To talk of God is almost a presumption, for who can say with any certainty that it is or if it is, in what sense of “is” it is, and what is its nature. And, perhaps, of all those who talk of God, the philosopher is the least qualified, as by temperament and training he lives in a world where concepts and arguments and ratiocinative thought are more real than anything else. And God, whatever it may or may not be, is not an idea or a concept or the conclusion of a well-reasoned chain of argumentation. Nor is it even a hypothesis to be tested or a necessary postulate without which our experience would make no sense and life cease to have a meaning.

Can we think without words? At first, the question is surprising, and the answer is most often, “No.”

This response is quite understandable. Words and thought are so closely connected in our mental activity that they appear almost indissociable, since if we follow an introspective process, it is not possible for us to analyze our reasoning and our feelings without having recourse to words. Moreover, man's verbal expression is not only a means of communication; it is also an instrument of progress for the mind, without which the mind would not be able to attain the very high levels of abstract and conceptual thought that are proper to it. No one would dream of minimizing the important influence of words on thought. It is more correct to magnify it as Paul Valéry did: “The honor of man, blessed speech.”

During the Renaissance, the su was regarded primarily as a source of light which gave form to all things*; during the Enlightenment, paradoxically, the sun was regarded primarily as a source of heat. Paracelsian chemistry of the 1500s introduced salt as a third principle which embodied the other two, mercury and sulphur; salt was that universal mediating presence which represented earth. By the late 1700s salt was no longer a metaphysical principle but an acid-base compound, and volatile salts aroused most interest. These changes in scientific perceptions of sun and salt ran parallel to one another: beginning as transcendent sources of form, sun and salt came to be considered manipulable sources of energy. Our r-;odern approach to energy derives from a period during which Europeans gradually lost their belief in the creative agency of two essentials to human life.

My office is in a medical building in suburban Washington, D.C. —in Bethesda, named for the Biblical healing pool. All of the offices of my building are occupied by medical specialists, representing the most sophisticated training in the application of the scientific method. Downstairs and of service to all of us is a pharmacy, looking for all the world like a research laboratory with its gleaming surface, meticulous cleanliness, micro-balances, records, reference books, and cash register. It is neatly stocked with modern, physiologically-defined preparations of active, predictable drugs. Among the enzymes, hormones, antibiotics, and chemo therapeutics for neoplasm, are a few newly hatched, unfledged remedies, but most are dependable and thoroughly assayed. The intently busy, white-coated, unsentimental pharmacists serve a hard-headed group of practitioners and a neighborhood of upper-class, well-educated patients. It is disconcerting, then, to see the undersurface of this sophistication, the irrational shadows beneath the science. On the front counter of the pharmacy are displayed attractive colored advertisements and pleasantly seductive inducements to self-improvement through diet cults and foods, tranquilizers, energizers, protein supplements, happiness promisers, preparations to enhance sexuality, vitamins artfully combined, and many packeted stuffs of no rational or pretended use whatsoever. “Why,” I ask the gimlet-eyed pharmacist, “do you have this large display of ‘Il Wah Genuine Chinese Ginseng, the Miraculous Herb of Life’? Doesn't it violate your university training? Your integrity as a modernist?” “Oh,” says he, “ginseng makes you feel better! You have more energy. You can do more! Lots of athletes use it, and people who work too hard and feel exhausted. It's only $3.45 a package. The prescriptions you give me once in a while yield no profit, but I sell a lot of ginseng. I use it myself!” Bemused, I walk back to my office, wondering about the easy abandonment of rationality, and pull down a box of medicinals collected the year before at an open-air pharmacy in the riverside markets of Brazil. The box gives forth deliciously rich forest smells. The packets within contain barks, roots, seeds, all of purported medical value. Other packets have amulets, charms, and protectives. The colorful labels on some of the patent medicines invoke ancient saints and healers, and promise happiness, health, prosperity and power. The essential rationale for their use in indigenous medicine was illusive to me despite many conversations with indigenous healers, and many times I have gone through the hundreds of items trying to find the key to what Brazilian and North American people fundamentally want from a pharmacy. In both cultures, where does magic stop and science begin? Do shops in both countries vend talismans in the search for the enhanced life, and fetishes against death? How much of all drug use is ritual and inchoate expectation ? How can we reduce the mystification and incrementally increase the rationality of our pharmacopeia?

Today, the linguistic approach offers us an irreplaceable method for the direct study of the constitutive processes of social phenomena (A. Delobelle, 1981). In fact, each social phenomenon is basically inhabited or interpreted by language. It is language processes that give its ramifications to the social and form disstinct sub-groups in it. This is why, when these processes are observed in their formal dynamics, outside their vehiculated “contents,” it is as though we find ourselves faced with the very functioning of the social: as though we have in it a typically experimental terrain for the direct study of social phenomena.

Critical Theory is usually associated with an intellectual tradition which emerged from the work of a group of social philosophers who coalesced around the Institute for Social Research, established in Frankfurt in 1923. This tradition is now considered to have two major branches: the first related to the work of Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Herbert Marcuse, Erich Fromm, Leo Lowenthal, and Walter Benjamin, while the second pertains to the expansion of this original work which has been proffered by Jürgen Habermas, Claus Offe, Niklas Luhmann, Karl-Otto Apel, and others. It should be immediately noted that Critical Theory does not form a unity, for it does mean different things to both its early and current adherents. Without overstating the case, however, the common theme which unites these theorists is a dislike for the types of determinism which saw socialism arising automatically from either appropriate social conditions or at the behest of elite party members. In each case the belief was inadvertently advanced that people do not make their own history. In line with the work of Lukács and Korsch, these critical theorists wanted to develop a more vital Marxist theory, one which understands human praxis to be at the center of social development and, thus, human liberation.