Month: December 2020

  • Bartleby, the IoT, and Flat Ontology: How Ontology is Written in the Age of Ubiquitous Computing

    Sungyong Ahn (bio)

    Abstract

    The Internet of Things, as the object-oriented reconstruction of the traditional internet, is characterized by its smart objects freely inter-operating without being necessarily under human control. Re-building the internet’s information economy from the data captured by and communicated through these autonomous objects, the IoT operationalizes a sort of flat ontology, which recent realist philosophers suggest as a means to speculate about the world-making activities of nonhumans not necessarily correlated to human subjects. This paper examines the coincidence of recent interest in these nonhuman world-making processes drawn by two traditionally distinctive but now converging fields: computer engineering and philosophical ontology.

    The wide distribution of microsensors, processors, and actuators into our environments during the last decade has changed the information economy of the Internet. According to Kevin Ashton, who coined the term Internet of Things (IoT), before the intervention of these small machines, the Internet was “almost wholly dependent on” the data “first captured and created by human beings—by typing, pressing a record button, taking a digital picture or scanning a bar code.” Replacing humans’ “limited time, attention and accuracy,” which are “not very good at capturing data about things in the real world,” the IoT has been developed as a platform for these things to expand their online presence by overcoming “the limitation of human-entered data” with thing-generated data, communicated in frequencies inaudible to humans (Ashton). Through their further miniaturization and attachment to various natural and technical objects, thing-generated data becomes extractable not only from smart appliances such as refrigerators and smartphones responding to users and environments, but from the territorial/migratory behaviors of animals (Gabrys) and physiological patterns of human organs (Parisi). Just as the digital remediates the incompatibility of analog signals through its binary codes (Bolter and Grusin), the attachment of these smart entities relocates objects from different contexts to the same communicational platform.

    At the same time, actor-network theory (ANT) has been introduced in media studies as a critical tool to rethink the conventional boundaries of subject/object, human/nonhuman, cultural/natural, social/technological categories. Actor-network theory has taught us that these categories are not higher orders or contexts that define the legitimate places of things in hierarchies, and showed us how the categories can be resolved back into each thing’s way of influencing others or their mutual engagements. The IoT’s “new sensor/processor/actuator affiliations” (Crandall 83-4) expose hidden actor-networks of objects in our life world, once black-boxed by the habitual contexts of our uses of them as the only definitive typology of their use values. As these objects are now enrolled in a non-hierarchal communication structure of the IoT, the contexts of their human uses are also “unboxed” and their usefulness is re-measured in a digital network, not so much for their contribution to our self-imposed goals, but for the network’s prediction of human purposes.

    Marx thought of the use value of commodities as realizable only through their consumption for human needs at “a terminal point” of exchange (Grundrisse 89), such as one’s non-smart home. But in the IoT and its domestic application called smart home, value is conversely concretized by the exchange of thing-generated signals between the smart objects, whose smartness is often advertised as the ability to detect the urgent needs of users even before the users recognize their own needs. John Law says that a black box, which refers to a “complex piece of equipment with contents that are mysterious to the user” (Merriam-Webster), can be reopened only by the appearance of “a stronger adversary, one better able to associate elements” (111). According to this “principle of symmetry,” the IoT would also unbox the previous contexts of the human uses of nonhuman beings, or their monopoly of the right to define the functionality of objects, since the IoT is more capable than humans of associating smart objects together into networks that address human needs. The human consumption of commodities “not only as a terminal point but also as an end-in-itself” was for Marx something easily put aside as “outside economics except in so far as it [what they reproduce namely living labor] reacts in turn upon the point of departure and initiates the whole process anew” in the labor market (Grundrisse 89). This reductionist interpretation of use value based entirely on human “needs as biologically given and the natural” (Dant 501) has been denaturalized by cultural critics such as Baudrillard, whose unboxing of human needs and desires out of “pure, natural, asocial” cocoons has relocated the concept of use value to “a system of relations of difference with other objects” (504). While this revisionist view of use value as “a fetishized social relation just as much as exchange-value” (504) still defines the social exclusively as human construction,1 the IoT—as one of the most advanced commodity forms today—pushes its users to agree with its “terms of use,” which suggest why humans should delegate their right to use objects for their needs to smart objects better at activating themselves in the most customized way to human needs. If outside economics in the Marxian sense has been preserved in domestic space for our inalienable right as tool users, this delegation of human right reopens and reconnects these spaces, renamed “smart homes,” to the economy of digital signals. Humans are the only smart beings whose access to this hidden economy is denied; other smart objects freely exchange queries and answers about their not-smart-enough human hosts.

    This actor-network description of the IoT and its reversed user-object relation lead us to a “structure of ontological systems” characterized by the radical liquidation of any hierarchies among things: a world-view that recent realist philosophers, or speculative realists such as Quentin Meillassoux, Graham Harman, and Levi Bryant, call flat ontology.2 This paper instead examines this ontology of objects as something resonant with the recent media industry’s attempt to expand its domains even to the speculative realities of autonomous objects. Despite these philosophers’ inattentiveness to software businesses, the use of the term ontology in computer science as the protocol for machine-to-machine communication3 indicates a sort of commercial necessity for objects to be defined not by human use and access, but through their mutual nonhuman uses and inter-operations. For these philosophers, the autonomy of objects is required for “absolute truth” and reality to be redeemed from their subjective construction in anthropocentric “correlationism” (Meillassoux 5). But for the IoT, the autonomy of objects is required for problems inaccessible to humans to be managed instead by their environment-sensitive operations. The Internet of Things in this sense provides a starting point for a critical inquiry into the question Galloway once posed about “a coincidence between the structure of ontological systems and the structure of the most highly evolved technologies of post-Fordist capitalism” (347).

    To re-contextualize this coincidence, this paper focuses on how the architectures of algorithmic systems have changed over the past few decades as programmers and users have delegated more control over a system’s operational environments to its algorithmic objects, which are better able to associate themselves into a more optimal collective state to respond to their environment. It then discusses two cases of algorithmic systems that concern this change: Herman Melville’s Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-street and the MIT Sensible City Lab’s Affective Intelligent Driving Agent. The justification for this unorthodox comparison of a literary work and a media application can be found in the story’s problematic character, Bartleby. In Marxist criticism of the last century, Bartleby has been understood as the “perfect exemplum” of dehumanized workers under industrial capitalism, whose existence as living labor has no other choice for realization than to participate in commodity exchange. The story restages this through its algorithmic distribution of “speculative-conditional” statements or the “logic of the ‘if…then’ statement” to define his possible uses in certain conditions of an office (Reed 258). Bartleby’s famous response, “I would prefer not to,” has been interpreted in this context as a gesture “to get out of circulation entirely” to the “space outside or beyond circulation,” never achievable “except, of course, through death” (266). However, what this reading of his gesture, delayed by one-and-half centuries, focuses not on his suicidal exit to the “humanity” outside commodity exchange, but on his sneaking into the edges of an employer’s algorithmic human resource distribution. Put differently, Bartleby’s withdrawal to the peripheries of commodity exchange is interpreted “in the era of computerized capitalism” as a gesture to nonhumanize himself as an office object not ontologically superior to other office supplies with which he persists in creating a secret network of nonhumans unseen by the employer (Galloway, “The Poverty” 362). Redefined as one of these objects whose inter-operations retrieve the office from the human employer’s exclusive use of nonhumans, Bartleby reminds us of the objects that prevail in recent smart offices. As I will discuss in the following section, these objects are the building blocks of today’s algorithmic culture, which construct both ontologies for those nonhumans and the most customized interface for humans under digital capitalism.

    1. From Determination to Agencies

    As digital infrastructures become increasingly networked, media studies’ focus on their ability to re-organize media environments has also shifted. Affordance in media studies was once descriptive of media’s function to program “the possibilities in the world for how an agent (a person, animal, or machine) can interact with something” (Norman 18), but it seems more important now to study the way undetermined actions afforded to such agents can update and contribute to the functionality of a network. For instance, in 1986, Friedrich Kittler anticipated that the IF-THEN commands in computer languages would substitute for the symbolic order of human discourses as these “conditional jump instructions” would translate one’s free will into a cybernetic servo-mechanism. For Kittler, the IF-THEN command represents the computational logic of the early cybernetics, which analyzed human behaviors, including language, as “cruise missile”-like variables whose linear trajectories are conditioned by simple feedback loops executable in a linear manner (258). In contrast, what Katherine Hayles calls “a cognitive assemblage” describes how today’s technical infrastructures consist of many autonomous “technical cognizers” controlling the objects that behave like “highly mobile and flexible insurgents and ‘terrorists’” (132).4 Distributed in a swarm-like state, the modularity of these interoperable agents is designed to form an assemblage flexible enough not only to adapt to the changeable environments—like the US military “drone swarms” targeting actual human guerillas—but also to cultivate the things enmeshed by its environmental sensors into the nodes of a potential network. In Frans van der Helm’s media performance MeMachine, for instance, a human body in “a high-tech data suit outfitted with sensors” such as electrocardiography (ECG), electromyography (EMG), and electroencephalography (EEG) is transformed into an object as a source of manifold vital signals that organize these technical cognizers into a network (ARlab; Hayles 129-30). This change in the character of media affordance over recent decades, also coincident with the relocation of humans in digital infrastructures from outside-facing (facing the user) to inside-facing (as hosts for machine-readable signals), has been spurred not simply by the users and objects becoming too elusive to be caught in IF-THEN commands. It rather reflects the media industry’s need to disturb the traditional boundaries between human-subject and nonhuman-object in order to dispatch their machinic cognizers into a larger number of still-unexcavated human problems, and to market their possible solutions through the interoperations of these cognizers. As much as the ubiquitous dangers of guerilla-like intelligences have presented problems to which a military network can respond, smart clothes have conversely transformed wearers’ bodies into things full of ubiquitous problems manageable only through the network computing of microprocessors under their fabrics (Andrejevic). This twofold goal in engineering, namely to redefine problems to justify algorithmic solutions, has transformed human bodies and behaviors into research objects in the same communicational layer with smart objects and appliances. A peculiar commodity-form called IoT generalizes this engineering scenario even in our everyday practices in order to maximize its use value proportional to the number of ubiquitous risks properly manageable only by the networks of nonhuman cognizers.

    The algorithm has been marketed as the commodification of efficient and automatized circuit-change technologies that can be applied to any goal-oriented processes from industrial production to domestic reproduction. Modeled as cybernetic servomechanisms, both human bodies and nonhuman objects were previously thought to be functional units that could be distributed most optimally by the discursive protocols or hard-wired circuits of IF-THEN logic, which controlled their sites of consumption and employment, such as a workplace for bodies to be exploited as the hosts of living labor and a house for objects to be used for reproducing labor power. As part of the IoT’s sensor/processor/actuator relations, on the other hand, they can now be placed in the same digital network, which affords their autonomous operations in swarm-like states rather than assigning them to predefined positions for the programmed goals. This design decision to give higher degrees of freedom to objects may entail inefficiencies in the case of simple goal-oriented processes, which were the most important tasks for the IF-THEN based systems, but its long-term advantage, the versatility of a network, is enough to compensate for these problems. In a typical IoT system such as a smart home, software applications newly added to the system usually reach their full functionality only after certain environmental parameters are detected as changing relative to the interoperation of smart objects. This necessary mapping period conversely promises more possible uses of the network in the long run insofar as more parameters are still assumed to hide in the environment, waiting to be detected by different combinations of smart objects for the applications marketed and purchased in the near future. From sequential computing to ubiquitous computing, the method of realizing the use value of an algorithmic system or of operationalizing the meaning of its efficiency has changed from hard-wiring to autonomous networking. This has also been paralleled by the changing understanding of the problems assumed to be embedded in the operational environments of algorithmic systems, from something re-constructible as a cruise-missile-like object in the linear reasoning of IF-THEN sequences to another that can be concretized only through its simultaneous and nonlinear interactions with distributed others.

    In computational environments, this change can be described in terms of the shift from the correlationist modeling of early cybernetics to ubiquitous computing’s pan-correlationist modeling, which also distinguishes Hayles’s emphasis on technical agency from Kittler’s technological determinism. Galloway uses the term pan-correlationism to describe how Graham Harman’s object-oriented ontology (OOO) “democratizes” the concept of relation from its monopolized uses in the human construction of reality “by disseminating it to all entities” (“The Universe”). For Harman, a disciple of Bruno Latour, object-orientation is a philosophical method that restores the speculative autonomy of objects in the world represented by actor-network theory, in which the only definitive evidence for the presence of actors is their mobilizing or being mobilized by each other. For this redemptive mission, Harman instead takes as definitive for its becoming an object each entity’s withdrawal into its own core, which “contains unknown realities never touched by any or all of its relations.” By doing so he achieves two goals. First, he liberates objects from any correlationist others, both humans and nonhumans, who attempt to monopolize all the relations between objects for constructing and expanding their subjective reality or networks of technoscience, because “relations do not exhaust a thing” insofar as it always preserves hidden realities to withdraw further into. At the same time, insofar as relations conversely “rely on” the traces of the thing’s withdrawals, there always remain more relations to be further extracted between the objects that constantly withdraw from each other (Prince 132). Galloway chooses the term pan-correlationism to expose how vulnerable this endeavor of OOO (to cut all relations away from the speculative inner realities of objects) is to the ideological reprogramming of capitalist relationism. In his reframing, Harman’s assumption of the inexhaustible inside preserved for the objects’ further withdrawals ironically turns out to be what guarantees the inexhaustible correlations ever extractable from the exteriors of the objects as a result of their constant withdrawals from one another. In object-oriented ontology, there always remains “the sensual skin of exchange value” to be excavated from between any interacting objects (Galloway, “A Response”).

    As “the structure of the most highly evolved technologies of post-Fordist capitalism” (Galloway, “The Poverty” 347), ubiquitous computing can be understood as what operationalizes this capitalist repurposing of speculative reality into the reservoir for ubiquitous correlations. In computer science, the object-orientation is a “computational logic” (Kowalski) that defines each algorithmic agent by its own “beliefs (what the agent knows), desires (what the agent wants) and intentions (what the agent is doing) at its core” (Jennings 288). Re-operationalized through ubiquitous computing, which affords more autonomous and unexpected encounters between these objects, the logic of object-orientation in turn redefines its shared environments as full of hidden data that can be extracted through any objects under interaction, transmitted as inputs to any others, and thus never fully bound by any attempt of linear modeling from a single object, but only concretizable through the constant relation-making between distributed objects. In this sense, the term pan-correlationism suggests how resonant the anti-correlationism of the speculative realists is, in fact, with the recent use of the term “correlation” by tech-savvy gurus such as Chris Anderson in Wired magazine. For Anderson, correlation is what manifests the end of “causation” as the human means for “crude approximations of the truth.” Correlation for him is anything that can be data-mined between any interactive objects except subject-object relations. If the recent software industry believes in the inexhaustible and ubiquitous problems always preserved for further excavation and commodification, the pan-correlationist modeling of reality promises this ever-exploitable future of the IoT.

    For the formal architecture to accommodate this coincidence between the structures of ontological systems and the most advanced commodity form of today, we may need to first examine a programming paradigm called object-oriented programming. As Alan Kay, the architect of the early OOP language Smalltalk, writes, “Its semantics are a bit like having thousands and thousands of computers all hooked together by a very fast network” (70). OOP is characterized by its “behavioral building blocks,” objects that “have much in common with the monads of Leibniz” (70), as each object enfolds the definitions of its own constituents, data structures, and possible interoperations with others. Put differently, an object envelops its own “tiny ontology,” stating its selective exposures and responses to environments (Bogost 21). To build an algorithmic system for object-oriented programmers is thus to design the recursive inter-operations of these objects to replace cumbersome IF-THEN sequences in the obsolete procedural programming. In the source code of a program, the objects are distributed as autonomous behavioral units but held in a metastable state or in the “initial absence of interactive communication” until after its execution or compiling for “a subsequent communication between orders of magnitude and stabilization” (Simondon 304). The compiling of a source code begins as its exposure to an environment, namely, a set of user inputs or a database, triggers the response of the object assigned in the beginning, whose behavioral outputs in turn trigger further responses from the others until the intended set of states is singled out from, created in, or removed from their shared environment. Despite their seemingly autonomous becoming as a collective, the inter-operations of the objects during the compiling is designed as a sort of pre-established harmony, as a human programmer puts them in designated locations in a source code to make their environmental exposure happen in a predetermined order.

    On the other hand, the recent achievements in the miniaturization of digital sensors/processors/actuators to a size attachable to any scale enables these purely algorithmic objects to be transplanted into natural/technical entities in the real world. In OOP, each object undergoes a process of individuation as its interactions with others gradually adjust the parameters in its data structure to niche values. The physical objects in ubiquitous computing undergo a similar process as they are enrolled in its sensor/processor/actuator affiliations. However, their new niches in the networks are not pre-established by human assumptions of harmony, but concretized through corporeal interactions with other sensor-augmented objects in environments. Just as a drone swarm constantly updates its flying formation using the aerodynamic data extracted from each drone’s interactions with others, the operational environment of an algorithmic system is no longer simply a metaphor for “human-entered data” but also for the ubiquity of data that can be extracted from any physically distributed interacting objects. These objects are virtually all re-locatable to a digital network from their own natural and technical contexts. And insofar as each of these contexts is what today’s commodification of ubiquitous computing advertises as the problem that can be more efficiently managed by its unboxing and tracing the objects’ relation-making in an actor-network-like manner, it is inevitable that the objects once stabilized in their own context will resume the individuation to find their new functional niches in the algorithmic cultures. For instance, one’s heart, muscles, and brain, already stabilized in a psychosomatic context, are now relocated to a digital network under a “smart cloth” outfitted with ECG, EMG, and EEG. Their resumed individuations to the digital niches are not based on the pre-established harmony between bodies and minds under one’s conscious or reflexive control. Rather, they can be harmonized further with other digital objects capable of sneaking under the cloth as new members of the affiliation, such as the Apple Watch or Fitbit. These gadgets, “better able to associate” the organic and machinic elements into more optimal states for different situations, such as workin out, sleeping, working, or shopping, begin to teach us what to do, much as the fitness app in your Apple Watch commands you to slow down or speed up. Human organs are no longer particular organs employed in a servomechanism but constantly re-individuate themselves for their temporal niches and uses within the nonhuman networks with which they are newly affiliated. From this changed use of human bodies, Bartleby’s gesture to disconnect himself from any capitalist uses of human beings by saying “I would prefer not to” do anything assigned by the human employer earns a new meaning. His gesture can be reinterpreted as a prophecy of recent smart objects and their withdrawals into the peripheries of human control.

    2. Bartleby, the Scrivener

    Melville’s narrator devotes the first quarter of this story of a Wall Street law office in the 1850s to describing the functional relations between his employees, which also define the end state for the rest of the story to restore after the disturbance caused by Bartleby. Nonhuman nicknames, Turkey, Nippers, and Ginger Nut, are “mutually conferred upon each other” because they are “deemed expressive of their respective persons or characters” (par. 6). It is Ginger Nut’s job to deliver “ginger-cake” to Turkey and Nippers, whose performances of “copying law papers” are complementary to each other because the former is reliable only in the morning whereas the latter works well only in the afternoon. For the lawyer confident in reorganizing their different responses, to make the office operational for his own goal is to distribute these workers along a procedural sequence: “it being morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones … to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’s ugly mood was on duty, and Turkey’s off” (par. 45); to repeat in an object-oriented pseudo-code, IF it is morning THEN call Turkey or ELSE call Nipper. The lawyer’s “doctrine of assumptions” is applied everywhere in the office and enables him to predict how the actors will respond in certain conditions and to mobilize their conditional responses “to enlist the smallest suffrage in [his] behalf” (par. 155, 46). Following a pre-established harmony assumed by the lawyer, Ginger Nut claims his contribution by circulating ginger-cake, which in turn demonstrates its functionality through “probable effects upon the human constitution” of Turkey and Nippers (par. 52), whose functions as scriveners alternate in the morning and afternoon. However, the lawyer’s confidence in mobilizing these switching circuits faces a crisis in Bartleby, a new scrivener. As “more a man of preferences than assumptions,” his becoming a meticulous actor in the office is defined at first by his highly selective response of “prefer[ing] not to do” any tasks other than transcribing law papers “at the usual rate of four cent a folio” (par. 83). In the middle of the story, Bartleby begins to narrow this response further to the extent of preferring not to answer any queries from the lawyer and finally ceasing to produce any readable texts. At this point, the lawyer (as a system builder) has the following conversation with Bartleby:

    “Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?”

    “No; I would prefer not to make any change.”

    “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?”

    “[…] I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once.

    “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.”

    […]

    “Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants? That would improve your health.”

    “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.”

    “How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your conversation,—how would that suit you?”

    “Not at all. It does not strike me that there is anything definite about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.” (par. 197-209)

    ANT’s principle of symmetry states that “all the elements that go to make up a heterogeneous network, whether these elements are devices, natural forces, or social groups,” can make themselves present as actors only “by influencing the structure of the network in a noticeable and individual way” (Law 124-6). Conversely, the same principle implies that any actors withdrawing from their current network should enroll in another that is “better able to associate elements” (111), unless they prefer not to return any noticeable responses and thus not to be present any longer to others. Bartleby’s preference not to do something else expresses his fatigue over being this kind of element unable to be present at all if not assigned to a new functional niche in the office or in an outside labor market according to the lawyer’s “doctrine of assumptions.”5 Bartleby’s strategy to respond to the queries by saying that he prefers not to suggests the minimum that an actor should do to stay in a current state. As a dehumanized object stuck within the algorithmic human resource management, Bartleby’s gesture to postpone his assignment to particular uses thus unboxes the apparently seamless commodity exchange in the labor market. The lawyer’s subsequent and never-ending IF-THEN questions, “would you like to re-engage in …? Well then, would you …? How then would …?,” reveal the maximum that the employer needs to do to black-box again the formal symmetry of the capitalist uses of human beings.

    The lawyer’s efforts to find a new niche for Bartleby, however, always turn out to be undertaken too late, after Bartleby has already declared his preference not to do that work. And when Bartleby is proved not to be handled by the servo-mechanical “logic of the ‘if…then’ statement,” the lawyer discovers a secret network of nonhumans in which Bartleby’s withdrawal finds the smallest niche for his presence: a “bachelor’s hall” that “Bartleby has been making” with things hidden at the peripheries of the lawyer’s attention, such as “a blanket” under his desk rolled away, “blacking box and brush” under the empty grate, “a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel” on a chair, “a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese” in a newspaper (par. 88). Shortly after Bartleby declares his presence in the office despite his refusal to accept any of the new positions the lawyer recommends, these objects, once supposedly governed under the lawyer’s “doctrine of assumptions,” appear to converge instead upon an alternative network. In this flat network, each thing’s presence is concretized not through the lawyer’s monopoly of (non)human resources, but through their mutual engagement at the peripheries of capitalist resource distribution. Contrary to the traditional interpretations of Bartleby’s gesture as a suicidal disconnect from any social ties, what he really achieves through his withdrawal is not the redemption of humanity “through death” (Reed 266) but the retrieval of social ties among nonhumans from capital’s dehumanizing correlationism, which defines every object, including human labor, as exchange or use value to preserve or increase capital. The withdrawal of objects into their inner realities “never touched by any or all of [their] relations” is enough for these objects to be present without necessarily being engaged in the businesses of others (Harman, Prince 132); at the same time, for Harman, this withdrawal also suffices to enable the ubiquitous distances between these objects to be filled with finer-grained relations as “the joints and glue that hold the universe together” (Guerilla Metaphysics 20). Bartleby’s disappearance into the peripheries of commodity exchange likewise finds a hidden society of nonhumans in which his presence in the world stands on an equal footing with everything else. Through the lawyer’s lost confidence in his assumption as to the possible uses of Bartleby, Melville’s story dramatizes a conflict between two ontologies: the correlationist modeling of reality through a human employer in the center as the avatar of old capitalism, and the pan-correlationist through the distributed nonhumans and their mutual engagements. However, there are also things his story fails to anticipate, such as how vulnerable these nonhumans are to the finer-grained resource management algorithms under advanced capitalism, and how the new avatar of capitalism will, 150 years later, appear in the form of these distributed nonhumans called smart objects.

    3. Ontic Principle of Ubiquitous Computing

    Mark Weiser defines ubiquitous computing as the withdrawl of microprocessors from the center of users’ attention towards the peripheries, where they are more correlated with other microprocessor-augmented things such as smart appliances (Weiser and Brown). Once they stop competing for human attentions to be chosen as indispensable units dragged to a narrow Graphical User Interface (GUI), the devices become more functional to each other in their exchange of the data secretly extracted from humans. Information technologies before ubiquitous computing such as “pagers, cellphones, newservices, the World-Wide-Web, email, TV, and radio” were designed to “bombard us frenetically” to draw our attention and claim their increasing presence in a human-centered network (79). Like Turkey claiming his functionality to the lawyer even in the afternoon when he malfunctions by asking “if his services in the morning were useful, how indispensible, then, in the afternoon?” (par. 6), these machines once appealed for their usefulness to human users who monopolized what ANT calls the “Obligatory Passage Point (OPP)” of the network, through which all actors must pass to be assigned and specified as the actors appropriate for the goal of a system (Callon 205-6). On the other hand, objects in the Ubiquitous Computing (UC) era prefer not to respond to queries from users. Like Bartleby, they stay “calm” in the periphery of attention and maintain the slightest presence in “a confederacy of ‘smart’ objects,” which “whisper information to one another in inaudible frequencies,” not in order to reoccupy the center of attention at the most timely moment for our needs (as Weiser’s original design intended), but to “conspire to sell us products” in a timely manner (Andrejevic 113-4).

    In their withdrawal to the peripheries where they awaken each other to avoid awakening users, devices spend most of their time performing the minimum for their enrollment as sensors, namely scrivening “unmodulated digital data” from their operational environments. As actuators influencing others, the devices also undergo a constant and creative process of individuation to find the functional niches within their temporal inter-operations (Clemens and Nash). Unlike the lawyer’s algorithmic IF-THEN instructions, ubiquitous computing as the global intelligence of these distributed devices is capable of and patient with performing this task of never-ending resource distribution to transduce all non-particular objects in metastable states into each individual in situ. It does this by calculating the optimal way to weave the devices’ autonomous and oft-conflicting operations and goals into a collective that can be mobilized for a problem at the system level. In this sense, what become ubiquitous in the UC era are not only the symmetrical edges of the network for the smart devices’ horizontal communications but their asymmetries to a collective intelligence that seems to replace successfully the lawyer in Melville’s story and intervene in the stabilization of conflicting devices into the reciprocal and modular functions of the network. As Galloway writes, “no arbiter impedes” these symmetrical individuations of smart objects into the actors influencing each other along the edges of a network, but for their autonomous responses to each other to be gradually realigned in the most efficient and harmonious way to reach collective goals, a sort of “ultimate mystical medium” is still assumed to operate as an invisible hand (“A Response”). In the Personal Computing (PC) era, human users performed this arbiter by monopolizing the obligatory passage point represented by intuitive user interfaces that enabled them to design the harmonious interoperations of algorithmic agents for their conscious goals. In the UC era, the mystical arbiters are rather omnipresent in the form of microprocessors that may attach anywhere, more ethereal in infiltration into every edge of the networks; the operations of these smart arbiters are as immanent as marketplaces that have also infiltrated into every corner of our lives, augmented by the so-called smart applications. Harmony is no longer pre-established by the assumptions of human designers but, like the flying formation of a drone swarm, must be constantly gathered and updated from lots of minute discrepancies between each object’s expectation of its environment and its actual operation within the data extracted from others.

