BE YOUR OWN HERO // Zimbardo + Foucault//

BRAIN-STRETCH:

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MICHEL FOUCAULT

Michel Foucault is a Nihilist goth from the 20th century who thinks society is a prison guarded by hierarchy – yeah, I know – I’m gonna go shopping and stick some needles in my face too.  But what he means is: we change our behaviour if we are being watched.  All hail CCTV.  Academics are frequently locked in ivory towers, verging on jumping out – but this essay, if you can get through it, explains how HUMAN BEHAVIOUR is POLITICS: EVERY CHOICE IS POWER: WE MUST BE OUR OWN HEROINES.  It followed The Stanford Prison Experiment in 1971, where Philip Zimbardo kidnapped a load of his Stanford psychology students (with really good hair) and imprisoned them, all men, resulted in extreme violence…film below.

Philip Zimbardo
Philip Zimbardo

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Michel Foucault. Discipline & Punish (1975), Panopticism
From Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison (NY: Vintage Books 1995) pp. 195-228 translated from the French by Alan Sheridan © 1977
III. DISCIPLINE
3. Panopticism
The following, according to an order published at the end of the seventeenth century, were the measures to be taken when the plague appeared in a town.
First, a strict spatial partitioning: the closing of the town and its outlying districts, a prohibition to leave the town on pain of death, the killing of all stray animals; the division of the town into distinct quarters, each governed by an intendant. Each street is placed under the authority of a syndic, who keeps it under surveillance; if he leaves the street, he will be condemned to death. On the appointed day, everyone is ordered to stay indoors: it is forbidden to leave on pain of death. The syndic himself comes to lock the door of each house from the outside; he takes the key with him and hands it over to the intendant of the quarter; the intendant keeps it until the end of the quarantine. Each family will have made its own provisions; but, for bread and wine, small wooden canals are set up between the street and the interior of the houses, thus allowing each person to receive his ration without communicating with the suppliers andother residents; meat, fish and herbs will be hoisted up into the houses with pulleys and baskets. If it is absolutely necessary to leave the house, it will be done in turn, avoiding any meeting. Only the intendants, syndics and guards will move about the streets and also, between the infected houses, from one corpse to another, the ‘crows’, who can be left to die: these are ‘people of little substance who carry the sick, bury the dead, clean and do many vile and abject offices’. It
is a segmented, immobile, frozen space. Each individual is fixed in his place. And, if he moves, he does so at the risk of his life, contagion or punishment.
Inspection functions ceaselessly. The gaze is alert everywhere: ‘A considerable body of militia, commanded by good
officers and men of substance’, guards at the gates, at the town hall and in every quarter to ensure the prompt
obedience of the people and the most absolute authority of the magistrates, ‘as also to observe all disorder, theft and
extortion’. At each of the town gates there will be an observation post; at the end of each street sentinels. Every day, the
intendant visits the quarter in his charge, inquires whether the syndics have carried out their tasks, whether the
inhabitants have anything to complain of; they ‘observe their actions’. Every day, too, the syndic goes into the street for
which he is responsible; stops before each house: gets all the inhabitants to appear at the windows (those who live
overlooking the courtyard will be allocated a window looking onto the street at which no one but they may show
themselves); he calls each of them by name; informs himself as to the state of each and every one of them – ‘in which
respect the inhabitants will be compelled to speak the truth under pain of death’; if someone does not appear at the
window, the syndic must ask why: ‘In this way he will find out easily enough whether dead or sick are being concealed.’
Everyone locked up in his cage, everyone at his window, answering to his name and showing himself when asked – it is
the great review of the living and the dead.
This surveillance is based on a system of permanent registration: reports from the syndics to the intendants, from the
intendants to the magistrates or mayor At the beginning of the ‘lock up’, the role of each of the inhabitants present in the
town is laid down, one by one; this document bears ‘the name, age, sex of everyone, notwithstanding his condition’: a
copy is sent to the intendant of the quarter, another to the office of the town hall, another to enable the syndic to make
his daily roll call. Everything that may be observed during the course of the visits – deaths, illnesses, complaints,
irregularities is noted down and transmitted to the intendants and magistrates. The magistrates havecomplete control
over medical treatment; they have appointed a physician in charge; no other practitioner may treat, no apothecary
prepare medicine, no confessor visit a sick person without having received from him a written note ‘to prevent anyone
from concealing and dealing with those sick of the contagion, unknown to the magistrates’. The registration of the
pathological must be constantly centralized. The relation of each individual to his disease and to his death passes
through the representatives of power, the registration they make of it, the decisions they take on it.
Five or six days after the beginning of the quarantine, the process of purifying the houses one by one is begun. All the
inhabitants are made to leave; in each room ‘the furniture and goods’ are raised from the ground or suspended from the
air; perfume is poured around the room; after carefully sealing the windows, doors and even the keyholes with wax, the
perfume is set alight. Finally, the entire house is closed while the perfume is consumed; those who have carried out the
work are searched, as they were on entry, ‘in the presence of the residents of the house, to see that they did not have
something on their persons as they left that they did not have on entering’. Four hours later, the residents are allowed to
re-enter their homes.
This enclosed, segmented space, observed at every point, in l which the individuals are inserted in a fixed place, in which
the slightest movements are supervised, in which all events are recorded, in which an uninterrupted work of writing links
the centre and periphery, in which power is exercised without division, according to a continuous hierarchical figure, in
which each individual is constantly located, examined and distributed among the living beings, the sick and the dead – all
this constitutes a compact model of the disciplinary mechanism. The plague is met by order; its function is to sort out
every possible confusion: that of the disease, which is transmitted when bodies are mixed together; that of the evil,
which is increased when fear and death overcome prohibitions. It lays down for each individual his place, his body, his
disease and his death, his well-being, by means of an omnipresent and omniscient power that subdivides itself in a
regular, uninterrupted way even to the ultimate determination of the individual, of what characterizes him, of what
belongs to him, of what happens to him. Against the plague, which is a mixture, discipline brings into play its power,
which is one of analysis. A whole literary fiction of the festival grew up around the plague: suspended laws, lifted
prohibitions, the frenzy of passing time, bodies mingling together without respect, individuals unmasked, abandoning
their statutory identity and the figure under which they had been recognized, allowing a quite different truth to appear.
But there was also a political dream of the plague, which was exactly its reverse: not the collective festival, ”but strict
divisions; not laws transgressed, but the penetration of regulation into even the smallest details of everyday life through
the mediation of the complete hierarchy that assured the capillary functioning of power; not masks that were put on and
taken off, but the assignment to each individual of his ‘true’ name, his ‘true’ place, his ‘true’ body, his ‘true’ disease. The
plague as a form, at once real and imaginary, of disorder had as its medical and political correlative discipline. Behind the
disciplinary mechanisms can be read the haunting memory of ‘contagions’, of the plague, of rebellions, crimes,
vagabondage, desertions, people who appear and disappear, live and die in disorder.
If it is true that the leper gave rise to rituals of exclusion, which to a certain extent provided the model for and general
form of the great Confinement, then the plague gave rise to disciplinary projects. Rather than the massive, binary
division between one set of people and another, it called for multiple separations, individualizing distributions, an
organization in depth of surveillance and control, an intensification and a ramification of power. The leper was caught up in a practice of rejection, of exile-enclosure; he was left to his doom in a mass among which it was useless to
differentiate; those sick of the plague were caught up in a meticulous tactical partitioning in which individual
differentiations were the constricting effects of a power that multiplied, articulated and subdivided itself; the great
confinement on the one hand; the correct training on the other. The leper and his separation; the plague and its
segmentations. The first is marked; the second analysed and distributed. The exile of the leper and the arrest of the
plague do not bring with them the same political dream. The first is that of a pure community, the second that of a
disciplined society. Two ways of exercising power over men, of controlling their relations, of separating out their
dangerous mixtures. The plague-stricken town, traversed throughout with hierarchy, surveillance, observation, writing;
the town immobilized by the functioning of an extensive power that bears in a distinct way over all individual bodies –
this is the utopia of the perfectly governed city. The plague (envisaged as a possibility at least) is the trial in the course
of which one may define ideally the exercise of disciplinary power. In order to make rights and laws function according to
pure theory, the jurists place themselves in imagination in the state of nature; in order to see perfect disciplines
functioning, rulers dreamt of the state of plague. Underlying disciplinary projects the image of the plague stands for all
forms of confusion and disorder; just as the image of the leper, cut off from all human contact, underlies projects of
exclusion.
