Itinerant Philosophy: On Alphonso Lingis

ITINERANT PHILOSOPHY
ON ALPHONSO LINGIS

ITINERANT PHILOSOPHY

ON ALPHONSO LINGIS

edited by Bobby George & Tom Sparrow

punctum books ! brooklyn, ny

ITINERANT PHILOSOPHY: ON ALPHONSO LINGIS
Bobby George & Tom Sparrow.

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First published in 2014 by
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Table of Contents

Note to the Reader

Dorothea Lasky
Love Poem:
After Alphonso Lingis

Bobby George and Tom Sparrow
Interview with Lingis

Jeff Barbeau
Early Notes Toward an
Ontology of Fetishes

Timothy Morton
Objects in Mirror Are Closer
Than They Appear

Alphonso Lingis
Doubles

1

3

7

21

37

61

John Protevi
Alterity and Life in the
Thought of Lingis
David Karnos
Personal Correspondences
Joff Peter Norman Bradley
Becoming-Troglodyte
Jeffrey Nealon
On The Community of Those Who
Have Nothing in Common
Dorothea Olkowski
What is an Imperative?
Jonas Skakauskas
Interview with Lingis
Graham Harman
On Violence and Splendor
69
81
111
129
143
149
169

Note to the Reader

In 2012 we launched the now-inoperative journal Singular-
um, whose modus operandi read like this:

Singularum operates on the premise that every facet of
life yields transformative aesthetic encounters. It pro-
vides an independent venue for theorizing, transmitt-
ing, and staging these encounters. Its strategic aim is
to exhibit thinking born at the interface of aesthetics
& pedagogy.

Unable to sustain this short-lived project in its original form,
we decided to convert its two volumes into books, the first of
which is devoted to the work of nomadic American philo-
sopher Alphonso Lingis. Thanks to the generosity of punc-
tum books director Eileen Joy, along with her dedicated
accomplice Andrew Doty, you are now reading the foreword
to what was once Volume 1 of Singularum.

Tom Sparrow & Bobby George
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania & Sioux Falls, South Dakota
July 2014

Love Poem: After Alphonso Lingis
by Dorothea Lasky

What I to you
I loved you
But you also meant nothing to me

You were nothing but
A box jellyfish
The edges always coming out to meet the water

A skin of water, not water-blue
So that there was nothing we could find like ourselves

And nothing like a center
So that the animal was not a beak
But a movement forward

So that speech was not a thing to say
But a thing to be attracted to
What silly songs we did find then

Itinerant Philosophy

4
And when I went swimming through the pond
I was a transparent body
That went to you

And when I went flying through the air
It was your distinction, not similarity
That called to me

And when I died and my awe
Completely upturned
I held myself, my breath

My spiritus
Which had always swirled around you
In clear folds I knew of, the skin

So that the only indication
Of another world
Were the rain and snow

And when I was reborn again
I was only an infant
But still, you asked me to dance with you

And I did dance with you, my father
Do you remember us both, both babies
Moving closely around the sky

In the icy wind
In the orange water
Full of flies

In the sunny terrain
Of black hills
The home
Lasky: Love Poem

5
The home we knew
And even if it takes a while
I will meet you there again

Interview with Alphonso Lingis
conducted by Bobby George & Tom Sparrow

BG & TS: As you know, were planning to enter your body
of work through the lens of photography and geography. We
thought wed start our conversation there, at that conjunc-
tion. What motivated you to start to include photos in your
text?

AL: In Excesses I thought I had to show a temple at Khaju-
raho, for readers who had never seen images of them. I also
wanted to include a Nuba man photographed by Leni Rief-
enstahla photograph that, when I first came upon it, made
me decide to go there (the text does not explain that).
The photographs are not inserted at places in the text that
they would illustrate; they are put before the chapters. They
bring readers to the places and people that the texts will de-
scribe and discuss.
When in 2009 I went back over 40 years of photographs
to pick out those that were published in Contact, I was aston-
ished and moved to find that I remembered every one of
those people, so many only encountered for a few minutes on
the streetand remembered the place, the time of day, the
circumstances where I encountered them, the words we ex-

8
changed. It made me realize that the photographs show not
simply a particular individual, but a setting, a field or arena
where events took place. As Leni Riefenstahls photograph
had sent me to East Africa, the other photographs in the
book send readers to places far away and now long ago.
The images are in their own way narrativeand the texts
in their own way depict. In recent decades so many philoso-
phers have denounced the idea that language is representa-
tion. They have not analyzed the way language lays out a
setting of the world, makes us see people and events. We
speak of absent things, far-off things and things that have
passed on, and language depicts them and makes them con-
tinuous with the environment visible about us.

BG & TS: In a way, it seems to us that philosophy has not
always taken photography seriously, at least not seriously
enough. Not unlike language, philosophy has denounced
photography as representation. Yet, your texts and photos
announce a setting, a field or arena, at once intimate and
distant, moving beyond these criticisms. Can you articulate
this oscillation between language and photography, and how
you see the expansion into a new geography?

AL: Thinking about photographic images, I think we come
to revise the way philosophy distinguished between reality
and image and between subjective and objective. Discover
images that the things, and not the human mind, engender.
Since Descartes and Locke and their friends, a critical
question for philosophy was: How can I be sure that I am not
dreaming? How to establish the difference between percep-
tions that genuinely exhibit real things, and dreams that are
concocted within the mind by the mind? Images in general
were taken to be fabricated by the mind itself.
I instead set out to recognize that the things themselves
engender images or doubles of themselvesshadows, hal-
George and Sparrow: Interview with Alphonso Lingis

9
os, the images of themselves they project on water, on the
glass of windowsand also on the surfaces of the eyes of
mammals, birds, fish. For example, the puddle of water that
appears shimmering on the surface of the road ahead in a hot
day is not subjective, produced by the mind; it is engen-
dered by the road and the sun and everybody in the car sees
it.
I then was really struck by the fact that these real or ob-
jective images the things generate captivate us and excite in
us the pleasure of seeing. For Heidegger we are always on the
lookout for implements, obstacles, paths, objectives. To the
contrary, I recognized that when we step out into the world
we are captivated by the shifting profiles and angles the
things exhibit, the shadows and the reflections, the glitter on
the lake and the radiance blazoning the outlines of the
clouds, the shifting shadows and light on the face on the per-
son we are talking to. And all this excites pleasure and keeps
us fascinated and delighted by the things arrayed about us.
Merleau-Ponty distinguished between the real properties
of thingsthe shape and size and color when we are in the
optimal viewing position and all the perspectival defor-
mations which we take as relays toward that vision of the
real shape, size, and color.
But I think that all these perspectival variations, shadows,
reflections swarm in the environment about us, and we do
not only take them as transitions toward the sight of the real
shape, size, and color. They captivate us in themselves, de-
light us, excite pleasure.
It is true that the mind can also fabricate imagesin
dreams, daydreaming, imagination. So I distinguish:
the appearances in which things reveal their real shape,
size, color to us stationed at the optimal position and right
lighting.
the appearances that we take as transitional toward
those real appearances. For example, seeing the table as rec-

10
tangular even though we are looking at it from an angle.
the perspectival variations, shadows, reflections, etc.
the things themselves engender.
images that are fabricated within the mind by the
mind. These can be simple, false, or creative, artistry.
Photographic images are made by light and the camera;
the photographer only positions and focuses. But the pleas-
ure of photographic images is to capture images that the
things themselves engender, in certain lighting, in shadow, in
specific ways they group together.
Thinking about language and photographic images also
leads to new conceptions of both. The concept of representa-
tion is obscure and misleading. Words do not simply stand
for, stand in the place of, things that are absent. They do not
simply stimulate our minds to produce images of things. I
was very struck by Heideggers statements about how words
invoke and summon forth things. (I think of the words of the
medium who summons the dead to appear in the room.)
When he speaks of the bridge over the river Rhine, we do
not simply attend to an image or concept of the bridge in our
own minds; instead we attend to the bridge itself where it is,
on the Rhine. The words of a novel lay out a landscape, a
situation, events about us. (We do not simply look at the
words and imagine the object each word refers to.) (Nor do
the words simply direct attention to a landscape we have al-
ready imagined.) With the words that name the protagonist
and some details of the setting, the whole protagonist and
the complex setting form about us. Last summer I read Knut
Hansuns Growth of the Soil. Written in a spare, economic
language. But as I read the book how present and how dense
and complex life in the Norwegian landscape in the last cen-
tury hovered about me.
In looking at photos I took 40 years ago, I trembled to re-
alize how it all became present again in the imagethe shy
or ironic feeling of the person, the density of life in that per-

11
son, the spot on the road one day in India, the rhythm and
sounds of that dayall those reflections and images radiating
off the person, the road, the things of the setting. That is
how I came to recognize a kinship between language and
photographythat power in both to invoke and summon
forth, bring things into presence.
You ask about the new geography language and photo-
graphs unfold, a wonderful and striking thought. I am afraid
I have gotten involved in the ontological status of images
and of the vocative power of language. But I shall stop now; I
shall have to ponder your question more.

BG & TS: Certainly the photographs in your texts recall
scenes that are, for you, autobiographical. The affective
content of these images must be much thicker for you than it
is for your readers, although your words often work to gen-
erate a rhythm that is capable of drawing readers into the
photograph and the scene it is borne out of, thus providing a
certain tangibility to your prose. Levinas, in Reality and Its
Shadow, speaks of how the musicality and rhythm of images
has the capacity to render the spectator a passive participant
in the spectacle itself. As a photographer, do you see yourself
as spectator or participant in the rhythm of your photo-
graphs? Whatever your view, do you find that your photo-
graphs have the ability to convey to readers the autobio-
graphical content of your travels?

AL: I will not talk about the experience of professional pho-
tographers, those who produce wedding albums, architecture
and landscape books, mesmerizing images for celebrities and
commodities. I just want to talk about walking when one
walks with a camera.
I had long resisted buying a camera, thinking that there
was something false about collecting images of things seen
and people encountered and who have passed on, trying to

12
retain the past. I thought that what was real was what from a
trip left one changed. I started taking pictures when a friend
who was taking me to the airport gave me a camera on the
way.
I soon realized that the camera had changed my percep-
tion. The light: it was no longer just cleared space in which
things took form; it had direction, it led the gaze, its shafts
excavated situations isolated in the dark, sometimes it spread
in a scintillating, dazzling, blazing medium without bounda-
ries. Shadows took on substance; they stretched, flowed,
condensed things in themselves. It occurred to me that I saw
them that way when I was a child. Things looked different:
the contours of shadows and of things that overlapped other
things pushed out the contours that contained things in
themselves. Flat surfaces showed corrugations, grain, stubble
and texture, and sheets of gleam. And the continuity of the
landscape drifting by would be abruptly broken by momen-
tary eventsthe spiraling neck of a heron probing the space,
the poised pause of an antelope, the legs of a child in an ara-
besque she will never be able to do once grown up, the grin
of a passerby at something inward. The landscape is abruptly
splintered, a segment isolates, magnetizes, and pulls the
glance into it.
A gesture, some steps, a contour, an encounter stops pass-
ing, stops transitioning, and breaks out, presents itself. A
profile turned, an overlapping of wagon and wall, a gleam or
zigzag line of light, most often only there an instant. But
disconnected from the field, from situations passing, from
orientations and goals. Purely present.
Abruptly you stop. That gait, that stride that kept your
body going on arrested, that sweep of the eyes braked, your
breath stopped, your heart beat skips. Redirected, you are
pulled into that disconnected segment where a strange light
glimmers, a bird bobs his head, a smile flashes. You feel that
tense poised pose of an antelope contracted in your body,

13
that smile flashing in the face of a stranger in the road fills all
space and flashes in your eyes.
This transfiguration of the environment into scintillating
moments of pure presence, and these moments of ecstatic
participation, are the reason to walk with a camera. To be
sure these moments of rapture in the midst of forest trees all
around, in the midst of a crowded street happen without a
camera in ones hand. They are the reason our eyes are not,
as Heidegger would have it, always interested, on the look-
out, looking for objectives, paths, implements, obstacles. Our
eyes are fascinated by the immensities outside, never tire of
looking, because of these disconnected moments of surprise
and pleasure, of rapture.
But with the camera in hand, these trance moments be-
come metaphysical; the sinewy movement of a branch on the
surface of a lake is doubled, displaced, into your eyes and
heartbeat and also across the camera into far-off places and
rooms where it will dance again in a long vanished light. A
camera, one could say, is a tool or an instrument. But when
you install a light switch, it is all lined up first in the mind:
the wire that will conduct the current to the interruptor, the
wire that will bring the current to the ceiling light, the wire
that send the current on, the wire that will bring excess
charge to the ground, the insulated pliers that will twist and
connect the wires. With a camera one never did understand
the process, the chemical compounds on the film, the digital
breakdown of the image. And unlike the hand that wields a
chisel or that aims a rifle, the hand that raises the camera and
touches the button does not become skilled. With a camera
decades ago, there was some manipulation; one had to check
the light meter, to set the speed and the focus; now the cam-
era does everything.
And then you wait to see the result. The camera will do
things the eyes did not: it will flatten the landscape, crowd in
adjacent things the eyes had kept back, enlarge the out-

14
stretched hands. A stroke of chance presented the enchanting
fragment and the moment; now a stroke of chance produces
the image of it in different scaffolding. By chance enchanted,
or trivialized. You discard or delete 95%, 99% of the images.
There was the moment of enchantment, of trance; the
camera only recorded it (transformed, perhaps wretched).
But the photo image retains its bond with the fragment or
event that once became pure presence. We look at the image
of our godmother, immigrant from the old country, standing
in a field of high grass holding us when we were a six
months-old baby, and we are transported back to that field
and the warm bosom of that woman long dead. We look at
the image of our grandfather, scrawny youth in his uniform,
who never returned from the Great War, and we are trans-
ported to a place we never have been. Looking over photo-
graphs one has taken over the decades, the years of ones life
are transformed into hundreds, thousands, of disconnected
momentary trances. They are gifts the world gave. They are
gifts to give others. You go back a few days later to give her
that photograph you took of the street vendor; she calls her
children, her mother, you laughing take photos of them to
give them a few days later. In a far-off land you give your
friends, the rascally grin a street kid in Calcutta gave you and
them, the colors a frog in Madagascar gave to the heavenly
light.

BG & TS: Mesmerized, inspired, and enchanted by the
depth of your response. It reminds us of experimentation,
and childhood innocence and exploration, both a call to Her-
aclitus and a new path forward for philosophy.
In a way, Orson Welles revealed a new cartography, and
new possibilities for thought, with his search for time. With
the introduction of depth of field, Welles explored these lay-
ers and recesses, experimenting with the adventures of life
that comprise our immanence.

15
Not yet knowing what was possible, Welles pioneered a
cinema of time, a new geography, or ethics and aesthetics of
affects. As Deleuze called it, Welles constructed, or revealed,
a little piece of time in its pure state. Paul Klee, perhaps,
had something like this in mind, when he suggested we take
a line for a walk, and this is precisely where we locate your
unique philosophical expressions.
As a philosopher, as a traveler on a line of experimenta-
tion, taking a camera for a journey, exploring fields and ter-
rains for philosophical inquiries, or searches, what role do
you see education, or pedagogical guidance, playing in this
adventure? Which is to say, do your adventures have peda-
gogical effects?

AL: The terms education or pedagogy never signified
much to me, even in the classroom, where I selected books
that gave me illumination and excitement and shared them
with young people, regularly receiving, with gratitude, in-
sights from them.
I first thought about gratitude some thirty-five years ago,
in France. Gratitude is an action. Giving thanks. When someone
arrives with a bottle of wine, we look at its color in the can-
dlelight, savor its perfume, pour it into our best glasses, pour
it to all our guests before we fill our glass. When someone
gives us a gift, we do not just put it on a shelf and sit down to
talk about whatever. We receive the gift, it takes time, we
take it in both hands, take it in with our eyes, turn it about,
contemplate its features. And we show it, share it with oth-
ers.
Easter week on the Cte dAzur, the year that I was
teaching at the Universit de Nice. Chris had taken a break
from her studies and had come to spend two weeks with me.
Nice was filled with thousands of especially Parisians who
had come to escape the dreary end of the Parisian winter on
the Mediterranean coast. But, quite untypically, it was rain-

16
ing here, steady, unending rain day after day, and the Parisi-
ans were gloomily drinking bottle after bottle of wine in the
cafs and restaurants. I had an old VW bug and I said to
Chris: Why fight it? Lets go up into the rain! We put on
coats with parkas and got into the car. Chriss guitar was in
the back seat. We headed into the Maritime Alps that rise
abruptly to ice-covered summits behind the city. I was driv-
ing at random, just going up, and at a certain moment no-
ticed a dirt road and drove up it. After some twenty minutes
it ended at a stone wall some twelve feet high over which we
saw some rooftops. Its a fortified village, I said. It must
date from the sixteenth century when the Mediterranean was
patrolled by Saracen pirates. We got out of the car; the rain
had diminished to a misty drizzle. We found the gate in the
wall; inside there were some twenty stone houses. Here and
there, there were breaks in the roofs where the tiles had been
blown off and broken. Its deserted! Chris exclaimed. We
wandered down the lanes and came upon a chapel; we were
able to push open the door.
Inside, on one wall there were nave frescos. We were
silenced, and Chris seated herself on the floor facing the
simple stone altar.
After awhile I walked outside and wandered to where the
terrain was highest. Black clouds were rolling over the ice-
covered mountain peaks and furling down between them like
ink dropped into water. From time to time there were bolts
of lightning that blazed across the ice sheets. Then I looked
down, and far below a break in the clouds had opened a shaft
of light under which the Mediterranean blue sparkled silver.
My body standing there felt awkward, unworthy of the gran-
diose heights, and instinctually settled to the ground. My
eyes gazed quietly into the distances, and from time to time
my body shifted into one or other of the simple yoga asanas
that I had learned. My mind was emptied of everything but
the black clouds and the glaciers.

17
After perhaps an hour or so I got up and wandered down
the lanes of the village. On the other end of the village I
came upon Chris, seated on a rock softly and intently playing
her guitar. We had separately realized what grandiose gift
our eyes had been given, and felt the need to do something to
receive it, something modestly worthy of it.
When it was dark we drove back down in silence. Back in
my apartment, we made sandwiches and opened a bottle of
wine. After, Chris took up her guitar again, and I heard her
strumming like she had played on the mountain. I wanted to
write about this scene which was, I thought, the most gran-
diose my eyes had been given to see. I wrote about it to a
friend. As I wrote I saw the words were making the scene
more intense to me and settling it deeper into my heart. My
letter took a long time, with many crossings-out and re-
phrasings. I realized that I could not share the event on the
mountains unless I had written as well as I could, written
better than any lecture on a philosophical text that I had pre-
pared that year.
It was then that I realized that thoughtwhich is about
data, about some things or events that are given, which com-
prehends, takes in, what is given, ponders it, feels its weight,
and produces words that are understandable and open to oth-
ers, that exist for othersthought is gratitude.
I was in a shikara, a kind of gondola, in Dal Lake in
Kashmir, as the day came to a close. It was my first trip to
India, and also the first time I had a camera. I was shy about
photographing people, thinking it intrusive and objectifying.
As the boat moved by I had turned my camera to the row of
willow trees trailing down along the shore. Then suddenly I
saw in my viewfinder that there were men bathing in the
river. Embarrassed, I pushed the camera down and looked
up. But they had seen me, and were waving and shouting
Thank you! I was puzzled, and eventually thought that they
were grateful for being taken worthy of photographs. That a

18
foreigner had come from afar and instead of photographing
palaces was photographing poor people. A few days later I
developed the roll and went to give the men their photos.
After that I set out to give everyone the photos I had taken of
them. It was usually easy to find them again: poor people are
going to be there when you go back, or people who know
them are. If I was leaving the next day, I could often find
someone in the area who could write and give me addresses.
People were visibly delighted when I returned with the pho-
tos; they would treasure photos they could not afford of their
parents, children, grandparents. I ended up taking fewer
pictures of buildings and landscapes and more and more pic-
tures of people met at random. I came to experience taking
photos as essentially giving of gifts.
I never took slides. I disliked the idea of seating people in
my house and projecting slides of my trip for them, deter-
mining how long they would have to look at each image. I
mounted the best pictures in albums; friends would take
down whatever they liked and view the images as they liked.
Something to give them pleasure, to give them access to far-
away places, to give them the trust and tact of people from
far away. When I started putting some photographs in the
books I published, it was in the same sentiment of offering
discreet gifts to people I will never meet or hear from.

BG & TS: In terms of photography, do you prefer wide-
angle lenses, or do you achieve this strange familiarity and
connectedness through an array of telephoto shots? What we
mean to express is, there is a great sense of humanity in your
photographs, a suspension of judgement, and an exhilaration
of intimacy. How do you achieve this level of trust? In many
respects, Annie Leibovitz managed to capture this closeness
that we feel in your work, as she photographed her dying
lover, Susan Sontag.


19
AL: Trust is taking what is not known as though it were
known. Every relationship is based on trust, since we do not
see the intentions, feelings, and motivations of another. With
someone we have known a long time, or investigated his past,
we take a number of past behaviors as indication of his future
and present intentions. But the chance that he or she may say
or do something different is what makes our encounters with
others fascinating.
There is nothing more exhilarating than trusting someone
of whom one has no past acquaintance, no social contract, no
language in common.
When you walk alone in foreign lands, people who glance
at you are tempted to trust. Because of the intrinsic fascina-
tion and exhilaration of trust.
Of course walking alone is to go disarmed and disarming.
Trust elicits trust. The trust that is visible when they stop
and look at you in the face elicits trust in you. And respond-
ing without wariness or reserve elicits trust in them.
To really respond to the other involves tact. Tact is the
light touch that does not seize hold or manipulate or possess.
It is letting the other be and act in his or her space. It is also
sensitivity; it is to let the other affect one, with his or her
curiosity, affection, probings and reserve. In tact one senses
something of the others desires and pleasures.
Trust is not a matter of photographic techniques. It be-
gins by asking permission.

21

Some Early Notes Toward
an Ontology of Fetishes
by Jeffrey Barbeau

We now need an ontology of fetishes, a fetishist on-
tology of things. The substances of things are not
simply outside us, outside the sphere of human con-
sciousness, and they are not only relations of causal
determinism between them and the human mind.
Things, in the structures and substances, attract us
and inspire us and direct us and organize our move-
ments, order us.
1

Alphonso Lingis


22
For the past eight months I have been involved in an art pro-
ject in which I take a photograph of a moment that typifies
the general feeling of my day. I envisioned this project as a
way to take this ongoing and often ineffable process of typ-
ifaction and make it slightly more observable. What this has
amounted to is a very loose and necessarily imprecise record
of the emotional tone of my life for the past two hundred
days or so. My plan is to continue with this project for the
next two years. An even 730 days. What I hope to achieve is
a productive coupling of practical obsession and virtual resig-
nation.

What I have gleaned from this series of two hundred photo-
graphs is not so much a predictable series of images that fol-
lows one from the next, but more like a record of subtle and
not so subtle experiential undulations. Not testaments to a
resilient and self-identical presence, but rather continuous
self-differentiation. If photography has long been a tool for
the biopolitical regulation of lifeof documenting identity
I am currently interested in the capacity of the photographic
image to explore the novel qualities of duration. Following
Barbeau: An Ontology of Fetishes

23
Alphonso Lingis, this is not the record of a sovereign and
self-legislating subject, but an account of life as we contend
and actualize ourselves from within the materiality of things,
vibrations that register on our bodies, rhythms that entice us.
It is, in short, an openness to the strangeness around and in
us. For Lingis,

The ceaseless activity of the mind to fix concepts and
meanings on things appears as an anxious compulsion
to staunch the leakage of strangeness. The sense of
strangeness is not a cognitive recognition; it is the ex-
perience of the collapse of cognition, or vertigo, throbbing
in raw emotional intensity.
2

To my mind, this project is not a matter of the simple
aestheticization of experience. Experience, as I have learned,
is aesthetic from the very start: as subjects we are co-con-
stituted and emerge as such through our engagement with an
eventful and sensual field of encounters. Our purview as par-
ticular subjects (as students and researchers and artistic pro-

24
ducers, for instance) is generated from the continual pro-
ductivity of sensual forces, temporary stabilizations, minor
modifications, and bouts of real volatility. As Lingis suggests,

A working artist is not one who has an encyclopedic ap-
preciation of artworks but one who has a passionate devo-
tion to materials and forms that speak singularly to him
or her. An artwork emerging in his hands captivates the
artist and guides his hand; it goes beyond or goes outside
whatever meaning that artist has conceived for it. It beck-
ons him toward unknown paths. Are not artworks so
many scattered sites outside the domain of work and rea-
son, in the realm of chance?
3

In my capacity as a researcher and an artist, I have found
continual inspiration and creative gumption through a sub-
jection of my thinking to this realm of chance. What is
more, I am constantly intrigued by the role that visual and
material culture can play in an exploration of this insur-
mountable quality of strangeness in our lives. All of the

25
photographs included herein are meant to witness our mostly
mundane, and occasionally exorbitant, emergence from an
inexhaustible realm of beings and things that both engage
and exceed our selves. I consider it a modest, tentative con-
tribution to a visual cultural ontology of fetishes, a survey of
our immersion in both built and natural environments.

1
Alphonso Lingis, Towards An Ontology of Fetishes: An Inter-
view with Alphonso Lingis, Cultural Politics 5.1 (2009): 115.
2
Alphonso Lingis, Strange Emotions in Contemporary Theory,
Symploke 18.12 (2010): 7.
3
Alphonso Lingis, The Voices of Things, Senses & Society 4.3
(2009): 279280.

