, an origin that is indirectly religious.Also, economic value is a sort of power or efficacy, and we know the religious origins of the idea of power. Also,richness can confer mana; therefore it has it. Hence it is seen that the ideas of economic value and of religiousvalue are not without connection. But the question of the nature of these connections has not yet been studied.

xxivIt is for this reason that Frazer and even Preuss set impersonal religious forces outside of, or at least on thethreshold of religion, to attach them to magic.


has long been known that up until a relativelyadvanced moment of evolution, moral and legalrules have been indistinguishable from ritual pre-scriptions. In summing up, then, it may be saidthat nearly all the great social institutions havebeen born in religion.xxiii Now in order that theseprincipal aspects of the collective life may havecommenced by being only varied aspects of thereligious life, it is obviously necessary that thereligious life be the eminent form and, as it were,the concentrated expression of the whole collec-tive life. If religion has given birth to all that isessential in society, it is because the idea ofsociety is the soul of religion.Religious forces are therefore human forces,

moral forces. It is true that since collectivesentiments can become conscious of themselvesonly by fixing themselves upon external objects,they have not been able to take form withoutadopting some of their characteristics fromother things: they have thus acquired a sort ofphysical nature; in this way they have come tomix themselves with the life of the materialworld, and then have considered themselvescapable of explaining what passes there. Butwhen they are considered only from this point ofview and in this role, only their most superficialaspect is seen. In reality, the essential elementsof which these collective sentiments are madehave been borrowed by the understanding. Itordinarily seems that they should have a humancharacter only when they are conceived underhuman forms;xxiv but even the most impersonaland the most anonymous are nothing else thanobjectified sentiments.It is only by regarding religion from this angle

that it is possible to see its real significance. If westick closely to appearances, rites often give theeffect of purely manual operations: they areanointings, washings, meals. To consecratesomething, it is put in contact with a source ofreligious energy, just as to-day a body is put incontact with a source of heat or electricity to warm

or electrize it; the two processes employed are notessentially different. Thus understood, religioustechnique seems to be a sort of mystic mechanics.But thesematerial manoeuvres are only the externalenvelope under which the mental operations arehidden. Finally, there is no question of exercising aphysical constraint upon blind and, incidentally,imaginary forces, but rather of reaching individualconsciousnesses of giving them a direction and ofdisciplining them. It is sometimes said that inferiorreligions are materialistic. Such an expression isinexact. All religions, even the crudest, are in asense spiritualistic: for the powers they put in playare before all spiritual, and also their principalobject is to act upon the moral life. Thus it is seenthat whatever has been done in the name of religioncannot have been done in vain: for it is necessarilythe society that did it, and it is humanity that hasreaped the fruits. . . .

II

Thus there is something eternal in religion whichis destined to survive all the particular symbols inwhich religious thought has successivelyenveloped itself. There can be no society whichdoes not feel the need of upholding andreaffirming at regular intervals the collectivesentiments and the collective ideas which makeits unity and its personality. Now this moralremaking cannot be achieved except by themeans of reunions, assemblies and meetingswhere the individuals, being closely united to oneanother, reaffirm in common their commonsentiments; hence come ceremonies which do notdiffer from regular religious ceremonies, either intheir object, the results which they produce, orthe processes employed to attain these results.What essential difference is there between anassembly of Christians celebrating the principaldates of the life of Christ, or of Jewsremembering the exodus from Egypt or the

Discussion Questions

1. Outline the two forms of solidarity dis-cussed by Durkheim. What are the distinguish-ing features of each type of solidarity? What isthe relationship between the two forms of soli-darity and the division of labor? Do these con-cepts help explain the division of labor in yourfamily of origin? In a current or previous place ofemployment? How so or why not? Be specific.

2. Discuss the various types of suicide thatDurkheim delineates using specific examples.To what extent do you agree or disagree withthe notion that different types of suicide prevailin “modern” as opposed to “traditional” soci-eties? Give concrete examples.

3. Define, compare, and contrast Marx’sconcept of alienation and Durkheim’s conceptof anomie. How exactly do these conceptsoverlap? How are they different?

4. Discuss Durkheim’s notion of collec-tive conscience. What does Durkheim mean

by saying that the collective conscience isnot just a “sum” of individual conscious-nesses? How does collective consciencecompare to such notions as “group think” or“mob mentality”? Use concrete examples toexplain.

5. Discuss specific moments of collectiveeffervescence that you have experienced (e.g.,concerts, church, etc.). What particular sym-bols and rituals were called up and used toarouse this social state?

6. Discuss Durkheim’s definition of reli-gion as well as the sacred and profane, usingconcrete examples. What are the advantagesand disadvantages of Durkheim’s definitionof religion, both for understanding theessence of religion and for doing research onreligion? How does Durkheim distinguish“religion” and “magic”? Do you agree or dis-agree with this distinction?


promulgation of the decalogue, and a reunion ofcitizens commemorating the promulgation of anew moral or legal system or some great event inthe national life?. . .In summing up, then, we must say that society

is not at all the illogical or a-logical, incoherentand fantastic being which it has too often beenconsidered. Quite on the contrary, the collectiveconsciousness is the highest form of the psychiclife, since it is the consciousness of the con-sciousnesses. Being placed outside of and above

individual and local contingencies, it sees thingsonly in their permanent and essential aspects,which it crystallizes into communicable ideas. Atthe same time that it sees from above, it seesfarther; at every moment of time, it embraces allknown reality; that is why it alone can furnish themind with the moulds which are applicable to thetotality of things and which make it possible tothink of them. It does not create these mouldsartificially; it finds them within itself; it doesnothing but become conscious of them. . . .

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