They are different projects, then, but not incompatible ones. We see them coming slowly together, and it is the
peculiarity of the nineteenth century that it applied to the space of exclusion of which the leper was the symbolic
inhabitant (beggars, vagabonds, madmen and the disorderly formed the real population) the technique if power proper
to disciplinary partitioning. Treat ‘lepers’ as ‘plague victims’, project the subtle segmentations of discipline onto the
confused space of internment, combine it with the methods of analytical distribution proper to power, individualize the
excluded, but use procedures of individualization to mark exclusion – this is what was operated regularly by disciplinary
power from the beginning of the nineteenth century in the psychiatric asylum, the penitentiary, the reformatory, the
approved school and, to some extent, the hospital. Generally speaking, all the authorities exercising individual control
function according to a double mode; that of binary division and branding (mad/sane; dangerous/harmless;
normal/abnormal); and that of coercive assignment of differential distribution (who he is; where he must be; how he is
to be characterized; how he is to be recognized; how a constant surveillance is to be exercised over him in an individual
way, etc.). On the one hand, the lepers are treated as plague victims; the tactics of individualizing disciplines are
imposed on the excluded; and, on the other hand, the universality of disciplinary controls makes it possible to brand the
‘leper’ and to bring into play against him the dualistic mechanisms of exclusion. The constant division between the
normal and the abnormal, to which every individual is subjected, brings us back to our own time, by applying the binary
branding and exile of the leper to quite different objects; the existence of a whole set of techniques and institutions for
measuring, supervising and correcting the abnormal brings into play the disciplinary mechanisms to which the fear of the
plague gave rise. All the mechanisms of power which, even today, are disposed around the abnormal individual, to brand
him and to alter him, are composed of those two forms from which they distantly derive.
Bentham’s Panopticon is the architectural figure of this composition. We know the principle on which it was based: at the
periphery, an annular building; at the centre, a tower; this tower is pierced with wide windows that
open onto the innerside of the ring; the peripheric building is divided into cells, each of which extends the whole widt
h of the building; they have two windows, one on the inside, corresponding to the windows of the tower; the other, on the out
side, allows the light to cross the cell from one end to the other. All that is needed, then, is to place a supervisor
in a central tower and to shut up in each cell a madman, a patient, a condemned man, a worker or a schoolboy. By the effect of
backlighting, one can observe from the tower, standing out precisely against the light, the small captive shadows in th
e cells of the periphery. They are like so many cages, so many small theatres, in which each actor is alone, perfect
ly individualized and constantly visible. The panoptic mechanism arranges spatial unities that make it possible to see cons
tantly and to recognize immediately. In short, it reverses the principle of the dungeon; or rather of its three fun
ctions – to enclose, to deprive of light and to hide – it preserves only the first and eliminates the other two. Full lightin
g and the eye of a supervisor capture better than darkness, which ultimately protected. Visibility is a trap.
To begin with, this made it possible – as a negative effect – to avoid those compact, swarming, howli
ng masses that were to be found in places of confinement, those painted by Goya or described by Howard. Each individual,
in his place, is securely confined to a cell from which he is seen from the front by the supervisor; but the side wall
s prevent him from coming into contact with his companions. He is seen, but he does not see; he is the object of informa
tion, never a subject in communication. The arrangement of his room, opposite the central tower, imposes on him an
axial visibility; but the divisions of the ring, those separated cells, imply a lateral invisibility. And this invisibi
lity is a guarantee of order.
If the inmates are convicts, there is no danger of a plot, an attempt at collective escape, the planning of new crimes for
the future, bad reciprocal influences; if they are patients, there is no danger of contagion; if they are madmen there is
no risk of their committing violence upon one another; if they are schoolchildren, there is no copying, no noise, no
chatter, no waste of time; if they are workers, there are no disorders, no theft, no coalitions, none of those distractions
that slow down the rate of work, make it less perfect or cause accidents. The crowd, a compact mass, a locus of multiple
exchanges, individualities merging together, a collective effect, is abolished and replaced by a collection of separated
individualities. From the point of view of the guardian, it is replaced by a multiplicity that can be numbered and
supervised; from the point of view of the inmates, by a sequestered and observed solitude (Bentham, 60-64).
Hence the major effect of the Panopticon: to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that
assures the automatic functioning of power. So to arrange things that the surveillance is permanent in its effects, even if
it is discontinuous in its action; that the perfection of power should tend to render its actual exercise unnecessary; that
this architectural apparatus should be a machine for creating and sustaining a power relation independent of the person
who exercises it; in short, that the inmates should be caught up in a power situation of which they are themselves the
bearers. To achieve this, it is at once too much and too little that the prisoner should be constantly observed by an
inspector: too little, for what matters is that he knows himself to be observed; too much, because he has no need in fact
of being so. In view of this, Bentham laid down the principle that power should be visible and unverifiable. Visible: the
inmate will constantly have before his eyes the tall outline of the central tower from which he is spied upon. Unverifiable:
the inmate must never know whether he is being looked at at any one moment; but he must be sure that he may always
be so. In order to make the presence or absence of the inspector unverifiable, so that the prisoners, in their cells, cannot
even see a shadow, Bentham envisaged not only venetian blinds on the windows of the central observation hall, but, on
the inside, partitions that intersected the hall at right angles and, in order to pass from one quarter to the other, not
doors but zig-zag openings; for the slightest noise, a gleam of light, a brightness in a half-opened door would betray the
presence of the guardian. The Panopticon is a machine for dissociating the see/being seen dyad: in the peripheric ring,
one is totally seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower, one sees everything without ever being seen.
It is an important mechanism, for it automatizes and disindividualizes power. Power has its principle not so much in a
person as in a certain concerted distribution of bodies, surfaces, lights, gazes; in an arrangement whose internal
mechanisms produce the relation in which individuals are caught up. The ceremonies, the rituals, the marks by which the
sovereign’s surplus power was manifested are useless. There is a machinery that assures dissymmetry, disequilibrium,
difference. Consequently, it does not matter who exercises power. Any individual, taken almost at random, can operate
the machine: in the absence of the director, his family, his friends, his visitors, even his servants(Bentham, 45).
Similarly, it does not matter what motive animates him: the curiosity of the indiscreet, the malice of a child, the thirst for
knowledge of a philosopher who wishes to visit this museum of human nature, or the perversity of those who take
pleasure in spying and punishing. The more numerous those anonymous and temporary observers are, the greater the
risk for the inmate of being surprised and the greater his anxious awareness of being observed. The Panopticon is a
marvellous machine which, whatever use one may wish to put it to, produces homogeneous effects of power.
A real subjection is born mechanically from a fictitious relation. So it is not necessary to use force to constrain the
convict to good behaviour, the madman to calm, the worker to work, the schoolboy to application, the patient to the
observation of the regulations. Bentham was surprised that panoptic institutions could be so light: there were no more
bars, no more chains, no more heavy locks; all that was needed was that the separations should be clear and the
openings well arranged. The heaviness of the old ‘houses of security’, with their fortress-like architecture, could be
replaced by the simple, economic geometry of a ‘house of certainty’. The efficiency of power, its constraining force have,
in a sense, passed over to the other side – to the side of its surface of application. He who is subjected to a field of
visibility, and who knows it, assumes responsibility for the constraints of power; he makes them play spontaneously upon
himself; he inscribes in himself the power relation in which he simultaneously plays both roles; he becomes the principle
of his own subjection. By this very fact, the external power may throw off its physical weight; it tends to the
non-corporal; and, the more it approaches this limit, the more constant, profound and permanent are its effects: it is a
perpetual victory that avoids any physical confrontation and which is always decided in advance.
