Praise for Paul Feyerabend “The caustic verve, the studied nonchalane one of the very few true anarchists and (ree spirits in modern academic-philosophic life come through beautHlully lay this mene But so does Paul Feyerabend's passion for isle aid poignantly, his love of love. A memorable eplloyue —George Steines ‘This arresting autobiography is un fascinating. Like the man, the book Is remarkably {1ansh, sari and contentious about philosophy, science, universities, opera I JIngly provocative ane and, unflinchingly, himself. It is an absorbing odyssey lab egatisne that in the end becomes strangely and movingly sedeoniy Daniel Kevles ‘When reading Feyerabend, imagine a tall, very gentle man, with a trace of Viennese accent and Hastert Liwrapeun wit. And, between the lines, listen to the philosopher's laughter about those who take philosophy too seriously —Marcel Weber, Times Higher Education Supplement “Paul Feyerabend was a humanist, He was also { —Tan Hacking, Common Knowledge “Paul Feyerabend was one of the most gilted colourful, original, and eccentric figutes in post-war academic philosophy.” John Watkins, The Independent The University of Chicago Press ISBN O-22b-24531-4 NIQON ii sreazz6245317 a — Le! 2, [p) eT E< feo} GQNIGWUIAII 1NWd KILLING TIME$22.95 Usa illing Time is the story of an extraordinary Ute Finished only weeks before Paul Feyerabend's death, itis the self-portrait of one of this century's ‘most original and influential intellectuals. ‘Trained in physics and astronomy, Feyerabend, ‘was best known as a philosopher of science. But he emphatically was not a builder of theories ora writer of rules. Rather, his fame was in pow= erful, plain-spoken critiques of “big” science and “big” philosophy. In landmark essays and books, and in legendary lectures delivered from Berlin to Berkeley, Feyerabend gave voice to a radically democratic “epistemological anarchism": he argued forcefully that there is not one way to knowledge but many principled paths; not one truth or one rationality but different, competing, pictures of the workings of the world. “Anything. {g0es," he said about the ways of science in his ‘most famous book, Against Method. And he meant it. Yet few know much about the private life of this most public of intellectuals. For the first time, Feyerabend traces his trajectory from a Iower-middle-class childhood in Vienna to the height of international academic success. He writes compellingly and with extraordinary hon- sty of living through Nazism and his experience In the German army on the Russian front, where three bullets left him crippled, impotent, and in lifelong pain, He recalls his promising talent as an operatic tenor (an enduring passion), his ‘encounters with everyone from Ludwig Wittgenstein to Bertolt Brecht, innumerable love alfairs, four marriages, and a career so rich he ‘once held tenured positions at four universities at the same time, Although not written as an intellectual autobi ography, Killing Time chronicles the people, ideas, (Continued om back flap) and conflicts of sixty years. Feyerabend writes frankly of complicated relationships with his ‘mentor Karl Popper and his friend and frequent opponent Imre Lakatos, and his reactions to a growing reputation as the “worst enemy of sci- cence." He is characteristically self-critical and ‘matter-of-fact, whether about the controversy he regularly provoked or the doubts he had about hhis own ideas. “I never ‘denigrated’ reason, what- ever that is," he writes, “only some petrified and ‘tryannical version oft. Nor did I assume my cri- tique was the end of the matter.” Feyerabend's legacy is immense: the sea change in the way we understand science would, have been impossible without him. Contentious, often unforgiving, Feyerabend here is also reflec- tive, even lyrical about the pleasures of phitoso- Phy and his love for Grazia Borrini, with whom he shared the last decade of his life. Rarely has ‘an intellectual of this stature told his story with such openness, honesty, or joy. Pavt FeyeRasenp’s books include Farewell to ‘Reason, Science in a Free Society, Sclence as an Art, ‘two volumes of Philosophical Papers, and Against Method, now in its third edition, He taught at many universities, principally the University of California, Berkeley, and the Federal Institute of Technology, Zurich. He died at the age of seventy in February 1994, JACKET PHOTOGRAPH: Paul Feyerabend at Spoleto, July 1993. Photograph by Serafino Amato Book ano jAcKEY DESIGN: Joseph AkderferKILLING TIME THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PAUL | FEYERABEND THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS Chicago and LondonThe University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 ‘The University of Chicago Press, Ltd, London (©1995 by The University of Chicago Allsights reserved, Published 1995 Printed in the United States of America (04 03 02:01 00 99.98 97.9695 12345 ISBN: 0-226-24531-4 (cloth) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Feyerabend, Paul K, 1924-94 Kling time: the autobiography of Paul Feyerabend. pom. Includes index. 