Getting back into place: toward a renewed understanding of the place-world

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Getting back into place: toward a renewed understanding of the place-world

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Getting Back into Place


1 N


John Sallis,



Rc^ert Bemâsconi Ruddf Bernct John O. Capino David Cm Edward $. Casey Hubcrt L. Drcyfus Don Ibdc David Fairell Krdl Lenorc Langsdorf Alphoruo Lingií WÜlíam L. McBridc J. N. Mohanry Mary RawUnson Tòm Rockmore Calvin O. Sding Reiner Schurmann Charles E. Seott Thomas Sbe^an Roben Sofcc4owd(i Bruce W. WMíre David W>od

GETTING BACK INTO PLACE 'Bfward ñ Reneived Understanding

of the Plñce-World

Edward S. Casey

Indiana ümvmity Proi Pioomit^Wt & /«4/ffwqptf/p

3 /osC i99i by Edvwd 5. Cascy


AU righo icserved No part (hb book may be reprodwcd or uoUscd in any form or by any meam, decrrank or mechankal, including phococopyir^ and recording, or by any Informarion stora^ and rctrieval syatcm, without permiasion in wriàng foom che publisher. 'Hw Assodaàon of Amerkan Vniversíty Presaes’ Resc^ution on l^mbsiom comtícuta che only oxepoon to this prohibición.

The pi*p^ uxd in thb publícanod meets the minimum requírements of Amerícan Maáanal Standard for Information Sdencca—Bamanence of Paper for Prínted Librvy Materials, ANSI Z)9«4er over the unserciing prospect. By ncw this abyss has become íncor* poraced into ourselvcs, in the vast inner space of the unconscious, noc co mention the vacuum of the contempcxary narossistk self. Elioc’s *Wute Land* (1912) capeured this lace modem ttialmff in haunâng images of empty núnds and lives casc adrife in a place^resistant dcy: ^^Unreal dty / Under the brown íbg of a winter dawn / A crowd âowcd over London Bridge, so mar^, I had noc thought death h^ undme so many”^ Elkx su^cMed thst we suAcr noc so much ftom ancenie as feom an^ia. (In fect, anomie, a lad; of social norms or viiues, ofeen stems feom atopia.) Moce recencly an Anselm Kiefer paimii^ entitkd fhrrvr Muw shows nondescripe human subjeces hud* died n^echer under an enormous empey dome thaz is the very shell of a pbceless «^xid. Other wxfcs by Kiefer dq>kt desoíate and ravaged fiebU and buildings, evoking the dire State of mind wrought by placelessness in the twcntiech century. In phílosophy the threat of atopia caUs ferth a veritable ontomania, an irracional desire to have and to know as much determinace presence as possi* ble; in short, to put Beii^ fe/èrr Place. Whether the phÜosopher is menida or Pbto, Aristocle or Plotinus^ Descartes or Spinoasa, Hegel or Whitchcad, the aim remains the same: to fiU up, to popúlate, the empey ficU

with as much determínate Being as possible. The mocivaeion remains remark* abiy conscant: pank befóte the empey field, the dark visión of no-place-ac-all. Phüosophers’ endemie fear of havii^ an empey mind, being ‘‘en^wy-headed,” is anocher citpressin) of che same panic*srnden State. The soul, asseits Ans« tocle, is *a p^ of feems**—where place itself is conceived by Aristocle as a strkt container? A mind or soul empey of forms, sensatíons, monoríes, and

choughts is as threatening as a universe empty of places. In view of sudi aversión to che void we may emend a celebraed dictum of Nietxschc^s: ic is not thac *man would sooner have che void for his purpose chan be of purpose* but chM human beings would racher be void of purpose chan have the vttd as chor purpoae.^ U K nte stands in tts own pbce. Its Ufe it sedentary. k is a Ufe in orw pbcc, a Ufe wichout annety. Noc onJy i» a trce in it$ pbce; it actívely comributes to


its pbcc, fiUing k up wkh its own orgink substancc. It knows no menadng void, even though eo move from iu envn place is to risk thc death tl¿ of^anism. *Wkh its adjacsm sunoundings,’* wriies Haiu Joñas, *tbe plant íbnns one permanent c however briefly—has everything to do wich what and wbo we are (and finally, fbst we are). This is so ac the pcesem momem: where you are righc now is noc a macter of irKÍifference buc affècts che kind of person you are^ what you have been doing in the past, even what you wiU be doing in the future, ^bur locus deeply influences what )ect to be che case. Even if you are metely *‘pas5ing throí^” an airporc, chis is so: jusc co be chere as a already says a great deal about you. Ibur immediate placement—or “implacement,” as 1 prefèr co cali ic*-^counts for cnuch more than is usually imagined. More, for

inscance> chan serving as a mere backdrop for concrcce actkms or choughts. Place icself is concrete and « onc wkh acción and chought. ¥éc we rarely accord co place any such impcrtance. l>escriptíons of place tend to reduce ic to barc posición in space, where *position* implies an art»* cnry kxacíon. ‘‘If I weren’t scill here in Chicago, Pd be back on Lcmg U« land," I say to myself idly in O’Hare airporc, as if changing places wcre jusc a marter of exchanging poskkau in a gecgraphkal board game having no significam stakes. I^ilosophy and physics, foUowed dosely by psychology, also often opérate on a model of manipulable posirions in enq>ty space— "sites,** as I shall cali them. But what if (Mace is not socneching so easily exdur^ed or merely ma* nipulaced^ What if place is rwc a matter of arbitrary positkx)! What if the stakes in the game of plaee are much higher than we think? Where then will we find ourselves? Noc in eit^ty space. As J. J. Gibstx) reminds us (in one o( rhe epigraphs to chis prefàce), do noc live in *^ace.*" Innead, «r U99 « piata. q it behocrves us to underseand what such place*bound and place*spedfic living consists in. However lose we may become by gliding rapidiy between places, however obJivious to place we may be in our thought and chemy, and how* ever nmch we may prefor to think of what h^ipens in a (Mace rather than of che place itsel4 we are tied co place undecachably and wichout reprieve. 10




The pervasiveness of place and hs pluraliry ferms are sudi that we cao gnsp the petplexing phenomenon of dsBpbcanent, rtmpant chroughout hu* man history and espedally evtdent at the preaent historícai nxxnenc, oaly in relatkx) to an abiding implacement. (The reverse is also true.) Altbough we aduwwkdgc the «uffering occaskmed by peraonal or coüective dispUconem, we tend not to tna ic back to the loss a vital conneccion with place itself. But the dísctfiented and the dispossessed are bereft predseJy of such oonnec' rion. They bck not just permanence of place but its very aviüabihry, its núni' mal resources. The result is a sufíenng not limíced to the experíence of cnk: in a **dronK>cratk)” speed*bound era, every mobile person is a vktim of placdessxtess in one guise or anocher?'

The phenomenoA of diaplacemem derives in large measure fh>in a âdlure to link up with places, b^nnii^ with local places and induding more c^cious places sudt as those occupied by entire ciàes and r^ions, cultures and soóetíes, and uicimately the naniral world. A related fülure is conceptual: the nonrecc^ition place has received in the hands of mosc modern thinkers. làking these fàilures into aceoum, I shall in efièct rejoin Hegd’s view that geography is the single most eíficadous basis of history, a view that Braudel has borne out recently in hís massive history of the Mediterranean world.'^ Everywhere we rum we find place at issiK in the alienation and vk^ence fhxn whkh human beings have sufíered so devastatíngly in modern times. 24ore than we realize, the alienaòor) is frvm (a given) place and the violence has been dorK se (some) place, and (kx only ro people in ^aces. If it is distinctively postmodem to wish to rerurn to place, this is so even if the most promising pattems for the rcturn are oAen distinctively premodem in iiupiratíofl. In the past three centuries in the W^st—the period of **modemiry*— plaa has come to be not only n^lectcd but actively suppressed. Owing to the críum|4) of the natural and social Sciences in.thís.same period, any senous talLúí place has bem r^arded as r^ressive or trivial. A díscourse has ernceged whose exclusive cosmological fbd are Time and Space. When the two were combined by twentieth-cenrury pbysicists into the amalgam **$pacerime,” the overfookir^ of place was only corttinued by other means. For an ' entire epoch, place has been r^arded as an impoveríshed second cousin of Time and Space, those two colossa] cosmk partners that tower over moder* •oity.

But we would txx erKkxse this put^down of place so readily if orüy we tumed our concerted attenrion to the glaring discr^Mmey between the o^dal doctrine of belittling place and the prominence of ^ace in ordirury liíe. **Where are from^” we ask a stranger whom we have just met, tKX reflect* ing ow *^he dependency of the properties of space on those of rime.”^’ Carnap's claim

is echoed in Hans Reichenbach's stacement that “time is ... bgicaliy prior ro spaa-”*® see the long arm of modemism reaching into tbese twentiechcencury proposítions. This arm is none other than the arm of linearúed rime—the time of “pn^ress** and of infinite succession—con^ared with whidi space and pbce cannot be anything but derivarive and sectxidary. But is the primacy of linear time rruly Can we, in the dawning of a new era cübd proleptically "postnKxkm,** accept witbout questioning the paradigm bid down for us by the early modern [^iiosophers arwd physicists? Is the putadve priority of the rime-line an unquestionaUe "absdute presupposirion”?^^ Is it noc time to question ir? Not becaux time is running out but because the veiy notion of time entaü^ by the lirKar model is (in Nietzsdie’s prophetic word) ‘‘untimely’*: made for another rime. And because we must, in posrmodern times, begin co appreciare otkc more the intrinsic ingredience of place in our time*bound and spaced-out lives.




^ime on the Mind”: this phrase also epkomizes the occasion of che modcrn. Ic was hardiy accidental that Dcacancs located succe&sive time in the mind, purting “durviem,” or evcnrful process, outside in physícai chings. If time ís mom^near, ics natural site is mental. The rapid eme^ing and eva* nesdng of choughts, their sudden appearance and disappeannee in the think­ ing mind (m c^^àsw), is a protocype Ibr the arisir^ and demising of events in extended chings (m Buc it is difBcult to conceive of *cime out of mind.” Fc^, outside the mind, many entities disf^ a durational permanence that does not fít the idea of sheer succession. Henee Kant*$ First Analogy: ^be permanence of che real in time.” Such permanence—or **enduringness,” as we mighc also transíate Kant*s Beharídichkrií—is noc found within the mind. In che midst of mind, cogitations oxne and go with ceaseless ederiry in what Whitehead called che *immediace rush of transición.”^ No wtmder that a^nfronted with chis confusing and scxnecimes dazzling spectade, we are cempted by che idea of a ccmtinuous line c^ time, to which our onrushii^ choughcs can clii^ as to a life-line ac sea. In being thus tempted, we do noc nocice thac we have ourselves construeted che line and thercby intidiously imporced a speciScally spariaJ model into our experience of succession in time, at once abstracting fhxn this experience and homogenizing k. Nor do we nocice that we profecc this same conscrucccd line back orno the wmkJ.^ Whenever we chink oí time as a stringlike succession, wer spatialize k, givir^ co ic—supposediy an cxclusively mental concern—predicates such as ^continuous"* and “linear,” which we borrow surreptitiously , ñom the *external” world of space (a world into which we just as surrepticiously reimpoft these same predkates in oeder co reinfixee ics exterioricy). 5^^ also bonow certain properties from che world of ^ace. If che timeUne is spacial in ics contimiicy and bomogeneity, it is at che same time “pia* dal” in its consticutkx) by means of Chat is, a series of peines arranged on che line and grasped, all togecher, «r che line. As Bergson writes in 7iwr and Fnt Wití^ OMild noc introduce order amoi^ terms wichout firse distinguishing chem and then comparing che pioío wMt ocaifXt henee we muse perceive chem as múltiple, simultaneóos, and distinct; in a Word, we sec them side by side, and if we introduce an order in what is successivc, che reason is chat succession is COTverced into timuhaneiry and is pfojected into space.® Bcrgson*s --------- ’• cckbraced critique of the “spatiahiatkxi —* of time b |un as much a critique of ks '‘placializâtion,*' its repreaentation as a m of densely iuxtaposed posinons on a time*line. it is a» important to separare place Irom space (construed as a homogeneous and botrr^c me* dium) as it ts co discinguish such space from true rime (grasped as hetero*



geneous anisotre^ muhipUdty). In íailing to make che first separation arKi by his insisience on the second, Be^son unwittir^y fálls prey to the mod* emist myth that place can be discounced and set aide the sake of space or time. By che same cohén, he explidtly endorses the predominance of time over space that we have seen to be an int^al part of this same myth. The between Time and Space—a ^itest giants orches* traced by Newton and Leibnu, Descartes and Kant, Gaiileo and Gassendi—í$ a stniggk that overfooka Plaa. Plaa uruioes the preaumed prinKmliality oí V I Time over Space as well as the equiprimordiality that both Newton ax^ Reid ascribed to them (see the epignphs to this part). k is remarkable that in these same ascriptions the priority of Place cner Space and Time is at least tacitly afSrmed. But we are getting ahead of our story. F(^ che momeot, let us agree with $in^>licius (in hk epigraph to this di^xer) that time possesses *an obscure (rcality), since it ctists only as con' ceÍ5ed by mind.”* Or rather, it has an obscure reality precisdy co the extent that h is ooncáved as takíng place in the mind; and the obscurity consises in the subrepción (che illidt cransposition) of space, and more particulariy of place, into what is pucatively nonspacial and nonplacial. Yét bec«ise of rhis subrepción the reprc^ection of time into the wo^ can take place in equal obscurity. Since wr do rxx nocke that space and place have been impexted into che heart of time to begin with (it took Betgsm*s díscernment to bring this importation to our coUective nocía), we remain unaware of the reex* ternaliaing of ^atialized and implaced time inco the w^dd as its own pre*

sumptive order.

IV Ariscocie rcnurks that we can tell tíme even in the dark.^ He might well h» said: e^edaliy in the dark, where time and the mind coUude moer üitimatdy. Time*» obecure origin$> rs hybrid birth and hydra-hcadcd eús* cence, kad lu to obsess about it even when we cannoc $ee ics in^xint kft hiddly in the worid-order. The darkneas of time^telling refleets ks ambivaknt poaition between Carteaian interíoney and an equaUy Cartesian exterioriry, eadi the shadow of the ocher. The darkness is also Saturnian: grim Sanirn is the tiine"kceping god of regular measurc and exact división. *$aturn will ^i4»e order dowly chrough time,” James HiUman temarfcs.” Nepeunei realm

was Saturnized by Harrison's marine chrorKxneter, whkh fadlitatcd r^ular and predktabfe voyages across che sca’s outer surfue. Buc in the depths, where profit and k>8$ are forgotten, another time U to be IburKi: *a succe»ston of qualitarive diai^cs, «iikh melt into and permeate otk another, with' out predse outlinca, without any tendeney to externalise themselves in relation to one another, without any affiUation with munber... puré heter-

¡I ogenáty-”^ This noniincar dissolving time, whidi Bergxm bbded '‘¿ttrü ri' tUí* (in ONKnsc wkh Canesun dxmuon), refuses to be kxated either in the minó or in the worU; indeed, ns very existence deeonscructs that Camsün bifurcnoA by imioducing a conceptual sea-diange whoae momentous con* seqwnccs are sol! not ñiUy apprccürcd. When Bc^son ¿nisbod hú £0» sur

kf iifffm/ts rwHi/dfiTfrj át ía iwuámcr just over a century ago, in tS88, he was taking ÚM fim crucial »tep beyond the modero view of time and toward a dístinctively postmodern concepción. Looking back on this snp several dec­ ades later, be commented chat *before the spectade Cff diis universal mobility, tome among us will be seüxd by vértigo.”*

The pandetnic obaession wich time from whidi so many módems have sufVcred—and from whkh so many postmoderns scill suffer—is exattrbatcd by che vertiginous sense thax time and che world-order, togetber constítutii^ the cerra firma of modernist soUdity, are subject to díssolution. Not surprísingly, we objectify time and pay handsome rewards (such as that offered by che Boaid of Lxxigitude) co those wbo can tie time down in improved cheo nomeery. Alchough the modem pertod has succeeded brilliancly in chis very : r^aid, ic has aiso Btilen inco che schizoid State of having made objective, as : docfc*time and wDrld*time> what is in face most diai^unous and ef^Kmeral, : mosc **obscure,” in hxunan experience. W: end by obsessing abouc what is no ob^t ac all. 5^ feel obligated co cdl time in an ob^cive manner; buc in áct we have only obliged ounelves to do so by our own sub rosa subtep* tions, becoming chereby our own pawns in che losing game of time.


18 ebere ar^ way ouc of chis do(d>le-bind, which we have managed to imposc on ounelves so steakhily and yet so ckscructively^ Wt can*t do wichouc time, and yet we cao*t live rófi the time we have devised for ourselves. Is there an ecit or passage leading ouc of this impasse, chis a^orwi Place, that most innocuous and taken-fer-granted tem in our e)q>erience, ofEers a way ouc, if we are willing to reconsider our prqudiccs and to question our allcoo-absolute presuppositions r^arding time and sp^. Ws need to get badi| inco place so as m get out (che binding and rebinding of} space and cimej But chis is noc so simple a step as it may seem. Noc even Bergson, as we have seen, was sensirive co the spedal properties of pboe in concrast wich space.^* Insensicive as well were ocher philcéophers who sbould have known

becter, induding even such ocherwise resolute anci*Cartesians as MerleauRmty, James, Dewey, and Whitehead. Heidegger alone cã postmodern thinh* ers tus thematized pbce, albeit fn^mentarily and inconsiscentty.* le is as if the modern obaession with time—an c^aession that continúes into che pose-



modem period—comes coupled with a resistance to pbce. Whac are wc to make of this resiscance? Fc4k»wing Be^son’s lead, we can note that many of the descriptive terms and phrases that we appiy unthinkingly to time are spatial in character: a “stretch* or “interval’ of time; indeed^ a “sp*x time."" Notíce also chac when we calk about being ‘‘befere’ and “aàer’ in time, we are inve^ing a

spatial distmedon, as is evident when one ob^t is said co be placed ‘‘befere’ (X **afRr* anotber. Yct wc can trace che distinccion between befere and after ■ avers IstiU funber back—all che way back to place. The befere and afttr, ^Anscotle, are •in place ft^f) primarily."** Thr '.íltifr.*? The uldmate source of the !discÍACtion between befere and aftcr resú^ in che way that a given place

disposes itself: as having boch a *ferward* area that is acccssible co and «xt* tinuous with our own embodied scance and a “badt” región in w^ch che i same place eludes our grasp and view The room in which I am now writing thesc words is such a bipartite place, les ferepart is oriented roward che dormer Windows out of whkh I look as I wrirc; ies rearward portion lies around

and behind me. Tbe epiceiuers escablished by these fere and aft regions knd to chis Toom a characterístic dynamísm chac is lacking in a mcrely homoge* neous space. The dynami«n generaced by the befere and afeer in place is such that it comes (o shape our very idea of time as always having che doubk aspect of che befere and the ^feer. '*Here is a place of disafTcccion ! Time b^xe and time afeer / In a dim li^tc.*^ But all too often wc assume that

tbe befere and afeer bekmg to time S0 b^itt an instance of subrepckm in its scrictly logical sense, whereby we draw a Êülacious inference fexn an ínitial misreprescncacioci.* Or take Saint Augustine's offhand observación that ‘'we speak of a ‘kmg

time’ and a Short time,’ chough only when we mean the pase or tbe future.*^^ But where do we first understand the sense of “tong" and *sbort *sbort** themselves if ikx fiom our experiences of being in more or less accommodadng or demanding, more or less extended or oxnpresaed, It is nonsensical to speak of as long or short, at least of space in its modern Newtonian concepckxi as **aJways similar and immovable.”” Newcoifs nodon of home^eneous and infinite space resists determinatkx) as merely kx^ or short. let any given place as we experience it invites just this kind of de­ scripción. This ts a very long valleyl” 1 exclaim upon fint viewú^ the ICtflung in Tibet. ‘That is quite a shext screec,” I say upon entering a cul-de-sac. In each case, I aiso mean that it would take a kxig or short time co traverse the place I have just encouncered; but the cempcxal estimaces foUow upon the percepción of the extensiveness of the places, and noc the reverse. (The actuÂl motion of traversing chese places would bring place and time cogether.) The most appropriate—choi^h not neccssaniy the exdusive—source of the kxig and the short in time ís to be sought in predkaes of pbce.

