A study of sociologists’ careers in France through their autobiographies

Abstract

This article explores the value and limitations of sociologists’ autobiographies as a source for studying their careers. Drawing on a corpus of approximately 140 narratives, this study seeks to identify recurring elements in professional trajectories, as recounted by the authors: family background, educational choices, academic progression, access to positions, and the conduct of research. The analysis reveals that these narratives, frequently produced in later life by established figures in French sociology, tend to reconstruct professional trajectories in a positive light, neglecting the social, institutional, and relational determinants of these careers. Although the authors of these autobiographies sometimes acknowledge the biases inherent in the exercise, they generally succumb to the temptation of self-justification and self-celebration.

Keywords
Autobiographies; professional trajectory; French sociology; biographical method

Resumo

Este artigo explora o valor e as limitações das autobiografias de sociólogos como fonte para o estudo de suas carreiras. Utilizando um corpus de aproximadamente 140 narrativas, busca-se identificar elementos recorrentes em suas trajetórias profissionais, conforme relatadas por seus autores: origem familiar, escolha da formação, desenvolvimento dos estudos, acesso a cargos e realização de pesquisas. A análise revela que essas narrativas, frequentemente produzidas em idade avançada por figuras consagradas na sociologia francesa, tendem a reconstruir as trajetórias profissionais sob uma ótica positiva e a negligenciar os determinantes sociais, institucionais e relacionais dessas carreiras. Embora os autores das autobiografias por vezes reconheçam os vieses inerentes ao exercício, geralmente cedem à tentação da autojustificação e da autocelebração.

Palavras chaves
Autobiografias; trajetória profissional; sociologia francesa; método biográfico

Resumen

Este artículo explora el valor y las limitaciones de las autobiografías de sociólogos como fuente para el estudio de sus carreras. Utilizando un corpus de aproximadamente 40 narrativas, se busca identificar elementos recurrentes en sus trayectorias profesionales, tal como las relatan sus autores: origen familiar, elección de la formación, desarrollo de los estudios, acceso a cargos y realización de investigaciones. El análisis revela que estas narrativas, frecuentemente producidas en edad avanzada por figuras consagradas de la sociología francesa, tienden a reconstruir las trayectorias profesionales bajo una óptica positiva y a descuidar los determinantes sociales, institucionales y relacionales de estas carreras. Aunque los autores de las autobiografías a veces reconocen los sesgos inherentes al ejercicio, generalmente ceden a la tentación de la autojustificación y la autocelebración.

Palabras clave
Autobiografías; trayectoria profesional; sociología francesa; método biográfico

Introduction

Autobiographies constitute an original documentary source for gaining firsthand access to the inner workings of a social world. They offer direct access to concrete details — often absent from other sources — concerning the psychological, cultural, and material dimensions of a particular universe of social relations. However, historians and sociologists must exercise great caution when drawing on these documents. Generally speaking, the biographical method is not a neutral source of information that provides a snapshot of reality. Scholars who have studied autobiographies have consistently highlighted their inherent biases: subjectivism, partiality, and incompleteness. Even in his time, Ferdinand Brunetière (1988) asserted that “one only ever paints oneself as a bust” (p. 440). Consequently, “it is precisely what would be instructive for us to know that memoirists conceal from us” (p. 441). At issue here is not the author’s personality, but rather the particularities of the method itself. Paul Ricoeur (1995) thus emphasizes that the life narrative — being a work of a literary and retrospective nature — is necessarily selective and, as such, inevitably biased. Even if the author, who is simultaneously the narrator and the protagonist of their own story, strives for perfect honesty — as Rousseau did at the beginning of his Confessions — the discrepancy with reality will inevitably be significant. When an autobiography seeks to establish or rehabilitate a reputation, numerous fabrications are to be expected. Roland Beyer (1965), in his introduction to Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography, observes, for instance, that: “To enumerate Cellini’s lies, even limiting ourselves to the most obvious ones, would mean rewriting his memoirs in their entirety” (p. 7).

It is not surprising, therefore, that sociology has thus far shown a certain reservation toward autobiographical sources. Eric de Dampierre (1957) was the first in France to raise the question of the sincerity of documents written for purposes largely unknown to the reader, which present a self-portrait that is difficult to contextualize. Selim Abou (1972) also highlighted the problem of rationalization in autobiographies. Jean Peneff (1990) emphasized the uncertain nature of the materials under study: “Through a biographical narrative, one does not study behaviors and their motives, but merely vague and contradictory mental attitudes, after-the-fact rationalizations, or justifications” (p. 6). From this perspective, the autobiographical narrative is always a reconstruction of the past, the structure of which can vary considerably from one individual to another. Some episodes are recalled with great precision, while others are omitted or embellished. The author may be particularly lucid on certain points and blind to others, conceal facts or, conversely, complacently dwell on a particular aspect of their trajectory. These biases are exacerbated when the narrative is produced without critical recontextualization. Pierre Bourdieu (1986) observes, undoubtedly with good reason, that:

Trying to understand a life as a unique and self-sufficient series of successive events, with no other link than the association to a “subject” whose constancy is undoubtedly just that of a proper name, is nearly as absurd as trying to make sense of a subway route without taking into account the network structure, that is, the matrix of objective relations between the different stations. (p. 72)

Such critiques, therefore, encourage sociological research to disregard unstructured autobiographical narratives — which often border on literature — in favor of systematic inquiries involving comparable respondents (Bertaux, 1980). This tendency to retrospectively reconstruct the coherence of a trajectory can also be understood in light of the logic of the academic field, as described by Bourdieu. Intellectual autobiographies are not merely individual retrospective accounts: they also represent symbolic interventions within a space of competition for legitimacy and recognition. In this sense, the autobiographical narrative tends to conform to the norms of legitimacy of the intellectual field, valorizing theoretical originality, intellectual autonomy, and the coherence of scientific choices, while downplaying the less noble dimensions of an academic career, such as positioning strategies, reliance on support networks, power relations, or institutional calculations. The recurrence of these narrative patterns can thus be interpreted as a structural effect of the struggles for consecration inherent to the academic field. It is noteworthy, then, that these reservations have not deterred many French and international sociologists from offering autobiographical accounts, whether spontaneously or at the behest of researchers. Established figures such as Raymond Boudon, Michel Crozier, Pierre Bourdieu, Georges Friedmann, Georges Balandier, alongside other lesser-known authors, have succumbed to the temptation of telling their own stories, expounding their ideas, and justifying their choices, without always specifying what we are to glean from them. A question thus arises: can sociologists, accustomed to objectivating and analyzing the trajectories of others from a critical distance, apply this same reflexive perspective to their own trajectories? Or do they, like everyone else, yield to the inevitable temptation of self-justification?

