Skinner talks to a superfan

The New journal v. 7, no. 4, 4/22/1974

Reinforcement for a Skinner freak 

Last December, I was taken totally by surprise when the phone rang and a voice said, “John, this is B.F. Skinner calling to wish you a happy 21st birthday. ” My roommates — knowing how much I admired his work—had asked Skinner to call, and he had cheerfully agreed. On the phone, Skinner offered to discuss psychology with me at a later date. I held him to his offer, and traveled to Cambridge where we talked for almost an hour. What follows is a personal reflection on Skinner— the man, and his work. 

Burrhus Frederick Skinner, age 70, will retire from the Harvard faculty this summer, a man whose intentions have been thoroughly misunderstood. His theory of human behavior poses a radical challenge to the way most people like to think about themselves. Skinner believes that all behavior is solely a product of the interaction between an individual’s genetic endowment and environmental experiences; he denies mem’s autonomous control of his own actions. Man’s behavior — like that of a rat or a pigeon in a Skinner box — is no more than a series of sophisticated bar presses. By applying the scientific method to himself, man finds that he too, like the heavenly bodies, a falling apple, or a Mack truck, behaves according to discernible laws. Those who accept his theories consider Skinner a Newton among 20th century psychologists. 

Of course, not everyone accepts his ideas. In fact, almost no one does. Skinner estimates that 80 per cent of the comment on his work is unfavorable. Critics tend to focus on the implications of his theory that deal with the control of human behavior. Either directly or by innuendo, Skinner is compared to totalitarian figures — the Orwellian prototypes for Big Brother — or the immoral scientist who shows Big Brother how it can all be done. 

No image could be further from the one Skinner projects as a man. Meeting him is a disarming experience. A short man, he wears thick black- rimmed glasses. His face belies his age; his skin is smooth, almost youthful, though sagging somewhat at the jowls. 

Although he has done no laboratory research in years, he shares a floor in William James Hall with several dozen pigeons noticeable because of their smell and incessant cooing. His office is simple. Boxes of books and papers lie open on the vinyl floor. There is a desk, some bookcases, a few chairs, and a color photograph of his granddaughter. 

Still it is recognizably Skinner’s office. Copies of his works, bound in black and gold volumes, stand prominently on his desk between book- ends. On the wall hangs a painting of a man’s body with a duck’s head, sitting atop a huge, partially cracked egg. The Saturday Review used the painting as a cover to go with an article Skinner wrote on the artist and society. In the article Skinner had characterized an artist as no more than a warm body within which creativity occurs. “They made me pay for the painting,” Skinner told me, standing by the brooding figure on the egg, “but I thought it went nicely with the theme of the article.”

We talked about the weather — he hadn’t much liked the cold March in Cambridge. He told me about his impending Retirement and his poor eyesight. His depth perception is particularly bad. He carries a cane to help himself over curbs. “This is the one profession, I suppose, where I could work as long as I have,’’ he said. But retirement from teaching would not mean an end to his work. There would be more time in fact for his writing. 

The attention Skinner attracted with the publication of Beyond Freedom and Dignity more than two years ago has affected him very little. He became an instant celebrity, appearing on several television talk shows. In the Spring of 1972, Skinner came to Yale for three days and allowed a panel of critics to open fire on him and his theories. 

He seems to have grown weary of such distractions. While we talked, the phone rang. Someone on the other end offered him a speaking engagement. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m turning down everything without exception. That sounds very interesting, but if I took every interesting offer, I would never get any work done.” 

During the past year, Skinner told me, he has refused invitations for expenses-paid speaking engagements in Hawaii, Switzerland, and Palm Springs. Why not go and enjoy the free vacation? “Why would I want to go to Palm Springs?” he answered. “I’d be bored there; there’d be nothing for me to do there.” 

Implicit in the comment was Skinner’s dedication to his work. He described the intense effort involved in his writing. “I write very, very slowly,” he said. “Someone figured it out to one or two words a minute.” 

Though critics often compliment Skinner for the clarity of his writings, they frequently misinterpret his meaning — a pattern to which he has resigned himself. When his Utopian novel Walden Two was published in 1948, Life magazine called it “a slur upon a name, a corruption of an impulse.” Skinner himself believes that Thoreau could have appreciated the community he designed. He read me an early review of his next book, written to correct the mistaken interpretations that followed the publication of Beyond Freedom and Dignity. Skinner held up the review and pointed to a typographical star appearing next to it in the clipping which signified the importance of the review. “My publisher sent me this with a note saying ‘oh look isn’t this great,” Skinner said dryly. The review was highly unfavorable. Skinner, it asserted, recommended controlling human behavior by threat of punishment, that is, by pairing unacceptable behavior with aversive physical or mental consequences. 

“I’ve spent my life arguing that people should be free from aversive control,” Skinner said. “I just don’t understand it,” he said of the review. “This isn’t someone writing about my book — it’s someone letting out some ideas he already had about B.F. Skinner.” 

The assumption that any control of human behavior must be coercive is not uncommon among Skinner’s critics. He argues that their mistake is assuming that behavior is ever free from one sort of control or another. Once man has admitted that he responds to structured contingencies in his environment, he may learn to manipulate them to solve the problems of social organization in the 20th century. 

Walden Two speculates about possible manipulations. Only its livestock are controlled by threat of punishment. Its human members live there because they like it. The community’s managers and planners have eliminated aggressive behavior between members. Each resident contributes about four hours of labor a day to the necessities of subsistence. The remaining time is devoted to leisure, athletics, or creative and intellectual pursuits. 

Skinner believes that realistic solutions to current social problems must come in piecemeal fashion. “No one in this society could have the position Frazier does in Walden Two,” he said. Yet he remains enamoured of the vision of that mythical community. He smiles openly when he speaks of it. He believes most people would prefer it to the lives they presently live. 

I asked him if given the chance he could create such a community today. “I never had the courage to found Walden Two when I was younger,” Skinner said, avoiding my question but revealing more than I had asked for. “Now of course I’m too old.” He glanced at me and then looked away quickly. It was as if he had just excused himself to a young admirer for something he ought to have tried. 

As I was leaving his office, Skinner consulted a bookcase and presented me with reprints of two of his articles. “Here’s some reinforcement for you,” he said. 

□ John Yandell 

John Yandell is a junior history major in Berkeley College.