1} Saint Augusrine^s own celebraied fermub for rime is áiftfWio amm, tt an extendedness of the soul.*** Augusóne muses that "ic seems co me that time is merely an extensión, though of what it is an extensión 1 do noc know.**

My convicción b that time is an extensión of the extensiveness of place itself as superimpoaed, ot subindsed, on time—so ftwgetfuliy so that we do not realize how many of time*$ supposedly ingredient pn^mies are borrowed foom place co scart with.^* Henee we can applaud Simplicius*$ scatanent diat **tbe Svbete* and che hvhen* are, so to say, siblings."*^ But we must go on to ask: where is the Tooc of che "where* (/v») that fbrms one of Aristock’s ten kading rnee^hy»' cal categonesl Certainly noc in abstraer and empey space, an Atomistk nocion (antidpatory of Newtonian space) roundly rejected by Aristotle; and cer* oinly rKX in time, which Aristotle makes dependent on mocion. Wben tUt bta itt pUtfr, on which mocion is in turn dependent? ^mplidus himself ob­ serves that "place and tíme are akin to each ocher, boch beii^ measures es­ sencial for generaticei.**^ But chey are akin not as identícal twíns, much Ic&s

as parent and düid. Instead, place is a próvwr tntfr fera^ a first among equals; and the same hc4ds for the relationship between place and space. VI How can place, mere place, be '*ffrüfr aU rbv^'*^ must seek ocher than merely hiscoricai or p^ik^ogical grounds for this strong daim of Arís* totle’s, a claim from which it fi:41ows that (as Aristock also aven) "the power c€ place will be a rcmarkabk one.^* In this section I shall examine e and a place ioto which Chat shape fits> as Hesiod early on realised and as "chaos theorists" of che presenc moment are rediscovering.



Aristode was acuteiy senskive to this fundamentai point; it is the main basis for his daim thtt place is fvkx to ali thii^:

One might suppose thar place is s^nething over and sbove bodies, and that every body perceprible saue is in place. Hesiod, too, might seem to be speaking correctiy in making Chaoe first... because he thinks as rxM peoplc do that à seraeiehen atuí m píaa.^

« Bverythii^ is somewhere and in place**: despite its definke tcxie, this State* ment is by no means original wkh Aristode. It smms fiom the Pythagorean Ardiytas of Ikrenrum (438-347 B.C), who wrote a lost creatise on place. Only fragments survive; one of them is dted by Simplidus:

Sínce cverything duK is án morion is moved in some place, it is obvious that one has to grant priority to pixe, in whkh that whidi causes morion or is actcd upon will be. I^haps thus ic is the first of all things, since all exisring things are either in plxe or not without pl^.^ Aristotie, then, merely parwf^uases Archytas when he commrats in the Pbyria that “that, without which no other thi^ is, but whkh itself is without the

othcrs, must be fim (for place does not perish when die things in it cease to be).”*’ Pbce is “prior to all thíngs** according to Aristode íbr the very . reason whkh Archytas gives: placeas indispensability lor all thir^ that exist. iht tf w bt m pUcr. this is Archytas’s mcssage, dutihuiy preserved and trans* micted by Aristode (and by SímpUdus commentii^ on Aristode). In modem and posunodem rimes we are so inured to the putarive pri* macy of time that we rarely question the temporocentrist dogma that rime is the first of all things. Nor do we ofei notitt how frequendy we subscribe

to this dogma by passing on and repearing Saint Augustinc’s rcmarkably modera question: “What, then^ is time? I know well enou^ what k is> pro* vided that rw otk asks me; but if 1 am asked what n is and try to explain, 1 am baffled.’" *IUmtie(h* ptace serves as the anu&iM of aJJ exbüng things. This meam that, &r from being merdy locatory or sícuaDonal, pbcc bclongs to the very concept of existence. To be is to be bounded by place, limi^ by

h. “Boundary” (âm) or *linút” (pmu) is not the nugatory nooon of mere cutúi^ ofF; nor is it the geometrk concept of perimcor (itself the linear rcducúon of i^adal limit to an abstraer residue compar^)le to the tiroc-linc). Boundary or limit, conscrued cosmotogically, ís a quite positive presence. When Archytas says that *for the thir^ that exist there always holds the relation of the iimtts (pmns) to the rhings limited,* he is saying nothing otbcr than that the limit of an existing thing is intnnsk to its bdng, a con* ditíon for its very existing. Through such an eminently cosmo-logical line of reasoning, we reach the conclusión, not expressiy scated by Archytas but implied by all he says, that



the boundary or limit of a thing determines ic place. A thing U not merely M a place—that is the impoitant but not the exhaustívc sense of placeras* container that Ahstotk was to adt^ in his PfryÂa—but 0 thv^ ctmstitiito ór (9^) fUa. But it does so st minute thing in that universe (down to the most exiguous subatomic partide). For both alilfg^ and fer all that lies in between, pbce*bejng is part of an enticy*s own*bcíng.

vn If to bc is to bc in place, it also fellows that even the most uniilcely

candidates can be regarded as pladal: numbcrs, the mind, rhetoric, God, creatton, time itself. Ib cali these things *(riaces** or even '‘pl^elike* is to risk exaxnmunkation from the realm of ruional human being, espedally in mod* ern times. %t «xisider an idea held by Archycas*s Pythagorean coUeagues: **every numbcr is in hs proper place. Not only is cach numbcr in its place; ic is also 9t ic (riace, for h is ic very posición in the number^series. As Berg* son, by no means a Pythagorean, attests, Space is, vcordingly, the material with which the mind builds up numbcr, the médium in which the mind places it... if we did not already localize number üi space, sdence wxtid certainly not succeed in makii^ us tnnsfer ic chicher. From the beginning, therefbre, we muse have thot^c number as oS a juxtaposition in spM.^ The reference co "space” should noc mislead us; numerícal space, the space of numbcrs, is (as Bergscxi eitptfessly indicares) a highly AumIcsaí space, a space “in which the mind places” numbcrs. *lhie, as composed w, remember, or notkc.^

But of lYÚnding is ajguing and« in particular, using the ai^mcnC'forms of rhetork. The rhetoridan ia someone who knows how to empk»y the platts of an a^umenc effeccively: how to be well positioned in che crossáte of dialecck. Thua Sin^iciua observes chat *the díakccical ¡Hoofs are called *common*pbces,* for instance, argumenes by opposites or by aimílars, or by genera or by speciea.** Common'pbces are general argumcnt-lbnns that are applicaUe co many given caaes.^* As such, they ac once delimit and facilítate the actual aigumems sec áxth by the dialectkian. They are cognicive places ftoen whkh one a^ues and in terms of whkh one makes ^^moves” in discusrions whh ochers. Ac the present moment in historical time, dialecckal and rhetorícal fúfoi woukl be scudied under the heading of “informal logk/ But we need noc scudy thcm formally or informally in order co make use of

chem, which we do sponcaneously in the coursc of daily talk. £ven idle chat* cer or gossip involves moving between the common*pl^ea by whkh we econ* cenize, lócate, and limk our dtscourse—co the point of engaging in mere commonpbcesl b all remains a matcer of where we are, and where we are going, in our talk. But God^ Here is no ob^ct of filien speech but a supreme object of chought and wül. In concempladng God, U might seem that we pass beyond place inco mera* place, inco an cchcreal realm (“heaven,” *svarga, svarga. ” “pure land”) in which the earthbound con^urackxis of plaa, and above all ics limits, no kmgcr oboin. &c wc need only chink of che ñcc chat the Hebrew wordMubfl», che ñame of God, means predsely Place. “ *Place* as a synotym for God,” writes ^muel Sambursky, “became a generally accepeed expressíon in the Hebrew language &om the first centuries of che Christian era on* wards.’*" If the Archyrian poeirion is correct, chis is noc an anomalous buc an alcogether cq>ectable dcvclofvnenc. A rabbinical commencary on Génesis exdaima, “Why is God called place? Because He is the place of the worid, whüe the worid is noc His place. Phik» MAKOM, that is. Place (¿Kw).*

God as Place—well, why noc? Surcly this concqxion genérate» fewer prob* lems than the more usual idea of Cod as a divine Person. It aUows us to depenonalize God and to rurn God tmo a cosmíc oceasion, or rather the place of every oceasion.* But as such, God remains a limit of all that exiscs: hs (not Her at His) cdeacial status and divine being (noc co menrion che role of that status and bdi^ in worship) change noching when ic comes to the fundamenta] &ct that, a$ a fiatf^ God i» a $ource*limit, both limit and soutce, of the universe. Fiom GocTs Place che universe proceed»—and comes GontinuaiJy to end.^ It foUows as an immediate CMoUary chac if God ts a place, the acc of creadon undertahen by any such derty will also be pla^-bound. When we think of rhe creación of che world, we tend to think in terms of fatia ertata^ of created things iike animal» and crees and human being», rather chan of

the sccie pexKd just anywhere, much less nowbere. If (hings and ukimacdy the woiid-whole werc indeed created, then they will have co be brought inco being (from) «moriwrr. The exact character this somewhere differs from cosme^ony m cosmogony. In the fitst chapier of Génesis, che "Deep* already exssts when God deódes to become cosmically Creative: In the bcginnir^ God created the beavens and che earth. The earrii was witbout form and void, and darkness was upon tíie lace of the Deep; and the Spirit God was mcwir^ over the âce of che waters.^

Noc only does che Deep (Astas) precede tbc acc of creación; h also has a "fsce* and is dccermínate cnough in shape to be nxjved mr by God. In other words, it has enough conaiscency and form co be a ftact^ a place for and of creación. If it is truc that in che b^inning was che W^rd, ic is also true that in che b^innií^ was the Place. In other a^ounts, che aborigínal State is sáll kss definhe in its spedfica' tkn and might secsn to be no pta ac all. Consider HeskxPs nocion of Chaos as ar che origin:

Sbrily firse of all did Chaos come inco beú^ and chen broad*bosomed Gaia [earth], a firm scat of all thú^ for ever, and mbty làroros in a rcoess pcic visión, («rm^genais Motrs as fiíf^fffnais. Aristock, in an unusual homage co his tcacher, remarks that *whik everyone says that place is someching, he akxK tried co say what ic is.”* Chaos is by no means an exdusive invenckm of Wescem cosmogony. In an eariy TKiist text, chaos is again the source of a primary separation: In the beginnif^ there was chaos. Out it carne pure l^ht and built the dty. The heavy dimne&s, however, moved and fornwd che earth from itself. Sky and earth brought forth che ten cbousand creations ... and all of chem take the sky and earth as their mode.*

Likewise, in a Southern Chinese creation myrii of the third co sixch century AD., rhe creator god P*an Ku, afrer burstii^ out of the cosnk e^, ”went co wori: at once, m^itily, to puc the *«W in order. He chiselled the land and sky aparr.”* as distant from each ocher as the J^anese and the Cdts identify the prima] State of otation as a scene of sdssion.” If earth aod sky must be sepanted as che very first «t of creation, then they must emanare from some place where they were first of all together. The medieval dkrum that ot nibiU nihÜ fit (*from noching nothing can be nade”) here finds anocher s^lication. There ís no creation without place. Cosme^enesà is not from no-pbce to place but from kss determínate to more determirate places. Crearkm in the first pl^ borh presupposes a pre* existii^ first place and consiscs in the further constitución of other primary (and evenrually seomdary) places. Once more, plxe remains both source and limtc. !n creation as in the deiry that crcaces, there is ne arottnd place, no gening btfrre ic» much less MàW ir. And what of time^ k too is a source and a limic: a source of events and prottsses and a limic to these same events and processes. Indeed, time is a placc~-tt8 own kind of place. Wc have seen how chis is so in the modeling of time as linear: che controUii^ image everything is cvorywhen « all timo.

—AJfred Norch WhHchead, Satna tmá cW Aía4>m Kivid

I irr ENOUGH of indudii^ the cosmo*logk into which we have been » indelicately dnwn. Let us curn to the actual experience of pbce. This is so pervasíve and yet so elusive that most of us simfriy do not notice it. But it is to our own peril that we do not. For we risk fàlling prey co rimeis patho-logic, according to which gaining is tancamount co losing. Consider only the immediate drcumstance in which you, my reader> find yoursclf at this very tnoment. However fbrlorn or k»$t yxxi may lèel, you are noc adrift in what Locke calis ^'the undistinguishable inane of infinite space.^* Nor are you bac in any comparably undiscingui^able void of infinite


time Chat (in Newcon^s wc^ds) 'íkm equably wtcIkhu relation to anything externai.®^ Wherever you are, you are distinctly (if noc simply) located in space and time. Let us assume that you are now in your living room as you read these words. The room itself serves to dístinguish you, at least as much as does the time of day or year. are rfm in your room comfortaMy ensconced in space aiid time, lòur existertee is reflected arxl supported by

the room as a disringuishing nurk, a “spedfic díflàcrKe” in an otherwise undistinguished world of homogeneous space and equably flowing time. Rafm is GOgnate with the Germán Jtawm, which means "space.** But as a space in which you are located, a livii^ room is a particular a place fbr livii^. The same is truc of ocher, more encompassing spaces, which you are simultaneously occupying at this vo^ same moment: the apartmem or house in which your living room is lodged, your neighborixx^d, your dty, your State. Ahbough their fit is looser, you are also distinguished by these [^aces. Ibu are m them not as a pu[^>et sruffed Ín a box—as would be true on a 22



strkt container view of place—but as living in them, indeed, tbroí^ thcnt* They too are livii^ rooms. They serve co implace you, co anchor and cxienc you, finaiJy bceoming an inc^ral part of your idenciry. "Where do you come from?” we ask each other on únc meeting. Our answers—*upper ^^^t Side,”

nbpeka,” ”the Midwest,” "Sttxiy Bcook”—place and idemify u$. They do so as surely as does an ^count of our liíe history, whkh we come to out mental inuge of (be scene. One could chen read ofT the sbcrten route not bom the drcumsonce itsdf but fivm > tífis whoee viewpoint b that of sonwone (but vbo cxactIyO suspended over the sccne. But wHm if one u actuaUy m the àrcumsonce described and not in* dined—not having been train^ this way—to depkt the spahality of the scene in such an dsscractive, suspended, and formai*^omethc manner^ Whac if one does not think of Landsc^te in terms of linear representations and *pfc^>erties of angies”?** One wxüd 6rst of all loofc for landmarks. Bia in

the snowbound tundra here in question, stretdiing endlessly in every direc­ ción, there were no conspkuous landtnarks.*’ In (hU circunuunce, one naturally rurn to otk's own i.e., the traíl one had made on a previous occasion in getcíng to a certain p4ace. Natkusiak did just this. The bct Chat his joumey was *che kmg way around** pales in signlficance when compared with the assurance his own trail gave to him. Whether guided by landmarks or by one's own pathmarks, 1 rely my body as the primary agent in the landscsqx. Landmarks cali for percepción (typically, but not exdusively, visual), whúe the crailsigns of my own tr^c* tloited: *The oceans are by no means foaturekss, and when all eUc ñiU, the lUyncsian navigator díps his hand in the water, places it co his lips, and can ju^e from its temperature and/or salinicy, if not precisely, ac Inst (he general area into which a paiticubr ctir* rene or wind has drifted hím under ovcrcast skies.”^ Ir is evidenc, (hen, that (he Puluwat navigationa] method makes systemade use of at least three ba^ variables: moving and sensing human bodies, far horizons as the common edge of sea* and skyseapes, and oceanic and cdesoal reglons as the encom* passing areas wíthin which particubr piaos are to be located.*

The exam(^ of the Eskimo hunor and the Puluwat navigator boch point to the inúmate interacción of body and landscape in the achievement , of orientatkm. In particular they show that to beaxne oriented it is not enough to rdy cm the percepción of actually given fearures of (he landscape, for a landsc^e or seascape enay be ambiguous or even drastically lacking in orientationaJ cues, i.e., landmarits ix seamarks. But it is also no sul&ient to oount on the body alone. Left to its own devices, one’s body may drift in the direction of the least resistance, which is noc necessarily the dirección of one’s chosen destinationP’ If I am to get onented ín a landsc^>e or seascape (espedally one that is unknown or subject to sudden or unprcdictable vari* ation), 1 mus( brit^ my body into ccmformity with the configurations of the land or the sea: e.g., by recracing my precise path in snow or artending co the exact diape of the sea*sweUs. The conjoining of the surâce of my body with the surécc of the earth or sca—thàr common integumentation—gen­

erares the interspace in which I becwne oriented. Then I am able to find my way about in a placesc^K that to a ^gnificant degree is marked and mea* sured, as well as percetved and remembeted, by my own actions. The foregoing foray into the subjecc of orientación and navigatíon por* tends a sdll more basic point. If it is true that *the oceans are by no means featureless”—if deserts are not tracUess after all, and if arctic tundra is fàr ftom nondescript—then we have come back around to place ftom scvnething that strangely resembles the modem idea of space as empty and endless. The purpose of navigating and getting oriented is to transfixm an apparentiy vacuous expanse, a Barren Grounds of unmarked space, into a set of what

can only properly be called piacts (even if these f^aces sdll lack proper ñames). "What begins as undifferasriared sp^,** says the gec^rapher Yi*Fu Iban, "ends as a single obiect-sicuacicm or p^ace.... When space feels thoroughly familiar to us, it has become ^ace.*** What is true for the Puluwat and the Eskimo, the Bedouin and the lèmne, is also true for ourselves.^ Confronted with (he actual onpciness of modemist space, each of us attempes to move



hom the discomfort of disementation in such space co the comparatíve as* surance of knowíng our way about. do so by cransmuting an initíally aimieas and endless scene into a place of c^Kcrted acción, chereby constirut* ing a dense pbcescape chac, in cióse coUaboratíon wíth our active bodies, guídes U5 into orientation. Unpbceinenc bectxnes impUcemenc as we regaín and rebshion a sense of place. Moving bodies on bnd or at sea províde us wkh orienced and orienting pbcescapes. From being lost in spacc and time (or, more likely, lost sr rítfnt ín the era of modemicy), we find our way in place.*

in Body and bndsc^ present themselves as coeval cpíccnters around which parocubr pbces pivot and radíate. They are, at the very base, che bounds of places. In my embodied beíng I am jttst af a pbce as its inner boundary; a sumunding landscqx, on the ocher hand, ís/wr heyotui that pbze as its outer: boundary. Between the two boundarics—and very much as a hinction of . chdr diffcrentúl intcrplay—¡mpíattmcnt occurs. Pbce is what cakes pbce be'| tween body and bndscapc. Thanks to doubb hoiúon that body and bndsope províde, a pbce is a tócale bounded on both sides, near and far.^'

Unlike tbe doubfe'bind of time, however, the double bound of pbce is openended. Far fram beíng conscrictive in che manner of a deadlinc, che lifeline extendíng from body to bndscapc (and back again) is as porous as a sieve. Thanks to the mutual enlivening of body and bndscape, a place conscantly overflows its own boundaríes. Vncontainabie cm its near edge, it ñows back into che body chat suhtends ic; unconcainable on its far side, ít fkrws outward into tbe dreumambient worid. Placeas inflow and oucfkiw are sudi that co be íuUy m a pbce is never to be confined to a punctate posición; it is to be alrcady c. In particular we must reslse the tempcation to make place abaolutc or tran^homnenal—a “thing in íuelf”—by regarding

h as a duster of physicalistk prcdkatcs, induding chosc bescowed by the human body and che environíng landscapc. b^in wxth^ we need only observe that boch body and landscapc are always already imbucd with cul* tural decerminancs. Not even the human body—perhaps espedally noc chis body—è a natural given. Consider the diacrepaney between being a ñir-dad Eskimo and a vimially uncl^ Puluwacan. The discrepaney is not just a mat* ter of amoum or t)^ of doching. It resides in the total manner in which a human body, howevrr it is d^ makes its way through a given landscapc. The Eskimo lives out his or her body in ways that reflect a culture incent on survivii^ in arctic extrcmicies. These ways indude forms of domestic ar* chitecture, social rituais, styies of hunting, and (as we have seen) techniques of trailmarking in the tundra.” TTie Puluwatan incorporates—and ezecifically sacred landso^ in whkh it is set and, second, the buildings thar are placed within it. The landscape and the temfMes to^rher form the architecrural whole.... Bach [such] sanctuary necessarity differs from all others because k is in a difTerent place.