This article seeks to answer these questions by examining the professional trajectories of sociologists, as revealed by a corpus of published autobiographies: namely, objective data that, a priori, appear less susceptible to distortion than other aspects of lived experience. Specifically, it seeks to determine how the authors of these autobiographies chose to practice sociology, how their studies unfolded, how they defined their research topics, and, finally, how they secured the various positions they held. Comprehensive accounts of these themes should contribute to a sociology of sociologists’ careers. Conversely, “bust portraits” marked by self-complacency tend to obscure certain important aspects, particularly the political and relational dimensions of these careers. From the perspective of a sociology of careers, it is therefore necessary to examine both the scope and the limitations of this source: what can it actually teach us, and which elements must be considered fragile or questionable? To provide some answers, we will first examine several recurring themes within a corpus of published autobiographies by sociologists. Second, this article will seek to identify the broader issues raised by the use of this documentary method for a research topic of this kind.

The corpus of autobiographies and its relevance to the study of careers

Autobiographies written by sociologists are still relatively rare: they generally concern established figures and are published in later life. This scarcity considerably limits the utility of the method, as it makes it difficult to grasp the professional trajectories of the majority of sociologists — let alone those of currently active practitioners in cognate disciplines, such as ethnology or political science. Despite these limitations, there is a readily accessible body of documents available to researchers, comprising three types of texts. First, there are works with a strictly autobiographical purpose, authored by renowned intellectuals such as Friedmann, Lefebvre, Aron, Mendras, Balandier, Touraine, Crozier, and Morin. In these instances, the model is that of the literary autobiography, featuring extensive passages devoted to the narrator’s family, private life, and psychological development, while also accounting for the historical context. The orientation is typically egocentric, driven by obvious intentions of self-justification, or even self-celebration (for instance, in the work of Morin). Nevertheless, factual elements pertaining to the career are generally included.

A second set of documents entails autobiographical passages embedded within the exposition of ideas, as seen in the works of Boudon and Bourdieu. Here, the demonstrative and self-justificatory intent is pronounced: these are polemical or defensive texts (articles or books) in which the description of professional trajectories is subordinated to the assertion of convictions. A third set of documents encompasses articles or book chapters wherein the narrator recounts their professional trajectory in response to questions posed by researchers (for instance, the texts by Michel Grossetti, Jean-Claude Passeron, Daniel Bertaux, etc.); or freely, without being prompted or interrupted (most notably, the accounts collected within the framework of the Itinéraires de sociologues project, directed by Vincent de Gaulejac at Paris 7 University).

The nature of the documentation is therefore highly variable: the content of the interviews ranges from scholarly essays (for instance, in the works of Duvignaud or Passeron) to depictions of a social milieu and an era (Gaulejac), and even to factual accounts of a professional trajectory (Grossetti). Generally speaking, the details of how a career unfolds are less discernible than in full-length spontaneous autobiographies.

The resulting corpus of approximately 40 documents is therefore heterogeneous, particularly because the accounts pertain to different periods and, consequently, to distinct institutional contexts. The assembled corpus brings together roughly 40 autobiographical texts by French sociologists published between the 1970s and the 2020s. However, this article does not purport to conduct an exhaustive analysis of each narrative. The examples drawn upon throughout this study were selected for their representativeness, the richness of the information they provide regarding professional trajectories, or their particularly clear articulation of certain recurring narrative mechanisms. Some of the narrators navigated the worlds of research and teaching at a time when the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) was being established, and sociology had not yet been institutionalized within the university system. Others entered academia in the 1980s, by which time career trajectories and opportunities for sociologists were more clearly defined. Should one set the objective of studying sociologists’ careers utilizing this documentary source, there is a conspicuous dearth of interviews specifically focused on careers. The principal shortcoming, however, concerns sociologists of moderate or lesser renown, or indeed those whose careers were incomplete or deemed unsatisfactory by the standards of the profession. By limiting our focus to established scholars, we run the risk of failing to capture the concrete, day-to-day realities that shape the professional trajectories of the vast majority of sociologists. The characteristics of the corpus therefore dictate modest objectives for the analyst, who must concentrate on the comparable dimensions that tie these documents together. The heterogeneity of the corpus — extensive literary autobiographies, guided interviews, brief accounts, or self-analytical texts — does not merely constitute a methodological limitation; it also serves as a revealing indicator of the various ways in which sociologists publicly construct their self-narratives.

The primary focus here will be to identify how the narrators describe and explain the key stages of their professional trajectories (choosing sociology, obtaining degrees and passing competitive examinations, directing their research, and securing positions). Particular attention will be paid to how the egocentric bias inherent in the method, or the instrumentalization of the account for strategic purposes, can lead to the omission or obfuscation of the determining factors of these stages. This is not to say that autobiographies should be dismissed as a documentary source. They provide invaluable information regarding the representations that sociologists themselves construct of their trajectories, their generation, and their intellectual activity. However, for a sociology of academic careers, such documents must be cross-referenced with other sources: university and administrative archives, correspondence, institutional reports, interviews with collaborators or competitors, and documents pertaining to recruitment and research funding. Only through this multiplicity of perspectives is it possible to mitigate the risk of empathetic adherence to the narrative retrospectively produced by the agents themselves.

Themes recurring in relation to careers

Family background and personal trajectory

In keeping with literary narratives, many authors in our corpus devote considerable space to descriptions of their families — parents, siblings, and, sometimes, grandparents. These sections, whose analytical function is not always explicit, often appear motivated by the desire to transmit a cultural heritage or to provide a personal account of their childhood and origins. Unsurprisingly, such sections are found in major autobiographical works (Aron, for instance, begins his book with the chapter “My Father’s Testament”). But they also appear in some short articles: for example, in the work of Pierre Fougeyrollas (2007) (“My four grandparents from the Périgord, let us talk about them” [p. 138]) or that of Eugène Enriquez (2007) (“This return to my origins is not solely dictated by chronology and logic..., but because I believe they bequeathed to me the essence of who I am, and I feel indebted to them for the best of what I have achieved” [p. 104]). Like Enriquez, the psychosociologist Max Pagès (2007) devotes nearly a third of his account to recalling his family and only two-thirds to recounting his studies:

My father instilled in me an ideal of excellence, of success. I experienced it in my childhood and was never able to completely rid myself of it, but later I understood what it was. It was not a concrete, realistic, and socially intelligible goal, such as gaining admission to the École Normale or the École Polytechnique. It was a matter of being first in every respect. (p. 149)

As Jean-Pierre Bouilloud (2009) has observed, it is frequently the father figure that emerges most distinctly, reflecting, among other things, the gendered division of roles in the first half of the twentieth century. The father is presented as the one who sets ambitions, embodies an openness to society, and exemplifies the professional and human qualities to be admired. Aron (1983) thus recalls the mission of social success entrusted to him by his father, who had been ruined by the 1929 crash, while Touraine (1977) evokes the model of rigor and hard work personified by his own father, a renowned physician. In a more lyrical vein, Enriquez (2007) asserts: “My father is a legend in his own right” (p. 105), and Bourdieu (2004) goes even further: “I remember crying several times at the thought that his name, for all his merits, would not be in the dictionary” (p. 111).