1. Feyerabend, Paul K, 1924-94. 2, Phllosophers—Biography. 43, Intelectuals—Biography. 4. Science—Philosophy—History—20mn century. I. Tite. B3240.F484A3 1995 193—de20 i) 9e4san1 cp ‘This book sprinted on acid-free paper To BubileinEinstweilen bis den Bau der Welt Philosophie zusammenhait, erhiilt sie das Getriebe Durch Hunger und durch Liebe J-E-C. von Scutten, Die Tate der Philosophen, 1798; from 1803 better known as Die Weleweisen CONTENTS 1. Family 1 2.GrowingUp 11 3. High School 21 4. Occupation and War 36 5. Apoldaand Weimar 54 6. University and Early Travels 62 7, Sex, Song, and Electrodynamics 79 8. London and After 87 9, Bristol 101 10. Berkeley, the First Twenty Years 111 11. London, Berlin, and New Zealand 127 12. Against Method 139 13, Brighton, Kassel, and Zurich 153 14, Marriage and Retirement 165 15. Fading Away 177 Postscript 183 Index 1881 Family Dy ces 5.15 g0 thcame interest n mya ceo and th ety eso ny ile, The mmedit son as the eth anniveray of Aust’ 198 unieaton ith Ger many watched th events om Sharan, here happened tobe teaching at the tine. Asian hd neleomed Hier wth tremendous ess. Now The stem condemnations nd resounding humanitarian peas. Nolo them wee dion sil hy seemed oberaherfue seed histo het ge cry and tought that personal eprt might beater may oflokingat histo. 1aso nse ears Aer our decades oflecturngat ng Amecan universes hadalmos frgten mnyersin the Thi Rech, tesa sade then sy asl in Franc, Hugo, us, ean, Een my aes ed become stanges, Whowere ths peoplewhohad bought meu. Ineanguagemademe the neous optimist sam axe. Sonal invade my deans? And how i hapen tat ened tparan intel of sot pfesar even wth smooth se tnyacooked reputation anda wonder wi iisnoteaytoanswertosequstions never wrote ay 1d nt kept not even fom Nobel rx winners an thewanayafamiabur omateroom or what then thought tree mormpertnt boos The en ppes tha sured more tyactdent than by des rete ith mariage adda cer haem paren gandprents andsome re wanderersMy father assembled them in 1939, when Austrian civil servants had to prove their Aryan ancestry. Starting from documents al- ready in our possession, he wrote to church registries, used their answers for further inquiries, and worked his way back until the information dried up. 1also have the official records of my father’s military career, my school reports, administrative details of my service in the German army (Soldbuch), and a notebook contai ing lectures I gave in 1944. Clearing out my office and my ward- robe before my departure for Italy in 1989, | found additional material. There were letters, pocket calendars, bills, telephone numbers, pictures, and documents I had completely forgotten about. Using this material I can report that my maternal grandfather married a woman twenty years younger than he; that my mother’s birth was legitimized twenty-two years after she was ‘bom; that my paternal grandfather was the illegitimate son of Helena Feierabend, occupation “houseguest” (Gastin); that he re- placed the i in Feierabend (Feierabend is a common word in Ger- ‘man, meaning knocking-off time) by the more exotic y; and that he married Maria, née Bizjak or Pezjak, a Slovenian national from Bohinjska Bela. I met Maria when I was about seven years old. She sat in the comer of a large room, dressed in the black clothes of a peasant woman. Though already slightly senile she was an impos- ing presence. Speaking German with a heavy accent she told me the story of her two marriages. “I married a railwayman,” she said; “he died; but {at once”—and here she raised her voice—“married another railwayman.” Then she started all over again. She also told me how she improved her vision by washing her eyes with soapy water. “It hurts—but it makes you see better.” This was the only occasion when I saw her. It was long ago and I was a confused little boy; yet I often think of her with sadness and a sense of loss. ‘My father had two brothers and two sisters. Uncle Kaspar was a bald-headed gentleman with a daring mustache and missing an FAMILY 3 index finger. He had strong views on almost anything. “Discipline is good for the soul,” he said, and hit me. At sixty-five he married a twenty-year-old girl; they divorced when he was sixty-six. Aunt Julie was a dour spinster with a grating voice. She tried to get mar- ried but gave it up when one of the prospective husbands