This ¡8 ntore than a merely local issue. By this I do not mean just thar such orienotion of buildings by landscape o^rs clscwhcrc"in Knoasos, in Lis* bcMi, in San Franciso). I also mean that the very inrertwining of culture arxl nature as it arises in oriented constructions specifies a fundamental aspect oí place itself. In this intemctíon it is the of landsca^ that is at stake: “Its meaning... is developed as the buildings [of a given culture) are (Haced within íl”** As landsc^ comes to oriccR buildings, the very significacKC of

thc Landscape changes, ín kccpii^ with the cultural valúes embodied in these building arxl in rcAeccion of che larger culture from whkh these valúes stem. In a culture such as that of Greece in the Dorian period, che landscape be* ttmes “the complcment fi)r «tf Greefc life and [not just) the special compo* nent of the an of Greek temples. Lindscapç becocnes a forceful presence, harboring the powers of the gods worshiped in (hese same temples. This remains the case even if such buíldings are given aàdíàonal orien' taòon from the sky as weU as from the Und, as occun in post-Dork temples such as the Parthcrxxi, whidi is pnmarily situated in reltfkm to the sun’s rising on che morning of the anniversary of íts own ibunding. As in direc* tional guidance from nighnime consceUations, cukivaced by ruvígators in



many cultures, celestial *críentat)on” (here living up co its name by being eascern in outkx>k) links with suNunar situación.*^ But now an cntire culture allows itself to be orienced by earth and sky caken together, co live coUectively foom their conjoint *Dimensíonalfty.”* This is by no means uniquc to tndcnt Grcccc but abo is found « Stonchcngc and Avcbury, as as in tbc andent Chínese, dasskai Maya, and PueMo cultures. In all ensablc fc^urc, further speófying the interaction between culture arxl place* For the Saulteaux Indians Manitoba the main directions art útemidvG flaeeSy so that natural place hete dnws cultural place inco a ccxnrrxm orbit.* If limits have to do with distinctkxis between nature and culture, «ien* catión cakes lu co the poinc of their merging. Mb sce this perhaps mosc dnmacicaUy in the cardnwxks of the Nazca Plain in Peru. On this plain, the land itself has been reshapcd on an excensive scale (sometimes more than a mile in wtdth or length) co ferm gigantk geometrk and organk figures. Pluadoxícally, these figures are best seen fnxn the sky, co whkh they seem to be magnanimous and open*anned voove ofíerings. (In chis case, the aerial* suspended view à a(^)ropriaR.) Their myscerious provenance and unknown meanir^ serve co remind us chat the building of cukurally dccermínate placea out of indeterminate ekments in che land is by no means a precise or pre* dktable matter. Such constructing involves a virtually akhemkal transforma­ ción whose laws we shall not soon, if ever, díscover. No chrcMKxneter wül resolve chis mystery, nor will a modern sdentific understanding of space revcal its concealed meanií^.*

The cuiruni dimensión crf* pbce—along with affiliated histoncal, social, and pc^itical aspeccs and avatars—adds something quiR new to the earlier analysis, something we had im yet encountcred in our reflections on the logk and experíence of place.*^ This dimensión contributes to the feh density of a particular place, the sense that íc has something lasting in tL Tb be lasting, however, is co be in time. Mb say that last in time, yet so do fUea. Places lasr not just by the perdurante of material constituenes but also by the binding force of cultural constraints. Thanks co theae con* straints and their ^plicacions and ioscripcíons, 6me rcenters the scene of phee. It reenten not in the ferm of a line but as something disünctively mulodiinensional, that is, rimified in diverse direcckxis * Fím’ what is para*' mount in a culcurally spedhed place is not the end-point of destination, much leas che shortest route co it. Wha marters most is the experíence of. in thac place and, more partkuhrly, purr cf tbt fUct. The time of cultural implacemenc (and the rime experieneed 01 that implacement) is that whkh informs a (4ace in o^ncert with other human bangs, through one*s bodily agency, within the embrace of a landscape.


V Wí have moved ñcan a predicunent of unpboment— like che Puluwat, do not rely on advanced cechnology are certainly capable of getdng lose at sea, debite their consid­ erable finesse. Bskimos lose their way on snowbound terrain they know quite well, but which suddenly cakes on a very difforene vísage during a severe scorm.* Indeed, our own bodies, notmally quite rdiable indicators of ün-

pbcemenc, an kad us astray; if myopic or incoxiaRd, we nuy suddenly find ourselves in places we never intended co be. Landsc^e itself, usually a most accommodadng presence, can alienaR us. (Lyocard goes so for as co assert that *esrrangement VMSuld ^>pear to be a precondioon for landscape.*)^ Entíre cultures can become profoundly averse to the places they

inhabic, feeling aiopic and displaced within their cwn implacement. If Freud and Heidegger are correct, this dis-implacement, or ^dysplacement” as it OMild also be called, is endemic co che human conditkm in its ineluctable **uncanQÍness*; noc-being-ac-home, is intrinsic to habhadon itself.^’ If from being unplaced we have discovered sevcral ways of bang and beoxning Ímp4aced, from implacement in tura the way is all coo shext to dispbcemenc (although n is rardy a straight line). One concrete contemporary case of displacemenc will serve as a sober reminder of the immense valué of human implacement, precbely in vicw of the equally immense foagility of human being-in-pbce. I refor to the p4i^c of che Dinâi Indians in rKMXheasRra Arizona. The



Din¿h, better known as the Navajo> have been subjcctcd to liteni displacement by tbe United States governcnenr as a resuk of the Navajo-Hopi Land SetcUment Act of 1974. This settkment ^rion has provcd to be profeundiy unsenling, for h has meant the forced rekxxion of tbousands of Navajos who found themsdves on the wrof^ »dc of the barbed-wire fcnce erected

to sepárate them from the with whcxn they had been able to coexist in a mostly peaafui wvy for over a century. The rcsuUs of the rclocation (a noóon for which the Navajo say there is no word in their language) have been disastrous. Á quarter of those reJocated have diecL indudir^ an unusually number from suidde. AIroholism, depression^ and acute diac^ientation are rampant. Not only that^ but s^ificant parts of the Und deared for purposes of rekxacion ate sUted for coai and uranium mining and for the dumping of nudear waste producís, all of which if effected wili render the area un inhabitable into the indefinite future. What we witness in rhe case of the Navajo has been c^Merved before in situations of coerdve displacement. A report of 1979 scates that **the resuits of over as studies around the world indícate, with no excepcions, that the eveution of compulsory relocation among rural populations with strong tíes CO thàr Und and homes is a craumatk e:^ericnce for the majority of the relocatees.*^ What is scrikii^ in the Navajo cragedy—and poignantiy peninent to our topk—*i$ the cxplicit acknowle^mcnt by reJocated people themaelves that che loas of the land was the prittutry loss in che circumseance. Tbe Nav^ consider it to be an unalierable premise that ^chere is no land like this land. Our land is our life.*^’ K fellows as a deva&tatíng deduction thâi to take away che land is to cake away life, that the majev cause of illness is noc somcthii^ ^physkal** or “psydx^ogical* in the usual bifuruted Cartesian

senses of these words buc, inste^ che loss of landed place itself. In Uet, tbe Navajo bdieve that illneas proceeds from a disiorced retacionship with the Und: take from the Earth witbout redprocarir^, withouc having first become a part of the lífo of che place, is to disrupc a sacred balance and uirimately to grow sU.”®* Ib tafce a pcopk’s Und away ahogether, so th« redpcocatir^ with it is not even possible, is to disrupc the sacred baUnce even more drastically. Oís|riacemenf has two dimensions for those Dind) who have been directiy aflecttd. Firu, it represenes the loss of particular places in whkh thàr lives were formerly at home. As orte rclocated man put it, need a hogan (dK drcular earth-covered strueture chac is the characteristic domkilc] to have singing ceremonies in. I was already told by a medkine man [chat] he can’t perform in a square house. W: also need a Urm with a big crKxigh place to store our rorn and melons. W: can^ do it hete [in the lelocoed r^ionj.”" Anocher laments: *Tbere b noching to live for. There is no Und; chere is rw hogan.... Pm not used to this world.... I would have liked (at


least) a anail area of land lihc the one 1 had with a hogan on ic. Second, beyond che relinquishment cf particular places, there is tbe sciU greater bss of an entire land, a región. iSc Navajo cali this lazger landed enàty *che Gteat Self.’* h indxxies plots of land, particular landscape», landmarks, the cribe, funilies, the ecosysten*!, and ancescors. Each of these factors axutitutes a discretc place or set of places in che encompassing región the Great Sdf, whose very identicy ^depeneis upem che continuación of a devodonal connect* edness to earth, ground, community, and ancestral (^ace. Tbe land omsrrued by tbe Dinéh as che Greac has two distinct but intenclated aspeets, one o( which is situatcd outsíde and around che indi' vidual sdf whik the ocher is internai co chis sdf. On one hand, che land as a whole is characterized by certain actual features of the environing land' scape. Circumscribu^ the narive land, fbr acampk, are fbur sacred mountains that demárcate the fbur cardinal directions. Each fàmily tradiciooally owned a medicine bundle whose concenes, takcn from chese four mountains, in* cluded earth as well as sacred stones, which were used in prayer ceremonies.

On the other hand, the synem of sacred places was deeply internalized by tbe Navajo and became essencial to cheir sdf*identities. As Paul Shepard whtes in ^brwrs and Aíadnar, Individual and tribal identicy are buih up in connection whh wídely separated places and tbe parhs amnecting than. Different places are successfuUy assimilated or interiialiaed. They become distinct, though unconsdous elC' moits of ÜK sdf, enhaneed by mythcdogy and ceremony, generating a net* worfc of dcep cmotional actachments chat amenes tbe personalicy. Thro^h' out Ide those places have a role in the evocation of the self and group cônsàousness.^ The incernalised system of places may also be saíd to underiie history as well as time. For che Navajo peopte, ‘^closeness to the land and to their place e. Since they conceive their land as an ancestral dweiling place af>d since all signiâcatu leaming proceeds ultimacdy from ancescors, culture ís almost licerally ós tht iaud, Ic follows chac co leam something is not to karn scmthing entirely ne^ much less entirely mental; it is to Uam how to omnect, or more ex^tly to reconnect, with one*s place.^ Ac che



same time, to reconnect with that pbce is to er^age in a form of cc^lective memory of one^s ancestors: to conmemórate them. Tb be dis*pbccd is there* fore to incur both cukure loss and memory loss resulring ftm the loas of the land itself, each being a sympctMn of the disoríentation wrought by relo* cariofl* Pauline Whimsinger, a contemporary Navajo, says that "to move away means to disappear and never be seen again.**^ Tb lose one^ land is tanta*

mount to losing one’s existence. Heeding Whitesinger^ we thus rediscover, by PM Alarma, a truth about pbce we fint leamed from Archytas of Tàr* entum. In the language of Archytas, noc co be io pbce is not only co be nowhere; it is noc to exist. The displaced Pythagorean (Tàrentum was a Gredi colony in Italy) antidpaces the dolorous experience of che displaced Navajo. VI

If Archytas and Whitesinger, situated as chey are ac c^posite ends of the earth and at disparate cultural and hismical times, seesn ronote from your own situación, I would remind you that each of us is caught in che coils of dispbcemenc. As mod^ns and posrmodems in the Eurocencric W»t, we too are disf^aced persona, "D.P.s,” and inescapably so. Our symptoms may seem milder chan those of the Navajo, but they are no less disrupcive and de* struetive. Among these symptoms, nostalgia is one of the most revealing. Ac the moment, our own culture suffors from acute rtoscalgia. Proust, living on che edge between the modem and che postmodern periods, described che drama of an entire lifé delivered over to nostalgb.* But we do not need to rum to literature for cvidence of the pervasive presence of rtosta^ia; we witness ics artematk expressíon in certain of Wxxiy Alienas films and its «xnmerdal exploitation in Disney Wxld. Nostalgia, contrary to whac we usually imagine, is noc merely a marter ( of regrct for k»t times; íc is also a pining for Icíf fÍMa^ íw ^aces we have once been in yet can no longer reenter (any more than che Navajos can re* enter their lose land).* Sven Birkeru observes: No marter what pica or adjustment I malee, I cannot catch bc4d of the peculiar magic of those [chüdhood] pbces.... No efíbrt of will can restore to me that perceptkm, thar view of the horúon not yet tainred by futu* ricy—it runs rhrough me sometimes^ but 1 cannot summon it. And yet everything I wouM say about place dependa on it, and everychir^ 1 seardi for in myself inrolves aome decp bnósy of io restoration. My best« cru*

est*^I cannot define my terms—self is vitally omnected to a fow square miles c^land.*


39 These Unes put tbeir finger on che probfem. lose ñ:w square miles of bnd” is co lose one*s “besc> true&t self/ one^ mosc intímate ídenriry, as surely as che Navajo feel chey have lose thdr dee^y grounded coUective klentity in being removed from cheir naiive land. For che sense oí aelf, personal or col* lective, grows out of and reflecta che ptxcs from which we come and where we have been. As Lawrence Durrell writes, “W; are che chüdren of our land­ scapc. It dktatcs behavior and even chought in che measurc to which we are responsive to xtNo wnder «« ate nosta^ (Ucerally, **paincd a che [nonjrenim home^), noc just over chehshed childhood places but over many now inacccssiWc or despoiled places^ ofren in consequence of eoslogical damage or negligcnce. Such massive nostalgia is a speaking symptom of the profeund placelessness of our cimes> in whidi we have citchac^ed place for a mess of spatial and temponl porcage. As Durrell suggests, the pbceless is che thoughtless; and if we fril to honor and remember places, chis is a direct reflectkxi of our unchinking and incrcasingly ill condicÍMX. Another tellit^ s^ is che &ct that che módem se]f> aU püica are epmtiaify the utau-. in che unübrm, homo-

geneous sp^ of a Euclidean-Newtonian grid, all places are essentially interchangeaUe. Our places, even our places for homes, are defined by i^jective measures.’*^ The uniformiry of space and the equability of time have replaced, or more exacciy displaced, the prkxity of place. If nostalgia is a characcenstically modem malaise, this may be due to its covert recognición that a time once existed when place was **thc first of all things,” when time and space in their modem (dis}guise$ were noc yet facally ac work. For in che pachos of nostal* gia, ^'spice and time [are] noc yec separable concepes, (chey are] scarcely eoncepts a all.**** But in che modem era we have accepted and incorporaced space and time in their objectivicy and (in)difforence. In ^che age of the worid pkture,* we have become whac we have allowed ourselves to behold.*

W: calcúlate, and move ac r^id speeds, in time and space. But we do not live in these abstract parameters; inscead, we are displaced in them and by them. Nevertheless, time and spaa remain che oucgrowth, che alienated ex* pression, of the very places chac forra their ccvnmcm matriz. fr is a disconcerting that, besides nostalgia, still ocher sympcoms of place p«hc4ogy in presenc Western culture are scrikingly simihr to those of che Navajo: disorientation, memory loss, homelessness, depression, and various modes of estrangement from self and ochers. In particular, the sufrerings of many contemporary Acnerlcans thac follow from the lack of satisfretory implacement uncannily rescmble (albeit in lesser degree) chose of displaod Native Amencans, whom European Americans displaced in the first place. These natives have lose their land; those of us who are nonnatives have lose our place.



Natira and nonnadvcs apc anbroiied in a sfuicd pfcdkament of pbcckasneas and ics aftcnnath, and che only way out of chis predkammc is co regain Ijvii^ comact with place itself, co ronember that pbce is a ronarkable thing. This wilJ take more chan noscalgk glimpse» bsdcward uno per­ sonal Of cdkctivc history of forward-looking gazes into utopias or thc cxDCka of ouoer spatt. Nostalgia (as well as the exotídsm with which it b so ofWn ailied) is part of the problem, and it does not contam the solución. The solutkm may lie in a belated posemodem reconneccion with a genuirtely premodem seose of pbce, a sense such as the Navajo once had and may lose ahogether unless something is done to restere them to theú* land. A spedal repem issucd in 19S0 seated that while the Navajo ‘‘otoi visited the Indian Health Servkc Ho^itals for counseling, the only real solution [for their ¿Us] would be the resumpeion of their original way cá life.** In this

way of life, place was paramount. Can we, in the postmodern perkxi, rec^ ture arxl relive some s^nificant vestige of an original way of life, otk that is as atturKd to place as the modern era has been co cicnel


The Body in Place There ú nothing to eUow lu to eaert that the distinctioiu ipplicd to tpace ate anterior to thoae ths concem [the] body. —Kobcrt Henz, *rhe fíe-cmincnce of the k^ht Hand

Far from my body’i beír^ Rx me no mote than a fri^meni of space> thete would be no apace ai aU fbr me íf I had no body. cep, stems from Tímst.) *Sx> deep for measure* ment or survey, she muse be overeóme in a cosmogony that cclebraces the trium[^ of the architeetonk cwcr the chaotk and in which mastery of the unruly rrutrix i$ che overriding cemeern. Before construcción must come destructkx). Marduk masters the Tiamat* ian matrix by cnashing her in combar. In a vividly portrayed bátele scene, he unleashes on Tianut (now transformed from water into the ^xue of an Oíd Hag) a vast net and a tumultuóos tempest. Entar^led in the net and turnes* cent wich ingested wind, Tiamac is brought low arKi killed by Marduk's virile

arrow. Buc order arises not jase from disorder. Iriumph in battk is not sufficíent for the building of a cosmos. As masier builder, Marduk must build fiwn something. The macerials from which he builds are found nowhere else than

in Tíamat’s alain bodyr

The lord rested; he gazed at the huge body, pondering how co use it, what co create from the dead carcas». He split ir apare like a cockle*$heU; with the i^per hatf he constrxKted che are of sky, he puiled down che bar and set a wacch on che waters, so they should never escape.* From Tiamac's body, then, Marduk creates sky as a r^ion discinct from water. Marduk next endows the new world with basic dírections, which are also body*basedr **chrough her ribs he c^>ened gaces in the cast and wesc, and gave fhem strong bolts en the right and left; and high in the belly of Tianut he set the zenith. Noc CHily che cardinal dírections but also the body*rela* tive directionalities of right and left and up and down are escablished. The creation of an cvdered world ful! of places becomes ever more spedfic:

Then Marduk CMuidcred Tiamac. He skimmed spume from the bítter sea, he^ed up che clouds, ^nndhft of wet and wind and coolir^ rain, the spictle of Tianut.