The family is also described within the context of analyzing the author’s social origins. Authors from working-class backgrounds tend to emphasize this characteristic, often presenting it as a source of pride. The Pinçons (2021), for instance, describe their rather modest origins in detail. Robert Castel (2007), referring to his father — a former sailor who later became a civilian worker — also asserts: “We belonged exactly to the working class described by Richard Hoggart. We were not poor in the sense of destitution; we depended on no one, and we were even quite proud” (p. 62). Michel Wieviorka (2007) recounts his childhood in overcrowded public housing. When the father experienced upward social mobility, his professional trajectory, marked by its ups and downs, is mentioned (as is the case with Enriquez or Boudon).

Conversely, children from economically or intellectually privileged backgrounds speak little about how they benefited from their family inheritance. Aron emphasizes his father’s failures and asserts that he did not live off the family’s resources. Alain Caillé, raised in a highly cultured environment, scarcely mentions his youth. Chombart de Lauwe (1996) avoids describing his privileged family background, emphasizing instead his close ties to the peasantry. Henri Mendras (1995), hailing from a wealthy family, remains silent about the conditions of his childhood and downplays his family’s wealth (although he mentions, without elaborating, a paternal château): “As a young bourgeois, the son of an officer from an old provincial bourgeoisie ruined after the First World War, I learned that the ‘good life’ of my grandparents was no longer possible” (p. 40).

Family narratives also serve to contextualize educational or career choices. Several accounts emphasize trajectories that break with parental orientations, yet conform to some of their values. Castel (2007) suggests that the premature death of his parents enabled him to escape his working-class condition thanks to a brother-in-law who supported his education (“Had my father lived..., I would have entered the Brest arsenal” [p. 65]).

The most common mode of presentation portrays the author as a somewhat atypical product of their social background. Children of the commercial bourgeoisie, such as Boudon, take up the study of literature. Alain Touraine, the son of a prominent physician, breaks with his social milieu by working in the mines, only to later return to his studies. Pierre Bourdieu, the son of a minor civil servant, expounds upon the rupture with his family origins, epitomized by his choice to pursue literary studies. Didier Eribon (2009) devotes an entire book to describing his personal incompatibility with his working-class family environment. However, it is difficult to determine whether these autobiographical reconstructions artificially accentuate continuities, ruptures, or debts owed to the family. Emphasizing the parental role may also serve to downplay the importance of other influences, such that the trajectory appears as the product of an almost exclusive relationship with the family unit.

The impact of the historical context, frequently highlighted, is presented as a factor just as important as family heritage in understanding the narrator’s trajectory. Alain Touraine (2007) recalls, for instance, the disconnect he experienced between the artificial world of academia in the mid-1940s and the historical situation:

So, the events, to me, were something I had never heard of: the invention of the world, industrialization, the labor movement, national liberation movements. Those were the three great pillars of that era. And the theme of liberation also heralded a personal liberation. (p. 212)

Henri Lefebvre (1988), who was a student in the 1920s, evokes the desire for a comprehensive social transformation following the collapse of old Europe. Edgar Morin (1994) and Pierre Moscovici (2007), who lived through the war, describe how this experience shaped their lives. Mendras (1995), speaking of the post-war period, explains: “Young and old alike, my entire generation was gripped by the feeling that our duty was to pull France out of the quagmire into which it had sunk and torn itself apart” (p. 41). For the subsequent generation, other major events may have played a similar role. Michel Wieviorka (2007) and Pierre Rosanvallon (2018), for instance, underscore the significance of May 1968.

However, we are not compelled to systematically accept these contextualizations uncritically. Emphasizing the importance of the historical moment undoubtedly has the advantage of aligning the narrator with their era and situating their professional trajectory under the aegis of significant issues. In doing so, more practical and concrete motivations are relegated to the background. Furthermore, it is evident that the exact and precise connection that may have existed between these events and career choices is not entirely clear. The authors analyzed herein sought, at some point, to position themselves within a given professional world, and such career strategies can scarcely be accounted for by grand ideological projects.

The choice for the social sciences

Although several authors in the corpus — such as François Dubet (2019), Michel Verret (2019), Alain Caillé (2010), Olivier Galland (2008), Jean Duvignaud (2007), and Philippe Besnard (1979) — offer no justification for their choice of sociology, almost as if this trajectory had unfolded of its own accord, this theme is generally addressed, at least indirectly, by the majority of autobiographers. However, the issue presents itself differently depending on the generation, given that sociology only gained autonomy from philosophy in the 1960s. Prior to this period, most future sociologists began their studies in philosophy and later gravitated toward sociology, driven more by intellectual continuity or academic opportunity than by an initial vocation. Aron, for instance, chose German sociology as his thesis topic as a continuation of his philosophical studies. According to his memoirs, he was appointed after the war as a professor of sociology at the University of Bordeaux at the behest of the dean. Raymond Boudon (2010), having already trained in philosophy, stated that he had compared the disciplines in question at length, emphasizing their limitations rather than their strengths: “sociology appealed to me more because of its openness to a broader range of phenomena” (p. 7).

However, it is noteworthy that the most frequently mentioned motive for conversion is more ideological in nature: the desire to develop a critical perspective on society. Jacques Coenen-Huther (2002), outlining a rather typical pattern, explains it as follows: “I came to sociology not out of a concern for pure knowledge, but out of an active interest in the political and social issues to which I awakened in the mid-1950s” (p. 6). Robert Castel (2007) explains that he wanted to maintain a distance from the world while simultaneously seeking to understand it. Danièle Linhart (2010) links her orientation to her family history, marked by the Holocaust, which instilled in her the need to distance herself from the world. Edgar Morin (1994) emphasizes his desire to understand a world that had become chaotic during the war, fraught with intense ideological tensions. Michel Wieviorka (2007), initially trained in business, explains that he gradually turned to sociology under the influence of the left-wing climate of the post-1968 period. Michel Grossetti (2025), a mathematician by training, became interested in the social sciences following the student strikes in which he participated.