departed ‘with her savings. She kept house for us during the war, after my mother had died. When she left, silver spoons, vases, money, sugar, butter, and flour (rare during the war) left with her. ‘Aunt Agnes was the wife of astation master in Carynthia. We visited them when I was five or six years old. remember the color ful farm machinery that was being unloaded, the fast train that went by in the afternoon, the restaurant, and the chicken coop behind the station. I spent my days climbing around in the hills above the rails, and I still bear the scars I got from falling down a ravine. Occasionally I went into the chicken coop, closed the gate, and addressed the inmates—excellent preparation for my later profession. One morning Aunt Agnes decided to have chicken for dinner. She locked the kitchen door to keep me away; I grew anx- ous, smashed the windowpane, and found her with a dead chicken and a lot of blood on her hands. | liberated the remaining birds, fled to the hills, and watched as Aunt Agnes tried to reassemble her flock. In the evenings we al went to the local inn. Papa put me on a table, and I sang the songs my mother had taught me. I got applause, papa got a beer—all on the house. Papa had participated in the First World War, in Istria, as an officer in the merchant marine. He was discharged because of cholera, which was widespread toward the end of the war. One picture of the family album showed a train with the windows open and occupied by the naked hind-ends of the soldiers; this was the only way to survive a transport. The army documents be- fore me say that papa was proficient in German and Slovenian— yet the only Slovenian word he ever used was krafl, “mess.” After the war he studied for the lower civil service and moved to the BigCity—Vienna, Mama brought me to his office when I was about nine years old; there he sat, answering questions, certifying copies, signing rental agreements. Not a very important position. But to me he seemed to have enormous power. He loved adven- ture in his youth; he became rather quiet later on. ‘After my mother's death, my father ran the household while L was studying at the university. He courted a variety of ladies, some of them married. He visited them at home, or took them out to educational events—lectures, demonstrations, films. Eventually he placed an advertisement: “Civil servant, retired but well pre- served, intellectual interests, looking for sensitive mature woman marriage not excluded.” He got eighty replies. I ordered them according to age, income, and styleand sent him on his way, twice or three times a week. He returned well fed, inebriated from the rich wines the ladies had saved through the war, and bored to tears, He ended up with a kind but quarrelsome woman and moved to her residence in Bad Ischl. He had a stroke that caused a speech defect and a duodenal ulcer combined with a ruptured peritoneum, which killed him. ‘We were friends, sort of, but not very close; I was much too self-centered and much too involved in my own affairs. [had al- ready moved to California when I heard of his final illness; I did not return and I did not attend his funeral. Years later, papa ap- peared in my dreams. I saw him in the distance, wanted to reach him, could not move, and woke up feeling sad and distracted. “Talkto him,” said Martina, my beautiful German friend. He came again, standing in a comer, his back toward me. “Papa,” I said, “you are a good person; I am grateful forall your care, your pa- tience, your love, the extra efforts you made, and I'm sorry I was such a selfish bastard; I love you.” And while I spoke I felt that I indeed loved him and had always loved him. Papa neither moved nor spoke; but he seemed to listen and to accept what I had said. He left and stayed away for a long time. My mother’s family came from Stockerau in southern Austria. There were two sisters, two brothers, anda half brother. Aunt Julie once stayed with us for a few days. I resented her arrival and said so; Iwas heartbroken when she left. Aunt Pepi was quite beautiful; she drank, became an alcoholic, and committed suicide. Her daughter, my cousin Josephine, found het and came to us. She ‘must have been twelve years old at the time. [can still see the small figure standing in the doorway, asking for help. Mama went and took me along. I remember the neighbors whispering in the corti- dor, the smell of gas, the motionless shape in the bedroom, and Cousin Josephine saying goodbye from a window when we re- tumed home. Iwas not upset; Iwas not puzzled either. Itookit for granted that the world was a strange place filled with impene- trable events. I recently returned to the scene, and it seemed as if time had stood still—the same