With his own hands from che sceaming mist he spread che douds. He pressed hard down che head of waisr, he^ing mountains over it, opening sprü^ co Bow: Euphrvcs and T^ris rose from her eyes, buc he closed the noschls and hdd back their ^>ringhead. He piled huge mountains on her pq» and through them drove wacer*boles to channel the deep sources; and high overhead be arched her cail, locked* in co che vhed of heaven; the pie was und» his feet, between was che crocch, che sky^ fuloum. Now the earth had fbundttions and che sky its mande.*

Dinawns In these decisive sieps Marduk creaces tbe eanh^s tfmosphere and the temin (índuding the subsoil) tbe earth: its bask topography. He does so by reahaping—UeenUy reimpbcii^—particular fi»tures of Tiamat’s prone body: ber cyes, nostrüs, breases, cail, croteb. Tbe carcasa of Tíamat becomes a source of carth'pbccs within an encompassing sky-region. The aeaooA of the worid narrated in the £»H»ns EÜíh ís ar once /wm somechii^ and sometbing. What is most notable in tbe BabyJonían text is that tbe sometbing fkxn which creadoo aríses is a botfy—Tiamat’s gjgantk recumbent body—and the sometbing created is a set of dístínct flaas. Mar* duVs cosmogonk action bru^ about ever more particular places (rom tbe primal undifferentiated regkm that is Tiamac*s own body. Not uniifce Plato's *mythkal* recountíng in rhe Tiwwfwr (whose Demiurge ís remarU)ly remi* níscent of Marduk), the £mmm Eiish depicts a progression from inchoate r^íons to well'fermed places. But what Plato designares as “Spatt,” Ncccidey,** or ‘^be Recepeade”—none of whidi amnoces the idea of an organk body—the anonymous author of the £m0M Etídf spedfies as tbe fallen body of an elemental goddess/ If the Babykmian IcgcTKi is tellit^ us anything, tt is that body and place' belong to^ther from tbe very beginning. Their fàte is linked—not oiüy at

the start but at subsequent stages as well. Despite this common fàte, in ancient and modern Western philosopby tbere is larely any seríous discusskm of the role of body in tbe determinatíon of place? Amoi^ anóent thinken in tbe 5^^tern tradición, Arisrotle alone

at least tbe importance of the human body in regard to place when he said that the dimensions of place, sudi as drove and bekn^ right and left, “ccxnc co be in reUckx) co our positíon, «r ve nsni wnelpa Aristocle emphasízed that chese dimensions “are noc just relacivc to us ... in narure each is dístína and separace.**^^ Only certain mathematícal objects (e.g., points) possess positions entírely relacive to our own bodily positíon, yet chese points do rm chcmselves ccnscitutc p4ace$ or even parts of places. Barly critks of Aristocle invoked the human body in tíú ñxm of that hypochetícal javelin thrower (to wbom I alluded in chapeer i) siruated at tbe outer limit of the spberical beavens: wbere would this ambitíous athiete toes his javelin if sp^ came to an end at the edge of the outermost sphere?'*

Afttr the omeened expbratíon of this simple but provocatíve tbought^ex* perimem we find no significant tbeorizing in tbe ^Wst concerning tbe rt^ of the ^tive and suppk body in space. The virtual disappearance of this body in Ñvor of che rígid maurial body goes hand in hand with an abatíng of interest ín place as distinct ñom space. At first glance, the ctmver^nce of dimínished amntíon to the lived body and to experienod place núght seem to be merely coinodental. But In fàct the respective deatínies of l^y and plaa are doseiy connecced in phüosophkal thinkir^; as btufy came ro des^*



in Place

fute the lurd physkal body of ra extensa^ so fltue carne to mean a mere segment of infinite space. The HeUemstic and ntcdicval preoccupacion with che infinite and the void brought wich h a marfced oblivioumess to the contribution of the active body to concrete implacemaiL’’ lo the extern thar the ageney of this body

in the constiruckm of place was fotgotten or repressed (or perhaps never fully suspected) dunng the millennia that separated mythkal from modern rumi* nations on space, the fue of place as a phUosophical coriapt was subfect to the vidssitudes of changing fashkxi. From a period of preoccupation in the wake cí Aristode—Sin^jlidus, elaborating on Aristotie, devoted an entire treatise to the notion of place**—phÜosophtca] concern with place vadllated, finally waning as the High MiddJe Ages gave way to the rKxninaiism and skcpticiffln that preceded che Renaissance revival of Platonism. The increasing Ãsdnarion during the Renaissance with the idea of an infinite universe, so deftiy delineated in Alexandre Koyrf's Frvm thc Claai Wertí te thc It^nitt IMvenc^ speiled an incrcasingly bodikss and placeless tale. Hiis is hardly a surprising development. The more onc considers space as unlimited— whether as an actual infinite in the manner of Grescas, Bruno, Gassendi, and Newton or as an indefinite infinite in the concepción of Descartes—the less one wül be concerned with che position of the human body in the vastness of space. Only if explidt artention is given to the lived body in relation co ics whereabouts does the imporcance of place in distinction co ^ace become ñiUy evídetuJ^ In the preceding chapeer I pointed to the active r(4e of cbe human body in Puluwatan navigation—where boch visión and kineschesia are at stake—as as well as in Bskimo orientación (in which thc trail kfr by onc's own fbocprints is a crucial due). The scxnatic symptomatology of díspossessed Navajos indkattd the ingredieney of the lived body in displacement as well as in implacement. If it is true that bcxly is on che “near side” of place and that frface is in rurn the “fiir side” of body (with landscape in rum on the frr side of particular places), then the diffimntiai destinies of body and plaa are indeed deeply omjoined. In chis ch^ar I duU explore the intimate mcerinvolvemcnc of body and place. Apart from foreshadowings in myths, where better to look fix a renewed íçjpredatkm of place chan in our own bodíly enaetmenes? W'hcre cite can we look for ic, given that all human experierKC eme^es from che facticiry of being a body-in-the*worid? Just as we may say with Kant, “llwre can be no doubc chac all our krtowledge begins with experience,” so we can say that knowledge of place begins wich the bodily experience of being-in-p4ace.‘*

This is all the more truc if we are to come to know f^ace from within, in ics own distinctive bdng.

II i 1



II Ihere is, therefere, anocher subjeci beneath me, fbr whom a «odd eúo before I acn here, and udx> nnris out my pbce in h. Ihis capcive or natural subiecT is my body. —Maurke Mcrieau-h)(uy.


1 bcgin with a axxTctc inatance of bai^ bodily in pbce. I am in my Uving room, a rectangular room with rwo entrances and a number of Windows. (How many^ Fd bave to count chem concertedly to know.) The paño, whose surface has been newly finisbed, is covered with sheets co peotset its ^eaming wood fiom wayward pavn. The píUows oo tbe couch are in ddibertte disarray to disoourage Pippin, tbe do^ feom aleepú^ on k. A bookcase contains volumes (nust of than scenuníng ñom my Kansas fbrebears), rocks, and various memorabilia. A dipcyth paintíng, purdused this year from my fiiend Eve, hangi on the wall over the coudi. (Me lavesxkr geraniums are perched on a small oval cable on my kft. The fireplace, dormanc fbr che sununer, is on my right I am seated üi a low>cuc whitt febríc chair near one oí che south Windows.

Alrcady in this bare sketch a cardinal dirección has becn invoked, akmg with a dive^encc between right and left. A room, a living room, is coming co descripáve Ufe. Despite this room’s recciUnearicy, certain idjosyncranc decails (e.g.y piano, painting, books) an imace its otherwise static being. Some of these details, even as they popúlate my immediare spacc, take me fer back into tíme, and thus into other places. Several objeta reflect or soUdc bodily action in che (vesenc. The cowr on che piarw and the helter-skelter pillows on the couch aliude co the poesible incurskxi of animal bodies in domestic space. Also within this ^ace as I experience it is a “seat” fot my writing, itself a quite bodily endeavor. IWo encranca si^gest possibk motíons in and out of the living room. Movement, cven acción, is albot. I stand up and walk to the bookshelf, where I search in vain fot the copy oí EifurvrA Bts^ I thought was there. Disappoinced, I recurn co my chair, raigning myself co writíng without the assistance of Emcrson's Oversoul. Suddoily Pippin cnttrs and lunges onio che couch in spice of ics fbebidding cushions. 1 im^ore hún co get off this precarious perch, and my daughter Erin, hearing the commotíon, rushes in. The phone rings. 1 go to aruwer ic whik &in kctures Pippin on his bal canine manners. I am now out of úte living room and inco the kicchen: in another place, with ics own pecu-


w Place

liar characicriscícs. Ww 1 to stay there, this new ^ace mi^t cali for yet ocher movemencs of my body, such as bending over, reaching up, ecc. In this sequcl co the injüd scenc, 1 set my body into moóon. I get up twice, first to retrkve a book and then to answcr the telepbone. In so doing, I move fhxn the immediace locus of che chair in which £ am writing to che r^km of che boc^Lshdf and then co the kirchcn, each of which, upon my âf^xcoch, becomes a new scenc for bodíJy acción. At the same time, I engagc

in an interchangc of pcoximicy and distance as I move from one place co anocher: I am now here, ncw there, and as I draw dose co certain chings I am fàrther from ochas. The sudden entry of Pippin and then of my daughtcr brings ocher active bodies inco an oríginaUy solicary s^ne. Wich chem, my own body forms a mcxnentary pacc, litcrally, a **com*pacc. ” £ach of us posi* tions him or her self in reladon co the moving body of the ocher. Debite the sectled character of the rocvn as archtteccure, this has become a highly kinetic circumstarKe. It is mobile in time as well as in space, oxistantly dkangír^ aspect and content. My body continually taka me vue ^ace. It is at once agent and vehicle, articulator and witness oS bcing*in*place. Although we rarely ancnd co ics exact role, once we do wc cannot help but nocice ics importance. Wichout the good graces and exceUent Services of our bodies, nor only would we be fost in pbce—^utely disoriented and confused—we would have no coherent saise of place kself. Nor oxild there be any such thing as lived places, i.e., pbces in which wc live and move and have our being. Our living-moving bodies serve co scruccure and to configurare entire scenarios of ^ace. It is at once conveniem and economicaJ to consider the c and depch—and think of these in turn as strtctly orthc^onal to each other; e.g., as three perpetxlkular axes that omjoin in an abstract zero-point. Such a point—not co be ccmfused with what HusserI calis the “null*poinc of orientatkx)'*—gives rise to lines and planes that exterul into infinity. Such a modd noc only kaves no room for (riace or región; it foredoses senous coO' síderadon of the lived aspects of the binary pairs being discussed here. When dimensión is assumed to be formal and geometrk in this manner, two difficulties arise. First, we presume thac there are trnly thrtt dimensions | of space. But do we know this for sure? Buddhists take space to have ten dimensions; the four cardinal points of the ownpass, the four niidpoints be* twren the cardinal points, and and down. Rdaciviry thec^ posits a four* dimensional space (the fourth dimensión being dme), and modern topology propoaes the idea of n-dimensional spatial manifolds. Even short of Buddhist cosmok^ or advanced mathemacks and pbyaks, are we restrkted to kngth, height, and depth in our cxperiences of lived placei Are there not cfolique directions tha do noc msp onto any of these classkal arxi all too tidy di* mensions? Do we not experkna certain untidy dimensions every dme we walk over uneven terrain^ Indeed, do we ever experience height or length or depth pm tuulsiHtpWi Second, and more impoctant, is the divorce between dimensionaljry an3^

directíonaljty that belongs to the Cartesun model and ka conceptual piogeiiy. Insttad of r^arding dimen4onajity as abstraer and objcctive and direction' ality as concrete and cnerdy subjective, dimensionality needs to be seen as a reflection of the lived direcüonality by which embodied implacemait oceun^ The tabfes need to be tumed on the view—still very much aiive—aceording to which three'dimensional space exists firse and feremosc in comparison


The Bo^ 0» Piad

with directionaUty as a merely denvadve phenomenon.^' On the contrary, the dassicaJ cortception of cridimensíonality is itself derivative from Jirtetien’ aUey^ in which ic resides, as Heid^ger saya, in a “sciU veiled* scace.^ Dircc*

tkmality in turn ¡s anchored in bodily postures and movements whose descripción calis fix intrinsícally amb^uous terms such as “over there* artd JSvay down jonder.® 'E> say chat “«pariaUyíng" space [Mecedes “^atialized* space, as does Mer* kaU'Ibnty, w th« “spatialicy* precedes “space,* as does Heid^ger, or that bodily kineschesias precede the idealizations of space in che manner of Hus* serl, is to daim that che directionaliry inherenc in che IJvcd body In place j>recedes che dimensionalicy of inert matter in space.^ Ib maíntain such pre*

cedertce is not co revert co a rampant su^eccivism. The lived body that ís che (re)source of direcdonalicy and dimensionaliry alikc is neither subjective nev c^ctive. It is the “common, but to us unknown, rooc* of all chat comes to be dassified in r^idJy strttífied ways in modvn ^^cem thought.^

ni Híerseín úc herriid). —Raáwr María Rílke, £>aaw

Hm 1 nand. I cannot do ochcrwíse. -'Martin Luther, spccch s the Dícl of Wxnu, 1531

Aa 1 sit in my living room, and as 1 move around in and chen out of it, I find mysclf at every moment ám. No matter where I am in relación co the precise laytxic of the room, I reinain jusc here and noc fárrv. Seated, 1 am here in chis whice uphoUcered diait; scanding at che boc^shelf» I am here lookíng for che book of Emerson*s essays; and walkíng inco che kícehen, 1 am sciU here. I am here even when I oceupy predsely what had fixmerly been a “there,” e.g., che kitdien viewed from eny chair in che living rocen. I am here even when I am tbere, ac thac destinatioA which had been my goal as I searched for a book or as I came co answer the tekphone. Indeed, 1 am never net here. If che “now* is often a point of obsessívc concern, we do noc wonder often enough sbouc the **hefe,’* Chat ubiquitous locMíve we conànually en*

in our experíence. Between che here and cbe there, che paired cnembers of chis primal pladal dyad, we have always already made a chotee in favor of the here. Or more exactly, we ha^ noc so much chosen che here as wc have txetfifi^itíi it: I 0M here. And I exemplify it by emboépftg ic: I am hete in/as my body. Thtt are here, coo, in and with your body. However distanc fhxn me you may be as you read these lines, you are jusc as fuUy, as corporeally.



here in )Vur worid as I arn here in mine. (Ib indkaK chis bipJcx sicuatíon I shall sometimes emptoy a spedal graphism: ^3U are ¡tjbcn.} Thus tt is by my body—my lived body—cha I am here. My Uved body^^ is che vehicle of che here, ics carríer or *bearer* as Kussed calledj^ ic.^ My own body (my Ejffttüfib} is a once the necessary and che sufBdent condkkm of betr^ (locared) here. When ic comes co che here, my body has plempoamiary power: a fully invesKd power co sitúate my cndxdied sublectivicy here, jitfr hcn. Eor this reason, Husseri desígnales che here co which rhe body brings me as che “absolutc hete.”* Aft absolutc hcTí is onc that

cannoc be dinúnished or compromised; to be here at aU by means of the body is co be here. Ic is patcncly ncmsensical to say that “I am partiy here"; or, if we do say chis sometimes, we mean that, being distracted, we are com between cwo or more (xxnpcting heres. £ach particular here never* theless remains abeolute in ics demands and its oppominities; we are dis* tracttd by anocher here only when we feel that ir, like the here we nenv OGCUpy, is ímperious in ics rtquirements. Ib be here is therefore an all-or*Dothing aflair. By this I mean ñor only Chat bdi^'hcre is a maner of lífc or death (which is also truc, sirKC a dead person loses, along with Ufe, the here th« is che prerogative of his or her üving body). 1 abo mean Chat che fete of the here is tied entirely arui cxdu* sivcly to th« of rhe body. If there are experiences in which my body does noc figure, then these experiences will bck a hete, or wiU possess only a quasi or pseudo here. Henee herelessness inheres in certain intellectual and mystical Gcperiences in whidi we rqoin a conceptual or religioua “there," an “on the ocher 8»de” (^riuricr in Germán) that has no proper here. But we do noc have to go so fer afield as chis to find circumstances in which the here is appar* ently sbsent: e.g., experiences of “artuned space* (such as euphoria, fugue States, and “charged* situarions into which we are predpitated without hav­ ing gained any secure serue of our own bodily hereneas) in which we find ourselves fioating in an armosf^kere not anchored, much less centered, in our own body.^^ In such experiences we are literally disoriemed, since we can

regard it as axkvnatk that co be wirhouc a here b co lack orientsuion. Be)wd instances of acute disoriematkxi occaskxked by immersion in artuned space, there are disoriencarions due co difficuloes more (uUy internai to che organism iesdf, wbether these be cauaed by Korsakolf^s syndrome, cempcral lobe cpilepsy, I^rkinsonb disease, or severe emocional dístress. In such excremiries as che», one is all the more impressed at the lived body’s capkity co regain orientarion or at léase co íntegras lostness within an oi^ir^ situatedness. But co the extent that the lived body is still capable of guidance, a sense cf here will remain in play. “H. M.," a parient with catascrophk temporal lobe dam^e, was able to nav^ate successñiUy around his room and thnx^ the halls cí the hospital to which he was confined. Ib chis exact extent he knew at least Chat he was in these haUs.^


m Píaet

It ft^k/ws Chat even when we become acutely disorieneed, » Utttg as w bavt at teait a rttübuU sense tf nisere see are botUiy^ we are never entírely un* oriented in space, rKver wboUy lost in its "undístinguishdie inane, ® never without scxne vestigial hereness. Only if space itself were as intrinsically di* rectionless, as indiíh»ent and neutral, as it carne to be regarded in che mod* ern era, would we be chreatened with anyching like a complett Uck of


onentackm, that is co say, sheer herelessness. In ocher words, we are never not oriented to some degree and mctfe or less successfuUy in che plaixs we ^inhabit. Ixmg befoce we karn ascronomy or geograf^ (much less modern physics), we alrcady have reliable tmencacional knowledge of these places; thanks co our ^knowing body,** we know how to find them and Uve in them, how co be here in their presence.^ Henee we may say without hesitación: if 1 feel a lived body as such (and as mine), it provides a díscince sense of (my) being here. And conversely: if I feel that I am here, I must also feel my lived body as the basís, the very vehicle, spealu of above and bekmç ahead and behind, righc and kft as the ^^parts and kinds of place.**^ That hc could oxisider (hem noc only as “parts” of place but abo as “imdf” of place reâeccs hb overall view that places r^arded as ooamological tepei have inherertt pcAver. As a coAsequence, che riglu the bdow or the behind constirutcs its evn place wich dbdnccive propenies in each case. “In nature»” writes Arbtocle, “each Idimension] b distinct and sepárate.”*^ But Ahstotie also considers how che six pam or kinds of place cdst in relation to the “position” of someocK in a particular place: These [six dimensions] are noc just relative to us. [But when we consider them] relacivdy co us» they—above, below» righc, lefc [etc.]—are not always cbe same, but come to be in relación to our position (dwsv), aceording as «e tum ourselves about» which b why, often, right and kft are the same, and above and bekn^ and ahead and behind?*

Thb passage (part of which I ctted in chapter }) subverts our expectackx) that Arbtocle, out of hb commitment to the cosmotc^ical objectivity of nat­ ural places, would reluse to acknowie^e any relativity o( such places» much less a rdativiry Chat bears upon the human body.*^ Yét Arbtocle does noc tell us how thb latter ràatívny (designated crypocally by the phrasc “in relackm to our position”) b to be characterized. In particular, Arístocle does noc provide a descripción of the ^edfically bodily basb of “our position” insoíàr as thb basb bears on che determinación o( the parts of plaa consideted as the six dimensions. Muefa the same neglect recurs when Descartes, posicing the chtee dimen­ sions of he^n» ^*eadch, and depth as ubimate in the realm of ra exnrwo, faib to examine what it b about the human body that predbpoaes the mirvi to apprcbend space in just these particubr dimensions. The predisposing bc* tor b found in the way the human body c^ients itself in cerms of above and bekw (resuhüig in “height”), right and left (i.e.» “breadth”), and front and bad: (ix.» “depth”).* Ib embed thc six dimensions in the realm of extensión b in eflect co lócate—co fifitfify hoftt—them .io> space. The Cartesian spaiíalnaikMi of the dimensions b a duncKristkally modern reducción of che importance of the « “parts and kinds of place,” a reducción chac b carried stili further when height, breadth, and depch are compressed into the X» Y, and Z axes of Descanes^s analytical geometry. Thus b inaugurated a modernbt cradition


Tht Boéy m Pittct

that rcacbcj an apogee in Kant*s early efbrt to derive che thícc-dúnensionalJry of space (ron Newton’s inverse square Uw of graviotion!*^ Our own task is to provide an acoxinc of the bodily concributkxi to che parts and kinds of pbce withouc blling into the Falbcy Mispbced CcmI' creteness; wichout, thac is, subsuming body and pbee under sin and space. What ís called for in particubr is a descripción of che embodied implaccmcnt of che âx dimensions. This wíll consrituce an ar leasc minimal account of how our body finds its wsy in pbce in the most concrete manner. For che safce of convenience and because they fàll n^ther in these groups in descriptive bcc, I shall treat tbe ancient sexcet of directions by dividing them into the three pai rs of abovc-*below, bcforc-behind, and right-left. This grouping seems to be acknowledged in every kncFwn human language: ^In all bngu^es there appear co be pairs of lexical icems chac name asymmetrical axes of spatial oricncation: the up/down, che front/back, and the left/right. The referendai funedons fbr tira lexical poiarides may be comparcd across languages, for they are ultimacely anchored in the human body itself."”