26


27


28


29


30


31


32


33


34


35

Objects in Mirror Are Closer
than They Appear
by Timothy Morton

AESTHETICS

Yukultji Napangatis painting Untitled (2011) is in the Art
Gallery of New South Wales, and was highly commended
for the 2011 Wynne Prize. The painting is reproduced here
[Fig. 1], but the image simply fails to do it justice. The first
one seems to evoke it better. But this is one of those images
one must see in the flesh.
At a distance it looks like a woven mat of reeds or slender
stalks, yellowed, sun baked, resting on top of some darker,
warmer depth. A generous, relaxed, precise, careful yet
giving, caring lineation made of small blobby dots. The
warmth reminds you of Klee. The lines recall Bridget Riley.
As you come closer and begin to face the image it begins to
play, to scintillate, to disturb the field of vision. It oscillates
and ripples, more intense than Riley. How did I know this
was a woman artist before I found out who it was? In fact
this is a painting about, a map of, a writing about, a line of
women traveling through the sandhills of Yunala in Western

38
Australia, performing rituals and collecting bush foods as
they went. The painting is a two-dimensional map of an
event unfolding a higher dimensional phase space.

Figure 1: Yukultji Napangati, Untitled (2011).

Then something begins. What? You begin to see the
interobjective space in which your optic nerve is entangled
with the objects in the painting.
1
The painting begins to
Morton: Objects in Mirror

39
paint right in front of you, paint the space between your eyes
and the canvas. Layers of perception co-created by the paint-
ing and the field of vision begin to detach themselves from
the canvas in front of you, floating closer to you. This float-
ing closer effect is one I associate with the phenomenology
of uncanniness. The experience you have in a strange place,
or a strangely familiar place evokes the feeling: objects in
mirror are closer than they appear.
The painting gazes. It appears to extrude itself out of the
canvas towards your face. It does not offer itself up for in-
spection or penetration, like a perspective painting. Instead,
Napangatis painting strafes the viewer like a scanner or an
X-ray machine. It is an unnerving experience, being seen by a
painting. When I saw it, all the hairs on my arms and my
friends arms stood up, as if they too were caught in some
crisscrossing electromagnetic field. The painting watches
you: it does not allow you to form an attitude towards it. In
this sense, it is almost the absolute opposite of conceptual art.
You are not permitted to form concepts of any kind. The
work is more akin to a siren or a warning light than a
picture-of-something. It beeps at you, scanning you.
Intersecting shards of patterns within patterns, patterns
across patterns, patterns floating on top of patterns. A
constant mutagenic dance between the levels of patterns. The
painting is a device for opening this phenomenal display. It
comes lurching towards you, hypnotizing you and owning
you with its directives of sandhill, women, rituals, bush food,
walking, singing, lines. You feel gripped by the throat with
the passion of the imagery. All the hairs on your arms stand
up and the painting has you in its electromagnetic field. The
painting dreams. Causality begins.
What does this mean? I do not access Napangatis
painting across a space. Rather, the painting appears to
abolish the supposed distance between itself and me. The
image is not a mute object waiting to have its meaning

40
supplied by a subject, nor is it a blank screen, nor is it
something objectively present in space. Rather the painting
emits something like electromagnetic waves, in whose force
field I find myself. The painting forcefully demonstrates
what is already the case: space and time are emergent pro-
perties of objects.
The fact that this fact is common to relativity and to
phenomenology should give us pause. Perhaps just as
remarkable is the fact that relativity and phenomenology
arose roughly synchronously towards the beginning of the
twentieth century. Just as Einstein discovered spacetime was
the warped and rippling gravitational field of an object, so
Husserl discovered that consciousness was not simply an
empty limpid medium in which ideas float. Consciousness, as
revealed by phenomenology, is also a dense, rippling entity in
its own right, like the wavering water of Monets contem-
porary water lily paintings: the water that is the true subject
of those paintings.
The paintings to which we have grown accustomed pre-
sume a disembodied subject floating in a void, capable of
imparting meaning to objectively present things. A perspec-
tive painting, for instance, contains implicit instructions for
viewing, a place from which the painting will render the
most lifelike three-dimensional illusion. The work of the
painting as such is supposed to vanish without a trace,
leaving the illusion suspended in front of us for our inspec-
tion. Modernist art attempts to shatter this illusion. But
Napangatis painting is not in the illusion making or illusion
shattering business whatsoever. Pleasing and shocking (thus
pleasing in a higher key) the bourgeoisie is not on its agenda
in any sense. The painting destroys the distance necessary for
the aesthetic illusion to function, yes. But it does not try to
abandon the aesthetic dimension: far from it. Instead, it takes
that dimensional all the more seriously. In order to render
the illusion of a three-dimensional space from which the

41
trace of painterly labor has vanished, there has already to be a
play, a dance of some kind, some sort of phenomenal display,
like the stage set that enables the actors to strut around.
Napangati shows us the wiring underneath the normal aes-
thetic artifact, so to speak, but this wiring is also part of the
aesthetic.

CAUSALITY

The aesthetic form of an object is where the causal properties
of the object reside. Theories of physical causation frequently
want to police aesthetic phenomena, reducing causality to the
clunking or clicking of solid things.
2
It is not the case that a
shadow is only an aesthetic entity, a flimsy ghost without
effects. Plato saw shadows as dangerous precisely because
they do have a causal influence.
3
When my shadow intersects
with the light-sensitive diode, the nightlight switches on.
4

When a quantum is measured, it means that another quan-
tum has intersected with it, altering it, changing its position
or momentum.
5
Aesthetics, perception, causality, are all al-
most synonyms.
When the diode detects my shadow, it perceives in every
meaningful sense, if we only accept that objects exert an
aesthetic influence on one another (aisthenesthai, Greek to
perceive). When I am caught in anothers gaze, I am already
the object of causal influences. Causality does not take place
in a space that has been established already. Instead, it
radiates from objects. The gaze emanates from the force field
of a Yukultji Napangati painting. It gathers me into its dis-
turbing, phantasmal unfolding of zigzagging lines and
oscillating patches.
Doesnt this tell us something about the aesthetic dimen-
sion, why philosophers have often found it to be a realm of
evil? The aesthetic dimension is a place of illusions, yet they
are real illusions. If you knew for sure that they were just

42
illusions, then there would be no problem. But, as Jacques
Lacan writes, What constitutes pretense is that, in the end,
you dont know whether its pretense or not.
6
Intense yet
tricksterish, the aesthetic dimension floats in front of objects,
like a group of disturbing clowns in an Expressionist paint-
ing. If there are only objects, if time and space and, as Im
arguing here, or rather gently suggesting, not even so much
as stating yet, just beginning to evoke, to tune in to the
possibility that causality is like time and space an emergent
property of objectsif all these things float in front of ob-
jects in what is called the aesthetic dimension, in a non-
temporal, nonlocal space that is not in some beyond but right
here, in your facethen nothing is going to tell us cate-
gorically what counts as real and what counts as unreal.
Without space, without environment, without world, objects
and their sensual effects crowd together like leering figures in
some Expressionist masquerade.
From this point of view, causality is wholly an aesthetic
phenomenon, involving induction, transduction, seduction,
whatever-duction. These events are not limited to inter-
actions between humans or between humans and painted
canvases or between humans and sentences in dramas. They
happen when a saw bites into a fresh piece of plywood. They
happen when a worm oozes out of some wet soil. They
happen when a massive object emits gravity waves. When
you make or study art you are not exploring some kind of
candy on the surface of a machine. You are studying caus-
ality. The aesthetic dimension is the causal dimension.
Art is important because its a direct exploration of
causality. Post-Newtonian physics involves a lot more than
just little metal balls clunking one another. Nonlocality, for
instance, is the fact (a highly repeatable fact, at this point)
that two particles, seemingly separate, can instantly affect one
another in some sense.
7
Entities interact in a sensual ether that
is (at least to some extent) nonlocal and nontemporal.
8
Thats

43
how objects can influence one another despite the fact that
they withdraw from all forms of access. So when old fash-
ioned art criticism speaks of timeless beauty, it is saying
something quite profound about the nature of causation, not
about spuriously universal human values.
Consider mechanist theories of causation. Machine-like
functioning, which is what our common prejudice often takes
causality to be (at least since Newton and Descartes), must
only be one specific kind of emergent property of some deep-
er nonlocal, nontemporal ocean in which things directly are
other things. Machines are made of separate parts, parts that
are external to one another by definition. What causality just
isnt is this kind of mechanical functioning, like the metal
balls in an executive toy. The click of the balls as they hit one
another is a sound that implies the existence of at least one
other objectthe ambient air that vibrates, causing the click
to be heard. How come this click or clunk is more real than
other forms of causality such as attraction, repulsion, magne-
tism, seduction, destruction, and entanglement?
Clunk causality implies a determinist view: two balls must
be contiguous with one another, the causality only goes in
one direction, and there must be at least a necessary, if not a
sufficient reason for the clunk in the ball that does the
clunking. Yet when we go down a few levels, we discover that
quantum behavior is irreducibly probabilistic. What does that
mean? It means that indeterminacy is hard wired into the
behavior: its not as if we could clean up our way of analyzing
it and it would then look determined. So there are physical
reasons why determinism doesnt work: were talking about
both sufficient and necessary conditions failing at some
point. It means that Hume is in trouble.
9
But theres another
big reason not to like determinism. When you have a
probabalistic fact such as the likelihood that you will get
cancer if you smoke, and you are a determinist, you can wish
that fact away.

44
This is what tobacco companies do. There is no proven
link between smoking and cancerbut thats evidently not
the point. Likewise, global warming denial takes a leaf out of
the determinist notebook. Since there is no obvious link
between the rain falling on my head and global warming, it
must be untrue. Or the theory of causality given here is distorted.
Large complex systems require causality theories that are
non-deterministic just like very small quantum scale ones.
Clunking is an illusion that seems to happen to medium-
sized objects such as billiard balls, but only when we isolate
the clunk amidst a welter of other phenomena.
The Arabic philosopher Al-Kindi defines all causes as
metaphoricalapart from God, the unmoved mover, (Al-
Kindi is an Aristotelian theist).
10
Al-Kindi did so when my
ancestors were clunking one another (talking of clunks) with
crudely fashioned weapons, in the last years of the tenth
century AD. Causation is metaphoricalthat means that
causes are overdetermined. The balls are held in place by a
wire frame. The frame sits on a desk. The desk is part of an
office in a large corporation. All these entities are causes of
the executive toys clunking sounds. Overdetermination, meta-
phorthey mean the same thing. Or, in translation, trans-
lation: metaphor is just Greek for translation, since meta
means across and -phor means carrying. This is a far more
suitable way to think causality than mechanical clunking. It
provides a reason why many forms of empirically observed
causation are probabilistic.
Aesthetic-causal nonlocality and nontemporality should
not be surprising features of the Universe. Forget quantum
physics: even electromagnetic fields and gravity waves are
nonlocal to some extent. At this moment, gravity waves from
the beginning of the Universe are traversing your body.
Maxwell and others who pioneered the notion of electro-
magnetism imagined the Universe as an immense ocean of
electromagnetic waves. And then of course theres the real

45
nonlocal dealthe quantum mechanical one. This is when
the aesthetic shape of an object is what a fruit fly smells (a
quantum signature), not the volatile molecules themselves.
Or consider the aesthetic shape of an electromagnetic field
(how birds navigate, using tiny quantum magnets in their
eyes).
11
Since at this level matter just is information,
theoretical physics is already in an aesthetic kind of a con-
ceptual space. Even the atomist Lucretius imagined causality
working through aesthetic films emitted by objects.
12
But
of course the arguments here go beyond a fanciful explor-
ation of theoretical physics. They can be applied to any sort
of entity whatsoever, not just the kind the physicists study.
One substantial advantage of arguing that causality is
aesthetic is that it allows us to consider what we call con-
sciousness alongside what we call things and stuff. The basic
quantum level phenomenon of action at a distance happens
all the time. Think of a black hole. Are there any in the
vicinity? Yet somehow you are linked to them. Bertrand
Russell denies physical action at a distance, arguing that
causation can only be about contiguous things. If there is any
action at a distance, he argues, then there must be some in-
tervening entities that transmit the causality.
13
Yet isnt this
an elegant definition of the aesthetic dimension? Action at a
distance happens all the time if causation is aesthetic. What
is called consciousness just is action at a distance. Indeed, we
could go so far as to say that consciousness-of anything is
action at a distance. Empirical phenomena such as mirror
neurons and entanglement bear this out. Minimally, action at
a distance is just the existence-for-the-other of the sensual
qualities of any entity.
In Platos time they used to call action at a distance
demonic. That is, it was the action of demonic forces that
mediated between the physical and nonphysical realms of
existence. This is what Socrates says about art in Ion: he
compares art to a magnet in a string of magnets, from the

46
Muse, goddess of inspiration, to the artist, to the work to the
performer, to the audience and so on, all magnets linked by
some demonic force.
14
Nowadays we call this demonic force
electromagnetism, but really its remarkably similar to Platos
insight: the electromagnetic wave transmits information over
a distance; a receiver amplifies the information into music
coming through the speakers of the PA system. In an age of
ecological awareness we will come again to think of art as a
demonic force, carrying information from the beyond, that is,
from nonhuman entities such as global warming, wind, wat-
er, sunlight and radiation. From coral bleaching in the ocean
to the circling vortex of plastic bags in the mid Atlantic.
Now we should not think that this sensual ether is some
kind of adhesive that glues pre-existing subjects and
objects together. Nor should we imagine that it is a
restaurant in which subject and object might finally hit it off.
Subject and object will never hit it off, for the simple fact
that the concepts subject and object are prepackaged ontic
contraband, imported from the long history of ontology.
15

Such a between would indeed be a version of aesthetic
ideology: an attempt to reconcile the ugly divorce between
subject and object.
16
Against such an aestheticization, how-
ever, we would be right to insist that the aesthetic is crucial
to understanding causality. We must therefore distinguish
rigorously between the aesthetic and aestheticization.
17

Aestheticization is just the conceptual imposition of
aesthetic concepts onto prepackaged subjects and objects.
The aesthetic however, is nonconceptual and cannot be
packaged in this way. Its atemporal nonlocality should alrea-
dy have warned against this. If we dont wish to load the dice
in favor of a particular kind of being (say Da-sein, say the
human) we are left with a simple solution. The aesthetic
dimension is simply the interior of some object: this is how
objects are able to encounter one another. When I reach for
the phone, I do so on the interior of a room. When I reach

47
for the phone, I do so on the interior of a solar system. When
I reach for the phone, I do so on the interior of a universe.
The sensual ether, then, is not like the ether of pre-
Einstein physics at all, or the supposed Higgs field of
quantum theorys Standard Model. Such entities allow ob-
jects to float around, have mass, and so on. If we were
thinking of a physical ether, a quick glance at Lockes
devastating assault on the idea of an ambient fluid that
contains all the other entities will set us straight.
18
Such a
physical ether must be composed of ether particles, argues
Locke: and in what fluid are they floating?
If, by contrast, the causal ether is simply the way one
entity dreams itself or another one, it is constituted by
these entities as such. When I reach for the phone, I dont
imagine myself as an objective subject trying to grasp an
objective object, like Wile E. Coyote in Roadrunner. Still less
do I need to imagine myself reaching through a space be-
tween prepackaged me and the prepackaged phone. This
might happen, but only after the phone has gripped me,
alarming me with its piercing ring or with the thought of
some person I must call, or seducing my laziness, pulling me
away from the essay I have to write. In Shakespeares Twelfth
Night, Olivia says, The clock upbraids me with the waste of
time.
19
Olivia doesnt think to look at the clock: the clock
looks at her. This is what Alphonso Lingis calls the imper-
ative, which we can detect in the way objects demand to be
handled in specific ways.
20

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A DUCK?

There is no such thing as a phenomenologically empty space.
Space is teeming with waves, particles, magnetic seductions,
erotic curvature, and menacing grins. Even when they are
isolated from all external influences, objects seem to breathe
with a strange life. A tiny metal tuning fork thirty microns

48
long rests in a vacuum. To the naked eyes of the observers
outside, it is breathing: it seems to occupy two places at the
same time.
21
There is already a rift between an object and its
aesthetic appearance, a rift within the object itself. Causality
is not something that happens between objects, like some
coming out party or freely chosen bargain into which things
enter. It pours constantly from a single object itself, from the
chorismos between its essence and its appearance.
An object is therefore both itself and not-itself, at the
very same time. (What is the difference between a duck?
One of its legs is both the same.) If this were not the case,
nothing could happen. The uncanniness of objects, even to
themselves, is what makes them float, breathe, oscillate,
threaten, seduce, rotate, cry, orgasm. Because objects are
themselves and not-themselves, the logic that describes them
must be paraconsistent or even fully dialetheic: that is, the
logic must be able to accept that some contradictions are
true.
22
Objects are dangerous, not only to themselves, but
even to thinking, if it cleaves to rigid consistency. If thinking
refuses to accept that objects can be dialetheic, it risks
reproducing the dualisms of subject and object, substance and
accidence, that are unable to explain the most basic
ontological decisionthe one that insists that things are
objectively present, as they are. The thing becomes imprison-
ed in a philosophically constructed cage, a mechanism, or in
some kind of ideality that falsely resolves the dilemma by
shunting everything into a (human) subject. Moreover,
thinking itself becomes brittle. The more rigorous the
metalanguage, the more susceptible it is to more and more
virulent contradictions.
23
Thinking should learn from Anti-
gone and bend, like a willow: Seest thou, beside the wintry
torrents course, how the trees that yield to it save every twig,
while the stiff-necked perish root and branch?
24

Phenomenology, then, is an essential cognitive task of
confronting the threat that things pose in their very being.

49
Without it, thinking is unable to break through the tra-
ditional ways of philosophizing that Heidegger calls sclero-
tic.
25
After phenomenology, we can only conclude that a
great deal of philosophizing is not an abstract description or
dispassionate accounting, however adequate these may be,
but only an intellectual defense against the threatening
intimacy of things. Moreover, since there is very little diff-
erence between what happens to a light sensitive diode and
what happens to a human when they encounter a shadow, we
can only conclude that there is a strange kind of nonhuman
phenomenology, or, as Ian Bogost puts it, an alien phe-
nomenology.
26

Things can dream one another because they are always
already not themselves. Not even the thing itself can objectify
itself. The mud is capable of receiving the dinosaur footprint.
If it were totally its muddy self in a noncontradictory way, it
would be opaque, permanent, impervious, objective. Cau-
sality happens because a dance of nonidentity is taking place
on the ontological inside of a thing. The mud muddies: it
dreams about the dinosaur in its muddy, mud-pomorphic
way. Napangatis painting paintings me. It doesnt remain
in perfect isolation, but sends out dreams of itself that
intercept me as I walk towards it across the gallery floor.
I do not encounter patterns and relations that are resolved
in my mind into paintings, mud, and glasses. These things
encounter me directly, as themselves. But more precisely,
every entity throws shadows of itself into the interobjective
space, carving out its own version of Platos cave. It is like the
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bells
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

50
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selvesgoes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, What I do is me: for that I came.
27

What Lingis notices, however, is that this myself has an un-
canny dimension. Like the person who assures you they are
being sincere, can we ever really believe that objects dont
play tricks with us? Again: What constitutes pretense is that,
in the end, you dont know whether its pretense or not.
28

Duns Scotus speaks of the haecceity of a thing, its thisness, and
Hopkins translates this into verse.
29
Yet the thisness is not
imposed from without, objectively. It wells up from within.
Hopkins himself says so explicitly: What I do is me. Quite so:
it is a case of I versus me. In this difference between a re-
flexive and a nonreflexive personal pronoun, we detect ar-
chaeological evidence of the rift between a thing and its
appearance. What Hopkins gives us then, if it is a rendering
of the real, is not a brightly colored diorama of animated
plastic, but a weird stage set from which things stage their
unique version of the Liar: This sentence is false. To speak
otherwise is to have decided in advance what things are,
which contradicts the way the poem itself forces us to exper-
ience things. Tumbled over rim in roundy wells / Stones
are felt and heard before we hear what they have to say for
themselves against the walls of the well and in the deep water
within: the first line is an invisibly hyphenated adjective,
tumbled-over-rim-in-roundy-wells. The adjective takes al-
most as long to read as it might take for an average stone to
hit the water. The adjective draws out the stone, just as the
dragonflies draw flame. The stone becomes its tumbling, its
falling-into-the-well, the moment at which it is thrown over
the rim. Then splashits a stone all right, but we already
sensed it as a non-stone.
The very notion of movement involves the paradox that a
thing is at once p and not-p (p ! p). If we want to avoid

51
Zenos paradox, we have to be ready to accept that a
tumbling stone both is and is not here. If we dont do this,
the stone will never reach the bottom, because we will be able
to take smaller and smaller slices of objectified time
thought as a between in which the stone sits, now con-
sistently here, now consistently there.
30
Motion is not some-
thing that an object does on occasion: motion is a deep
ontological feature of a thing. Thus Napangatis painting can
move while it hangs motionless on the wall; indeed it can
move me in the affective sense for the very same reason.
Motion is never a matter of billiard balls rolled across a
preexisting surface of space or time, but instead motion
arises from the rift between a thing and itself, between its I
and its me. Motion betrays the clownlike strangeness of a
thing.

ETHICS

When I experience beauty, I resonate with an object. The
object and I attune to one another. Kant describes beauty as a
tuning process. Beautiful is what I say to myself when an
impersonal, object-like cognitive state arises that seems to
emanate from the object itself. It is as if the object and I are
locked together in inseparable union.
The beautiful object fits me like a glove. Kantian beauty,
however, is unlike Aristotelian and Horatian decorum.
31
De-
corum provides objective rules, an external, systematic set of
criteria for what counts as beautiful, a checklist. Kantian
beauty, by contrast, is a symptom of a major discovery of
something nonobjective. Kant thinks this discovery as the
transcendental subject, but object-oriented ontology thinks
the discovery as the withdrawal of objects. In other words,
what Kant discovers about human beingsthat part of their
nature is sealed from empirical accessapplies to non-
humans. Because of the rift between essence and appear-

52
ancewhich must not (again) be associated with the
supposed difference between substance and accidents
any entity whatsoever has this hidden property. There is
evidence for this even in Kant himself, as the following
should show.
Something in the beauty experience is hidden from me,
even while I am experiencing it. Beauty is nonconceptual. It
involves a certain je ne sais quoi. Nothing in the object
directly explains it: not the parts, because this would be sheer
positivistic reductionism; not the whole, because that would
be another kind of reduction (the parts are now expendable).
Yet beauty seems to emanate from this thing. Just this
particular, unique thing, is the locus of beauty. Everyone in
their right mind should find it beautiful, I think, yet if I were
to impose this on others, it would ruin the experience. I
know my particular experience of beauty is not shared, but I
know that you know what beauty is. A certain unconditional
freedom opens up, along with a certain coexistence without
content. No wonder Kant considered the experience of
beauty to be an essential part of democracy. Beauty is an
event in being, a sort of gap, a gentle slit. Beauty allows for a
cognitive state that is noncoercive and profoundly non-
violent. The master of this realm is Theodor Adorno, whose
meditations on Kantian beauty are unsurpassed at this time.
32

But what are the conditions of possibility for the exper-
ience of beauty to occur? What, as it were, are the phe-
nomenological physics of beauty? As we explore these con-
ditions we uncover a remarkable body of work. The name of
this body of work is Alphonso Lingis. It is in the mode of
Lingis that I have been writing this essay. We may now be in
a position to see with some clarity the very special place that
aesthetic events have in the philosophy of Lingis.
Kantian beauty tacitly presupposes a being that can be
wounded by colors, sounds, smells, textures and tastes: affec-
ted by them, so as to resonate such that the tuning process of

53
beauty can commence. This is not simply a realm of mere
appetite, as Kant suggests, because that would reproduce a
difference between humans and nonhumans (animals, for in-
stance) that is untenable and problematic.
33
Moreover, in ap-
petite I roam like a hungry wolf over the carcass of thingsit
seems as if powerful objects at the very least suspend this
aggressive craving, always already suspend it be-fore the
event of beauty takes hold. And stranger still, as Lacan noted
well, there is a symmetry between Kantian beauty and
sadism, a cold lust concerning an infinitely opaque object.
34

Before the gentle slit of beauty is made, then, the knife must
be ready and the arm must be in range. It is this dimension, a
dangerous and uncanny dimension of levels and direc-
tives, that the thinking of Lingis addresses.
What is called aesthetic distance, then, is a misnomer for a
nononceptual aesthetic intimacy in which habitual patterns,
taken as objective fact, are suspended. This suspension does
not occur around or above things, but rather it emanates
from the very heart of things. The thing is a suspension of
itself: the I and me of a thing. Aesthetic distance is not
between an object and another object, or between a subject
and an object, but rather it lies between a thing and itself
(What is the difference between a duck?). It would be bet-
ter to describe the distance between as an aestheticized dis-
tance that has nothing to do with primordial aesthetics, the
carnival of Liars (This sentence is false).
In a car crash, in an ugly divorce, time seems suspended,
slow motion. Only afterwards do I start to piece together
what happened. Time as a regular sequence that acts as a
neutral medium for events is a retroactive positing. The car
crash, the divorce, is a primordially aesthetic event that has no
idea what it is while it is happening. Trauma is not some
empty gap or void within the smooth field of regularly func-
tioning time.
35
Rather trauma is the irruption of a more
real, uncanny undead world of aesthetics as the scripted

54
non-contradictions of everyday life shatter of their own
accord. Trauma unmasks regularly functioning phantasms
(me, my life) as phantasms. That is precisely why trauma
is traumatic. It strips the world bare of the illusion that it
isnt an illusion, and the accompanying illusion that illusions
are just candy sprinkles on the surface of a noncontradictory
cake.
The aesthetic-causal dimension, then, implies the irre-
ducible coexistence of things. Things are coexistence in their
being. Things, with all their gaps and inconsistencies, are
enmeshed with one another. A wire mesh is a network of
gaps and links. When I pump a bicycle tire, when I look at
Napangatis painting, I am enmeshed in a series of inter-
linked emanations of beings. Because of this enmeshment, it
is not possible to attain transcendental escape velocity from
things: the very attempt takes place in the context of
enmeshment. There is no way to peel the enmeshment off
oneself, since it penetrates into the core of being: beings are
self-contradictory, themselves and not-themselves. The mesh
is viscous, as if the wires were made of honey: The vic-
issitudes of this life are like drowning in a glass pond.
36
The
very attempt to tear myself away enmeshes me further. Thus
conscious coexistence with the mesh involves a form of
nonviolence. At the very least, since every act tears at the
mesh, and tears me, who is (in) the mesh, it would be best to
refrain from harm. Translated by Lingis, Levinas quotes Pas-
cal: My place in the sun is the beginning of all usurpation.
37

BEAUTY IS DEATH

My place in the sun is the beginning of all usurpation: even
my death is a wound to others, not confined to humans. Yet
the beauty experience is also evidence that there is something
in me that is not my ego. The beauty experience proves to me
that there are others. What do we mean then when we say,

55
It was so beautiful I almost died? Is there more than
metaphorical truth in this statement? Is beauty an experience
of death, or near-death? Adorno writes that the shudder of
beauty shatters the encapsulated subject.
38
When an opera
singer sings just the right note, at just the right pitch and
volume, the sound waves resonate with the wine glass in such
a way as to destroy it. On slow motion film, we can see how
just before it is destroyed, the glass undergoes a shudder, a
sort of glass orgasm. The resonant frequency matches the
glass perfectly.
From the perspective of the alien phenomenology of the
glass itself, might this indeed be an experience of suddenly
losing a sense of boundary? And isnt this what beauty is? In
the event of beauty, a non-self part of my inner space seems
to resonate in the colors on the wall, in the sounds pouring
into my ears. Hugely amplified, might this resonance actually
kill me? A beautiful way to dieto be destroyed by vibra-
tions that removed myself from myself.
For beauty to work, then, there must already be a surface
capable of receiving the wound. It seems that the knife of
beauty is able to insert itself into the slit between an objects
essence and its appearance. Beauty works itself in to the
already existing rift between an object and that same object,
the fact that objects are dialetheic, fork-tongued. This rift is
an inconsistency in the object that enables the object to end.
It can be thought of as a hamartia (Greek, wound), which
is what Aristotle calls a tragic flaw. When an object is
entirely sundered from its appearance, its hamartia gets the
better of it: that is called destruction or death. When I
disappear into a black hole, you see on the surface an image
of me that slowly fades. When someone dies, they leave
behind memories, objects that they have handled, wounds.
When a realist novel ends, the frequency and duration of the
action on the page synchronizes ever more tightly with the
action in the chronological sequence of events: ashes to ashes.