surroundings, the same window, the same impressions, but all the main actors gone. Aunt Pepi of- ten visited us, She also wrote letters, some of them abusive. “She is drunk,” mama said. “Does that mean that her writing moves up and down and isn’t straight?” I asked. “Yes,” mama replied. My ‘memory of things past consists entirely of isolated vignettes such as this one, ‘Aunt Pepi was married to Konrad Hampapa, a railwayman anda heavy drinker himself. They had two children—Konrad ju- rior, who was retarded, and Josephine. The family visited us on Sundays, and Junior played the accordion. He was an excellent ‘musician and could improvise on any melody he heard. When his father remarried, he tried to make love to his stepmother, Maria. This, he thought, was the normal function of a mother, for Aunt Pepi, apparently, had made love to him. Maria was a kind but de- ‘termined woman. She stopped her husband’s drinking; but she failed with Konrad junior. He left home, roamed the streets, hid in garbage containers (which at the time were large enough to hold ten people), played his instrument, and raped the women who6 one ‘came to listen. He died in an insane asylum at the age of thirty- six—at least this is what I heard later, after my return from Lon- don. For me (at age ten), Cousin Konrad was just another relative with a great gift for music. Inoticed that he was alittle peculiar — but so were many people. My attitude changed when the pecu- liarity received a name, “retardation,” and when casual and unin- tended hints informed me of its social implications. Fear and revulsion were the result. ‘Uncle Rudolf was married toa huge Czech woman who loved to gossip about deflowered maidens, aborted children, cuckolded husbands, thieving relatives. She had a sinister face and a sizable ‘mustache, and switched to Czech when the stories got too juicy. ‘One day she forgot. She told my parents how one of our acquain- tances had seduced another and how the lady, who seems to have been a virgin, lost “buckets of blood.” Buckets of blood! It took a Jong time for my views of lovemaking to become a litte less dra- matic. Uncle Rudolf occasionally appeared with a woman closer to his size and complained about the hardships of being married toAunt Christina, Aunt Christina in turn accused him of trying to poison her. They separated, reunited, separated again; finally ‘Aunt Christina died. Uncle Rudolf, tiny, weak, mousy Uncle Rudolf, lived to be ninety-four. Uncle Julius was tall and handsome, always ready to play tricks on people. There were vague rumors that he had taken money from a bank, had fled, and had joined the foreign legion. He settled down in Meknes, Morocco, married a Spanish woman, Carmen, and sent us postcards showing him with Carmen, min- arets in the background. “Uncle Julius is somebody” (“er hat es zu etwas gebracht”) was our comment. Uncle Karl, one of my god- fathers, was a more shadowy figure. I never met him. He emi- grated to the United States, acquired a farm in Iowa, and every ‘eat, at my mother’s birthday, sent us one dollar. With that mama FAMILY 7. bought ham, wine, and sweets, and we stuffed ourselves for an en- tire week. 1 also had two cousins, one genuine, the other less so. Cousin Fritz eared his money asa streei singer. That was not unusual. In the late twenties the streets and backyards of Vienna looked like amusement parks with organ grinders, animal acts, magicians, dancers, singers—entire bands. They took up their position in the late morning and started tuning their instruments or preparing their equipment. The audience, mostly housewives, made their ‘requests, and the performance began. Salespeople advertised their Products with a speech or a song, some outside the house, some on the stairways. Gypsy women sold patchouli wrapped in col- ed tissue paper. They had a special song, which I still remember. ‘There were accidents; a fire eater burned himself and had tobe car- ried away. Every block had its own beggar who came once a week to.collect his dues, “Our” beggar came on Saturdays. When he was through, he went to the butcher downstairs and bought a piece of hham bigger than any one of us could afford Cousin Fritz played the guitar and sang, accompanied by a vi- vacious redhead. I fell in love with her. Inspired by what I had heard about true love, I took an extra pair of shoes (“he packed his bundle,” the stories said) and ran away from home. No doubt, I thought, she would be waiting somewhere around the corner, would open her arms and exclaim, “I have been waiting for you all my life.” That was another element of the stories I took as my guide. Alas, it did not turn out that way. I got lost (I was five) and was picked up by the police and handed over to my