UI The upnght diicctiún has ahnys been the most salícnt. consam, and unique dimction in our wmM. *—Roger Shepard and Shetiey Hurwiti, *Upward Dirección, Mental Roncíon. ami Disainúnatkin of Left and Right Turní in Mapa” "Bip and bonun... uc noi given n> the wbjeet with the percvivrd mnttam, [but] ate K each moment oonstituted whh a ^>atiaJ kevd in reUcion to whãct» things amnge themidves. —Mauríee MedeahRnry,

9f Ptrttftion

In book 4 of his Physia Aristocle remarks chat

each body, if noc impeded, moves to its own pbce, some above and some below.... *Above" is not anything )ou like, but wherc fire, and whac is light, move [to]. Ukewtse, ‘‘below” i$ not anychir^ )ou like, but a4iere hcavy and earch'like thú^ move [to].” In his discussion of natural pbces Anstotle privileges those regkms chac can be dassified as “above” or “below" cm an imaginary vertical axis extending berween the earth and che heavens. Is this merely a quirky belief of eariy Greek cosmology^ Or does it noc answer co someching quite real—and sdll quite conten^rary^in our expcrience of being bodily in plaoe? Ib stand on earth and look up into tbe sky: is this not one of the most teiling experienos we can have as embodied beings? Another baste experiena is thM of stand*



ing. Standing and «tanding are as neariy syiKxiymous as are sirting and sirting ámt. Just to raise one^s body fi portance of spacial levei, nowbete does he indicace predscly wto the bodily basis might be. This basis is found in tbe uffr^r poftttrr oí human bdi^. Withouc such a poscure, which rcprcsents che bask gesture of our body as it stands or walks on earth, ic is difficult co cq>lain ¡use why vertkaJhy has such immense significance in orlenting us in the world. If the vertkai Is indeed a “constancy phenomenon" in human experience, it is due to the constancy of che upright stance, whose absence betokens illness or powerkss* nes8-“ (No wonder the gnostks, many of whom reviled the human body. aceorded to this posture such a spedal place in their tbeology. They consldered it a divírK gift, cKceding anythii^ the '^archons” of che univerae could create.)^^ Our owm upri^r bipolarity of upper and lower body Is reflected in an environmental bipolarity of pl^es above and below. Thus our erect scaxKe is not mdíffercntiy related to bow *space has been ^lit up inco places."’* A$ distended along a vertical axis, we connect more fully and more sensitively with the vertid relación becween earth and sky or between soU and those

things that grow upward from k. My uprightness is manífeated in the uprightness of tbe wmid’s body, and the larcer’s upward*cendingness is embod* ied in my own scanding*upness. This reciprocai relaàonship is the source of medieval and Renaíssance views on the c^ruffniia whereby che head and the sky as well as the genicals and the sublurur región correspond with each other.”

The above and the bclow present themselves, then, boch In my everyday postwe and in the complex of places to which thac posture, stackxiary or moving, gives me access. When I spontaneously designare tbe wall as *above" tbe rug in my living room or certain cliffs as “below" me as I drive along Higlra^ 1 in Big Sur, I disringuish between segments of my lived world in

ways thac parallel the manner in whkh I distingulsh, ¡use as spcmtaneously, between my head and my neck or between my shoulder and my hand at my side. The point is not that che world is like a $uper*standjng person or that < my perscm is a mere microcosm of its envircmii^ wwld—such Is the positkm of the Corpus Hmuaiattu—but that the above and the below belonging co ' my upnght body anticípate, and articúlate with, the above and che below accruing to che world. The artkulackm itself amoums to che establishment of a spacial level by whkh I manage to orienc myself as sometbing scandii^ or waiking upright in che wcdd. In the end, ir does not matter whkh above* below pair ccMnes fint in regard to witO' or cosmogenesis; vHiat matters is che contínual interkaving of body and {riace e^Kted by the interactkm of both pairs of terms. “Pl¿e" would noc be place as we know ic withouc the


cntícai distinction berween up and down; nw «^Mild our bodies be “lived” as tbey are without a comparable distinction ín a spedfically somatic formar. Our bodies would certainJy oot be m flaet at all without the dialectic into which boch distinctions enter. Above and below ímpose an intrinsic asynunetry that belies any claim co isotropism within the vertical axis they co-constitutc. Given che two-way directionality of chis dimensión, the motion of “up” is stressed more than

that of “down,” as we see in cxpressions such as “upríght posture,” “scanding up»”*coming up co him,” erc. “Doum” tcnds to denoce ¿ficient or degraded síruaDons, e.g., “feeling down,” “gerang down on him, ” *down times.” It is as if the downward draw of phyucal gravky gives rise to a compensatory cmphasis on the upward motions of the human body, whidi seefcs not only co be equal co graviry but, per in^assibÜe^ m be independent of ic. The result is a privileging of places kxaced ap above in whac Binswanger calis che “ethe* real worid” (e.g., che celestial spheres of Plato, che outermost beaven of Ar istotle, che Christian Heaven, the Buddhist Puré Land) while places situated dmi ¿dew in the “tomb uorld” (underearch drcMn, the eleven ardes of Dancéis Infono) are r^rded with disgust or disdain.* In between is the “middle realm” of earch, where good and bad places alifce abound and where above and below ate more oftm relative in status (this ttee stands sbove Chat house, che hiU stands under the brow of che mouncain, one person is taller

than anocher, my tighe arm passes under my left, etc.). Sudi difBtrential axiological aspeas, which attach primarily to che asym* mctrical extremities of up and down, reproduce and reinforce che asynunecry of che of che siruatkxi—i.e., my own lived body—as we sce ío the sheer ácc cha my head and chest bear no resemblance whaesoever w my feet and legs. lhe “topce, che asymmecries and incongruenóes represented by su¿ dichotomies comhbutc to the unity and vitality of our Ixing and

moving in (Maces. Diñerences between right and kft hands, arms and kgs, feet and sboukkrs, acc co extend the arriculatory are in direcrkxu and di* I

mcnsions otherwise noc possible to attain. Acting in concert as difíerentiai veccors of the livii^*moving body, they achkve ímpbccment in tbe worid ín /

ways at once ebsóc and lasting. VI

I bcgan this chapter by rcmarkii^ on che awnparatívc concreteness and spedfidty of tbe dyadk pairs up**down5 sbove-belon^ and right-kft. I have attcmptcd to bcar out this daim by detaiied accounts of each pair in succes* sion, chat is ro say, by appeai to dírect experiennal evidence. But coUaceral evidence, in tbe fíxm of cultural expressions and explanatcry hypotheses, has ansen akmg the way. Prominent among the explanacory hypotheses were gravtty and the upright posture in che case of up*'down, structural dif^* enees between the ñont and badii sídes of the human body in regard to ahead-behind, and certain adaptive and evolurionary aspeets of righc—left

handedness. Although it is not the proper cor^rn of a descriprive account co settie che incrinsk merits of chese hypotheses—as exfManatory, they have co do with tbe génesis or epigénesis of the very phenomena 1 have des^bed mainly in cxperienciai cerms—it is srriking chac such explanatory modeis should suggest themselves just here. No con^rabk hypotheses carne up fer discussion in my creatmenc of here-there and near-far. Tbe reason fer this dífference, I suspecc, is chat the latter are much more sweeping in cheir acope



m Pbuí

and therefixe do noc demand the ^dfic explanacory constructs called for by tbe three dimensional dyads in their very discreteness of appearance and operación. Since we are ineluctably here versus there and always cng^ii^ in comparative nearness and fomess, to explain these parametcrs would be to e3q)lain why we are bodily and mobile creacures on earth to begin with. But thac we rum and move in rhe partkubr direcckms of up-down, right-kfc, and front-baci entails a sense of c^>en dioke that calis out fix explanación, íf noc justifictfion. It will be nocked, meanw^ilc, that the three dimen^onal dy^ under , scrudny here all imply a spedfic Atv. Thus, ahead-behind, scrictly speaking, is linked by an axis that extcnds in from and behind, as well as through, my lived body. The same single axialiry ís true of left-right, whidi, hoHvvcr, runs in one side of my body and out the other. Beyond a ccxnpa* raUe but now vertkal axis, above-below also entails a three-dimensional "ref* erence object.* *10 be càevr something is co be ¿xwe some stxnething st^id thac stands under somethii^ else; and the same analysis ^plies for being Mav something. Furthermore, above-below refers at Ieast tadcly to a ground levei—ultímaúly provided by tbe surfoce of the earth—chac subcends boch the solid refèrcnce objecc atui that which is above or below it c«i the one Ím[^kit vertical axis. The idea of ground levei is built inco che simplesc desaiptions; when I say **Tbe pen is on top of the desk,” 1 óitpíy, but need noc say, chac boch objcccs are above the ground levei of the floor on whkh tbe desk reses.** The often unacknowledged buc persisteng presence of

ground kvel may eluada» the ocherwise cunous finding that objects situatcd near one’s lèet are casier to pkk ouc than ob^ces near one*s head.**

Sudi di^rity between the three dyads is a crudal antidote boch co the Cartesian presumption that these pairs, as mere fonctions of the three das* skal dimensions, are indi^rently disposed in space, and to Kanr*s similar attm^ co derive che three dyads from the foce chac "in physkal space, on account of ics three dimensions, we can conceive three planes whkh intersect one anocher at right angks.”* Neither Descartes*s presumption nor Kanfs õcrivarkxi adeqxiatdy «xivcys the anomalies and aaymmetries to which Kant himadf pointed ao cogently. It is also to be notkcd that each swxessive pair of urau described in this chapter finds its most characceristk locus m tírt jIwmw Intfy. The above and below belong to a cosmk column experienod as unending in either direction. No c^>pii^ of this colossal dimensión à ever convindng; even the **oucermost sphere** implies a región be)ond (as is sig* nified in Archytas*s conundrum of the javelin thrower), while the drdes of Hell prolifente below. Although we experíence the up-down dimensión through the agency of our upright body» the vertical dimensión so &r excceds chis body*s immediate locus as to seem (in tbe wwds of Lao Tzu) "empty



without being exhaustcd.**^ The tinuQon ahcrs pcrccpdbly in che case of ahead and beíünd. Now a middk realm presenu itself in tbe fbrm of pbce* islands forming a virtual archípcbgo around the body. Ac the limit, 1 can project my body ahead of itself just over the horizon, but 1 am not swept up in anything that exeeeds “restoraWe reach." Instead, 1 am concerned mainly with places in an cndrding middle distance, c.g., in what b “some­ where ahead” or “somewhere behind.” In hirthcr contrast, what b right and iefe of me cends to be kxaced cloae co or right at my body’s periphery, licoiUy at my fingertips (or coe cipa). Right and left places are found in, indeed ar, my present locus; they are ics very ponioning ouc. Thus, as 1 am seated at my compucer typing these words, the keyboaid and the table on whkh h «ts seem co Éül immediacdy into right and leñ sectors of my vbual-taccüe field. The immanent differentiation and spedalization of my tm hands extend out into these coonguous sectors. The “Desh the world” b « one wkh my own flesh through the sfcin of fingers connecting body with these doady connectii^ zones wkhin my workplace.* Wí obsiTve, then, an ever-narrowing gyre as we trade tbe preforred (or predbposed) ««simple locations of the three dimensional dyads vis-à-vb our lived body. The movement b from an initially cosmocenrric to an incrcasingly somaiocencrk series of implacemencs. But at every stage, induding even diat of up-dowo in the coloasal column of coamk space, tbe ingrediency of the

concrete body remains indi^ensabk. Wkhouc thb body^s various dbtinctive contributions, above all its artkubcory arc, chere would be no signiScant direccedneas coward, in, and between phees nor any openness to the regions of whkh these places form part. If we oxT^»are the pairs of terms dbcussed in thb and the preceding clu^«r, we nocke that all five pairs share one particular property: my body cannoc lócate itself simuhaneously ac more than one of the cwo posicions aasumed by the members of any given pab. I cannoc be boch here and there, just as t cannoc cura boch left and r^t. But beyond thb mutually exclu-

sionary character of each dyad, cwo diflerences readily emerge on doser inspectioo: 1. Tbe men^m of the three paus taken up in thb chapter exhibcc pateera of aheraation and internai oppodtion that b in each case the produce«**

of an at least in^ilkit dotar. In a given situación, we muse diooee between right ar left, ahead sr behind, front ar back. Cemeerning the cwo members of a giw pair, we find omaelves conscantiy ac a crossroads àioke. No such foceed dicbce obcains in che case of near-fiu or here—there. Indeed, there b no meaningful choke at all » be made. are always Ivrr rather than tíwnr and mt nther than Jbr, howwer mudi we may wish to be there or ñr away. For, once we are aS che there, we are ineluctably here and near again. Not only thb, but in these two instances we are drawn eicher inco a


The Btufy in


dialectic (of the here/there) «x a continuum (of rhe near/fár) in which the rwo contrasting terms coexist as poles of a common fieid of actlon. In con­ trast, the binary terms of che pairs above—below, front—back, and left-ri^r do not fixm distinctive pedariries of a fieid shared in cwnmon. At the mosc, these rix terms specify the impliat axes that traverse the fields whose re^>ective epicenters are here and there, near and far. X. Moreover, we find ourselves always ar ená of these rwo fields. For my body is ar the cpiccnter—indeed, à itsdf one of the two epícenten—of the drcumstance. Such is my «ósolute here and my near sphere. From this here-near extremiry chere stretebes our a series of ever more remoce plaas or regions as these tarter constitute the other end of the same scene. In the case of che three dyads, however, 1 find myself poised—precariously staWy, depending tm rhe exacc circumstance—approximarely midway betveen the members of a given pair of dimensioniJ terms: between right and leñ, before and bdiind, up and down. Instead of being «s che here or » the near, and insnad of being orientad txily rononf the there or the far, I am drawn out— and sometimes strung out—between ahernuives that delinéate axes rather than open up fields or spheres.

VII Ir is not my intención to cbim that the five pairs of terms nrK)tacions of the pairings may subtiy, or not so suK tly, influence subsequenc descriptions. lo che extent that this oceurs, we risk fálling into what could be called the Fallacy of Mi^laced Abstraccness. This would haf^en, for example, if we were to assume that the three dimensional dyads stake out the onfy significant dimensions along which the human body meaningfully direets irsdf to and ín places. Not only is it clear that '^objeets may be located at oblique angles in dírections betveen the three canonical axes,*” but the ^urdity of any such resrricrive assumption becomes evident when we consider an orienting device such as che magnetic compass. Despite che considerable uciliry of rhe ccxnpass, its four cardinal dírections in rx> way limic or predetermine the number of trajectories we may undertake when we em(^oy it. Between north, east, south, and west are an indefinite number of inrermediate dírections, arty one of which we can pursue if we are suffidently nv^ile. As Thoreau inti mates, startíng from any given point (e.g., one*s own



home), can nwvc out in so many diflferent dircciions, each separaud ñom che ocher by only a fcw degrees of the compass, that íc woukl take more chan one lifetime co expkxe all che rouces indkated by chese directions?"

a. An analysis of the sort I have undertaken ín these pages might be] caken to imply that places are somehow lét importanti as bodies are co the composition and ccxnprehenskx) of places, to maincain chac tbey bríng pla^ into existence would be to oxnmit a converse Fallacy of Mispbccd Concreteness. A simple chought experimenc reveáis the Fallacy: if my body’s contribution to the sense of being above/bclow, ahead/behind, and r^fat/left were suddenly suspended^ would I noc stili exist in a scene having st/me dintensiona] structure? If chis suspensión icsdf seems unimaginable, take inscead an inánime p4iyskal object, say, a yellow legal pad lyit^ before you on your desk: does à noc exísc in a lócale with certain definite dimensions, mosrly if ikx encitely independent of anythir^ your own body mi^c add co che circumstance^ Is ic noc stili located aâorr che of the desk, co the of a certain book, and Mwid the cqi of tea you are drink* ing? Isn’t it wisr cbe telephorK over sim on the small desk? (On che ocher hand, will noc be aMe to im^ine the legal pad as htn unless you píck it up and place ic cm or nexc co your body. The hete remains absoKicc and body-based—absolute «r body«based^in every such circumstance. and Mffsd, on the other hand, remain relative to my bodily position, even chough chey are noc dependent on ic.) Ic is thus difSculc to deny that certain dimensional scruccures inhete in chings and places chemselves and may reAect lirtle if any influence from the incursión of human bodies inco their midst. The most obvious case in point is char of wild places from whkh human beings are alcogetber absem. But even in vernacular Iandac^>e8 in which human bodies are manifestly presenc, ic would stáU be implausiUy somatocencric to claim that the presence of these bodies is responsiMe fòr their very constitución. Getting oriented in chese landscapes depends much more 4«tU means to belong to a given pUce. ^ one kind thing; nor does d^lii^ oceur in only mse way. Dwdling pbces

rai^ across a considerable gamut of st^es and types, of uses and destiniea, only several of which have been toucbed on thus fiu*. Some dwellings encour* age permanene residence, some refiect puiely cransienc uses; a mcfeüe home is as much a dwelling pbce as is an English counery house. And just as we cannot rcatnct dwelling plxes to those experienttd in tbe present (as we see feom my menory of che 'fopelu arcade), so we cannot confine them k> what is fectually or historícally real (as we witness in che case of dwellings ferming part of umpian schentes). íarfcs, which are noc **buildings* in any usual sense, sometimes itoc offering the btrest sheher or any domesde amenitíes. Can be dwelling places. Indeed, the places where peopb spontaneously con* gregace sudi as Street omers and stoops of apartmenc buildings, are genuine dwellii^ pbces, and yet chey mi^ possess even less of a designad scruccure chan do parfcs. 5^ may even dwell in «Jtomcfeiles, as commuters do daily. i / Given the remark^)le spread of che subjecc, I shall resenet my attentton ' fer tbe rnosc part to ñill*fledged dweUir^ pbces. When X say *fedl'fle^ed* 1 have in mind cwx> necessary if noc sufficienc condicions that built places must meet if tbey sre to qualify ss pisccs for human dwdling. First» such pbces must be ^nstruoed so as to aüow fer repeated return. Ttiis does ux


Buüt Ptaoí

require permanency of strueture or even sameneas of implaccnicnt. ’Hk Bed* ouins «mtinually duf^ pbces, buc they pitch their tents night afrer n^t in approximatdy the same a>n£guration. Despite the marked rransiency of thdr lift-styk, chey continually reoccupy the same and can be said to reside in their tetus. (They also retum to the same arcas of encampment year after year on a seasonal basis.) Second, a dweiling pbce must possess a ¡ certain felt bmiliaricy, which normally ahses from reoccuparioo itself. Thac ' (O which me rerurns is increasingly inhabited by the spirit of tbe JamUiaru^ ' the indwdling god of inh^tarion.* Beycmd reaccesàbility and felt fàmiliarity, I shall íkx single out any furtber general traits of dweiling pbces. £ven such a plausible candidate as “spatial interkmry* is a condí^ent feature, given cbe case the anchorite, for whom residence acop an exposed column is a legitímate (and sometimes kxiglasting) mode of dweiling. Both the anchorrte’s pcrch and cbe open park 9 teach us thu not even something as basic as “sheker" is intrinsic to dweiling.