56
The readers heart beats faster as the police mount the
staircase, only to find the stretched out body of Dorian Gray,
and a picture of him into which a knife has been thrust.
39
A
dead crow becomes the dust and trees that surround it.
When a Dzogchen yogini dies, in one of the spaces between
existences (the Bardo of Luminosity), it is said that she
allows her being to dissolve into the Clear Light like a child
leaping into its mothers lap.
40
It is said that her being
shatters like a vase and the space inside the vase merges with
the space outside. Or she allows her body to disintegrate into
rainbow light (Tibetan, jalu). From her point of view, is as if
the body wants to dissolve in this way. Only fragile ego is
preventing the inevitable from happening. Yet the fragile ego
is what dies a little in the beauty experience. Beauty is a
signal from the realm of death.
Beauty, then, is a nonviolent experience of near death, a
warning that one is fragile, like everything else in the
universe. Beauty is the shadow of the threat to objects, the
threat that is objects. Objects as such carry an inner threat,
because of the rift between essence and appearance. Beauty is
the call of the vulnerable flesh and the fragile glass. This
explains perhaps why beauty is associated with experiences of
love, empathy and compassion, themes that preoccupy pre-
Kantian theories of aesthetic affect such as Adam Smith, and
that also preoccupy ethics based on the Buddhist view of
anattman (no-self).
41
It is the reason why we can articulate an
ethics of nonviolent coexistence based on beauty. This ethics
cannot truly be grounded in the abstract, rather cold Kantian
version of aesthetic experience, with its rigid anthropo-
centrism and sadistic shadow side. It must instead be found-
ed in the project laid out by Alphonso Lingis, the project of
coming as close as possible to our already shared, disturbing
intimacy.
Let us return to the question of a flexible, willow-like
thinking that would be able to move with the torrent of

57
things without becoming brittle and breaking, snapped
because of the hamartia of its very firmness, its attempt to
remain consistent. Surely then this thinking, which almost
dies every time it encounters something not itself, is in itself
a beautiful thinking? Hegel wrote that thinking is the
encounter with non-identity, and Adorno massively adum-
brated Hegels thought.
42
Like a Mother Theresa of beautiful
souls, Adornos plea for nonviolence is moving and soothing,
but somehow it remains an advertisement, a sermon, a cry of
the heart in a heartless world. Thinking needs to risk its
sanity a little bit, to put itself in some danger, not endlessly
postpone the plunge by talking about how much a plunge is
needed. The time for wringing our hands on the edge of the
abyss is over, because humans brought about the Anthro-
pocene, a geological period of Earth history marked by the
deposit of a thin layer of industrial carbon in Earths crust
since 1790, and likewise, before what is known as the Great
Acceleration, a deposit of a layer of radioactive materials in
Earths crust since 1945. A certain kind of Marxist critique is
now irrelevant. The world is too much with us, and when
critique tries to wrench us out it only laments how stuck it is.
It is in phenomenology that the task of dwelling in non-
identity on non-identity comes about. It is in Lingis, drawing
on the richness of the phenomenological tradition, that the
encounter with strangers becomes possible, the encounter
that, coming close to death by tuning, saves the Earth. Lin-
gis thinks beautifully.

Editors note: This chapters title is identical to the introductory
chapter of Timothy Mortons Realist Magic, published by Open
Humanities Press in 2013. The content is not identical, however.

1
I use this term to denote something similar to, but wider than, the
traditional phenomenological concept of intersubjectivity. See Tim-

58

othy Morton, Realist Magic: Objects, Ontology, Causality (Ann Ar-
bor: Open Humanities Press, 2013), 26, 34, 64, 6772.
2
Phil Dowe, Physical Causation (New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2000), 17, 25, 59, 6364.
3
Plato, The Republic Book 7, http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/republic.
8.vii.html.
4
Contra Phil Dowe, in Physical Causation, 7579.
5
David Bohm, Quantum Theory (New York: Dover, 1989), 99115.
6
Jacques Lacan, Le seminaire, Livre III: Les psychoses (Paris: Editions
de Seuil, 1981), 48.
7
The most recent explication can be found in Anton Zeilinger,
Dance of the Photons: From Einstein to Quantum Teleportation (New
York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010), 4555.
8
The term is Graham Harmans in Guerrilla Metaphysics: Phenom-
enology and the Carpentry of Things (Chicago: Open Court, 2005),
3344.
9
Dowe, Physical Causation, 1429.
10
Al-Kindi, The One True and Complete Agent and the
Incomplete Metaphorical Agent, in Classical Arabic Philosophy: An
Anthology of Sources, trans. and intro. Jon McGinnis and David C.
Reisman (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2007), 2223.
11
Erik M. Gauger et al., Sustained Quantum Coherence and
Entanglement in the Avian Compass, Physical Review Letters 106
(January 28, 2011): DOI 10.1103/PhysRevLett.106.040503.
12
Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, trans. William Ellery Leonard
4.26215, http://classics.mit.edu/Carus/nature_things.4.iv.html.
13
Dowe, Physical Causation, 63.
14
Plato, Ion, http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/ion.html.
15
The case against this contraband has never been made any better
since Martin Heideggers devastating assault in Being and Time,
trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1996). On the notion of the between, see especially 124.
16
Paul de Man, Aesthetic Ideology, trans. Andrzej Warminski
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996); Terry Eagle-
ton, The Ideology of the Aesthetic (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990),
passim.

59

17
Robert Kaufman, Red Kant, or the Persistence of the Third Cri-
tique in Adorno and Jameson, Critical Inquiry 26 (Summer 2000):
682724.
18
John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, trans.
Peter H. Nidditch (Oxford: the Clarendon Press, 1975, 1979),
II.23.2324 (308309).
19
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, http://shakespeare.mit.edu/
twelfth_night/full.html.
20
Alphonso Lingis, The Imperative (Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
versity Press, 1998), 2538.
21
Aaron D. OConnell, M. Hofheinz, M. Ansmann, Radoslaw C.
Bialczak, M. Lenander, Erik Lucero, M. Neeley, D. Sank, H.
Wang, M. Weides, J. Wenner, John M. Martinis, and A. N.
Cleland, Quantum Ground State and Single Phonon Control of a
Mechanical Ground Resonator, Nature 464 (March 17, 2010):
697703.
22
See Graham Priest and Francesco Berto, Dialetheism, The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2010 Edition), ed.
Edward N. Zalta, http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2010/entries/
dialetheism/.
23
Priest, In Contradiction: A Study of the Transconsistent (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2006), 927.
24
Haemon, in Antigone, trans. R.C. Jebb, http://classics.mit.edu/
Sophocles/antigone.html.
25
Heidegger, Being and Time, 20.
26
Ian Bogost, Alien Phenomenology, or What Its Like to Be a Thing
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2012).
27
Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Major Works, ed. Catherine Phill-
ips (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).
28
Lacan, Le seminaire, Livre III, 48.
29
John Duns Scotus, Philosophical Writings, trans. Allan Wolter
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), 166167.
30
Priest, In Contradiction, 172181.
31
Horace, On the Art of Poetry, in Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus,
Classical Literary Criticism, trans. T.S. Dorsch (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1984), 8283.

60

32
Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. and ed. Robert Hullot-
Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997).
33
Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment: Including the First Intro-
duction, trans. Werner Pluhar (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), 4546,
5152.
34
Jacques Lacan, Kant with Sade, trans. James B. Swenson Jr.,
http://www.lacan.com/kantsade.htm.
35
Trauma as gap is how Badiou theorizes the Event. See Alain
Badiou, Being and Event, trans. Oliver Feltham (New York: Con-
tinuum, 2007).
36
Chgyam Trungpa, Instead of Americanism, Speak the English
Language Properly, in The Elocution Home Study Course (Boulder:
Vajradhatu, 1983).
37
Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority,
trans. Alphonso Lingis (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press,
1969), 3738. See also Levinas, Interview with Franois Piori, in
Is It Righteous to Be? Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas, ed. Jill
Robbins (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 53 [2383].
The Pascal quotation forms one of the epigraphs to Emmanuel
Levinas, Otherwise than Being: Or Beyond Essence, trans. Alphonso
Lingis (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1998), vii.
38
Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 245246, 331; see also 113, 281, 323
324, 346.
39
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, ed. Robert Mighall
(London: Penguin, 2003), 212213.
40
Padmasambhava, The Tibetan Book of the Dead: The Great
Liberation by Hearing in the Intermediate States, trans. Gyurme
Dorje, ed. Graham Coleman with Thupten Jinpa, introductory
commentary by the Dalai Lama (New York: Viking, 2006), 176.
41
Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (London: Penguin,
2010).
42
Theodor Adorno, Negative Dialectics, trans. E.B. Ashton (New
York: Continuum, 1973), 57, 12.

Doubles
by Alphonso Lingis

Willows, rocks, cascades, clouds, peregrines, dragonflies: real
things. They are present, in the present. Having left them,
we find them again. They are where they are, independent of
us, whether we locate them or not. There are times when all
our names, categories, and uses for them fade away, and we
are confronted with their brute reality.
1
The urban and his-
torical context of the Place de la Concorde fades away and we
find ourselves standing on rough stones glistening in the
rain.
2

Evolutionary biology contests Platonic metaphysics and
philosophical idealism: our perception of our environment is
not essentially different from the perception of other biologi-
cal species. Fish, birds, and mammals survive because the
things they perceive are indeed external to their minds, inde-
pendent of them, and as real as they are.
Things turn to us one side of themselves at a time. But as
we stand before an armchair and shift position, this side of it
tilts up another side and indicates sides to come. To see a real
thing, and not a fixed surface pattern, is to see it as a cohesive
and coherent whole existing in depth and across duration.

62
We see the front plane of the refrigerator and see its solidity
extending down the sides and across the back.
Things are present before us with their pasts and futures.
A rock retains the shape given it centuries ago by water
freezing and melting; a tree trunk retains the swerve it took
decades ago to distance itself from the shade of the adjacent
tree. Its growth in good season and bad can be seen in the
rings of its trunk. A corpse retains the expression of resigna-
tion or pain the body felt at the last movements of its life.
The wall that is green was green and will be green; a
spread of green that would be there only an instant would
lack the substantiality of a real thing. The garden bench
emerges from its past and its substantiality shows its future.
Descending the canyon, we see its shapes cut by the water
and the wind that are even now wearing away the path under
our feet.
As we walk we see the continually elongating, widening,
and narrowing sides and stretching or shrinking patterns
each thing turns to us. As the shifting of the cloud far be-
yond our reach can hold our rapt gaze, so our eyes, without
surveying, without any practical concern, are absorbed by the
changing facets of a building, by the turns and swirls of a
pine as we walk up the hill.
The reality of things is not confined within their con-
tours. A rock compresses the earth below it and is supported
in its place by the earth. Under the sun it radiates heat and
light about itself. A bush crumbles the earth with its roots
and emits gases into the atmosphere. An abrupt discharge of
electricity in the storm clouds emits a thunderclap that shat-
ters a goblet in the dining room.

* * *

Things also engender doubles of themselves. Rocks and fenc-
es cast shadows on the ground, trees across the sidewalk, the
Lingis: Doubles

63
crests of snowdrifts and sand dunes shadow the troughs. The
brook sends streaks of light downs the reeds and the willows.
The reeds and the willows flick reflections of themselves into
the water and into the translucent globes of the eyes of her-
ons, deer, and humans.
The colors of things bleed out of them to tint or tarnish
the atmosphere. The shapes of things merge into one anoth-
er to form waves and swells and compressions. The buildings
radiate their wood or stone tones upon one another and into
the light and the air, making the atmosphere of one town
different from another. In twilight the colors of the forest
disengage from the contours of the leaves and dissolve the
branches in a miasma of fermenting greens. The metal chains
and jewels of the matrons in the benefit dinner link up with
the glitter of the glasses and gleam of the silver. The colors of
a face do not only outline the surfaces and pores of the car-
pentry of that face, but also interact with one another in the
brew of a sensual, swarthy, or porcelain complexion. Yasunari
Kawabata contemplates the strobe dabs of sulphurous glow
from fireflies on the cheeks and brow of a woman in the
night garden.
3

Aural images of things move off them. The fruit rolling
down the roof sends a run of rumble across the ceiling. In the
bamboo thicket canes flick long thin shrieks into the wind.
The water splashing over rocks in the brook sends a syncopa-
tion of sputterings over its banks. The fallen leaves send on
with the breeze the whirr of their slidings and raspings. The
sonorous images of things, their cracklings, thumpings, and
thuds link up to form rustlings, rolls, or din. The splash of
the raindrops echo in the splashes of raindrops all about to
compose sizzle.
Many of these emanations are ephemeral while the things
are enduring, but others endure after the things have passed
on or passed away. The grass retains the imprint of the deers

64
body after it has left; the shale holds the shape of the dino-
saur whose body has long decomposed.
Things react to these doubles; the moss flourishes in the
shadow of the building, the grass lifts itself out of the imprint
of the deers body. Things react to their own doubles: bushes
raise their flowers above their shadows.

* * *

Things cast doubles of themselves upon the surfaces of our
bodies and upon our sensory surfaces. They cast reflections of
their colors and shapes upon our eyes, send their reverbera-
tions into our ears, from a distance spread their tang and
sweetness into our nose and mouth. And things cast the
doubles that other things cast on their surfaces upon our sen-
sory surfaces. The pond casts the zigzags of sunlight upon
our eyes; the snow relays upon us the gesticulating shadows
of the leafless trees.
Our bodies, like other things, cast shadows on the
ground, send their reflections on the surface of the pond and
the window and on photographic film, radiate their colors
onto other things and into the light and the air. They also
cast doubles of themselves upon the sensory surfaces of other
bodies.
Our bodies also generate doubles of themselves that they
leave in the past and project into the future. They leave im-
prints of their shape on the bed, on the beach, on photo-
graphic paper. They project doubles of themselves in the
dance floor at the end of the drive, on the guests awaiting
them at the wedding feast.
Our bodies also shadow themselves, have a double per-
ception of themselves. Our eyes see, our hands touch little of
ourselves. But as we sit, walk, reach for and manipulate
things, a postural schema takes form in our bodies, holding
our parts and limbs together, and giving us an inner sense of
Lingis: Doubles

65
where and how our arms and legs are positioned. It gives us
an inner sense of how our legs are extended under the table
and how our hands are extended groping in the dark. We
also have a body-image: as we sit or walk or reach for
things, we have a quasi-visual image of how our bodies look
from the outside. It is not an image our mind is imagining;
it is a perceptual sense of how our body looks as it would be
seen from a viewing distance outside, which is generated by
our postural schema. Like a reflection or a shadow cast by
our postural schema.
Martin Heidegger argued that perception is intrinsically
practical; we look about in order to get somewhere and do
something; we perceive things by moving among them and
manipulating them. But that is surely wrong: when we sit on
the deck or walk to the store, we see and hear leaves flutter-
ing to the ground, tree branches zigzagging across one an-
other, birds careening in the sky, clouds drifting, wind gust-
ing, crickets chirping, patterns, rhythms, tonalities, rever-
berations, mists, glows, glimmers, sparkles that we are
nowise manipulating or using, nowise looking at them in
view of doing something to them or with them. All that
lures and ensnares the eyes.
When captivated by the realm of shadows, reflections, re-
verberations, the I is but a semblance of its active self. It no
longer focuses, disengages objects and objectives, and launch-
es initiatives. Our eyes and our bodies are moved by the
rhythm of the reflections of the trees and the clouds swaying
on the surface of the lake. As the plane descends, we watch
the lights of the city spreading across the dark below. We
arrive at the concert hall, find our seat, survey the audience
for people we know or know about, look at the musicians
tuning up, appraise the conductor striding to the podium.
Then the music begins, the sounds detach themselves entire-
ly from the substances whose metallic or wood or catgut na-
ture they revealed, are set free in another dimension where

66
they link up in rhythms and melodies. Our freedom is
bound, caught up in those rhythms and melodies; we follow
the music like and with anyone about us. But involvement in
a rhythm produces an intense sense of presence, an obsessed
lucidity quite different from the obscurity and indistinctness
in which habits, reflexes, or instinct operate.
We feel contentment when the substance of things fills a
lack or need, a hunger or thirst. We feel satisfaction when
the things do not obstruct, but lend themselves to our ma-
nipulations. But so much of our pleasure in the world, pleas-
ure in being in the world, is a pleasure in the glows, gleams,
and halos about things, in the reflections and shadows things
cast about themselves. Our gaze skips and sways with them,
attracted and delighted by them.
These doubles the things generate can also be disquieting
and threatening. The oversized shadow on the window of an
intruder. As twilight advances, the shadows advance over
things, finally engulfing them, but we sense that in the night
the sonority of the things intensifies and spreads far from
them while they close in upon us, touch us without being
seen.

* * *

Artists take up and prolong the fascination of our eyes and
ears not with the properties of things, the shapes and colors
that are stabilized in their integrated and subsistent struc-
tures, but with the shadows, reflections, auras, and mirages
the things engender. Photographers capture the mists har-
boring a valley, the light blazing in the hair about a face.
Music captures in the resonances and movements of sound
forces that move us, that we receive in emotions.
In our lives, in our actions, what we do is orderedby the
paths and the obstacles, by the tasks, by the people about us,
by the hungry horses in the barn, by the rivers and the for-
Lingis: Doubles

67
ests, by the sun and the night. There are imperatives, injunc-
tions, directives, prohibitions in the things about us. Enlight-
enment philosophy championed political freedom, from tyr-
anny and oppression, and subsequent philosophy came to
identify freedom with the very essence of humans.
4
But effec-
tive action is ordered by the possibilities and prohibitions
that the things and the setting contains.
The shadows, reflections, halos, and reverberations of
things also appeal to us, summon us, and order us. The spar-
kle of the dewy morning summons us outdoors. The shadows
of the forest trees invite our footsteps and our rest. The lu-
minous waves and runs of light in the coral sea orders our
pleasured submission as we move into it and under it. The
tone and atmosphere of the Zen temple imposes quiet and
contemplation. Kawabata writes of the sound of the moun-
tain that guided his itineraries, his ascents and his returns.
5

The rumble of the waves in the night orders our heartbeat
and respiration as we sink to sleep at night. The cries of the
fledgling bird fallen from the nest appeals to us. The rumble
of the avalanche prohibits our advance.

1
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea, trans. Lloyd Alexander (New York:
New Directions, 1969), 127131.
2
Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin
Smith (London: Routledge, 1962), 293.
3
Yasunari Kawabata, The Lake, trans. Reiko Tsukimura (Tokyo:
Kondasha, 1974), 133ff.
4
See still today Martin Heidegger, The Essence of Human Freedom:
An Introduction to Philosophy, trans. Ted Sadler (New York: Con-
tinuum, 2002), and Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans.
Hazel Barnes (New York: Washington Square Press, 1956), 559
711.
5
Yasunari Kawabata, The Sound of the Mountain, trans. Edward G.
Seidensticker (New York: Berkeley Medallion, 1970), 21ff.
Alterity and Life in the Thought of
Alphonso Lingis
by John Protevi

This paper pays homage to Al Lingiss mastery of key figures
in the transcendental, existential, and phenomenological tra-
ditions of philosophy. In the works of the 1980s, Phenomeno-
logical Explanations and Deathbound Subjectivity among them,
Lingis displayed a supreme control in explicating the tradi-
tion, preparing for the breakthroughs that characterize the
great works written in his own idiom.
In particular, we will trace two reductions, enabling us to
see how Lingis identifies three levels of subjectivity. Begin-
ning with the sensibility inherent to intentional conscious-
ness, Lingis performs a reduction to sensuality, identifying
auto-affective consciousness. He then performs a reduction
to substantiality, identifying the condition for hetero-
affective or commanded consciousness. So, from sensibility
to sensuality, and from there to commanded subjection. Of
course this is only the order of reasons, if we can put it like
that, not the order of being, in which the imperative is pri-
mary.
We will complement our reading of how Lingis performs
these reductions and identifies these levels of subjectivity

70
with readings of Michel Henry and of Kant.

FREEDOM, LAW, SENSUALITY, AND SUBSTANTIALITY

Intuition of Freedom, Intuition of Law, the last Chapter of
Phenomenological Explanations (Lingis 1986), provides a fine
introduction to the two reductions and three levels of subjec-
tivity we mention above.
Lingis begins with the phenomenology of freedom in
Sartre: its appearance in affectivity, as anxiety. Juxtaposed to
this is the Kantian imperative, the primary and irreducible
givenness of law (Lingis 1986: 103). The theoretical use of
reason is commanded to represent a lawbound nature, com-
manded by the form of law itself, not by any sensible intui-
tion. Further, practical reason is commanded to think itself
free of natural mechanism, but that means freely bound to
construct maxims that take the form of lawbound nature.
But, by returning to Sartre, we see how Kants imperative
to conceive practical reason in the form of lawbound nature
falters once one takes into account the irreducibility of an
embodied perspective: once one sees the perspectival struc-
ture intrinsic to any cognitive as well as to any practical field,
one understands the structural necessity of the perceptually
inobservable observing body, of the unmanipulatable ma-
nipulator-body (Lingis 1986: 105).
But Sartre cannot explain how positing goals can activate
the executive forces of the material body, a lacuna to which
Lingis brings the corporeal schema and inextricability of ac-
tion and perception of Merleau-Ponty to address (Lingis
1986: 106).
But having found the origin of action in the capacities of
the lived body, what then of constraint, force, law, impera-
tive? One has to perceive things, has to perceive the world
(Lingis 1986: 107). Hence Lingiss pointed question: have
Protevi: Alterity and Life

71
Sartre and Merleau-Ponty escaped describing pre-reflective
experience on the model of reflective experience?
Here Lingis makes one of his signature moves. Lets call
it the sensual reduction. Calling on Levinas (although we
will use Henry as our point dappui), he writes, there is con-
sciousness that is not conscious of some thing. There is sen-
sibility that is not prehension of a form. There is sensuality in
our sensibility . . . (Lingis 1986: 107).
The sensual reduction in turn brings Lingis to his second
reduction: that of sensuality to substantiality: The sensuous
element is not schema but substance; it supports us, sustains
us, is sustenance, its content contents us (Lingis 1986: 108).
Lingis stresses again and again in his work that the con-
sciousness of sensuous substantiality is auto-affective, not in-
tentional.
But such auto-affectivitywhich cannot be seen as ec-
static reaching out, but as being-in ones own substance
doesnt let us escape imperatives: action is demanded (Lin-
gis 1986: 109). And action is not just making up lacks felt in
auto-affection. Action is not generated merely by hunger.
Action takes place in a world. Why? What is this imperative
that makes our existence a being-in-the-world (Lingis 1986:
109).
And here is the spot for the appearance of the other in
Kant: respect for the other is respect for the law that rules in
another (Lingis 1986: 110). Which is also the point of entry
of Levinas, who challenges the Kantian imperative in its uni-
versality, changing it to singularity: the force incumbent on
me: an appeal that singles me out, a command that orders
me (Lingis 1986: 110; italics in original).
Its this imperative that founds the subject not as subject
of sensuous enjoyment but as subjected to an imperative.
This is the subject of hetero-affectivity, the subject as consti-
tuted in subjection, in assujettissement: the position of being
an agent does not arise in the midst of sensuous enjoyment

72
. . . . We have argued that being-in-a-world . . . presupposes
subjection to an imperative (Lingis 1986: 111).
Which is to say that we are commanded to be free: the
freedom of [the] agent is not given in a primitive intuition
independent of the world or [independent] of the imperative
that requires a world (Lingis 1986: 112).
Although there are many nuances to be added, we can
recognize many of the lines of thought characteristic in
Lingiss work in this brief sketch.