parents. After that, Cousin Fritz and his companion were no longer wel- come. ‘Cousin Emma was a smallish woman, elegant in a cheap way, with aloud voice and many songsin her repertoire. She married a meatpacker, Bautzi Bartunek, a kind but inarticulate gentleman,8 one (On her visits she first sang, even yodeled, then cried a little, then talked about the counts, barons, generals who had laid her. Al- ‘most always she concluded by saying, with a gesture toward Bautzi—"and I ended up with this.” Bautzi remained quiet, but sometimes he was ready to explode. “One day he will kill her,” said papa. It does not seem to have happened, They lived in a tiny dark apartment close to the slaughterhouse; two unhappy people, tied to each other by accidents and disappointed hopes. ‘When my parents met, mama worked as a seamstress. They ‘married before the First World War, survived the war and the post- ‘war inflation, waited fifteen years until there was enough money for a child—and then produced me. Mama was forty years old when I was born. She had a warm alto voice, and she sang or hummed folk songs every hour, every day. She fell silent when we moved toa “better” neighborhood. Once she told me how, while workingasa salesgitl, she had drawn a picture, and a customer, “a dashing gentleman,” had complimented her on her talgnt. That ‘was long ago, the story implied, and now the talent was wasted and life was just routine. She tried to commit suicide twice. On the first occasion my father and I were out for a walk. It was evening; the gaslights were being tured on, but one of the pilots failed and the flame emitted a mournful sound. I got frightened and urged papa to run home. Mama was in a corner, unconscious, amid a cloud of gas. She suc- ceeded thirteen years later. Often she would run toward the win- dow ina mad rage; Thad to use all my strength to prevent her from jumping. Many years after her death, when preparing the furni- ture for sale, I found her handwriting on the backside of the large bedroom mirror and the wardrobes. “God help me,” itsaid, “Ican- not goon.” ‘Meeting my mother in a dream is never a simple matter. She may be kind, she may smile, but I have to be careful, I have to FAMILY 9 watch every word and every gesture for madness, and hints of sex- uality are never far away. More than once I dreamed that [married an older woman, a very old woman, in fact, and asked myselfhow could get out of the disaster. Stil, I made love to her, without ‘much pleasure, even with revulsion—it was my mother in one of her many disguises. On other occasions I felt that I was not alone, that I could pick up the telephone and call her. I tried talking to ‘mamaas had talked to papa; I did not succeed—until recently, in Switzerland. I dreamed I was sitting at a bar with Grazia, who is now my wife; it was dark and I felt uncomfortable. There was something sinister about Grazia—asif she were about to change. I became afrald and woke up. “That was mama doing her tricks again,” I said to myself. Trying to go back to sleep, I mumbled, “Why don't you speak to me?” She appeared while I was still awake, twas mother all right—but with all her humanity gone. A scream of rage and despair had torn her face and corroded her fea- tures. Visually, the image was quite weak, barely noticeable, about five inches in diameter; but the impact was terrifying. The image lingered at the foot of my bed for about a minute and then disap- peared. ‘Afew months later, on Monday, September 11, 1989, tobe ex- act, I discovered mama's suicide note. I was in my office at school talking to Denise Russell, a friend from Australia. I was going through my filing cabinets. I had not looked at them for at least fifteen years—but I wanted to clear them out before leaving for Italy. I opened the top drawer. There were some offprints, old tax forms, and about ten pocket calendars. One of these contained some photographs and the note. I could hardly believe my eyes. I didn’t know that such a note existed—and then I remembered, yes, [had seen it long ago but had forgotten about it.I explained its content to Denise, went to my seminar, two hours, hurried home, and took a close look. The note is addressed to my father.10 one ‘There is no anger, no madness; only love and a desire for peace. Holding the letter in my hand, I forthe first time felt close to that strange, distant, and unhappy human being that had been my mother. 