111 Of one thing we can be cenain: both the ccmònuing accessibiliry and the àmUiamy of a dwdlíng pbce presuppose the presence and acdvity the ínhabitant*s lived body. T^is body has everything to do with cbe trans* formation of a mere àte inco a dweiling kideQl, Mia buMpiata. Such building is noc jusc a matter literal fricación but occurs through inhabic*

ing and even by traveling between already buüt pbtts. Constructir^, inhabicing, and traveling> as as thosc actions in which residing and wandering combine, are bodily acrivióes. Jourism, Hãffdrrb/t, pilgrimage, and walking through arcades all invc^ve journeys in which bodies leave home residences only to retum to them?” In each of these ways, the livii^*movi(^ body convens the flatland of sheer sites into tbe variegated landscape of habit^)le or traversiMe pbces. But how can bodily movement, seemingly spontancous and unrehearsed, be so crudal in the artificially constructcd and delibenrely designed environments that built places so often províde? Wc b^n co answer chis question when we realise that our own body is not metely one thing among others, simply and indifferently disposed in spatio^tempml situations (in the manner of many natural and technotogical things). As a “lived” entity, a tbe body is not only situatcd but situat* ing; no mere inscance of natitra it Ís instead an exemplar of naotra M/arraw, "nacure** in its active and dynamk aspcct and (hus something that •hoWs sway."'* lò hcU swty is prccisdy noc to be under the sway of dr* ' cumscances, passively posidoned and pinned down by the course of externai events but rather to have a hand in the determinación of these drcumstances chemselves, induding their situaiedness in space and in time.

t$ DvtU


This is not to say that the lived body is always directly or explidtly ac scakc in the decerminaticn of a partkubr built place. A remoce and unattended kighthouae, fix instance, may be determíned—mechankaliy—in its admonitory function without anyxic’s actual presence ín the building. And the altemation of seasons wiU signiñcantly affect an already construeted place, whether that place is located in wilderness or in dvilized space and legardle» of whether it ís presenriy occupied or noc. In such cases as these, lived bodies are noc directly determinacive of buih (^aces; at most, they are marginal in status. The pkxure chaires dramatically vdien wc cemsider the role of the body in dwelling places of a discinctly residendal char^ter.*^ From a pehpheral

posidon, the lived body here moves to an indisputable cencrality, for it is by and with our bodies that we inhabic dwellíngs. In residing we rely on the body*s capacity fer ferming “habit memories'*; that is to say, memories fermed by slow sedimentatkm and realízed by the reenactment of bodily motions.*^ But in inhabitatkxi, the body ís an engirK of exploración and creation as well as an agem of habit. Thanks {Medsely to the funiliariry escablished by habitual body memories, we get our bearings in a place o( residence, the interior analogue of orícntatkxi in open landscape. are empowcred to discover rKweJ features of built struetures or to crean such fearures ourselves by rearranging the materiais already present in a given residence. "Hk mere foct that we statuí sçp ín buildings represenes another bodily dimensión cí dwelling*as*reslding. Although we also stt and recline, we stand uport entering and léiving and sometimes during our entíre stay (soy and stand are etymological cousins). In a built place we continuaily nkr a rtaai^ adoptíng an upríght posrure appropríMc to the configuraDon of particular rooms. Such standing is the effective basís of our staying. Just ss the body*s mobilrty is irxlíssodabk from dwelllr^as-wanderir^, so the same body*s up* rightness is integral to dwelimg-as-rcsKling. Hk a^want acción is more significant than we mi^t suspect. Andrea Falladk» devoted an entire chapccr of his cekbrated treacise Tia Faar Booki ef Ardâttctart to ‘The He^ts of the Rooms. Whac does this spedal con* cem wkh height bespeak? Why hei^r and noc length or width? When hu* intn beings Stand in rooms, they are especially sensitive to their heíght. whidi echoc» their own upr^Kness as beings. Palladio was convinced that the height of a room both mímies and symboliaes the upright stance of the human body. Moreover, to be upri^t si^ifies selfassertion and ambiòous reaching up and ouc-^values highly prized in the Icalian Renaissance—just as ic also connotes moral ferthrightness (*an upright character**) and artistic achievement (*he has risen in the art world**). The archítectural expression, of this vakxizackm of verticalíty internalizes within built places the privil^e ■ Aristotle aca>rded to the vertical dimensión of the physical wexid.

Bodies and built pbces alifce contend wich gravity, since both must make a stand in the world. If it is true that “in getting up, man gains his standing in the worid,* it is no less true that buildings take up stands in the world as wdl.*^ They gain an fftate there and henee becoene che primary basis for •real estáte.’^ Ihcy also gain of ferm and shape. One of the aims of architects, even those Cf( deconstruetionist bent, is to nufce ob^ts bavii^ structures consistencly scable over tíme and in space. No less than Palladio*s Neodassical buildings, the itewed and mmrectilinear structures of buildings designed by contemporary archiucts such as Frank G^ry and ^ter Bisen* man are desi^wd co last and noc to coll^se (tbeir precarious a^earances notwithscanding). Neodassical and deconstruetíemist architeces foin forces in

designing pUtes sdwr statuUtig atU poven fòstrr ottr dwn atU gtatUifig 01 tfieà* mutír. In view of tbe intímate relatkmship between the human body and the dwellings in whidt ic is placed (and where ic places itself), it is c^y co be cxpected that dwellings will themselves be likened co bodies. Michelangclo wrote that •there is no questíon but that architectural members refiect the members of A4an.*^^ lm[^t here are two closely related but distínguishable

claima. Tbe first is that building may actually resfmtít che bodies of human bàngs; che second ia chac chey should be oxutrueted accending copwpertíMw bonowcd ñcxn che relaoonships of bodily paru. The second daim is cxplk" icly made by Vitruvius in hís S» Bmb m Anhàtawf: “Since nature has designed the human body ao that its members are duly proportkned to the ftame as a whole, it appears thac rhe anàents had good reasem for thor rule, Chat in perfea buildings the differem memben muse be in exact symmetrical rtiatíons to the whole general scheme.*** Inspired by this same rule of pro-

portionality, Albertí wroce in his Di ft ard^orruròi that

beauty will result from tbe beautíful form and ñom tbe conespondena of the wbok to tbe parts, of the pares amongst themselves, and of these again co tbe vdtole; so thac the structures (i.e., of a building] M 00 ntfmr «id csnpkar S«i^, wherein each member ^rees with the ochers and all members are necessary for the acoM^ishment of the building. Thc daim as co actual resemblance may be extended still further. Houses and bodks can resemble each ocher not only by paraUel pfoporcioos of parts but by inthnsk featurcs as well. Such resemblame is not limited to the fiacc that scuipted or painced human figures ace sometimes expüdcly arcached to a building, as in the row of starues at the top of Sanscwino^s LilMvy in \%nicc and tbe friezea on tbe Burhenon. Nor is it only a maner of the bto* morphism by which the shape of the human body becomes integral co the overall contour of a buildir^ as nocably occun in the Latín cross design of





*• 1

d 9

Fig. ], FruKoco di Giorgio, dnwLn^ íbr a chunh, A.D. ia$.

many medkva] dnuches, in which chc body of Chnst b expliatly inscribcd (figure I) * SciU more dramadcally, an entire building may resemUe a human body part by part. C^cutrued as a mega-body, che building can be said CO have a lacc {rerâlingly called a “facade”) wich Windows for eyes and a front door

fix a mouch. Thc Bodhanath stupa in Kathnundu, Nepal^ fbr examplc, has cnormous cyes painted on chc base of its spirc, which theieby rcsembles a head act upon thc body of chc lowcr temple. But chc rescmblancc may also be metonymk or mec^>horic in status. linis in many ordinary bornes chc

bcarth stands in fbr thc hcart and chc ncglected backside of chc house is reminisccnc of the necher parts of thc human body.^* Palladlo was quite sen* aitive to such implide buc aesthetkally powerfui analogícs:


Piaca As our lUessed Creator has orckrcd these our (bodily] members úi such a manner, that the moet beauúful are in places most expeeed to view, and the lesi comely more hidden; so in building also, «c oughc to put the prinàpal and CMuider^le paru, in placcs the most seen, and tbe less beautiful, in places as mudi hidden from the eye as possibk.^

Built places, then, are extensions of our bodies. Tbey are noc just places, as the Aristotehan model of place as a strict ccmtainer implies, úi tríndf these ' bodies move and positk») themselves. Places built fw residing are ratber an enlargement of our already existing embodimeiu into an sMsrr cf éiPtiür^. Moreover, thanks to incicasii^ly intímate relarionshlps with their material strxKtures, the loc^cr we reside in places, the more bodylike chey secm to be. As we feel more *‘at home’* in dwdling places, they become ; places created in our own bodily image. If ic is true (as Heidegger remarks) chat “che world is the house where mortais dwell,” a house is in tum a body, bodylike.” Not only does a

house mitror a body by ics very struccure; it is ofeen funccionally simibr to a body, taking in dwellers, holding them in its interior, and offering egress co them as well. “AhP exclaims Emma \W>odhouse. “There b noching like scaying at home for real comfort."” But more than comfort i$ at i&suc in the

elective affinky between houses and bodks: idtatity ts as seakt. For we tend co identi^ ourselves by—and with—che places in which we reside. Since a significant part of our persoial idcncíty dq>ends cm our exact bodily configurackxi, ic is only to he expected thac dwelling f^aces, themselves phys* ical in struccure, will resemUe our own material bodies in certain quite basic remeces. The resemblance, moreover, is two-way. A dwelling where we reside axnes to exist in our image, but m, the residents, also take certain of isi pn^)erties. fiw wr are^ our bodily being, refieces how we reside in built platts. Such traiu as “redusive" or “expansive," “ ainuous” or ^straight^** can characterize our somatk selves as well as the houses we inhd>it.

IV W: muM consickr all daifns co steribute eú&tence co what cannot bc rq>reaentcd in space as compkcely meaningkss.

—Gabriel Marcei, Aíríi^èysüaí JownMf, entry of January ao, (914

Finding ourselves in built places ís no straightforward matter In foct, it is often deddedly circuitous, both in time (requiring not only much time but many difíèrent times) and ín spacc (where we must often move àrrsvm places to find the “right’* place and where byways may be more significant than the straight path). Between the extremes of exploration and inhabitation


to Dvcli


lies an cntire middle tealm, for thc most part n^kcted in prevkius invesú* gations of buüt pbcs^ that íw our concertcd amntion. In cxploration the prímary issue, so ñu* as place is concemed, is orienta* tk». Unless we are oriented co some dcgree in the pbces through which we pasa, we do noc even know what we are in the process of discoveni^: wicness Cohunbus*$ cxxifuskxi as co just >*^kat he had come upon in the New Wwld. Buc finding our way às ptocr by means of orientatxm—whether technologi* eally assisted cv not—is not tantamount to being When we are movii^ amoi^ plaixs in an cxploracory manner, we are acucely aware not having a place co be; howevcr efSdent and successful our voyaging may be and howewr many places we discover, we temain essencially homeless. For we are then between shores and between destinacions, eist chan home, noc ^seccled in.* If we can be saíd co dwell en route, chis is dwelling* as'wanderii^. In scark contnsc scands the setcled statc of dwelling*as*re$iding, i.e., be* ing smrvàrrr m fitmiatíar. 17» paradigmatk case is the hcane, but we can also reside Ín schools, military can^ and ocher such stable pbces. In these drcumscances, orientation is a given; we are already situated with ccgard co prominent or súbele landmarks, and our bodies are attuned co the dimensions and paramecers of the particular pbtt. The prímary issue now becomes a nuner of àaiwàcMríM, for we are not merely st our destinaron but fully m

it, so much so that we often take the pbce for granted and cannot say in what it consiscs. *ni>ere is noching like scaying ac home’* precisely because at hoau we do noc usually have co conftont such quesckxis as *‘Wbe(e am IP *Whcre is my next meai coming fromP or **00 I have any friends Ín the wwWP Between finding our way and havii^ a residence—becween oriencation and inhabitacion—there is a whole domain of encroaching impbcemenL In thb domain we are neitber disc^ieneed ixx settled. W: wander, buc we wan* der in the vídnity of buik pbces we know or ate comir^ to know. Noc discovery buc better acquaintance b our aím. Or perhaps wc prefor to loiter in the imerspace, luxuriatir^ in che bcc chac we are neícher scrictly in nor akogether oucsíde, as when Amerícans linger cm porches wrapped around their homes. Pbces are built nex only for such obvious purposes as sheleer | Qt prest^ or CMníòrt; they also fester experiences that ^>pear purposekss at firsc glance. Ws encer here an architecrural realm that might be called **cransíckxial** pace Winnkoct, since íc shares with hb notion of cnnsitional space sudi characcerbrícs as Ireedom of movement (wíchín certain definite limits) and pUstidty of aim. Jusc as che chíld ín cnnsitional space exbts between harsh externai realiry and self^serving íncemal fàntasy, so the person on che porch— or in ocher comparable incermediate pbces—exbts becween prívate and pifo*


RttÜt Piaca

ik or between che rigors of the joumey and the comforo of inhabication. Instead of being merely transicory, i.e., a superficial way scation, a cruly cnn* sitiooal space is ing, e.g., a Grcefc «npk, offen a ^coounon outline* (tW») ben^een the confiícting forcea, someching “fixcd ín friace” for the enaccment of che stñfo itself* Overlooked in Hod^ger’s foroefuJ description, however, b che role



oí che human body in nuking che conflkt between earth and worid poaaible ID the fim place. The lived body ia the anaete médium of chia conflict, whkh ia fot^ht oo ór terma. My body bringa me inro pboe—whether it ia a *pbce of conákt* (ShviMM») or a *pbce of openne»’* and maintaina me there * Aa iesdf a procoplace, the body constitucea my con

poreal here. But predaely in tea action of proto-placcmeoc, my body takea me up a^ainst counter-placea, inchidii^ conBktual placea, at every moment. In

chia councerií^ (and beii^ enoounmred), tbe body conaticutea che between ardúcecrure and landac^)e, the built and che given, che aniScial and the natural. Wtre it noc for che body aa a proto-place, exiating in oppoaicion co CDuntcr*placea, che earth/worid crafrontacion icself could noc oceur; chere WDuId be no “common ground* for chis confrontatkm and no basis for tbe mediackei effecttd by Che worfc an, e.g., che cen^>k at Paestum taken aa oemplary in Heideggcr'a estay 19)$.^

The human body also escabliahet zonal places, arcas of ieeway in whkh foec mowmencs relaa^^ unencumbered by che burdens of acrifo can be un* dereaken. is tbe Engliah equivalent of ¿qpkfowM, place opeoness (litcrally, "pby^^ace*) and is at work in Heideggcr*s nocÍMi that the cask of the arcisc or acchittct b *to libérate che Open and to establiah tc in ks structure.*** But where Heid^gcr locates sudi libcracioo in che acción of Srmr icself, I «ould sitúate it in che near sphere. Leeway is che ñill are swepc out in die near ^>hen by the bodily modulacíons of zonal places.*

These modulations inelude the relacioru of inside^KMtside, akx^stde— around, and wkh-berween, each of whkh is at once pre-poehional and pose* conáktual. As pre-positional, each such relación adumbrares a spedBc way of being in che leeway cX built [daces. As post-confiktual, each calores and arckulatca chis leew^, within whkh frce movemenc is feund and fostered (and somecimes abo obsrrucud). £ven if n is noc always true chat "every* ching spadal e:q>ands”—to daim chis is to overlook posdbilitMs of oon^ves' don and minianirizscion—an opansive structure is enhanced exponentially by the provisión of leews^ for che occi^xuns of a given dwellú^ pbce. Such leeway is noc to be measured in foet, indtes, or áraoaa (litcrally, "anns,* the unk of measurcment used by IMladio and ocher ardiitects of the Icalian Re* naissance). h is a msner, racher, ardutectural dbow room, a sense of "oude ottnsity* not to be cooñiaed wnh Cartesian evwww. When Pdladio said the archicect "oughc to have r^ard to the greacness of places,* he meant che architect should snen^ co incúbate a feding of bevoy wherever and howw possiMe.**

Ibanks to che provisioo of leeway wtchin zonal placea, noc only do 1 connect more openly wkh die many counttr-friaces smI cocn*pbces of my esivifoning worid; I abo broaden my sense of che span or spr^ of a built pbce, ¡ts "ardutectural are.* Guided by its axiágursced form, 1 move as




freely as I can in this place; indeed, I actively contribuie to the architectural arc. In this way I experientt an opened*up implacement which then brings about expanded possibilicies of residing. This happens, for cxam(^ when I

come co know a building "inside and out,” as oftcn o^urs poignantiy during childhood. In the diÜd’s oçkxation of intímate corno? ai^ rwoks, the mer* esc bungalow seems co be a palace of possibilities; henee the shock at tecurning to one’s childhood home and finding ic so diminutive and unpre* possessing. Nevertheless, the expanded space of the «iginal scene, its “intí­ mate ímmenstty,” still attaches to the place, if noc as lícoaUy perceived by the aduh, then as remembered in revery.^^

Wt toid to aceord credít for the eqwisiveness of dwelling places co buildings, to the architects who designed chem, or, fiuitt ág miguxy to Be­ ing—as if buildii^ or thor ardiiucts or Being could themselves bring about leeway, unassisted by those who live in them! Even if it is (just barely) I imaginable that sp^ exists without the contributíon of lived bodies, ic ís J Met imaginable that a dwelling place could exist independendy of corporeal conctíbutkms. W: deal with dwelling places only by the gr^ of our bodies, ' which are tbe ongoing vehicles of ardúteccural implacement. A bodiless ar* chitecture is as unthink^)le as a mindless philosophy.^

VI The vahous pre*positk>nings of architecturaJ experience rejoin and rcinforce che fundamental cwofbldness of dwelling. On one hand, to move "around'* a built place instead of entcring it, to be “outsióc’* it, to bc con* nantiy “between” (espedally when caken to a nomadk extreme), is to dwdl in a migratory, unsettled sense in which díspl^ement ia much more evident than implacement, homelessness than habitanon. Nevertheless, far from bdng merely privacive or secofMlary or just a imans to an end of implacement, this sense has its own pladal properties and represents a basic form of dwelling in the worid.^ On the ocher hand, my prc-positkmal body also leads me to dwell in another nunner, in which debying, tarrying, and finally ínhabiting are mm prominent and where the most exemplary bodily actions ate those of moving '‘in,*’ “alongside,’’ and “wich.” Now I move toward, near to, and then inro a built place. Thanks espedally to my habitual body, I abide chere, in*dwelling and staying*on, beir^*wich. The externai wandering abates as 1 settle into a place designed for residing. The secemd, sertied sense of dwelling ís not merely the end*phase of a journey, in the manner of Odysseus returning co Ichaca. Just as wandering can happen within rcsiding (as when I meander through tbe innrior rooms . of the Chiericati), dilatory dwelling may oceur at many points akxig the way. At Calypso’s cave, for instance, or in che land of the Phaidans, Odysseus

t0 Dveli discovers that sojourning en route can become the way itself. For dwUing* as'tesklir^ is not necessarily sedentary; not the literal ^»ence of motíon but ândíng a compraávely stabk place in the world is what martas in sxich dwelling. Such finding is possible even when in motkm. The earth ofters condntui if sometimes uncomRrtabk accommodaEkms as one moves across its surface. If human beings may peregrinate Ín place, so they may also dwell staWy even as they move from f^ace to place. The two aborigiiul senses of

dweÚing are not, then, simply diametrical opposites; they form a complemen­ tai series in whkh coexistence counts for more than exclusión and in which dialectical iiuerplay allcnvs for many unantidpated ctxnbinatíons. Let us cali the exemplary extremes of this series—i.e., the two primary modes of dwell* Z

ii^—“hestial” and “hermetic.’* Hestia was the Gredc goddess of the hearth, at the center che home and fàmily life, of bousehold economy in the broadest sense derives foom Mbv, abode, house, househoid). Alurs co Hestia were built in every prívate home in Greece as wcU as in ñom of che prytaneion (town-halJ) of capital deies.^ Honored by a secred firc, she was invokcd at the begínning and che end of foascs and sacrifices:

Hestia, you who take care of the holy house of Apollo who shoots so for, the house at sacred Pytho, a liquid oil flows fonver foom ^ur hatr. Come on into chis house of mine, Come on in here wich shrewd Zeus, Be gradous cowards my song.^ Tb imoke Hestia was co ínvoke a presence dwelling within che home. Credited with having been the first deity to construa a house, she was a somewhar kxKly and retiring beü^ (so reciríi^ that the Achenians did noc hesitate co rcplacc her image wich that of Dkxiysus when pcrcraying rhe twelve maícK deitíes on the Purbenon). In Gred; bouses the hearth was located ac the center of the house, and it was here that Hestia craditionally presided.^ She was also a central presence at temples (e.g., at Delphi and, much later, at the temple of che \bsc^ Viigins in the Román Forum). Boch the hearth and che temples were drcular in strueture, a shape that exemplifies self-endosure and promoces atrention co The center. Any buik place that aims at encouraging bestial dwdling will therefore cend to be at ona cencered and self*«ndosed. The implidt directkmality will be from che anter toward the peri^Kry and will thus obey che archkectural counsel to **extend inner order outward.* Greek domestic archkecturc echoes

chis counsel:

Bitilt PUfa

« I

'•’i ú

7V4 Fíg. 4. Bramante, plan of Saint Pexet's Baaitka.