However, we cannot dismiss the idea that the principle of a latent vocation, stemming from a “dissatisfaction with society” (Mendras, 1995), seems to function as a commonplace, facilitating the retrospective reinterpretation of life trajectories in which materialist components have been downplayed. A closer reading therefore reveals the role of more contingent factors. Some authors, for instance, attribute their orientation toward sociology to the advice of a prominent figure. Jean Cazeneuve (1989) cites the role of the Dean of the Faculty of Letters, Georges Davy. A university history professor in the 1950s, Touraine attributes his conversion to the influence of another leading sociologist, Friedmann. Even more pragmatically, sociology sometimes emerges as the result of a series of fortuitous occurrences or ad hoc decisions. Georges Balandier (1997) emphasizes a choice based on “availability”: “At that time, I had a great deal of free time. I opted to prepare for the diploma at the Institute of Ethnology, which was frequented by a few philosophy students” (p. 184). Danilo Martuccelli (2007) recounts having been interested in philosophy, literature, and economics, but ultimately opted for sociology because his application with an undergraduate degree in philosophy had only been accepted in that field in Argentina. Danièle Linhart (2010), similarly, mentions an early choice made by default, following failures in literary preparatory classes and the entrance exams for Sciences Po (Paris Institute of Political Studies). Among the sociologists recruited in the 1960s, particularly at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), the conversion to sociology sometimes appears as a strategic choice. Boudon acknowledges that Aron had indicated to him that sociology represented a discipline of the future. Access to the most prestigious positions — at the Collège de France, the EHESS, and the Institut de France — frequently appears in autobiographies as an almost natural consequence of the intellectual value of the work produced. However, such positions are equally forms of symbolic consecration embedded within competitive relations, institutional alliances, and internal struggles within the academic field — aspects rarely made explicit by the narrators.

This type of explanation revives a notion dear to many autobiographers: a life trajectory marked by chance, opportunities, and spontaneous choices. However, it does not align with the noble image of the sociologist by vocation that some members of the profession would like to impose. The most interesting example is that of Jean-Claude Passeron (cited in Passeron et al., 1996). When questioned about his biography by Raymonde Moulin and Paul Veyne, he details, undoubtedly with candor, his calculations as a recent graduate seeking employment:

And here I was, weighing my future based on a comparison of the “objective probabilities” of the emergence of the two categories of assistant positions that had appeared on the academic job market. Since I could calculate my “expected gains” based on this, and since my “hierarchy of individual preferences” was unambiguously expressed by a “quantitative variable” — namely, mandatory teaching hours — the “rational choice” in favor of the human sciences, then experiencing rapid academic expansion, was inevitable. (p. 277)

Apparently dissatisfied with this response, Raymonde Moulin (cited in Passeron et al., 2006) corrects him:

But do you really claim that your choice to become a sociologist resulted from a career calculation, and that everything else followed out of pedagogical necessity, since your “role” was determined by the chance occurrence of a vacancy in higher education? (p. 280)

Passeron then embarks upon a lengthy argumentation replete with philosophical concepts to reinforce, by other means, the figure of the intellectual by vocation, thereby confirming that the autobiographical interview format is not conducive to making explicit the minor personal and strategic calculations, however inherent they may be to any professional career.

Studies and degrees

Consistent with their ultimate professional standing, the narrators generally describe academic trajectories marked by success. The most brilliant among them appear to treat their achievements as a matter of course: they mention them without elaboration, yet without omitting them either. Authors from working-class backgrounds place greater emphasis on the modesty of their beginnings and their unexpected success. Robert Castel (2007), for instance, writes: “I studied philosophy on a scholarship in provincial towns; I passed the agrégation exam to become a university professor by pretending I knew Latin and Greek” (p. 67). Eribon (2009) recounts in detail his uninspiring sociology studies in Reims, which led him to fail the agrégation exam, despite his interest in the subject. He then portrays himself as surprised by the success of his early books.

Almost none of the autobiographers in our corpus present themselves as ambitious, “diligent” students. Touraine (1977) asserts: “I did not have the attitude of someone competitive” (p. 22), although he describes himself reading Homer on the metro to prepare for his oral Greek examination. Bourdieu presents himself as an unruly high school student who was constantly punished. Verret speaks of his literary preparatory classes for the École Normale Supérieure (ENS) and then of the ENS itself, as if the transition from one to the other were automatic. The available educational pathways appear, logically enough, to be those of excellence. Crozier (2002) recounts that he did not want to prepare for the Polytechnique (an elite engineering, science, and technology school), that Sciences Po (the Paris Institute of Political Studies) was considered too snobbish, and that, therefore, “after countless discussions, we reached a compromise on the École des Hautes Études Commerciales” (p. 18). The majority of the authors convey the impression that their success occurred almost naturally, owing to their innate qualities. Grossetti (2025), while still a mathematics student, explains that he “passed successive exams... by vaguely reviewing lecture notes taken at random in the days leading up to the tests” (p. 46). Bertaux, for his part, describes his conversion to the social sciences as follows: “Back in Paris in early 1966, I resumed my work as a researcher in artificial intelligence (on pattern recognition) while studying at the Sorbonne and passing exams in sociology, demography, political economy, and social psychology” (Costa & dos Santos, 2021, p. 148).

Broadly speaking, careerism remains invisible, while intellectual aptitudes are emphasized. A recurring formulation is to attribute part of the professional trajectory to decisions made by others. Raymond Aron (1983) observes: “My teachers, my peers, my parents decreed that I was destined for another career, that of a university professor” (p. 51). Another factor is the patronage of influential figures. This mechanism is frequently evoked as a tribute to one’s elders, rather than being analyzed as a social resource. Consequently, study-abroad programs frequently depended on the goodwill of “prominent figures”, yet they are recounted as if they were widely available opportunities. Thus, Boudon (2010) states: “At the end of my two-year service in the French Navy, he [Stoetzel] secured a Ford Foundation fellowship for me, which enabled me to spend the 1961-1962 academic year at Columbia University in New York” (p. 7). Mendras (1995) — who emphasizes how exceptional it was to obtain a scholarship to the United States, an “incredible stroke of luck” — reports more laconically: “That same year, I landed a scholarship to Chicago on the basis of my good looks, upon his [Stoetzel’s] and Le Bras’s recommendation” (p. 43).

Finally, it is not always clear what criteria autobiographers use to decide whether or not to describe the progression of their studies. While it is understandable that preparing for the agrégation² does not lend itself to thrilling narratives, one might expect, conversely, that their early research would be presented in greater detail. However, some dwell at length on their postgraduate diploma (DES) or their thesis, whereas others say almost nothing on the matter or provide only vague details. It is possible that some of them, in retrospect, disapprove of this early research, deeming it inadequate or outdated. In many accounts, the thesis appears as a minor exercise, a mere formality intended primarily to open doors to the next stage of their career.