Bentham does not say whether he was inspired, in his project, by Le Vaux’s menagerie at Versailles: the first menagerie
in which the different elements are not, as they traditionally were, distributed in a park (Loisel, 104-7). At the centre was
an octagonal pavilion which, on the first floor, consisted of only a single room, the king’s salon; on every side large
windows looked out onto seven cages (the eighth side was reserved for the entrance), containing different species of
animals. By Bentham’s time, this menagerie had disappeared. But one finds in the programme of the Panopticon a
similar concern with individualizing observation, with characterization and classification, with the analytical arrangement
of space. The Panopticon is a royal menagerie; the animal is replaced by man,, individual distribution by specific

grouping and the king by the machinery of a furtive power. With this exception, the Panopticon also does the work of a
naturalist. It makes it possible to draw up differences: among patients, to observe the symptoms of each individual,
without the proximity of beds, the circulation of miasmas, the effects of contagion confusing the clinical tables; among
school-children, it makes it possible to observe performances (without there being any imitation or copying), to map
aptitudes, to assess characters, to draw up rigorous classifications and, in relation to normal development, to distinguish
‘laziness and stubbornness’ from ‘incurable imbecility’; among workers, it makes it possible to note the aptitudes of each
worker, compare the time he takes to perform a task, and if they are paid by the day, to calculate their wages (Bentham,
60-64).
So much for the question of observation. But the Panopticon was also a laboratory; it could be used as a machine to
carry out experiments, to alter behaviour, to train or correct individuals. To experiment with medicines and monitor their
effects. To try out different punishments on prisoners, according to their crimes and character, and to seek the most
effective ones. To teach different techniques simultaneously to the workers, to decide which is the best. To try out
pedagogical experiments – and in particular to take up once again the well-debated problem of secluded education, by
using orphans. One would see what would happen when, in their sixteenth or eighteenth year, they were presented with
other boys or girls; one could verify whether, as Helvetius thought, anyone could learn anything; one would follow ‘the
genealogy of every observable idea’; one could bring up different children according to different systems of thought,
making certain children believe that two and two do not make four or that the moon is a cheese, then put them together
when they are twenty or twenty-five years old; one would then have discussions that would be worth a great deal more
than the sermons or lectures on which so much money is spent; one would have at least an opportunity of making
discoveries in the domain of metaphysics. The Panopticon is a privileged place for experiments on men, and for analysing
with complete certainty the transformations that may be obtained from them. The Panopticon may even provide an
apparatus for supervising its own mechanisms. In this central tower, the director may spy on all the employees that he
has under his orders: nurses, doctors, foremen, teachers, warders; he will be able to judge them continuously, alter their
behaviour, impose upon them the methods he thinks best; and it will even be possible to observe the director himself. An
inspector arriving unexpectedly at the centre of the Panopticon will be able to judge at a glance, without anything being
concealed from him, how the entire establishment is functioning. And, in any case, enclosed as he is in the middle of this
architectural mechanism, is not the – 5 director’s own fate entirely bound up with it ? The incompetent physician who has
allowed contagion to spread, the incompetent prison governor or workshop manager will be the first victims of an
epidemic or a revolt. ‘ “By every tie I could devise”, said the master of the Panopticon, “my own fate had been bound up
by me with theirs”‘ (Bentham, 177). The Panopticon functions as a kind of laboratory of power. Thanks to its mechanisms
of observation, it gains in efficiency and in the ability to penetrate into men’s behaviour; knowledge follows the advances
of power, discovering new objects of knowledge over all the surfaces on which power is exercised.
The plague-stricken town, the panoptic establishment – the differences are important. They mark, at a distance of a
century and a half, the transformations of the disciplinary programme. In the first case, there is an exceptional situation:
against an extraordinary evil, power is mobilized; it makes itself everywhere present and visible; it invents new
mechanisms; it separates, it immobilizes, it partitions constructs for a time what is both a counter-city and the perfect
society; it imposes an ideal functioning, but one that is reduced, in the final analysis, like the evil that it combats, to a
simple dualism of life and death: that which moves brings death, and one kills that which moves. The Panopticon, on the
other hand, must be understood as a generalizable model of functioning; a way of defining power relations in terms of
the everyday life of men. No doubt Bentham presents it as a particular institution, closed in upon itself. Utopias, perfectly
closed in upon themselves, are common enough. As opposed to the ruined prisons, littered with mechanisms of torture,
to be seen in Piranese’s engravings, the Panopticon presents a cruel, ingenious cage. The fact that it should have given
rise, even in our own time, to so many variations, projected or realized, is evidence of the imaginary intensity that it has
possessed for almost two hundred years. But the Panopticon must not be understood as a dream building: it is the
diagram of a mechanism of l power reduced to its ideal form; its functioning, abstracted from any obstacle, resistance or
friction, must be represented as a pure architectural and optical system: it is in fact a figure of political technology that
may and must be detached from any specific use.
It is polyvalent in its applications; it serves to reform prisoners, but also to treat patients, to instruct schoolchildren, to
confine the insane, to supervise workers, to put beggars and idlers to work. It is a type of location of bodies in space, of
distribution of individuals in relation to one another, of hierarchical organization, of disposition of centres and channels of
power, of definition of the instruments and modes of intervention of power, which can be implemented in hospitals,
workshops, schools, prisons. Whenever one is dealing with a multiplicity of individuals on whom a task or a particular
form of behaviour must be imposed, the panoptic schema may be used. It is – necessary modifications apart – applicable
‘to all establishments whatsoever, in which, within a space not too large to be covered or commanded by buildings, a
number of persons are meant to be kept under inspection’ (Bentham, 40; although Bentham takes the penitentiary
house as his prime example, it is because it has many different functions to fulfil – safe custody, confinement, solitude,
forced labour and instruction).
In each of its applications, it makes it possible to perfect the exercise of power. It does this in several ways: because it
can reduce the number of those who exercise it, while increasing the number of those on whom it is exercised. Because
it is possible to intervene at any moment and because the constant pressure acts even before the offences, mistakes or
crimes have been committed. Because, in these conditions, its strength is that it never intervenes, it is exercised
spontaneously and without noise, it constitutes a mechanism whose effects follow from one another. Because, without
any physical instrument other than architecture and geometry, it acts directly on individuals; it gives ‘power of mind over
mind’. The panoptic schema makes any apparatus of power more intense: it assures its economy (in material, in
personnel, in time); it assures its efficacity by its preventative character, its continuous functioning and its automatic
mechanisms. It is a way of obtaining from power ‘in hitherto unexampled quantity’, ‘a great and new instrument of
government . . .; its great excellence consists in the great strength it is capable of giving to any institution it may be
thought proper to apply it to’ (Bentham, 66).
It’s a case of ‘it’s easy once you’ve thought of it’ in the political sphere. It can in fact be integrated into any function
(education, medical treatment, production, punishment); it can increase the effect of this function, by being linked
closely with it; it can constitute a mixed mechanism in which relations of power (and of knowledge) may be precisely
adjusted, in the smallest detail, to the processes that are to be supervised; it can establish a dire
ct proportion between ‘surplus power’ and ‘surplus production’. In short, it arranges things in such a way that the exercis
e of power is not added on from the outside, like a rigid, heavy constraint, to the functions it invests, but is so sub
tly present in them as to increase their efficiency by itself increasing its own points of contact. The panoptic mechanism is n
ot simply a hinge, a point of exchange between a mechanism of power and a function; it is a way of making power relations
function in a function, and of making a function function through these power relations. Bentham’s Preface to Panop
ticon opens with a list of the benefits to be obtained from his ‘inspection-house’: ‘Morals reformed – health preserved
– industry invigorated – instruction diffused -public burthens lightened – Economy seated, as it were, upon a rock – the gor
dian knot of the Poor-Laws not cut, but untied – all by a simple idea in architecture!’ (Bentham, 39)
Furthermore, the arrangement of this machine is such that its enclosed nature does not preclude a per
manent presence from the outside: we have seen that anyone may come and exercise in the central tower the functions o
f surveillance, and that, this being the case, he can gain a clear idea of the way in which the surveillance is pract
ised. In fact, any panoptic institution, even if it is as rigorously closed as a penitentiary, may without difficulty be
subjected to such irregular and constant inspections: and not only by the appointed inspectors, but also by the public;
any member of society will have the right to come and see with his own eyes how the schools, hospitals, factories,
prisons function.