FORECAST OF THE REMAINDER OF THE PAPER

At this point, Id like to pick up on two points on the nexus
of alterity and life in Lingiss thought. This will show the
great precision and density of Lingiss thought by explicating
at length what he distills into sentences:

1. The notion of the inaccessible other thought on the
basis of pure auto-affectivity, in Michel Henry, as a
counter-point to Lingiss notion of subjection, of het-
ero-affectivity as auto-affectivity broken by the appeal
of the other.

2. Kants description of the respect of the law in the
other, as we see it in Lingiss reading, in Images of
Autarchy, Chapter 2 of Deathbound Subjectivity (Lin-
gis 1989). This hetero-affectivity occurs in and as
pain, as the thwarting of the life force.

MICHEL HENRY AND THE AUTO-AFFECTIVITY OF LIFE

In Material Phenomenology (2008), Henry insists that classical
phenomenology aims at the transcendental conditions of
possibility of manifestation or appearance, that is, how things
appear (not what appears). For Henry, classical or histori-

73
cal phenomenology is based in the claim that things appear
as constituted by intentional acts, what he will call being
thrown into the light of the world. Intentionality is thus a
condition of possibility of appearance; in other words, inten-
tionality is a transcendental feature of subjectivity. But is in-
tentional, constituting, subjectivitytranscendental subjec-
tivityitself such an object? We risk an infinite regress with
a positive answer: it seems that making intentional subjectivi-
ty into an object requires another subjectivity to whom that
objectified subjectivity appears.
In Material Phenomenology Henry also subjects Husserls
treatment of self-awareness to a careful reading, concluding
that Husserl fails to isolate the auto-affection of life as the
true way in which subjectivity manifests itself; this failure
necessitates a new, radical phenomenology.
For Henry, auto-affection is the purely immanent feel-
ing that living beings have of the concrete modes of their life.
One of Henrys prime examples is pain: pain is revealed in
and through its very passive givenness: there is no intentional
object constitution in the experience of pain, just pain as a
purely immanent experience of life revealing itself to itself: a
self-manifestation or self-appearance. The emphasis is on the
way the auto-affection of life is the self-manifestation of sub-
jectivity; intersubjectivity, in turn, is rooted in a shared pa-
thos of life. This is the point of contrast with Lingiss work,
in which intersubjectivity is founded in hetero-affectivity, in
the imperative issuing from the other.
Henry addresses intersubjectivity via a reading of the Car-
tesian Meditations. For Henry, Husserls descriptions of the
constituted ego, which is used as the basis for the appercep-
tive transfer with the alter ego (Henry 2008: 109), misses
the original ego self-given in auto-affection (Henry 2008:
108). Rather than a phenomenology of perception applied
to the other (Henry 2008: 114) we should recognize our
real experience of the other is in terms of a feeling of pres-

74
ence or absence, solitude, love, hate, resentment, boredom,
forgiveness, exaltation, sorrow, joy, or wonder (Henry 2008:
104).
The problem comes with the reduction to the sphere of
ownness in Cartesian Mediations 5. Here Henry will oppose
the (true) transcendental Ego with the constituted ego
that is the basis for Husserls analysis (Henry 2008: 108).
Here we see a demotion of the original Ego to the rank of a
psychophysical ego appearing in an objective form in the
world of my sphere of belonging (Henry 2008: 110). Now
we must be careful to remember that for Henry the light of
the world is his term for intentional constitution: the origi-
nality of self-manifestation is deposed in the reduction to
the sphere of ownness. The elements of the sphere of own-
ness are deposed in the sense that appearing, which is the
basis of their being . . . is their appearing in this first world of
ownness (Henry 2008: 106).
Following the thesis of ontological monism, this first
world of ownness is still a world for Henry; it presupposes
yet forgets the non-worldly, non-appearing auto-affection of
life. As a result of this demotion, the worldly ego in the
primordial sphere of ownness functions as the pivot of the
pairing association with the body of the other (Henry 2008:
110).
Henry claims that in focusing on the constituted ego
Husserl also enacts a demotion of the body in which the
body is no longer the radically subjective and immanent I
can that I am and that is identical to my ego (Henry 2008:
110). The key thesis, again, is that constitution is not prima-
ry self-manifestation: It [the constituted body] is shown in
ownness but not in itself (Henry 2008: 110; italics in original).
The fundamental problem for Henry is that Husserl does
not examine the true reason why the other can never be pre-
sented, but only appresented. From the fact that every sub-
jectivity understood in its original way . . . escapes from every

75
perceptual presentation (Henry 2008: 112) we should not
conclude, as do Levinas and Derrida, that the other is too
much an other to be presented.
Rather, Henry will insist, it is not because the alter ego is
an alter [that it escapes perception]; it is because the other is
an ego that I cannot perceive the other in itself (Henry
2008: 112113). That is because the true ego, the transcen-
dental Ego that is the Ipseity of transcendental Life, can
never appear in the light of the world, but can only self-
manifest in auto-affection.

KANT AND THE PAINFUL THWARTING OF THE LIFE-FORCE

In the Critique of Judgment (General Comment on the Ex-
position of Aesthetic Reflective Judgments), Kant distin-
guishes the purely mental feeling of life [Lebensgefhl] from
physical life forces [Lebenskrfte] (Kant 1987: 274); upon
this distinction rests the entire critique of aesthetic judgment,
which must distinguish empirical or physical interest in an
objects possible effects on our health (physical life forces)
from aesthetic disinterestedness focusing on the pure mental
stimulation (mental feeling of life) occasioned by the presen-
tation of an object.

We can contrast this duality with the uni-
ty described in Critique of Practical Reason, where pleasure
always affects one and the same life-force [Lebenskraft] which
is manifested in the faculty of desire (Kant 1956: 23).
The feeling of life is affected in all registers corresponding
to our higher powers: judgment, understanding, and reason.
In addition to the pleasures and pains associated with aes-
thetic judgments of the beautiful and the sublime, we also
experience cognitive and practical feelings. We feel a cogni-
tive pleasure in discovering a harmony of laws of nature with
our cognitive power, since we can unify heterogeneous em-
pirical laws of nature under principles (Kant 1987: Introduc-
tion, V, 184; Introduction, VI, 187).

76
Practical feeling, on the other hand, is twofold: we feel
pain in the thwarting of the inclinations in the face of the
moral law, but this very pain will produce respect for the
moral law as a positive feeling (Kant 1956: Part I, Book I,
Chapter III, 7374). We will pursue the connection of pain
and the moral law as it plays out in the Critique of Teleologi-
cal Judgment.
The teleological judgment of natures purpose feeds into
Kants thought of the organism, turning it towards a theo-
bio-politics. While the cultural production of mans capaci-
ties for purposiveness is the ultimate purpose of nature here
on earth (Kant 1987: 83, 431), the final purpose of nature,
that in virtue of which nature is planned, can only exist out-
side nature, in man as moral subject (Kant 1987: 84, 435;
86, 443). The purposive intelligence that would have the
possibility of mans morality as its final purpose in arranging
natural order must be a moral God. Thus nature and free-
dom are finally related in the thought of a moral architect
God, a legislating sovereign in a moral kingdom of purpos-
es, who guarantees that nature must at least cooperate with
our moral action (Kant 1987: 86, 444).
The key to understanding this aspect of Kants thought is
to consider culture. We must distinguish the culture of skill
from the culture of discipline while at the same time search-
ing for the connection to Gewalt as force, violence, and au-
thority. The culture of skill prepares our capacity to set our-
selves purposes, while the culture of discipline is negative,
consisting in the liberation of the will from the despotism of
desires which rivets us to certain natural things necessary
for our biological survival, that is, the furthering of our life
forces (Kant 1987: 83, 432).
In the culture of skill we are riveted to pleasure; freedom
comes only through self-chosen pain. Nature has given us
our impulses so we would not neglect or even injure our an-
imal characteristics (Kant 1987: 83, 432).

77
With the culture of discipline however, we can develop
our freedom to tighten or to slacken, to lengthen or to
shorten our impulses as the purposes of reason require. In
an interesting twist, the way to the rule of reason is prepared
by the pleasure of fine arts and sciences, which make great
headway against the tyranny of mans propensity to the sens-
es and so prepare him for a sovereignty in which reason alone
is to dominate [Herrschaft . . . in welcher die Vernunft allein
Gewalt haben soll] (Kant 1987: 83, 433).
Those purposes of reason are the painful establishment of
the moral law as the ground of action in a person, as we learn
in the Critique of Practical Reason. The establishment of the
moral law as ground of action, by thwarting all our inclina-
tions, must produce a feeling which can be called pain, while
the moral law, as positive in itself, commands respect in
striking down, i.e., humiliating, self-conceit (Kant 1956:
Part I, Book I, Chapter III, 73).
The pain of humility must be self-chosen, as Kant makes
clear in discussing humility, a sublime mental attunement,
namely voluntary subjection of ourselves to the pain of self-
reprimand (Kant 1987: 28, 264). Here we see the political
affect of morality parallel that of the sublime: the violent,
painful striking down of our natural body will rebound to
reveal a supersensible vocation.
In his moral philosophy, Kant objects to the propensity to
make our subjective grounds of choice into an objective de-
termining ground of the will, self-love, a propensity that can
even attempt to make our self-love into law, the condition
Kant calls self-conceit. Respect for the moral law reasserts
the proper role of the rational moral law as sole legislator of
the kingdom of practical reason. Respect for the moral law is
a disciplinarian that through sublimely painful self-humil-
iation prevents the revolution that would place self-love in
charge.
Now whether or not the feeling of admiration for the

78
purely rational will and the feeling of respect for the moral
law are ultimately pleasurable is a difficult question. Just like
the indirect pleasure of the sublime, a certain pleasure at the
prospect of rational self-governance is produced on the basis
of the immediate effect of pain produced by the moral laws
effect on inclination. However, focusing on these immediate
effects, Kant writes in the Critique of Practical Reason that
respect is so far from being a feeling of pleasure that one
only reluctantly gives way to it as regards a man (that is, rec-
ognizing the morality of others is also painful to us) (Kant
1956: 77).
Whether or not the feeling is that of pleasure, the focus
on the rule of reason and the painful stifling of inclination is
clear. In other words, whether Kants political affect of self-
chosen pain, of sublime humility and the moral crushing of
the inclinations, is ultimately hedonic is questionable, but
that it is dolorous through and through is clear.
And here, of course, at the point linking pain and im-
perative, is where Lingis will call upon Nietzsche and joy,
Nietzsche and the love of the world, as other affects. Lets
leave that for discussion, though.

CONCLUSION

What have we seen in expanding upon these two themes:
auto- and hetero-affectivity, and the pain of the moral law?
The readings show, with regard to the nexus of alterity and
life, the depth and density of Lingiss thought, which distills,
without sacrificing precision, whole dimensions of the
thought of great philosophers. This distillation provides to
Lingiss works of the 1980s their unique power, affecting us
from within by a challenge from without, moving us, chang-
ing our lives.


79

Henry, Michel. 2008. Material Phenomenology, trans. Scott Da-
vidson. New York: Fordham University Press.
Kant, Immanuel. 1956. Critique of Practical Reason, trans. Lewis
White Beck. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.
Kant, Immanuel. 1987. Critique of Judgment, trans. Werner Pluhar.
Indianapolis: Hackett.
Lingis, Alphonso. 1986. Phenomenological Explanations. Dordrecht:
Martinus Nijhoff.
Lingis, Alphonso. 1989. Deathbound Subjectivity. Bloomington:
Indiana University Press.

PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCES
by Dave Karnos


82
Thanksgiving, 2011

Dear Tom,

Three years have passed since you first asked me to write
about Al Lingis and his correspondence with friends over the
past forty years. Sixteen years have passed since Wolfgang
Fuchs and I gathered together the first 20 years of Als let-
ters, with the intention of providing a sourcebook for re-
searchers. Letters from a Nomad Philosopher (mss) compiled
over 200 letters written between 1973 and 1995. Right now
it sits on the floor before my fireplace, scattered around me in
folders with headings like Flesh, Fun, and Friendship; on
People and Philosophers; Birth and Death. It sits before me
now much like the final exams that were spread around the
floor in front of fish tanks and wall-to-wall bookshelves at
Als house in State College, 1972. As a graduate assistant for
one of his big introductory classes, we were grading, holding
pass or fail thumbs like the young Caesars we felt to be. Only
then, as I recall clearly, when we would utter disgust at a
piece and move it towards a would-be-fail pile, Als hand
would dart forward and intercept. A few quick searches and
he would find a passage to read us, and surround its reading
with evocations of tenderness, liveliness, loveliness, and look-
ing up at us staring at him blankly utter something like bril-
liant, dont you think?
I have never forgotten that occasion. These utterances
came as epiphanies to mesudden and momentous hammer
blows upon my way of thinking about things and people in
terms of grades, of arrangements into piles, categories, and
pigeon holes. To this day whenever I find myself before a
situation calling for a sharp judgment, one usually bearing
nasty outcomes, if I just pause enough a little voice will arise
in my mind with a lovely refrain that dissembles any tension
of the moment: brilliant . . .
Karnos: Personal Correspondences

83
Many others have been affected by Lingis over the years.
Stellar observations can be found in the lovely homage com-
piled by Alex Hooke and Wolfgang Fuchs Encounters with
Alphonso Lingis (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2003). An
exceptional take on his own books can be found in Mary
Zournazis interview with Lingis for Radio Eye in Australia
(1999) [http://www.abc.net.au/rn/arts/radioeye/Foreign9.htm]:

I dont think I have a policy statement on writing, but
I do have some feelings. I have thought that the task
of philosophical writing is to address yourself to some
reality and for it to be in your own terms . . . I think I
felt that very intensely the first time I went to India
when I went to Calcutta to stay for several months. I
was afraid of Calcutta and it had the reputation of a
city dreadful at night. I arrived in the evening and as
soon I booked into a hotel I immediately always went
out . . .
I somehow had always feltit was an idea that I
found in Nietzschethat suffering does not exceed
human capacity . . . and that is something I verified in
a very personal experience with my mothers dying. It
was an almost unbearable thing to watch, but she bore
it with great strength and courageand that made me
believe that one does have the strength. But months
later in Calcutta, the last night I was there, I took an-
other midnight walkI wept, really wept.

Lingis would write of death in many of his works, culmi-
nating in the big book Deathbound Subjectivity, the subject
itself often introduced by the deaths of his mother, col-
leagues, students, more often presaged new friendships.

One day in Mahabalipuram, I felt death come for me.
I had been bereft, in a single day, of the robust stren-

84
gth that once climbed the cliffs to see the cave-tem-
ples of Ajanta; within a few hours a microbe that had
entered my veins through some prick too tiny to locate
had drained all my strength . . . In the ten days that
followed . . . I got sicker . . . Then one night I awoke
from a fever to find my rib-cage rigid, my compressed
lungs wheezing and choking . . . then I felt myself be-
ing lifted . . . by a small figure of a man clad only in
rags. He took charge of me. He came with a cart,
hoisted me on it, dragged it through the bush, located
a rickshaw from someone he roused in the night, ped-
aled me through the jungle road, found a boat in the
village by the sea, roused the owner, and laid me on it,
then paddled it through the sea whose waves roared
about us . . . He dragged me to the clinic in Madras.
Then he left without saying a word. I would never see
him again, no letter from me would ever find him.
A youth from Nepal who rowed through the
storming sea with a stranger, and departed; this
seemed to me a kind of nomadism radically different
from the nomadism our inordinate excesses of indi-
vidual value and commodity values makes possible . . .
The further one goes one finds oneself only the more
in oneself, the more wearied with the weight of one-
self. The true nomadism is rather that which drives
one, when one goes far, not to find, on each new shore
on which one arrives, someone with whom one shares
a language, a belief, or practical concerns, but to find
someone with whom one shares nothing, the stranger,
and, reduced to the solitude in which one has been
mired by contracting an existence of ones own, one is
delivered by the carnal arms of a stranger. If one starts
with this access to the other, outside of all contracts,
one will then hear the thoughts and see the perspec-
tives and glimpse the visions of another land, without

85
the inevitable deviation and misunderstanding and
parody, the unending Western recoding. One would
know depaysment, one would find oneself elsewhere.
1

I remember that first trip for Lingis to India. I received
an Aerogramme, and later a photowriting on the back; the
first of many to follow over the years.
Verily, brilliant indeed! I had written him seeking advice
about my own all important dissertation back at Penn State.
He unmanned my logic with a snapshot. Eventually these
photo journalistic entries would become full-blown 9X12
glossy photos accompanying his annual end-of-the-year New
Year greetings letter. Many would preface chapters in his
books, mirroring the encounters with the strangers that sus-
tained his jour-neys.
Tom, I write you 39 years later. I have carried those let-
ters. They sit now before me, each one alive with dormancy.
Whether it is a thought about a person or place, a shark or
volcano, a simple sentence or diatribe, something would
erupt with brilliance.
Introducing us to his essays in Abuses, Lingis said

These were letters written to friends, from places I
found myself for months at a time, about encounters
that moved and troubled me. . . .
The letters were almost never answered, maybe
never read. Nowadays people only write letters to rec-
ord requests, transactions, and detailed explanations,
or to send brief greetings; when they want to make
personal contact, they telephone. Conversation by tel-
ephone communicates with the tone and warmth of
the human voice, but what has moved one deeply can
only be shared through language when one has found
the right words. Finding the right words takes
time. . . .

86
It is hard to share something only with words on a
silent page. As the places and encounters reverberated
in my heart, I found again and again they had not
been said with the right words. What I wrote about
them finally became too long to send to anyone. I will
again find they have not been said with the right
words.
2

WE are ALL Friends in his Letters. I have always been an-
other address. My first letter from Lingis came in 1973, writ-
ten from Nice where he was raving about Deleuze who had
just published his essay on Nietzsche entitled Nomad Thou-
ght and the urge to de-codify codes of dominant culture.
Lingis certainly has followed this call to Philosophy, this im-
pulse to cross borders; the scream to hammer them with tun-
ing forks. He travels to places sometimes familiar, most oft
strange; to peoples even farther by cultural bounds, yet near
in common human grounds. Where grandeur and absurdity
dwell together: in this world. Here, the letters are perhaps
more direct and immediate than the published works. The
letters bespeak first encounters, words written to give friends
the excitement of having seen and experienced something
firsthand. They are first attempts at making intelligible what
nomadic Lingis perceives before the codes of conventional
wisdom obscure.
A year later he wrote:

Nice, 11-22-74

chers amisMichigan it is. The winter desolation,
white serene, death, the gaping black hole before
which being agonizes turns out to be made of tiny
white crystals, each one different, sterile, infinite bea-
uty. Im afraid the hope we had that you would be
shaped, by education, by grades, by judgments, by

87
sanctions, into a Heideggerian de lobsrvance stricte is
going to flicker out, in that vast uncontrollable soli-
tude. Wherever is Albion? The old Swedes with the
prairie-dog eyes, knuckles color of barley, each one an
Attila grimly reaping the yellow horizons? Lutherans,
performing, as spiritual exercise, biological necessities
in wooden back shacks while abominating the pope in
Rome? Their sons in wooden benches in front of you,
in rough jeans, the acrid smell of horses, hot horse
muzzles, first masturbation in a stable, against the leg
of the roan filly? Their daughters, nails unpainted, but
hands still colored with the juice of boysenberries and
black currents [sic]? Firm, pulpy breasts, big tits, not
like your California nymphs, inconsistent with their
heads full of theosophy. Here the purple colors of
German sin, Faust and Luther, being replaced, these
days, just with health, with those big tits and the
Northwest air? My God, you sure as hell are out to
teach them! You are going to educate yourself, won-
derfully, Ill wager passing down to them all the dia-
monds in your course syllabuses. PlatoJohnstone
NietzscheKandinskywhat is wanting? What is this in-
definable lack, that something missing, that I none-
theless sniff at while reading through your class sylla-
buses? Sade, I suppose, or better the really sick Austri-
an Sacher-Masoch, Reich, Cioran, Genet, the factor
of evil, sickness, the cancer on reason, the stinking ef-
fluvia. You will, coquettishly, answer that it is you
yourself who will introduce that dimension. (Better,
you should shrug your shoulders at the sick Rivieran
who is writing to you, and look out at them, health,
vigor, courage, endurance, confidence, the aching balls
in those blue jeans, the big tits.) And you say theyre
rich yet! Old man driving bulldozers across forests, ten
thousand bushels of barley or rye in the silo, three

88
hundred black angus steers? As one who woefully has
never been able to leech to any degree worth mention-
ing off students, and in fact have only once had one
who was a genuine millionaire, himself. Yet what pro-
fession is more akin to state of mind, in that willing-
ness to listen to, but not believe, everybodys story,
bringing up the big words that flatter, that being in
the street, where the men who do business with life
are, that adding, at each visit, that little riff about love
and eros and all that is de rigueurwhat profession is
more akin to that of the philosophy professor than
that of the common harlot? Tant mieux si les clients
sont riches . . . I am now full of projectsthe top ones
are to get with it on my real life-destiny, my real voca-
tion, just now lucidly, fully recognized: to spend my
life to make Levinas known. So, I am thinking about a
small book, in completely accessible language, explain-
ing what he has seen about eroticism. Then, scholarly,
treatise-format, a study of temporality in Heidegger
and Levinas. For Levinas, I recognize now, has a
completely new idea about the internal format of pre-
sent, past and future (the presence of the present, the
passing-away of the past, the surprise of the future), as
well as about temporalization itself, the synthetic unity
that forms there, which he no longer seats in the con-
cept of existence. This is very new I think.

To praise Lingis, to adulate, is sheer sycophancy. I plead
nolo contendere. I am simply a flatstone, an altar upon which
to worship; or to cut up dead fish. To criticize, to dispose, is
sheer idiocy. Have you been there? The eros of Khajuraho,
hallucinogenic nights of Borneo, Ulan Bataar, Mali, San Sal-
vador, Cusco; the ice hotel, Pattaya transvestite bars? All of
these on their New Years? This feature of his writing both
attracts and frightens something in us. His descriptions have

89
both their allure and their horror. Maybe thats why his let-
ters are attractive: safely morphed accounts from the simula-
crum. In a letter to Georges Brandes Nietzsche wrote To
my friend. George! Once you discovered me, it was no great
feat to find me: the difficulty will be to lose me. If you find
Lingis he will charm you. If you take him seriously, he will
disarm you. Either way you could become obsessed, pos-
sessed; then again dispossessed and consumed. Does it mat-
ter? Isnt that akin to the advice Zorba the Greek gave to
[his] boss: a man needs a touch of madness, or he never dare
cut the rope. Reading a letter from Lingis is a good start.
Reading several letters might suck you in. As Nietzsche in-
vited, Either we have no dreams or our dreams are interest-
ing. We should learn to arrange our waking life in the same
way: nothing or interesting
3
(Gay Science #232).
I leave you to your own readings. Here are a few of the
early letters. I append scanned versions of a couple aero-
grammes, mostly to highlight the precision and the economy
of Lingis as typist. By 1988 he had a laptop when traveling
and the scale of the letters became epic.

Shanti,
David

1
Alphonso Lingis, Being Elsewhere, in Falling in Love With Wis-
dom: American Philosophers Talk about Their Calling, eds. David D.
Karnos and Robert G. Shoemaker (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1993).
2
Alphonso Lingis, Abuses (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1994), vii.
3
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann
(New York: Vintage, 1974), 212.
91
Letters :: Nice, Bangladesh

z

92

93

94

95
Letters :: Bogota

z

96

97

98

99

100

101
Letters :: China, Uzbekhistan

z

102

103

104
Letters :: Jayapura

z

105

106

107

108
Letters :: Lima

z

109

Becoming-Troglodyte
by Joff Peter Norman Bradley

This essay mines the phenomenal oeuvre of Alphonso Lingis
to explicate his theory of communication. It is argued that
there is such a theory and it is one intimately and inextricably
linked with a philosophy of community. Cartographically
and genealogically, to chart how his theory of communica-
tion has taken shape, I shall draw on a number of thinkers
who have informed his thought over the years. While com-
pleting such a task presents formidable exegetical challenges,
this essay claims that while Lingis indeed has a theory of
communication, it is one synthesized and inflected by an ec-
lectic reading of continental philosophers such as Bataille,
Deleuze and Guattari, Levinas, Merleau-Ponty, and Nie-
tzsche, among others.
However, this foray into the thickets of his dense and
richly descriptive prose aims not to reproduce verbatim what
Lingis has penned in his translations, numerous lectures,
books, and monographs, because extrapolating a consistent
theory is a difficult, nigh impossible task to accomplish, giv-
en, and by his own omission, Lingiss thought-experiments
do not always form a consistent whole. And in another way,
it is perhaps wise to resist the urge to render the fragmentary

112
writings of Lingis into some form of pristine totality: to say
terminally what he should have said, to say at the end yes that
is what he meant. His writings are best understood if the
reader appreciates his monographs are honed in to a particu-
lar time, place, and ethical moment. His thought-exper-
iments are sometimes performative and material, primed for
a particular muse on the nature of things. It is therefore diffi-
cult to think Lingis as writing an oeuvre of a single trajectory
across time and space. His writings are specific to location,
solitary perspective, and singular theme.