(Hestú'sl drcubr aStar, pbced in the ccntcr of an utterly introverted house... is (he symboJ of (he visceral relariondiip between home and earth (Rhca) and between famüy lincage and the OMitinuity of rime (Kronos). Actually, the Creck house is crossed by a vertical axis thac, through the hearth, binds rogcther the dcpths of earth with the summit of the heav* ens/’

More generaily, hestíal architccture exemplifies two rendencies; a penchant fix centralized structure and a sensírívity to tbe vertical dimensión (as (he heanh extends into an «av mtauii conneccing earth and sky). Both tendendes gaíned particular prominerKe in the ItaJian Renaissancc. Consider, fbr ex* ampie, Bramante's desígn fbr Saint Petcr’s ín Rome (figures 4 and 3).^

Tbe plan in figure 4 shows a rígorous central ízation. Reccangles and ar­ eles conjoin in a corKcncríc partern, which converges on rbe central drde directly beneath (he dome. Of regular figures, (he cirde is the most pcrfect fiMm of enclosute, bence its aprness ín a temple that attempts to capture the Holy Spirít here below. The vertical view (figure 5) shows the dome noc only rising skyward but resemblíng the vault of the sky itself. Kere the human spirít ríscs up even as the divine esscnce is lured down. see much the

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■!» tatkx) to engage in rel^ious ritual (or, short of that, in ordinary rcflection) ts replaced by (he inclinación to survey the scene, to aütt iu instead of beit^ w.

Yét the intensely contrastive character of the scene is not in the least divisive. The («o primary architectural components—Duomo and piazza— (c^ether compose a single, deeply sacisfying situación. As one moves from che cMhedral ery of a building into its interior, e.g., fnmi lingering alon^ide the IMazzo Qiicricari to inhabitation within its central utia. My subsequent consideración of bestial dwelling only reinforeed che inward movement by ignorir^ what lay just beyond a residence in che horizontal plane. I made progresa of anocher kind, however, by rccognizing an ec*cencric ftigbt from the sedentary center of dwelling. An imaginary hermetic visitor to che Chierkari might rush out through the same inviting porch by which he had encered the buildii^ darting into tbe Piazza Isola and then into the dty streets of Vkenza. But this mercurial figure \MMild soon become en* mesbed in the rectilinearity the urban grid. Even when he finally reached tbe city limits, he would stop ri^rt of the open countryside. Although Hermes presides at the crossnMds, he is poweriess in the face of a trackiess nature. It is thus time for us to move oucside the city limits and into tbe margins of built f^ace, into tbe peripbenl areas where the natural and the culcivated conjoin and where we finally oxifront nature. In order to do so, we need not move far in terms of distance. If one turns left on exitii^ from the Duomo San Marco and walks through the piazctta and past the Doge's Pd* aa—instead of walking straight into the main piazza— and malls (in (he original Britísh soue of creelined |mMncnade in which case, constructing houses and offices, rooms and hallways will foüow. But «le can abo combine che three naoccs, standing sstf and os by standing Thb last, comparativeiy complex action b the chtfacteristk stand human beings assume wto in che actual presence oining che liceral meanii^ of *per*ambubte^). Indeed, che boundary a garden can be obscured and even removed at the limic, buc the garden as such is already and aiways a liminal presence. The most consequential liminal feature gardens is che uneasy bound- ' ary tbey maincain between building and nature. Gardens are ^literal workk * in whkh artífice strains against sensekss growth.”^ They hokl aniâdality and naturalness apart—putting their differences into sharp relief^ while M the same time brii^i^ chem back together in revealing ways. Tbe brínging cogcthcr, tbe “arc of the garden,” is tancamount to adtiMfwn. A cultivated garden (a virtual pkonasm) domesticates wildemess, eicber by im* porting wild items sudi as herbs or fiowers into tbe garden ploc or by letting the ploc itsdf “grow wild.” Since cultivada) is a matter of degree—a given panii ground can alwiys be mere er toi cultivated—there is a proliíèration possible garden rypes in accordance with che extensiveness of cultivation. As J. B. Jackson remarks, ^Líke tbe dwelling tbe garden has no single, uni* veraally accepeed form; like the dwellii^ it is much more chan che produce of a design or of environmencal influcnces, and like the dwelling ic serves many needs and is cboughc of in many ways.*^ In che lice of this prolifcra&on, 1 shall limic consideranon of gardens to three leading types only (and these cmly in certain English and French versions): early endosed gardens, formal gardens, and **informal” kndsc^te gardens. Even beim che Norman Conquest of 1066, chere was in early medieval England and France a livdy interese in the natural groupii^ of living things. Aelfrtc’s school (drea A D. 99$), for inscance, drew distinccions between MKdv, a vrood, foar*, a grove, and fofr, a copse. But chece is no cvidence before the Cor^uesc of an interest in the concerted cultivatiai of the natural

Buiií Piaca

worid, the reorchestracion of '‘fields* or smalkr plots of land Imo parks and gardens.^ At Le Man$ in 114$, Bishop Guiliaume de ^ssavint plantcd a gar* den (nridiowm) *\víth many sorts of trces for grafting forcign fruits, [all] equally lovcly; for those leaning out of the hall Windows to admíre the beauty of the trces» and others ¡n the garden looking at the fair show of the Windows, could boch deiight in what they saw.”^ In this prototypkal dr* cumícano, trees, originally denízens of the fivest, were mw the en* doeure of the garden so as to be ciikivarcd within ics walls (e.g., grafted with exotíc fruits] and, in this very capnvity, to be cnjoyed as aestbetically pkasing. Tbe reverse acción, iMv a forest and crearing a garden there, was also pursued, in this case by Hugh de Noyers, bishop of Auxene, Ín the years nSs-'Uoó:

The woods, bcset wich briars and undergrowth and chus of link valué, be deared and brought into cultivación. There be made gardens and pUnced crees of diñerenc sorts so chac, apart from deriving pleasure from them, he also got greac quantities of fruit. He surrounded a large part of the wood wkh a rii^ fence.* Tbe combination of practkal and hedonk motives is striking; pleasure mixes with yieid, giving co che pricrtordial act of cultivación a twofoW aspect, which continues to be refiected in lacer medieval praccices of including «xchards and herbaries (small plots of herbs) in gardens. Nature is *‘brou^n into cultiva^ tion* as a nouHshing as well as a pleasing presence.^^ Also significant was the multiplicity oS garden types from the very be* ginning of this AngkxNorman tradición. Ar Winchescer Cásele, Ibr examfMe, a berbary was crcated in 1178, a lawn garden (prtotíhtm) was added in usa, and in 1306 a queen's garden was construcced in which a chaurtel of water fiowed chrough an endosure in grasa." Elsewhere, parks and wairens, chases

and drcumscnbed ‘‘fbrcscs*^all of which contained game for huncing in various formáis—began to popúlate the EngÜsh landscape." Holding tc^ch' er chis considerable variety was a common respect for nature in ics untamed formac. 'Gres in particular were greatly valued for their aesthetic and thera* peuck potencial." In this early veneración of crees, which, unlike bushes and shnibs, are difficult to reconfigure into artificial shapes, wc detect an articude that will inform the Ei^lish approach to gardens for many centuries. VU: thus arrive at a first way in which gardens are cultivated prfaces. The way itself is (wt^okJ. On one hand, gardens endose a varkty of vegecatkm within a carcfully circumscríbed space whose border may be a wall, a hedge* row, or a dense duster of crees. The effoct is often thac of a bower, an inci* mate garden xene more suiced to meditative walking and sitting than to promenading or saancering. (fimprr is a linguiscic cousin of Mié and fowid* ary^) On the ocher hand, despite thàr self*absorbed character, such gardens

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■W** Fíg. IX. Caule and garden. Bury (ijii>x*)> aim at bringing parts of the surrounding natural world into their care and *aJrTxwt imperceptibly ímproving” them?* Such cmbowcrcd cncloscdncss,

whose origíns doubdess derive from the fburfeld Bcrslan pairiáaôA model as channeled through Spain, does not prevent these gardens from kceping important links with rhe natural environment outside their walls. The medi* eval English hortkultural garden is« in eíTect, the ctmtlnuarion of nature not just by other means but often by the very same means supplled by nature itacif." The anraction of enclosed gardens cominued in England until at least the early seventeenth century. In Iraly and France, wherc gardens had become incrcasingly monumental in the period of the Renaissance, enclosure re* mained an integral fi^ture. In French châteaux of the late fifteenth and early sixteemh centuries, '*the garden experience was still enclosed, limlted, and inward'looking, with something of the procective, cloistered spirit that en* veloped the medieval boma with its hlgh walls, covered arbors, and four* square divisions.**** At Amboise, Blois, Bury, and Gaillon, waJlcd-in gardens existed alongside the château, presentíng the appearance of extended “kitchen gardens** (figure 12).**

By the middle of tbe sixtecnth century, che rcdiscovery of the world of cUssicaJ antiquity in Italy had spread to France, with the resuk that formerly


Buüt Plotís

austere ganlens b^an to be adomed with stanies, gwctoes, and extravagam pageantry. “Narure succumbed co the whims of thc ctaltcd,”*® 9S in ÜK case of FoAcaineUeau, whose gaidens ceened wkh reminden of che gbry that was Greece. More teiling chan direct references to the andent world was the invocación of dassical critena of archiuctuial order: proportion, symmetry, balanced distríbution, eurythmy, etc. Alberti, whose writii^ on architecture had a prt^bund impact on French garden designers, had underUned these Vitruvian prindpks, and it was noc long before entire cascle axnpkxes were being dedgned in accordance with them. PiradoxicaUy, the arúfidaliry and fbrmaliry of gardens constructtd in this newly emeiging French nunner did not require the containmenc so char* acteristic of eariiet Ec^ish and French gardens. If embowerment and ím* muremenr were ways oí keeping wilderness at bay, by the middle of the seventeenth cenrury artiãee had corupired with wilderness co eliminate en* dosure alcogecher. It was above all André Le Nôere who, at \^ux*le"\^comte and Wrsailles (and ar orher less etrravaganr places), “brrÀe down the very walls of Eden.** In Le Ndtre’s ambiàous schenes, walls became obstades rather than procective struetures. They stood in the way of extendir^ estáte gardens straighc and deep into the surrounding couneryside, and Chey incer* fèred with the concinuous viscas into the landscape that he wished to open up. Ac the same time, his grandiose designa pushed the untamed natural Horfd so ñr aâeld that endosure was no longer of any practkal or symbolic valué. The garden as a place of incimacy, meditación, and &mily solidariry—as well as a place fix the producción of essencial herbs, fhiics, and v^etaÚes—

was ser aside in &vor of an open and unendir^ visual spectade, a cohcrent amalgam of mfinicc vistas seen hom prívil^ed \*iewing pCHnts. IIk inclina­ ción to endose nature and to pamper it within walls gave way co a paasion for reconfiguring che garden world by any means avaÜable, espeóally those that aceorded wich formal-geonKCrk norms. These norms were ruchlessly ap* plied, even if chis meant the rasing and linearizing of a given landâxm and its nacive ñora. Le Nôere brought che formalization of gardens to a picch perfección and a magnitude of execution urKqualed before or sina in the ^^%scern wcxld. His major axiscraints carne ftom geometry rather than ñom nature. All avenues for promenading (aUérr), as well as the axes of ccxicatenated gar­ den fearures, traced out perfectiy straight lines. Every determinate atea in a garden, even the ntosc minuscule, had che shape of a regular (if sometimes ccxnplex) geomecrk figure. This hype^eomecri2tng is evident Ín the overall plan of Wrsailles in two of ics larer versions (figures i) and 14).^ At V:rsailles geometry noc merely encroaches on the landscape buc man­ ifestly dominates it. The radial symmecry of che MU (espedally evidenc in

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figure 14} carnes an aggressive and expansive ene^ (hac seems almosc licer* aUy to pln down the earth on which the radiaring panerns are superimposed. The place of landscape has become the site of shecr spatial positions organ* ized in accordance wich geemerie forms. These fònns themselves are aligncd, difcccly or indircccly, akmg the central axis that orígínatcs Ín the ro^ chamben of Lx)uis XIV, continues throu^ the Basin of ApoUo and tbe longcr arm of the great canal, passes over grottoes, and extends finally to the vanishing point on the horixon. This royal axis, itself the concrete synUx>l of the Sun King's absoluce power, boch ccUlects and disperses all of the subsidiary axes and thàr attached pkocs, feuncains, bos^uets^ and ifuifKunx.







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Fig. 14. PuU phn oT WnuJIcs. end of Lotus XIVs mgn (1695).

Ncvcrihclcw, what is nunífest to us as wr look at a schematizcd reprC" senratioA of WrsaíUes seen from above—much as it was manifest to the king, gazing westward from his elevaced bedchamber akxig the pnmary »ü¿e—is kss perspicuous to the pcrambulator of the garden below. For, when walk* ing, onc is easily (and dclightfijlly) diverted into numerous side paths.^ Even the vanishing potnt at tbc end of the central axis, when seen from the ground as surrou nded by ever-expandir^ spaces on both sides, acts ro mitigare the oppressive geometrism of the scene. "Wí are released to infinity,* writes Vin* cent ScuNy, “or at least to indeñnitely expandi ng space. In fact, what makes Wrsailles a perpetually fascinating architecrural scene

Sita atui Cuítiwtíif^ Píaea


is kss its rigid dominition nature than a complex diakctk between for» nulism and naruralism. Where other gardens of the àme were unremittingly formal and geometric—nocably thac of the Qilteau Richelieu, which boasted a ’^jantia ñtuíü^nut'^^ —WmiUes c^lcred momeno of relíef in its gnX' coes (its most important grotto, that devoced to Thetis, was situaced o6t che central axis, on the north side of the palace), its varied wacerworks, and its adrem use of crees in a ehanttiiU design (wherebx the low parts of trees were carefuUy trimmed, leavü^ the upper parts to gtow naturally). Indeed, after building the great canal, Le Nôtre tumed to ways of “relievir^ the predktable monotony of the main outlínes.**** lhe addkion of che Gnnd Ihanon and, above all, the Petir Irianon, with its seemingly unplanned woods and quasi'rustk coctages, further diluted tbe fermalism oí the centra] gardens. A dose consideration of che fixmal Frcnch gardens of the lacter half of che seventeenth century reveáis a consistent partem oí repressed but poent axirteer>formalism, even a «oven eolKision wkh wlderness. The simpUdty of the bask layout of a garden oíten cnasks a compkxiry of construcción rivaüng nature itself in endless proliforation and seeming unpredictabiJity. Saint* Simón reponed that during a six*week period at Marly, Louis XIVs hermit* age near Wrsailles, *fountains were alcered a hundred times, and wateríUb redesigned in countless different wiys.**^ This sdfdecoiutruccing situation was minmd in an ambivalent anitude toward geometry in high Frertch fwmalism. On one hand, the study of ge* ometry was dr rifiuur for aspiring architects. jaeques Boyceau's inñuential 7¥ait¿ áu janiifu^ stiw ie nàmu iU la tuuurt ft ât i^art (i6^) reoxnmended the study of geometry, drafesmansh^, architecture. and aesthetks in additkx) to praccical horticultural work. Aceording co Boyceau, strict rules obtain fer che design of garden structures; fer example, che wideh of tbe side pathwiys or (taHnatifs branching off foxn a major aüit must be exactly cwo-thirds of the width of the main avenue. ComroUing the composición of che garden was an entire set of prt^xxtions significantly similar to che proporcional ra* tios ruling Falladio*s desígns for the ^Uzzo Chiericati.** Eksigners even

regulated walking by [Mescribing a correct c^ence attuned co the ^xttial positions of fountains and scatues!** On the ocher hand, the French díspl^^d

a poignant sense of che magical power of geometry. The central axis at Msr* saiUes, fer exam^ was not simply a line impoacd on a flat pUne—had it been merely chis, it could not have been such s cynosure—but, in io dynamk force, a condensed expression of regai power. Ic can be said thar che gerteral plan of Vbrsailles “is all vast, scraight, linear, simpk, formal, strong, and gen* erous, a pattern that speaks of power.**** Indeed, the Frcnch f^arded the power of lines and numbers as Hermetic, here drawing on another property 6( Hermes: his penchant for secrecy and silence.**


Buiit Pituc

Given such an ambívalenc use of geometry in the axKcption axxl design of gardens, we arc left wondering how tbe two currents could coexist in one I and the same ‘‘site* (a word which itsdf betokens the domínance of geotn»

, I etry). The aoswer is: riMjuít by if cúnmut ír fven amfiemgntarity Ina ' by eomfrvrwty a oxnpmnise between the (projected) perfeccionism i of tbe plan and che (imputed) irr^ularity of nanire. TIk place o( che garden ¡ is i$ the compromised comprombed (and deddedly ilhisory) ilhuory) in'bctween of these two OC' a' tremes. Ib its creación many thii^ contribute. For instaiKC, when certain pwfsvpu at Wrsailks were employed as theaters, a whoUy artificial backdrop, presencing an imaginary scene, would sometimes cuc ofF tbe actual view down an aUtt; a other times, an elabórate artificial ftame would surround an iMimpeded view but give the impression that the view as a wbc4e had been painted. bi the end, we can regard tbe entire enormous estáte ac Wr* sailics as a theater, in which otherwise antitbetical terms such as che con* trived arxl the nattral, che formal and che numinous, the geometric and the polifical, axijoined in endless crarfoinations.*^ Gardens Chus deployed in che Service of illusion are cxemplary cases of cransitional space as discussed in the preceding chapter. They exbt between the abscraetness of a formal plan and the concreteness of surroundu^ nature, betwven ‘‘the manmade and the natural ac the level of che entire visible en* vironmenc.’^ Lackíng che fixíty of che plan, they possess more r^ularity iban nature in its wilder outreadies. This is not to say, however, thac a formal garden is a mere go-bctween. It has Us own peculiar properties of ephemer* ality, fiuidity, dynamian of appearance, ease of auess and exit, and apticude for maskii^ and oeduding. Although illusory garden ^>ace is M the earth, U is not tfche earth. Nor does it set forth a completely coherenc wwid, being too rransxcional tot woldbood as well. The Heideggerian option of earth venus world fàils to capture che garden in ics illusoriness and cransicionalicy. Heidegger's model of strifo-tom space is at odds with a scene of pL^ful illusion where magical transformaCKMis can occur. At V^rsailles che visual sen* saions of lookíng and tbe kinesthesias of waiking, for from beii^ disoepant, come together in a momemary buc exhílaratíng unión. Compresenc in chis unk» were planes and fiowers, scenes acted and painted, the sounds of foun* tains and caged birds, akxtg wich music and dedaimed poetry. The garden >' I became a ventable a total work of an.