There is no risk, therefore, that the increase of power created by the panoptic machine may degenerate into tyranny; he
disciplinary mechanism will be democratically controlled, since it will be constantly accessible ‘to the great tribunal
committee of the world’. This Panopticon, subtly arranged so that an observer may observe, at a glance, so many
different individuals, also enables everyone to come and observe any of the observers. The seeing machine was once a
sort of dark room into which individuals spied; it has become a transparent building in which the exercise of power may
be supervised by society as a whole.
The panoptic schema, without disappearing as such or losing any of its properties, was destined to spread throughout the

social body; its vocation was to become a generalized function. The plague-stricken town provided an exceptional
disciplinary model: perfect, but absolutely violent; to the disease that brought death, power opposed its perpetual threat
of death; life inside it was reduced to its simplest expression; it was, against the power of death, the meticulous exercise
of the right of the sword. The Panopticon, on the other hand, has a role of amplification; although it arranges power,
although it is intended to make it more economic and more effective, it does so not for power itself, nor for the
immediate salvation of a threatened society: its aim is to strengthen the social forces – to increase production, to develop
the economy, spread education, raise the level of public morality; to increase and multiply.
How is power to be strengthened in such a way that, far from impeding progress, far from weighing upon it with its rules
and regulations, it actually facilitates such progress ? What intensificator of power will be able at the same time to be a
multiplicator of production ? How will power, by increasing its forces, be able to increase those of society instead of
confiscating them or impeding them ? The Panopticon’s solution to this problem is that the productive increase of power
can be assured only if, on the one hand, it can be exercised continuously in the very foundations of society, in the
subtlest possible way, and if, on the other hand, it functions outside these sudden, violent, discontinuous forms that are
bound up with the exercise of sovereignty. The body of the king, with its strange material and physical presence, with the
force that he himself deploys or transmits to some few others, is at the opposite extreme of this new physics of power
represented by panopticism; the domain of panopticism is, on the contrary, that whole lower region, that region of
irregular bodies, with their details, their multiple movements, their heterogeneous forces, their spatial relations; what
are required are mechanisms that analyse distributions, gaps, series, combinations, and which use instruments that
render visible, record, differentiate and compare: a physics of a relational and multiple power, which has its maximum
intensity not in the person of the king, but in the bodies that can be individualized by these relations. At the theoretical
level, Bentham defines another way of analysing the social body and the power relations that traverse it; in terms of
practice, he defines-a procedure of subordination of bodies and forces that must increase the utility of power while
practising the economy of the prince. Panopticism is the general principle of a new ‘political anatomy’ whose object and
end are not the relations of sovereignty but the relations of discipline. The celebrated, transparent, circular cage, with its
high towers powerful and knowing, may have been for Bentham a project of perfect disciplinary institution; but he also
set out to show how one may ‘unlock’ the disciplines and get them to function in a diffused, multiple, polyvalent way
throughout the whole social body. These disciplines~ which the classical age had elaborated in specific, relatively
enclosed places – barracks, schools, workshops – and whose total implementation had been imagined only at the limited
and temporary scale of a plague-stricken town, Bentham dreamt of transforming into a network of mechanisms that
would be everywhere and always alert, running through society without interruption in space or in time. The panoptic
arrangement provides the formula for this generalization. It programmes, at the level of an elementary and easily
transferable mechanism, the basic functioning of a society penetrated through and through with disciplinary mechanisms.
There are two images, then, of discipline. At one extreme, the discipline-blockade, the enclosed institution, established
on the edges of society, turned inwards towards negative functions: arresting evil, breaking communications, suspending
time. At the other extreme, with panopticism, is the discipline-mechanism: a functional mechanism that must improve
the exercise of power by making it lighter, more rapid, more effective, a design of subtle coercion for a society to come.
The movement from one project to the other, from a schema of exceptional discipline to one of a generalized
surveillance, rests on a historical transformation: the gradual extension of the mechanisms of discipline throughout the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, their spread throughout the whole social body, the formation of what might be
called in general the disciplinary society.
A whole disciplinary generalization – the Benthamite physics of power represents an acknowledgement o
f this – had operated throughout the classical age. The spread of disciplinary institutions, whose network was beg
inning to cover an ever larger surface and occupying above all a less and less marginal position, testifies to this: wha
t was an islet, a privileged place, a circumstantial measure, or a singular model, became a general formula; the regula
tions characteristic of the Protestant and pious armies of William of Orange or of Gustavus Adolphus were transformed into
regulations for all the armies of Europe; the model colleges of the Jesuits, or the schools of Batencour or Demia, follow
ing the example set by Sturm, provided the outlines for the general forms of educational discipline; the ordering of the
naval and military hospitals provided the model for the entire reorganization of hospitals in the eighteenth century.
But this extension of the disciplinary institutions was no doubt only the most visible aspect of various, more profound
processes.
1. The functional inversion of the disciplines. At first, they were expected to neutralize dangers, to fix useless or
disturbed populations, to avoid the inconveniences of over-large assemblies; now they were being aske
d to play apositive role, for they were becoming able to do so, to increase the possible utility of individuals.
Military discipline is no longer a mere means of preventing looting, desertion or failure to obey orders among the troops; it h
as become a basic technique to enable the army to exist, not as an assembled crowd, but as a unity that derives from th
is very unity an increase in its forces; discipline increases the skill of each individual, coordinates these skills,
accelerates movements, increases fire power, broadens the fronts of attack without reducing their vigour, increases the capa
city for resistance, etc. The discipline of the workshop, while remaining a way of enforcing respect for the regulations a
nd authorities, of preventing thefts or losses, tends to increase aptitudes, speeds, output and therefore profits; it st
ill exerts a moral influence over behaviour, but more and more it treats actions in terms of their results, introduces b
odies into a machinery, forces into an economy. When, in the seventeenth century, the provincial schools or the Ch
ristian elementary schools were founded, the justifications given for them were above all negative: those poor who were
unable to bring up their children left them ‘in ignorance of their obligations: given the difficulties they have in earn
ing a living, and themselves having been badly brought up, they are unable to communicate a sound upbringing that they
themselves never had’; this involves three major inconveniences: ignorance of God, idleness (with its consequent
drunkenness, impurity, larceny, brigandage); and the formation of those gangs of beggars, always ready to stir up
public disorder and ‘virtually to exhaust the funds of the Hotel-Dieu’ (Demia, 60-61). Now, at the beginning of the Revol
ution, the end laid down for primary education was to be, among other things, to ‘fortify’, to ‘develop the body’, to pre
pare the child ‘for a future in some mechanical work’, to give him ‘an observant eye, a sure hand and prompt habits’ (Talle
yrand’s Report to the Constituent Assembly, lo September 1791, quoted by Leon, 106). The disciplines function increasin
gly as techniques for making useful individuals. Hence their emergence from a marginal position on the confines of soci
ety, and detachment from the forms of exclusion or expiation, confinement or retreat. Hence the slow loosening
of their kinship with religious regularities and enclosures. Hence also their rooting in the most important, most cent
ral and most productive sectors of society. They become attached to some of the great essential functions: factory
production,~the transmission of knowledge, the diffusion of aptitudes and skills, the war-machine. Hence, too, the do
uble tendency one sees developing throughout the eighteenth century to increase the number of disciplinary institutions
and to discipline the existing apparatuses.