    Whitehead’s philosophy of actual entities provides another ontological model of “the universe of things” in the UC era that, as Steven Shaviro notes, supplements the “countless tiny vacuums” between objects mutually withdrawing in Harman’s object-oriented ontology with “a finely articulated plenum” of data left by each object’s becoming (Shaviro 39). For Galloway, in my interpretation, the coincidence between OOO and OOP implies the former’s vulnerability to ideological reprogramming; the “unknown realities” preserved and inexhaustible inside each object ironically promise the constant extraction of correlations from any objects under interactions, whose exteriors, or “sensual skin[s] of exchange value” (Galloway, “A Response”), are thus able to create ever-regenerative inter-objective realities. As a critical approach to demystify these worldly relations supposedly waiting to be excavated for ubicomp solutions, we can examine how Whitehead brings the problematic realities that OOO hides inside each object back to the platform for inter-objective communications. Whereas an object for Harman preserves its speculative presence through constant withdrawals, an actual entity for Whitehead lives only for its process of becoming called “concrescence.” Through this process, an entity prehends the universe as a “multifold datum” left by the already finished becoming of all others until the process is completed with the satisfaction of its “subjective aim” and turned into just another datum for the genesis of others (Whitehead 19, 185). The resources for creations are not hidden inside but scattered all over the world, revealed to be a large data set accumulated from the finished processes of concrescences and given for further data-mining by new actors to come. In this respect, the speculative presence of actual entities in Whitehead provides a philosophical analogy for the algorithmic objects in a source code, which also live only during their exposure to shared environments for processing input data and are then left just as what they processed, namely the changed state of these environments for others to process further. However, in that each actual entity’s concrescence is not determined by any others but performed according to its own assumption on the “harmony” between its “subjective forms” and the objective data it feels (27), the source code as the nexus of objects in this analogy should not be based in the hardwired electromagnetic circuits of personal computers. Rather, the technical incarnation of Whiteheadian actual entities is found in the smart objects in the Internet of Things as they constantly re-individuate themselves within their data-intensive environments without predefined orders. Besides this structural similarity, Whitehead’s “secularization of the concept of God” (207) as no other than one of these entities provides another rationale for the appropriateness of the analogy. Contrary to those whose concrescences are temporal and short-lived, the Whiteheadian God is characterized by its never-completed concrescence. This God’s subjective aim is “the ultimate unity” between the entire multiplicity of actual entities it senses and its conceptual prehension of their ideal harmony “in such a perfect system” (346), and this is inevitably an ever-delayed goal insofar as God cannot determine the courses of other entities’ becoming but only induces them to adjust their subjective aims. Taking the position of this global but not omnipotent agent in the analogy, the aim of an ubicomp system—the algorithmic calculation of the optimal way for the smart objects to inter-operate for systemic goals—is also a never-completed process that must be constantly updated from each object’s actual operation without any pre-given harmony.

    This secularized understanding of God is decisive in order to preserve the symmetry that Harman’s OOO sees in a flat ontology. Shaviro emphasizes that “all actual entities in the universe stand on the same ontological footing,” and even God for Whitehead has “no special ontological privileges” over the most trivial entities “in spite of” the asymmetrical “gradations of importance, and diversities of function,” among entities (Shaviro 29). However, in the emerging universe of things called IoT, these gradations of importance and functionality relocated and persisting in a flat ontology are in fact what make Whiteheadian philosophy a better analogy for the recent smart environments than Harman’s, and also make media studies’ recent interest in Whitehead (Gabrys; Parisi; Hansen) more coincident with “the structure of the most highly evolved technologies” of today. The particular entity standing at the apex of these gradations was once called God, but now reappears in the form of ubiquitous computing, and its never-ending concresence as a global intelligence intervenes in all the other entities’ temporal concresence as the nodes of its network. Rather than assigning each entity one-by-one to a specific place already prepared—what Melville’s lawyer attempted but failed—ubiquitous computing encourages the entities to find their own bachelor’s hall within the multifold data transmitted from the actual world by letting them interact according to their preferred responses to environments and in turn enabling their data structures to be coupled optimally to each niche in the ubiquitous thing-generated data. It is not in spite but because of these asymmetrical interventions of omnipresent microprocessors that all other less important but still functional entities are relocated and “rethingified” upon a flat and symmetrical platform of smart objects (Gabrys 192).

    The “ontic principle” of speculative realism often promotes itself as a democratic principle for nonhumans in opposition to “the vertical ontologies of ontotheology or a humanism” that “trace back and relate all beings to either God, humans, language, culture or any of the other princes.” It suggests “a flat ontology, one made exclusively of unique, singular individuals, differing in spatio-temporal scale but not ontological status” (Bryant, “The Ontic Principle” 268-9). The Internet of Things as the commodification of ubiquitous computing seems to operationalize this principle by liberating digital objects from their previous obligation to pass through the mediations of human princes. However, its blatant attempts to diversify the problems that can be detected and marketed along the networks of these liberated objects reveal the ideological undertone of the societal metaphors for objects such as Bryant’s “democracy of objects” (The Democracy), applied to today’s media systems without mention of the primary asymmetry of the network. The ubiquity of smart objects and their autonomous operations translate and integrate each singular reality they locally perceive into a larger data set as a shared environment in which all of them are interoperable no matter how different their narrow world views are from one another. These ubiquitous symmetries for the ubiquitous accumulation of sharable data are, however, also asymmetrically engaged in the quasi-theological individuation of a global intelligence. As the following section will exemplify by examining a scenario involving a smart navigation system, Bartleby’s gesture to non-humanize himself as one of many office objects in a flat and invisible network does not mean his or its liberation from capitalist resource management. This instead forms the condition for a global intelligence system to emerge from its asymmetrical interventions in each symmetrical edge of the network.

    4. AIDA: A New Bachelor’s Hall

    AIDA (Affective Intelligent Driving Agent) is an in-dash navigation system developed by MIT’s SENSEable City Lab, Media Lab, and the Volkswagen’s Electronics Research Lab. Equipped with several projectors that display a 3D map on the dashboard, AIDA visualizes the most efficient route to a destination as a solution to the possible need of a registered driver (see fig. 1).

    Fig. 1 AIDI’s dashboard display. MIT Sensable City Lab. “AIDA 2.0.” Youtube, uploaded by MIT SENSEable City Lab, 11 May, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKLAeq1m2TY

    Unlike non-smart systems, “AIDA analyses the driver’s mobility patterns, keeping track of common routes and destinations” to “identify the set of goals the driver would like to achieve” (MIT Sensible City Lab). To provide the driver with the most customized niche not only in a vehicle but in the traffic networks and points of interest (POI) in neighboring areas, AIDA interfaces sensor-generated driver data concerning her implicit needs with the data “pertaining to various aspects of the city including traffic, seasonal information, environmental conditions, commercial offerings, and events” (Lorenzo et al.).

    An ordinary object-oriented navigation simply receives the data packets from outside sources, such as GPS and traffic information, in order to remodel its surroundings with algorithmic objects such as a street, intersection, or geo-tagged landmarks, whose functional relations as nodes in a graph individuate the shortest route on the map to solve the problem of the “human-entered” destination. On the other hand, as a prophet-like agent smart enough to direct the driver to where she must go to fulfill her current need, what AIDA should individuate foremost is not the shortest route but the most urgent problem of the driver, which has yet to surface but is lurking in the peripheries of her attention as the ubiquitous symptoms filling the car. AIDA’s ubiquitous computing individuates the problem preemptively and puts it in a navigable form that would be solved progressively as she drives the car along the route to a spot it recommended on the map. As an IoT system counterinsurgent to this guerilla-like problem—namely, a human driver demoted to a host of machine-readable vital signals—AIDA populates not only the interior network of the Audi full of interconnected sensors for facial expressions, voices, galvanic skin response, braking/acceleration pressures, seat position, and steering (see fig. 2), but “a multitude of tags, sensors, locationing devices, telecommunications networks, online social networks, and other pervasive networks … proliferating in cities,” as well as the driver’s social networks.

    Fig 2. A network of sensor-augmented things in AIDA 1.0. The AIDA Project (Affective, Intelligent Driving Agent), MIT SENSEable City Lab and Personal Robots Group of Media Lab, 2009, http://senseable.mit.edu/aida/. Accessed 10 Dec. 2019.

    Suppose that Bartleby, hired as a test driver, found his new bachelor’s hall in this Audi. After the first week, long enough for the sensor network to be trained to relate the behavioral signals collected from the distributed body parts to his current affective state, AIDA would begin to figure out his “home and work location” and “be able to direct” him to the grocery store that he is likely to prefer. After a month, AIDA could detect his hunger from the signals collected and analyzed through the “historical behavioral collector (HBC)” and “historical route collector (HRC),” and then recommend the restaurant rated highest by Yellow Pages users with similar social networking service (SNS) profiles (Lorenzo et al.). Bartleby may find that he is aware of his hunger only several minutes after the distributed symptoms were identified by AIDA, but may not seriously care about this delay even though it is always long enough to pass the restaurant most customized to his taste. However, after he learns that his too-human consciousness is, as Hayles warns, always behind the non-conscious responses of his body by at least several hundred milliseconds, so-called “missing half-second,” long enough to be hijacked by other non-conscious cues from “the advent of affective capitalism and computational media” (Hayles 191; Hansen 190), even hunger would become a crisis that should be preempted by AIDA and immediately visualized as a red route to the restaurant on the map. He is now responsible for eliminating this route by driving his Audi corner to corner according to AIDA’s instructions (see fig. 3).

    Fig 3. AIDA recommending a restaurant. MIT Sensable City Lab. MIT SENSEable City Lab and Personal Robots Group of Media Lab, “AIDA 2.0.” Youtube, uploaded by MIT SENSEable City Lab, 11 May, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKLAeq1m2TY

    What has occurred in this local network of smart sensors after a month of test driving is Bartleby’s individuation as a registered driver. But, on the other side of the interface, where his current physiological and behavioral states are ceaselessly translated into the red route heading somewhere to be resolved, his individuation appears to have been driven entirely by another individuation of AIDA into a prophet-like intelligence, ceaselessly weaving a flat ontology out of many different types of sensor data—such as GPS data, a city’s Points of Interest and their rankings in Yellow Page, lots of geotagged images of the city, the driver’s and his neighbors’ social network profiles, and his historical route and behavior data—by folding them into the pathway he draws (Lury and Day 30).

    After these reciprocal individuations, Bartleby on the day of his public demonstration would see something reminiscent of the compulsive questions of the lawyer in Melville’s story haunting the dashboard, tuned up for the maximum functionality of AIDA. On the way to the destination that AIDA would already have predicted from his route histories, Bartleby would encounter many small pop-up windows and tags on the map referring to places for entertainment, social events, and other sensor-augmented commodities, claiming to concretize his unknown desires distributed across his facial expressions, voice, galvanic responses, butt position, accelerating and braking foot pressures (see fig. 4).

    Fig 4. AIDA advertising a social event. MIT SENSEable City Lab and Personal Robots Group of Media Lab, “AIDA 2.0.” Youtube, uploaded by MIT SENSEable City Lab, 11 May, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKLAeq1m2TY

    Just like the lawyer in the story, AIDA asks, “would you like to …? Well then, would you …? How then would …?” Contrary to the lawyer who failed to keep enumerating all possible niches for Bartleby due to his too-human managerial skill, AIDA’s recommendation is ever-extendable. Only this global intelligence can access the problem called ubiquity, and it does not ask him to share his preferences out loud. Bartleby may already find himself in his most customized bachelor’s hall, which eliminates any possible disturbances even before they actually occur. Now he needs to accept the “terms of use” for AIDA, but what pushes him to agree with these terms—which describe his new human condition as the host of digitalized vital signals—is the dormancy of problems whose symptoms are too widely distributed to be cognized by any single object except AIDA.

    Conclusion

    In critical theories after 9/11, these sorts of omnipresent agents and their asymmetrical interventions in the life of local actors have been justified by the ubiquity of problems. The latency of these problems in the peripheries of each actor’s narrow attention has justified the local actors’ commitments to a collective intelligence that preempts problems before they actually occur. Hardt and Negri claim that “the gray zone of war and peace,” in permanent danger of insurgency and terrorism, justifies the “total mobilization of social forces” for the preemptive strike of a military power that is “in asymmetrical conflicts” over unpredictable “guerrilla attacks” (13, 51-2). Massumi also writes that civilian life in this “crisis-prone environment” falls “onto a continuum with war” in which a preemptive power’s intervention should be “as ubiquitously irruptible as the indiscriminate threats it seeks to counter” (27-8). Not necessarily based on the wide spaces reminiscent of battlefields, or necessarily generalizing these military environments to the scales of human bodies to be covered by wearable devices and home/office for smart appliances, the Internet of Things invents a novel strategy for its market penetration from this tension between the insurgency of ubiquitous problems and the counterinsurgency of an intelligent system. In Melville’s fiction, Bartleby’s symmetry-breaking insurgency was never preventable by the lawyer’s linear management programmed in IF-THEN statements. But, as I re-fictionalized through Bartleby in AIDA, this human inaccessibility to the problem called ubiquity is also the justification for the humans’ participation in the IoT as the non-humanized hosts of vital signals. For its becoming as a collective intelligence from the concrescence of these vital signals with other thing-generated data, the ubiquity of lurking problems should be advertised as the reason why it is time for humans to relinquish their right to the uses of objects that they have unfairly held for a long time and why it is time to hand it right over to the IoT, which can use them more preemptively to maintain a space always customized to our needs.

    Footnotes

    1. Fetishism in this Marxian context has been consistently defined as the mis-imposed value of the object-in-itself, which can be analyzed as the social relations congealed around the object. Arjun Appadurai instead takes fetishism as his methodology for “a corrective to the tendency to excessively sociologize transactions in things” (5). But even in his “methodological fetishism,” the values of objects are subject to a multitude of local contexts of symbolic transactions, despite their irreducibility to the global capitalist economy.

    2. For “flat ontology” in their speculative realism see Bryant, “The Ontic Principle”; Bogost, Alien Phenomenology. For Galloway’s criticism of flat ontology as the “structure of ontological systems” in recent software companies, see “The Poverty,” p. 347.

    3. In “The Role of Common Ontology,” Gruber suggests ontology as an engineering term for “knowledge-level protocols” between AI systems, each of which is distinguished by its own “symbolic-level” of representation of environments. The role of ontology is not to organize a single globally shared theory of the environment. It rather aims to provide languages for an output of a system to be translated into the input for another to maximize the inter-operability of and communicability between the systems.

    4. These objects and object-like users may be modeled best as the actor in the term actor-network, not an “individual atom” hyphenated to a network in a deterministic way, but a “circulating entity” that draws lots of hyphens to “hook up with” each other for both specifying its local agency and organizing global structure (Latour 17-8). For these actors, “a substrata: something upon which something else ‘runs’ or ‘operates’” is no longer a proper metaphor for infrastructures; rather, technological infrastructures are installed as communication protocols for these circulating entities to make their “local practices afforded by a larger-scale technology” into the modular functions “which can then be used in a natural, ready-to-hand fashion” by others (Star and Ruhleder 113-4).

    5. It is noteworthy that David Kuebrich relates the lawyer’s “doctrine of assumption” about the niche positions for each actor in his design of the fully operational office to “the larger culture that there is no inherent contradiction between the dedicated pursuit of self-interest, even when it involves the exploitation of others, and devotion to traditional Christian values” (396). According to him, the doctrine “exemplifies the values and attitudes of the Protestant entrepreneur who fused his Christian faith,” such as the faith in the “Starvation and wretchedness … by Heavenly appointment,” with “emerging economic practices in such a way as to legitimate inequality and class privilege” (383, 386).

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  • From Death Drive to Entrepreneurship of the Self: Film Noir’s Genealogy of the Neoliberal Subject

    Tamas Nagypal (bio)

    Through the comparative analysis of Double Indemnity (1944), Body Heat (1981), and The Usual Suspects (1995), this paper argues that what Michel Foucault called the neoliberal entrepreneur of the self has its prototype in the subject constructed by the classical discourse of film noir. While in the genre’s early form the individual’s attempt at existential self-valorization remains death driven, incommensurable with the ideological values of classical liberalism, neonoir reframes its isolated protagonist’s unique mode of being as a reservoir of human capital beyond the limits of shared social norms.

    In film noir privacy establishes itself as the rule, not as a clandestine exception.
    Joan Copjec1

    In neo-liberalism […] homo oeconomicus is an entrepreneur, an entrepreneur of himself.
    Michel Foucault2

    The Neo-Noir Hero as an Entrepreneur of Himself

    At the end of Bryan Singer’s neo-noir mind-game film The Usual Suspects (1995), Verbal—the limping, stuttering small-time crook who narrates the story from police custody—is revealed to “be” legendary criminal mastermind Keyser Söze, allegedly the man behind a series of high stakes robberies and drug deals whom the FBI had never been able to identify because he killed every witness to his crimes. After the authorities cluelessly release him, his disabilities are revealed to have been faked, and the name Söze turns out to be nothing but an empty signifier he made up to manipulate others to do his bidding—in much the same way that the film deceives viewers and puts them to cognitive work through this unorthodox narrative device. As J. P. Telotte observes, Verbal remains “unknowable, at least in the manner of classical narrative: as a figure who is marked by easily observable traits, whose motivations are readily understood, and who sets the plot in motion along a straight line” (17). By going against expectations about character and narrative form (even deploying an unreliable flashback sequence), the film compels the viewer to reflect on classical Hollywood conventions as nothing but arbitrary constructs (Telotte 19). The postclassical narration informs both the carefully calculated unfolding of the hero’s fabricated persona, which is designed to eliminate Verbal’s rivals within the diegesis (as generic character types transparent to him and to the viewer), and the revelation of film’s fabrication, which is designed to compete with conventional Hollywood products on the extra-diegetic marketplace. The key to its success on both levels is the preservation of the Söze-myth: the accumulation of social and economic capital through this enigmatic brand name, the signifier of a unique hero with the potential to be everything in the eyes of others because he never allows himself to be pinned down. Just as Söze kills those who can identify him, the film undercuts the viewer’s attempt to construct a coherent narrative by flaunting its unreliability.3

    Verbal’s narrative self-mobilization is that of the neoliberal homo oeconomicus in the Foucauldian sense: the subject turning his mental and physical traits, abilities, and skills into human capital to invest in and improve upon. Profiting from the inflated reputation of his manufactured identity, Verbal is an “entrepreneur of himself, being for himself his own capital, being for himself his own producer, being for himself the source of [his] earnings” (Foucault 26).4 Besides neoliberalism’s creative dimension, however, Verbal also reveals the dark underside of such neoliberal selfhood: the noir subject thrown into a Hobbesian world where capitalist competition, rather than the liberal platform of meritocratic self-affirmation, becomes a struggle for life and death. As Marx notes, classical liberalism relied on a split between its subject’s public and private personas: the bourgeois pursuing his private self-interest in the unequal domain of capitalist economy and the citoyen sharing equal rights with others in the public sphere (“On the Jewish Question” 34). Both neoliberalism and classical noir break this balance in favor of an all-encompassing private domain, but they attach different values to the shift (Copjec 183; Harvey 3). The characters of classical noir suffer from an existential malaise; they “have no place of refuge in [noir’s] cruel naturalistic world, this life-as-a-jungle setting. Alone and unprotected, they are truly strangers, to themselves as well as to others. The world is littered with pitfalls against which the individual has, at the most, meager defenses” (Hirsch 4). Neoliberalism, by contrast, presents the expansion of the private sphere as an opportunity for increasing individual freedom and self-empowerment. Verbal is a case in point, insofar as he is a successful self-made man whose refusal to depend on reciprocal relationships with others makes him stronger rather than more vulnerable: he triumphs by cutting his ties to fellow criminals. A flashback even shows him (as Keyser Söze) killing his own wife and children to avoid being cornered when they are taken hostage—an escalation of Gary Becker’s notorious neoliberal economic model that sees family members calculating cost-benefit ratios while investing into being with each other (108-135).

    Verbal’s path to victory is not without its own noir pitfalls, however. His amoral autonomy as a neoliberal subject is strangely machinic, chasing an ideal of freedom that paradoxically coincides with absolute unfreedom: his successful management of his life through rational choices leads to the total subordination of himself to an efficient algorithm of capital accumulation. Thomas Elsaesser points out a similar contradiction in the way contemporary mind-game films address their viewers. The increasing amount of cognitive labor required to untangle the narrative puzzles of films like The Usual Suspects, Memento (1998), or The Matrix (1999) reflects a neoliberal ideal of becoming active, self-conscious, self-improving media users rather than merely passive consumers. At the same time, what the new interactive viewers are invited to discover and enjoy is not their unconstrained freedom but their containment by the predetermined “rules of the game”: Hollywood cinema’s formal techniques of capturing and manipulating audience attention (34-37).5 This shows another key difference between classical liberalism and neoliberalism: unlike classical liberalism, which posited the spontaneously emerging equilibrium of the free market against the pre-established hierarchies of feudalism, neoliberalism is not at all antithetical to technologies of domination and social control as long as these technologies, like mind-game films, enable their subjects to actively and freely participate in their own subordination.6 I will argue that, parallel to this neoliberal shift in the idea of freedom, film noir has moved from being a limit-discourse of classical liberalism (exploring the point where bourgeois individualism turns anti-social and unproductive) to reveal radical individualism as an efficient neoliberal technology of control facilitating new forms of capital accumulation.

    From Generic to Genetic Human Capital

    Pushing the ideal of the self-programmed entrepreneur to its sociopathic, “noir” conclusion, The Usual Suspects is symptomatic of what Lauren Berlant calls the contemporary “waning of genre,” the increasing difficulty of applying social imaginaries of a “good life” to the conditions of neoliberal capitalism (6). The script of the ensemble crime genre (men cooperating to break the law) reaches a crisis in the film, collapsing into a noir story of an isolated individual whose very voice-over is a genre-destroying weapon (weaving the fable about Söze killing off the team of hard-boiled criminals he hired one by one). Insofar as genres are ideologies in the Althusserian sense, mapping an “imaginary relationship of individuals to their real conditions of existence” (Althusser 162), the film offers a post-ideological perspective of the world where individuals can directly access the real of the capitalist market without the mediation of now outdated imagined communities like family or brotherhood. As Foucault suggests, under neoliberalism “wage is nothing other than the remuneration, the income allocated to a certain capital, a capital that we will call human capital inasmuch as the ability-machine of which it is the income cannot be separated from the human individual who is its bearer” (Foucault 226). Lacking a generic measure of value beyond the individual, neoliberalism makes no clear distinction between innate and acquired human capital. The abilities determining one’s market value, such as mobility, flexibility, educational investment, or creativity, appear now as components of the simultaneously intrinsic and engineered, but always unique genetic makeup of the neoliberal subject (what Foucault calls genetic human capital) (Foucault 228-233).

    This neoliberal notion of value, Foucault observes, represents a radical break from Marx’s influential theory of value as socially necessary labor time—an abstract category constructed with the economic totality in mind, and therefore detached from the concrete, tangible labor of individual workers (Foucault 221). For Marx, market exchange, by making commodities appear outside their socially interdependent production process, obfuscates the social relations between their producers (hides the fact that their different products contain commensurable units of abstract labor) while also giving these abstract relations of production a concrete, if distorted, expression as “social relations between things” exchangeable with each other for money (Marx 165-66). This is why Marx talks about the “twofold social character” of labor: the abstract “element of the total labor,” and the concrete, “useful private labor,” one of the commodities exchanged on the market insofar as it satisfies particular social needs (166). The same duality appears in the distinction between the (abstract) value and exchange value of commodities in general—a dialectical tension in which Marx locates the source of commodity fetishism: the false attribution of intrinsic value to exchanged things.

    From a Marxian standpoint, Hollywood genres are fetishistically distorted expressions of the social relations between the totality of producers; they are ideological formulas mapping the social relations between (human beings as) exchangeable things, where the source of common measure is not abstract labor but what can be called generic value. Film characters have generic value for viewers insofar as they successfully mediate between two contradictory social functions of generic narratives. On the one hand, as Rick Altman emphasizes, genre plots appeal to audiences by suspending the reality principle of the hegemonic social order in favour of the pleasure principle. “[Generic] pleasure,” he maintains, “derives from a perception that the activities producing it are free from the control exercised by the culture and felt by the spectator in the real world. For most of the film, then, the genre spectator’s pleasure grows as norms of increasing complexity and cultural importance are eluded or violated” (156). In other words, viewers are set up to root for the villains of various genre plots and take pleasure in seeing the social order of a family, a city, or a nation disrupted by internal and external threats. On the other hand, Thomas Schatz asserts, “as social ritual, genre films function to stop time, to portray our culture in a stable and invariable ideological position” (573) by offering symbolic resolutions to the multitude of social conflicts that play out between a genre’s familiar character types. This ideological outcome is reached through a process of reduction whereby characters antagonistic to the dominant culture (such the Indians and outlaws of classical Western films) are eventually either eliminated or integrated into the social order (Schatz 574). Genre plots are therefore examples of ideology’s “inherent transgression” in the Žižekian sense: they offer illicit fantasies of enjoyment that temporarily suspend the explicit rules and norms of the social symbolic order, but these generic pleasures are themselves governed by the “unwritten rules” of genres preventing the transgression from going too far, which is why in the end they help to sustain the status quo (Žižek, The Plague of Fantasies 24-37). In classical Hollywood, this tension is most effectively mediated by the ideal white, heterosexual, male hero described by Robin Wood as “the virile adventurer, the potent, untrammeled man of action,” whose indirect support for the social order genre plots tend to privilege over the “dependable but dull” “settled husband/father”—over the rigid representative of patriarchal law and order incapable of inherent transgression (594). In the classical Western, this hero is the lone cowboy often with a history as a criminal, who saves the community of settlers from bandits/Indians, then rides away into the sunset, like Ringo Kid in John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939). As Žižek puts it, “an ideological identification exerts a true hold on us precisely when we maintain an awareness that we are not fully identical to it, that there is a rich human person beneath it: ‘not all is ideology, beneath the ideological mask, I am also a human person’ is the very form of ideology, of its ‘practical efficiency’” (27). What I call the generic value of Hollywood’s familiar character types is then the degree to which they can serve as vehicles for inherent transgression—for an ideological identification with the “good life” animated by the genre. Far from being a monolithic concept, the “good life” is the name for the lived contradiction between the reality and the pleasure principle—often mapped as the conflict between community and individual—temporarily stabilized in the resolution of the generic plot. In this framework, the ideology of classical liberalism is revealed as generic in nature, its split form establishing the private as the inherent transgression of the public sphere.

    In classical Hollywood genre films, the ideal male hero embodies what Marx calls the general form of value: a commodity expressing the value of other commodities (163), namely the generic value of various character types, who, through the narrative range of inherent transgression set by the white male protagonist, become commensurable with him insofar as they traverse the continuum between the written and unwritten rules of the generic community. In Stagecoach, for instance, Ringo Kid, after redeeming himself from his criminal past by helping to save the white settlers from an Apache attack, lends his generic value to the prostitute Dallas by proposing to marry her, retroactively turning her sexual deviance into a transgression inherent to the Western’s normative community. If, as Richard Dyer observes, whiteness in classical genre films functions as an invisible social norm connoting “order, rationality, [and] rigidity” (47-48), generic masculinity can be seen as the variable that adds the ideologically acceptable deviation from this norm. On the other hand, characters who are eliminated in the plot’s final resolution offer transgressive pleasures for audiences that are excessive, beyond the ideological range of the genre, that is, beyond the measure of generic value. In The Ususal Suspects, Keaton represents the trajectory of the classical Hollywood hero: he is a former crime boss who has turned into a legitimate restaurant owner with the help of his uptown New York lawyer girlfriend. Predictably, he is the police’s number one Söze suspect; they misread him playing the classical gangster’s game of inherent transgression, using his legal businesses as a front for more lucrative criminal enterprises. By contrast, Verbal/Söze is like a classical villain with a potentially unlimited (incommensurable) range of transgressions, which, however, are mobilized through his self-made fiction of a neoliberal entrepreneur rather than the physical action of a classical hero (he remains at the police station until the very end of the film except for the flashbacks he narrates with dubious authenticity).