LEVINAS

Levinas influence on Lingis cannot be underestimated. It is
difficult not to hear Levinas voice when one reads Lingis.
Indeed, Lingis discerns in Levinas a philosophy of limits, a
philosophy of the limits of language, the limits of the said.
Lingis, following Levinas, scrutinises the idea of non-rela-
tionality to the other. The other is irreconcilable difference,
beyond commonly held bonds and shared thoughts, on the
thither side of das gerede. For Lingis, the fundamental rela-
tion of the self to the other is prior to that which is common.
Heterogenic difference to alterity is pre-ontologically ethical.
There is an inescapable appeal before any information is bar-
tered or shared.
Today theories of communication induce us to depict the
others about us as agencies with which we exchange infor-
mation. But when we actually communicate with people
about us, the exchange of information is the least part of our
conversation; most of the time we utter words of welcome
and camaraderie, give and receive clues and watchwords as
how to behave among them and among others, gossip, talk to
amuse one another. The other is evidently there, a person, for
us not as an agency that issues meaningful propositions, in-
formation, but as an agency that orders us and appeals to us.
1

Bradley: Becoming-Troglodyte

113
Lingis investigates the intrusive horror and overwhelming
proximity of the other. The relation to the other is one of
exposure, vulnerability, and sensibility. Above all, the I is
essentially contested by the other and is irrevocably responsi-
ble. The relation is one of precarity. The proximity of the
other implies the suppression of ethical distance, as one is
bound to reciprocate and respond. The self is fissured. Sub-
jectivity is constituted heteronomously as the other is an-
archical. For Lingis, the self-legislating, autonomous subject
of Western reason is undermined in such a non-relation to
the other, and subjectivity is subjection to the infinite de-
mands of the other, to an uncertain compassion.
2
As he says:
Thought is obedience; subjectivity is constituted in subjec-
tion."
3
And again, in discussing the defenestration of Gilles
Deleuze, Lingis writes: Becoming someone who stands on
his or her own and speaks in his or her own name
subjectificationis then subjection and subjugation.
4

The responsibility for another is precisely a saying prior to
anything said. For Lingis, as for Levinas, language is precise-
ly the expression of a relation prior to the transmission of
ideas. Communication with things is not extraction of in-
formation or data, but of finding oneself invaded and popu-
lated. The saying as communication is exposure. Proximity
and communication are not modalities of cognition per se as
communication is irreducible to the process of transmitting
messages from one ego to another. Moreover, communica-
tion exceeds the data from the signals sent from one ego to
another. It is something other than the simple transmission
and reception of signs. Communication is more than its con-
tents.
At the limit of communication is the gesture towards the
other. It is at the limit of communication which for Lingis
gives rise to communication as an ethical event. It is in irrec-
oncilable alterity that we locate a fundamental relationship
with the other. The relation to the other qua other is a non-

114
relation, the quintessence of communication. For Levinas in
Totality and Infinity, first philosophy is an ethics.
5
As such,
the concern for the other is pre-ontological; it is formed nei-
ther through rational calculation nor contract. More funda-
mentally still, it is the very basis of ethically heteronomous
subjectivity, which is decentred through exposure and open-
ness, through a subjection to the other. Moreover, subjectivi-
ty is constituted through a vulnerability and sensibility, and
concern for the other is located precisely in this responsibil-
ity.
One is exposed, presented as vulnerable and sensitive to
the other who appears as a face. It is through the face that
the other addresses me silently and makes demands upon me.
The face is the locus for the beginning of language. Through
its silence, the face beseeches. And in terms of the proximity
of the face, there is a suppression of ethical distance.
Levinas in his discussion of language makes a distinction
between the sayable and the said.
6
Briefly expressed, the said
is the material of language which imparts information,
knowledge, and meaning by means of representation. It reg-
isters the correlation between a thing and the thought of that
thing. The said brings the world into language and language
into the world by eliding the difference between things and
words.
On the other hand, the saying expresses a relation to the
one being spoken to. It signifies a modality in the approach
to the other. Language is therefore an expression of relation
rather than the simple transmission of ideas. Language qua
the saying is an expression of relation, of drawing close to the
other, of proposing a proposition to the other. For Levinas,
the responsibility for another is precisely a saying prior to
anything said. The saying, still entwined in the said, impress-
es before it makes sense; it affects before it effects.
Contact is therefore the elemental relation, the groundless
foundation of ethical relationship. This is vital for Lingiss

115
communication theory as he is interested in the ways in
which language make contact and touches. Heidegger inter-
prets common knowledge as a multiplicity of statements that
circulate, that are picked up and passed on from one to an-
other. The speakers appear as simple relay points, equivalent
and interchangeable with one another. Statements are enun-
ciated and repeated because they are of what is said; anyone
and everyone says them. No one speaks in his own name, no
one takes responsibility for what is said. In fact, the talk does
not just circulate in all directions, as interlocutors are not
merely the relay-points of anonymous refrains. They are or-
dered. There are directions and directives in the talk. For
Lingis, who sees in language something more fundamental at
work, Heidegger was bound to misinterpret this as he reduc-
es the function of the talk to that of communicating infor-
mation and hence not the phenomenology of the unsayable.

THINKING AS MATERIAL AND PERFORMATIVE

Philosophy in the Lingisian mode is multi-mediated perfor-
mance as it conveys a wider philosophical message. Lingiss
methodology is to ruminate on the limits of the sayable. His
utterances are made against a backdrop and background of
images, music, and noise. For the audience there is some
confusion as to what is being said, what meaning is being
expressed. While it is debatable that this is always successful,
Lingis is trying to express or murmur something more fun-
damental. The words that come from the philosophers
mouth are perhaps only part of the tapestry of meaning. The
disembodied voice is posited as secondary as Lingiss mode of
communication bespeaks of different ways of expression and
languages, of something more elemental. There is Lingis
dressed as geisha, Lingis speaking against a cacophony of
Latin American music, Lingis speaking in the dark, with
only torchlight to read his script. And scattered throughout
116
his books are photographs of faces, faces from different races,
cultures, across time and places. Faces which disrupt and
unnerve, which interrupt his text. He is a philosopher who
dares to live in a world of shadows, where nothing is certain,
to play with masquerade and camouflage. He is a thinker
who transports his readers away from the world of light to
the dark and dingy places of the world, to culturally subter-
ranean pockets of resistance to the banality of things.
Seemingly contrary to honouring the logos of Western
metaphysics, he becomes ichthyophagan so as to speak from
the cave, from the shadows, or the nether world. He becomes
troglodyte, a cave dweller, in order to know other worlds, to
speak of the worlds, to nestle in these worlds. Yet, how can
these subterranean musings be trusted as the thoughts of a
philosopher? What does it mean for a philosopher to speak
amid the sumptuous and sensuous arousals and carousals of
Latin American dance and samba? What is the nature of the
philosophical voice, the disembodied voice that purports to
express the truth, devoid of rhetoric and ploy? What does it
mean for a philosopher to adorn a kimono and play with his
femininity with coquettish flair and poise? What does it
mean for him to wander amid the poor and dispossessed
seeking a humanity stripped of formal rights, responsibilities,
and legal contracts? Yet, again, perhaps this is still too harsh.
To speak of the darkness of the cave is perhaps to speak met-
aphorically of the hither side of rationality, above and beyond
the staid, death-in-life of the solitary-philosopher. It is to
speak amidst the chaos and darkness, betwixt the cadences,
shrieks, and coos of the animal kingdom and the baying of
blood and throbbing of the heart.
Thitherto, for a philosopher to perform as Lingis does, in
the material and performative mode would be to risk ridicule.
He is indeed an experimenter! Yet, perhaps therefore a dif-
ferent kind of philosophy is at work, for this is a philosophy
which incorporates phenomenological description, anthro-
117
pology, psychoanalysis, sociology, as well as anecdote and
personal observation. He writes both of the non-places of the
world and of sites of authentic human communication. In the
non-places of the world, amidst the rumble of the world of
work and reason, across the transnational, gleaming, techno-
cratic-commercial archipelago of urban technopoles,
7
Lingis
notices the art of ignoring, the seeing without looking. Lingis
finds in the network of non-places a fundamental non-
communication. Intent on exploring the dark side of globali-
sation, those places and anonymous spaces through which
one passes without communication, he forges a dualistic phi-
losophy which differentiates the rational, Western, universal,
Enlightenment societies of advanced planetary capitalism
with mystical, religious societies, those Othered communities
of difference.
SERRES
One communes to become an other for the other, for the
interlocutor. Serres neo-Socratic theory is a model of the
polis and police.
8
In the ideal metropolis of rational commu-
nity and communication, the paragon is the phantasmagoria
of harmonious dialogic, the purging of noise. The theory
maps a milieu in which digitally encoded information and
data is instantly graspable and where the equivocal voice of
the outsider is jammed. In the ideal republic, Serres claims
that communication is indeed possible as the I and other are
trained to code and decode meaning by using the same key.
9

Communication is the said, the dematerialised, rendered
ethereal.
In searching for a theoryan ethical theoryoutside the
confines of information science and beyond a model of the
simple exchange of messages, Lingis critically reads the
search to expunge the world of noise and the parasite. For
Lingis, communication is phenomenologically the exposure
118
of oneself to the other. He considers the thither side of the
sharing and decoding-recoding of the same key to expose the
underside of the a priori sense of what is held in common. In
his brilliant work The Community of Those Who Have Nothing
in Common, Lingis critiques Serres idea of noise and the
view that the parasite of noise is an obstacle to communica-
tion. Lingis makes a fundamental distinction between the
rational community and the community of those who have
nothing in common. As he says:
Anyone who thinks we are only emitting noise is the
one who does not want to listen. The one who under-
stands is not extracting the abstract form out of the
tone, the rhythm, and the cadencesthe noise inter-
nal to the utterance, the cacophony internal to the
emission of the message. He or she is also listening to
that internal noisethe rasping or smouldering breath, the
hyperventilating or somnolent lungs, the rumblings
and internal echoesin which the message is particu-
larized and materialized and in which the empirical
reality of something indefinitely discernible, encoun-
tered in the path of ones own life, is referred to and
communicated.
10

In the latter, all are strangers for each other. However,
such a community is the one which may appear from time to
time in the non-places of the world of which Marc Aug
writes,
11
as it is in the language of the latter community when
breakdown occurs that we evince a language of responsibil-
itya veritable ethical and political languagewhich enables
the interlocutor to speak in a singular voice. The non-places
of which Aug writes are populated with dividuated imper-
sons who by their very nature pursue the goals set by the
world of work and reason. It is in the Heideggerian moment,

119
according to Lingis, when the facade of the everyday erodes,
the singular voice speaks, must speak, and must be heard.
For Lingis, in the ideal republicthe city of communica-
tion maximally purged of noiseuniversal, unequivocal com-
munication would assume the form a transparent, albeit ma-
chinic, intersubjectivity. He reads Serres as positing the para-
gon of unequivocal communication as crystallised in the case
of two modems, transmitting and receiving information-bits
simultaneously.
The community in which one has nothing in common in-
terrupts the rational community, the world of work and rea-
son. Contra such interference and confusion, interlocutors
unite against those intent on scrambling communication.
The one who speaks in his own name, in the first person sin-
gular, denudes himself or herself in the exposure to the other.
As Lingis explains: It is to risk what one found or produced
in common.
12
In the rational community, people speak as
agents or representatives of the common discourse. They en-
gage in serious speech which conveys the imperative that de-
termines what is to be said.
13
The voice is of the rational
community, but it is not a singular voice. In the community
of those who have nothing in common I speak for myself as a
stranger, an outsider, as a newcomer. As Lingis says, I find
my own voice and words which only I can singularly enunci-
ate. It is in the act of enunciating the singular that I expose
myself as a unique individual. I am at once exposed, vulnera-
ble, and sensitive to the other. I engage in a language of re-
sponsivity and responsibility. Of singular importance for
Lingis here is the response and the responsibility we assume.
Yet, Lingis takes exception to the argument that in some
sense the authentic sayable of the said is external or outside
the loop of information exchange, and transgressive of the incessant
transmitting of messages. Critical of computer technology and
the military for informing contemporary communication the-
ory, Lingis counters this view by contending that what we

120
often say to one another makes so little sense. So little of it
makes any pretence to be taken seriously, so much of it is
simple malarkey, in which we indulge ourselves with the
same warm visceral pleasure that we indulge in belching and
passing air.
14

Elsewhere, commenting on the nature of cues, watch-
words, and passwords, Lingis makes the point equally well.
Writing in Michael Strysicks The Politics of Community,
Lingis claims: So much of that language is non-serious or
nonsensical. Greetings, hailing or confirming whatever the
other is doing or saying, and jokes, teasing, and banter
much of the talk that goes on among us does not aim at truth
but provokes smiles and laughter. Whoever laughs with us
or weeps with usis one of us.
15

In probing the talk and the idle chatter of das geredethe
talk which passes for communication, Lingis interprets the
will to eliminate noise as a plot to eliminate the other, a xen-
ophobic plot to eviscerate the other. As he says, communica-
tion is an effort to silence not the other, the interlocutor, but
the outsider: the barbarian.
16

BATAILLE AND COMMUNITY

In a similar vein to Deleuze and Guattari, Lingiss melding
of phenomenology of the speculations on the nature of the
singular is not for a contemporary readership, it is for those
yet to come. He writes for those who seek experiences and
ecstasy away from the classroom where students identify and
assimilate information, away from the workplace and factory
and the regulation of clock time. Thinking takes place
among the poor and destitute, in places distant from the
comfortable and suburban lives in developed countries. In
Dangerous Emotions,
17
Lingis says that to lead comfortable
and suburban lives is to skim over reality. As Lingis says in an
essay Joy in Dying: Heroes are those who live and die in high

121
mountains and remote continents far from our comfortable
and secure rooms in the urban technopoles, where we meet
to read to one another what we have thought out on our
computers.
18

Embracing elements of Batailles solar economy of ex-
penditure without return, communication is perceived as
functional, transgressive of the rational order of discourse.
The mode of communication of value for Lingis is that
which pertains to hcceity or singularity. In the exclama-
tions, cries, and guffaws of laughter, nothing is reciprocated.
This is expenditure without return. There is a waste of ener-
gy. Nothing is exchanged. Outside the rational economy of
equilibrium, Lingis says it is among those who we have noth-
ing in common that we expose ourselves to expenditure, loss,
and sacrifice. We find this sense of the nothing beyond ex-
change in Contact and Communication, when Lingis says:
This beyond is from the first empty; it is the void, nothing-
ness.
19
The desire for communication breaks open the self-
sufficiency of a sovereign being, her autonomy, her integrity,
and opens her upon something beyond herself. To communi-
cate with another then is to break through integrity, inde-
pendence, autonomy, and nature. It is to intrude, unsettle,
and wound. Lingis says that community forms a movement
by which one exposes oneself to the other, to forces and pow-
ers outside oneself, to death and to the others who die.
20

What we bear witness to is the inapprehensible, the inassimi-
lable, and the irrecuperable. We can think of Batailles theory
of unemployed negativity as a collapsing of the work, of
loeuvre. It is the non-productive. Jean-Luc Nancy derives the
concept of the inoperable community from Bataille. The in-
operable implies a sense of worklessness and idleness (d-
soeuvrement). It is a community nonproductive of itself.
21

Lingis takes from Nancy the notion of distress and asks how
knowledge is gained through the coexistence with the other.
To understand Lingiss theory of communication it is im-
122
portant to appreciate how distress in the outer zones becomes
our distress. He inquires into the shared sense of distress
when we become cognisant of the exterminations wrought
upon peoples in and also the culture of technicization and
simulation that reigns in the richest urban technopoles.
22
If
the outer zone is the site of the sacred, then Lingis is a phi-
losopher of the outer zone, a philosopher of the sacred.
Lingis thinks contact with the other as constitutive of a
fundamental communication that is literally destructive. At
stake in the risk of communication is a violation and decom-
position of the integrity of the body; a collapse of self-
possession and self-positing subjectivity, a loss of control. In
fact, a base communication and materialism demands a des-
tratification of identity, or according to Bataille, a sovereignty
without mastery. Communication implies moments in indi-
viduals when sovereignty is neither autonomy nor domina-
tion over others; it is a state individuals find in themselves. It
is through contamination and contact with alterity, in a rela-
tion of exposure and abandon, that communication takes
place. One cannot appropriate the sovereignty of the other
through communication. On the contrary, it is the giving
without return, a fusion of subject and object. Identity with
the other is through non-rational means in the sense of lau-
ghter, tears, or the erotic. Laughter and tears tear apart from
the world of work and reason. And for Lingis, it is in laugh-
ter, tears and eroticism that we find the conditions of possi-
bility for communication in rational, instrumental thought.
Lingis finds in blessings and cursings a primary form of
speech. Lingis writes: Laughter and tears, blessing and curs-
ing break through the packaging and labeling of things that
make our environment something only scanned and skim-
med over. They are the forces with which we impact on na-
ture, which we had perused only as the text of the world.
They are forces that seek out and engage reality.
23
Humans
through blessings and cursesas instances of fundamental

123
modes of language and communityconverse over that
which is amusing or tormenting.
Contra Kant, Lingis is sceptical of the universal rational
agent and the law of the categorical imperative which set ex-
amples for everyone. Contrary to the notion that the rational
agent respects the other via respect for the law that rules and
binds, Lingis finds in Bataille an alternative model in which
communication pertains not to the contract but to the con-
tact of an individual with what is and remains beyond him.
Sovereignty is ridiculous. It is a danger. For Lingis, the
communication of sexual pleasure comes closest to the es-
sence of majesty. It is through the intermingling of bodies
that we come to know the other. Lingis finds in Bataille the
idea that communication pertains to the contact of a sover-
eign being with what is other, a communication with the
sacred and demonic and a communication with other species,
inanimate things, and the material universe: an ecology.
24
Yet
the anxiety that composes it is speechless.
For Lingis, the thirst for communication is for contact
with beings unlike ourselves. He argues that humans seek
communication with those different from themselves. And in
more exotic terms, he writes: Our most important conversa-
tions are with prostitutes, criminals, gravediggers. We seek to
be freed from the carapace of ourselves.
25
Beyond the world
of work and reason, Lingis thinks the outer zone, the world
of the other, the world of the sacred. Seemingly uninterested
in the world of abstract, disembodied thought and the pro-
fane sphere of everyday existence, Lingis speaks of the time
of the sacrificial and the mystical. Here perhaps is the secret
to understanding Lingis. If the sacred is the zone of the de-
composition of the world of work and reason, and if follow-
ing his reading Bataille, we find the most sacred things in the
spilling of bodily fluid, then we can take Lingis as saying that
the deep-seated and ancient sense of communication is the
longing to communicate with those most unlike ourselves

124
with sacred and demonic beings. Then, it would seem that
Lingiss theory of communication is a theory of communica-
tion of the sacred. Lingis understands those who perform
sacrifice as the true identifiers with the victim. It is through
wounds that communication takes place between humans
and sacred beings. One is exposed to the others by wounds.
Moreover, for Lingis following Bataille, communication with
the sacred and with natural things is in some sense prior to
communication with other humans. At a more fundamental
level, communication takes places between human beings
when we share laughter, grief, and erotic feelings, when dig-
nity is punctured.

To communicate effectively with those who fascinate
us is to break through their integrity, their natures, their in-
dependence, their autonomyto wound them.
26

For Lingis, sovereign existence is lived in conversations,
shared laughter, friendship, and eroticism. Indeed, funda-
mental truths are revealed in laughter, friendship, and eroti-
cism. It is in moments of conversation and laughter, in per-
versity in all its myriad forms that we live a sovereign exist-
ence. And it is precisely when we laugh together that humans
recognise each other as the same kind, as kindred. In similar
ways, we know one another as human through our tears, and
through the sexual appetite and attraction. At the limit of
communication and community is the nothing-in-common
through which communication takes place. This is the mo-
ment of unemployed negativity that we find in Bataille.

ORDER-WORDS

In A Thousand Plateaus,
27
Deleuze and Guattari consider slo-
gans or order-words (mots dordre) in non-ideological terms.
Interpreted as such, they are the cues, prompts, watchwords,

125
and passwords which we attach and avail ourselves to as rep-
resentatives of this or that discipline, body, or group. For
Deleuze and Guattari, the talk or indirect discourse com-
municates what someone has heard and what someone has
been told to say. Order-words command the informative
content of sentences. Deleuze and Guattari perceive obedi-
ence as the honouring of order-words. In speaking to others,
we transmit to them what we have been told to say.
In the anti-Chomskyian linguistic thrust of Deleuze and
Guattari, a positive emphasis is put on fleeing their inherent
command. While acknowledging the forlornness in seeking
to escape order-words, Lingis, echoing Deleuze and Guat-
tari, claims the trick is to escape the death sentence and the
verdict they contain. Such order-words are a verdicta death
sentence.
28
Yet Lingis is interested in how the I speaks in
its own name. He says that this will to disclose is not derived
from a moment of Heideggerian authenticity but is forged
through a collective, a social machine that compels the I to
speak in its own name. And in doing so blocks other paths of
creativity and flight, for order-words isolate an inner core of
lucidity and will, and excise a swarming within of becom-
ingsbecoming woman, becoming animal, becoming vege-
table, rhizomatic, becoming mineral, becoming molecular.
29

For Lingis, to speak in ones own name is to disconnect from
a vital environment. To delimit ones possibilities is a process
of subjectification, a subjection and subjugation.
30

CONCLUSION

Lingis writes from the perspective of the I, from the singu-
lar, from the perspective of saying things simply in ones own
name as Nietzsche exhorted his readers to do. He probes the
Is relation and bond with the lautrui, the other, and ex-
plores why it is that we understand so little of the other. We
might say that his linguistic theory is liminally orientated as
126
it contests what can be said or notit addresses limits of the
sayable in words and thoughts. He thinks the outside of lan-
guage, the unsayable, the non-rational and unrepresentable
and transgressive. In a sense, he searches for the compulsions
to act and speak. As a phenomenological archaeologist of
desire, he suggests there are communications more profound
than the babble of the everyday, the talk of the they. He be-
seeches his readers to consider the traumatising question are
you everyday?
1
Alphonso Lingis, Emanations, Parallax 16.2 (2010): 1516.
2
Alphonso Lingis, Our Uncertain Compassion, Janus Head 9.1
(2006): 27.
3
Alphonso Lingis, The Imperative (Bloomington: Indiana Universi-
ty Press, 1998), 180.
4
Alphonso Lingis, Defenestration, paper delivered at Deleuze
Conference: On Media and Movement, University of California,
Berkeley, November 3, 2006.
5
Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority,
trans. Alphonso Lingis (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press,
1969.
6
Emmanuel Levinas, Collected Philosophical Papers, trans. Alphonso
Lingis (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1987).
7
Sheppard, Darren, Simon Sparks, and Colin Thomas, eds., On
Jean-Luc Nancy: The Sense of Philosophy. (London: Routledge,
1997), 190.
8
Michel Serres, Hermes: Literature, Science, Philosophy, eds. Josu V.
Harari and David F. Bell (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1982).
9
Alphonso Lingis, The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in
Common (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 65.
10
Lingis, The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Common,
91.
11
Marc Aug, Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Super-
modernity (London: Verso, 2006).

127

12
87.
13
112.
14
104.
15
Michael Strysick, Michael, The Politics of Community (Aurora,
CO: Davies Group, 2002).
16
97.
17
Alphonso Lingis, Dangerous Emotions (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2000), 79.
18
Lingis, Dangerous Emotions, 164.
19
Andrew J. Mitchell and Jason Kemp Winfree, eds., The Obsessions
of Georges Bataille: Community and Communication (Albany: SUNY
Press, 2009), 122.
20
12.
21
Jean-Luc Nancy, The Inoperative Community, trans. Peter Con-
nor, Lisa Garbus, Michael Holland, and Simona Sawhney (Minne-
apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991).
22
Nancy, The Inoperative Community, 190.
23
Lingis, Dangerous Emotions, 78
24
For more on Lingiss idea of ecology in relation to blessing see
Lingis, Dangerous Emotions, 71: A thinker who comprehends with
the hands, hands made for blessing, sees swallows and owls, wet-
lands and tundra pullulate with grace. Blessing is the beginning and
the end of all ecological awareness.
25
26
27
Gilles Deleuze and Flix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capital-
ism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: Univer-
sity of Minnesota Press, 1987).
28
Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 107.
29
Alphonso Lingis, Subjectification, Continental Philosophy Re-
view 40.2 (2007): 115.
30
Lingis, Subjectification, 116.