2. The swarming of disciplinary mechanisms. While, on the one hand, the disciplinary establishments increase, their mechanisms have a certain tendency to become ‘de-institutionalized’, to emerge from the closed fortresses in which they once functioned and to circulate in a ‘free’ state; the massive, compact disciplines are broken down
into flexible methods of control, which may be transferred and adapted. Sometimes the closed apparatuses add to their internal and specific function a role of external surveillance, developing around themselves a whole margin of lateral controls. Thus the Christian School must not simply train docile children; it must also make it possible to supervise the parents, to gain information as to their way of life, their resources, their piety, their morals. The school tends to
constitute minute social observatories that penetrate even to the adults and exercise regular supervision over them: the bad b
ehaviour of the child, or his absence, is a legitimate pretext, according to Demia, for one to go and question the ne
ighbours, especially if there is any reason to believe that the family will not tell the truth; one can then go and question
the parents themselves, to find out whether they know their catechism and the prayers, whether they are determine
d to root out the vices of their children, how many beds there are in the house and what the sleeping arrangements are;
the visit may end with the giving of alms, the present of a religious picture, or the provision of additional beds (Dem
ia, 39-40). Similarly, the hospital is increasingly conceived of as a base for the medical observation of the population out
side; after the burning down of the Hotel-Dieu in 1772, there were several demands that the large buildings, so heavy
and so disordered, should be replaced by a series of smaller hospitals; their function would be to take in the sick of the quarter,
but also to gather information, to be alert to any endemic or epidemic phenomena, to open dispensarie
s, to give advice to the inhabitants and to keep the authorities informed ,of the sanitary state of the region.
One also sees the spread of disciplinary procedures, not in the form of enclosed institutions, but as
centres of observation disseminated throughout society. Religious groups and charity organizations had long play
ed this role of ‘disciplining’ the population. From the Counter-Reformation to the philanthropy of the July monarchy,
initiatives of this type continued to increase; their aims were religious (conversion and moralization), economic (aid an
d encouragement to work) or political (the struggle against discontent or agitation). One has only to cite by way of exa
mple the regulations for the charity associations in the Paris parishes. The territory to be covered was divided into quar
ters and cantons and the members of the associations divided themselves up along the same lines. These members had to visi
t their respective areas regularly. ‘They will strive to eradicate places of ill-repute, tobacco shops, life-
classes, gaming house, public scandals, blasphemy, impiety, and any other disorders that may come to their knowledge.’ They
will also have to make individual visits to the poor; and the information to be obtained is laid down in regulations: t
he stability of the lodging, knowledge of prayers, attendance at the sacraments, knowledge of a trade, morality (and ‘whe
ther they have not fallen into poverty through their own fault’); lastly, ‘one must learn by skilful questioning in
what way they behave at home. Whether there is peace between them and their neighbours, whether they are careful to bring up
their children in the fear of God . . . whether they do not have their older children of different sexes sleeping toget
her and with them, whether they do not allow licentiousness and cajolery in their families, especially in their older da
ughters. If one has any doubts as to whether they are married, one must ask to see their marriage certificate’.5
3. The state-control of the mechanisms of discipline. In England, it was private religious groups that carried out, for along time, the functions of social discipline (cf. Radzinovitz, 203-14); in France, although a part o
f this role remained in the hands of parish guilds or charity associations, another – and no doubt the most important part –
was very soon taken over by the police apparatus.
The organization of a centralized police had long been regarded, even by contemporaries, as the most
direct expression of absolutism; the sovereign had wished to have ‘his own magistrate to whom he might directly entrust
his orders, his commissions, intentions, and who was entrusted with the execution of orders and orders under the King
‘s private seal’ (a note by Duval, first secretary at the police magistrature, quoted in Funck-Brentano, 1). In effect, i
n taking over a number of pre-existing functions – the search for criminals, urban surveillance, economic and political supe
rvision the police magistratures and the magistrature-general that presided over them in Paris transposed them into a si
ngle, strict, administrative machine: ‘All the radiations of force and information that spread from the circumference culminate in the magistrate-general. . . . It is he who operates all the wheels that together produce order and harmony. The effects of his administration cannot be better compared than to the movement of the celestial bodies’ (Des Essarts,
344 and 528).
But, although the police as an institution were certainly organized in the form of a state apparatus, and although this was
certainly linked directly to the centre of political sovereignty, the type of power that it exercises, the mechanisms it
operates and the elements to which it applies them are specific. It is an apparatus that must be coextensive with the
entire social body_and not only by the extreme limits that it embraces, but by the minuteness of the details it is
concerned with. Police power must bear ‘over everything’: it is not however the totality of the state nor of the kingdom
as visible and invisible body of the monarch; it is the dust of events, actions, behaviour, opinions- ‘everything that
happens’;’ the police are concerned with ‘those things of every moment’, those ‘unimportant things’, of which Catherine
II spoke in her Great Instruction (Supplement to the Instruction for the drawing up of a new code, 1769, article 535).
With the police, one is in the indefinite world of a supervision that seeks ideally to reach the most elementary particle,
the most passing phenomenon of the social body: ‘The ministry of the magistrates and police officers is of the greatest
importance; the objects that it embraces are in a sense definite, one may perceive them only by a sufficiently detailed
examination’ (Delamare, unnumbered Preface): the infinitely small of political power. And, in order to be exercised, this power had to be given the instrument of permanent, exhaustive, omnipresent surveillance, capable of making all visible, as long as it could itself remain invisible. It had to be like a faceless gaze that transformed the whole social body into a field of perception: thousands of eyes posted everywhere, mobile attentions ever on the alert, a long, hierarchized network which, according to Le Maire, comprised for Paris the forty-eight commissaires, the twenty inspecteurs, then the ‘observers’, who were paid regularly, the ‘basses mouches’, or secret agents, who were paid by the day, then the informers, paid according to the job done, and finally the
prostitutes. And this unceasing observation had to be accumulated in a series of reports and registers; throughout the
eighteenth century, an immense police text increasingly covered society by means of a complex documentary organi
zation (on the police registers in the eighteenth century, cf. Chassaigne). And, unlike the methods of judicial or a
dministrative writing, what was registered in this way were forms of behaviour, attitudes, possibilities, suspicions – a per
manent account of individuals’ behaviour.
Now, it should be noted that, although this police supervision was entirely ‘in the hands of the king
‘, it did not function in a single direction. It was in fact a double-entry system: it had to correspond, by manipulating the m
achinery of justice, to the immediate wishes of the king, but it was also capable of responding to solicitations from belo
w; the celebrated lettres de cachet, or orders under the king’s private seal, which were long the symbol of arbitrary royal rule and which brought detention into disrepute on political grounds, were in fact demanded by families, masters, local notables,
neighbours, parish priests; and their function was to punish by confinement a whole infra-penality, that of disorder,
agitation, disobedience, bad conduct; those things that Ledoux wanted to exclude from his architecturally perfect city
and which he called ‘offences of non-surveillance’. In short, the eighteenth-century police added a disciplinary function to
its role as the auxiliary of justice in the pursuit of criminals and as an instrument for the political supervision of plots,
opposition movements or revolts. It was a complex function since it linked the absolute power of the monarch to the
lowest levels of power disseminated in society; since, between these different, enclosed institutions of discipline
(workshops, armies, schools), it extended an intermediary network, acting where they could not intervene, disciplining
the non-disciplinary spaces; but it filled in the gaps, linked them together, guaranteed with its armed force an interstitial
discipline and a meta-discipline. ‘By means of a wise police, the sovereign accustoms the people to order and obedience’
(Vattel, 162).