    The Usual Suspects sets up the contrast between neoliberal and generic masculinity via the scene of the lineup, an image that also serves as the publicity poster for the film. The lineup presents the five male protagonists standing against a white wall with a height chart—a panoptic device of the law constructed to measure their (masculine) deviance. They are picked up by the police as the “usual” (or we might say: generic) suspects in an armed robbery where the perpetrators left no hard evidence, and are asked to read the line, “Hand me the keys, you fucking cocksucker!” out loud so the security guard who witnessed the crime could identify their voice. Since none of them (with the possible exception of Verbal) were involved, they treat the questioning as an opportunity to prove their manhood (generic value) to the law, alternating between the performance of cool detachment (Hockney and Keaton) and ridiculously exaggerated macho mannerisms (McManus and Fenster)—two affective extremes of the stereotypical Hollywood gangster demarcating a range of inherent transgression. It is only Verbal who actually produces a tone of voice, both calm and threatening, that could have been used by the robbers. In addition, he accentuates the word “me” in the sentence, providing a clue to the suspect’s “true” identity—and yet he, the “cripple,” won’t be treated as a real suspect (and similarly, the spectator doesn’t pay attention to him because he doesn’t offer the same generic pleasures as the others). To use Žižek’s distinction in “Desire: Drive = Truth: Knowledge,” Verbal thereby lies in the guise of the truth (148): his response could very well be factually accurate, but his visible nonconformity to the generic masks of masculine criminality undercuts the symbolic efficiency of his statement, turning it opaque. The others, by contrast, tell the truth in the guise of a lie: while their posturing doesn’t have a factual basis (they didn’t commit the robbery), their performance reveals their identification with the gangster type. Contrary to his peers, Verbal ignores the fetish of a generic masculinity that he is supposed to express to gain status among the others, and it is because of this that he is able to treat this exercise, like his entire narration, as calculated roleplaying.

    Along these lines, one can argue that The Usual Suspects is a post-patriarchal film: by revealing the nonexistence of the hyper-phallic gangster boss Söze, an ideal that none of the protagonists can really embody, generic masculinity is de-fetishized, exposed as a hollow shell—or as Judith Butler would say: a performance with no essential core at its center—and Verbal’s market value is attributed not to his manliness (his generic human capital) but to his entrepreneurial abilities as an individual (his genetic human capital). For Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, this is how Empire, the global regime of neoliberal capitalism, functions: instead of ideologically prescribing a particular identity for the multitude of productive subjects, as former paradigms of capital accumulation did, Empire mobilizes the creative potential of human life as such, even in the forms that were formerly considered useless and unproductive (like Verbal’s disabilities). Rather than tying value to previously fetishized forms of western white heterosexual masculinity, now “the construction of value takes place beyond measure,” “determined only by humanity’s own continuous innovation and creation” (Hardt and Negri 356).

    A closer look at its identity politics, however, reveals the dissolution of the film’s post-ideological facade. After his release from police custody, Verbal drops the fake limp and stutter he performed to remain invisible among hardened criminals and lawmen flaunting their machismo, and he is driven away in a Jaguar by his chauffeur/lawyer as an able-bodied white man of the American bourgeoisie—a clear exception to the paradigm of entrepreneurial self-reliance. As it turns out, he strategically wore the mask of the social abject not to subvert hegemonic masculinity but to make it more flexible, hybrid, and all-encompassing, deploying it against the limited range of his male peers’ generic tough-guy personas. This synthesis between hegemonic and abject is perfectly captured in the protagonist’s (fake) German-Turkish hyphenated identity: while in flashbacks he is depicted as a dark-skinned, long-haired gypsy from the Balkans (a romanticized nomadic subject in the southeastern border zone of Europe), he has a western name (Kaiser is German for “emperor”). He is an “abject hegemonic”7 subject of a neoliberal Empire that, despite its openness to the productive potential of multiple forms of life, hasn’t quite given up its allegiance to white masculinity as its fetishistic anchoring point.

    Verbal’s performance of neoliberal entrepreneurship—and the film’s—is therefore doubly cynical: first, for putting on counter-hegemonic masks without believing in them, and second, for embracing white masculinity after undermining its generic status as common measure. This double cynicism constitutes the film’s neoliberal persona as completely flexible yet utterly rigid. On the one hand, through Verbal’s subjective narration, the film interpellates the viewer as a cynic in Paolo Virno’s sense of the term, as the figure who emerges after the decline of the classical liberal social contract that used to ground the symbolic community of equal citizens who share common values. “From the outset,” Virno argues, cynics “renounce any search for an inter-subjective foundation for their praxis, as well as any claim to a standard of judgement which shares the nature of a moral evaluation” (88). As a cynic, he suggests, one “catches a glimpse of oneself in individual ‘games’ which are destitute of all seriousness and obviousness, having become nothing more than a place for immediate self-affirmation—a self-affirmation which is all the more brutal and arrogant, in short, cynical, the more it draws upon, without illusions but with perfect momentary allegiance, those same rules which characterize conventionality and mutability” (87). Cynics are not bound by the generic range of inherent transgression because they don’t believe in shared symbolic norms—the background against which their transgressions could be commensurable with the transgressions of others. On the other hand, the film is also cynical in the Žižekian sense insofar as its cynicism betrays an unconscious, post-generic ideology on its own:

    The fundamental level of ideology […] is not that of an illusion masking the real state of things but that of an (unconscious) fantasy structuring our social reality itself. And at this level, we are of course far from being a post-ideological society. Cynical distance is just one way—one of many ways—to blind ourselves to the structuring power of ideological fantasy: even if we do not take things seriously, even if we keep an ironical distance, we are still doing them. (The Sublime Object of Ideology 30)

    Ideologies are effective not (merely) because we believe in them, but because we enjoy practicing them (73). We should add a distinction here between generic and extra-generic enjoyment: while the former is the expression of the pleasure principle as the inherent transgression of the reality principle and therefore remains tied to ideological belief in intersubjective norms, the latter can be understood as what Žižek (after Lacan) calls the surplus-enjoyment (jouissance) beyond the pleasure principle (89). In the case of the film, this beyond the pleasure principle is found beyond the generic range of inherent transgression, and therefore beyond common measure.8 Cynicism undermines ideological investment in the former but not in the latter. In the neoliberal era, cynical reason (not generic belonging) is purported to guarantee the self-governing subject’s market value through entrepreneurial self-fashioning. Ideology returns as the constitutive exception to this paradigm: as the no less cynical enjoyment of one’s socially constructed identity as private property (genetic human capital), beyond its function as the general equivalent of value.

    In The Usual Suspects, cynical (post-generic, but ideological) enjoyment is solicited most explicitly in the final scene, when Verbal drops his fake limp, lights a cigarette, and gets into his Jaguar, while the audio track repeats fragments of his unreliable voiceover narration. He silently exchanges gazes and smirks with his driver Kobayashi, whom the viewer recognizes as Söze’s lawyer from Verbal’s narrative—a white man engaged, much like the protagonist, in a symbolic performance of racial drag to lend himself an impenetrable Oriental authority. What is captured here is the moment when the engineered aspects of the neoliberal subject’s human capital are retroactively transformed into innate, genetic capital expressed through signifiers of white affluence—or, to put it differently, this is the moment when the aesthetic of cynical reason is transformed into that of cynical enjoyment. Contrary to classical genre films, whiteness doesn’t function here as the symbolic norm against which generic transgressions can be measured, but as the ultimate transgression, conspiracy against the social order. Unlike generic white masculinity, this genetic white masculinity is not a universal measure of the “good life” but a state of exception from it, a privilege gained through its neoliberal deconstruction. The genetic value of the film, that is, the fundamental, unconscious ideological fantasy offered to the viewer for surplus enjoyment beyond the puzzle-algorithms of Verbal’s tactically changing masks is then white masculinity as the hidden monopoly of human capital, the condition of possibility of successful neoliberal entrepreneurship. Unlike the inherent transgressions of the film’s now obsolete criminals, this new white masculinity is fetishized as the mysterious, innate component of genetic human capital that makes the market value of the neoliberal “abilities-machine” potentially infinite.

    The Proto-Neoliberalism of Classical Noir

    It is no coincidence that The Usual Suspects uses film noir tropes (voice-over confession, nonlinear narration, homme fatale, deception and betrayal, murder as an existentialist act, etc.) to reflect on the transformation of Hollywood cinema in the age of neoliberal cynicism. Film noir, in its classical form, is the Hollywood discourse of the self-enclosed, alienated modern subject par excellence—a generic anomaly that emerged during the sociopolitical rupture of the Second World War and pushed the film industry’s established visions of the “good life” into crisis. As I have argued, the “good life” offered in generic fantasies is the result of a fragile balance between its characters’ docility and transgression, their abiding by and subverting the abstract law of the land. Film noir, however, tips this balance in favour of a surplus enjoyment (jouissance) that, instead of serving as the measure of inherent transgression, is exhibited as the burdensome property of an isolated individual, an (anti-)hero’s existential excess without generic value. As Hugh Manon notes, noir’s typical male protagonist has a desire for a femme fatale that, despite its ostensibly heteronormative nature, is fundamentally masturbatory. Instead of seeking heterosexual intimacy, the male hero tends to be fixated on fetish objects, the real function of which is to block their access to the woman they merely pretend to pursue. Walter Neff, the homicidal insurance salesman of Double Indemnity (1944), for instance, falls in love with the ankle bracelet of his female partner in crime, Phyllis Dietrichson, only for his already distorted desire for the woman to get further diverted by his male colleague, Keyes, who is investigating them for murder and insurance fraud. Keyes is the obstacle to the heterosexual couple’s official romantic quest and therefore the real-impossible homoerotic love object to whom Walter addresses the final intimate confession of his sins. While in classical narratives, Manon argues, obstacles to heterosexual romance are challenges set to raise the male protagonist’s desire for his partner (they are what Lacan calls objet a, the object-cause of desire), noir’s perverse hero gets fixated on the obstacle, which prevents him from getting the “good life” he is supposed to want (31).

    From a Lacanian standpoint, film noir’s fixation on the pervert’s private jouissance signals the crisis of the symbolic order’s efficiency in keeping enjoyment at bay by limiting it to a generic range of illicit fantasies. As Joan Copjec observes, the noir narrative centers on the shameless exhibition of jouissance that overturns the former (liberal democratic) notion of privacy as a “clandestine exception” (183) to public visibility—the balanced dialectic between the reality principle and the pleasure principle that gave form to genre films. When considering the role of the symbolic order in the field of vision, Lacan stresses that human subjectivity is always already a condition of being looked at by the gaze of a presupposed other. This gaze is the real, primordially separated objectal correlate (objet a) to the subject, the reminder of his founding trauma, the constitutive loss of jouissance he suffered when entering the social symbolic order. It is both a testament to his inability to reach completeness by eliminating the other, and the cornerstone of the fantasy that his self-disclosure as a fully enjoying subject is nevertheless possible (Lacan 83). The symbolic order functions here as a mediatory bar between objet a and the subject insofar as, contrary to the (impossible) real gaze, the gaze of the symbolic (big) Other is part blind, and therefore unable to see the supposedly complete, fully enjoying self the subject imagines to have lost. By giving up the attempt to fully recover it, the subject can take partial control over his loss, fill in its place with socially constructed fantasy scenes of desire that cover over the traumatic real of objet a. Symbolically “castrated” or “split” subjects therefore have access to a limited enjoyment in a separate, neither public, nor fully private, but emphatically social sphere (like the one mapped by Hollywood genres) where they imagine that the gaze of a public authority (such as the Production Code censor) cannot fully see them.

    However, as Žižek asserts, in film noir’s atomized social landscape (which lacks the mediation of modern symbolic institutions such as the bourgeois family, the workplace, the army, or the church), the isolated male hero becomes terrorized by the hallucinated return of the all-seeing, real gaze of his superego, which, unlike symbolic authority, not only knows about jouissance but even commands it, turning it into a perverse ethical duty, from the call of which there is nowhere to hide (Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom! 149-162). Copjec describes this shift as the move from “the old modern order of desire, ruled over by an oedipal [symbolic] father” to “the new order of drive” in which “ever smaller factions of people [are] proclaiming their duty-bound devotion to their own special brand of enjoyment” (182-183). This new noir subject of drive is caught in the libidinal economy that Manon calls perverse, as it suspends the forward movement of generic narratives towards the desired symbolic resolution of their conflicts. Instead, the subject gains satisfaction from what Lacan associates with the topology of drive: the repetitive, circular movement around objet a (Lacan 174-187). As Copjec maintains, the ultimate noir fetish is the masturbatory jouissance of one’s own being, the subject’s own gaze and voice as objet a that, without the mediation of the symbolic, fall back on him. The noir protagonist is driven to make his inner excess seen and heard, paradoxically, beyond the possibility of reciprocal communication and acknowledgement, to the point where it clearly undermines his belonging to any generic community of common measure and risks sliding into madness (Copjec 188).

    There are two clarifying remarks to make here. First, for Lacan “the drive […] is profoundly a death drive and represents in itself the portion of death in the sexed living being” (205). Second, this portion of death is immanent to the symbolic order, not some enjoyment-substance separate from it. As Alenka Zupančič puts it, “it is by means of the repetition of a certain signifier that we have access to jouissance and not by means of going beyond the signifier” (158). She argues that Lacan describes this unconventional deployment of the signifier with his category of the “unary trait,” a contingent semiotic marker, like a nervous tick or a unique tone of voice, that becomes libidinally invested by the subject, standing for his singular being in the world. “The uniqueness of the trait,” she argues, “springs from the fact that it marks the relation of the subject to satisfaction or enjoyment, that is to say, it marks the point (or the trace) of their conjunction” (157). As a contingent stand-in for objet a that carries no meaning, the unary trait is part of a non-signifying semiotic; as the gravitational center of the subject’s libidinal economy it perpetuates the repetitive jouissance of the death drive, the surplus enjoyment that is the useless but necessary byproduct of the social symbolic order (Zupančič 159). It is this nonsensical death drive that comes to the fore in film noir’s fetishization of the unary trait through formal devices such as the voice-over, extreme facial close-ups, skewed camera angles reflecting the fantasy of being looked at from a unique perspective, and flashbacks to traumatic or emotionally charged past events like the male hero’s first encounter with the femme fatale, whose intense presence is often condensed into a piece of clothing or jewelry. The death drive is the Lacanian name for the unproductive excess of life, for life threatening to throw itself off balance. It doesn’t so much kill the organism as infinitely prolong its agony, like that of the noir hero stuck in a lonely place, between social life and biological death, with the self-enclosed enjoyment of his voice, which “bear[s] the burden of a living death, a kind of inexhaustible suffering” (Copjec 185).

    Walter Neff is a case in point insofar as he narrates his perverted crime story as a flashback while fatally wounded; the deadly bullet in his body fired by Phyllis Dietrichson marks his singular encounter with jouissance. Driven by death, he then records his confession of murdering both Phyllis and her husband on a dictaphone, addressing Keyes as if he were his all-knowing, obscene, machinic superego demanding proof that Walter had been enjoying properly—a pervert’s projection that undermines his homosocial friendship with his colleague. As Žižek insists, the paralyzing relationship to such a hallucinated all-seeing gaze in film noir should not be simply identified with illicit homosexual desire, nor should it be reduced to the power of rebellious femininity: whoever comes to occupy the place of the superego is there as the noir hero’s fetish, masking the fundamental breakdown of the social symbolic order (Žižek, Enjoy Your Symptom 160). It’s important therefore to distinguish this psychoanalytic notion of the fetish from Marxian commodity fetishism. As Žižek explains, “in Marxism a fetish conceals the positive network of social relations, whereas in Freud a fetish conceals the lack (‘castration’) around which the symbolic network is articulated” (Žižek, Sublime Object 50). In classical Hollywood films, commodity fetishism is responsible for the generic value of characters, while the psychoanalytic fetish signifies the unary trait as an exception from and an existential threat to the regime of generic value. It is the fetishistic taming of the void of the real in the psychoanalytic sense that Copjec identifies in the noir hero’s desperate attempt to impose rational limits on his surplus enjoyment by establishing it as matter of exchange with an all-powerful specter of the femme fatale. This is why, she argues, in Double Indeminty Walter accepts Phyllis’s proposal to murder her husband for his life insurance money, then blames her in his voice-over confession for his own death drive that eventually destroys them both. “Having chosen jouissance,” Copjec argues, “the noir hero risks its shattering, annihilating effects, which threaten his very status as subject. In order to indemnify himself against these dangers, he creates in the femme fatale a double to which he surrenders the jouissance he cannot himself sustain” (193-94).

    Critical readers have argued that Hollywood’s “noir anxiety”9 about the boundaries of traditional gender roles and its panic-ridden attempts to re-establish them were responses to the Second World War, during which many women in the US had to enter the workforce. As a result, after the war the returning GIs were faced with a double loss; not only did they have to abandon the enjoyment of wartime male bonding, but their formerly homosocial workplace back home also lost its phallic status, that is, its clear separation from the feminine household. As life returned to “normal,” a large number of women were eventually fired from their jobs, and the femme fatale, representing the threat of female labor power, also gradually disappeared from film noir (Boozer 23). At the core of film noir is therefore a conflict inherent in the capitalist mode of production that the Wertkritik (value criticism) school of Marxism refers to as value dissociation. Contra Marx, Wertkritik argues that fetishism is already at work at the level of production, not merely in commodity circulation. In other words, the classical Marxian notion of value is itself a fetish (Trenkle 9). As Roswitha Scholz asserts, Marx’s concept of abstract labor, far from being the objective measure of value in capitalism, is an ideological construct created through the devaluation of non-productive activities seen as the gendered opposite of “commodity-producing patriarchy” (Scholz 125). What Wertkrtitik calls “value dissociation,” Scholz argues, “means that capitalism contains a core of female determined reproductive activities and the affects, characteristics, and attitudes (emotionality, sensuality, and female or motherly caring) that are dissociated from value and abstract labor” (127). The theory of value dissociation can explain why capitalism’s transformation of all human life into wage labor threatens to undermine its own condition of possibility: an effective organizing principle of “abstract” labor is always already distorted by an ideology of sexual difference. This is the contradiction American society had to face during the Second World War when the use of a female labor force both strengthened and weakened the nation: it increased production but destabilized the masculine identity of workers—a tension that could be resolved through the re-exclusion of femininity from the productive community.

    Nevertheless, such a reading of film noir as an allegory for fetishized labor relations ignores the ways in which the noir universe is fundamentally antithetical to both productive and reproductive labor (the fact that it is primarily the psychoanalytic, not the Marxian fetish that drives the noir narrative). In Double Indemnity Phyllis is a bored housewife plotting to kill her husband, fatally distracting Walter from his respectable job as a salesman. As Vivian Sobchack argues, the noir narrative operates under a spatiotemporal suspension she calls the chronotope of “lounge time,” where the protagonists idle their life away in hotel rooms, dining lounges, night clubs, gambling joints, and cars, cut off from the stability and safety of work and home alike, forever stuck in a transitory moment without arriving anywhere. From the standpoint of Wertkritik, noir’s atmosphere of unproductive, anxious idleness signals the crisis of not only masculine labor but productive labor as such, that is to say, of capitalism’s real abstraction, guaranteeing the common measure of value in different human lives that served as the economic base of the ideology of classical liberalism. This is why in film noir the capitalist market turns from benevolent invisible hand co-measuring the economic endeavours of equal-born citizens into a “life-as-a-jungle setting” where individuals seek to express their life’s value as genetic human capital beyond a general equivalent. This is the stake of the final confrontation between Walter and Phyllis in Double Indemnity: while both protagonists have chosen their private jouissance over the ideological pleasures of the dominant society when they murdered Phyllis’s husband (the film’s symbolic father figure), to fully express their individuality (to have full control over the insurance money) they each have to become independent from their partner in crime. Such a drive for individual self-fetishization is the drive to reveal one’s objet a to the real-impossible superego gaze of the market beyond the mediation of liberal democracy’s symbolic order. This is the properly proto-neoliberal dream of classical noir: to valorize the idiosyncratic jouissance of one’s unary trait, the fundamentally unproductive dimension of the subject, emancipated from any socially mediated generic value.

    Classical noir’s proto-neoliberal project, however, fails when it hits the bedrock of patriarchal value-dissociation. In Double Indemnity, both protagonists bring a gun to their final meeting; Phyllis shoots first, wounding Walter. Surprisingly, she does not kill him with a second shot but confesses her love for him instead. As Robert Pippin writes, “We have come to expect from her what she clearly expects from herself—unremitting self-interest, her destiny—and her own genuine puzzlement at what she does not do, what in effect gets her killed, figures the puzzlement of the viewers” (104). Phyllis, for a brief, tragic moment, seems to realize the internal contradiction of her death drive: while it is a drive towards fetishistic self-valorization, it simultaneously undermines the social condition of capitalist value under commodity-producing patriarchy, that is, membership in masculine community. By contrast, when Walter, skeptical of her sudden change of heart (“Sorry baby, I don’t buy it”), shoots Phyllis dead, he does it as a man reacting to the feminine jouissance (love) that threatens to de-quantify his life’s market value (the insurance payoff he got for his murder). Through this act, he establishes a minimal distance between his socially mediated gender role and his death drive. In Lacanian terms, he symbolically castrates himself by setting up a bar between himself and his objet a in order to project the latter on Phyllis, disavowing the woman’s autonomous subjectivity so she could be reduced to her role as femme fatale (a villain to be eliminated) in a generic patriarchal fantasy. This is why his subsequent voice-over confession can be finally overheard by Keyes, even though the earlier addressee of Walter’s message had been the real-impossible gaze of his own superego. And this is how, although his colleague officially condemns him by calling the police, their brief exchange can restore patriarchy as the dominant generic institution of capitalist value production:

    Walter:

    “You know why you couldn’t figure this one, Keyes? I’ll tell you. Because the guy you were looking for was too close. He was right across the desk from you.” Keyes:

    “Closer than that, Walter.” Walter:

    “I love you too.”

    The film then ends with Keyes lighting Walter’s cigarette.

    From Death Drive to Stubborn Attachment

    In Double Indemnity, the death-driven excess of the male hero’s singular jouissance is therefore ambiguous: it’s condemned but also indirectly valorized over the femme fatale‘s, reflecting the gender hierarchy of commodity-producing patriarchy based on the exclusion of feminine life from masculine value-producing labor. It reveals the conjunction of the ideological operation of value dissociation (Walter’s killing of Phyllis) with a generic regime of labor (the homosocial work-relationship between Walter and his colleague Keynes) while also repressing it by enforcing the symbolic norms of the Hollywood Production Code (Walter is punished for his crime). In other words, masculine jouissance appears here as patriarchy’s unforgivable yet necessary original sin, something beyond measure that sets up (white) masculinity as a general equivalent of value. With the advent of neoliberalism proper in the 70s, production becomes increasingly decentered and deterritorialized, extending the regime of capital accumulation to hitherto devalued spheres of human life, like that of femininity. In this mode, traditional value-dissociation starts to lose its efficacy. While in classical noir the femme fatale‘s death-driven narrative trajectory serves as a cautionary tale about the impossibility of generic human capital outside patriarchy, in neo-noir she returns as an entrepreneur of herself, representing the vanguard of the new economic paradigm precisely because of her subversion of the now outdated commodity-producing patriarchy.

    In Body Heat (1981), a Reagan-era, post-Production Code reimagining of Double Indemnity, not only is the female protagonist, Matty, allowed to get away with orchestrating the murder of her rich husband, she then successfully emancipates herself from her partner in crime, Ned, whom she dupes into taking the fall for her. In the film’s denouement, when Ned discovers that his femme fatale lover is planning to kill him with explosives rigged to the door of a boathouse, he asks her to prove her love to him by opening the door herself. The woman calls his bluff and starts walking towards the building while the camera remains static, giving us Ned’s point of view. Before she disappears into the darkness, she stops and turns back for a moment, her white dress and blonde hair lit up by moonlight, uttering with a soft voice: “Ned, no matter what you think, I do love you!” Once her image fades into black, a reverse shot shows the growing doubt on Ned’s face. He starts running after her, but it is too late: the boathouse goes up in flames. We then cut to Ned in prison a few months after, yet again suspicious about Matty’s real intentions. He manages to get ahold of a copy of her high school yearbook that proves she stole the identity of one of her classmates after most likely murdering her. Matty’s real name is Mary, nicknamed “The Vamp” by her fellow students—a serial homecoming queen whose declared ambition (unary trait) was “to be rich and to live in an exotic island.” The close-up of her yearbook photo then transitions to show Matty lying on the beach of an actual tropical island, but instead of satisfaction her face is fraught with melancholy. A local man by her side asks, “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?” referring to the cocktail that was just served to her. “What?” she asks without looking. “It’s hot,” he says, to which the distracted woman answers “Yes…” with an empty tone. The camera tilts up from her profile, settling on the clouds covering the blue sky while the credits start rolling.

    This new femme fatale both differs from and fundamentally resembles her classical predecessor. On the one hand, as a neoliberal entrepreneur of herself she now manages to outmaneuver the generic patriarchal gaze by consciously masquerading as the stereotypical spider woman fetishized by classical noir’s male protagonist. By performing her femininity for a symbolic (part blind, ignorant) rather than a real (all-seeing) gaze, she tames the classical noir femme fatale‘s death drive and avoids being discarded as the devalued double of the male hero: the clueless Ned is duped into “excluding” a mere simulacrum of the historically fetishized fatal woman while Matty slips away. At the same time, her singular jouissance (expressed through her unary trait), the reward for her separation from the regime of generic masculinity, is depicted as melancholy, sutured together through continuity editing with the gaze of the man she pushed away, remaining obsessed with her femme fatale persona. Butler calls this phenomenon stubborn attachment, arguing that subjects would rather maintain their subordination to a power apparatus in an unhappy consciousness than have no attachment at all, which leads them to desire unfreedom even when their masters are gone (Butler 31-63). Butler sees a melancholic stubborn attachment, an inability/unwillingness to mourn a lost libidinal cathexis, at the core of all gender identities (132-51). While she focuses on the child’s affections for the same-sex parent, which are ungrievable in heteronormative societies, her theoretical framework can be extended to the subject formation involved in Body Heat‘s neoliberal identity politics where the mourning (letting go) of the generic white male patriarch would leave the femme fatale‘s entrepreneurial scheme without an anchoring point against which to direct itself. Cutting this umbilical cord would jeopardize the woman’s indirect membership in a productive community, risking the loss of her life’s generic value for capitalism.

    The film offers a dialectical image of neoliberalism where the immobile white man (Ned, stuck in prison for murder) and the feminine nomadic subject (Matty, travelling alone for pleasure) are conjoined in a unity, allegorizing the mutual dependence of patriarchal law and the feminine flight from it, generic and genetic human capital, territorialization and deterritorialization. In a temporal synthesis of past and present, America’s mid-century regime of commodity-producing patriarchy is pushed away but also evoked with nostalgia. As Fredric Jameson observes,

    Everything in the film […] conspires to blur its official contemporaneity and make it possible for the viewer to receive the narrative as though it were set in some eternal thirties, beyond real historical time. This approach to the present by way of the art language of the simulacrum, or of the pastiche of the stereotypical past, endows present reality and the openness of present history with the spell and distance of a glossy mirage. (30)10

    This nostalgic tone of the film makes Matty’s neoliberal jouissance the inherent transgression of commodity-producing patriarchy, valorizing her singular affect only as the melancholy she feels over leaving generic masculinity behind.

    From Stubborn Attachment to Cynical Self-Affirmation

    Contrary to Double Indemnity and Body Heat, The Usual Suspects presents a neoliberal subject who is neither death driven nor melancholic but is, as we have seen, cynical. In the historical trajectory of American neoliberalism, the film can be productively read as a backlash noir, part of a conservative response to second wave feminism’s emancipation of women from the constraints of the household. As Margaret Cohen argues, since the late 80s a series of neo-noirs like Internal Affairs (1990), Bad Influence (1990), and The Silence of the Lambs (1991) had started replacing the femme fatale with an homme fatale figure resembling the Freudian primordial father as a patriarchal reaction against the growing female presence in the neoliberal job market. The specter of the non-castrated man (like The Silence of the Lambs‘s cannibal-psychiatrist or Internal Affairs‘s sexually overpotent policeman-godfather) is conjured up as an ideological guarantee that real power will remain with those who not only have the symbolic phallus (the signifier of power) but also an actual penis, as Margaret Cohen argues. The Usual Suspects reproduces this backlash masculinity but with a cynical twist. Verbal doesn’t actually embody characteristics of the primordial father; he rather mobilizes the narrative of such demonic masculinity (“Keyser Söze is the Devil!” cries one of his victims) as an efficient device of capital accumulation, part of the neoliberal “abilities-machine” inseparable from his opaquely ordinary white male body. The return of this ordinary manhood as the exceptional rather than the generic index of a now hybrid, decentered, and deterritorialized capitalist apparatus—abstract and unmappable, like Keyser Söze himself, in its multitude of incompatible language games—provides the final twist of the film. It is as if the earlier unconscious attachment of the female-driven neo-noir suddenly came back to life, breaking from his quarantine as an impotent remainder of a past regime of production (Ned in Body Heat) to stabilize the new, increasingly abstract rule of neoliberal capitalism. Unlike Walter or Matty, whose attachment to commodity-producing patriarchy contradicts and thereby weakens their flight from it, Verbal’s enjoyment of his white male identity doesn’t undermine his cynical masquerade because white masculinity changes its status from general equivalent to genetic exception. If generic white masculinity was the ideologically distorted manifestation of abstract labor’s principle of equivalence, the genetic white masculinity of Verbal is rather the fetishistic expression of another one of capitalism’s real abstractions: the creditor who is exempted from the universal paradigm of abstract labor and accumulates capital passively by making others work for him through debt bondage. Crucially, it is their debt to Keyser Söze that connects the five male protagonists in Verbal’s narrative, a debt that disrupts the criminals’ generic life of inherent transgressions while also parasitizing it as the basis of their prolonged repayment process (the men keep doing assignments for Söze until they are dead, and viewers continue to enjoy the generic value they thereby create until the end of the plotline).