On The Community of Those Who
Have Nothing in Common
1

by Jeffrey Nealon

A note from the author about the following text: This
is an archival text, delivered at a Penn State Philoso-
phy Department session on Als book in 1995, shortly
after it had been published. Despite my desires to
change, update, and fudge, I preserve the original dis-
course in accordance with what I learn from Lingiss
examplethe difficult joy of response, the irreducible
singularity of the encounter, and the liveliness of me-
mory, among so many other things.

I find myself in a somewhat odd position here this afternoon,
having been charged with the task of briefly reviewing the
main ideas of Alphonso Lingiss truly remarkable book, The
Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Common. The dif-
ficulty, I guess, is two-fold. First is the problem that one en-
counters before any such rich and engaging text, the uncom-
fortable difficulties of paraphrase: Have I gotten it right? Are
these really the stakes of the project, or am I just making this
up? How to impart a sense of the texts rich complexity,
while still performing some kind of recognizable summary?
130
And then theres the second problemthe fact that Al is
sitting right here, across the table from me, face-to-face. Im
thinking he could review the main ideas for us a lot better
than I could, so what do you need me for, I begin to wonder?
But I press on, trying to find a path, as we always do in Als
work, for productively engaging the joyously cramped space
of response.
One is tempted, in confronting these initial difficulties, to
introduce the book by situating it within an ongoing scholar-
ly conversation. And Lingiss book certainly does intervene
decisively among a series of recent philosophical works that
take up the question of community from a continental per-
spectivemost notably, Jean-Luc Nancys The Workless
Community, Maurice Blanchots The Unavowable Communi-
ty, William Corletts Community Without Unity, and Derri-
das The Other Heading: Reflections on Todays Europe; in turn,
these books expand on certain themes of alterity and com-
munity articulated by Heidegger, Levinas, Bataille, and oth-
ers. Then, of course, there is also much work on community
that comes out of Hegelian, Marxist, and postcolonial tradi-
tionssay, Charles Taylors work or Habermass or Fan-
onsand one could perhaps introduce Lingiss work by situ-
ating it within the debates among communitarianism, Marx-
ism, and postcolonial studies.
However, as tempting as it is, such scholarly situating will
never get to the heart and singularity of a work like Lingiss.
Even from within the attempt to convene a community of
works on community, I am inexorably thrown back on the
difficult question of responding adequately to this work, to
The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Common. Its
specificity calls not for comparison to a community of other
works, but rather for a radically singular response.
Of course, maybe this isnt such a big deal, insofar as this
type of problem is confronted and eventually overcome all the time,
in any successful philosophical discussion of a theme within a
Nealon: On The Community

131
community of like-minded inquirers. Something like this
difficulty, in fact, is issue one in many scholarly studies of
community: How does one adequately respond to the rich
complexity of alterity while still building the rational consen-
sus necessary for mutual discussion and progress? How does
one begin to form a community out of a bunch of people who
have nothing in common? As Lingis himself writes on this
model, To build community would mean to collaborate in
industry which organizes the division of labor and to partici-
pate in the market. It would mean to participate in the elabo-
ration of a political structure, laws and command posts. It
would be to collaborate with others to build up public works
and communications (5). These are certainly pressing, diffi-
cult themes, and ones that could potentially occupy us in dis-
cussion for quite some time this afternoon. We could debate,
for example, whether it really does take a village to raise a
child.
However, an other, more essential, difficulty is presented
to us by The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Com-
mon: from the beginning, this text is not primarily interested
in philosophical discussionsin the progress of knowledge
or the parsing deliberation of arguments; its not interested in
founding a rational community based on the properly com-
municated abstraction or the triumphant conclusion. Rather,
the stakes of The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in
Common lie irreducibly elsewhere.
At the same time, Lingiss text most certainly is con-
cerned with communication and community; it just asks us to
consider a communication that happens or community that
forms around situations other than the rational exchange of
information within a community of like-minded individuals.
As he writes, Beneath the rational community . . . is another
community, the community that demands that the one who
has his own communal identity, who produces his own na-
ture, expose himself to the one with whom he has nothing in

132
common, the stranger. The other community is not simply
absorbed into the rational community; it recurs, it troubles
the rational community, as its double or its shadow (10).
It is, then, toward this other communitythe community
before, beneath, or beyond the rational community of pro-
gress and consensusthat Lingis relentlessly draws our at-
tention. In a sentence that might be said to mark the books
most insistently recurring gesture, Lingis writes that Before
the rational community, there was the encounter with the
other (10). And, for Lingis, this kind of encounter with the
other is one that necessarily takes place both inside and outside
the dominant laws and norms of any given political culture;
such an encounter demands that we respond to the other,
without any concrete sense of how we might adequately ren-
der such a response. As he puts it, To respond to the other,
even to answer her greeting, is already to recognize her rights
over me. Each time I meet his glance or answer her words, I
recognize that the imperative that orders his or her approach
commands me also. I cannot return her glance, extend my
hand, or respond to his words without exposing myself to his
or her judgment and contestation (33).
As Lingis shows throughout his text, much philosophi-
cal discussion of community unfortunately boils down to a
series of questions concerning how one can overcome differ-
encehow a community can put its differences aside and
work together toward common goals, in the project of form-
ing what Hegel famously calls the I that is We and We that
is I. For Lingis, however, the I or the subject is related less
to a common We [W-E] than it is a singular oui [O-U-I],
to an imperative saying-yes to alterity. This yes, this other
oui, cannot merely be understood as a rational or normative
rule of the communitys law; as he writes, It is not only with
ones rational intelligence that one exposes oneself to an im-
perative (11); rather, as Lingis shows us through the many
interventions and encounters in his text, the imperative to

133
respond to the other shows itself and becomes compelling
precisely at the limits of the rational communityat those
places or in those moments where the content of what we say
is less important than the raw, phatic fact of speaking, being-
there, accompanying the other, responding to the others
approach, answering the others call.
Lingis thematizes this distinction between two kinds of
communications, two communities, as follows: There are
then two entries into communicationthe one which deper-
sonalizes ones visions and insights, formulates them in the
terms of the common rational discourse, and speaks as a rep-
resentative, a spokespersonequivalent and interchangeable
with othersfor what has to be said. The other entry into
communication is that in which you find it is you, you saying
something, that is essential (116). This speaking other-wise is
the radically singular saying that comes before the general or
translatable said of rational communication; such saying is,
then, literally the origin of community and dialogue, but it is
itself not a generalizable or translatable component of ration-
alist discussion. The simple fact of my speaking in response
to the approach of an other is already a testament to the oth-
ers primacy and irreducibility; but, as Lingis insists, it is also
a beginning, the beginning of communication (114).
Throughout The Community of Those Who Have Nothing
in Common, Lingis consistently calls our attention to these
other entries into communication (or these entries into an
other communication) at the margins of a community: en-
countering a stranger in a foreign land, our call to the bedside
of a dying loved one, the caress in desire, our stammering
confrontations with language. Such radically singular events
mark A situation in which the saying, essential and impera-
tive, separates from the said, which somehow it no longer
orders and hardly requires (109). And it is, Lingis shows,
precisely at these limits of communicationat those mo-
ments when response is always necessary, yet always irration-

134
al and out of our controlthat communication itself is born.
As he writes, it is the surfaces of the other, the surfaces of
suffering, that face me and appeal to me and make demands
on me. In them, an alien imperative weighs on me. The
weight of the imperative is felt in the surfaces with which the
other faces me with his weariness and vulnerability and
which afflict me and confound my intentions (32). Com-
munication begins or happens, in other words, not when I
confidently transfer my abstract meaning or ideas to the oth-
er, but rather in those moments when my self-assured pro-
jects falter, where my spontaneity is called radically into
question by the sheer presence of the other. Such limit-
experiences comprise an irrecoverable movement outside the
self, a gesture that has no idea of what to do or how to es-
cape. Its movement is nowise a project; one goes where one
cannot go, where nothing is offered and nothing is promised
(178). Such a gesture of response, in other words, moves in-
exorably toward the exterior, toward the other.
There certainly is, then, a surviving notion of community
in Lingiss texta quite literal community of those who have
nothing in commonbut such a community is formed not by
a closing in, by the issuing of ID cards or by the creation of a
common interior space, safe from irrational intrusion; rather,
Lingis holds that Community forms in a movement by
which one exposes oneself to the other, to forces and powers
outside oneself, to death and to the others who die (12).
In the end, it seems to me that Lingiss interventions into
the discourses of community are essentially ethical interven-
tions; both the philosophical stakes andjust as important-
lythe metonymic or empirical operations of the surface of
his text comprise powerfully compelling ethical movements.
However, the ethical component of this text is not to be
found in abstract systems of reciprocal obligation; rather,
ethics in The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Com-
mon is born and maintained through the continuing necessity

135
of responseto other people, to animals, to the earth itself.
And such a responsiveness or responsibility comes always
before and beyond the solidification of any theoretical rules or
political norms of ethical conduct. This is why, throughout
the text, Lingis consistently calls us to consider the primacy
of what we might call non-philosophical experiencethat
is, he continually calls attention to the primacy of an experi-
ence of sociality or otherness that comes before any philo-
sophical understanding or reification of our respective subject
positions.
In this insistence, perhpas we see Lingiss debt to Lev-
inass (non)concept of the face-to-face encounter with the
other. As Levinas writes, in Lingiss translation, the face-to-
face situation is an experience in the strongest sense of the
term: a contact with a reality that does not fit into any a pri-
ori idea, which overflows all of them. . . . A face is pure expe-
rience, conceptless experience.
2

In Lingiss work, like Levinass, such an experience ex-
ceeds all my categories of knowledge or understanding. This
relation between self and other cannot simply be translated
into rational, conceptual thought, because to do so would be
to destroy the unmotivated, spontaneous character of en-
counter. But, at the same time, there is an obligation to re-
spond built into the very situation of the face-to-face en-
counter, insofar as the experience of the other person is also a
concrete, social phenomenon. As Lingis writes, The face of
the other is the original locus of expression (63), and we
must respond to this social fact of otherness just as we must
respond to the experiential fact that fire burns flesh or food
nourishes it; such response does not simplyor even pri-
marilyfind its origin in the subjects choice.
Ethics is born(e), then, not in the time of the communi-
tys progressin the reciprocity of offers or promises made to
the othersbut rather in the time of the other, which Lingis
calls an utterly alien time where nothing is offered or prom-

136
ised (178). All of my possibilities and enjoyments are, from
the beginning and in the end, owed to the other. As Lingis
writes near the end of his text, For me, the world is, from
the start, a field of possibilities others have apprehended and
comprehended, possibilities for others. What I find as possi-
bilities for me are possibilities others have left me (177).
And, in, or at the end, it is just such a gifta toolbox of
possibilities for becoming-otherthat Alphonso Lingis leav-
es for us, in the pages of his extraordinary Community of Those
Who Have Nothing in Common.

Thank you, Al. Really.

1
Alphonso Lingis, The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in
Common (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994); hereafter
referred to parenthetically by page number.
2
Emmanuel Levinas, Philosophy and the Idea of Infinity,
in Collected Philosophical Papers, trans. Alphonso Lingis (Pittsburgh:
Duquesne University Press, 1987), 59.

What Is an Imperative?
by Dorothea Olkowski

THE VORTICES

Each morning we wake up to an ongoing miracle. Light is
there for us and it forms a level. Along this level I see the
color-contrasts of the Western mountain ranges phospho-
resce. Sounds awaken too. They awaken out of the level that
is the murmur of nature from which the cry of hawks, the
whining of coyotes fill the air. And close by, the harsh col-
ored billboards stick up in the level of the light as the the cars
and trucks roll by, hurried and noisy, emerging from the level
that is sound, the sound of the strong winds blowing up a
storm heading east to the plains where they meet the Gulf
moisture, twisting it into tornadoes. These levels, as Alphon-
so Lingis calls them, form in a medium without dimensions
or directions: the luminosity more vast than any panorama
that the light outlines in it, the vibrancy that prolongs itself
outside the city and beyond the murmur of nature, the dark-
ness more abysmal than the night from which the day dawns
and into which it entrusts itself.
1

This medium is the world, but how are we to characterize
it, how to make sense of the way in which it gives rise to lev-

138
els? And do we understand in what manner levels give rise,
not only to competent bodies able to negotiate the practicali-
ties of life, bodies for which seeing and seeing the true are
one and the same, but also to all the rest, the monocular
phantasms, mirages, and depths of floating color and shad-
ow, tonalities and scents, erotic obsessions, nocturnal phan-
tasms, mythogenic and magical realms.
2
To the extent that
we do not yet understand these things, we will begin by pos-
iting a world that is neither coherent nor incoherent, neither
real nor imaginary.
3
Instead, in an epoch, a suspension of
understanding and reason, even further removed from the
subject than that of Henri Bergson, who asks us to begin our
reflections on the world with nothing more than images, let
us begin, following Lingis, with the sensible intuition of a
world set in depths and uncharted abysses.
4

In the world of depths and abysses, Lingis tells us, sensi-
bility can be drawn in and drawn in imperatively to the vorti-
ces that populate these depths. In physics, vortices have been
described variously as the sinews of turbulence, [and] the
voice of fluid motion.
5
Unlike solids, which do not manifest
vortices, the essence of fluid is vortices, especially insofar as
fluids at rest cannot stand shear stress, the tendency of a fluid
to be pulled apart (sheared) by a differential force.
6
Shear
stress puts fluid elements into spinning motion, causing rota-
tional or vortical flow.
7
Fluid motion produces vortices via
the rotation of fluid elements. Vortices are manifest in spiral
galaxies, hurricanes, tornadoes, and in the vortex rings of the
mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion.
8
Let us not assume
however that the presence of a vortex signals the lack of a
coherent structure. The study of vortices is central to under-
standing the functioning of aerodynamics, as well as to the
understanding of the formation and evolution of large-scale
vortices in the ocean and atmosphere, both of which play a
crucial role in geophysical fluid dynamics.
9

Such vortices, Lingis posits, are precisely what occur in
Olkowski: What Is an Imperative?

139
the depths of the world. Although they first form us, we find
them only where the body lets loose its hold on the levels
that provide perceptual consistency and coherence revealing
apparitions made of light, voices of the abyss, enigmas made
of darkness.
10
Where Immanuel Kant posited a universe of
three faculties: intuition, understanding, and reason, in which rea-
son determines and makes intelligible the other two, and to-
gether, the three produce God, the World, and the Self,
Lingis seems to turn the Kantian thesis on its head.
11
The
universethe world preexists our faculties and is the medi-
um in which our sensibility first finds itselffirst takes shape
in the vortices of the world which is the medium that shapes
our sensitivities and sensibilities and eventually shapes our
understanding and our reason.
In the vortices of the medium, we are not in the realm of
what can be done but in the realm of appearances where no
thing, no object according to a concept, appears. It is the
realm of phantoms, caricatures, doubles floating over the
contours of things, and planes in the world.
12
And, of the
utmost importance, it is the realm where the imperative first
makes itself known to us as to all the phenomena of this
world. The visionary eye obeys the imperative to shine, to
light beyond every and any specified direction. Vertigo obeys
the imperative to deepen endlessly. Hearing obeys the imper-
ative to become vibrant beyond every and any situation. And
eventually, all phenomena obey the imperative to let go of
the world forever, to become elemental, returning to the vor-
tices out of which all things and beings emerge.
13

No longer maintaining ourselves, letting loose our hold
on things, un-holding the levels that give us a grip on the
world transports us or what is left of us to an infantile and
phantasmal existence wherein other bodies materialize as for-
ces and powers that belong to enigmatic imperatives without
which our world is nothing but tasks, objectives, competence,
and agency.
14
But what is it that we let loose of, what grip do

140
we have on the world and things, or is it that the world and
things have a grip on us? To understand this, let us examine
the idea of levels.

THE LEVELS

When we pass from light as immersion in radiance to light as
it penetrates space, outlines contours, rests on surfaces, the
light has become a level. We see according to the level that is
the light leading us to things, just as we hear a piece of music
according to the dominant chord when the band or orchestra
begins to play.
15
Likewise, smell or taste function only in a
medium of odors or tastes, just as everything touchable forms
a level of pattern, grain, smoothness, hardness, softnessall
of this taking place in a temporal level that directs our move-
ments, visibility, resonance, looking, listening, touching.
16

Thus, levelsaccording to which we perceiveare purely
sensory phenomena and for this reason impossible to measure
and difficult even to conceptualize.
All the particulars of our sensory organs take place on the
levels. Sounds, colors, tastes, contacts are not properties of
things nor ideas of agents but characteristics acquired in rela-
tion to a level. As such they are salients, contours, contrasts,
inceptions and terminations, and as sensible characteristics,
they play diacritically in the levels where they appear.
17
Thus
the red flower invades the light and contrasts with it, it greens
the leaves on the stem and whitens the sheets of the hospital
room where it appears.
18
Unlike the Kantian object, which
appears in the mathematical grid of the a priori space-time
manifold, determined by a concept, and delimited by reasons
rational order, the sensory flux does not present itself as so
many space-time points successively filled and emptied and
filled again, but as a sphere in which points pivot, edges ex-
tend levels, spaces open paths, colors intensify themselves by
playing across a field, tones thicken and approach and thin

141
out and recede and send their overtones into one another.
19

When this happens, when there is no a priori space-time
manifold, then it seems that the contours of a figure do not
take shape, a visible goes unseen, a sound unheard, a sub-
stance is not felt. Yet that is precisely when the sensorial me-
dium called a level persists and asserts itself as a directive that
weighs on us. It is a directive to us to mobilize! Our look is led
by the directive, but we must focus and move our eyes. The
music takes shape for us only when we start to dance; and to
feel soft or hard surfaces, we must move our fingers and
hands and adjust our bodies so as to hold our arms in the
right position. Sensations take form in the vortices, but we
must conduct our moves in accordance with their characteris-
tics.
20
The visible, audible, and tangible unfold in the field
even in mirages, in pianissimo, grazing our skin, for our bod-
ies are such that they can catch on to even the slightest sen-
sations and transmit motions to the entire body. So we sing
as we swing our arms and turn our heads in the direction and
rhythm of the music. In our bodies, nothing is isolated, eve-
rything is transmitted from one muscle to another as we fol-
low the directives, the imperatives coming to us from the lev-
els.
It is these directives, these imperatives, that are also the
basis of our coexistence, our community with others. Long
before we engage with the understanding and the reasoning
faculty of others, we come upon one another in the levels of
sensibility, the elements that direct us as we sense sentient
bodies seeing and touching in the levels, accompanying us,
our sensibilities displaced into those others, and theirs also
onto ours, variants of one another.
21
Their ears hear what we
hear so that when we have left the room, the forest, the
oceanside, and they stay, the levels, the sensory elements, the
reliefs and contours, the sonorities and tangibilities that di-
rect them and us remain operative, so sight, hearing, touch,
smell all continue, open to directing all of us, should we re-

142
turn.
Given the elemental nature of levels that provide direc-
tives, it makes sense that things call to our bodies so pro-
foundly. A perceived this is a pole which draws the conver-
gent surfaces and organs of our bodies like a telos, a task.
The reality of things is not given in our perception, but orders
it as in imperative.
22
It is not we who judge the intelligibility
of things but things that try out their reality in indecisive
and inconclusive appearances.
23
Recent studies in the physi-
ology of perception indicate that when sensory messages are
available, chaotic, collective activity involving millions of
neurons is essential to rapid recognition. What is relevant
here is that when cortical neurons are excited, their output
increases until they reach a maximal rate. If, for example, an
odorant is active such that the neuronal collectives are gener-
ally aroused, the information spreads like a flash fire thro-
ugh the nerve cell assembly. . . . so that the input rapidly ig-
nites an explosion of collective activity throughout the entire
assembly, spreading until it ignites a full blown burst.
24

Such nearly instantaneous activity allows for novel activity
patterns and implies that the brain seeks information.
Adapted to Lingiss model, we may say that the impera-
tive to seek information comes not only from the brain, but
initially from the levels, from the environment of things.
Things are not dead matter. They push back and push aside
other things and clamor for our attention as our senses sink
into the depths of things, not content to remain on the sur-
face.
25
This is why Lingis states that on the levels of sensuali-
ty, the levels along which we move, our enjoyment is not dis-
tinctly our own, but the night, the light, the air, the earth are
all depersonalizing. Everything open to us is first open to oth-
ers, open to anyone in their range with the ability to perceive
or use them.
26

Thus, language is not first. Language, the symbolic realm,
is not the first medium of communication.
27
The ability to

143
use concepts, to reason about space or time, the ability to
universalize our acts such that any one, at any time, in
equivalent circumstances would act in the same way, none of
these are the basis of our communication with and affinity
for others. Rather, wherever we go, whatever we perceive,
someone else has been there first and their inhabitation of
that level and its perceptibles will inevitably have entered that
level and will inform our engagement with that level and
whatever things emerge in it.

FREE WILL

For Kant, the whole point of moral law is to free us from
natures causal forces. Newtonian science, with its laws of
motion governing the motions of physical bodies, seemed to
have made this a difficult goal. The possibility of what Kant
calls free will is radically undermined. So we must think our
way out of this. We know that we are causal phenomena in
nature, but nevertheless, we think that we are free, that our
actions are intelligent, that we do not follow blind impulse.
28

How is this done? Autonomy, freedom from natures me-
chanical causality, which is to say, from our own bodily
pleasures and pains, is taken to be an imperative. Although
nature is mechanical, each subject feels its effects differently.
Some like the feeling of beaches and ocean, others prefer
cold mountain tops, but no one can remove themselves from
some feeling, thus there is always a subjective incentive to
choose one or another object.
If freedom means that there is an unconditioned first
cause of our actions, then subjective preferences will not yield
this; they remain subject to natures causal forces. Yet, we do
feel something that informs us that we are free. We feel the
check on our self-love.
29
This feeling alerts us to the exist-
ence of freedom because we ask ourselves, what is it that is
putting this check on self-love? We first examine our maxims

144
of subjective desire and find only self-love there; so then we
abstract from all empirical conditions, all particular objects
and goals that are motivated by self-love. What we are left
with is the form of giving the universal rule, freedom in the
strictest, transcendental sense, the form of all possible imper-
atives to act. We harmonize this transcendental law with our
subjective desires by checking inclinations, and we feel the
pain of rejecting every sensible condition, every I desire,
leaving us, in the end, with the negative feeling which is re-
spect for moral law, respect for our ability to cease to be sub-
ject to natures mechanical causal forces. We abstract from
our subjective inclinations leaving only objective rules for the
will.
But subjective humiliation yields objective respect, the so-
called a priori or intellectual feeling of respect for moral law,
because it blocks subjective feeling, a block caused by our in-
tellectual recognition of freedom from natures causal mecha-
nism.
30
The blockage, the pain, the humiliation, is the sub-
jective, sensible incentive to never act on sensible, subjective
motives and, therefore, to act only on the basis of freedom.
This is what is called, by Kant, moral law. For the sake of
freedom, all inclinations are limited, choked off. Our recog-
nition of freedom constrains us, makes it a duty, a rule char-
acterized by an ought, that we ought not to act on subjec-
tive motives and that this law must completely determine the
will, and not just mine, but everyones, anyone who thinks.
31

When freedom alone determines the will, its laws are cate-
gorical imperatives; they are thus necessary, unconditional,
free of inclinations, and thereby universal.
32

It seems that Lingis agrees with Kant that an imperative
is a practical necessity arising with and out of respect.
33
But
as Lingis notes, for Kant, the immediate effect of the ration-
al activity of the will is the reduction of sensuous impulses
and appetites to impotence.
34
Negatively, this is something
like fear; positively, it is something like inclination, that is,

145
respect for law. Kants imperative, Lingis continues, consti-
tutes a typology according to which the person is constrained
in three ways. First, we are constrained to represent the sen-
sible world as surface effects of bodily physiology and physio-
chemical natural forces. Second, we are constrained to view
our sensory and motor powers as solely in the service of the
the rational, practical faculty. And third, we are constrained
to imagine ourselves as wholly obedient to the commands of
reason.
35
And of course, the commands of reason, the law, is
a set of properties drawn from logic, the logic that was vali-
dated by Newtonian physics.
36
But as Lingis points out, in
the current era, mathematics and the logics utilized in math-
ematics make use of a vast array of idealized conceptual mod-
els. Mathematics is not unified but divided into a plethora of
mathematical disciplines.
37
Thus, what is needed now is not
representations of our nature, of our faculties as instrumental
systems and ourselves as microsocieties, but something else,
some other imperative that accounts for our sensuality, sensi-
tivity, perception, thought, and motility.
38

THE IMPERATIVE OF THE OTHER

Why something else, why another sort of imperative? Per-
haps the urgency of this other imperative emerges for Lingis
in the analysis of the other, which he formulates in terms
borrowed from Emmanuel Levinas. Hands that touch others
do not move with their own goals in view; they are moved,
troubled by the touch of the other with which they make
contact, afflicted with the pleasure and the torment of the
other.
39
The imperative is formulated in this manner be-
cause the hands now make contact with a vulnerability that
summons them, a susceptibility that puts demands on them.
40

So, it is the case here that the ethical imperative is not sub-
jectively motivated, but neither is it a rational imperative to
respect universal law. The imperative comes instead from the

146
depth where vortices form levels according to which phe-
nomena are perceived. We greet the other as a depth struc-
ture of forces, and recognize community with him or her, in
the handshake that seals the pact.
41

Nevertheless, the sounds of wind or traffic or the sight of
forests or cities is not the same as the encounter with others
who speak and act, who look into our own eyes with their
eyes, whose words call up or respond to ones own speaking
and hearing. Without the other who speaks to me, gestures
at me, looks into my eyes and acts in the world, without this
other, I have no world. The imperative of the other, the de-
mands of the other that are put on me, the appeals made to
me are all necessities for me, indications that the world they
inhabit is also the the world open to me. For it is before the
face of the other that I first entered speech.
42
And even if I
interpret or identify the other, represent the other, that oth-
erall those specific and unique others moving through the
world, perceiving that way they perceive, inhabiting levels in
the manner that they do thiscontests my manner of per-
ceiving and inhabiting, my manner of moving and seeing, my
speech and actions. Not an other me but a persistence that
challenges my speech and actions, my perceptions and move-
ments. The gaze, the skin, the anxiety, the laughter, the ar-
rogance, the suffering, the age, the voice, the gait, the vulner-
ability, all belong to the other, all contest me with their very
existence. This is now the sense of the imperative. It weighs
on us with the force of exteriority, such that we cannot but
look, touch, caress or torment, except as an answer to the
demand, the imperative to attend to the other.
43

Yet, the question remains as to whether or not this is
enough, whether it is adequate or not. That is, is the impera-
tive addressed to us in the face of the other adequate to pro-
mulgate respector is it not just as easy for us physically or
economically, psychologically or politically to not respect the
imperative that comes from the other? Will this keep us from

147
harming and destroying the other, taking away their land,
their children, their futures, and their pasts? And if not, then
given the disintegration of the universal, rational moral law,
then what now, what next?