The organization of the police apparatus in the eighteenth century sanctioned a generalization of the disciplines that
became co-extensive with the state itself. Although it was linked in the most explicit way with everything in the royal
power that exceeded the exercise of regular justice, it is understandable why the police offered such slight resistance to
the rearrangement of the judicial power; and why it has not ceased to impose its prerogatives upon it, with
everincreasing weight, right up to the present day; this is no doubt because it is the secular arm of the judiciary; but it is
also because to a far greater degree than the judicial institution, it is identified, by reason of its extent and mechanisms,
with a society of the disciplinary type. Yet it would be wrong to believe that the disciplinary functions were confiscated
and absorbed once and for all by a state apparatus. ‘Discipline’ may be identified neither with an institution nor with an apparatus; it is a type of power, a modality for its exercise, comprising a whole set of instruments, techniques, procedures, levels of application, targets; it is a ‘physics’ or an ‘anatomy’ of power, a technology. And it may be taken over either by ‘specialized’ institutions (the penitentiaries or ‘houses of correction’ of the nineteenth century), or by institutions that use it as an essential ins
trument for a particularend (schools, hospitals), or by pre-existing authorities that find in it a means of reinforcing or re
organizing their internal mechanisms of power (one day we should show how intra-familial relations, essentially in the parents-
children cell, have become ‘disciplined’, absorbing since the classical age external schemata, first educational and mili
tary, then medical, psychiatric, psychological, which have made the family the privileged locus of emergence for the disc
iplinary question of the normal and the abnormal); or by apparatuses that have made discipline their principle of internal
functioning (the disciplinarization of the administrative apparatus from the Napoleonic period), or finally by state a
pparatuses whose major, if not exclusive, function is to assure that discipline reigns over society as a whole (the po
lice).
On the whole, therefore, one can speak of the formation of a disciplinary society in this movement that stretches from
the enclosed disciplines, a sort of social ‘quarantine’, to an indefinitely generalizable mechanism of ‘panopticism’. Not
because the disciplinary modality of power has replaced all the others; but because it has infiltrated the others,
sometimes undermining them, but serving as an intermediary between them, linking them together, extending them and
above all making it possible to bring the effects of power to the most minute and distant elements. It assures an
infinitesimal distribution of the power relations. A few years after Bentham, Julius gave this society its birth certificate (Julius, 384-6). Speaking of the panoptic principle,he said that there was much more there than architectural ingenuity: it was an event in the ‘history of the human mind’.
In appearance, it is merely the solution of a technical problem; but, through it, a whole type of soc
iety emerges. Antiquity had been a civilization of spectacle. ‘To render accessible to a multitude of men the inspection of a small
number of objects’: this was the problem to which the architecture of temples, theatres and circuses responded. With
spectacle, there was a predominance of public life, the intensity of festivals, sensual proximity. In these rituals in which
blood flowed, society found new vigour and formed for a moment a single great body. The modern age poses the
opposite problem: ‘To procure for a small number, or even for a single individual, the instantaneous view of a great
multitude.’ In a society in which the principal elements are no longer the community and public life,
but, on the one hand, private individuals and, on the other, the state, relations can be regulated only in a form tha
t is the exact reverse of the spectacle: ‘It was to the modern age, to the ever-growing influence of the state, to its ever
more profound intervention in all the details and all the relations of social life, that was reserved the task of i
ncreaSing and perfecting its guarantees, by using and directing towards that great aim the building and distribution of buildings
intended to observe a great multitude of men at the same time.’
Julius saw as a fulfilled historical process that which Bentham had described as a technical programme. Our society is
one not of spectacle, but of surveillance; under the surface of images, one invests bodies in depth; behind the great
abstraction of exchange, there continues the meticulous, concrete training of useful forces; tbe circuits of communication
are the supports of an accumulation and a centralization of knowledge; the play of signs defines the anchorages of
power; it is not that the beautiful totality of the individual is amputated, repressed, altered by our social order, it is
rather that the individual is carefully fabricated in it, according to a whole technique of forces and bodies. We are much
less Greeks than we believe. We are neither in the amphitheatre, nor on the stage, but in the panoptic machine, invested
by its effects of power2 which we bring to ourselves since we are part of its mechanism. The importance, in historical
mythology, of the Napoleonic character probably derives from the fact that it is at the point of junction of the
monarchical, ritual exercise of sovereignty and the hierarchical, permanent exercise of indefinite discipline. He is the
individual who looms over everything with a single gaze which no detail, however minute, can escape:
‘You may consider that no part of the Empire is without surveillance, no crime, no offence, no contravention that remai
ns unpunished, and that the eye of the genius who can enlighten all embraces the whole of this vast machine, without, ho
wever, the slightest detail escaping his attention’ (Treilhard, 14). At the moment of its full blossoming, the disciplinar
y society still assumes with the Emperor the old aspect of the power of spectacle. As a monarch who is at one and the same ti
me a usurper of the ancient throne and the organizer of the new state, he combined into a single symbolic, ultimate figure the whole of the long process by which the pomp of sovereignty, the necessarily spectacular manifestations of power, wereextinguished one by one in the daily exercise of surveillance, in a panopticism in which the vigilance of intersecting gazes
was soon to render useless both the eagle and the sun.  The formation of the disciplinary society is connected with a number of broad historical processes -economic, juridico-political and, lastly, scientific – of which it forms part.
1. Generally speaking, it might be said that the disciplines are techniques for assuring the ordering of human
multiplicities. It is true that there is nothing exceptional or even characteristic in this; every system of power is
presented with the same problem. But the peculiarity of the disciplines is that they try to define in relation to the
multiplicities a tactics of power that fulfils three criteria: firstly, to obtain the exercise of power at the lowest possible cost

(economically, by the low expenditure it involves; politically, by its discretion, its low exteriorization, its relative
invisibility, the little resistance it arouses); secondly, to bring the effects of this social power to their maximum intensity
and to extend them as far as possible, without either failure or interval; thirdly, to link this ‘economic’ growth of power
with the output of the apparatuses (educational, military, industrial or medical) within which it is exercised; in short, to
increase both the docility and the utility of all the elements of the system. This triple objective of the disciplines
corresponds to a well-known historical conjuncture. One aspect of this conjuncture was the large demographic thrust of
the eighteenth century; an increase in the floating population (one of the primary objects of discipline is to fix; it is an
anti-nomadic technique); a change of quantitative scale in the groups to be supervised or manipulated (from the
beginning of the seventeenth century to the eve of the French Revolution, the school population had been increasing
rapidly, as had no doubt the hospital population; by the end of the eighteenth century, the peace-time army exceeded
200,000 men). The other aspect of the conjuncture was the growth in the apparatus of production, which was becoming
more and more extended and complex, it was also becoming more costly and its profitability had to be increased. The
development of the disciplinary methods corresponded to these two processes, or rather, no doubt, to the new need to
adjust their correlation. Neither the residual forms of feudal power nor the structures of the administrative monarchy, nor
the local mechanisms of supervision, nor the unstable, tangled mass they all formed together could carry out this role:
they were hindered from doing so by the irregular and inadequate extension of their network, by their often conflicting
functioning, but above all by the ‘costly’ nature of the power that was exercised in them. It was costly in several senses:
because directly it cost a great deal to the Treasury; because the system of corrupt offices and farmed-out taxes weighed
indirectly, but very heavily, on the population; because the resistance it encountered forced it into a cycle of perpetual
reinforcement; because it proceeded essentially by levying (levying on money or products by royal, seigniorial,
ecclesiastical taxation; levying on men or time by corvées of press-ganging, by locking up or banishing vagabonds). The
development of the disciplines marks the appearance of elementary techniques belonging to a quite different economy:
mechanisms of power which, instead of proceeding by deduction, are integrated into the productive efficiency of the
apparatuses from within, into the growth of this efficiency and into the use of what it produces. For the old principle of
‘levying-violence’, which governed the economy of power, the disciplines substitute the principle of ‘mildness-production-
profit’. These are the techniques that make it possible to adjust the multiplicity of men and the multiplication of the
apparatuses of production (and this means not only ‘production’ in the strict sense, but also the production of knowledge
and skills in the school, the production of health in the hospitals, the production of destructive force in the army).