    Viewed through the lens of the creditor/debtor relation, the classical noir hero’s death-driven, impossible quest to put value on his real self (his unary trait) appears as an attempt to pay back an unpayable debt to a hallucinated real superego-other beyond the liberal democratic symbolic order. To put it differently, classical noir depicts the creditor/debtor relation as a perversion of the private sphere, an unproductive excess to the genres of commodity-producing patriarchy. By contrast, the neo-noir cynic turns the creditor/debtor hierarchy into a productive social relation, positioning himself as a creditor in the real by giving the impression that he is always more than the sum of his symbolic masks. Significantly, Keyser Söze is not Verbal’s own superego, but a superego he created for others (generic men) to indebt and control them, a meta-generic device to extract the generic value out of their lives, much the same way finance (the creditor/debtor relation) comes to overdetermine the sphere of production in neoliberalism, undermining the classical liberal fiction of equal citizenship.11 Söze, the neoliberal fetish of absolute individual sovereignty, is like the feudal monarch in Marx’s example: “king only because other men stand in the relation of subjects to him. They, on the contrary, imagine that they are subjects because he is king” (Marx, Capital 149). In a striking contrast to both Double Indeminty‘s Walter and Body Heat‘s Matty, The Usual Suspects‘s Verbal lacks any unary trait, a unique point of conjunction between his enjoyment and the signifier he would be anxiously fixated on. At the end of the film, we learn that he randomly used signifiers from his interrogator’s office (e.g. newspaper clippings attached to the wall in front of him or the brand name Kobayashi displayed at the bottom of his coffee mug) to embellish his fake Keyser Söze narrative. It is thus not Verbal as an individual but capital itself that is, to use Marx’s term, the “automatic subject” of this masquerade, “constantly changing from one form into the other, without becoming lost in this movement” (Marx, Capital 255). Verbal’s (and the film’s) jouissance lies somewhere else entirely, revealed, as I have suggested, at the very end of the film when he stops being the facilitator for capital’s shifting automatisms and momentarily stabilizes himself as a white man, exceptional and enigmatic in his very ordinariness. Only then can he enjoy the creditor’s privilege of not having to be the entrepreneur of himself, and the viewer can likewise finally rest from the cognitive labor of puzzle solving.12

    The Usual Suspects manages to reconcile the tension between searching for the real-impossible exchange value of the subject’s singular life and the generic apparatus needed for its valorization—the tension at the core of classical noir. It finds a way to represent uniqueness as productive without letting it slip into death-driven madness (the problem with classical noir) or normalizing it only as unhappy consciousness (the shortcoming of melancholic neo-noir). The film’s solution is a theological one, following the New Testament injunction, “Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God” (New Living Translation, Mark 12.17). Singularity is externalized on the Capital-God (Keyser Söze), whom Caesar (Verbal, the neoliberal cynic) unleashes on the multitude as credit, thereby freeing himself from the burden of death driven self-valorization, mandating the indebted others to do it for him (instead of doing it himself) and exploiting the productive potential of their generic identities until they dissolve in the process. For the white male neoliberal subject of The Usual Suspects, the key to a successful entrepreneurship of the self therefore isn’t self-realization but self-splitting (self-castration), not the pursuit of authenticity but the cynical installation of a bar between one’s always shifting social symbolic masks and the jouissance of belonging to an exceptional, unchanging, and unproductive creditor community that manages the capital accumulation of others from a distance. If the classical noir subject’s unproductive jouissance was a pathological, death-driven excess of the generic regime of commodity-producing patriarchy, in cynical neo-noir this jouissance returns as the genetic human capital driving neoliberal finance to parasitize the generic value of the indebted multitude.

    Footnotes

    1. Joan Copjec, “The Phenomenal Nonphenomenal: Private Space in Film Noir” 183.

    2. Michel Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics: Lectures at the College de France (1978-79) 226.

    3. In his analysis of Cosmopolis (2012) and Nightcrawler (2014), Kirk Boyle similarly observes that the protagonists of contemporary neo-noirs can defy realist character representation and act as allegorical stand-ins for the political economic abstractions of neoliberal capitalism.

    4. Going a step further, in his commentary on Foucault’s theory of neoliberalism, Byung-Chul Han suggests that “Today, we do not deem ourselves subjugated subjects, but rather projects: always refashioning and reinventing ourselves” (1).

    5. For a detailed conceptualization of the way the cinematic apparatus turns viewer attention into capital, see Jonathan Beller (88-150).

    6. As Tiqqun suggest, neoliberalism is therefore best understood as a cybernetic project of “producing social self-regulation” through “the visible production of what Adam Smith called the ‘invisible hand.’” Similarly, Han argues that freely turning oneself into a neoliberal project is “a more efficient kind of subjectivation and subjugation” (1).

    7. For an analysis of how self-abjection can be an efficient tactic of hegemonic masculinity, see Claire Sisco King, “It Cuts Both Ways: Fight Club, Masculinity, and Abject Hegemony.”

    8. The Lacanian separation of pleasure and (surplus-)enjoyment (jouissance) recalls the Deleuzian distinction Steven Shaviro makes (after Brian Massumi) between emotion and affect: “affect is primary, non-conscious, asubjective or presubjective, asignifying, unqualified and intensive; while emotion is derivative, conscious, qualified and meaningful, a ‘content’ that can be attributed to an already-constituted subject” (3). However, while it’s tempting to identify jouissance with affect in this narrow sense, the crucial difference between the two categories is that for Shaviro, affect escapes social subjection, while for Žižek, jouissance, however unconscious it may be, is nevertheless the core component of any ideological subject position.

    9. For a study of anxiety as a quintessential film noir affect, see Kelly Oliver and Benigno Trigo, Noir Anxiety.

    10. For Jameson, the aesthetic forms of postmodern cinema can offer a cognitive mapping of our global capitalist situation through allegory, representing local power dynamics in relation to the sublime forces of the capitalist totality. For more recent examples of Jamesonian film theory used as the cognitive mapping of neoliberal capitalism, see Alberto Toscano and Jeff Kinkle, Cartographies of the Absolute, and Clint Burnham, Fredric Jameson and the Wolf of Wall Street.

    11. On the centrality of the creditor/debtor hierarchy in neoliberalism see Maurizio Lazzarato, The Making of the Indebted Man: An Essay on the Neoliberal Condition. In popular cinema, the horror genre has been the most studied as an allegory for the political economic abstractions of the neoliberal creditor/debtor relation. See Fred Botting, “Undead-Ends: Zombie Debt/Zombie Theory,” and Mark Steven, Splatter Capital: The Political Economy.

    12. Interestingly, the white male Verbal’s dis-identification from capital’s automatic subjectivity is the exact opposite of what Shaviro sees as the afrofuturist strategy of absolute identification with capital in Grace Jones’s music video Corporate Cannibal (2008). There, Jones’s digitally altered body becomes “an electronic signal whose modulations pulse across the screen,” embodying the versatility and flexibility of neoliberal capital (Shaviro 16).

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  • Leo Bersani’s Speculative Aesthetics

    Mikko Tuhkanen (bio)

    Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth, that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens.–Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Circles”

    We live in a universe of circulating forms—at once material and spiritual—that, while colliding with and resisting one another, also continuously repeat, re-find one another. The viability of our being-in-the-world depends on a certain continuity in our exchanges with an otherness never wholly differentiated from ourselves. The perception of correspondences and analogies is the preliminary step to the discovery as well as the creation of new correspondences and analogies.–Leo Bersani, Receptive Bodies

    Original thought cannot be “criticized”; one can only move with—which is to say, be moved by—it, only yield to its rhythm or fascination. “Critical” approaches not only assume that an object is available for recognition, that extant criteria suffice for its translation, they also embrace the reactive ethos whose hegemony in nineteenth-century historiography Friedrich Nietzsche traced to the insidious influence of Hegelian dialectics (“On the Utility” 142-43). Forsaking all critical postures, all ambition to rub against thought’s grain, reading happens, and happens only, when readers approach a text “without reserve, without trying to criticize it” (Wright 238). Leo Bersani suggests that another name for an “unreserved” readerly attitude is “speculativeness.” All thought worthy of the name speculates: its operation coincides with the self-reflexivity indicated by the term’s etymological history (Lat. speculārī, speculum). In this, Bersani commits to an unpopular position: notwithstanding the recently re-emergent tradition that runs via Alfred North Whitehead to contemporary “speculative realists,” claims for the efficacy of speculations have not fared well since Immanuel Kant dismissed synthetic a priori propositions in metaphysics and Karl Marx designated speculative thought, exemplified by Hegel, as the constitutive error of Western philosophy.

    The term “speculation” and its derivatives recur in Bersani’s texts with striking frequency. When, in a recent interview, Bersani was asked if this repetition signals his work’s affiliation with what is called “speculative philosophy,” he expressed hesitation and doubt: “That I’m not sure of,” he grumbled and changed the subject (“Rigorously” 292). The wager of the present essay is that, a little uncannily, Bersani’s oeuvre, unfolding over the last half century, contributes to this philosophical history and is itself speculative. This kinship is uncanny because, as the interview response suggests, Bersani himself is not fully aware of (nor, it is important to add, does he care about) the implications of his participation in this genealogy. While he consistently indicates that the only thought worth committing to is always “speculative,” he is not attuned to this term’s full resonance in the history of philosophy (a deafness shared, I happen to know, by the interviewer who posed the question).

    The recent book Receptive Bodies (2018) contains some of Bersani’s most explicit statements about the nature of “speculative” thinking. Bersani proposes that “essayistic writing”—a style with which he identifies his own work—constitutes “a way of writing that wanders, inconclusively,” one that, as he rephrases, “moves speculatively” (Receptive 126, 128). Speculative writing demands that one is “thinking rigorously, but with an unemphatic, even somewhat relaxed rigor” (Receptive 126); it is marked by “the agitated questioning of inconclusive thinking, and of inconclusive being” (Receptive 128). Bersani asks, “why not simply welcome the pleasure in repeatedly failing to conclude—in our thinking, in our writing, in our sexuality?” (Receptive 127-28). Why not, that is, yield to our becoming as speculative beings? While these ideas are given the most explicit attention in Receptive Bodies, they are not new in Bersani’s work. In a characteristic moment in 1995, for example, Bersani encourages us to “speculate” about a work of art beyond what the text “seems to authorize” (Homos 117); in 1990, he speaks of “the risky movement of speculative thought, of thought unanchored, set loose from all evidential ‘land’ securities” (Culture 151); and, in 1981, he finds in Stéphane Mallarmé’s work a mode of thought marked by—we will come back to this—”speculative restlessness” (Death 42-43, 44). It is particularly in Freud that Bersani identifies the speculative artistry that he comes to promote as his own method of thinking: in several texts over the decades, he wants to attune us to the “speculative movement” (“Subject” 7), “speculative procedures” (Bersani and Dutoit, Forms of Violence 120), and “speculative mobility” (Is the Rectum 126) characteristic of Freud’s—and Freudian—thought.

    Bersani’s interest in “speculativeness” from the mid-1970s until Receptive Bodies suggests that this concept, all but abandoned after Marx as a self-serving bourgeois alibi, has unfulfilled potential. Yet terms such as “inconclusive,” “unanchored,” and “restless,” which Bersani deploys in Receptive Bodies, fail to fully describe “speculative” thinking. This becomes particularly evident when we situate the concept in the history of a philosophy about which he, probably sincerely, claims to be uninformed. In this context, the speculative mind is not merely an “anchorless” observer who “swerves” from one object to another without a predetermined goal, not merely a “wandering” spirit released from teleology to endless, disseminative play. Rather, the speculative thought that Bersani elaborates, and which he identifies as his own mode of thinking, is driven by what Hegel, the speculative philosopher par excellence, calls the “self-moving soul, the principle of all natural and spiritual life” (Hegel, Science 35): speculations unfold according to an “immanent rhythm” (Phenomenology §58 [36]), follow a “self-constructing path” (Science 10). When Bersani reads various works of art as experimentations with the possibility of “true singleness” (Future 181), or of “an identity wholly independent of relational definitions” (Bersani and Dutoit, Arts 51), he is testing the viability of what Hegel would call “the speculative proposition” (der spekulative Satz). In this, he parts company with most of his contemporaries, especially those influenced by Jacques Derrida. In their variously slanted critiques, Marx and Derrida finished off, so it has seemed, speculative philosophizing in its Hegelian mode. “The concept of speculation,” as Werner Becker modestly proposes, “has seen better days” (1368); “speculation,” writes Walter Cerf, has become “a bad word” (xi). Bersani’s ability to deploy and develop the concept in various contexts since the mid-1970s depends on his lack of investment in philosophy’s disciplinary conceptuality. His and Derrida’s contemporaneous readings of speculative thought, overlapping mostly in their commentaries on Freud but also on Mallarmé, at once synchronize and diverge in ways that will allow us to identify the peculiarities of Bersani’s onto-ethics/aesthetics.

    This essay makes a case for “speculation” as one of Bersani’s most important “crypto-concepts.” The phrase is Jean Laplanche’s: it designates a concept that, “although it forms the object of no individual article or specific presentation, plays an important role in the structure of the system” (Laplanche, “So-Called” 458). While Bersani hardly ever directly addresses the question of “speculation”—the passages in Receptive Bodies constitute his lengthiest elaboration—the concept emerges early on as something of an organizing principle in his onto-ethics/aesthetics. I will trace the idea in his texts from its first appearance in the mid-1970s to its implicit presence in his first substantial discussions of Hegel’s work some forty years later.

    Because Bersani’s references to speculation in Receptive Bodies tend to gloss over the concept’s most distinctive characteristic, what follows seeks to take up and continue the movement of his thought beyond its explicitly articulated forms. Bersani’s work is organized around what Hegel, speaking of Johann Gottlieb Fichte, calls “the speculative kernel [das Spekulative]” (Faith 186; W 2.429),1 a kernel that coalesces originally in Bersani’s early engagement with Derrida’s and Jean-Luc Nancy’s studies on Hegelian philosophy. Derrida and Nancy are relatively recent contributors to the long history of speculative thought, which I outline briefly in the first section of this essay. Kant, Hegel, and Marx are often cited as turning points in this history, thinkers at odds with each other in whose work the tenability of modern speculative thinking is debated. Such debates, I argue, carry over to Bersani’s work, where their philosophical stakes are met with a certain playful disinvestment. This loosening of the grip of philosophical conceptuality is typical of Bersani; as he reminds us, he is not “a professional philosopher” but a reader of literature and other works of art (“Rigorously” 289). With its insistent attention to the echoes of his philosophical contemporaries in his work, this essay risks anchoring his “floaty” ideas to the “land securities” of conceptual histories. Yet my aim is to trace the strange coincidence of frivolity and consistency through which the idea of “speculativeness” is transformed in Bersani’s texts across five decades. At stake is the question of “rigor” in speculativeness: What is the precise meaning of this modifier? How does one speculate rigorously? Toward the end of the essay, I propose that to fully gauge what Bersani means by the term, we should read it in the context of the revised Platonism that he first gleans from Charles Baudelaire’s and Marcel Proust’s aesthetics and that will morph into what I will call his theory—an onto-ethics/aesthetics—of “speculative narcissism.”

    Becoming Speculative

    The famous impermeability of Hegel’s system to critique—the fact that all attacks are found to have been anticipated by the Master2—is a feature of his philosophy’s “speculativeness.” For Hegel, we must forge a thought that evolves not by overcoming external obstacles but by actualizing its own immanent logic; we must, in other words, become speculative thinkers, moving from reflection to speculation, from “subjective” to “absolute” idealism. Hegel reasserts the importance of speculativeness to philosophy—a speculativeness yet to be thought—after what he considered its wrongheaded dismissal by Kant.3

    Hegel saw a revolutionary potential in critical philosophy. As he writes in 1801, “the authentic principle of speculation [is] boldly expressed” in the transcendental deduction of the categories (Difference 81). Kantian thought, as elaborated in the Critique of Judgment, allows for speculativeness in the form of “intuitive understanding” and “inner purposiveness” (Encyclopaedia §55 [102]).4 Yet, for Hegel, Kant’s attempt to disrupt philosophy’s self-indulgent delusions had stalled from the start. Kant failed to precipitate speculativeness because, having hypothesized the existence of intuitive knowledge, he ruled it out as a possibility: operating in concepts and sensible intuitions, human intellect is “discursive” instead. Because Kant assumes that the “discursive” intellect of human cognition cannot access “the beyondness of what is truly real and absolute” (Hegel, Faith 62), he ends up constructing a series of dualisms around which his philosophy operates: sense/intellect, intuition/concept, discursive/intuitive, appearance/in-itself. For our context, the most important of these dualisms is that of “knower and known [Erkennendes und Erkanntes]” (Difference 164; W 2.105). If reason “make[s] itself reflection by opposing itself to the object absolutely,” the “supreme task” of speculation is to “suspend the separation of subject and object in their identity” (Difference 164, 177).

    The concept of speculation—and particularly its actualization in speculative propositions5—highlights the aspects for which Hegelian philosophy is both celebrated and dismissed: on the one hand, its rigorous immanentism; on the other, its totalizing, perhaps totalitarian, ambitions. Hegel’s revolutionary insistence that dialectical movement is fueled by the instability inherent in being has been enabling to generations of political and cultural theorists; its legacies can be detected, for example, in the founding principle of late-twentieth-century Cultural Studies, according to which any system’s internal contradictions precipitate the “subversion” of its norms. Yet critics, often following Marx’s lead, have also seen in speculative philosophy an insidious effort to undo all the otherness with which predicative events might challenge the subject’s autonomy. In Marx and Engels’s influential summary, Hegelian thought exemplifies “the illusions of German speculative philosophy” insofar as it has been disastrously “abstract” and, as such, a natural ally to the market “speculators” who, by obfuscating the material conditions of economy, benefit from exploitative systems (German 171). In the form of “speculative philosophy of law,” Hegelianism affirms some of Western philosophy’s worst habits in that it supplies nothing but “abstract extravagant thinking on the modern state” (Marx, “Contribution” 181). As the term’s etymology tells us—abstrahere and abstractus suggest the “incorporeal” and the “secluded” (OED)—the Hegelian subject gazes at the world from the heights of disembodied solitude. Thus, the speculative subject evinces the spirit of the despotic monarch who contemplates the world “enthroned in sublime solitude” (Marx, “Critique” 328). In this way, the Hegelian mind betrays the revolution that was supposed to have unseated all such imperious rulers. Subsequent critics have echoed Marx in proposing that “totalizing history” such as Hegel’s “leads to a totalitarian political philosophy” (Roth 54); Hegel is frequently evoked as philosophy’s “totalitarian bogeyman” (Pippin 5).

    With its totalizations, and perhaps totalitarianism, the Hegelian system suffers, in Fredric Jameson’s recent diagnosis, from a narcissistic disorder, “the narcissism of the Absolute” (131). In speculative philosophy, the self and the world have always already coincided; nothing exists that is not in an a priori relation with the subject. Like the narcissist, the speculative philosopher, enraptured by his mirror image, dissolves all otherness into sameness. The Lutheran theologian Oswald Bayer similarly identifies in Hegelianism a perfect example of “modern narcissism,” driven by the error that Martin Luther called the human incurvatus in se, the subject’s speculative turning upon itself, away from revelation. For Bayer, we hubristically assume to reach divinity by reason, deducing its otherness from what we see in this world’s mirrors. Yet God, Bayer writes, “is not our mirror-image; God does not allow himself to be the object of human speculation” (312). Heedless of Luther’s warning against the speculative orientation, Western tradition proceeded on its speculative way, ending up with Hegelian idealism: “With great style, the Western concept of the movement of self-consciousness as a ‘complete return of Mind to itself’ reaches its apex in Hegel’s thought. Even theologians have not been able to extricate themselves from the fascination of the thought of the speculative mind that is in love with its own mirror reflection” (Bayer 304). The Hegelian subject, something of an aesthete in its “stylishness,” is frozen in an adoring posture in front of Narcissus’s instrument, deaf to the call of love that issues from beyond the fascinating mirror.

    In ways that most of his texts don’t quite explicate, this philosophical history resonates in Bersani. Before Receptive Bodies, the concept emerges in its most elaborated—although still implicit, “cryptic”—form in The Freudian Body: Psychoanalysis and Art (1985). In this study, “speculativeness” is symptomized in the “theoretical collapse” that for Bersani marks the “authenticity of Freud’s work,” the articulation of what he calls, with some hesitation, “psychoanalytic truth” (Freudian 3, 10). Freud is at his most original when his theorizations fail to offer us knowledge about the object of his investigation and, instead, take on—recapitulate—the fate of the human subject whom he seeks to theorize. By “recapitulation,” I mean to evoke the law of “theoretico-genesis” with which Laplanche, referring to Ernst Haeckel, describes the peculiar way in which Freud’s texts systematically repeat (rather than describe) the human subject’s errancy and aporias.6 Instead of an authoritative description of the subject’s coming-into-being, Freud’s texts, as if contracting the traumatized condition of the object, begin to exhibit “a type of blocked thought, of speculative repetition” (Freudian 5), a stuttering with which the Freudian text performs the human subject’s inability to speak of the unassimilated catastrophe of its origination.

    The crypto-concept occurs in its embryonic form in the conclusion to the 1976 study, A Future for Astyanax: Character and Desire in Literature, amidst a commentary on recent tendencies in literary scholarship. Bersani suggests that, rather than producing “knowledge” about literary texts, critics performatively replicate art’s operations in ways that render their work all but indistinguishable from literature: “the critic follows his writer so closely that he begins to duplicate the latter’s achievement” (Future 311).

    Bersani is alluding to the emergence of the kind of theorizing exemplified by Blanchot, Barthes, and Derrida, whose recently published Glas (1974) he calls “a fascinating attempt to move toward authentically new shapes of ‘critical’ discourse” (Future 333n4). He describes this “new” kind of scholarship as follows: “While criticism continues to lean on other texts, it also now seems to be making a claim for the esthetic appeal of its own procedures; the myth of criticism as a transparent explication of literature is abandoned” (Future 311-12, emphasis added). Because this passage comes from the concluding section of a chapter in which Bersani has, for the first time, taken on Laplanche’s analysis of Freud—an influence that is to be formative for all of his subsequent work—the phrase “leaning on” demands some attention. Describing the critic’s relationship to the artwork, he borrows the locution silently, and perhaps unconsciously, from Life and Death in Psychoanalysis (1970). In this study, Laplanche points to “leaning on” (Anlehnung, anlehnen) as one of the repetitive phrases whose centrality—whose status as “crypto-concepts”—in Freud’s work has gone all but unnoticed. On several occasions, Freud uses the word (which James Strachey translates as “anaclisis”)7 to designate the way that the human-specific aptitude he calls “the drive” attaches itself to “nature” (or “the vital function”), whose satisfactions have proven to be inaccessible to the prematurely individuated being that is the infant. As Laplanche writes, Anlehnung in Freud designates “the fact that emergent sexuality attaches itself to and leans on [s’étaye] another process which is both similar and profoundly divergent: the sexual drive leans upon a nonsexual, vital function” (Life 16, translation modified; Vie 31).

    If the drive “leans on” the vital function, this means that human life is saved by its ability to use parasitically that which it cannot directly plug into. To illuminate this with a false cognate, it is in the “other-place” (para-site) of the drive that life is conserved by a kind of forgery or vampirization. The drive takes over the vital function, thereby at once preserving and perverting it—which is to say, preserving it by perverting it. Let us call this takeover an act of “supplementation”; to do so is to render obvious the echoes, in Laplanche, of some of his contemporaries’ commentaries on Freud. Influenced by—but also influencing—Derrida’s analyses of the temporality of human ontology that Freud calls Nachträglichkeit, Laplanche suggests that the relationship between the vital function and its parasite is, as Derrida would say, undecidable. It is only in the parasite-supplement that the “original” becomes observable, a dynamic that, as we know by now, renders “the origin” an aporetic notion.

    Anlehnung is the mechanism by which not only the human subject goes astray, but also the Freudian text replicates the subject’s errancy. Before he follows Laplanche in observing this dynamic in Freud, Bersani proposes that we conceptualize the relation between literary criticism and the literary text as analogous to the après-coup continuity of “the vital function” in “the drive,” of absented nature in the human subject. He suggests that the “cut” between art and scholarship should be similarly cultivated into undecidability: the critic must “lean on” the artwork; criticism is to parasite art. We can no longer consider the two entities as separated by an ontological gulf across which scholarly discourse is supposed to build an epistemological bridge. The criticism that “leans on” its object does not produce “knowledge”; rather, it joins its object in replicating, or synchronizing with, the activity we call “art.” With its “blocked thought” and “speculative repetition,” criticism loses its status as an explicative appendix to the literary text. Instead of mastering the object, it joins the artwork—as Freud joins the human subject—in a moment of “theoretical collapse.” To deploy a Deleuzean formulation for this dynamic, criticism becomes-art: the clear-cut identities of scholarship and art unravel as both discourses gravitate toward one another, as their “molecules” mix to the extent that their “molar” identities begin to give way, opening “a passage between categories that undermines both poles of opposition” (Bogue 20). Because of this unraveling, we must read the Freudian text as a work of art: Freud fails to produce scientific knowledge about the human subject and, instead, rescues his object from its indecipherability by compulsively repeating, in the “theoretical collapse,” its destiny of failure.

    Admittedly, the coordination of the sentence in the passage from A Future for Astyanax makes the reference to Anlehnung an ambivalent one. While Bersani primarily contrasts criticism’s continued leaning on literary works to the aestheticization that modern scholarship undergoes in parasiting art, a strictly Freudian-Laplanchean argument would emphasize a necessary causality between “leaning” and “imitation”: the critical text, or the drive, takes on the characteristics of the literary text, or the vital function, because of, rather than despite, its being propped onto the latter. By insisting on the ambiguity of Bersani’s sentence, my commentary glosses the passage from a retrospective position: I read the text as it would be rewritten upon our return to it after encountering Bersani’s subsequent work. If this practice needs defending, we can not only point out its coincidence with the method that Bersani variously calls “recategorization”—and with which he identifies his own readerly practice—but also note that our retrospective reading allows us to see in Anlehnung a version of what will emerge, around this time, as the concept of “speculativeness” in his work. What Bersani says about modern criticism’s indistinguishability from art anticipates—but only by the twinkling of an eye—his characterization of the unraveling of Freud’s discourse by the gravitational pull of the failed being that is the human subject. In both cases, commentary responds to its ostensible object by yielding to a raving ventriloquism: it allows—cannot but allow—the undoing of its coherent formulations at the assault of, or seduction by, the text’s unrepresentable complexity.