Rosanvallon (2018) scarcely describes the three theses he defended at different institutions; Besnard (1979) is vague about his initial choices (“I vaguely registered with Serge Hurtig” [2004, p. 386]); Dubet (2019) provides no information regarding his thesis; Bourdieu (2004) does not really explain why he abandoned his own; and the reader is left unaware of who Chombart de Lauwe’s supervisors were. This stance can be interpreted as a retrospective rationalization: to emphasize the importance of subsequent research, the expectations initially placed on the thesis are downplayed. Likewise, the supervisor’s influence remains largely invisible, and we often have no knowledge of how the thesis committees were assembled or upon what criteria they evaluated the manuscripts. The cases of Crozier and Aron are atypical: the descriptions of their defenses allow them to showcase their personalities and the originality of their ideas.

Research: a fortuitous encounter or a strategic choice?

Research narratives are frequently presented from the perspective of intellectual interest and theoretical implications. Their concrete development remains little known, and the funding modalities or their role in the professional trajectories of researchers are even less clear. Even before this, what stands out is undoubtedly the fact that the research topic is generally described as something that imposes itself almost spontaneously upon the researcher’s mind. In these narratives, one perceives no careerist opportunism, no influence of professional networks, no deliberate strategy, nor any desire to establish oneself in the scientific field. Robert Castel (2007), for instance, justifies his choice of psychiatry as a research topic by stating that he was interested in marginal situations. Regarding his transition to the social question, he explains: “It was a vague notion, with uncertain contours, and I was interested in experimenting and bringing some order to it. But I was also interested in the social sphere because it deals primarily with marginalized populations” (p. 71). Morin, for his part, asserts in Mes démons that he chose cinema because he was certain he was the only one working on the subject, and because it allowed him to spend his time watching films while getting paid. Boudon (2010) claims to have chosen to test methodological individualism on educational issues “quite naturally”, given that these had become central in the 1960s — without any mention, therefore, of political or career considerations. Mendras (1995), meanwhile, recounts that he dedicated himself to the study of the peasantry because he had already worked with the Mormons in the United States, and because no sociologist was exploring this field in France. He does not dwell on the advantage such specialization might have afforded him in terms of positioning within the discipline or research contracts. Crozier (2002), similarly, when recounting his first French research on the postal financial services center, presents it as if the topic had imposed itself of its own accord. As for Duvignaud (2007), he recounts his departure from Tunis to study the village of Chebika without providing any specific justification. However, as is well known, the choice of a research topic always involves a strategic dimension: avoiding direct competition in the allocation of funding (as at the CNRS), asserting oneself against a rival, or demonstrating originality to gain recognition. Such justifications remain difficult to reconstruct from the accounts, with few exceptions. Mendras (1995), for example, recounts the division of research domains established at the CNRS under Friedmann’s leadership: “Friedmann told me, ‘Mendras, Mendras, Touraine deals with the workers, Tréanton with the city, Crozier with civil servants. You know something about peasants, and you are the only one, so take on this subject…’” (p. 53). It is also interesting to note that this account stands in stark contrast to that of Viviane Isambert-Jamati (cited in Cacouault-Bitaud & Rogers, 2007):

There was a sociology of religion group, a political sociology group, a rural sociology group. But, in my view, we should not believe Mendras when he claims that Friedmann assigned everyone their role: Touraine will deal with work, Viviane Isambert will deal with education. Nothing of the sort happened; everyone took the initiative. At that time, at the CNRS, we enjoyed a great deal of freedom. We did not consult the research director. (p. 12)

Regarding the practical details of research, autobiographical accounts sometimes provide information on fieldwork (Dubet, Bourdieu, or Chombart de Lauwe, for instance). They also allude, at times, to the role of professional or social networks in facilitating research. Balandier, for example, suggests that his position as an administrator and his political contacts opened certain doors for him. Wieviorka (2007) observes, without elaborating, that his team was promptly received by Jan Strzelecki, a prominent intellectual figure in Poland, when they decided to conduct research in the country. In other cases, fieldwork “comes” to the researcher in the form of contracts secured with corporations. Michel Pinçon and Monique Pinçon-Charlot (2021) emphasize this point in relation to their work at the CNRS. Crozier (2002) recounts having been regularly approached by major corporations, and Wieviorka (2007) mentions requests from the management of the French national electricity company (EDF). However, readers outside these circles struggle to discern the prior efforts involved in prospecting or mobilizing professional networks. Everything unfolds more or less as if the researcher’s reputation alone attracted contracts — which is undoubtedly true at times, but certainly not always. The issue of funding is approached with even greater circumspection. The allocated amounts are never specified. Morin (1994), for instance, recalls the criticisms leveled at the Plozévet research regarding its purportedly substantial budget, yet he focuses primarily on demonstrating the scientific quality of the work carried out. Wieviorka (2007) recounts that a research project on terrorism was funded thanks to the intervention of François Dubet, then president of the EHESS, who “drew upon his personal savings”. Broadly speaking, the narrators display a certain reticence regarding money and strive to demonstrate that they barely possessed the necessary resources to conduct their research. Finally, the publication of work does not appear to be an issue for the prominent figures who author lengthy autobiographies. Balandier (1997) mentions, in a nonchalant tone, that he had contacts at Gallimard thanks to Michel Leiris. Bourdieu (2004) breathes not a word about the ease with which he was published by Minuit, just as Morin and Crozier remain silent regarding their respective publishers. We are, therefore, far removed from the concerns of lesser-known sociologists, for whom finding a publisher can be an arduous task, albeit a necessary one for career advancement. Dominique Schnapper (2006, cited in Busino) is one of the few to lay bare this reality: “To be recognized in a field, it is not enough to publish a book, even in two volumes; one must provide a genuine after-sales service, multiply presentations and supplementary or repetitive publications, and become recognized as a ‘specialist’” (p. 178).

Specific problems of a sociologist’s autobiography

Blind spots

The very principle of autobiographical testimony, as we have seen, encourages authors to emphasize the positive aspects. It is difficult to find accounts in which the narrator is self-deprecating, highlights the frailties of their career, or presents themselves as a second-rate researcher. More broadly, no one admits to having worked in haste, made errors out of negligence, published texts of minor importance, or discreetly appropriated the ideas of others. The intellectual autobiography, therefore, contributes to bolstering rather than undermining the author’s image, especially since it frequently provides the opportunity to expound at length upon their ideas. The primary blind spot in this type of narrative thus lies in the construction of one’s self-image as a competent professional. This “unquestionable” nature of academic reputation obscures commonplace weaknesses, petty disputes, or the strategic use of institutional resources. Unfavorable information can only be gleaned by cross-referencing different accounts, by way of personal rivalries. Financial motivation, in particular, vanishes from the picture. Remuneration, the prestige of positions, or the exercise of power are never emphasized. Mendras (1995), for instance, recounts driving a Citroën 2CV early in his career and notes that salaries were low at the CNRS, but makes no mention of subsequent improvements. Jean Cazeneuve (1989), for his part, justifies his move to the directorship of TF1 (a French television channel) by highlighting his desire to put theory into practice, without a word about the financial aspect. Furthermore, no narrator seriously explores the implications of “nepotism” by detailing their professional trajectory, appointments, or promotions achieved through union, political, or activist connections, as if these factors were secondary to the individual’s talent. Thus, the role played by far-left networks in certain CNRS appointments is never mentioned. “Connections” are generally described in terms of intellectual or personal affinities, with no reference to ideological leanings, be they left-wing or right-wing. Besnard (2004), for example, speaks of his entry into the CNRS through Boudon’s circle, without explaining the political dimension of this affiliation:

After two or three unsuccessful attempts, I was admitted to the CNRS in January 1982 through standard channels, although I could have entered “outside the established system”, and was therefore assigned to GEMAS, as I had requested. The choice of GEMAS came about quite naturally, as if it were not a choice at all. [...] I befriended Mohamed Cherkaoui and enjoyed good relations with the other researchers on the team. And then there was the prestige of R. Boudon and F. Bourricaud — their prestige, but also their liberalism regarding research. (p. 398)

The power of networks, whatever their nature — that is, not only political, but also institutional, familial, and even ethnic and sexual — is never made clear. Bourdieu (2004), for instance, does not theorize the impact of the successive forms of support he received, which enabled him to avoid combat in Algeria, secure a position in Algiers, or be appointed to the École des Hautes Études. He reveals, in passing, that “Lévi-Strauss welcomed him at a very young age, when he had not yet published anything, at the École des Hautes Études” (p. 61). Accounts of this sort sometimes convey the impression that the provincial arriving in Paris will effortlessly encounter prominent intellectuals, be spontaneously invited to contribute to journals or research projects, and be “offered” positions, all without any meticulous strategy for penetrating influential circles. When an author does mention their sources of support, the differential power of the social network they are capable of mobilizing is never emphasized. Dubet (2012), for example, openly cites the backing of the prominent politician Lionel Jospin.

All this appears more or less self-evident, implicitly suggesting that the inability of other sociologists to mobilize such support may stem from a lack of skill or motivation. The common blind spot is, ultimately, the importance of ambition. These accounts lead the naïve reader to believe that a career progresses almost automatically, provided one gets along with colleagues and applies oneself earnestly to promising research. Passeron (cited in Passeron et al., 2006), for example, neither explains nor justifies the stages of his career, preferring instead to discuss his ideas, even when questioned on the matter. It is almost as if the narrators were never in pursuit of recognition or honors — not even those who gained entry to the Institut de France or were elected to the Collège de France. Bourdieu (2004), for instance, despite providing a few details about the campaign he had to wage for his election to the Collège de France (without mentioning the competition from Boudon and Touraine), describes this institution as “a place of consecration for heretics [...] situated apart from all temporal powers over the academic institution” (p. 107). However, it is quite clear, as Cazeneuve (1989) asserts with considerable candor, “that no one is elected to one of the five academies of the Quai Conti without having desired it, except in a few exceptional cases” (p. 176). Sociologists are generally less forthcoming on the subject of prestige than practitioners of the hard sciences, who are in constant competition to have their names associated with “discoveries” and who make no secret of their relentless pursuit of recognition³. The sociologists in our corpus do not describe genuine competition, but rather relatively closed circles of “enthusiasts” working collaboratively to make the world known. The absence of prestigious awards makes the competition less pronounced and less visible. Bourdieu thus evokes the dedication to work of his laboratory colleagues, in the service of the social sciences, without allowing the uninitiated reader to grasp the power conferred by the directorship of a major laboratory backed by a journal and a publishing house.

Since the career is not presented as a driving force behind the work, our authors rarely portray themselves as frustrated, embittered, or aggrieved, except when certain books are deemed “misunderstood” by their peers. Bourdieu (2004), for instance, presents himself as the target of gossip and slander directed against a widely misunderstood body of work: “I was fortunate”, he states, “to be able to live for a long time in relative indifference to worldly success. [...] It was probable and normal that I should remain misunderstood and unrecognized for a long time” (p. 91). In his case, as in others, the less successful episodes of his career are recounted only by third parties — for example, Wieviorka regarding Touraine:

In the early 1980s, Alain Touraine had just lost the chair of sociology at the Collège de France to Pierre Bourdieu. It was a wound for him, and also for those close to him. It must be said that the opposition between Touraine and Bourdieu had crystallized throughout the 1970s.

(Ténédos, 2006, p. 35)

Finally, one last blind spot concerns relations with colleagues. Rivalries and clashes of ego appear nonexistent, or at least to have no impact on careers. Nor is it clear what exactly the narrators owe to the individuals with whom they worked (for instance, Chombart de Lauwe and his numerous collaborators, or Bourdieu with Sayad or Darbel). Aron (1983) stands apart from his peers when he writes:

Determined to fulfill my obligations in their entirety, I established, within the framework of the Sixth Section, a research center entitled the European Center for Historical Sociology. Pierre Bourdieu was its secretary-general and driving force — in reality, its de facto director — until the rupture caused by the events of 1968. (p. 349)

But this type of confession is part of an attempt to construct a comprehensive public self-image in order to be convincing. The “boss”, however authoritarian he may be, knows how to grant autonomy to his collaborators. Bourdieu and Mendras, similarly, present themselves as easygoing bosses who manage their group in a spirit of camaraderie and respect, and, if we are to believe Crozier (2002) regarding his own management style: “This is how I gradually became a minor boss. But not a boss by divine right, quite the contrary — rather, that commando leader who lives within his small troop, who takes care of everything for them and with them” (p. 130).

The sociologist as an intellectual first and foremost

The interplay between blind spots and the obsession with self-image steers narratives toward the construction of the sociologist’s image as an intellectual above all else. The narrators spontaneously present themselves as producers of ideas, not as civil servants building their careers. Rosanvallon (2018), for instance, describes his work and its genesis in detail, mentioning only in passing his accession to increasingly prestigious professional positions. The reader is left with the impression, based on this type of narrative, that researchers endowed with ideas seem to progress automatically.

The insistence on the figure of the “intellectual” likewise serves to obscure the strictly professional and competitive dimension of academic careers. The narrators tend to present their trajectories as guided primarily by intellectual convictions, political commitments, or theoretical concerns, rather than as the outcome of positioning strategies within a competitive space. Such a construction hearkens back to the French tradition of the intellectuel engagé, consolidated since the Dreyfus affair and subsequently embodied by figures such as Sartre or Aron. Despite their profound political and intellectual differences, both contributed to imposing a representation of the intellectual as an autonomous producer of ideas, relatively detached from the ordinary logics of the university career.