In this task of adjustment, discipline had to solve a number of problems for which the old economy of power was not
sufficiently equipped. It could reduce the inefficiency of mass phenomena: reduce what, in a multiplicity, makes it much
less manageable than a unity; reduce what is opposed to the use of each of its elements and of their sum; reduce
everything that may counter the advantages of number. That is why discipline fixes; it arrests or regulates movements; it
clears up confusion; it dissipates compact groupings of individuals wandering about the country in unpredictable ways; it
establishes calculated distributions. It must also master all the forces that are formed from the very constitution of an
organized multiplicity; it must neutralize the effects of counter-power that spring from them and which form a resistance
to the power that wishes to dominate it: agitations, revolts, spontaneous organizations, coalitions -anything that may
establish horizontal conjunctions. Hence the fact that the disciplines use procedures of partitioning and verticality, that
they introduce, between the different elements at the same level, as solid separations as possible, that they define
compact hierarchical networks, in short, that they oppose to the intrinsic, adverse force of multiplicity the technique of
the continuous, individualizing pyramid. They must also increase the particular utility of each element of the multiplicity,
but by means that are the most rapid and the least costly, that is to say, by using the multiplicity itself as an instrument
of this growth. Hence, in order to extract from bodies the maximum time and force, the use of those overall methods
known as time-tables, collective training, exercises, total and detailed surveillance. Furthermore, the disciplines must
increase the effect of utility proper to the multiplicities, so that each is made more useful than the simple sum of its
elements: it is in order to increase the utilizable effects of the multiple that the disciplines define tactics of distribution,
reciprocal adjustment of bodies, gestures and rhythms, differentiation of capacities, reciprocal coordination in relation to
apparatuses or tasks. Lastly, the disciplines have to bring into play the power relations, not above but inside the very
texture of the multiplicity, as discreetly as possible, as well articulated on the other functions of these multiplicities and
also in the least expensive way possible: to this correspond anonymous instruments of power, coextensive with the
multiplicity that they regiment, such as hierarchical surveillance, continuous registration, perpetual assessment and
classification. In short, to substitute for a power that is manifested through the brilliance of those who exercise it, a
power that insidiously objectifies those on whom it is applied; to form a body of knowledge about these individuals,
rather than to deploy the ostentatious signs of sovereignty. In a word, the disciplines are the ensemble of minute
technical inventions that made it possible to increase the useful size of multiplicities by decreasing the inconveniences of
the power which, in order to make them useful, must control them. A multiplicity, whether in a workshop or a nation, an
army or a school, reaches the threshold of a discipline when the relation of the one to the other becomes favourable.
If the economic take-off of the West began with the techniques that made possible the accumulation of capital, it might
perhaps be said that the methods for administering the accumulation of men 220 Panopticism made possible a political

take-off in relation to the traditional, ritual, costly, violent forms of power, which soon fell into disuse and were
superseded by a subtle, calculated technology of subjection. In fact, the two processes – the accumulation of men and
the accumulation of capital – cannot be separated; it would not have been possible to solve the problem of the
accumulation of men without the growth of an apparatus of production capable of both sustaining them and using them;
conversely, the techniques that made the cumulative ‘rnultiplicity of men useful accelerated the accumulation of capital.
At~a’ less general level, the technological mutations of the apparatus of production, the division of labour and the
elaboration of the disciplinary techniques sustained an ensemble of very close relations (cf. Marx, Capital, vol. 1, chapter
XIII and the very interesting analysis in Guerry and Deleule). Each makes the other possible and necessary; each
provides a model for the other. The disciplinary pyramid constituted the small cell of power within which the separation,
coordination and supervision of tasks was imposed and made efficient; and analytical partitioning of time, gestures and
bodily forces constituted an operational schema that could easily be transferred from the groups to be subjected to the
mechanisms of production; the massive projection of military methods onto industrial organization was an example of
this modelling of the division of labour following the model laid down by the schemata of power. But, on the other hand,
the technical analysis of the process of production, its ‘mechanical’ breaking-down, were projected onto the labour force
whose task it was to implement it: the constitution of those disciplinary machines in which the individual forces that they
bring together are composed into a whole and therefore increased is the effect of this projection. Let us say that
discipline is the unitary technique by which the body is reduced as a ‘political’ force at the least cost and maximized as a
useful force. The growth of a capitalist economy gave rise to the specific modality of disciplinary p ower whose general
formulas, techniques of submitting forces and bodies, in short, ‘political anatomy’, could be operated in the most diverse
political regimes, apparatuses or institutions.
2. The panoptic modality of power – at the elementary, technical, merely physical level at which it is situated – is notunder the immediate dependence or a direct extension of the great juridico-political structures of a society; it is
nonetheless not absolutely independent. Historically, the process by which the bourgeoisie became in
the course of the eighteenth century the politically dominant class was masked by the establishment of an explicit, coded and formally egalitarian juridical framework, made possible by the organization of a parliamentary, representative regime. But the
development and generalization of disciplinary mechanisms constituted the other, dark side of these processes. The
general juridical form that guaranteed a system of rights that were egalitarian in principle was supported by these tiny,
everyday, physical mechanisms, by all those systems of micro-power that are essentially non-egalitarian and
asymmetrical that we call the disciplines. And although, in a formal way, the representative regime makes it possible,
directly or indirectly, with or without relays, for the will of all to form the fundamental authority of sovereignty, the
disciplines provide, at the base, a guarantee of the submission of forces and bodies. The real, corporal disciplines
constituted the foundation of the formal, juridical liberties. The contract may have been regarded as the ideal foundation
of law and political power; panopticism constituted the technique, universally widespread, of coercion. It continued to
work in depth on the juridical structures of society, in order to make the effective mechanisms of power function in
opposition to the formal framework that it had acquired. The ‘Enlightenment’, which discovered the liberties, also
invented the disciplines.
In appearance, the disciplines constitute nothing more than an infra-law. They seem to extend the general forms defined
by law to the infinitesimal level of individual lives; or they appear as methods of training that enable individuals to
become integrated into these general demands. They seem to constitute the same type of law on a different scale,
thereby making it more meticulous and more indulgent. The disciplines should be regarded as a sort ofcounter-law They
have the precise role of introducing insuperable asymmetries and excluding reciprocities. First, because discipline creates
between individuals a ‘private’ link, which is a relation of constraints entirely different from contractual obligation; the
acceptance of a discipline may be underwritten by contract; the way in which it is imposed, the mechanisms it brings into
play, the non-reversible subordination of one group of people by another, the ‘surplus’ power that is always fixed on the
same side, the inequality of position of the different ‘partners’ in relation to the common regulation, all these distinguish
the disciplinary link from the contractual link, and make it possible to distort the contractual link systematically from the
moment it has as its content a mechanism of discipline. We know, for example, how many real procedures undermine
the legal fiction of the work contract: workshop discipline is not the least important. Moreover, whereas the juridical
systems define juridical subjects according to universal norms, the disciplines characterize, classify, specialize; they
distribute along a scale, around a norm, hierarchize individuals in relation to one another and, if necessary, disqualify and
invalidate. In any case, in the space and during the time in which they exercise their control and bring into play the
asymmetries of their power, they effect a suspension of the law that is never total, but is never annulled either. Regular
and institutional as it may be, the discipline, in its mechanism, is a ‘counter-law’. And, although the universal juridicism
of modern society seems to fix limits on the exercise of power, its universally widespread panopticism enables it to
operate, on the underside of the law, a machinery that is both immense and minute, which supports, reinforces,
multiplies the asymmetry of power and undermines the limits that are traced around the law. The minute disciplines, the
panopticisms of every day may well be below the level of emergence of the great apparatuses and the great political
struggles. But, in the genealogy of modern society, they have been, with the class domination that traverses it, the

political counterpart of the juridical norms according to which power was redistributed. Hence, no doubt, the importance that has been given for so long to the small techniques of discipline, to those apparently insignificant tricks that it has

invented, and even to those ‘sciences’ that give it a respectable face; hence the fear of abandoning them if one cannot
find any substitute; hence the affirmation that they are at the very foundation of society, and an element in its
equilibrium, whereas they are a series of mechanisms for unbalancing power relations definitively and everywhere;
hence the persistence in regarding them as the humble, but concrete form of every morality, whereas they are a set of
physico-political techniques.