    Bersani deploys our keyword as he continues his proscriptive commentary on modern literary criticism. He writes that, as result of the reader’s infection by the text, “[t]he play of criticism becomes visible. And we discover that the pleasures of conceptual experimentation, of dismissible speculation, are the specific pleasures of critical form” (Future 312). The reader’s leaning on the artwork makes the work of criticism a speculative endeavor, participating in the play that Derrida identifies with dissemination.8 In Bersani’s subsequent work, Freud becomes the exemplary speculative reader. While this argument emerges most forcefully in The Freudian Body, the connection is made initially in “The Subject of Power” (1977). In this review essay of Michel Foucault’s Surveiller et punir and La volonté de savoir, Bersani seeks to assess psychoanalytic theory’s role as a part of—but also, possibly, beyond—the apparatus of disciplinary modernity. He suggests that, if there is a psychoanalytic theory that jams the dispositif—a possibility refused by Foucault—it will be given to us in Freud’s “speculations.” He credits “French theory” for drawing our attention to this “speculative Freud.” “At its best,” he writes,

    the recent discovery of “French Freud” has been an effort to locate in Freud himself those speculative developments which wreak havoc with his own systematizations, which return in his later work as supplementary disruptive movements that trivialize those “central” theoretical certainties … responsible for the politicizing of psychoanalysis within a reactionary pouvoir-savoir complex. (“Subject” 7)

    The most important source for the idea of “speculativeness” in psychoanalytic theorizing is Derrida’s commentary on Freud. This source is not primarily “Freud and the Scene of Writing,” the essay by Derrida included in French Freud, the 1972 special issue of Yale French Studies to which Bersani alludes in “The Subject of Power”;9 it is, rather, Derrida’s reading of Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920) in “To Speculate—on ‘Freud.’”10 In this essay, Derrida tracks “the singular drifting” of Freud’s thought, exemplified by “the essential impossibility of holding onto any thesis within it, any posited conclusion of the scientific or philosophical type, of the theoretical type in general” (“To Speculate” 261). Derrida picks up the term from Freud. What the latter calls his “speculations” (he uses the term repeatedly in in Beyond the Pleasure Principle) are related to speculative trends in the history of philosophy: they consist of conjectures that, as Kant and others would have it, exceed what can be known through and observed in experience. Freud thus seems to be giving in to the kind of thinking from which, as he tells his biographer Ernest Jones, he had rigorously sought to extricate himself in his early career. If in his younger years he had “felt a strong attraction towards speculation and ruthlessly checked it” (qtd. in Jones, Life and Works, vol. 1, 32), in Beyond the Pleasure Principle he cannot but become a “speculative” thinker, indulge in “speculative assumptions” (Beyond 275). It is this yielding that marks his originality for Bersani.

    For Derrida, Freud’s speculations must be distinguished from the speculative idealism exemplified by Hegel. Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle follows “the singular path of speculation,” but “[t]he speculation which is in question in [Beyond the Pleasure Principle] cannot purely and simply refer to the speculative of the Hegelian type, at least in its dominant determination” (“To Speculate” 268, 277). Before his commentary on Freud’s speculations, Derrida had discussed Hegel’s philosophy in terms of what he called, in Dissemination (1972), its “speculative production” (20) and, in Glas, “the untiring desire of speculative dialectics” (260). The movement that Hegel assigns to the world, and that his own thinking is to exemplify, entails a circle where “Absolute knowledge is present at the zero point of the philosophical exposition” (Dissemination 20), an immediacy that would allow “no more discrepancy between production and exposition, only a presentation of the concept itself, in its own words, in its own voice, in its logos” (30-31). Rendering “presentation” in italics, Derrida suggests that Hegel, in his quest to elevate thinking to the speculative level, betrays his desire for an appearing where something like the an-sich would be heard speaking in its presentness and self-determinacy, in the voice (Stimme) of its Selbstbestimmung, without its adulteration into writing. If Hegel wanted to rescue speculative thought from the pedestrian strictures of Kantian “understanding,” Derrida’s ambition is to replace “the speculative” with “the disseminative”: “dissemination interrupts the circulation that transforms into an origin what is actually an after-effect of meaning [un après-coup du sens]” (Dissemination 21; La dissémination 27). Deconstructive reading reveals the legerdemain of speculative philosophy: the ostensible origin is produced by smoke and mirrors, the trick of Nachträglichkeit.

    Contrasting dialectics to psychoanalysis, Derrida suggests that Freud’s meditation on the death drive in Beyond the Pleasure Principle renders readable aspects of speculative thought that are more obfuscated in the work of his philosophical predecessors. Unlike the latter, Freud is charmingly forthcoming about the fact that his attempts at drawing a metapsychological map of the human subject often amount to nothing more than creative guesswork. For Derrida, this is not a failing in Freudian theory, but its generative principle. As described in “To Speculate—on ‘Freud,’” psychoanalytic theory’s speculative movement thus approximates the dynamic that Derrida calls “dissemination,” “différance,” and “play.”

    What Bersani calls the “theoretical collapse” of Freud’s thinking echoes Derrida’s description of the “disseminative” principle of speculation that organizes Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Bersani discerns in Freud’s metapsychological work an effort to speak of that which is strictly unrepresentable in the ontological experience of becoming-human. In the repeated moments of “theoretical collapse,” Freud’s text gives up on scientific discourse and begins not to describe but to recapitulate the object of his investigation. This is, Bersani suggests, Freud’s revolutionary practice: in his writing, he joins—synchronizes with—the human subject in its aporetic movement. It is from this perspective, explicated in The Freudian Body, that his evocation of “leaning” in the concluding chapter of A Future for Astyanax should be read as a translation of Freud’s Anlehnung. Like the literary critic who begins to replicate the artwork’s “play,” instead of accurately describing the literary text, and hence rendering it “knowable,” Freud performs the subject’s inability to speak about the devastation that constitutes its coming-into-being. Even though Freud seeks epistemological mastery over the object, he cannot but “lean” too close, thereby taking on, or symptomizing, that which ails the human subject. Like the subject, whose constitution coincides with its ébranlement—its masochistic shattering under the assault of overwhelming stimuli—Freud is unable to address his object in the terms that, at least since the Cartesian revolution, modern thought has stipulated as necessary for scientific discourse; instead, he becomes the artful critic who renders himself susceptible to “the pleasures of conceptual experimentation, of dismissible speculation,” characteristic of the literary text (Future 312). Getting too close, he becomes fascinated by that which he wants to submit to his analysis; investigating his object, he is compelled to repeat what he sees in the occult mirror. Similarly, the critic, ensnared by the doppelgänger in the mirror of art, begins to recapitulate its movements, to participate in the artwork’s “conceptual experimentation,” driven by a pleasure that is identical to all conceptuality’s dissipation.

    For Bersani, this speculative permeation of the subject and the object, the thinking and the thought, constitutes an “estheticizing movement” (Freudian 11). In its repeated undoing into incoherence, the Freudian text, originally aiming for scientific validity, becomes an aesthetic work. It is at this moment that psychoanalysis turns into a foreign body infesting the apparatus of modernity, begins to disrupt the “pouvoir-savoir complex” (“Subject” 7). Departing from Foucault’s assessment of Freudian sexology, Bersani suggests that beyond psychoanalysis as disciplinary discourse there is psychoanalysis as an aesthetics. In its repetition of—its parasitic leaning on—human ontology, “the speculative psychoanalytic text,” “particular[ly] the speculative works of Freud,” becomes “the critical artistic text of our time” (Freudian 111). Witnessing it in Freud, we should regard “this estheticizing movement not only as a ‘coming-into-form’ but also as a subversion of forms, indeed even as a kind of political resistance to the formal seductions of all coercive discourses” (Freudian 11-12). For Bersani, the Freudian text is one model that we can heed in our apprenticeship of unlearning the psychologized mode of being-in-the-world. Like Freud, we can become aesthetic subjects. This dynamic of speculative aesthetics, of the work’s becoming-art as exemplified by literary criticism and psychoanalytic theory, occupies the ethical center of his thinking.

    Toward Speculative Narcissism

    When Bersani, in his 1970s and 1980s texts, writes of psychoanalytic thought as a “speculative” endeavor, he does not, like Derrida, distinguish Freud’s speculations from Hegel’s. Indeed, he hardly mentions Hegel at all, most immediately because the master of German Idealism is not the presence in his scholarly field that he is in Derrida’s. We should nevertheless observe the appearance of an implicit Hegelianism in The Death of Stéphane Mallarmé (1982), implanted there, I suggest, as an echo Bersani picks up from some of his colleagues. Commenting on the French symbolist poet’s oeuvre, Bersani writes that his “subversion of literature” becomes visible above all in “the speculative restlessness with which Mallarmé moves among different theoretical positions” (Death 45, 42-43, emphasis added). The author’s “restlessness” is symptomized not only, as Bersani notes here, in his inability or unwillingness to settle on a coherent account of contemporary poetry, but also in his habit of shuttling between various projects and genres of writing: instead of producing le Livre—the “Great Work” that he sometimes claimed to be preparing for—Mallarmé wrote prose poems, fashion journalism, Easter egg inscriptions, and doggerel on outhouse walls. Instead of psychologizing the author’s procrastination like Freud did Leonardo da Vinci’s, Bersani suggests that we should regard this slipperiness as his most innovative commentary on literature: “speculative restlessness,” he continues, repeating the phrase a second time, “is perhaps the major ‘statement’ of Mallarmé’s theoretical writing” (Death 44). Indeed, it is in such agitated disquiet that one finds a text’s literary specificity: “literature’s peculiar nature may have to do with a certain type of restlessness or moving away from its own statements” (Death 45). As exemplified by Mallarmé’s practice, literature is constitutively speculative in its genre-defying agitations.

    The term “restlessness” evokes the Unruhigkeit that Hegel assigns to spirit’s becoming. With it, Hegel indicates the movement that results from being’s noncoincidence with itself: being is riven by an internal gap that unbalances the system into its forward-leaning tilt, forcing the spirit’s sojourn toward speculativeness: “Spirit is indeed never at rest [nie in Ruhe],” Hegel writes in the Phenomenology, “but always engaged in moving forward” (§11 [6]; W 3.18); life is characterized by its “sheer unrest [reinen Unruhe]” (§46 [27]; W 3.46). In the Mallarmé study, Bersani borrows the concept of restlessness not directly from Hegel, but from his philosopher contemporaries. Apart from Derrida, the most important of these may be Jean-Luc Nancy who, in his 1973 close-readerly account of Hegel’s theorization of “speculative language” and “speculative words,” writes of “the very restlessness [inquiétude] of the speculative” (Nancy, Speculative 78, brackets in translation). Although Bersani nowhere mentions The Speculative Remark, his language indicates at the very least a shared intellectual context with Nancy. When, speaking in this common language, he later alludes to the “interpretive restlessness” (Bersani and Dutoit, Forms viii) and the “troubled, speculative mobility” (Freudian 19) characteristic of psychoanalytic theory, he implies that we read Mallarmé’s and Freud’s texts as mutually resonant moments in a genealogy of onto-ethical experimentation. The connection is made explicit in The Freudian Body, where he assigns speculativeness to both Freud—noting the “extraordinary speculative mobility” of his thought (Freudian 81)—and Mallarmé (whose “speculative restlessness” is now rephrased as “speculative turbulence” [Freudian 25]).

    The first substantial occurrence of Hegel under his proper name takes place relatively late in Bersani’s work. Here, too, Bersani remains uninterested in parsing the differences between Hegel and Freud as thinkers of the speculative. Critiquing the notion of the divided subject in Thoughts and Things (2015)—for him, this concept, which many have considered to have been enabled by Freud’s discovery of the unconscious, merely reinvents the dualisms typical to Cartesian modernity—he makes a brief detour through the Phenomenology of Spirit. While Hegel, as we have noted, is frequently trotted out as the proponent of the narcissistic subject whose centrality to Western philosophy contemporary thinkers have sought to displace, Bersani implies that we may have missed some of its potential. If various formulations of the divided subject leave unaddressed, or indeed bolster, what Bersani claims is the most consequential aspect of the episteme—the self/other separation that the subject at once cherishes and rages against—Hegel suggests to us that “thinking has its otherness within itself” (Thoughts 68). Bersani’s reference is to §55 in the English-language edition of the Phenomenology, where Hegel defines thinking as the activity of the self-determined concept that entails all its predicates—that is, the speculative subject. While existence (Dasein) in its movement (Bewegung) seems at first to be prompted “by an alien power [durch eine fremde Gewalt],” it soon appears that “having its otherness within itself [daß sie ihr Anderssein selbst an ihr hat], and being self-moving, is just what is involved in the simplicity of thinking itself; for this simple thinking is the self-moving and self-differentiating thought, it is its own inwardness, it is the pure Notion” (§55 [34]; W 3.54). For theorists of the divided subject, such passages in Hegel symptomize his philosophy’s totalizing or narcissistic character. As Derrida argues in Glas, Hegel’s monadic subject relates to its object in “consuming destruction,” assimilating otherness into the sameness of its becoming (65).

    Yet it is precisely the Hegelian subject’s voracious intimacy with otherness, Anderssein, that appeals to Bersani. For him, the notion of otherness that informs theorizations of the divided subject assumes a division between the subject and the other, even if this split is now located within the self (Thoughts 68). As exemplified by the Laplanchean subject, whose becoming is the endless work of translating the other’s enigmatic dispatches, the division coincides with the production of knowledge as an attempt to bridge the gap. Bersani discerns in Hegel an effort to think beyond this constitutive split, whether external or internal, of the subject and the object, the knower and the known. Speculative logic, as he writes, gives us “an otherness inherent in the same, in the self-identical” (Thoughts 68). Because the knower and the known (Erkennendes und Erkanntes) are speculatively identified, there is nothing to “know”: no epistemophilic pressure drives the individualized subject toward itself in the other.

    For Bersani, this reconfiguration of the subject-object dynamic is enabled by Hegelian speculativeness. In this, he departs from Derrida’s reading of Hegel, according to which the speculative subject consumes all otherness. Both note that the Hegelian being finds narcissistically that everything in the world (all possible predicates) always already inheres in its being, yet diverge in their assessments of this characteristic. We begin to detail the different emphases given to this aspect by Derrida and Bersani when we note that the latter returns a second time to Hegel in Thoughts and Things when he links Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents (1930) to the “Lesser Logic.” As he has done many times before, he draws our attention to Freud’s argument about the persistence of the past in memory: “in mental life,” Freud writes, “nothing which has once been formed can perish” (Civilization 256). Freud’s claim about the imperishability of the past suggests to Bersani a mode of becoming that entails what he calls “recategorization”: thought returns to that which has been in order to tease out what remains dormant in the familiar, to sound, once again, what Proust calls our lives’ “fundamental notes” (591).

    For Bersani, this constitutes a creative process in which what appears is actualized for the first time. As Freud notes in his discussion of the case of Emma in 1895 (“Project” 353-56), the emergence of sexuality—the moment of hominization—is marked by a nachträglich, and thereby constitutive, return to the scene of the missed injury, an idea that he repeats in postulating the famous “diphasic” arrival of sexual life (Three 158-59; “Outline” 384). In a letter he sends to Wilhelm Fliess the following year, he suggests that this structure of traumatized memory is characteristic of human development in general: airing what he calls, importantly for us, his “latest bit of speculation,” he proposes that psychic life consists of the continual “rearrangement” or “retranscription” of memory traces and that, consequently, “memory is present not once but several times over” (Freud, Complete 207). If, as Freud writes, his theory of sexuality’s emergence is speculative, Laplanche might propose that, typical to his “theoretico-genetic” genius, this is because the subject’s return to the missed scene of trauma obeys a speculative logic, one that Freud cannot but repeat in his own theorizing. Despite what he tells Ernest Jones, he has always been a speculative thinker.

    For Bersani, the notion of memory’s “retranscription” offers an example of the profound agreement between Freud and Proust. Freud’s theory of memory coincides with the spiraling-deepening movement typified not only by Proust’s account of involuntary memory but also by the very structure of À la recherche du temps perdu, the novel’s unfolding as a series of creative echoes of the Combray section. In the preface to the second edition of Marcel Proust: The Fictions of Life and of Art (2013 [1965]), Bersani renders this connection explicit, proposing that Freud’s claim in Civilization and Its Discontents for the permanence of memory traces, and the consequent structure of repetition in psychic life, is illustrated by the novel’s “ever widening concentric circles of drama and analysis” in which its opening section is inaccurately repeated (xi). Across his work, Bersani explicitly or implicitly suggests that we find this account inaccurately replicated in various contexts, including in Charles Baudelaire’s theory of aesthetic idealization (Baudelaire; Culture 83-86), Lawrence Krauss’s cosmological speculations (Thoughts ch. 5), Christopher Bollas’s rethinking of the unconscious as the “syntax” of the subject’s being-in-the-world (Receptive 54; “Rigorously” 285-86), and, most recently, Peter Sloterdijk’s account of the human subject’s “constitutive greeting” into the world (Receptive 94-104). All of these examples can themselves be described as recategorizations of Plato’s theory of anamnesis, which Bersani considers most extensively (but without naming it as such) in his reading of Phaedrus in Intimacies (Bersani and Phillips, Intimacies 77-87; see also Thoughts 84-85). The theory of anamnesis—of the past’s speculative repetitions—emerges as one of Bersani’s oeuvre’s “fundamental notes.”

    In Thoughts and Things, this repeating idea of repeating ideas finds a new frame of reference in Hegel. Bersani rounds off his discussion of Civilization and Its Discontents by describing Freud’s account of the past’s persistence, as well as Freud’s own hesitations regarding—his rejection of and return to—this theory, with a turn of phrase whose Hegelianism we immediately recognize: Freud postulates, and then rhetorically performs (thus, once again, “leaning on” his subject), that the past is “at once negate[d] and preserve[d]” in the present (Thoughts 74). If this Aufhebung requires that we posit the “oneness of past and present,” Hegel also gives us language to describe what for Bersani are the typically modern conceptualizations of “the divided self” and the subject/object (or res cogitans/res extensa) dualism: “The type of negation that authorizes what Hegel calls ‘the mere “Either-or” of understanding’ institutes that discontinuity in mental life that leads to such notions as the divided self and the distinction between the present and a lost but intact and retrievable past” (Thoughts 74). In contradistinction to the temporality of the nachträglich weaving of the past into the present, the logic of “either-or” operates on oppositions between which the understanding endlessly toggles.

    Intriguingly, Bersani neglects to observe that, in the passage to which he alludes, Hegel’s point is about the inability of the understanding to come to grips with language’s speculative character. In the same paragraph, Hegel, not for the first time, singles out “aufheben” as a speculative verb par excellence, that is, a word that accommodates contradictory, indeed mutually exclusive meanings. He writes in the concluding sentence of the Zusatz, which Bersani partially quotes: “This double usage of language, which gives to the same word a positive and negative meaning, is not an accident, and gives no ground for reproaching language as a cause of confusion. We should rather recognise in it the speculative spirit of our language rising above the mere ‘Either-or’ of understanding” (Logic §96 [180]). One might expect Bersani to pick up on Hegel’s term not only because of its repeated emergence, since the 1970s, in his own work, but also because Jean-Luc Nancy, in a book on whose influence in his early work I hypothesize above, provides an extended commentary on the corresponding passage from the Science of Logic devoted to the speculative strangeness of aufheben.11 That Hegel is feigning surprise when he exclaims how “remarkable” it is “that language has come to use one and the same word for two opposite meanings” (Science 82) is suggested by the fact that such words in fact evince the truth of speculative idealism: concepts that we may have taken as radically incompatible move in synchrony, occupy the same vehicle. Like the speculative proposition, speculative words demonstrate for Hegel the folly—Kant’s—of thinking being dualistically. In the speculative proposition, otherness, in the form of predicative difference, is enfolded into the (grammatical) subject. Speculative words reveal that, as Freud would say, strangeness is already in the home.

    As if echoing the diagnoses that, ironically (Jameson) or not (Bayer), assign the Hegelian subject a narcissistic pathology, Bersani theorizes “narcissism” as an important vehicle for disorganizing the modern episteme. If, apart from Bayer, narcissism has been designated the modern ailment par excellence by the likes of Max Horkheimer, Theodor Adorno, James Baldwin, David Riesman, and Christopher Lasch,12 Bersani proposes that it is here, at ground zero of the modern subject’s pathological failure to encounter its others, that we can radically challenge our episteme’s assumptions. Bersani is after what we might call a theory of “speculative narcissism.” Notably, his rethinking of the subject’s self-love begins precisely at the moment when the thought of “the speculative” emerges in his work, that is, in the concluding chapter of A Future for Astyanax. Here, as I observed above, Bersani proposes that scholarship begin to move with (as Laplanche would say, to lean on) the art object, to replicate its styles of being. Scholarship, in other words, should engage in “the pleasures of … dismissible speculation” (Future 312). In the same chapter, Bersani draws our attention to a novelistic scene that exemplifies the pleasures of a speculative, and speculatively narcissistic, orientation. In his discussion of Pauline Réage’s Story of O (1954), which takes its cues from Laplanche and includes the first mention of the theory of “shattering” in his work, he briefly reflects on the male protagonist René’s homo-attraction to an older man, Sir Stephen, a desire whose contemplative “calmness” Bersani contrasts to the intensive pleasures that the novel’s sadists experience in witnessing their bottoms’ suffering. While the observation is something of a tangent in the analysis, this is an important moment insofar as it shows that, from the beginning of his engagement with psychoanalysis, Bersani supplements the psychoanalytic theory of the self’s undoing in masochistic jouissance (the sadists’ ébranlement) with a mode of pleasure in which the subject, rather than intensively imploding, can unravel differently, through an “untroubled nonsexual adoration” of his likenesses outside his self (Future 295). In a brief 2010 text, Bersani suggests that it is only in his later work that he has complicated “the Laplanchian notion of ébranlement, of sexual shattering” by coupling it with “another, less dramatic, … version of ego disidentification,” what he defines here as “the milder sensual pleasure of discovering our inaccurate self-replications in the world, the aesthetically pleasing correspondences between the world and multiple aspects of our subjecthood” (“Broken” 415). Yet the emergence of this mode is strictly coincident with ébranlement theory. It is first outlined in Bersani’s depiction of the way that René “worship[s Sir Stephen] without curiosity,” that is, without the epistemophilic paranoia that marks the Proustian subject’s efforts “to penetrate the secret of someone else’s mysteriously different ‘formula’ for sexual excitement” (Future 294). Writing twenty years after A Future for Astyanax, Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit might be describing René’s homo-narcissistic contemplation of Sir Stephen when they assert: “A nonantagonistic relation to difference depends on [an] inaccurate replication of the self in difference, on our recognizing that we are already out there. Self-love initiates the love of others; the love of the same does not erase difference when it takes place as a dismissal of the prejudicial opposition between sameness and difference” (Caravaggio 72).

    If, for Hegel, “[t]he principle of speculation is the identity of subject and object” (Difference 80), René’s narcissism constitutes a speculative orientation insofar as it radically modifies the subject’s relationship to the world. Rather than Marcel’s anguished curiosity about the enigma of the other’s desire, his attraction to Sir Stephen is informed by the recognition of his imbrication in the other. It is speculatively narcissistic. While the scenes of sadomasochistic jouissance—in which the subject identifies with the other’s pain—are organized around radical otherness (most often figured in the unbridgeable gap of sexual difference, the “tragic” principle in Réage’s work, as Bersani writes [Future 301]), René’s pleasure issues from his recognition of the sameness of his self and the other. Speculative critics too should find in art not an object of mysterious otherness whose riddles they, Marcel-like, need to solve; rather, they attune to the object’s immanent rhythm, yield to their capture by a (nonparanoid) fascination with its “other sameness” (Bersani and Dutoit, Forms of Being 120). The subject’s speculative entwinement with the world deactivates “knowledge” as the mechanism of accessing otherness, typical to Cartesian modernity. In speculative aesthetics, as Bersani writes with Dutoit, “there is nothing ‘to know,’ only the consciousness of the movement in which we participate” (Caravaggio’s 72). The speculative reader is moved not by epistemophilia but by the aesthetic pleasures of shared rhythms.

    Receptive Bodies is not the first time Bersani affirms his adoption of “speculation” as his own mode of thinking. In an endnote to The Freudian Body, he says that even when his subject is not Freud, his writing is “informed by a certain type of psychoanalytic speculation” (Freudian 118n2). In the foreword to The Death of Stéphane Mallarmé, he similarly writes that, in his commentary on the poet, he will be indulging in “the pleasure of taking a few speculative risks” (Death ix).13 Here, as in A Future for Astyanax, speculation is evoked as a work of “pleasure” (Future 312). The “pleasure” of speculations is different from—yet related to—the pleasure associated with the notion that has to a large extent informed the reception of Bersani’s work: ébranlement, the experience of the self’s “plunging” into an “antisocial” sexual jouissance (Is the Rectum 30, 93). While this—the “antisocial thesis”—has often been cited as Bersani’s contribution to queer theory, the speculative mode of pleasure has received considerably less attention, despite its role, in the form of “homoness,” as the central idea presented in Homos (1995). Like René’s speculative narcissism, the pleasure of homoness is that of sociability: it is an attunement where the subject meets the world in correspondence or solidarity, where the self is discovered to have always already entailed the world’s predicative difference.

    Bersani declares toward the end of Receptive Bodies that “epistemes change” (Receptive 124). If we are to disentangle ourselves from the ethical disaster of modern epistemophilia and precipitate a new episteme by “discover[ing] a new relation to the world” (Is the Rectum 160), we need to train ourselves in modes of homoness and speculative narcissism. Our deprogramming will require an “ascetic” practice, a term with which Bersani indicates the affinity of his thinking with that of later Foucault. It is an aesthetic program, aiming at what Foucault, too, calls “an aesthetics of existence” (History vol. 2, 253). Bersani suggests that we glimpse a model for our reorientation in the speculative moments that, like the intensive pleasures Freud considered the enemy of civilizational work, “convulse” his intellectual practice (Freud, Civilization 267). As Bersani puts it, in an echo of Martin Heidegger, “psychoanalysis … like art … might train us to see our prior presence in the world, to see, as bizarre as this may sound, that, ontologically, the world cares for us” (Is the Rectum 152-53). When he uses “apprenticeship” as a synonym for “ascesis” (we need an “apprenticeship for a relationality founded on sameness rather than difference” [Is the Rectum 44]), he implicitly proposes a connection between Foucault and Gilles Deleuze: the term enters his vocabulary through his early engagement, in Balzac to Beckett: Center and Circumference in French Fiction (1970), and then in A Future for Astyanax, with Deleuze’s account of Marcel’s “apprenticeship” in reading the world’s signs.14

    As my epigraphs suggest, such moments also indicate the unexplored affinity of his thinking with onto-ethical models like Ralph Waldo Emerson’s, according to whom our lives constitute an “apprenticeship” in the rapport of being (403). For Bersani, as for Emerson, the movement of our thinking agrees with, or replicates, “the universal circularity of being” (Bersani and Dutoit, Forms of Being 170). He continues this thought in Receptive Bodies: “We live in a universe of circulating forms—at once material and spiritual—that, while colliding with and resisting one another, also continuously repeat, re-find one another” (Receptive 49, emphasis added). As much as he associates À la recherche du temps perdu‘s “ever widening concentric circles of drama and analysis” with Freud’s argument about the imperishability of mental events (Preface xi-xii), the term “re-finding” in Receptive Bodies evokes Freud’s theory of the subject’s uncanny discovery of the earliest object in love: “The finding of an object,” Freud writes, “is in fact a refinding of it” (Three 145). Bersani invites us to read the moments in Civilization and Its Discontents and the Three Essays as Freudian versions of anamnesis, the Platonic concept whose long history, as I have suggested here, intersects with German Idealism in the Hegelian speculative subject.15 When Bersani writes in 2008 that, in Plato and Freud, “love is a phenomenon of memory, and an instance of narcissistic fascination” (Bersani and Phillips, Intimacies 81), he is recalling—perhaps without conscious memory—his own argument, thirty years earlier, about René’s “fascinated worship” of Sir Stephen (Future 295). What he calls “fascination” in Intimacies is different from the “paranoid fascination” with which the enigmatic other captures the Proustian and the Laplanchean subjects.16 Equally a fascination, anamnestic love operates as the subject’s enthrallment with a re-found object, but an object that—as Deleuze suggests of Proust’s involuntary memory and Bersani of Baudelaire’s idealization—is thereby “created.” In it, the subject loves the other not as the source of hidden knowledge about his self, but aesthetically, as a repetition, perhaps an amplification, of his likeness. It is an ethics of “inaccurate replications” rather than one of radical differences, an ethics that, counteracting our “intractable” hatred of otherness, may yet enable “[t]he viability of our being-in-the-world” (Receptive 49). This can take place if we cultivate the flash of anamnestic recollection where the subject re-finds its others in the world, like the lover who discovers that she already—to use language we must unlearn—”knows” the beloved in the mirror.