It is not enough, however, to be a serious professor or researcher. The lack of explanations regarding the reasons for success, coupled with the lengthy elaborations on the value of publications, implicitly establishes the figure of the intellectual. Bourdieu (2004) writes, in all seriousness: “I have often defined myself, somewhat jokingly, as the leader of a movement to liberate the social sciences from the imperialism of philosophy” (p. 94). Each author thus demonstrates, in their own way, a certain claim to originality, which at times takes the form of a distancing from others, of occupying a somewhat exceptional position.

In a similar vein, Aron (1983) frames his political involvement and his long career in journalism as a guarantee of his singularity. Moscovici (2007) structures his distancing from France and from the research community as the focal point of his accounts. Crozier (2002) asserts that he was an outsider in a milieu of highly credentialed individuals or communists, and that his questions were initially poorly understood. Morin (1994) emphasizes his eclecticism and his freedom, presenting himself as an exceptional and unclassifiable case. Finally, Castel (2007) describes his position as follows:

My relationship with the university institution is at once engaged and detached. [...] I am not entirely in tune with this milieu, whose games at times strike me as strange and ridiculous, and I retain the feeling that I could be somewhere else entirely. (p. 21)

In some cases, the emphasis on originality leads to a kind of exemplary construction of one’s public image. Morin, for example, published a dozen texts (books and articles) in which he evokes his personal life, his political engagement, his participation in the Resistance, his research, and so forth. Aron, as we have seen, opted for a grand literary and political autobiography that presents him as a man of principle confronting countless adversaries. Similarly, Lévi-Strauss, who began his academic career as a sociologist in Brazil, recounts this experience in Tristes Tropiques in epic fashion: an arduous voyage, arrival in a provincial academic world, the amateurism of the students, and the Amazon to be discovered over the course of astonishing adventures.

Precautions in theory and self-indulgence in practice

Our observations demonstrate how difficult it is for the autobiographical sociologist to present themselves as an original intellectual, an exemplary citizen, and a compelling individual, without appearing to succumb to an embellishing narcissism. Jean-Philippe Bouilloud (2007) is therefore correct in observing that: “The immodesty of taking oneself as a model or pleading one’s own case, acting as both judge and interested party without the aid of a third-party guarantor, demands rhetorical strategies of argumentation and persuasion that are necessarily concealed, and whose exposure would undermine the ambition” (p. 10).

This contradiction is evident even in the construction of the accounts, which generally begin with methodological precautions and disavowals that are not subsequently borne out by the content of the narratives themselves. Thus, to cite but a few examples, Pierre Tripier (2012), at the beginning of his brief account, asserts that narcissistic celebration and self-justification are the most obvious pitfalls, yet admits: “I know I will fall into them, even as I try to evade them” (p. 151). Pierre Fougeyrollas (2007) expresses similar qualms prior to his confessions: “Even while making a strenuous effort at sincerity, as I myself did when preparing my presentation, even while recounting to you what I believe I have experienced, will I not unwittingly be engaged in a process of reconstructing my past?” (p. 137). Duvignaud (2007) speaks of “a continuity retrospectively invented with age”, even though his text amounts to a justification of his choices and his work throughout his career.

Eugène Enriquez (2019), before speaking at length about himself and his tastes, asks himself:

What can one say about one’s life, about the choice of profession, and about the theoretical frameworks chosen, other than that one develops a narrative that assumes the character of a pleasing fiction, which flatters the author’s narcissism and adorns itself with virtues seductive to the listeners’ ears? (p. 35)

Dubet (2019) likewise admits to being wary of “narratives that invent a coherence, a consistency, a ‘vocation,’ a ‘destiny,’ where more often than not there are only fortuitous occurrences, circumstances, trade-offs between competencies, as well as social structures” (p. 38). Finally, Vincent de Gaulejac (2007) warns of the danger of succumbing to teleological, deterministic, retrospective, and narcissistic illusions (p. 167).

However, despite being aware of the risks associated with this exercise, our authors — including the most cautious among them, who are concerned with situating their trajectory within a social and generational context — ultimately succumb to the temptation of egocentric narratives and the strategic omission of certain details. The sociologist, therefore, is not necessarily the best witness to the inner workings of their own milieu when approaching it through the lens of their individual trajectory. Interviewing primary school teachers in western France, Peneff (1987) described good autobiographical witnesses as “individuals who are not inclined to be blind to their personal situation, who are not inclined to evade the difficulties of social explanation by means of banal clichés or stereotyped explanations” (p. 8). The analysis of sociologists’ autobiographical accounts confirms this observation to a certain extent: whereas primary school teachers view themselves as members of a professional collective, confronted with similar conditions and engaged in a shared endeavor, sociologists insist upon highlighting the singularity of their trajectory, their breaks with dogmatism, and the courage of their stances. Even those who describe themselves as members of a generation, such as Dubet, neglect to problematize the exceptional nature of their professional trajectories. Not a single one of them presents themselves as a mere civil servant belonging to an ordinary profession and operating under ordinary constraints. Committed to securing recognition for their work, they seek, above all else, to assert the relevance and originality of their ideas. Hence the recurrent displays of self-promotion, the subtle critiques leveled at certain detractors, and the tributes paid to their mentors and disciples.

It is undoubtedly in the work of Bourdieu (1986) that the contrast between methodological critiques and autobiography becomes most evident. After critiquing “The Biographical Illusion”, which leads the narrator to invent meaning and logic for their history, and even to become “the ideologue of their own life” (p. 69), he finds himself compelled to present his autobiographical account as something other than an autobiographical account. As Nathalie Heinich (2005) observes with a touch of sarcasm, “upon reading it, one realizes that it is in fact a first-person narrative of the author’s life, which corresponds to the minimal definition of the autobiographical genre” (p. 216). Bourdieu (2004) therefore claims to be a “self-analyst” rather than an autobiographer, insofar as he purports to be presenting the state of the “field” in which his trajectory unfolded: in reality, scattered observations on the dominance of philosophy over the social sciences in the 1950s, at a time when a few prominent figures firmly directed the first Parisian sociology laboratories. The remainder of the book fails to escape not only the pitfalls he had previously criticized (the invention of a mission, of a coherence, etc.), but also the clichés of autobiographies in general: the “bust portrait” and self-justification, undoubtedly rendered necessary following severe criticisms from some of his former colleagues from the 1980s onward.⁴

The limited value of sociologists’ autobiographies

Following this analysis of our corpus, the question remains as to the actual contribution that sociologists’ autobiographies can offer to the analysis of careers. The critical observations made herein are by no means intended to deny the value of autobiographies. On the contrary, their absence creates a significant void — as demonstrated, for instance, by the case of Durkheim, from whom we have no personal account. These narratives make it possible to reconstruct the relationships between certain actors, shed light on episodes of appointment or research choices, and sketch the intellectual climate of a given era or milieu. They therefore constitute a useful source for the internal history of the discipline, as Bouilloud (2009) emphasizes. However, the limitations have become as evident to him as they have to us: a lack of description regarding the conditions and means of career advancement, blind spots concerning struggles for power and money, self-justification, and even self-consecration. “The complex mechanisms of bifurcation are sometimes completely ignored, the efforts expended are masked under the guise of almost fabulous fortuitous occurrences, and nothing is known of the preliminary groundwork underlying such occurrences” (Bouilloud, 2009, p. 31).