To return to the problem of legal punishments, the prison with all the corrective technology at its disposal is to be
resituated at the point where the codified power to punish turns into a disciplinary power to observe; at the point where
the universal punishments of the law are applied selectively to certain individuals and always the same ones; at the point
where the redefinition of the juridical subject by the penalty becomes a useful training of the criminal; at the point where
the law is inverted and passes outside itself, and where the counter-law becomes the effective and institutionalized
content of the juridical forms. What generalizes the power to punish, then, is not the universal consciousness of the law
in each juridical subject; it is the regular extension, the infinitely minute web of panoptic techniques.
3. Taken one by one, most of these techniques have a long history behind them. But what was new, in the eighteenth
century, was that, by being combined and generalized, they attained a level at which the formation of knowledge and the
increase of power regularly reinforce one another in a circular process. At this point, the disciplines crossed the
‘technological’ threshold. First the hospital, then the school, then, later, the workshop were not simply ‘reordered’ by the
disciplines; they became, thanks to them, apparatuses such that any mechanism of objectification could be used in them
as an instrument of subjection, and any growth of power could give rise in them to possible branches of knowledge; it
was this link, proper to the technological systems, that made possible within the disciplinary element the formation of
clinical medicine, psychiatry, child psychology, educational psychology, the rationalization of labour. It is a double
process, then: an epistemological ‘thaw’ through a refinement of power relations; a multiplication ofthe effects of power
through the formation and accumulation of new forms of knowledge.
The extension of the disciplinary methods is inscribed in a broad historical process: the development at about the same
time of many other technologies – agronomical, industrial, economic. But it must be recognized that, compared with the
mining industries, the emerging chemical industries or methods of national accountancy, compared with the blast
furnaces or the steam engine, panopticism has received little attention. It is regarded as not much more than a bizarre
little utopia, a perverse dream – rather as though Bentham had been the Fourier of a police society, and the Phalanstery
had taken on the form of the Panopticon. And yet this represented the abstract formula of a very real technology, that of
individuals. There were many reasons why it received little praise; the most obvious is that the discourses to which it
gave rise rarely acquired, except in the academic classifications, the status of sciences; but the real reason is no doubt
that the power that it operates and which it augments is a direct, physical power that men exercise upon one another. An
inglorious culmination had an origin that could be only grudgingly acknowledged. But it would be unjust to compare the
disciplinary techniques with such inventions as the steam engine or Amici’s microscope. They are muchless; and yet, in
a way, they are much more. If a historical equivalent or at least a point of comparison had to be found for them, it would
be rather in the inquisitorial’ technique. The eighteenth century invented the techniques of discipline and the examination, rather as the Middle Ages invented the judicial investigation. But it did so by quite different means. The investigation procedure, an old f
iscal and administrative technique, had developed above all with the reorganization of the Church and the increase of the prin
cely states in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. At this time it permeated to a very large degree the jurisprudence
first of the ecclesiastical courts, then of the lay courts. The investigation as an authoritarian search for a truth observed or attested
was thus opposed to the old procedures of the oath, the ordeal, the judicial duel, the judgement of God or even of the
transaction between private individuals. The investigation was the sovereign power arrogating to itself the right to
establish the truth by a number of regulated techniques. Now, although the investigation has since then been an integral
part of western justice (even up to our own day), one must not forget either its political origin, its link with the birth of
the states and of monarchical sovereignty, or its later extension and its role in the formation of knowledge. In fact, the
investigation has been the no doubt crude, but fundamental element in the constitution of the empirical sciences; it has
been the juridico-political matrix of this experimental knowledge, which, as we know, was very rapidly released at the
end of the Middle Ages. It is perhaps true to say that, in Greece, mathematics were born from techniques of
measurement; the sciences of nature, in any case, were born, to some extent, at the end of the Middle Ages, from the
practices of investigation. The great empirical knowledge that covered the things of the world and transcribed them into
the ordering of an indefinite discourse that observes, describes and establishes the ‘facts’ (at a time when the western
world was beginning the economic and political conquest of this same world) had its operating model no doubt in the
Inquisition – that immense invention that our recent mildness has placed in the dark recesses of our memory. But what
this politico-juridical, administrative and criminal, religious and lay, investigation was to the sciences of nature,
disciplinary analysis has been to the sciences of man. These sciences, which have so delighted our ‘humanity’ for over a

century, have their technical matrix in the petty, malicious minutiae of the disciplines and their investigations. These
investigations are perhaps to psychology, psychiatry, pedagogy, criminology, and so many other strange sciences, what
the terrible power of investigation was to the calm knowledge of the animals, the plants or the earth. Another power,
another knowledge. On the threshold of the classical age, Bacon, lawyer and statesman, tried to develop a methodology
of investigation for the empirical sciences. What Great Observer will produce the methodology of examination for the
human sciences ? Unless, of course, such a thing is not possible. For, although it is true that, in becoming a technique for
the empirical sciences, the investigation has detached itself from the inquisitorial procedure, in which it was historically
rooted, the examination has remained extremely close to the disciplinary power that shaped it. It has always been and
still is an intrinsic element of the disciplines. Of course it seems to have undergone a speculative purification by
integrating itself with such sciences as psychology and psychiatry. And, in effect, its appearance in the form of tests,
interviews, interrogations and consultations is apparently in order to rectify the mechanisms of discipline: educational
psychology is supposed to correct the rigours of the school, just as the medical or psychiatric interview is supposed to
rectify the effects of the discipline of work. But we must not be misled; these techniques merely refer individuals from
one disciplinary authority to another, and they reproduce, in a concentrated or formalized form, the schema of power-
knowledge proper to each discipline (on this subject, cf. Tort). The great investigation that gave rise to the sciences of
nature has become detached from its politico-juridical model; the examination, on the other hand, is still caught up in
disciplinary technology.
In the Middle Ages, the procedure of investigation gradually superseded the old accusatory justice, by a process initiated
from above; the disciplinary technique, on the other hand, insidiously and as if from below, has invaded a penal justice
that is still, in principle, inquisitorial. All the great movements of extension that characterize modern penality – the
problematization of the criminal behind his crime, the concern with a punishment that is a correction, a therapy, a
normalization, the division of the act of judgement between various authorities that are supposed to measure, assess,
diagnose, cure, transform individuals – all this betrays the penetration of the disciplinary examination into the judicial
inquisition.
What is now imposed on penal justice as its point of application, its ‘useful’ object, will no longer be the body of the
guilty man set up against the body of the king; nor will it be the juridical subject of an ideal contract; it will be the
disciplinary individual. The extreme point of penal justice under the Ancien Regime was the infinite segmentation of the
body of the regicide: a manifestation of the strongest power over the body of the greatest criminal, whose total
destruction made the crime explode into its truth. The ideal point of penality today would be an indefinite discipline: an
interrogation without end, an investigation that would be extended without limit to a meticulous and ever more analytical
observation, a judgement that would at the same time be the constitution of a file that was never closed, the calculated
leniency of a penalty that would be interlaced with the ruthless curiosity of an examination, a procedure that would be at
the same time the permanent measure of a gap in relation to an inaccessible norm and the asymptotic movement that
strives to meet in infinity. The public execution was the logical culmination of a procedure governed by the Inquisition.
The practice of placing individuals under ‘observation’ is a natural extension of a justice imbued with disciplinary methods
and examination procedures. Is it surprising that the cellular prison, with its regular chronologies, forced labour, its
authorities of surveillance and registration, its experts in normality, who continue and multiply the functions of the judge,
should have become the modern instrument of penality ? Is it surprising that prisons resemble factories, schools,
barracks, hospitals, which all resemble prisons ?
I usually hate cover versions…
Love ya. x
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