    Footnotes

    1. The German originals for Hegel are from Werke, edited by Moldenhauer and Michel.

    2. See Foucault, “Discourse” 235-36; and Butler, Subjects 183-84.

    3. My overview of Hegel’s reading of Kant draws from McCumber; and Sedgwick. For condensed introductions to the history of “the speculative” in philosophy, see Becker; and Ebbersmeyer.

    4. Throughout, I quote from The Encyclopaedia Logic, the 1991 translation of Enzyklopädie der philosophischen Wissenschaften im Grundriss (the Lesser Logic) by T. F. Geraets, W. A. Suchting, and H. S. Harris; references are indicated parenthetically as Encyclopaedia. Bersani quotes from William Wallace’s 1892 translation, The Logic of Hegel. When discussing Bersani’s quotations, I will use this edition, parenthetically referred to as Logic.

    5. On the speculative proposition in Hegel, see Gasché ch. 3; Nancy, Speculative; and Malabou ch. 12.

    6. On the law of “theoretico-genesis” see Laplanche, Life 2, 9, 87; “Unfinished” 81-82; New 167n22. John Fletcher claims that Laplanche’s suggestion must be understood as a “parody” (3).

    7. See Laplanche’s commentary on the concept’s translation in Life 15-16; and in Laplanche and Pontalis 29-30.

    8. See Derrida, Dissemination 93, 127-28, and 156-71; Of Grammatology 7, 42, 50, 57-59, 71, 259-60, and 266; and “Structure” 292.

    9. Bersani notes the journal issue’s importance also in FA 9, 319n4.

    10. Bersani refers to Derrida’s essay in Freudian 56, 66. While “To Speculate—On ‘Freud’” will see its first publication as part of La Carte postale: De Socrate à Freud et au-delà in 1980, a section of the essay is published in 1978 in Etudes Freudiennes (and translated, in the same year, as “Speculations—on Freud” in Oxford Literary Review). As Derrida notes, the essay is an extract from the seminar La vie la mort, held at École normale supérieure in 1975 (“Legs” 88); it also shares its title with a seminar that he gives in 1977-78 at Yale (Jacques Derrida Papers Box 61, Folder 14; see the catalogue available at https://oac.cdlib.org/findaid/ark:/13030/tf3q2nb26c/ [53]).

    11. For Hegel’s original, see Science 81-82. Nancy, too, draws our attention to Hegel’s discussion of speculative words in the Encyclopedia; see Nancy, Speculative 56.

    12. On Horkheimer and Adorno’s (and, more generally, the Frankfurt School’s) account of the role of (homosexual) narcissism in the psychopathology of fascism, see Hewitt ch. 2. On Riesman, Lasch, and other American commentators, see Lunbeck. A study of the role of narcissism in Baldwin’s account of diasporic modernity has yet to be written.

    13. “Freud,” Bersani continues in The Culture of Redemption (1990), “has determined more than anyone else of the ways in which I read art,” particularly “the experience of having followed the modes of theoretical failure and even collapse in his work, the processes by which arguments are at once elaborated and disformulated” (Culture 44). Whether its subject is Freud or not, Bersani’s own thinking, in other words, remains—as he writes in 2008—”highly speculative” (Bersani and Phillips, Intimacies 121).

    14. See Deleuze esp. ch. 3. For Bersani’s discussion of Deleuze’s study, see Balzac 234-35 and Future 256. He evokes the concept in Future 314; for later uses, see Death 3; Homos 6; Is the Rectum 69; and Bersani and Dutoit, Caravaggio’s 69.

    15. More precisely, as Ernst Bloch argues, we find Hegel’s version of anamnesis in his concept of Erinnerung, the mode of memory that operates by the past’s “inwardization” (Er-innerung). If Bloch is critical of the ramifications of Hegel’s anamnestic model of becoming for theorizing of futurity, Derrida sees in Erinnerung a continuation of the tradition in classical metaphysics that thinks the self/other relation in terms of the subject’s consumption and assimilation of the object. He suggests that Erinnerung belongs to the long line of Western philosophy’s “‘tropes of cannibalism’” (“Interview” [with Birnbaum and Olsson] n. pag.); its mechanism, as he puts it in Glas, is to achieve the “holocaust” of all otherness, a “[p]ure consuming destruction” (242-43, 238). While he never mentions Hegel’s theory of Erinnerung, Bersani would recognize in it another moment in the genealogy of anamnestic, “speculative” memory that he has mobilized in Baudelaire, Proust, Freud, Sloterdijk, and others.

    16. On “paranoid fascination,” see Bersani and Dutoit, Caravaggio’s 38, 42, 95; Bersani and Dutoit, Forms of Being 37; and Bersani, Is the Rectum 92, 177, 178, 180.

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  • Notes on Contributors

    John Freeman is a Renaissance scholar with a wide range of research and teaching interests, from Shakespeare’s Hamlet to Thomas More’s Utopia to digital and popular culture (such as the MTV series “Catfish”). His recent publications include “Tupac’s ‘Holographic Resurrection’: Corporate Takeover or Rage against the Machinic?” (CTheory) and “Shakespeare’s Imitation Game, or: How Do You Solve a [Problem Set] Like Katherina?” (Symploke).

    Brian Glavey is an Associate Professor of English at the University of South Carolina and the author of The Wallflower Avant-Garde (Oxford, 2016). He is currently working on a book on relatability and the poetics of oversharing.

    Andrew Kingston is a PhD candidate in the Department of Comparative Literature at Emory University. His dissertation examines figures of corruption in the history of aesthetics and the performing arts, drawing on the work of Jacques Derrida, Stéphane Mallarmé, Arnold Schoenberg, and others. He has published on Derrida and Hegel.

    Michael Millner teaches English and American Studies at the University of Massachusetts in Lowell, where he will serve as the Nancy Donahue Endowed Professor of the Arts beginning in 2020. He is currently working on a narrative history of the Dylan-Warhol meeting in 1965. This essay is part of a larger project investigating how recent research in cognitive science has shaped political economy. More information about his scholarship and teaching is available at michaelmillner.com.

    Marina Peterson is Associate Professor of Anthropology at the University of Texas at Austin. She is the author of Sound, Space, and the City: Civic Performance in Downtown Los Angeles (UPenn Press), and has co-edited volumes on anthropology and the arts and global downtowns. Her work explores sound, sensation, and urban infrastructures below and above ground, with research primarily in Los Angeles and Appalachia. Her forthcoming book is Atmospheric Noise: Aerial Matters in Los Angeles (Duke UP).

    Steven Swarbrick is Assistant Professor of English at Baruch College, CUNY. His research spans sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English literature, queer theory, environmental humanities, film, and disability studies. His current book project is titled “Materialism without Matter: Environmental Poetics from Spenser to Milton.” He is working on a second book project provisionally titled “Deleuze and the Intolerable: Cinema at the End of the World.” His essays have appeared or are forthcoming in journals including Cultural Critique, JNT, and Criticism, as well as in several edited anthologies, including Queer Milton.

    Mikko Tuhkanen is Associate Professor of English at Texas A&M University, where he teaches African American and African-diasporic literatures, LGBTQ literatures, and literary theory. His most recent books include The Essentialist Villain: On Leo Bersani (2018) and The Cambridge History of Gay and Lesbian Literature (2014), co-edited with E. L. McCallum. He has published in diacritics, differences, American Literature, Cultural Critique, James Baldwin Review, and elsewhere.

  • Being Fascinated: Toward Blanchotian Film Theory

    Mikko Tuhkanen (bio)

    A review of Watt, Calum. Blanchot and the Moving Image: Fascination and Spectatorship. Legenda, 2017.

    In The Emergence of Cinematic Time: Modernity, Contingency, the Archive (2002), Mary Ann Doane not only maps the new technology’s historical context—masterfully analyzing cinema’s place in the constellation of such nineteenth-century discourses as thermodynamics, eugenics, statistic, and psychoanalysis—but also evokes, perhaps unwittingly, a dominant trope that has organized film theory since its beginning. This trope conveys what a psychoanalytically minded reader might call the “ambivalence” that has inflected the reception of cinema. On the one hand, the new technology was welcomed with enthusiasm for various reasons, among them its seeming ability to alleviate the cruelties of human finitude: the promise that, with the new re-presentational capacity, “death will have ceased to be absolute” (qtd. in Doane 62), that those whom we have lost will live on in lifelike simulacra. On the other hand, what Doane calls “this fascination with the technologically supported ability to inscribe time” (63) readily slipped into an anxiety about cinema’s potentially malevolent influence, often informed by the perceived kinship between film spectatorship and the histories of hypnosis and mesmerism. Commentators who made this connection—who saw in cinema dangers that would be allegorized in Robert Weise’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Fritz Lang’s Dr. Mabuse—introduced a vocabulary to film theory that has remained with us ever since. Doane continues this tradition by tracking the ways in which the unease of early commentators was elicited by “the fascination” of cinema (108), the “pleasure and fascination” of film viewing (107). This infectiously recurrent word, I propose, is important: since the late nineteenth century, observers of the new art have again and again returned to contemplate, in Ackbar Abbas’s phrase, “the fascination of the cinematic” (363).

    As Doane’s analysis suggests, the history of film theory is a history of fascination. Following early commentators’ routine references to what Hugo Münsterberg in 1916 called cinema’s “strange fascination” (221), critics of the culture industry in postwar Europe would frequently discern in popular culture the mechanism of ideological enthrallment, a bondage that the word “fascination,” with its long and resonant history in Western discourses, readily suggested. Theodor Adorno spoke of the “programmatic fascination” with which popular culture’s distractions snared individuals into a “bewitched reality” (“On the Fetish-Character” 276; Aesthetic Theory 227). While the Birmingham School would rethink such dynamics by reconsidering cultural contestations beyond the rigorous schemes of classical Marxism, in the film theory of the late twentieth century, particularly influenced by Lacanian psychoanalysis, Raymond Bellour, Christian Metz, Jean-Louis Baudry, and Laura Mulvey would go on to analyze spectatorial identification with the cinematic image in terms of the audience’s “imaginary” thrall—frequently, again, “fascination”—with screen images. The tradition of dissecting “the fascination of film” (Mulvey 14) has been more recently continued by Steven Shaviro, Oliver Harris, and Pansy Duncan; in ways that remain to be analyzed, Leo Bersani’s commentary on cinema, spread across his extensive oeuvre, similarly unfolds as a theory of fascination.

    In Blanchot and the Moving Image: Fascination and Spectatorship, Calum Watt positions Maurice Blanchot as an important and overlooked thinker in this genealogy. As Watt notes, Blanchot does not immediately come to mind as a theorist of film. His philosophical interests focus almost exclusively on literary texts; only a few oblique references in his work evince any engagement with cinema. Nevertheless, a number of filmmakers—most notably Jean-Luc Godard, to whom the book’s first chapter is devoted—have deployed Blanchot as a point of reference. The task of Blanchot and the Moving Image is to make explicit the relevance of his work to the field of cinema studies. With a thorough knowledge of Blanchot’s work and an exquisite sensitivity to the details of his stylistics, Watt does this by elaborating on the concept of “fascination,” the nodal point at which film theory and Blanchot’s philosophy meet.

    Even though it is a central and recurring term in his work, “fascination” has received very little sustained attention from Blanchot’s commentators. Among scholars who have picked up the concept to any extent, Victoria Burke suggests that fascination allows Blanchot to rethink Hegelian “desire” beyond the “work” that dialectics demands: with “fascination,” we move from Hegel’s “labor of the negative” to Blanchot’s “worklessness,” the kind of paralytic receptiveness that the word suggests. Gerald Bruns, too, notes that the term in Blanchot evokes “the concept of passivity that is outside the dialectical alternatives of action and passion—a passivity that is not the mere negation of action” (Bruns 48, see also 59-61, 77). The concept, that is, offers Blanchot a potential escape from the stranglehold that dialectics has had on philosophy. Another term for this radical passivity is “essential solitude,” an idea that Blanchot, in the essay by that name, links persistently to fascination (“The Essential Solitude,” see esp. 25, 30-33). More recently, Brigitte Weingart has situated Blanchot’s evocations of “fascination” in the long history of affect theorists from Plutarch to René Descartes to Star Trek‘s Mr. Spock (Weingart 95-97), and Kevin Hart, reading Blanchotian thought in the context of twentieth-century reconfigurations of theology and mysticism, has suggested that “the sacred” elicits “fascination”: what Blanchot variously calls “il y a” or “the neuter” or “the Outside” or “the other night” “fascinates and frightens” (Hart 57, see also 152-53, 208, and passim).

    To my knowledge, only Shaviro and Harris have explored the overlap of film theory and Blanchotian fascination, a connection that Watt fleshes out. In this way, Blanchot and the Moving Image should also be read as a contribution to the emergent field of—as we might call it—”Fascination Studies.” As other scholars have indicated, the concept suggests the uncanny underside of modern life; it evokes the enchantments that Enlightenment modernity, for better or worse, is supposed to have defused. The term is derived from the Latin fascināre, whose semantic range moves from “irresistibly attractive influence” and “enchantment” to the obsolete meanings of “witchcraft” and “sorcery” (OED). While modernity is often figured in terms of the eradication of such superstitions as were articulated in ancient or medieval discourses about “fascinating” influences—in terms, that is, of the world’s “disenchantment”—we are by now used to observing the persistence with which various “irrationalities” have continued to inhabit the modern mind.1

    Apart from “fascination,” the history of cinema and its theorization share with Blanchotian philosophy the central concept of “the image”—a point whose obviousness Blanchot and the Moving Image may make one embarrassed to have missed. “Films,” Watt writes, “are made of what are commonly called ‘images,’ and are sometimes said to inspire ‘fascination’” (9-10). Blanchot imbues both terms with idiosyncratic, complicated significance. For him, “the image” suggests a realm in which objects are at once constituted and undone. Taking his cues particularly from Blanchot’s essay “The Two Versions of the Imaginary,” Watt writes that the image not only strips an object of its usability, but also undoes the self-certainty of the seeing subject. In the image, the world is composed and forsaken. Thus, “the image seems to involve a notion of abandonment“: to see the image we must both relinquish the thing seen and surrender ourselves as seeing (Watt 25). “Abandonment” belongs to a series of terms with which Blanchot develops the idea of an ethical passivity, central to his philosophy. The most frequently observed of such terms is that of idleness or worklessness (désœuvrement). With this concept, Blanchot suggests the undoing of what he, echoing Stéphane Mallarmé, calls the Book. The occasioning of literature in “books” or in a “work” constitutes a betrayal of literary specificity, while the literary, as something of an absorptive force, dissipates—one might say, unbinds—the book. Taking an example from Beckett, Blanchot writes that The Unnamable effects “a pure approach of the impulse from which all books come, of that original point where the work [l’œuvre] is lost, which always ruins the work, which restores the endless pointlessness [désœuvrement] in it, but with which it must also maintain a relationship that is always beginning again, under the risk of being nothing” (“‘Where now? Who now?’” 213, “‘Où maintenant? Qui maintenant?’” 290-91). In the texts that Watt analyzes, “the image” names precisely this unraveling; it designates “the intimate relation of the work of art with the fundament of being that is close to nothingness” (26). The wager of Blanchot and the Moving Image is that, as a technology of “the image,” cinema is permeated with the forces that Blanchot addresses in literature.

    “The image” precipitates, or is met with, fascination. Like the film theory that Doane continues, Blanchot invests the term itself with a highly ambivalent resonance. As much as there are “two versions of the imaginary,” there are two forms of fascination. It seems that, for Blanchot, both the image and the Book wield the force of fascination, but in crucially different (yet not unrelated) ways. “Blanchot’s concept of the image,” Watt writes, “is … marked by a kind of muted horror” (66)—the posture that we readily recognize as the hypnotic, mortal paralysis that “fascination” has frequently indicated. But if the image paralyzes one with the unbearable nothingness beyond language and individuation, the Book similarly captures the subject in its promise of a totality that would result from the kind of Work that Hegelian dialectics glorifies. As much as Mallarmé never escaped the lure of le Livre, what Blanchot calls the Book fascinates by promising to salvage the subject into coherence, the finished work disconnected from the forces of désœuvrement.

    Even as he dreams of a Work of encyclopediac coverage, Mallarmé nevertheless opts for the distractive pleasures of minor projects. Blanchot similarly suggests that any oeuvre will in turn force the artist and audience into a realm of a stranger fascination. His alternative to the seriousness of the Book is more ominous than the funny trifles Mallarmé wrote in order to escape from the Work (his fashion pieces, his Easter egg inscriptions, doggerel on outhouse walls): when the Book turns into the image, we feel “the regard of nothingness on us” (Watt 63). Watt proposes the doubleness of Blanchotian fascination by way of Martin Heidegger’s discussion of Benommenheit: “although he does not phrase it as such, there is for Blanchot something akin to two versions of fascination: on the one hand, the inauthentic absorption in idle talk … that Heidegger [or, rather, Being and Time’s first English translation] designates as fascination; and, on the other hand, the anxious experience of the abandonment of the world in the image which is for Blanchot, unlike Heidegger, still not something that can be called ‘authentic’” (30). An analogous doubleness is arguably at stake in film theory. As Doane notes, if early film promised to transcend mortality, it also, and at the same time, lured spectators with a “fascination with death,” evident in the eager consumption of early documentary footage of executions of animals and humans (Doane 164).

    Watt proposes that, given the onto-ethical valence of “the image,” cinema should be understood as a site of the kind of intensity that Blanchot assigns to literature; by highlighting the concept of “the image,” Blanchot allows us to develop an account of the cinematic art as a site where being (dis)appears. Taking up this task, Watt turns to three filmmakers as representatives of the “cinema of fascination” (111): Godard, Béla Tarr, and Gaspar Noé. In each chapter, the discussion of Blanchot and the filmmaker is inflected by an engagement with another major theorist. Chapter one tracks Blanchot’s influence not only on Godard’s films—particularly Histoire(s) du cinema—but also on Gilles Deleuze’s two-volume study of cinema, in whose mapping of the emergence of “time-image” in postwar European cinema both Blanchot and Godard figure centrally. The discussion of Tarr in chapter two in turn engages the work of Jacques Rancière, who has written extensively on the Hungarian filmmaker. As is appropriate for the lingering visuals of Tarr’s “slow cinema,” the chapter addresses a recurrent concern in twentieth-century film theory: the role of montage, and particularly the long take. The central thinker with whom Watt approaches Irréversible, Noé’s controversial exemplar of New French Extremism, is Emmanuel Lévinas, Blanchot’s frequent interlocutor. The juxtaposition of Noé and Lévinas is as productive as it is provocative: the suggestion is that Noé’s film is engaged in thinking the kind of demanding ethicality that Lévinas is known for.

    Moving from Godardian avant-garde to Tarr’s “slow” images to the gut-punching extremism of Noé’s films, Watt engages fully with scholarship on each filmmaker. Professing a familiarity with French-language scholarship, Watt gnaws at the monolingual hegemony of the Anglo-American academic market. One of his achievements is to bring to the English-speaking audience’s attention the work of Marie-Claire Ropars-Wuilleumier, who, more than any other scholar, has explored the connections between Blanchot and film theory. At the same time, he reminds us of the importance of Raymond Bellour’s extensive body of work, only some of which has been translated into English.

    In its grounding gesture of cross-fertilization, Blanchot and the Moving Image enables the expansion of both Blanchot scholarship and film theory. The book gives us a far from complete mapping of the emergent field; for example, the centrality of the concept of “fascination” to the larger history of film theory is only partially explored. In outlining the impact of Blanchot’s philosophy, the author’s references range generously from Lévinas to Derrida to Kant to Deleuze to Rancière to Agamben to unpublished dissertations, but these also have the effect of dissipating the focus on Blanchot as a thinker of cinema. Among the tasks for the book project’s final revisions might have been an effort to draw the argument into a punchier synthesis, perhaps cutting out some of the more tangential discussions and utilizing them as starting points for stand-alone articles.

    The reader is indeed left waiting for such future essays, for Blanchot and the Moving Image seems like an opening salvo in a larger intellectual project, one that will track the ways in which—as one of the study’s most exciting claims has it—”cinema’s contribution to thought is fascination” (96). From the perspective that Watt gives us—the viewpoint of a retrospective clarity—we can discern that other contemporary thinkers have already begun some of this work. That is, if film actualizes the absorbed passivity that Blanchot and film theory call “fascination,” Watt is not alone in making a claim for the cinema spectator’s dangerous yet ethical enjoyment. Already in the early 1980s, Leo Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit, in their analysis of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò, noted “film’s potential for a vertiginous passivity (its eagerness merely to register)” (31), calling this vertigo, precisely, a “fascination.” Their arguments concerning the sadomasochistic dynamics of Sade and Pasolini evoke the kind of undoing, not unlike Blanchotian worklessness, that Bersani has elsewhere theorized as the subject’s shattering in ébranlement. Moreover, the devastation of this undoing is inextricable from a centrifugal expansion. As Blanchot writes, désœuvrement is at once the object’s “impoverishment” and “enrichment” (“The Two Versions of the Imaginary” 256). In becoming less, the object—but also the subject—becomes more; it is potentialized as the image. We should hear in Watt’s claim that cinematic fascination produces “a shorn and passive subject” (150) echoes of Bersani’s onto-ethics/aesthetics, increasingly, in his later work, developed in the context of film analysis. Such overlaps testify to the productivity of the problematic that Watt has initiated in his study.

    Footnotes

    1. Recent contributions to the study of fascination include Baumbach; Degen; Hahnemann and Weyand; Seeber; Thys; and Weingart. See also encyclopedic articles on fascination by Beth; Desprats-Péquignot; Lotter; and Türcke.

    Works Cited

    • Abbas, Ackbar. “Dialectic of Deception.” Public Culture, vol. 11, no. 2, 1999, pp. 347-63. Duke University Press Journals, doi:10.1215/08992363-11-2-347.
    • Adorno, Theodor W. Aesthetic Theory. 1970. Edited and translated by Robert HullotKentor, U of Minnesota P, 1997.
    • —. “On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening.” 1938. The Essential Frankfurt School Reader, edited by Andrew Arato and Eike Gebhardt, Continuum, 1982, pp. 270-99.
    • Baumbach, Sibylle. Literature and Fascination. Palgrave Macmillan, 2015.
    • Bersani, Leo, and Ulysse Dutoit. “Merde Alors.” October, vol. 13, Summer 1980, pp. 22-35. JSTOR, doi:10.2307/3397699.
    • Beth, Karl. “Faszination.” Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, edited by Eduard Hoffman-Krayer and Hanns Bächtold-Stäubli, vol. 2, de Guyter, 1987, pp. 1263-65.
    • Blanchot, Maurice. “The Essential Solitude.” The Space of Literature, edited by Ann Smock, U of Nebraska P, 1992, pp. 19-34.
    • —. “‘Où maintenant? Qui maintenant?’” Le Livre à venir, Gallimard, 1959, pp. 286-95.
    • —. The Space of Literature. 1955. Translated by Ann Smock, U of Nebraska P, 1982.
    • —. “The Two Versions of the Imaginary.” The Space of Literature, edited by Ann Smock, U of Nebraska P, 1992, pp. 254-63.
    • —. “‘Where now? Who now?’” The Book to Come. 1959. Translated by Charlotte Mandell, Stanford UP, 2003, pp. 210-17.
    • Bruns, Gerald L. Maurice Blanchot: The Refusal of Philosophy. 1997. Johns Hopkins UP, 2005.
    • Burke, Victoria I. “From Desire to Fascination: Hegel and Blanchot on Negativity.” MLN, vol. 114, no. 4, Sept. 1999, pp. 848-56. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/3251365.
    • Degen, Andreas. Ästhetische Faszination: Die Geschichte einer Denkfigur vor ihrem Begriff. Walter de Gruyter, 2017.
    • Desprats-Péquignot, Catherine. “Fascination.” International Dictionary of Psychoanalysis. 2002. Edited by Alain de Mijolla, and translated by Philip Beitchman, et al., vol. 1, Thomson Gale, 2005, pp. 555-56.
    • Doane, Mary Ann. The Emergence of Cinematic Time: Modernity, Contingency, the Archive. Harvard UP, 2002.
    • Duncan, Pansy. “Fascination: Between the Rough and the Glossy.” The Emotional Life of Postmodern Film: Affect Theory’s Other, Routledge, 2015, pp. 77-107.
    • Hahnemann, Andy, and Björn Weyand, editors. Faszination: Historische Konjunkturen und heuristische Tragweite eines Begriffs. Peter Lang, 2009.
    • Harris, Oliver. “Film Noir Fascination: Outside History, but Historically So.” Cinema Journal, vol. 43, no. 1, 2003, pp. 3-24. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/1225928.
    • Hart, Kevin. The Dark Gaze: Maurice Blanchot and the Sacred. U of Chicago P, 2004.
    • Lotter, Konrad. “Faszination.” Lexikon der Ästhetik, edited by Wolfhart Henckmann and Konrad Lotter, C. H. Beck, 1992, pp. 60-61.
    • Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” 1975 (1973). Visual and Other Pleasures, Macmillan, 1989, pp.14-26.
    • Münsterberg, Hugo. The Photoplay: A Psychological Study. 1916. Arno Press, 1970.
    • Seeber, Hans Ulrich. Literarische Faszination in England um 1900. Heidelberg: Universitätverlag, Winter, 2012.
    • Shaviro, Steven. “Film Theory and Visual Fascination.” The Cinematic Body, U of Minnesota P, 1993, pp. 1-65.
    • Thys, Michel. Fascinatie: Een fenomenologisch-psychoanalytische verkenning van het onmenselijke. Amsterdam: Boom, 2006.
    • Türcke, Christoph. “Faszination.” Historisch-kritisches Wörterbuch des Marxismus, edited by Wolfgang Fritz Haug, Frigga Haug, Peter Jehle, and Wolfgang Küttler, vol. 4, Berlin Institute of Critical Theory, 1999, pp. 186-94.
    • Weingart, Brigitte. “Contact at a Distance: The Topology of Fascination.” Rethinking Emotion: Interiority and Exteriority in Premodern, Modern, and Contemporary Thought, edited by Rüdiger Campe and Julia Weber, De Gruyter, 2014, pp. 72-100.

  • Derrida’s Relevance

    Andrew Kingston (bio)

    A review of Crockett, Clayton. Derrida after the End of Writing: Political Theology and New Materialism. Fordham UP, 2017.

    Clayton Crockett has written and edited multiple books on theology, psychoanalysis, and contemporary continental theory. Derrida after the End of Writing represents his first text explicitly dedicated to the work of Jacques Derrida. In this book, Crockett covers a great deal of Derrida’s later interventions in religion and politics, while also situating them in relation to several somewhat recent philosophical trends like “New Materialism,” “Speculative Realism,” and “Object-oriented Ontology.” In doing so, Crockett’s book constellates a number of important points of potential connection between Derrida and these materialist strains of continental thought, some of which dismiss deconstruction as only a theory of language. While Crockett’s premises sometimes seem to concede too much to this popular mischaracterization of Derrida’s work, his text should be commended for its attempt to open new avenues for intellectual debate at the intersections of deconstruction, theology, politics, and (new) materialisms. This book will probably appeal most to contemporary materialist thinkers who might be deconstruction-curious; conversely, it would also work well as a primer for Derrida scholars with an interest in productively engaging with new materialist philosophies.