More fundamentally, the analytical value of using autobiographies is undermined by an omission and a structural bias. The glaring omission concerns a dimension that is, nonetheless, fundamental to sociological analysis: the interests of the actors and the means by which they pursue them. The structural bias lies in the description of the professional world from an egocentric standpoint. By concealing or euphemizing genuine interests, autobiographies present career trajectories that are more or less devoid of underlying rationale and motivation: happy accidents, fortuitous opportunities, or well-deserved rewards lead the narrator from secondary school to prestigious professional appointments. By asserting that they did not truly desire to pursue a career, and sometimes had not even considered becoming a sociologist, the narrator does little to help us problematize and understand the actual mechanisms behind these trajectories. This posture creates an impression of superficiality. The true motives driving the trajectories, the conflicts, and the trade-offs remain implicit, leaving the reader to infer them by drawing upon external knowledge. The more consecrated the author of the autobiography, the more they seek to burnish their image, rendering the analytical work all the more delicate. In the majority of cases, as we have seen, a recurrent pattern emerges: the author claims to be speaking in order to “leave a trace” of their experiences or of a specific era. Their career appears as a succession of “natural” stages. They present themselves as industrious and talented, having capitalized on the opportunities presented; they acknowledge the assistance of certain colleagues, while simultaneously attributing their success to their own merits. This narrative structure is predicated upon implicit expectations regarding the reader: the latter is presumed to be sympathetic, interested in the author’s body of work, and disinclined to question the account. This is a quintessential manifestation of the “autobiographical pact” analyzed by Philippe Lejeune (1975): the reader is invited to adopt the narrator’s vantage point rather than interrogate it, and therefore, to refrain from questioning a “sanitized” public image.

Despite assertions of principle establishing the primacy of the group, the generation, or the “field of study”, the egocentric orientation frequently produces accounts that are factually impoverished and tendentious. It is evident that the primary limitations of these autobiographies are inherent to the method itself. In most cases, the author is not explicitly challenged by the interviewer: they speak freely, in their own words, and according to their own interpretive framework. However, narrating one’s own life inevitably entails recounting events from the perspective of one’s own interests and through the lens of one’s self-regard. Successes tend to appear natural, while failures are readily reinterpreted as injustices. The retrospective reinterpretation of the past to one’s own advantage therefore introduces a constant bias, even among those authors most concerned with intellectual integrity. These flaws are inherent to all autobiographical writing, but they are amplified among those whose careers have been predicated upon the construction of a positive self-image — an implicit prerequisite for success in the academic world. Indeed, it is difficult to fathom what the incentive would be, at the end of a career, to reveal the accumulation of weaknesses, errors, or compromises that one has patiently attempted to rectify or conceal. This concern with personal image also influences the way sociologists speak of their peers. Explicit attacks against living colleagues are rare: no one has an interest in triggering a war of revelations that would damage an individual’s reputation and, more broadly, the image of the discipline. This results in a relative silence surrounding the autobiographical accounts of others. The few corrections — such as those, for instance, by Boudon regarding Mendras or Isambert-Jamati — pertain to mere details. We would learn far more if everyone took the risk of reading their peers’ accounts closely and pointing out the inaccuracies, omissions, or unwarranted reconstructions — but the price would undoubtedly be renewed disputes. Lesser-known sociologists would be compelled to speak about those who appointed, sponsored, or thwarted them. We would gain a clearer understanding of power relations, clientelism, and certain hidden reasons behind failure or success. Generally speaking, the less glorious aspects of careers can only emerge clearly from the writings of those who feel marginalized or aggrieved.

Ultimately, a sociologist’s autobiography remains, above all else, an enjoyable exercise for both writer and reader alike: it allows one to revisit an era, delve into the daily life of a specific milieu, discover the genesis of celebrated research, or catch a glimpse of figures who left no direct testimony. However, the true dynamics of careers only become apparent to those already familiar with their inner workings. Hence the need to situate these narratives within a broader research framework, drawing upon archives and targeted interviews, particularly with peripheral witnesses. As such, autobiography can only serve as a complement to comprehensive empirical research, rather than a substitute. The researcher runs the risk of yielding to empathy, taking the authors’ declarations of sincerity at face value, and succumbing to the dual illusion of autobiography: first, the illusion animating the narrator, who believes they are recounting their story honestly; and second, that of the reader, who, under the impression of gaining access to a subjectivity, may yield to the notion that the past springs back to life as the narrative unfolds. Paradoxically, sociologists — experts in objectifying trajectories and denaturalizing social mechanisms — frequently prove disinclined to fully apply this same reflexive gaze to their own careers.

• Use of AI:
  The authors state that no Artificial Intelligence (AI) tools were used in any phase of the preparation or writing of this manuscript, including, but not limited to, the generation of text, images, code, abstracts, translations, or analyses.
• Copy editing services:
  Portuguese version - Copy editing and standardization of citations and bibliographical references (7th. Edition APA): Vera Lúcia Fator Gouvêa Bonilha [e-mail].
  English version: Francisco López Toledo Corrêa [e-mail].
• 2
  A competitive examination to become a university professor.
• 3
  See, for example, the testimony of mathematician Cédric Villani (2013) or, before him, that of Max Planck (1960).
• 4
  In his memoirs, Aron (1983) described him as “a self-assured and domineering cult leader, an expert in academic intrigue, ruthless toward anyone who might overshadow him” (p. 350). Aron’s daughter, Dominique Schnapper (cited in Busino, 2006), subsequently corroborated her father’s account, describing Bourdieu as a calculating social climber. The harshest criticisms, however (authoritarianism, intellectual fraud), came from a former student, Jeannine Verdès-Leroux (1998).

Research data availability:

The contents underlying the research text are included in the manuscript.

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Edited by

• Responsible editor:
  Chantal Medaets https://orcid.org/0000-0002-7834-3834

Publication Dates

• Publication in this collection
  27 July 2026
• Date of issue
  2026

History

• Received
  12 Feb 2026
• Reviewed
  11 May 2026
• Accepted
  14 May 2026