2 Growing Up Thetis pan: sememberhad he coms a kitchen, a bed-sitting-room, and a study. The kitchen and the bed sitting-room are fairly clear in my mind; the study is a mys- tery. I went in occasionally, but I never really saw it. Here my fa- ther received visitors and kept his belongings. Below was a carpenter's workshop, above a seamstress. [often got scared when heard the sound of her sewing machine. Even today an un- known noise disturbs me until know exactly how itis produced. ‘We lived in the Wolfganggasse, a quiet street lined with oak trees. Downstairs were a butcher and a grocery; the drugstore was at the comer opposite. The whole block rejoiced when the owner's son, a fat, serious boy, finished high school; he now belonged toa higher plane, different from the rest of us. After the drugstore came the police station. Mama and I went there once when papa did not show up for dinner. Papa was allright; he had been out with his colleagues. Farther down was an avenue with streetcars traffic, and larger stores. That was the end of the world as far as I was concerned. Years later, in the 1960s, when I was already teaching in Cali- fornia, I started dreaming about the apartment; it was eerily empty, and an important part of my life seemed to have been lost there forever. To resolve the puzzle visited the place around 1965. Itooka tram to the Giirtel, walked across Haydn Park, where [had played as a child, passed the comer with the movie theater—now 1”two replaced by a department store—and approached our old quar- ters. [felt nervous and tense. There were the oak trees, there was our house, there was the door. It was closed. I opened it and went in, The hall was dark and cool. { looked around. No response. I ‘walked up one floor and went toward one of the apartments—no, ‘ours was on the third floor. I moved up to the third floor, around the comer, and finally stood in front of number 12, Our apart- ‘ment. Everything looked asit had looked in the dream—void, and yet by its very emptiness a remembrance of a life that had ceased Jong ago. The problem was right in front of me, but I could not solve it. (It dissolved in 1990 when I returned with Grazia, The apartment no longer existed: the house had been completely re- built) Between the ages of three and six I spent most of my time in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Mama moved a bench up to the window and tied me to the window frame. There T hung ike aspi- der and watched the world: major street repairs, colorful steam- rollers, the green electric buses that transported the mail, the street performers, and now and then a private car. Once a week a bunch of pigs was delivered to the butcher's shop in the house op- posite. On Friday the workers received their paychecks, went to the local pub, and got drunk. Between two and three in the ‘morning—I was in bed at the time, but the noise woke us all up— their wives went looking for them and brought them home. Itwas an impressive sight: huge women lifting tiny men up by their col- lars and shouting with thunderous voices: “You heap of shit! You bum! You asshole! Where's the money? . ..” Even the mailman ended up in the gutter with letters, checks, bills scattered all around him, Inside, wives beat their husbands (and vice versa), parents beat their children (and vice versa), neighbors beat each other. Ev- ery morning the ladies of the house assembled at the bassena, the only water outlet on each floor. They exchanged gossip, commis- GROWING UP 43 erated, complained about their men, pets, relatives. Most of the time that was that. Once in a while the gossip increased in vol- ‘ume, changed character, and turned into a row. Endearments such as “You whore! You bitch!” filled the corridors. Weapons (brooms and so forth) might be added, but dragging the opponent ‘around by her hair seemed to suffice. Turds on the stairway meant that the janitor had managed to make an enemy or two, It would bbe wrong to infer that our house was an extreme case, however. The nuns at a well-known Catholic hospital where I had my ap- pendix removed used the same language and treated each other in almost the same way. Festivities (Easter, or Christmas) were severe tests of moral fi ber. For days before, the ladies would wander from butcher to gro- cer to baker to wine merchant, shopping for food; their husbands came home with secretive smiles on their faces and parcels hidden behind their backs. There was much moving around in the Kitchens and in the back rooms. At last the great day arrived. Cooking started early in the moming; bewitching smells spread all over the house. The families assembled, tasted the food, and had dinner accompanied by animated conversation, Presents fur- ther improved the climate; happiness and goodwill flowed in abundance. The stage was set. Somebody made an unfortunate re- ‘mark; an astonished silence followed, Somebody else replied, in- creasing the temperature alittle Soothing voices intervened—to no avail. Insults proliferated until there was an all-out fight. Next