    The book opens with the contention that Derrida’s thought “remains important” and that “it cannot be relegated to the dust-bin of some late-twentieth-century linguistic idealism and subjectivist constructivism.” Crockett qualifies this statement by noting that “something changes in Derrida’s work” around the late 1980s (1); or, more precisely, “something has changed in the background or the cultural and intellectual context of how we read him.” For Crockett, this shift is especially marked in Derrida’s oeuvre by a move away from what Catherine Malabou calls a “motor scheme” of writing, and toward another scheme—toward “the machinic, teletechnology, or technoscience,” toward Malabou’s own idea of “plasticity,” and through this toward certain possible materialist readings. The book thus begins by introducing a division into Derrida’s thought, and asking “what it would mean to read Derrida beyond the scheme of writing” (2). Another, quite different iteration of Crockett’s opening gambit, then, would be that Derrida can only “remain important” or demonstrate a “continuing relevance” (2-3) today to the extent that we can overcome a supposedly outmoded schema of writing in order to show instead “how the so-called linguistic paradigm was already a material paradigm” (9). This ultimatum is more explicitly stated toward the end of the book: “The question that drives this book is whether Derrida’s philosophy has a future, and its tentative suggestion is that this answer depends on the extent to which it can be released from writing” (112). Such a claim will inevitably energize some readers and irritate others, though the book’s stated intention is to interrogate the ways that Derrida’s thought “is important and relevant beyond simple polemics (whether pro or anti)” (3).

    Crockett seeks to accomplish this paradigm shift, from writing to a “non-reductionist materialism,” not only through appeals to science later in his text, but also through sustained discussions of the material dimensions of religion and politics. It is in these discussions of religion and politics that the book is at its strongest. By the end of his introduction, Crockett locates one potential inroad to a materialist reading of Derrida along these lines—despite Derrida’s general suspicion of materialisms, which Crockett acknowledges (3)—in the semiotic overdetermination of the word “force” in Derrida’s work. Setting up some of the central concerns of the book, he reads “force” through texts like Carl Rashke’s Force of God, Derrida’s “Force and Signification” and “Force of Law,” and finally the idea that

    Energy is force, forces, and these forces make us—they are us. These energy forces are at one and the same time fully material and fully spiritual. Here is where materialism, religion, and politics, including the themes and concerns of political theology, intersect.(11)

    Unfortunately, this confluence of forces is left relatively underdeveloped in the book. Even so, over its eight main chapters, Derrida after the End of Writing presents a series of provocative insights like this one, through which Derrida might be brought into a closer—if ultimately asymptotic—relation with the materialist currents that dominate contemporary continental thought today.

    In the first half of the book, Crockett takes religion as “a mode for Derrida to articulate deconstruction beyond the constraints of writing in a narrow sense” (25). The text goes on to describe religion not as any isolated institution, but as a wider set of principles that have been diffused (as Max Weber described, for instance) throughout the hegemonic structures of capitalism and Western culture more generally (32). From this perspective, toward the end of Chapter 2, Crockett offers a noteworthy commentary on the character of Shylock in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, vis-à-vis Derrida’s reading of the play in “What is a ‘Relevant’ Translation?” and Gil Anidjar’s Blood: A Critique of Christianity. Following Derrida, Crockett observes how Shylock and his forced conversion act as a figure of the relève (or sublation) by Christianity of that which would oppose it, whether theologically, politically, or economically; the violently sublating “ruse of mercy” described by Shakespeare’s play, and through which Shylock is made to convert to Christianity under duress, thus becomes an important “site of the link between the theological and the political, which Derrida wants to deconstruct” (Crockett 38). The book pursues this complex relationship of the theological and the political through several Derridean figures, such as “auto-immunity” (47)—or as Derrida calls it elsewhere, “auto-co-immunity” (Acts of Religion 87). But again, in terms of Crockett’s overall argument, what ties these political and religious topics together is that they “are not figures of writing; they constitute an opening to another form of conceptuality” (Crockett 47).

    These early inquiries—into religion, politics, economics, and community—then lead Crockett toward an explication of what he calls (as the title of Chapter 3) a “political theology without sovereignty” in Derrida’s later thought. In other words, after showing that religion is always already political, Crockett wants also to demonstrate that the political is always already religious; but in contrast to Carl Schmitt’s idea of a political theology (i.e., the secularization of theological concepts in politics, transcendentally guaranteed by a God-like form of sovereignty), Crockett explores the possibility of a kind of political theology of the event, which unsettles the idea of sovereignty upon which Schmitt’s political theology relies. He locates this twist on political theology in Derrida’s later Blanchotian formulations of “messianicity without messianism” and “religion without religion” (50), after which he briefly begins to think through what such a non-sovereign understanding of political theology would mean for the contemporary world, by raising questions of ecology, global politics, and religious fundamentalism. Although these questions are brought up in a more or less cursory manner, they do point to the many crucial ways in which Derrida’s thought remains pertinent to this time in history, with its perpetual crises and impossible decisions.

    Another aspect of this book that is worth pausing over is a discussion that takes place primarily in Chapter 5, which puts a Derridean ethics into conversation with Timothy Morton’s Hyperobjects and with “Object-oriented Ontology.” In doing so, this chapter contains perhaps the text’s most compelling and original contribution to contemporary trends in continental thought. Its argument begins from Derrida’s move toward Heidegger at the end of his reading of Paul Celan in “Rams” (the subject of the book’s fourth chapter), in which Derrida problematizes Heidegger’s famous statement that “the stone is worldless, the animal is poor in world, man is world-forming” (qtd. in Crockett 67). Crockett suggests that contemporary theories of objects can offer productive ways to continue to destabilize what is specifically human in this Heideggerian idea of “world.” This would be accomplished not (only) in relation to the supposedly world-poor animal—which Derrida already often addressed and was addressed by—but in relation to the worldless stone, which is to say in relation to the worldless and inanimate object. In this regard, Crockett claims that Object-oriented Ontology provides a way to think about how the worldlessness of inanimate objects can call us into asymmetrical ethical relationships with them, precisely due to our “inability to respond adequately to them” (85), our inability to respond to a radical otherness that confronts us through their lack of world. From this orientation toward the worldless object, Crockett turns back to Derrida, and toward the possibility that an ethical relationship might arise at the moment when, in Celan’s words, “Die Welt ist fort”—from which it follows that “ich muß dich tragen:”

    The World is gone. Derrida says that “as soon as I am obliged, from the instant when I am obliged to you, when I owe, when I owe it to you, owe it to myself to carry you, as soon as I speak to you and am responsible for you, or before you, there can no longer, essentially, be any world.” (85; slightly altered due to typographical error in the text)

    Similarly, Crockett cites Derrida’s phrase tout autre est tout autre (which is something of a subtheme throughout the text) as another ethical injunction to be read in light of the worldless object: “If every other is every other, that does not simply mean all human others who exist in Kantian terms as rational moral beings. Derrida’s late work, in particular, has the purpose of questioning the status of the human and its relation to nonhuman others, in a way that has not always been fully acknowledged” (92). These non-human others, for Crockett, should include objects.

    After this central discussion of objects, the book’s three final chapters address three contemporary thinkers whose work is indebted to Derrida: John D. Caputo, Catherine Malabou, and Karen Barad. What ties these chapters to one another and to the rest of the book is, again, the contention that each develops Derrida’s thought outside of a paradigm of writing. While Crockett’s reading of Caputo’s theology can be more easily understood in terms of the text’s earlier claims, his last two chapters rather abruptly pivot toward interpretations of Derrida in relation to the sciences—namely, neuroscience (Malabou) and theoretical physics (Barad). While these chapters are informative and interesting, they come across as more isolated from the broader arguments that Crockett sets up in the first half of his text. They certainly provide helpful discussions of further potential avenues for materialist reinterpretations of Derrida, but at the same time they tend to diminish some of the more unique contributions that Crockett himself makes (such as his readings of Derrida and political theology, or his juxtaposition of a Derridean ethics with Object-oriented Ontology). But if the reader is curious about the legacies of Derrida’s thought in Caputo, Malabou, or Barad, Crockett manages to condense a large amount of information into brief, readable overviews. There are also provocative observations about Derrida’s non-concept of différance in relation to physics at the end of the chapter on Barad.

    The main body of the book more or less ends after these final surveys. In place of a conclusion, one finds an afterword, titled “The Sins of the Fathers—A Love Letter,” which is not meant to summarize the book’s argument or build upon its previous chapters; instead, the afterword is written as a highly personal and confessional piece, through which Crockett “reflects more personally on Derrida in relation to love, fatherhood, and mourning” (139). Here Crockett denounces the pervasiveness within the discipline of philosophy of what Derrida called phallogocentrism, as well as the ways in which cis male philosophers consciously or unconsciously perpetuate its patriarchal order by identifying with other male philosophers as surrogate father figures (144). To that end, Crockett cedes the end of his book to a number of female-identifying philosophers such as Malabou, Bracha Ettinger, and Catherine Keller. This is a constructive gesture, though its reliance on heterosexual familial metaphor is perhaps unnecessary. Overall, however, Crockett’s explicit recognition of sexism in philosophy (and across academia) is an extremely important intervention to continue to make—and the vulnerability with which he lays out this problem is admirable.

    One issue with this book is its scope, or more precisely the relationship between its scope and its size. Among other topics, Derrida after the End of Writing addresses Derrida’s thought on both Christianity and religion in general, his deconstructions of sovereignty, and his readings of Celan and Heidegger, situating these topics alongside Caputo’s weak theology, Malabou’s notion of plasticity, Morton’s hyperobjects, Meillassoux’s theory of “correlationism,” and Barad’s engagements with theoretical physics. It does all this in 156 pages (really 138, excluding the afterword). Unavoidably, then, the text is unable to spend much time developing any one of its claims, and instead adopts a mode of writing that could be called exploratory or even manifesto-like.

    Secondly, given the spatial constraints of the book, it unfortunately leaves out a number of other texts that would have contributed to or even altered its arguments. For instance, although Crockett acknowledges that Derrida “certainly kept a critical distance from materialism” (3), he does not go any further in demonstrating or giving reasons for this critical distance. The book’s engagements with the new materialisms would have been strengthened by addressing Derrida’s own complicated relation to materialisms in general (as he outlined it, for example, in Positions 62-67). Additionally, in a text that interprets Derrida in relation to materialism and later in relation to the sciences, it is strange not to see acknowledgments of other efforts (outside Malabou and Barad) to think explicitly about these relations. For example, the book might have mentioned Arkady Plotnitsky’s Complementarity: Anti-Epistemology after Bohr and Derrida, Claire Colebrook’s “Matter Without Bodies,” or the more recent work of Francesco Vitale on Derrida and biology, such as his 2014 essay, “The Text and the Living: Jacques Derrida between Biology and Deconstruction.” The latter investigates Derrida’s 1975-76 seminar, La vie la mort, in which he analyzes the work of French biologist François Jacob alongside figures of life (and) death in Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Freud. There are also more recent texts on this seminar that Crockett could not have taken into account, but that should now be considered in relation to his text, such as Vitale’s Biodeconstruction, Dawne McCance’s The Reproduction of Life Death, and the recent French publication of the seminar itself.

    Finally, there remains the question of writing, its “end,” and the suspicions that such a proclamation might raise with some readers of Derrida. Such readers might dispute not only that there is an “end” of writing, but also that “writing” has a stable enough identity within Derrida’s oeuvre that it could have a beginning or end in the first place. For example, one might point out that if indeed a notion of writing can be said to be privileged in Derrida’s early work, this privilege is usually derived more from the historical and philosophical portrayal of writing as a figure of exteriority or of derivativeness, and less from a desire on Derrida’s part to view the world through the lenses of semiotics or linguistics. Further, these readers might say, Derrida often discussed writing alongside other terms that are not primarily linguistic, such as “the supplement” or “spacing;” when he does focus on writing specifically, it is not in order to make everything into a text but in order to make very specific interventions in the history of Western philosophy—for example (as in Voice and Phenomenon), to destabilize the mechanisms of “auto-affection” that produce and reinforce the supposed interior selfsameness of the phenomenological subject. If, for reasons like these, this figure of writing does not simply present what Derrida calls a “vulgar [vulgaire] concept of writing” (Of Grammatology 56), then to propose a split in his work whereby one might move beyond writing is already to pose a complex question (plurium interrogationum), according to which the inextricably contextual functions of writing in Derrida’s work would need to be first universalized and reified before this figure could be superseded by another “scheme.” Derrida’s early arguments, in other words, cannot be consolidated around a unified question of writing without removing them from the particular ways they use this figure in relation to different aspects of the Western metaphysical tradition. To suggest that Derrida’s early philosophy can be understood in terms of writing, then, is something like saying that the Odyssey can be understood in terms of sailing: yes, there is a lot of it, but that is not the whole story.

    Crockett is well aware of this. Reading his text closely reveals a consistent hesitation concerning the false dilemma inherent in the idea of an after or an end of writing. For instance, he makes many statements like “[w]riting is always already material, and Derrida was never a linguistic or transcendental idealist” (6); or “we ignore the complexities of language at our peril” (9); or “most readers assume that différance is a purely linguistic phenomenon. I think this is a misunderstanding of Derrida.” Shortly after this last statement, Crockett writes: “There is no proper Derrida, but there are more interesting, relevant, and compelling iterations of Derrida’s thought” (138). In the end, the book returns to the question of relevance with which it began. This is a book concerned with relevance, written by someone who is genuinely concerned with the fate of Derrida’s thought in a now predominantly materialist episteme. But in positing an end of writing, it is also a book concerned with the relève, with the sublation of writing and of Derrida—not into an Absolute Knowledge but into a New Materialism. Like Derrida in his essay on translation, one would want to emphasize the violence intrinsic to this question of relevance. But from another, more pragmatic perspective, it is also the case—rightly or wrongly—that the possibility of so much worthwhile intellectual dialogue depends on the question of relevance, which often determines whether a reader will open one book, or another, or none at all. In the interest of furthering this dialogue, Crockett’s text offers an impressively wide-ranging and insightful look at Derrida’s engagements with religion and politics, while also outlining ways that deconstruction might be brought to bear on some of the current relevancies in continental theory. In its own way, then, it offers its reader a spoonful of materialist sugar to help the pharmakon go down.

    Works Cited

    • Derrida, Jacques. Acts of Religion. Edited by Gil Anidjar, Routledge, 2002.
    • —. Of Grammatology. Translated by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Corrected Edition, Johns Hopkins UP, 1997.
    • —. Positions. Translated by Alan Bass, U of Chicago P, 1981.
  • Beside Reparative Reading

    Brian Glavey (bio)

    A review of Tyler Bradway, Queer Experimental Literature: The Affective Politics of Bad Reading. Palgrave Macmillan, 2017.

    For better or worse, queer theory has always had, if not a bad reputation, at least a reputation for badness. Animated by a commitment to subversion and non-conformism on the one hand, and organized around bad feelings such as stigma, failure, and shame on the other, queer theory’s badness paradigm helps to explain what Heather Love calls the “puzzling centrality of queer critics in the promulgation of new reading methods” (162). When it comes to reading against the rules, queer theory has had a lot to say: its investment in bodies and affects and its refusal of disciplinary norms have lent momentum to recent versions of bad reading, attempts to resist disciplinary histories, and professional modes of interpretation. One might certainly wonder how far such innovations deviate from the norms they propose to upend. As Merve Emre writes in her study of a different sort of bad reading, “Are these practices of reading really as non-normative, as radical, or as bad as their practitioners want them to be?” (255). The question highlights a set of central tensions at play in much queer theoretical discourse, which finds itself grappling with the paradox of a discipline that normalizes the rejection of norms and professionalizes a sort of anti-professionalism. More broadly, the questions of the status of close reading and of other protocols in literary studies have been vexed ones. Rachel Sagner Buurma and Laura Heffernan have shown that recent methodological debates have tended to conjure a particular kind of bad reader to serve as a muse for critics weary of practices that have come to seem rote or ineffectual. They note the potential oddness of this situation, asking, “How have our reading practices come to seem merely professional—meaningful only in relation to our institutional positions and professional desires?” (114).

    Although the proliferation of these new modes of reading has been especially vigorous in recent years, the most generative variant of this kind of queer reading likely remains, after twenty years, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s essay on paranoid and reparative reading, a work that sets out to think through what does and does not count as good reading, and to consider why pushing back against such strictures might be especially important for queer readers. However, even the anti-normative energies swirling around Sedgwick’s early and justly famous attempts to shake up disciplinary protocols have risked distillation into a rather limited spectrum of routinized interpretative techniques. For all its anti-dualist capaciousness, Sedgwick’s account of paranoid and reparative reading has in practice often led to the replication of stark oppositions, in effect adding one more fossilized binary to the Theory and Methods syllabus. Removed from the specific instances of Sedgwick’s own generative hypothesizing, reparative reading often tends to equate queer reading with a limited set of practices that do not stray very far from the graduate seminar table. Keyed to producing interpretations, in other words, it remains a matter of generating readings more than the experience of relating to a text. There is of course nothing wrong with this. To the extent, though, that such practices are queer, they are queer in a rather constricted way, giving the misguided sense that queer reading was invented by English professors. As a result, it too can seem rather far removed from the queer ways in which reading might be a powerful affective experience, the way it might turn you on, say, or even turn your stomach.

    Tyler Bradway’s ambitious and brilliant Queer Experimental Literature: The Affective Politics of Bad Reading responds to these paradoxes with the provocative question: “What if reading is less like criticism and more like sex?” (244). The analogy is intended to be more than titillating, suggesting that queer studies would do well to recognize reading not just as a process of producing interpretations but also as a mode of relationality that is transformative and unpredictable in its own right, that engages with and changes bodies and minds to create, Bradway suggests, “immodest and unforeseen possibilities for becoming and belonging together” (244). Reading is queer long before the theorists get involved. But Bradway’s embrace of bad reading is not, as many others seem to be, a call to move away from the professional practices that have been central to the formation of queer literary studies as a disciplinary tradition. Instead, the story he tells in Queer Experimental Literature might be seen as something like a reparative attempt to understand those practices as having always existed within a broader conversation about queer politics, a conversation that works to put books and people and communities in contact with one another. To understand reparative reading practices only in relation to so-called postcritical reading is to miss the extent to which Sedgwick’s own thinking on these issues, for instance, is marked by her inheritance of a broader queer literary history concerned with hermeneutic problems shaped as much by the catastrophic losses of the AIDS crisis as by strictly theoretical concerns. “When we debate the relative value of suspicion or empathy in the abstract,” Bradway insists,

    we miss the specific meanings that paranoid and reparative reading had (and has) for queer communities. But more importantly, we perpetuate a debate over good and bad modes of reading without attending to the historical relations of power that made paranoid or reparative reading queer in the first place. (xxix-xxx)

    To highlight these historical relations, Bradway elaborates the concept of a “para-academic” mode of experimental writing that explicitly engages with institutionally produced forms of academic writing, but that nonetheless stands to one side of such discourse, resists its sanctioned genres, and is not recognized from within it as knowledge. Such work is in the university without being of the university. Some of Sedgwick’s writing occupies this para-academic space: Bradway suggests that Sedgwick’s turn to positive affect is best understood in relation to her own experimental literary texts—particularly the poetry/prose hybrid memoir A Dialogue on Love—and that such works provide the key to understanding reparative reading within a larger political and artistic context. An important precursor to this work, according to Bradway, is Samuel L. Delany. Although Delany’s writing—in particular The Motion of Light on Water and Times Square Red, and Times Square Blue—is block-quoted time and time again in influential queer theoretical texts, much of Delany’s literary production resists assimilation into academic discourse and indeed remains antagonistic to it. It is true that Delany’s novels and stories engage in constant conversation with critical theory. As Bradway notes, “His fiction offers a kind of ‘works cited’ that makes evident to academic publics, including the critics named in his work, that he is conversing with them, albeit in a different idiom” (57). But, like several of the authors featured in the book, at a certain point in his career Delany turned away from semiotics and toward hermeneutics, a shift that deprioritized theory in favor of an attention to the way that reading establishes forms of relationality between readers and texts. For Delany it was specifically the representational crisis occasioned by AIDS that spurred him to recognize the importance of paying attention not only to the grammar of signs and symbols but also to the manner in which readers take up and relate to texts in creative ways. The AIDS crisis, in other words, created a context in which it became urgent to ask fundamental questions about the nature of reading: what it means, what it does, what sort of social relations it might foster. For Delany, Sedgwick, and other queer experimentalists in this tradition, the question of good and bad reading was not merely academic but also a matter of life and death, a necessary struggle to find a way to survive.

    The writers Bradway studies occupy different positions in the history of queer reading. William Burroughs’s midcentury experimentation, for instance, is linked to the problem of trying to imagine forms of queer political desire and collectivity prior to the emergence of a gay liberation movement, and was rendered nearly unthinkable by the homophobic currents of the period. Burroughs’s novels—subversive, obscene, even trashy—have always worn their badness on their sleeves. But Bradway explains that the nature of the kind of bad reading that such works make possible has often been misunderstood. Indeed, the terms under which Naked Lunch was able to skirt a charge of obscenity underline the paradox of queer politics at the heart of the queer experimental tradition. Ultimately, the Court found that Burroughs’s novel was acceptable because its representations of queerness were read as hallucinatory—animated by drug abuse—rather than imaginary. “The queer text,” Bradway explains, “is thus not pornographically filled with depraved sex acts. It is a text that is itself expressive of the collective agency and social imagination of queers” (3). The subversive threat posed by Burroughs’s novel is in effect defanged, its transgressions coded as a matter of pharmacology—and thus linked to a private individual’s malady—rather than expressive of something powerful and compelling in its own right. Burroughs’s aesthetic project was to resist this demarcation, precisely by imagining reading as an immersive, affectively disorienting mode that attempts to dissolve the boundary between fantasy and reality. Burroughs solicits bad reading, asking his readers to be turned on, turned around, freaked out by trashy novels, because reading is itself a kind of queer relationality that breaks out of private, subjective desires and instantiates an intersubjective collectivity.

    Kathy Acker is one of the most significant perpetuators of this aspect of Burroughs’s project. Critics have tended to see Acker’s relation to her predecessor chiefly in terms of her cutup aesthetics of shock and plagiarism, missing the extent to which she is also perpetuating a queer tradition that locates an incipient sociality in the embodied experience and radically intersubjective relationality of reading. Acker famously wanted her writing to be unreadable, but Bradway insists that this unreadability should not be exclusively understood as an aggressive assault on the reader. Instead, illegibility becomes for her an invitation to experience her text as a transformational affective event. Again, the paradox of the critical success of Acker’s writing mirrors the problem of queer theory’s own institutionalization. “The irony of Acker’s proclaimed unreadability is that she was—and continues to be—manifestly readable within the now-institutionalized discourses of continental theory” (106). Acker grew increasingly frustrated by this problem, a problem that reflected and exacerbated her distaste for the commodification of the avant-garde. Art and theory both found their potential for subversion and critique absorbed by the market. Acker’s search for a solution for this situation involved not merely more shock, but rather an investment in the relational possibilities at work in the affective, embodied experience of reading.

    The work of Jeanette Winterson might seem less directly subversive than Acker’s, and her relation to theory less fraught. The early reception of Winterson’s novels was shaped by the simultaneous emergence of queer theory as an academic discipline in the 1990s and the degree to which her work was seen as a model for those theoretical developments. And yet Winterson’s work has also been seen as less queer—less disruptive, less political—to the extent that it appears to couch its account of sexuality in terms of private, emotional experience. Combined with her commercial success, this investment not only in feelings but more specifically in positive feelings—love, happiness, care, and the like—has encouraged some critics to see her as an emblem of a kind of homonormativity, engaged in the transformation of homosexuality into a personal and ultimately depoliticized identity category. Bradway insists, on the contrary, that Winterson’s apparent interest in love rather than sex is part of a broader attempt to resist the affective logic of neoliberalism. Like her queer experimental predecessors, Winterson focuses on affective relations created between readers and aesthetic artifacts as the realm where new forms of queer belonging might be constituted. This “queer exuberance” is a step toward critique: “Not merely exposing the writing ‘on’ bodies,” Bradway argues, “queer fiction can also affectively write ‘with’ the bodies of its readers, exposing them to new relational possibilities” (147).

    With nuanced readings of Winterson and Sedgwick, the final two chapters of Queer Experimental Literature underscore one of Bradway’s chief accomplishments: the elaboration of a powerful argument for the political and intellectual valence of positive affects. Though these feelings may be cruel, they are not always so. Tracing with subtlety and nuance the patterns of identification and desire that run through each of his author’s works, Bradway is himself an important inheritor of Sedgwick’s queer experimental project. And yet part of what is so compelling about the book is the fact that the canon of texts to which Queer Experimental Literature attaches its interest is not an especially Sedgwickian one. Bradway concludes, for example, with a discussion of Chuck Palahniuk’s “Guts” (2005), which depicts scenes of masturbation and bodily trauma in a fashion that famously led to a minor epidemic of faintings at public readings. The difficulties posed by such a work are not readily described by the poetics of opacity and preterition that stem from the epistemology of the closet, and many of them do not appear ready candidates for a reparative ethics of care. In its way, Bradway’s attention both to Sedgwick’s intersubjective poetics and to Acker’s embodied resistance, to Winterson’s embrace of love alongside Palahniuk’s experiment in revulsion, is central to his contribution to affect studies, a field that still tends to divvy up its feelings into the good, the bad, and the ugly. That one can—and indeed must—attend to both positive and negative affects, to their coexistence and interaction, is signaled by the fact that the queer experimental tradition has never taken sides in this way.

    Queer Experimental Literature is an exciting and powerful work with important implications for both queer theory and the study of contemporary literature, offering much needed historical context for recent methodological discussions about the status of critique and form in literary studies. The recognition that reading is an embodied practice that solicits a wide and unruly range of affects—some good, some bad, most a bit of both—is by no means a recent academic discovery. On the contrary, the exploration of the political and aesthetic possibilities of this kind of reading has been central to queer writing all along. At the same time, tracing the longer history of the way that this “bad reading” has influenced the development of academic queer theory also reveals that the professional reading practices central to queer literary studies are not relics of bad faith or a bloodless exercise in paranoia. Queer reading has always relied upon a complicated choreography of affirmation and critique, of shock and discombobulation alongside the promise of new forms of belonging. Offering theoretical insights in every chapter and a fresh perspective on each of its subjects, Queer Experimental Literature is a dazzling reminder that the discipline of queer literary studies can still produce bad readers as good as Bradway.

    Works Cited

    • Buurma, Rachel Sagner, and Laura Heffernan. “The Common Reader and the Archival Classroom: Disciplinary History for the Twenty-first Century.” New Literary History, vol. 43, no. 1, 2012, pp. 113-135. Project MUSE, doi:10.1353/nlh.2012.0005.
    • Emre, Merve. Paraliterary: The Making of Bad Readers in Postwar America. U of Chicago P, 2017.
    • Love, Heather. “Critical Response IV: Strange Quarry.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 44, no. 1, 2017, pp. 153-163. The U of Chicago P Journals, doi:10.1086/694136.
  • Indefinite Urbanism:Airport Noise and Atmospheric Encounters in Los Angeles

    Marina Peterson (bio)

    Abstract

    “Indefinite urbanism” is the aerial drawn into perceptibility through noise, glass resonating with aircraft noise and infrastructural edge spaces that remain as traces of a history of now inaudible sound. As the age of commercial air travel dawned in Southern California, those living around Los Angeles International Airport turned toward the sky as the roar of jet planes disrupted an otherwise pacific coastal climate. Attending to the (im)materiality of noise, I trace atmospheric encounters across the resonance of walls and the shifting sand of coastal dunes now home to an endangered species of butterfly.

    Around Los Angeles International Airport, noise effects take shape as infrastructural edge spaces. What was once an upscale beach community touted for its ocean views and underground utilities is now an expanse of sandy dunes with patches of native shrubs and grasses or still lingering ice plant, the concrete of Playa del Rey’s streets and retaining walls haunted by what once was. To the north of the runways, dark green vines and shrubs explode in a wild mess within the confines of chain link fence. As the age of commercial air travel dawned in Southern California in the late 1950s, those living around what had been a bean field, an airfield, and a municipal airport that would become LAX began to hear the sounds of jet planes flying over their homes. Newly attuned to a resounding sky, they complained about the noise that interrupted the pacific climate of the southern California coast.