1
Alphonso Lingis, Foreign Bodies (New York: Routledge, 1994), 23
(italics added).
2
Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible, trans. Al-
phonso Lingis (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1968),
28. Lingis, Foreign Bodies, 22.
3
Merleau-Ponty, The Visible, 40.
4
Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory, trans. N.M. Paul and W.S.
Palmer (New York: Zone Books, 1988), 17.
5
Jie-Zhi Wu, Hui-Yang Ma, and Ming-De Zhou, Vorticity and
Vortex Dynamics (Berlin: Springer, 2006), 1.
6
Wu, Ma, and Zhou, Vorticity and Vortex Dynamics, 2; Shear
Stress, Eric Weinsteins World of Physics, http://scienceworld.wolfram.
com/physics/ShearStress.html.
7
Wu, Ma, and Zhou, Vorticity and Vortex Dynamics, 2.
8
9
10
Lingis, Foreign Bodies, 23.
11
Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Norman
Kemp Smith (New York: St. Martins Press, 1965).
12
13
14
15
Alphonso Lingis, The Imperative (Bloomington: Indiana Univer-
sity Press, 1998), 25.
16
Lingis, The Imperative, 26.
17
18
19
20
21
22
148
23
24
Walter J. Freeman, The Physiology of Perception, Scientific
American 264.2 (February 1991): 7885. Freeman, like most cogni-
tivists, emphasizes the activity of the brain; nevertheless, we can
extrapolate from his perspective to Lingiss.
25
26
27
28
Kant, The Critique of Pure Reason, A800804, B828832.
29
Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Practical Reason, trans. Lewis
White Beck (New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1956), 74.
30
Kant, The Critique of Practical Reason, 7677.
31
Kant, The Critique of Practical Reason, 1819, 83.
32
Kant, The Critique of Practical Reason, 19, 27.
33
34
35
36
Lingis, The Imperative, 207. I have also discussed the idea of the
logical basis of Kants practical reason in chapter 4 of The Universal
(In the Realm of the Sensible) (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2007).
37
38
39
40
Lingis, Foreign Bodies, 171 (emphases added).
41
42
43
Interview with Alphonso Lingis
by Jonas Skakauskas
Vilnius, Lithuania Februrary 2010
INTELLECTUAL BIOGRAPHY
JS: You graduated from the Jesuit Loyola University in Chi-
cago, you defended a dissertation at the University of Leu-
ven, where the Husserl Archives were founded. During your
time in Europe you seem to have attended lectures by Jean-
Paul Sartre, Jacques Lacan and maybe other Parisian figures.
What was to you most important during these formative
years?
AL: Leuven was where I really learnt philosophy. When I
was an undergraduate, I did not have a good education. At
Leuven it was a historical program, so we had to study each
period. But it had an emphasis on contemporary philosophy.
And students were mostly interested in contemporary philos-
ophy. And I was also. I wrote my dissertation on Sartre and
Merleau-Ponty. For me that was the beginning. When I
wrote my dissertation, then I started really to understand
something.

150
JS: And how about your undergraduate studies at Loyola?

AL: I forgot everything from there. That was not very good.

JS: It seems that you visited Paris for philosophy during your
studies in Europe.

AL: After the studies at Leuven a few times I spent some
summer time in Paris. And I heard there some lectures by
Lacan, and Merleau-Ponty one time, Sartre two times.

JS: What was the impression of encountering these figures?

AL: Well, I had no real personal encounter. But I think its
true that all the great philosophers, that I had some idea
what kind of men they are, I admired them. In my first year
in America, when I came back to teach, Paul Ricoeur came
and spoke at my university. And he stayed three or four days.
I spent time with him. And I admired him very much; he
was a marvellous man. And, you know, I heard stories about
Sartre. And every story was pretty admirable. Sartre was very
generous. He would easily give money to students and so on.
I have an admiration for the big thinkers.

JS: Were you influenced in any way by the events of May
68?

AL: Definitely. In the United States. And I was in Paris in
that summer, although it was already going down. To me it
was a very intoxicating time.

JS: Did you have any clear vision of the philosophy you
wanted to engage in after your bachelor or even doctoral
studies? How did you discover Merleau-Ponty and Levinas?

Skakauskas: Interview with Alphonso Lingis

151
AL: For a long time I concentrated on educating. I devoted
myself to teaching, and every class I tried to teach different
new books and so on. For a long time I thought I had no
ideas of my own. And then, after a while, I began to realize
that sometimes you can have, you know, small ideas. And I
began to write an article after finishing a course, putting to-
gether a few small ideas. I thought I had no big system. And
then, I think, I was influenced by Henri Birault from Paris,
who came to Penn State while I was teaching. He would take
these little sections from Nietzsche and just spend two or
three hours talking about this one section. And he did not
want students to talk about other sections or connections
with other sections. And then the other influence I had was
from British philosophy: Wittgenstein, Austin, and Bernard
WilliamsI liked them very much. Then I got the idea after
a while that that was the kind of philosophy I really liked
that you take some concrete issue and try to see it in a new
way. And for a long time that was what I did. I think thats
what I still do. And then sometimes, after you had two or
three of these things, you can see that they are connected and
make a bigger idea out of that. That to me is the most valua-
ble philosophy. The most valuable philosophy is not the phi-
losophy that is some big principles and abstract generaliza-
tions, but when you study some concrete thing and see it in a
new way or see it more deeply. I think that is what Foucault
did and also Merleau-Ponty.

JS: But dont you get lost in empirical details having no ab-
stract orientation? Is not there a danger of nave empiricism?

AL: Right, you are certainly right. Well, we have in philoso-
phies, like in phenomenology, we do have some general con-
cepts. I guess the ideas about method and general concepts
that I learned from phenomenologists, little by little I criti-
cized them more and more. Just take one concept: In phe-

152
nomenology you have the position that here is consciousness
and here is everything else. And this is the fundamental divi-
sion. And when you think about it, thats a very strange view
of the universe. All the sciences are completely different. In
biology and evolution the human mind is immersed in na-
ture. So more and more I criticized this phenomenological
division. And the other side of it is that phenomenology just
starts with my own consciousness and what I can myself be
aware of in my own mind. But you know, then I studied
Whitehead. I think the thought I got was that consciousness
depends on all kinds of other things in the body. There is a
kind of response in the nervous system, in the cells, in the
blood stream, and so on. And some consciousness is just the
top of many levels. I would like to see philosophy approach
more in that way.
Going back to your question concerning how I discovered
the philosophy of Levinas. The first year I came back from
graduate school and started to teach in the United States,
Ricoeur visited. And I asked him what is new in philosophy.
And he said, the most important thing was the book of
Levinas. So immediately I bought it. And then a publisher
invited me to translate it. Thats how I discovered him. I was
very enthusiastic.

JS: And how did the philosophy of Nietzsche become im-
portant to you?

AL: I have liked Nietzsche from the beginning, but he was
not an important philosopher for me until later. So, this tra-
dition of Nietzsche, Bataille, and Deleuzethat was a kind
of continuation there. And that became very important to
me. I became very, very interested in Bataille, maybe about
fifteen or twenty years ago. I read some Bataille when I was a
graduate student, but later I read the complete works and I
was very enthusiastic and talked about it in a class. So it be-

153
came very important. For me, these three thinkers are inter-
connectedNietzsche, Bataille, and Deleuze. I suppose that
the phenomenology of Merleau-Ponty and Heidegger and
then these other three were for me the richest, the ones who
gave me most.

NATURE

JS: I would like to ask about your conception of nature. It
seems that nature is one of the most important themes in
your philosophy (although most often you address it indirect-
ly). It seems that you conceive the universe, nature, life itself
in purely positive termsas fullness, as abundance that lacks
nothing. It seems that the ontology which makes negativity
important or even fundamental is unacceptable to you. Am I
right?

AL: On the last concept, that of negativity, I suppose I was
influenced by Deleuze and then later by some thoughts from
Bataille. But this is not only a specific theoretical point, but
its sort of my practice that I began to realize.
We could take this idea thats Nietzschean and Deleuzi-
an. That throughout the history of philosophy one could say
that life was conceived negatively. Naturally, it reaches its
strongest development in Hegel. This is the idea that a living
thing is a material system that develops lackstheres evapo-
ration, the system becomes hungry and thirsty. And its these
lacks that agitate the system. The reason that an organism
moves and is released to the environment is that it is driven
by needs and lacks. I think that the concept of an organism
has pretty much dominated from the beginning. I suppose an
alternative idea I found originally in Bataille, but it seems to
me it is everywhere in science: that, on the contrary, a living
organism is a dynamo that produces energy. It produces more
energy than it needs to survive. And then later I began to

154
think that most of our lacks are produced because we spend
so much energy releasing excess energy. And most of us get
hungry because weve gone walking in the mountains all day.
And we did that because we had excess energy, we had ener-
gy to burn, to discharge. I think that the lacks are intermit-
tent and superficial. The only reason that there is hunger is
that there is a full organism that exists, and that the need is
intermittent; it depends on the fullness of the organism.
And then I began to realize that, when I try to talk about
things, I always try to find some very strong and very clear
example. For example, when I talk about honour, people
want me to talk about dishonour and disgrace. I always in-
stinctively felt that you first have to understand honour. And
it is only if we could get very clear about what honour is that
we can begin to speak about dishonourable activities and so
on. So I think in my practice I always tried to look at positive
cases. And very often, when I finished talking about it, I was
not interested in negative cases. It happens from time to time
that people want to know about dishonour and, I guess, I
never thought about it because I was not very interested in it.
It was so interesting to talk about the sense of honour. De-
leuze somewhere wrote that Nietzsche wanted to have totally
positive and affirmative philosophy.

JS: You write in The Community of Those Who Have Nothing
in Common that there is also an alienation from the elements.
How does this happen?

AL: I dont think I have very many general ideas about it.
There are probably a multitude of different ways and reasons
for that. Last night there was a sort of thought in the air.
Say, on the one hand, sometimes I get such a sense that the
human race is so bellicose, so warlike. I mentioned that in
Spain every little town had a wall around it. It was amazing.
Especially now, you know, when were accustomed to driving

155
in the United States from one end to the other without barri-
ers, without custodies. But on the other hand, I am much
more impressed by the fact that people do get along with one
another, and people really take pleasure in just being togeth-
er. So the affirmative fact seems much more fundamental. I
said this a little bit last night, too. It seems to me that a war
is a kind of artificial construction. First, you have to have the
whole bureaucracy and industry and then you have to have
certain leaders who can create war. Wars dont happen just
because people feel antagonistic to one another. Even if you
have two different ethnic groupssay French and Ger-
manseven if they hate one another, there is no war, unless
you have this machine thats constructed to build the weap-
ons and the factories, and the army. That seems to me kind
of an artificial thing. Even to build an armytheres some-
thing sort of puzzling to me.
I remember, years ago I went to a museum, I think it was
in Czechoslovakia. And I discovered that somewhere two
thousand years ago, there was a great Moravian empire that
had conquered a large area there. They waged wars, they ex-
panded their territory, and then history covered them over
and they were pretty much forgotten, until it was rediscov-
ered recently that they even existed. And I remember stand-
ing in this museum and thinking to myself that these thou-
sands of Moravians decided to go and kill people and a lot of
them were killed. For what? For the Moravian Empire? It
always seems to me such an artificial thing.
You know, at the beginning of my career there was the
Vietnam War. And that occupied everybody and that occu-
pied me very much. I tried to argue against this war in any
possible way. And thats all we talked about for ten years.
Fifty thousand American soldiers were killed. And some-
thing like two or three million Vietnamese people were
killed. And I went to Vietnam, maybe about ten years after
the war. It was very difficult, because on my passport the

156
U.S. government forbade me to go there. And so I went with
a little group from Australia. And when I went there, I real-
ised that nobody talked about Vietnam anymore. For ten
years this was the most important issue in the United States.
And we lost, and fifty thousand American soldiers died. And
then, ten years later its like it does not matter, Vietnam isnt
that important. Finally, the United States says okay, you just
do whatever you want to do and it does not matter to us.
And then later there was a war again in Nicaragua. That was
the big issue. And in the last ten years you never see in the
paper anything about Nicaragua. So it is unimportant. Just in
those two examples these wars depend on somebody con-
structing a very artificial machine. First of all, someone de-
cides that this is strategically important for the United States.
And then, secondly, someone constructs this whole ideology
that they are terrible enemies. This was what happened in
Iraqthe idea that Saddam Hussein was like Hitler and that
he had to be destroyed. There was a whole artificial construc-
tion.

JS: Let us return to your phenomenology of nature, that you
exposed most systematically in your book The Imperative.

AL: I was very impressed with Levinas. So there were two
sides. On the one side, there was this phenomenological
analysis of what it means to be faced by someone and the
dimension of appeal and demand that is there. The theme of
the face is original and a completely new contribution to phi-
losophy. But I think the other side is what he says about the
elements and substances and so on. And it was also com-
pletely interesting. I just recently have gone back to these
issues.
But I think that more and more as years passed I became
more and more critical about the theoretical framework of
Levinas. On the one hand, he does a kind of constitutive

157
phenomenology that says things are in some way constituted
by manipulation and detaching them and taking them into
the home and all that. This is what makes them into curious
things. So that is a kind of leftover of Husserl, this idea of
constitution of objects. So nature is quite absent in his phi-
losophy. And then, he wants to find ethical experience only
in the face of his confrontation with another human being.
Anyhow, all this seems to me so limited. If its true that I feel
that hunger and need of another human being is a demand
put on me, then it is also about other species. If I come upon
an injured bird or deer in a path, it is exactly the same thing,
it seems to me.
And then this theme of religion in there, of God in
thereI had real theoretical problems with it. The simplest
way I can say it is that for Levinas what is distinctive about
the human being that looks at me is that the needs and de-
mands are unending. He says that the more responsible you
are, the more responsibilities you discover. There is a sort of
infinite, unending succession of demands that are made on
me by anyone who faces me. On the one hand, its simply
false. I mean, take a simple example. Its true that I have a
responsibility for my child to take care of his needs that he
cannot take care of himself. But the child wants to be inde-
pendent. I mean, all the others in the universe are not de-
pendent on me. They dont want to be. My child doesnt
want me to be taking care of his needs all his life. And that
goes back to the idea that we talked about earlier, the idea
that a living organism is a dynamo that produces excess ener-
gy gratuitously.
And then the other part, that is theoretically incoherent,
is that he wants to say that it is God, that it is the monotheist
God, that it is one God who speaks, who is the source of
demands on me in every face that looks at me. That concept
reduces the singularity and the diversity of people, who face
me with each time singular and distinctive needs and appeals.

158
That dimension I did not like.
Just to say it in a very general way, these two things I
didnt like. I didnt like the constitutive phenomenology. Ac-
tually, this is the new thought I had a couple of weeks ago. It
goes back to what I said of Merleau-Ponty a little bit and
Whitehead. I mean, for constitutive phenomenology, and
later for Derrida, the issue is that the world of my experience
is in some way constituted by me. Its me who outlines and
circumscribes things into things, makes them into things and
then gives them meaning. And of course for Derrida it goes
through the grid of language. But to me, you know, I have
this very simple-minded objection from evolutionary psy-
chology, that my experiences, my eyes are essentially similar
to the eyes of other mammals. A cat or a fox sees the world
as real things that exist in themselves, that are independent
of them. That seems to me a very fundamental objection to
every kind of idealism.

ETHICS

JS: It seems that your conception of ethics is closely linked or
even deeply intertwined with the realm of nature. In Danger-
ous Emotions you talk about human animals being in a fun-
damental relationship with living and non-living nature. You
write about our affinity with animals, describing how move-
ments of our bodies, our emotions, pleasures, sexuality, and
even virtues mimic theirs. Can you comment on your con-
ception of ethics? Which philosophers were sources of inspi-
ration for this conception?

AL: I suppose I came from two directions. From Levinas
starting with the idea that I see the needs and wants of
someone who faces me and that puts an imperative on me
and demand on me. And then I began to thinkisnt that
also true, when I see other species, even plants, if I see a

159
cherry tree that is broken by the wind, for example. I mean, I
had this kind of simple statement, that I came upon a couple
of years ago, that to see something is to see what it requires
to exist. If I see a tree, I also see that it requires earth and
sunlight. Thats true of anything. If I see an object of furni-
ture, I see that it requires a stable position in order to exist.
We do see needs and wants directly. And then to see what it
requires is to sense the kind of action that would supply this
requirement. For example, if I see a deer, which has been
caught in branches in the flooding river, I see that it needs to
be freed from these branches or it will drown. And at the
same time I see that I could do that. Or somebody could do
that, if not me, maybe somebody else. I experience myself as
different motor possibilities to rescue something or protect it,
or restore, or repair it. Thats true just of our ordinary per-
ception. Just when we walk around, what we see are not just
shapes and forms and colours. There are distinct and inde-
pendent beings, that we see what they require. And if we get
active, we sense the sorts of actions that could supply their
needs. So, I always started from thinking about Levinass
idea that we see the other face as needy and putting demands
on us and extending that across nature.
Then, I guess, on the other side, I began thinking more
and more about Kant and this idea of ethics being equated
with conscious and rational actions. And once I began think-
ing this way, it seemed to me very clear that we dont admire
people who always act out of rationality. I think of some ex-
amples from literature, but I can take this example from div-
ing. You know, I went diving in the ocean a number of
times. And when you dive, on the board there is a dive mas-
ter. And every dive master I ever went with, you know, you
instinctually trusted. You saw that this is a man who is calm
and collected. And if you are in trouble, he will save you.
Maybe even at the risk of his own life. And then, you know,
sometimes Ive gone diving with people that, you know, cer-

160
tainly, not a big contribution to the world, you know, people
who are obese and lazy and egotistical and so on. And you
see this strong young man would actually risk his life to save
this person. And you can ask: Is it rational? I mean, whose
life is worth more? But then you realise that the dive master
doesnt ask this question, Is this person worth risking my life
to save? Because he acts instinctually. His bravery is some-
thing that we think is in his nature. This is a sort of thought
we have. That some people are strong and brave and their
acts are with clarity, they see whats to be done at once. I
mean, it is like the same person who sees somebody fallen
into a river and instinctually jumps into frozen water to save
that person.
And then the other example I had is of some women who
just simply seem to have a big heart. Theyre just drawn to
caring for children, and caring for animals. I think of some
young farmer who I see at the pet store. She has, I dont
know, six or seven children, most of them are adopted. But at
the same time, every time you see her at the store, you know,
there are baby rabbits over here and the birds, and cats, and
dogs. She just takes care of everything. She is a person who
has a big heart. Its like natural for her to take care of crea-
tures of all size. So, those are the sorts of people we admire
and trust. If we have an orphan, we dont want to give it to a
woman whos so rational and has to think out rationally the
motivations for everything she does. We give to people
whose goodness and caring nature is instinctual. There is a
lot of that in Nietzschethe idea that there are noble in-
stincts. And that people who are noble act by instinct. You
know, these people are not very intelligent, they are not very
calculating in that way. And as a result, sometimes they dont
survive so well, because they dont calculate everything. They
do generous and noble actions that may, you know, bring
risks to themselves and loss to themselves, but this kind of
noble generosity is instinctual and not calculating.

161
JS: Is there a relation to animals here?

AL: Almost every day I walk in the backyard and I see things
that just blow my mind. You know, I live with a lot of birds.
And you could see out in nature every day how these little
birds attack cats and hawks and so on to save their nest. I
mean, if you want to understand what is maternal instinct
and mother love, you can see it in the very pure form in birds
and other species. A lot of the virtues that we admire are vir-
tues that we share with other species. Like generosity and
courage and caring.

THE SACRED

JS: Your books and essays often end with the themes of
beauty, death, sacrifice, or the sacred. And such themes are
articulated in close proximity to the realm of religion. It
seems that via Bataille you link the realm of nature and besti-
ality with that of the sacred. Why do you think it is relevant
to reflect on the realms of the sacred or the transcendent?
Isnt it because our ethical orientations and highest causes
would be impossible to ground without such experiences and
encounters?

AL: Considering the last question, I can say that I have not
gone in that direction. The thing that was for me so extraor-
dinary in Levinas is that there is an ethical experience. That
direct perception of someone facing me is an experience of
being obligated. So it is an immediate experience. Yeah, I
was profoundly convinced of that.

JS: And how do you distinguish it from just ordinary experi-
ences?

AL: By the fact that I feel obligated. Levinas himself says

162
itI dont remember where he wrote this, I think, I had
some conversations with himyou walk by the street and
somebody greets you and you already feel obliged to answer.
Its a demand. Thats very striking. And I think everybody
feels that, I mean, its a direct experience, its not some, you
know, hypothetical idea.
Speaking about the influences on my understanding of
the sacred, I think I was very influenced here by Bataille. Ive
got from him the idea that the sacred is not only the heaven-
ly, celestial, but is also in the realm of death and corruption,
and blood, and sex, and so on. Bataille got it out of anthro-
pology, and that seems to me very true of real religions, reli-
gions that have existed in humanity. You know, when I
spoke the other night about sacrilege. I feel that the word
sacrilege can disappear from modern discourse, even from
modern religious discourse, but I think that the sense of sac-
rilege is very strong, even in non-believers. To the idea that
somebody would go in some sacred place and desecrate it,
our first reaction is horror. I mean, to see what they did to
the Egyptian pharaohsto put them on display for tour-
istsits just shocking. And you dont have to believe in
Egyptian religion to be shocked. We sense that there are
things that are outside of the profane world, that are not just
for use, and calculation and appropriation. And that there is
a sort of sense of power in it. At that talk I emphasised this
idea that death is power. There are corpses that are sacred in
that way. Theres power there. Theres violence in a corpse. If
we just take the word sacred in the etymological sense, sa-
crum in Latin is separated. Its what is separated from the
world of work and reason. I started to think in this way, in-
spired by Bataille, but then the more I thought of concrete
cases, when I had reason to think about certain religious
events and so on, it confirmed this thought.

JS: But to you this experience does not work as a motivation

163
for ethical actions? Or does it?

AL: I think it does for a people who have a strong sense of
the sacred. To some measure it would, but not in a kind of
rationalistic way. You know, people say that we need religion
as a kind of guarantee of the seriousness of ethical laws. That
I dont think is the case. That seems to me a kind of empty
concept of religion. That God is a kind of super policeman.
And it seems to me that most people dont seriously believe
that anyhow. I mean, the very fact that so many people who
dont believe and dont have any religion, who are atheist, are
often more irreproachably ethical and moral. We all know
many such people. People are generous and truthful, and
honest, and so on. And they have no idea that there is a po-
liceman in the sky watching them.

STYLE

JS: I would like to put forward a question concerning your
philosophys style or its form of expression. Your philosophi-
cal language is extremely figurative, personal, impressive,
emotional, and even passionate. You do not avoid literari-
ness.

AL: I guess I have two thoughts. First of all, I dont like to
think about how I write. Because, I think, I write naively.
And, you know, if I have something that I want to com-
municate, sometimes I try it in one way, the other and then I
find something that seems to work. But I dont like to think
about it. Because it seems to me that if one would think
about it too much, one would make it into a kind of recipe.
And thats what I want to avoid.
But on the other hand, I discovered this in teaching, in
teaching like Heidegger. When I was trying to explain
Heidegger to students, I often found that using the resources

164
of the English language and English idiom, you know, I
could actually say things that are clearer than Heidegger said.
Can you grab this distinction between existenzial and ex-
istenziell, or even ontic and ontological? This is very bad
terminology, because ontological should mean the logos,
the discourse about the ontic. And thats not what he means.
He means the dimension of Being and not beings. He choo-
ses these technical words that often arent very good. Then I
discovered that using English, for example, the translation
they have of Zuhandenheit and Vorhandenheitread-
iness to hand and presence at hand. Thats not English at
all. Its a verbal invention. It occurred to me one daywe
have the ordinary English expression within reach. Within
reach are the things that are available to the hand, and thats
the much better term for translation of Zuhandenheit. I
began to think in that way, and I began to see that to really
communicate clearly philosophical insights I want to use all
the resources of language. And the real masters of language
are literary writers. They are the ones who master the vo-
cabulary, and the grammar, and the rhetoric. I got further
and further away from technical jargon. And then the other
idea I have is very simpleI want to write well. I dont see
any virtue in writing bad English, confused, pompous, aca-
demic English. So these are very simple ideas.