    Noise brings the atmospheric into perceptibility, composing dynamic assemblages of matter-in-motion. Noise, thus, is “an opening” (Serres 56).1 Drawing attention to the sky, noise itself withdraws. Falling away, it proliferates into a diversity of atmospheric forms that encompass both a physicality of the ephemeral and a logic of indeterminacy. A tendency, the atmospheric is ephemeral, indeterminate, vague, and indefinite.2 Building on a now robust literature that attends to forces and attunements that bring the atmospheric into focus, I depart from its emphasis on air, addressing ways in which noise has been central to how we think and feel the atmospheric. “Substantiated” in sound, the atmospheric emerges in moments in which noise matters (Choy 128).

    Informed by Spanish architect Ignasi de Solà-Morales’s concept of terrain vague, I use the term indefinite urbanism to attend to edge spaces of infrastructure as effects of the interplay between sounds from the sky and sensation. Indefinite urbanism is city as process, inconclusive, formless, “volumetric,” and “moving” (Gandolfo, Graham and Hewitt, Latham and McCormack). It is the porous boundary between that which is hard and that which is airy – the airport as port where ground meets air, the windowpane of a home vibrating with sound, its glass once silica like the dune sand that lifts with a gust of wind, sand no longer contained by the foundations of homes built near the sea, and now home to an endangered species of butterfly.3 This is an atmospheric city, a city of atmospheric encounters in which air, glass, neighborhoods, sand, photographs, people, ice plant, and butterflies are drawn together by noise.

    In engaging the case of airport noise and its effects on urban form, I am less interested in the ways things cohere than in the ways they don’t – in the processes of making, in slippages, gaps, and exteriorities that also matter because of their otherness to the project at hand, in the ways something that is ephemeral, that does not last, is made to matter. This is a project of writing through “things” (as it were). Tracing noise and its atmospheric encounters, the writing stays close to emergent processes and forms, a mode of “thin description,” which, following Love, embraces “forms of analysis that do not traffic in speculation about interiority or depth” but offer an “exhaustive, fine-grained attention to phenomena” (404). “Glitching” as a method of investigation, analysis, and writing, I read documents and ethnographic encounters for textures and qualities of events, often against the grain of their intended logics. And while I attend to something of the specificity of an historical moment, I do not aspire to provide a totalizing account, but instead present episodes that fold into one another, unstable and perhaps indeterminate.

    1. Emergent Materialities

    First the holes in the homes had to be closed. The opening for milk delivery. The mail slot. Vents. Windows that opened to ocean air. Cracks that let in light and breeze, gaps around windows and doors. Aircraft noise drove people indoors, to spaces newly turned inward. Between 1967 and 1969, Wyle Laboratories conducted a home soundproofing pilot project around Los Angeles International Airport. The twenty houses were “typical of Southern California single-family homes” (Wyle 6); built of materials that might include plaster, wood, composition shingle, and Spanish tile, many featured “beamed ceilings and extensive glass areas.” These were modest, mostly one-story homes, with windows in every room and multiple exterior doors that ensured fluidity between indoors and out. The first homes designated for soundproofing, those in the trial study were near the coast. Breezes from the Pacific Ocean wafted through windows left open most of the year. The climate granted a sense of ease only newly disrupted by the departing jet plane, which roared and whined as it ascended, dropped glops of fuel on the ground, on the laundry hanging to dry, on the oranges ripening on a tree in the back yard.

    During soundproofing, noise gets pushed into and away from things. When the builders seal the gaps between the window frames and the walls, they drive noise into silicone gel. When they add a turn to the ventilation duct, they send noise bouncing back where it came from. When they install a second pane of glass three inches from the existing window, they create an airspace where noise ricochets between surfaces. Concerned with the materiality of sound, acoustical engineers describe noise as a moving force, mobile and agentive. They delineate the shifting status of sound from airborne waves to material vibration as it “moves” from an airplane engine through air and into a house where it is heard in the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen. There, if it is too loud, it interferes with conversation, makes it difficult to hear the television, and is “annoying” (which might, as engineers were also calculating, prompt political engagement or an expensive lawsuit).

    In a climate of change, closing windows to drown out the noise of aircraft might also have made the home feel more like a fortress, protection against an atmosphere that pressed upon its inhabitants – that made the skin crawl, the heart race, annoyance percolate into an explosive condition—protection against a sense that something was bearing down and challenging, if not threatening, a precariously maintained scene of domestic bliss. Noise newly divided inside from out, the skin of the house newly figured as fortification rather than the porous membrane it had in many ways been (Pallasmaa). Yet what emerged is not so much a divide as a continuity across differently vibrating skin that extends from the skin of the body to that of the house and beyond, to the volumetric space of the noise contour and the climate itself. There is no “between” – rather, matter is continuous, air and skin entangled in various ways despite (or as part of) efforts to control, demarcate, and condition. Drawing together ear, air, and wall, noise composes an atmospheric assemblage of emergent materialities (Latham and McCormack 707).

    The skin of the house is both armor for and an extension of the body’s, its permeability and porosity not limited to windows but extended across the surfaces and depth of walls and doors, window frames and thresholds. Kapchan suggests that listening to noise is “to linger in the space of discomfort long enough to resonate with the sound knowledge being transmitted” (118). In this way, skin as “symbolic boundary between the self and the world” (Benthien 1) is formed under pressure – the pressure of the indeterminacy of matter registered by quantum physics or that of the slow onslaught of an anthropogenic atmosphere that renders a relationship between body and its milieu in newly figured entanglements of risk, a human-made monster casting the possibility of existence into doubt (Barad). Skin (of an arm or a kitchen ceiling) is a horizon of pressure and permeable – entangled with air in a dynamic of force and motion, of energy and matter. It is, as Manning puts it, “leaky.”

    The materiality of walls, vents, windows, and air emerges in and through encounters with noise. Cast by acoustic engineers as distinct in relation to forms of matter, sound – the matter of noise – makes materials differently durable. A “wave” in air, sound “vibrates” the matter of the wall – stucco, shingles, gypsum – emerging again on the other side as a wave. While the “sound transmission levels” of building materials can be altered, air is treated as “empty,” its materiality not addressed in relation to the movement of sound even as air is the matter of openings in the home, and in this way the most potent conduit. Air, as a form of matter moved by the energy that is sound, is absent, an absence (different from its earlier figuration as “ether” [Connor 148-172, Trower 7]). Yet with soundproofing, as with environmental noise in general, the noise that is measured and mitigated is limited to airborne sound. Sound in and of air that is nonetheless always coming into being in relation to differently resonating sound-energies that appear to the eye as wall or windowpane or that appear to the ear.

    Glass, characterized in terms of its “low attenuation,” is unique in its material properties (Wyle 5). Glass resonates with sound. This is the wine glass made to sing for a child at the end of a dinner, or extended as a wine glass “orchestra,” glasses filled with different levels of water for variations in pitch. The more water, the less air, the higher the pitch (or frequency). Air between two panes of glass has a similar effect, such that a smaller airspace resonates at a higher frequency. The resonant frequency of glass is the pitch, which, if played – or sung – loudly enough, may cause it to break. The apocryphal opera singer. With windows considered “apertures of enlightenment,” glass, “to the early modern imagination,” was “an important medium of civilization, permitting enclosure yet translucence” (Comaroff and Comaroff 290). Generally considered in terms of its properties of visuality – transparency, reflection, refraction – glass is less often discussed in terms of its acoustic qualities. The resonance of glass is suggested but not articulated by Wyle reports that recommend a three-inch gap and separate installation of each pane of glass rather than a manufactured double pane window. That glass resonates “with” sound is crucial; sound is not an external agent or object, it is only and always in and of – i.e., it is immanent.

    Mutable, glass is a solid that “contains in its liquid properties the trace of its previous state and the conditions of its making” (Kalas 175). It is technically an “amorphous solid,” its chemical structure that of liquid rather than a crystalline solid, atoms and molecules not organized in a definite lattice pattern. High temperatures will change its state from solid to viscous, cold will render molten silica into something (seemingly) solid. When heated to its glass transition temperature, it is said to be in its glassy state. In glass, we find what Latham and McCormack describe as the “real force of the immaterial” (704). Like concrete, another material that moves between liquid and solid, glass “is a particular aggregate organization of process and energy,” its “technicity” emerging “from the mediation of different domains,” molded through “a series of transformative operations” (Mackenzie qtd. in Latham and McCormack 705). Composed primarily of silica, glass is material cousin to sand, whose granularity is another kind of liquid solid marking indefinite, moving margins. Capable of altering the territory of nation-states (Chua, Comaroff), sand is blown by wind into dunes – mobile, migrating formations upon which homes that had been built for their ocean views were, in 1959, suddenly under the flight path of newly noisy jet aircraft.

    2. De/territorializing

    After they had been purchased by the airport but not yet demolished, some of the empty homes in Playa del Rey were used for soundproofing tests; vacant, they became experiments in matter. “The project’s personnel install various types of material – such as fiberboard, gypsum board, fiberglass, thin sheets of lead, a seven-inch thickness of foam – alone and in combinations in the walls, floors, and ceilings, then take careful sound level readings to determine the effectiveness. Then the material is ripped out and another kind installed” (“Soundproofing Experiment” 16). The houses were built on concrete slabs as a measure of earthquake safety – no basements, nothing to fill in other than swimming pools, which stood empty long enough for neighborhood youth to use them as skate ramps. Foundations laid on top of shifting sands stabilized the dunes momentarily with concrete, a metaphor for noise and its unstable bases in the subjective yet generalizable nature of human perception. Though even in 1968 the Chicago Tribune reported that “Already the land around these houses, which once were surrounded by green lawns, has reverted to sand dunes,” the last houses on the dunes were not purchased by the airport until 1975 (“Soundproofing Experiment” 16). Yvette Kovary’s was one of these. Two years before, on Valentine’s Day, she wrote the airport asking about the “rumor that the Airport Security Officers will be removed in April, leaving us in a very lonely and vulnerable situation.”

    Kovary, who in the 1960s spearheaded neighborhood mobilization against airport noise as chairman of the citizens’ committee in Playa del Rey, shows me photos of comparable properties that were used as evidence in her lawsuit against the airport, as grounds that her home was worth more than the airport had offered. The yellow stickers “admitted as evidence” remain. She tells me that the airplane noise wasn’t so bad, that what they wanted most was to stay in their home. I listen, as the photos ground memories of a neighborhood given form and dimension, her hand arcing to outline contours in the dunes – a hill, a bluff, a street running down to the beach. She tells me of her friends and neighbors, pointing to their houses and describing their personalities. We are looking at an aerial photograph of Playa del Rey taken from just off the coast. It has the date “5 4 59” in the upper right hand corner. Worn, now, parts of its edges have torn or fallen off, revealing the board on which it is mounted. As images prompt memories of a home and neighborhood, past seeps into present, emerging in the space-time fold that opens as her finger touches a map I had read a reference to earlier that day, in transcripts of the 1960 congressional hearings on Aircraft Noise Problems held at Inglewood’s Morningside High School – the presentation of images a hidden yet potent presence in transcripts that record words but not gestures, official statements but not the informal speech by those who are there to testify. This speech is apparent only insofar as it is pointed to by senators admonishing the audience to be quiet, to be respectful. A licensed pilot sponsored for transcontinental races, Kovary had served in SPARS, a women’s unit of the Coast Guard, during World War II. During the hearings she drew on her expertise as a pilot to provide authority to her statements and to her experience: “I hold commercial multiengine flight instructor’s ratings,” she began, before introducing herself as “chairman of the citizens’ committee in Playa del Rey” (Aircraft Noise Problems 243). She says, of the photo, “I wanted to show them where we were, and what danger we were in,” telling me, fifty-six years after the hearings, “I knew exactly what they were doing.”

    Fig 1. Pointing to an aerial photo of Playa del Rey. © Marina Peterson, 2016.

    Yvette’s finger, pinkish and human scale against the sepia miniaturization of the landscape, touches the spot where her house had stood, still visible in the image, not, then, simply a trace on the dunes. Her house is the very last one at the top of the hill on the southern edge of the neighborhood. The runways are in the background, surrounded by expanses of open land. As she touches her house in the photo, her finger points to the south runway, its end visible just beyond a barren field. She describes how, rather than staying in the clear zone of the runway, the planes flew directly over their homes. “I could stand in my backyard and see the nose of the plane skid across the horizon,” she says, as the pilot held the plane low rather than rising in the air. She took what she described as an intentional, dangerous, and unnecessary act personally, but left possible motivation open. Her touch tends to the memory manifest in a tattered aerial photograph – a photograph made with a technology afforded by flight, captured by a photographer pointing a camera out the door of a helicopter, with its own engine roar as it circled over the airport and its margins.

    This was an era of infrastructure, of eminent domain wielded in service of freeways, stadiums, and airports. Across the region, families took the city’s money and moved, or held out and fought, the stability of homes and neighborhoods only a recent achievement bolstered by postwar incentives for homeownership and subdivision development (Avila, Cuff, Nicolaides). Later, after they had moved away, former residents told the local paper that “Living there was like living in paradise.” Families would walk to the beach after dinner, their children roaming freely across the dunes and beach. “‘It was a delightful place to live, kind of like the French Riviera,’” one man told a reporter, and a retired aerospace worker and licensed pilot concurred, “‘This whole area was a super neighborhood,’ said Hoefler. … ‘You couldn’t beat it’” (Gregor A1, A8). Women stayed home with the children, who might scream in fear at the sound of an aircraft, or race to look up in awe and excitement. Some of these women formed organizations to deal with the noise of the planes and the impending encroachment of the airport on their neighborhoods, along with the potential loss of their dream homes, built on the coast, with ocean breezes if not views. They went knocking door to door, asking for signatures to take to the airport noise group or send to the city councilperson. Even as they strove to maintain the lives they knew, there was a straining against the constraints of gender, of the household, and of labor or the lack thereof. They used their husbands’ names at first, though the men were at work all day and did not hear the noise.

    While residents of neighborhoods still – though not much longer – under restrictive covenants continued their battle against airport noise, Watts, directly to the east, burned with the fires of a riot stoked by the precarity of urban inequality, of structured abandonment manifest in police violence along with subpar housing and public services. It was a heat wave, and the Situationist International wrote: “The Los Angeles rebellion is the first in history able to justify itself by the argument that there was no air conditioning during a heatwave” (7). An atmosphere of change shimmered in the air, in bodies, in city infrastructure. “Sous les pavés la plage,” under the paving stone the beach – a call to action, both literal and symbolic, the paving stone a weapon against the police during 1968 riots in Paris manifesting the potential of liberation, of transforming the pressures of the capitalist city and private property to a space of freedom. And while not revolutionary in these terms, the return of the dunes, the seeping up of the sand in all its indeterminacy, pushes against the stability of property.

    Those who remained in Playa del Rey planted ice plant in an effort to halt the sand that, freed from its containment under concrete, drifted here and there, blowing onto streets and driveways and still cultivated yards when the wind was strong. Ice plant, Carpobrotus edulis, also known as “Hottentot fig,” with its shallow roots and creeping, rhizomatic form, takes hold quickly and spreads. Native to South Africa, it flourishes in Mediterranean climates. Needing little water, it blooms a brilliant lavender or pink flower, which, against the olive green field, provides a compelling burst of color. Its thick clusters cover the ground around beach front homes, providing greenery that stands out against the more subdued hues of dune ecosystems. A succulent, it can grow when just one of its three-sided segments meets ground, developing roots, taking hold, and generating fingers and branches that spread across the sand. Host to the El Segundo blue butterfly’s predators, it crowds out native species and makes the sandy soil of coastal dunes hospitable to other nonnative plants. Ice plant gives root to a desire for fixity and control. First introduced to Southern California in the early 1900s to stabilize soil along railway lines, ice plant continues to be planted extensively along freeways. This is a rhizome that territorializes rather than deterritorializes, spreading quickly and taking over areas that might be otherwise populated, especially if sparsely, as dunes habitats tend to be (Marder 135). To remove it, as I learned during a dunes restoration volunteer event, you start from the outside in, digging in with your fingers to feel beneath the shallow roots, pulling up each of its “arms” until they clump around their starting point, which, more deeply anchored, requires the use of a knife to dig around and into the cluster and free the thicker roots from the sand. We were warned to not leave a single segment lying on the ground.

    Fig 2. Ice plant. © Marina Peterson, 2018.

    Ice plant may have seemed to offer the possibility of holding onto the known, fixing the surface against otherwise unstoppable changes. In a letter dated September 1, 1973, Yvette Kovary explained to Mayor Tom Bradley that she had planted ice plant in the vacant lots across the street from her house “to keep some of the sand in place and from drifting across to fill our driveway,” but that much of the area looked terrible, like “the aftermath of a war – a war declared by the City of Los Angeles against its own residents and taxpayers.” Her anger seeps onto the page, her outrage framed with a biting cordiality, “Dear Sir, … Respectfully Yours.” “Unbelievable in this day of environmental concern,” the “once-lovely community” now has “rubble-strewn vacant lots” with “weeds up to eight feet in height, … smashed and unrepaired sidewalks, … sidewalks covered with sand (often to the roadway), … damaged or missing street signs, and … boarded-up houses.” A glimpse of an anthropogenic future, the neighborhood stands as a culmination of Smithson’s “ruins in reverse,” the “memory-traces of an abandoned set of futures” once more returned to rubble (Gordillo 54, 55).

    3. Noisy Silence

    After most of the homes had been removed, entomologists from the Natural History Museum returned to the dunes, whose wildlife had been catalogued in the decades prior to residential development. In 1973, the year the Endangered Species Act is passed, the El Segundo blue is included in The Butterflies of Southern California (Emmel and Emmel). The airport offers an annual butterfly tour to employees. We drive down the now cracked pavement of the streets that once defined a neighborhood, through the rolling hills of the dunes with their spectacular view of the ocean and the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance, crossing boulevards lined with palm trees and stopping at a street that would have continued west were it not now blocked from its route by sand and a chain link fence. The fence creates a barrier between the perpendicular intersection of this now unnamed street and the busy thoroughfare of Vista del Mar, on the other side of which lies Dockweiler State Beach. The biologist leading the tour sets up a small amplifier in the sand atop a ruin of a retaining wall, still standing though the house whose foundation it protected from the sand’s slow seep is gone. Dick Arnold uses the amplifier to broadcast his voice to the small group of women gathered around the coastal buckwheat plants, looking with great intensity as we try to spot a butterfly. We see one, but it is not the El Segundo blue. Wind touches the microphone, a plane whine passes over, becoming the white noise of engine sound, feedback from the small amplifier, “hooaaa,” laughter, “that’s a Metalmark right there,” he says. At last one is spotted, a male, “flittin’ around.” We talk to each other about the difficulty of capturing a butterfly with a camera, listening to our guide with half an ear. The flier we received as we boarded the bus has a very large, clear, and distinct image of a male El Segundo blue butterfly, blue wings with an orange border at the back of its rear wings. We are trying to spot something that is about one inch across, blue (male) or orange and brown wings with white spots (female), against the scrubby, gray and gray-green drought-afflicted coastal buckwheat plant. “There’s a female. See how it’s darker?” A male and female dart around each other and those gathered exclaim “awwws” at the arthropod romance.

    Fig 3. Dunes. © Marina Peterson, 2017.

    Audio Clip 1. Butterfly Count Feedback

    The interspecies encounter of butterfly and human takes form within and beyond a physical encounter, the sighting of butterfly by human eyes a sensory encounter that proliferates into forms that are sensory (the touch of butterfly capture) and abstract (law, and its regulatory practices). There is something in this encounter of what Yusoff calls the “insensible,” meaning that which “alerts us to the work of sense in securing the bringing into relation, its configurations, and its a priori orientations,” even as it “highlights the conditions under which we make knowledge and the way in which these conditions are directed towards certain resolutions of entities, of arrangements, of matter that are already towards the coherency of an event, as phenomenon, as writing, as sense work” (224). The insensible is Bataille’s “formless,” or “nonknowledge,” a force between sense and nonsense, “between material and virtual, inhuman and human, organic and nonorganic, time and the untimely” (Yusoff 213). And though the butterfly-human encounter almost immediately moves into the sensible – law, science, notions of ecology, humanistic modes of planetary care, metaphor, the biopolitical subject of environmentality – something remains of the “strange, nonintuitive, insensible … remote from human comprehension or intelligibility” (Yusoff 225). The butterfly exceeds human knowledge of it, even as it is potentially at risk of extinction at human hands.

    An orientation of care that privileges human over butterfly draws the two together in a series of encounters; yet even “the specific materiality and multiplicity of the subject” does not quite undo the preeminence of the human, does not quite yield to a sense that “the ‘human’…is not now, and never was, itself” (Wolfe 9). Rather, what is formed in these encounters is butterfly as object of human desire and care – of silence, fragility, precarity, posed against the roar of the jet. Anthropogenic charity embodied by the butterfly, and manifest in bodily encounters with plants and soil. A non-teleological form of the encounter between butterfly and human is shaped but not determined by other forms, encounters that, though not “structuring” per se, do not come out of nowhere. Something of history, of long conditioned modes of thought, endures and inscribes “meaning” into form. Metaphor and physicality draw together around the human-butterfly encounter. Care, enacted through the physicality of sight and touch, is iterated as such, hand meeting soil as volunteers plant coastal buckwheat in the dunes in order for the butterfly to live.

    Inhabiting a place deemed unfit for human habitation, the butterfly undergoes complete metamorphosis on (and under) coastal buckwheat plants. Butterfly metamorphosis is Malabou’s plasticity: one form destroyed, another form emerging from the destruction. Plasticity is thus a worlding, an emergent, transformative mode of existence, “a possible line of flight” (Mawani 167). Their lifecycle spanning a year, they become butterflies between mid-June and early September, their ability to fly coinciding with the flowering of the buckwheat. Staying close to the crown of the plant amongst whose roots they have long lain in another form, the butterflies mate (Arnold 82). The females eat and lay eggs on the flowerhead – a cluster of small white and pink flowers. The eggs hatch in three to five days if not consumed by a parasitic wasp who protects the buckwheat (Raffles 69). Plants sense insects, responding chemically to caterpillars munching their leaves and releasing chemicals (whose effects are unknown) upon insect oviposition (Karban 22). Ants protect the larvae from the parasitic wasp that protects the plant. Rudi Mattoni, whose fascination with butterflies began as a child, explains the process to me, saying that the larvae are “attended by ants, which protect them from parasitoids.” These ants drink a “sweet secretion,” exuded from glands that emerge as the ant strokes the larva’s back – a seeming symbiosis of pleasure and protection in which the biopolitical subject of an endangered species is entangled in an interspecies assemblage of transformation and becoming. Ant pleasure and pupae secretion spark the imagination of biologists and butterfly aficionados. Mattoni describes the nectar as a “delicious honey solution. They get high – they love it.” And as the larvae secrete, they sing, communicating via very quiet sounds at very high frequencies, inaudible to humans, but within the realm of transducible sound (DeVries).

    Others, however, shift from the titillation of ant pleasure, of peaceable communication between species, to suggest such ant-caterpillar relationships may be less equanimous. A framework of “biological market” does a different kind of work: larvae compete for the attention of fewer ants by producing more nectar, but produce less when there are many ants present. The ants, who do not need the sugary secretion, may also eat a larva that is not producing nectar, thus eliminating “the free riders from the population” (Maestripieri 214). A Science headline puts it bluntly: “Butterflies drug ants, turn them into bodyguards” (Asher). In this account, because the caterpillars need the ants but not vice versa, the caterpillars manipulate the ants with chemicals in their sweet secretion, using “nectar to drug unsuspecting ants with mind-altering chemicals.” The nectar imparts a caterpillar’s version of cruel optimism, as the ants who drink it run aggressively around the caterpillars rather than defending them from wasps and spiders. Extortion, psychological manipulation, and death tinge the desire for sweet secretion with malevolence and violence, another kind of metaphor for the transformation of dunes into neighborhoods, neighborhoods into rubble across which “invasive” species flourished, only to be removed slowly by human hands pushing sharp spades into the sand, cutting branches and roots with little knives, “restoring” an earlier ecosystem as an emblem of planetary care.

    Ant-butterfly relations do not adhere to a logical intentionality, whether it’s cast in terms of a rationality of market relations or in terms of the physical pleasure of interspecies touch and intoxication. The latter, which suggests an “affective ecology shaped by pleasure, play, and experimental propositions” (Hustak and Myers 78), is nonetheless as much an anthropocentric projection as the former. And, while extortion and manipulation more readily serve a neo-Darwinian model of evolution, both accounts of the ant-butterfly dynamic draw together a physicality of sensation with an anthropocentric interpretation of its meaning – as an interspecies insect relationship folds into a human-insect entanglement. Missing are the ways in which the relationship is “a reciprocal capture,” an “‘intra-active’ phenomenon” of “creative involution,” Deleuze and Guattari’s formulation that “amplifies relations constituted through affinity” (Hustak and Myers 97). There is a possibility of formlessness presented by the butterfly-ant encounter, an insensibility that has the potential to undermine humanism by pulling “these relations into a strange territory” of pleasurable pain (Yusoff 225), of purposeless consumption of an other, of drunken ants wobbling around an oozing larva. Ant stroking caterpillar secreting sweet nectar drunk by ant protecting caterpillar is a becoming “in which the discernibility of points disappears” (Deleuze and Guattari qtd. in Hustak and Myers 97). The airport looms large. Though the butterfly may not “hear” the planes, people who spent years working on dunes restoration attribute their hearing loss to the jet noise. As another sensing species, with antennae and legs and wings that experience differences in atmospheric conditions, the butterfly too must be moved by the aerial vibration of the sound of a departing plane.

    In an encounter of insect and city, noise effects shape a space of “noisy silence” (Königstein), literally and metaphorically, materially and conceptually – airplanes making their loudest, most “annoying” sound while a caterpillar sings softly to an ant. Ambiguous and ambivalent, this is a space of metamorphosis, transduction, plasticity, and becoming, with species transformation shifting human aspirations, federal protection of endangered species superseding municipal laws, butterflies trumping a golf course, an anthropocentric environmentalism at odds with itself settling into an uneasy truce about land use that, despite its seeming “emptiness,” is anything but (McDonogh 5). This is a space of indefinite urbanism, where noise from the sky transformed a then growing city, and sound is still sensed in its affective reverberations for those whose homes once stood there and by pupae waiting to become butterflies.

    Tracing noise, I arrive at butterflies – delicate, winged, darting about in flight, coasting on wind currents or perching on coastal buckwheat, gently opening and closing their wings, difficult to spot and little documented, they are atmospheric. Dwelling with them, attending to qualities and matterings, to assemblages and encounters across species and forms of matter, becomes a stilled moment in the proliferation of atmospheric phenomena composed by noise. Like noise, the butterflies evade and escape immediacy, control, and management, exceeding even the domain of “noise.” Echoing Thrift, they expose “a whole new frontier of inhuman endeavor … the construction of new matterings” (22). The El Segundo blue butterflies compose a volumetric city of another scale. Not a miniature representation of human flight, theirs is a world-making venture that, like noise, draws things together and to which humans sensorially attune, turning away from planes whose “noise” interrupts speech and turning toward butterfly flight.

    Footnotes

    1. Insofar as noise is made, whether as sound or in its designation, it is emergent, approachable principally as an ethnographic concern. Always coming into being, noise is necessarily immanent; intrinsic, or inherent to its instantiations in human/nonhuman assemblages of machine, air, body, or building, it provides a way of exploring sound as such. Hence, unlike others, I do not posit a definition of noise (see Attali, Goodman, Hainge, Hegarty, Hendy, Keizer, Novak, Schwartz, and Thompson).

    2. There is currently burgeoning attention to the atmosphere across a range of disciplines; see, for instance, Adey, Böhme’s “Acoustic Atmospheres” and “The Atmosphere of a City,” Choy, Choy and Zee, Connor, Eisenlohr, Ingold, Martin, McCormack, Sloterdijk, Spahr, and Stewart).

    3. While there are numerous studies of the interior spaces of airports, few address the exterior of this infrastructural behemoth, or its relationship to its locale. Notable examples include Friedman’s “Fear of Flying,” a master’s thesis on noise at LAX (copies of which can be found in the library at LAX’s Flight Path Museum); Hailey’s Airport, with its plotline of a community protest against noise; and Schaberg’s The End of Airports, in which he describes his own experience working in all zones of the airport. Others that address the airport in relation to mobility, security, and architecture include Adey, Augé, Cwerner et al., Gordon, Law, Manaugh, and Pascoe.

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