JS: When giving lectures you use music, photos, and other
artistic elements, mixing them together into somewhat a uni-
fied performance. You read your texts rhythmically, and it
sounds as if you narrate a poem. It seems that you try to cre-
ate an atmosphere of the ritual. Isnt it?

AL: Yeah, that too. I have a very simple ideainstead of a
professor just standing behind the lectern and looking down
and turning the pages, I play a little music, just a few minutes
before and sometimes after. Because after the talk, usually

165
you invite questions, but sometimes people need a few min-
utes to come up with a question. I would play a few minutes
of music instead. It is things like that, very simple little ideas.
So why not have photographs, images that would be helpful?
You know, philosophers, of course, have always used images,
sometimes as illustrations, but they dont necessarily have to
be direct illustrationsometimes an image just gives you a
general sense of an atmosphere or a level, or dimension, or a
mood. It doesnt really have to be an illustration of some-
thing in your philosophical text. A few times I did a kind of
complex performance bringing costume and make-up, and
images, and music, and it was much more theatrical. But to
me it is always hard to know how well they work, because I
cant see what the audience sees. I just thought that these
things communicate more vividly, more forcefully, some-
times more clearly than just reading the text.

JS: Is it based on your assumption that philosophy cant be
expressed fully within the realm of the concept alone?

AL: In a certain way thats true. And a kind of thought I had
about it was this: A long time ago I had a colleague that I
admired very much. He was very broadly read. He read eve-
rything. And he was not dogmatic, and he was open to
things. And I was just a young guy at that time. And I was
very devoted to Merleau-Ponty. And one day I thought he
should read Merleau-Ponty. And I should give him the
book. And then I began to think, if I gave him a book, he
would read it, because he really read everything. But I
thought that he didnt have the kind of sensibility for it. And
then you go to philosophy meetings, you see some people
have a real Nietzschean sensibility. They perceive and feel,
and discern things in a kind of Nietzschean way. And other
people have a much more sort of logical and structured sensi-
bility. That time I thought that the reason that some people

166
are very devoted to Merleau-Ponty, or others to Heidegger,
or others to Kant is not simply that they are convinced intel-
lectually by certain ideas. But also that a thinker thinks with
his or her perceptions and sensibility too. I used to go to the-
se little meetings. There was a Husserl circle, and a Merleau-
Ponty circle. And really there were different kinds of people
there. And there was a different mood, a different tone of
voicepeople spoke differently. So in Merleau-Pontys circle
people had a kind of a soft voice, and subtlety. Whereas, in
Husserls circle it was much more black and white. People
were different.

THE SENSE OF PHILOSOPHY

JS: It seems that your philosophy is somehow deeply con-
nected with your practice of travelling. You travel to encoun-
ter uncultivated nature and often to non-Western regions,
countries, places, communities, or persons. Am I right think-
ing that the aim of such travels, experiences, and encounters
is to find an actual alternative to Western modernity, which
was criticised by Nietzsche, Heidegger, and others?

AL: Again, my attitude is very simple. I always wanted to see
the world. Ive never got tired of it. It seems that most people
get tired of the world after a while. They dont want to go to
Spain or Africa, just stay home. I never get tired of it. When
I went to other places, I certainly was interested in the
thought of these cultures as much as I could make contact
with it. And I more and more respected the thought outside
of this Western modern rationality.
Somebody said yesterday that maybe philosophy will
come to an end. For Heidegger philosophy is a Greek ration-
ality. He says philosophy is Greek and German. But maybe
that will come to an end, at least in your lifetime. In this
global world very soon, China will be the biggest economy

167
and the dominant economy in the world. I wouldnt be sur-
prised if this sort of characteristically Greek and German
tradition of thinking comes to an end. Right now nothing is
happening in philosophy anywhere: in Germany or France,
or Scandinavia, or Japan, or in Englandnowhere. But I
dont think we should see very much in that. Because it
seems that in every realm of culture there arent great think-
ers in every generation. For a while it just looked like the
West was imposing itself on everything. But now as the
West is doing so badly economically, militarily, and so on,
the other parts of the world are becoming much more affirm-
ative. It may well be that strands of thought that are leftover
from the pastin Africa, in Asia, and so onwill become
more important. There was a woman who was applying for
the position in ethics at my university. And she pointed to
the four most important ethical thinkers. I think they were
British names. And she said they were all white males. She
was suggesting that the ethics that we have is really con-
structed for white, male, middle-class academics. But for a
long time what I always thought is that, if you read ethics
books, it was so many of these examples that are so typically
middle class, there are issues that come up only in this pros-
perous little bourgeois economy. And so it seemed to me that
it was said that, if we talk about ethics, we shouldnt talk
about the situation of postcolonial Africa and Australian
aboriginals, and Native Americans, and so on. So at least it
seems to me that in the area of ethics we are beginning to get
more diverse and global kinds of thinking. I imagine that in
the future philosophy will be much more diverse.

JS: Do you see something that is definitively worth saving in
the Western tradition of philosophy, something that is
uniquely from European sources?

AL: Certainly. Absolutely. If we look at the bookshelf of the
168
main thinkers of philosophy from ancient Greece to today
its an astonishing treasury of deep and enlightening thought.
So many people outside philosophy feel that. Im thinking of
someone like Feyerabend who often read even ancient and
medieval philosophers, because he found there such extraor-
dinary insights. As you know, Einstein was quite interested
in Bergsonthey had an exchange, and so on. Its a marvel-
lous treasury of thought, this tradition of philosophy. And it
seems to me that all of us who have some kind of conversa-
tion with people in another field (like in my university some-
times I am an outside reader for a dissertation in some other
fields, in psychology, or history, or even in physics), you no-
tice that these people are always terribly interested in what
philosophers have to say about it. Because they do find it very
striking and often very helpful. Its very precious not only for
philosophers but for humanity.
On Violence and Splendor
by Graham Harman
Fans of Alphonso Lingis have cause for delight in the recent
appearance of his new book Violence and Splendor.
1
Lingis is
of Lithuanian ancestry but native to the rural region near
Chicago, and has been well known since the 1960s in several
capacities. In his early career he was known primarily as an
encyclopedic authority on French phenomenology, in partic-
ular as the key English translator of the philosophers Levinas
and Merleau-Ponty. As a professor at Penn State he was a
popular and magnetic character, earning the allegiance of
generations of students due to an informal personality and a
startling mid-block household filled with live tropical birds,
sharks, octopi, and electric eels, life-sized wooden Buddhas,
flourishing colonies of bees, specimens of colorful moths and
beetles, and a bathroom mirrored on all horizontal and verti-
cal surfaces. As an author of books he emerged relatively late,
in 1983, with his debut Excesses: Eros and Culture.
2
This work
set the pattern for his future writings, mixing philosophical
erudition with travel narratives from the most exotic loca-
tions. Along the way he established a reputation with many
readers (including me) as one of the greatest living masters of
English prose. Lingis has been retired from Penn State for
170
nearly a decade and now lives near Baltimore, where he con-
tinues to write in the same spirit found in his earlier books.
Aside from his running commentary in a recent book of
photographs by Mark Cohen,
3
Violence and Splendor is the
first new book by Lingis to appear since The First Person Sin-
gular in 2007.
4
Lingiss favored genre is the short or medium-
sized chapter. Aside from his 1998 classic The Imperative, we
rarely find Lingis attempting to systematize the content of
his books. Perhaps in keeping with Nietzsches maxim that
the will to system is a will to falsity, he prefers to maintain
the integrity of his individual chapter themes, not yoking
them together with any sort of rigid framework. In one re-
spect Violence and Splendor takes this preference to a new ex-
treme, offering twenty-five short pieces clustered together in
five parts of varying length. Those parts are entitled as fol-
lows: Spaces Within Spaces, Snares for the Eye, The Sacred,
Violence, Splendor. But in another respect, the new book
links its sections loosely through recurring references and
proper names, like Wagnerian leitmotifs announcing the oc-
casional reappearance of sword, giant, and Tarnhelm. Not
surprisingly, the book is a pleasure to read; it is even a pleas-
ure to gaze upon and leaf through, due to the authors typi-
cally enchanting photography. In what follows I will offer
samplings from the book by briefly considering one chapter
from each of its five sections.
The opening chapter of the book is entitled Extremes,
and is noteworthy for its style no less than its content. Like
many high artists, Lingis often reacts with boredom or dis-
may to technical speculations on the workings of his style.
Yet I am obliged to risk his annoyance here by noting his
powerful use of second-person narrative, one of the staples of
his books. On the very first page of Violence and Splendor, we
read as follows: Forty years ago you crossed the Atlantic by
ship . . .; In Bali you got very sick . . .; From Tierra del
Fuego you took a ship to Antarctica . . ..
5
No, I did not. But
Harman: On Violence and Splendor

171
in the hands of Lingis the technique is powerful, forcing the
reader into an illusion of direct experience. Of course, this
apparently direct experience is mediated through the sugges-
tions and recollections of Lingis himself, who resembles a
hypnotist or a Gandalf telling us our fate in reverse. The
opening chapter of the book has no plot and reaches no
conclusion. Instead, it simply draws us from our normal
space of daily life and thrusts us into a new geography. While
ill with hepatitis in Bali, we have nothing to do but kill sev-
eral weeks on the seashore, not far from the shark-patrolled
Wallace Trench, seven kilometers deep. The Balinese are
not seagoing people,
6
Lingis says, reminding us of Gibbons
remarks on the terror of the great ocean as felt by the Ro-
mans, bound as they were to their little Mediterranean.
7
The
Balinese irrigate their crops from the crater lakes of volca-
noes, but at the end of the day these Balinese descend to
the ocean shore, hundreds of them, and seat themselves on
the dunes where they wait, silenced by the descending sun.
8

Your hepatitis is no longer a miserable tourists setback, but
an opportunity to rest side by side on the Balinese seashore
with the silent natives descended each evening from their
volcanic highland lakes. In the next paragraph you are on a
ship to Antarctica. You are not initially in romantic authorial
isolation far at sea. Instead, you are surrounded by numerous
other tourists, though you soon sequester yourself in your
room and gain a reputation as an anti-social. Left alone, you
gaze in silence at the glaciers imperceptibly flowing into the
ocean, ice millions of years old, compacted under enormous
weight so that the crystalline structure of the ice is
changed . . . .
9
In one sense, nothing at all has happened in
this page-and-a-half of an opening chapter. But in another,
you may as well have traveled to another planet with these
brief introductory words. You have entered the world of Al-
phonso Lingis, in which the reader shares the most astound-
ing travel experiences with the author, who successfully cre-
172
ates the illusion that no author is present and that everything
is unfolding in the readers own life. There is incredible soli-
tude in this literary world, despite the generosity of the au-
thors descriptions, and despite the lack of elitism in the
friendships he has us strike up along the way with slum-
dwellers, academics, artists, dentists, and young children.
The title of Chapter 9, The Fallen Giant, is a phrase
normally used metaphorically to describe prominent humans
who have undergone an abrupt diminution in social status.
But here it is meant literally, and refers to an actually fallen
actual giant from the world of plants. As Lingis begins: The
sign does not say when the sequoia fell. Or why. Perhaps it
died of old age.
10
We are immediately informed that sequoi-
as have been known to live up to 3,267 years. Counting
backwards, this places us in 1256 B.C. as the possible
birthdate of a sequoia dying of old age todayborn five years
prior to Hercules, and dead under Obama, Cameron, and
Sarkozy. A flood of numbers quickly follows. The dead se-
quoia was 220 feet high and 72.6 feet in circumference. Like
all numbers, these give us little guidance except by way of
comparison, and this is just what Lingis gives us: a blue
whale can be up to 110 feet long, and the figure rises to 130
feet for the dinosaur known as Argentinosaurus huinculensis.
Both of these colossal sentient creatures are eclipsed by the
fallen sequoia now lying before us. The author invites us fur-
ther to imagine the ascent of the tree, its life fully invested in
upward ascent, given that many of its branches die along the
way. In the manner of Leibniz, Lingis observes that this tree
is not a mere aggregate of parts: the life attached to the
enormous inner space of the sequoias, to these hundreds of
tons of matter, is somehow one. One life governs the system
you see in the branches . . .
11
Nonetheless, each branch has
to adjust to local conditions and events, and the mighty
trunk itself . . . [also] has had to adjust to the impact and
pressures of events. Swerves of bark mark these adjust-

173
ments.
12
But despite these local variations and events, Lingis
remains true to the guiding insight of phenomenology con-
cerning the unity of sensuous objects beneath their sparkling
contours. For when this tree died, it died everywhere,
13
and
the sense of life attached to the enormous inner space of a
sequoia, or to that of a beached blue whale, dominates our
perception of their surface colors and forms.
14
Elsewhere,
our sense of the unified life of guppies or sand-
flies . . . overwhelms our fascination with their external de-
signs and colors.
15
The potency of this life is often stagger-
ing. Tiny plants of 0.6 millimeters in size, Lingis reports, are
able to produce 1 nonillion (1 with thirty zeroes) new plants
in four months, a volume of flowering plants equal to the size
of the Earth.
16
These reflections on the inner life of things
turn Lingis explicitly to a meditation on the philosophical
concept of substance, which he has elsewhere tried to revive in
a stirring and under-read article on Levinas, printed in an
obscure periodical.
17
Modern philosophy pronounced us
incapable of knowing the substance, the nature, or the es-
sence of things.
18
Empiricist philosophy turns appearances
into discrete sense data, phenomenology converts them into
shifting profiles, and Heidegger into an instrumental layout
of practical purposes. But Lingis (with a passing nod to Oli-
ver Sacks) makes the intriguing claim that the distinction
between appearances and things that appear is peculiar to
vision and does not really have analogues in the realm of
sound, taste, odor, and the tangible.
19
Summarizing Heide-
ggers distinction between the zuhanden and the vorhanden,
in which entities become visible primarily through malfunc-
tion, Lingis asks: is not this a strangely narrow picture of
our experience?
20
Far from agreeing that substances are inac-
cessible to human knowledge, Lingis favors a form of what
analytic philosophers call direct realism, in which human
insight makes direct contact with the things rather than with
mere representations of them: When we look at the butter-
174
flies, trees, and mountains in their independence of and in-
difference to us, we see them as they are.
21

Chapter 9, Sacrilege, begins with a sinister photograph
of knives, followed shortly thereafter by sinister words: In a
sacrifice something supremely preciousour finest harvest
and livestock, our firstborn sonis set aside from all use,
separated from the profane sphere. What is set apart from all
profane use is separated absolutely, definitively, in being de-
stroyed.
22
It is in this spirit that we must interpret the two
most troubling stories in the book, both of them found in the
present chapter. In the first story, the author visits a photog-
raphy show and passes behind the photos to find a disturbing
installation: a man, powerfully muscled and virile, naked,
hanging upside down, his feet bound by a rope looped over a
hook in the ceiling.
23
This is a real man, no mannequin.
Along the walls are piles of knives . . . butcher knives, ser-
rated knives, hunting knives,
24
as if placed there deliberately
to incite cruelty against the naked human suspended from
the ceiling. Although Lingis remains passive, his companions
do not: Finally one of us took a knife and cut the rope; the
man fell to the floor. A student named Andy mutters alarm-
ingly: The show is not over like that. Andy grabs a knife,
stabs at the naked man with full force, but barely succeeds in
grazing his body. Instead, the sacrificial animal turns out to
be Andy himself, for he had thrust so violently that, without
realizing it or feeling it, his hand had slipped off the handle
and down the blade, which cut deeply into the palm of his
hand and his fingers.
25
Blood splatters everywhere, as with
any sacrifice by knife. Later, surgeons are unable to fully re-
pair the damaged hand, and Andys career as a musician
(something supremely precious) is ended. Nonetheless, he
emerges from this saga more energized and ebullient than
before.
26
Lingis adopts a less passive role in the second story,
giving us instead a confession worthy of Augustine or Rous-
seau. Lingis meets a young boy in Istanbul named Omar,

175
who takes him to the cathedral of Saint George; as a Mus-
lim, the boy prefers to wait outside. Amidst the candles and
incense of the empty cathedral, he finds the tombs of the
Patriarchs of Orthodox Christendom. Checking carefully to
make sure no one is in the cathedral, he opens the heavy lid
of one of them; blood rushing to his face, he finds only a
bronze coffin. Thwarted by this unexpected obstacle, his
temptation to sacrilege might seem to have passed. But much
like the Franks cutting down the sacred trees of the Goths,
27

his urge to violate the sacred remains unquenched: I moved
back to the catafalque, lifted the lid again, set it back and
lifted the lid of the bronze coffin. The final obstruction to
sacrilege now removed, the author witnesses a dark brown
skull showing under what looked like shreds of dried beef,
scabs in the eye sockets, and patches of skin shriveled from
the crooked rows of the teeth.
28
Leaving the cathedral, he
goes off for tea with an unsuspecting young Omar, though
the enormity of what I had done tormented me for days, for
weeks.
29
Perhaps what makes the tale so disturbing is that it
lacks any of the usual motives to crime (and if discovered in
the act, it is as a criminal that he would have been treated).
We imagine most crime as motivated by the pursuit of
wealth, of sexual violation, or perhaps of revenge. The coffins
of Saint George were left relatively unsecured for the simple
reason that, unlike gold, no one really aspires to direct com-
merce with the decayed head of an Orthodox Patriarch.
While the author expands his geography beyond the United
States to include such regions as Balinese fields beneath vol-
canic craters, the glaciers of the Antarctic, and the inner lives
of sequoias and microbes, he also finds himself tempted to
cross the sacred boundary separating us from the sealed-off
remains of the dead. But the teahouses of Istanbul do not
assuage his conscience, as for once he discovers a space in the
world that he wishes he had never entered.
The theme of corpses returns in Chapter 21, The Art of
176
War. War has been glorified in the arts from ancient times
until relatively recently. This art depicted the ruler as sub-
lime in himself, absorbing into his destiny the lives of name-
less multitudes. It depicted the blood of defeated armies and
massacred populations turning into golden radiance about
the victorious warlord.
30
Above these corpses stand God or
the nation, apportioning mass death by a supreme and glori-
ous decree. The situation changes with Francisco de Goyas
series of etchings, Disasters of War, first published in 1863,
more than half a century after their completion. Goya had
experienced the Napoleonic rampage through Spain, and
though he was accused of French sympathies himself, that
sympathy is not evident in his etchings. They depict close-
up men cornered and disarmed and then castrated and dis-
membered, the infirm and aged unable to fight or flee [are]
butchered, children mutilated and slaughtered.
31
The heroic
narratives of war are replaced by an art in which soldiers,
peasants, women and children tear at one another like so
many rabid dogs. Goya depicts mutilated corpses covered
with flies and picked at by vultures under dark skies, where
there is no god above to witness, pity, and redeem so much
agony, so many deaths.
32
These depictions of massacre later
become an object of massacre themselves, at the hands of the
shock jock British artists Jake and Dinos Chapman, who
serve as recurring characters throughout Lingiss book. In
the year 2000 they purchased for 50,000 a set of Goyas
etchings, and painted grinning clown and puppy-dog faces
over the faces Goya had depicted stricken with heart-
wrenching pathos.
33

And here we encounter one of the central tensions of Vio-
lence and Splendor. On the one hand we still find the Lingis
of The Imperative, for whom it is ethically binding to stamp
out a burning cigarette in a forest, and even binding not to
abuse the preciousness of such items as rare bottles of wine
by consuming them carelessly or under inappropriate circum-

177
stances. In the chapter on the sequoia described earlier, when
Lingis muses that perhaps it died of old age, we sense his
genuine concern that it might have been knocked down
through the perversity of vandals or a lumber company. Eve-
rywhere in his writings, Lingis seems concerned that the in-
trinsic powers of the things themselves should be allowed to
shine forth in all their splendor. But The Imperative is not
really a normative book, since there Lingis also admits that
there is an indeterminacy related to the existence of an im-
perative in things. As he wrote in that work, with a gripping
cruelty: We do have the power to crush the penguin chick
and knock over the sunflower with a blow, as we may block
and muddy the river, but our cruelty and our disdain feel the
panic of the chick and the vertical aspiration of the sunflow-
er.
34
In this sense The Imperative is more a work of ontology,
and counts as a book of ethics only insofar as our ethical sub-
tlety is ripened by the notion of a command emanating from
the inner life of things. For the existence of an imperative can
also serve to provoke aggression and violation, as in the cases
of the naked man hanging from the ceiling of an art gallery,
the coffin of an Orthodox Patriarch, humans reduced to mu-
tilated corpses by Napoleonic armies, or the art treasures of
Goya defenseless against vandalism by the Chapman Broth-
erswho would perhaps be interested in crushing the pen-
guin chick, knocking over the sunflower with a blow, and
blocking and muddying the river, presumably uttering swear
words while doing so. Not only is this ambiguity never re-
solved by Lingisit is even the central theme of his book, as
seen from the two main words in the title Violence and Splen-
dor. But the author limits himself to describing this reversi-
bility rather than attempting to resolve it.
The book ends with Chapter 25, War and Splendor.
This chapter ends the book on a warm note of optimism,
with splendor prevailing over violence. It begins with the Rio
Carnaval, in which the impoverished slum-dwellers save for

178
years to purchase costumes for an escola de samba (samba
club). In Carnaval, everythingplants, insects, birds, beasts,
heroes, knavesbecomes beauty, samba, and alegria.
35
The
contrast between Lingiss first visit to Carnaval and contem-
porary world events is explicitly marked: I arrived the week
of the outbreak of the First Gulf War, in which thirty-four
advanced countries united in no higher cause than to secure
for themselves the sources of cheap petroleum. At the Rio
Carnaval, I thought this is the most important event on the
planet.
36
The collected writings of Lingis might easily be
viewed as a multi-volume account of a global Rio Carnaval,
with the Rio Amazonas and Rio Tocantins, the spectacled
bears, the golden lion tamarins, and the toucans, the Indians
of the Amazon and the outposts of the Inca, the queens of
Africa, the bandeirantes (slave hunters and prospectors), the
quilombolas (escaped slaves), the travelers of outer space.
37

The chapter shifts quickly from the Rio Carnaval to a similar
outburst of alegria in Papua New Guinea, at the so-called
Mount Hagen show (the gorgeous photograph on the books
cover depicts a Mount Hagen celebrant). Although the Pa-
puans were dismissed by Australians as Stone Age people
and savages,
38
Lingis reports that their wars were primarily
theatrical: When battles did break out, they were so con-
strained by rules and fought with weapons so ineffective
the arrows without fletching are really inaccuratethat it
would be rare that anyone was actually killed.
39
While the
First Gulf War prepares industrial mechanisms for slaughter
in the name of cheap oil, Lingis finds that war in Papua is
splendor: battles were fought without leaders or strategies,
each warrior darting and shooting his arrows where he could,
exposed to volleys of arrows and spears, exposed not only to
cunning and hostile humans but also to supernatural powers
and the weapons of sorcery. Battles where no territory was
taken, nor women captured or wealth plundered.
40
We are
no longer in the world of Goya, and also not in the world of

179
Jake and Dinos Chapman, despite the authors trace of ap-
parent sympathy for their frank violations of normal limits of
artistic behavior. Ultimately, Lingiss real preference is not
for crushing the penguin chick, but for splendor in all its his-
torical and animal forms:

We shall not define with one concept the splendor
that glitters and resounds under Mount Hagen, in the
liturgical processions in Byzantium and the high mass
of Medieval cathedrals, in the Negara, the theater-
state of old Bali, in Carnival in Rio de Janeiroin the
plumage and dance of the Great Argus pheasant, in
the suns gold spread over the blue oceans, in the fish-
erman rowing with golden oars . . . We are mesmer-
ized by beauty as birds-of-paradise are mesmerized by
their glittering plumes in their courtship dances; we
create beauty as in the primordial ocean mollusks cre-
ate the iridescent colors and intricate designs of their
shells.
41

In recent philosophy we find no other prose stylist capable of
such extended literary brilliancenot even in France, where
Merleau-Pontys finest gemstones tend to be wrapped and
muffled in the surrounding cotton of technical argument.
For this reason, it seems appropriate to end this review of
Lingiss latest book with the closing half-sentence of the
book itself. When observing the festival at Mount Hagen,
the second highest volcano in Papua New Guinea: you feel
your blood hot and surging with the exultation of two thou-
sand men and women, of 125 tribes, zigzagging back and
forth like slow-motion bolts of lightning across the crowded
field of the magnesium-white sun.
42


180

1
Alphonso Lingis, Violence and Splendor (Evanston: Northwestern
University Press, 2011).
2
Alphonso Lingis, Excesses: Eros and Culture (Albany: SUNY Press,
1983).
3
Alphonso Lingis, Wonders Seen in Forsaken Places: On Photography
and the Photographs of Mark Cohen (Chester Perkowski, 2010).
4
Alphonso Lingis, The First Person Singular (Evanston: Northwest-
ern University Press, 2007).
5
Lingis, Violence and Splendor, 5.
6
Lingis, Violence and Splendor.
7
Edward Gibbon, History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Em-
pire, Vol. 1 (Philadelphia: Birch and Small, 1804), 20.
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Alphonso Lingis, A Phenomenology of Substances, American
Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 71.4 (1988): 505522.
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27


181

28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Lingis, The Imperative (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1988), 126.
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42

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