The paradox is that just such scenc^r^)hic placefulness knds itsdf to extreme formalization. The French formal garden creaced an open ttansiáonal scene that coUuded with high^handed geometrizadon. Á garden such as that ai Wrsailles bears rig^ in the very midst of its most animsued and sensuous displays. Indeed, the rigor supports and malees possible the displays themsdves. Anothtf side of the same paradox is the otherwise unexpected sensi* óvity to the nMural settii^ exhibited by chis garden of art and artífice—a

Buihüt^ Stíts aná Cuirivafif^ fíotíf

sensitivity already apparent a PontaineWeau, abcut which foseph Addison observed: **The Kii^ has humored the Genius of the place. But gradualjy> during tbe course of the seventeentb century, humoríng the landsc^K gave way co an effort noc just to domínate buc to ifucrpmtc it. Thus Undsc^ architecture came co daim even the landscape beycmd its outcrmost perimetet Artificiai avenues and píerdng vistas, craversing che U* lusctfy space ã the garden proper, reached out inco tbe lar oxincry in an aggressive and vmcious manner. Instead of wiidemess chreaiening co pene* trace gardens, gardens now penetrated wüderness; “Here, for the first rime, the panem garden, previousiy cut ofT from a hosrile wodd by a dear and dcfinitc edge, ^nges through that edge artd invades nacure.”" Invaskm pre* pares the way for incwporarion; the garden has become an advandng edge, movú^ into the natural worid so as to take it over for its own iUusory pur* poses. The final illiuíon, chen, is chat the environíng world can be kept ac a considerable dístancc—pushed back and out of the garden—and yet, ^nasáy httaust it i» MA M íMt « drnamv, it can be induded in one*s lingering view down a never*crMling avenue of s^ht. At Wrsailles and dsewbere, Le Nôcre preved thac be could “bring the whole countryside, wreseed from the ^charmkss and disorderly/ into the fnme of the expsmding garden. For Le Nôtre, nature was very much a matter of space, the kind of ^>ace whose indefinite extensión allowed for incorporación into a site, a geometrically determined artd r^ularized site, that ís. Just as che Cartesian provece of matbematizing nsure daimed to com* preherKl aU of space consenied as extensión, so the offidal gardener of the

lished ArAitKtvn a book that praised “the beautiful disorder that produces valleys, hills, mountains.*” By chc 17S0S, Jean-Josef^ de Laborde was abk to des^ a “park** sud) as Méròdlle that cxhíbiccd s pronouneed Romantíc sensibility. The park was fiUcd with cas* cades, caves, rustic bridges, and vistas of an sçtparently undisturbed natural lartdscape. I say “apparently uraüsturbed* because, by an ironk twist, che appearance tsH the natural had co be carefuUy engineered: “Nature itself had to be duped and manipulated into a picturesque composítion.**^ In other words, nature had to become more üke itself or, r«her, more


Built Piafa

like an idealized ef Tbe image carne from dassicai lítenrure (cspedaUy Ovid and \^rgil) and from French landsc^M paínters tbe seven* teenrh century (prímarily Claude Lorrain and Nicolás ftaissin). The British, however, were most attenuve co chis image and first sought to put ic fully into place in cheir outdoor gardens. Aiexander Ripe led tbe way early in che eigbceench century, believing chat tbe aim of landscape architccture sbould be ^che amiabk simpUdey of unadorned nafurc.’’“ Tree», cmly one of many demems in French formal gardens, became che focai point of the Bricish landscape-gardening sebool- Wiiliam Kent, in a move at ortee egregious and reveaUng, planted dead trees in Kensington Gardens. **Wberever poasibie,” wrítes a historian of English gardens, "mature wxxlland was remodeUed to provide immediacely che effeets required.*^ In a sense, riiis arborophilia represented a rrturn co the medieval tradi­ ción of respecting nature in its pristine scate. But insiead of ^nir^ narure and endosing it behind cloistcrcd walls, che new goal was co leave, or at least apptar to namn ín an unerw'loaed and umltered condición, Such an unencumbered nature was both accessible to and continuous whh human babicatkxi. Tbe pursuit of chis project of induding an apparently undianged narure within che garden proved drcuitous, requiring tbe creación of yet an* ocher illusory ^>ace by an unprecedented alJiance of gardeners and painters, each group invoking the word latuluapt in its self-description.^ “AU land­

scape gardening,” said Ibpe, **is landscape painting. The result was an enraordinary situación in whidi, for instance, che gardens of an estáte such as Scourhead looked as if they had been puUed out of a paincing by Claude and given three-dimensional life. And as always in illusory space, the reverse was also possible: Conscablds edebrared Wifnftnhot Esstx looks very much like an actual park designed by C^nixljty Brown.” By the cime Con* stable pinced chis scene in iSió, landsc^ painier and landscape archhect had aequired practtcally the same sensibiliry: tbey were natural partners in che renaruring of nature.* Most important was an assiduous cultivación of the material landsc^e, catculaced to dissimulate itsdf tu eultivatvrt, Wben Brown redesigned che grounds of Bloiheim Rlaix, he dammed che river Glyme so as co form a broad lake standix^ before che palace arKl as íf it had been there from time immemorial. Ccxicealing che dam and removing exiscing formal gardens almost entirely, he planted trees around the wht^ estáte co creMe pasKM^ scenes thac seemed to have arisen unbidden feocn the land—or from a painong by Constable?'

‘‘Ac no other rime in history/ writes Norman Newton, “has there been sudi general interese in gardens arul in tbe total physical landscape.”* Fcv in eightcenth begin with.1 we need co recognize chat tbe gardens ín quesrion were closely linked wich dwellir^ arxi noc just in che prisrinely delimíced manner of the French for*

mal garden, where dwellü^ oceurred only as walking (and pausii^). In cem* crase with V^sailles or VuiX'le-Vicoma, the English garden was chou^t to concribute directly to dwcUing*as*resídíng. Wt see this link in che procotypi* cal garden (or “prk,* as it was often called) at Scowe, on which boch Wil* liam Kent and Capability Brown lefc their mark (^ure i$).* Notice that che house, without mediatíng porches, gives directly onto' the lawn. Noc only does the landsc^K go r^n up co che edge of che house; ic entírely surrounds, literally com*prehends, the house. W; are a kvig way from Bu^, with ics walled*ín gardens conspkuously disrinct from the chAteau proper. Rather than the gardens beú^ oriented in relackm to tbe house (or ' düttau, or palace) as the vital center or source of a built place, the residence is oriented outwardly coward ics environs, giving direccly onto tbfta as che en^hatíc focus of the scene. A landscape architecc such as Kent, Horace ^A^lpole said in a celebrated Mes, “le^)ed che fences, and saw thac all nature was a garden.** No( that

aü distínctíon between park and fieid had to be erased, buc anything resem* blii^ a bordcr¿M/ was blurred. As mi^t be expecced, Brown hid bcvderiines as much as possiUe, sometimes dit^ing crenches called “hafhaPs* that were invisible fiom a disnna? And a couplet of B>pe*s exprrssed the prevaíiing attítude: He gaíru all ends who pkasingly confounds, Surprises> vvk», and conceals the bounda.^’

Thua> around many of che grett catates of tbe period, a "beic** of crees served to mark ofT an cscatc’s outer licnits from surrounding countrysíde while, at the same rime, pravidii^ a view back upon che escatc. In no way to be amfüsed—even if earrographkaUy and legally idcnrkal—wich a propercy line, the beh ts a ftswwrfflry possessing boch densicy and poroàty.^

Both English and Frcnch gardeners were concerned with opening a pro* spective window ooco a more encompassing vicw of the natural world than was permined ac Bury, rmx:h less in a coofoed medieval garden. Boch kinds of gardener wished co avcdd the kind of scrict limit that a wall or ocher fixcd perimeter imposes. But if the ambición of che French was “to make che domain [of the estáte) so vasc that rw one in his senses could ever artempt co reach the term of it,** che Ensdish Er^lish were concerned wich with establishinc eatabhshing an ac*


Bwit Plotíf

Fig. tj Sftwe, is rnnodekd by Capabíliry Brawn.

tuaJ continuiry becuccn estaré and nature such that the two could be said to blend indístínguishably at their respective edges:

Like Lc Nótrc in France the century before, Kent saw no further need co cxdude a hostíle nature. (n his leap, though, he ran to embrace a congenial r>ew partner, not, as ín Le Nótre's case, to celebrare victory ” from which co look up or down a linear aUü during a formal promenade. Bricish gardeners, in contrast, were advocares of what was apposicely

Si» an4 Cuitiva»^


adkd the *wavy Une.” Kent even propounded the a»om that “Nature abhws a straight lioe.*^ Mexe than anyme ebe, though, CapebUity Brown put the axioiR into practíce by insistíng on che curviUnear shapes of natural obfects. He envútoned nature as a realm populated by anooth and rounded forms traced out by unduUcing Unes: “emuours of green rurf> mirrors of süll water, a fcw spedes of tree usod singly or in dumps or in loosety contríved betes— and that was all.”” ic was enough to a reversal in sensibility whose effects we stili experience, as when we say that we prefer “unadomed nature in privse lawns and puMk parks. The crudal issue is not merely that of wxvy versus straighc linea. Behind a commitment co cbe “wavy” or the “straighc” Lies a deeper conunitmem to the “nauraJ” or “ geocnetrk'* way of concàving of gardcna. Where sevoi' teenthe de­ signa and realized plans. Tbe apparent simplidry of these designs and ^ans, rclying as tbey do on easily perceptfole tomd contrasts between light and shade (and between various basic colors and textures), inscantiaos tbe generous and spontaneous tendency of nature to set itself forth in vague yet potene shapes.

IV I have been concentrtting cm gardens mainly because of their capaàty to cjthibit a rai^ of relations between the nuuraily given and the intendon* ally cultiv«ed. Gardens do so more íuliy and mem reveaiingly than do do­ mestic or inscinitkmal buildiw, which, with rare exceptions, tend to exclude or **••* ►* —*-*-* ♦**•* or ^nore ignore tbe natural natural world.^ world. But bcytmd this basic point, gardens offer three speóal kssons of their own. I. Gardens embody an unusually intímate conncctíon between mood and built place. Whereas in other kinds of construeted place, mood is often a supervenient phenomenon, in gardens mood is an mtrmae fèarure, something that bekmgs to our experience of them. Ws go to a garden expecting to feel a certain sec of emotions, and this expectación is noc merely a subiectíve marter but ís based on our percepción (and memory) of the structure and conafity of che place. This am^iana cf fiaa was ex[^ced in che "poetíc gar­ dens'* of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England, which were amstiruted from carcfully arranged comers and nooks of larger escate parks.

K* “solcmnity* was youT wish you turned the corner to where a stone urn stood against a background of gloomy yews, or paused by a tomb inscribed “Et in Arcadia Ego.*... If, on the other hand, the spitít of tbe rough northem Barbarían were uppermost, a Gochic ruin, ivy ciad, with an ovtí and, for preference, a hiil moon, produced che appropriate sensatíons. /«

The medieval garden ín ics closcd-in, world-apart character was suited for melanchoJy and reflecrive moods, while the formal French garden engendered exuberane and ^scately” emotíons. Apart fron its poetíc gardens, tbe British

Sao afoi CuUivatáy PU(o park induccd brisk and upbcat fringa aroused by active ambulación in tbe midst (tf flourishing arbórea! life. 3. Be)^^ thàr nxx)d-^»edfic aspccu, gardens inscruet us as to the ex* | /

panded building pocential of certain material elements. Thcxnas Whately in his Oisvmtfvw e» Moitm Ganiotiafi (ITTO) idencúcd at least four such elements: ground, wood, water, and rodes.^ Those who build gardens work with (and within) che inhetent media of the natural world, llie very ttrm /•wdmy arâtitteOm su^ests as much; taken literally, it means not just building OT nature but the buildii^ nature. In the Kctonks of land, *e build MT (and scxnecicnes iíawt arid ttf as well), sh^Mng and reshaping fix purpose» that may ukimately diverge ikxn che presumptive aims of the land itsdf. Such fiuhioning of the landscape extends to direct engagement wich diverse landfixms, ground covers, and such elemental fiactors as light and shade and color: "ecotones” ar chey have been called.*’

Capabiliry Brown, who abjured working in otfor for coloras sake, nevercheleas capitaüxed on the incerplay of natural íUuminatíon and diadcnv in his larxlscape compositxxw. In these compositkms, as ^^^Ipole said, **Eveigreens and wxxls were opposed to the glare of the dumpain, and where the view was less fortúnate, or so much exposed as to be behekJ at experience che ^‘felicimus space” of habitadonal bdng-in-placc.'’^ Within such space, we find ourselves somewhere and somewhen in a siruation that is not sin^y laid out in extensive space but lived out ín íntensive pbce. This pbcc is the pbce of dwelling. In being bodily in buik places, we enter' that cultivational pbce-wocld in which imagining and remembering, self and l

other, primary and secorKiary qualitics, insíde and outside, house and dty, ' garden and nature—and finaUy, building and dwelling themxlves—are no | longer excluatonary entiàes but have beonne corapoetible presences. The home may well be our fim universe, but it is fiu* ftom being our only mrid. W: travei to and inhabic other cormrr: on hoc summer days in Kansas I joumeycd co che fdidtous space of thc Jayhawfc arcade. Just as pbces are buik in innumerable ways—buik out and up, buik over and ow* buik, even buik down (as in the deconstructionirt arÃhecture of Oehry)—

so we relate co ÜKtn in múltiple manners. If we do scan from home and evencually return there (to my study, fix example), we also go out into a larger wcxld of interrelated (^aces; as Rilke has k, a world of **gcnerous spaces” (^evtínauiíH RAtau}. For the individual human being, the core this more encompassing world may remain che home"pbce, out from whkh so much eoergy aod so many memones and revenes proceed. But other pbces and groups of places draw us oiK of che intímate isobtion of the home. Whac do we «ncouiwr when we wali out of the house and inco the capaóous world of pbces thac are no km^ ^our spaces” (Murrwt Ws walk into a world that is as much characterixed by exrenority as Ae home is qualified by interiority. If we live in a dty, wc walk or drive on open sidewdks, streeo, highwa^ covered walkwxys, and other p(d>lic thor* ou^ibres. W: encouncer edifices that exhibir complkated combinacíons of internai and externai spaces, pose offices, dty halls, churches, librarles, schoerfs, shopping realls. These publk buildings are pocketed wich pbces de« signed to enhance **commerce” in the broadest sense of the word. Ihnsi* tíooal ^Mces of many kinds also abound in che aroundness of thc urban cnvironment: Street comers, *roundabout»,” even a park reminiscent of more expandve natural realms outside the dry limita. 1/ we are forrunate, wc come


Bífiit Plata

upon an invidng and welcocning place sudi as tbe Piazza San Marco in Venice or tbe Jinuny Jarvis garden in Hariem, wbere people pause and reflect ín fbe mklst of their freneck Uves. Moving about in a dty dnws us away from the interior depth a home ,and into the cncrior breadeh of a wider urban wortd. Ic is hardly surprising that we find bomelessness mainly located m 4ri0, whkh are in many respecta the antipodes of homes. Cities certainly contain homes, but in their capadry to demand and distraer they are continualiy luring us into rbe streets. They take US out of our homes and inco a more precarious and sometimes hostik ettra-domestic worid.’

If h is true thac gardens of all kinds entice tbe lived body out of its selfstuJciáed starkxuriness, cities also act co anímate this same body. They move it out rxx toward a dreumambient nature buc toward a more esconded social space chat finds its mosc ficting expresskms on scot^ oí apartmenes^ in meedi^iouses^ and in other urban places where groups of people gacher. In chese places of ccAgregarion, distinctive of eukivarion oceur^ ways of caring in common th¿ range ñom how peo(^ greet and calk with one

anocher to how they work arxJ disport and are afíectionue ct^cher. (And ways of fut caring: being aggressivc and índifferenc and cruel toward one anocher.) Ofm the most significant unic is che *block* or neighborbood or dbtrkc, thac is, a middle*range r^ion of ^uaintance and frierúlship situated somewhere in between tbe home artd the dty. Even the barest allusion to dty places indícales what a daunúng task it would be to give anything like a comprdKnsive account of buílt places. Their kinds, their history, their exact modes of siiuaccdness, their predsc forms of inhaUtaciofl, their particular styies of constructkm (arxl destrucción) are so manifbld as co defy complete, or even aiequace, dcscriprion. I shall noc even begin to arcempe such a rataigffitf núítfnnü. In this ch^xer my aim has been much more limited. I have craced out just two basic movements: a movement Satk—badt inco che prdiistory of buílt places—and a movement úuf: ouc into tbe natural wcvld toward whkh gardens gesture. I have not searched fbr formal structures of che sort ex* emplified by those opposirional dyads of bodily orientación or pairs of pt^>ositional postures on the agenda in preceding chapeers. Althoi^ I have rxxed in passing certain triada—c.g., “out-in-up" and *way-over-chere"—my primary cffort has been to pursuc more substantive and su^cstíve series of terms. The main such series has been house—garden-nature. A subsidiary series, to which I have bricfiy pointed ¡use above, is chai house-dty-regkm. If we consider that "house** appean in boch series, we may be kd to think of ic as some kind of anchor isrm. In fact, it ís cemptii^ to posit the house as

Buüátfig Sites and CMvístis^ Pintes


a prototypical fcuib place, and on this basis to condude that *tbe worid is a house.” Buc just as we have seen that theie are many worids of buik places, so we should not takc che house co be feundatkmal in any strict sense. le k noc the module or unit of gardens w dties or regions, much less of the natural worid, which has its own quice different modules. Wt may son from i che home, but we need noc begin wich che house. Other kiruls ÓS buih place t can be of Gcceeding impcrtance, if noc fbr residence proper then fbr many, ' forms of CKXiresidentiai cq>ericncc. The foct is that onc can b^in wich any one term in the cwo series ín question and move ñom there to any other t^Ri, proceeding forward or backward, and still find amex^ the various Rrms *a unity of mutual implkaricm.”*^* Implidt in the implicarion—enfolded in íc at every step-^is che lived body. If chis body ís more obvíously active in the firsc substanrive series (te., in the perambulations and synesthesias that gardens and houses and nature so often solidt), ic is no leas indispensable co the second. Indeed, the lived body cnlivens and omneces all five forms of implacement at stake in boch series oí ttrms: houses, gardens, ntfure, dties, ami rqpcxis. Ib chis body*s acdve ageney we o«c **the livcliness and evocanve power of placcment.”'^* Noc only does it lócate us in houses and gardens, hwnes and ctcíes, nature and r^km; ic also allows us to eq)erience each of chese ¡n ever*oew pos* síbtlíries of buUdiiig and dwellii^ If ic is true that *the house, che body, and (he dey are the piaos where wc ace born or r^orn and from which we step into a krger larger worid, ”’** the borne, tbe garden, and surrounding regions are líkewise vrorids of birrii and cebirth in human experience. All of tbese are discincáve pbce*worlds that offor ways into a continually oiriched impl^emenc. Evetywhere we curn when we build and dwell—ítmI we ahvays curo wich and upoi our lived bodies—we find ourselves tuming in the places we have elidted or encoun* (ered by our own actions and motions.


Wild Places Once in hb life a man ought to conccncme hb mind upon the luiieiiitcied eanh. He oughc to gíve hínudf up to a pamular landacape in hb «apaieiiue; to boá ai ff feom aa many anglei as he can, lo wonder upon ú, to dweU upon Íl

—N. ScoR Momaday, as dced by Barry Lopes in Xnsfe DncMU

Our relarton to the natural worid cakes place in a pUa.

7 The Arc of Desolation cmd the Array of Dcscription He ... to the border comes / Of Eden^ where delidous ftradise ... Crowns with her endeaure grecn ... ebe champain head / Of a sieep wüdemesa.

—John Míhon, Aamdür Lett

Nature ú stiU ebewhere. —Ralph WUdo EmeraoA, *‘NauR"

I cared^for garden lies insouciant wÜderness; beyond the open field » the daii forest; beyond the flac fioor of (he desert disunt moun* cains rise shimmenng ar the horizon; and beyond the hakyon harbor there ís (he savage sca. Thus we return to the wilderrKss with which we began. Even ií we often move by indircctKM), we always move into wilderness with our own lived bodies, whose directíonaJity and dimensionality serw to situare US in the near and far spheres that cncirde us. In partkubr, the body's ardike gestures adúmbrate in advance certain bask structures inherem in the environíng wild wodd—structures we ^all discern in this new part. These gestures, acting as amidpatory a priori of the body, fbrecast the very struc* tures they also manage to rejoín. Lyíng between the body as ‘^he narural subject of perception'* and the narural worUJ it perccives is a pac( already in place, a com^pact such that each emity shares in a ctMnrrKxi integumerttation. *


eiond THE

The compact itself is delirreated by various fbrms of are, some of which (such as tbe are of reachability) bebi^ mainly to the body, whiie others (such as the horizonaJ arc) inhere primariiy in the natural worid. In between, and belonging equally to both, are the articulatixy arrd tensional ares that inten* sdy the bodily experierKe of built and natural places. lin dris ^nenl movement ís br fiom unproblematic in character. One set of problems stems from a continuai dichotoreization to which my own examinarion has been subject. Ironícally, the very term I íntroduced at the



b^inning of tbe preceding chapter in order to councer chis dualizing crcnd— Le., smnr—has itself fallen prey to the same trend. 1 refer to che cmergence of contrasta between che buik and the unbuilt, ardiitecture and nature, buiküng and dwdling, and espedally the cultivated garden and che uncultí* vated natural world. In chis diapcer and the next we shall encounter certain ocher dyadic pairs, most nocahly culture-nature. word-image, representa^ cion-Gcperience, dvilizadon-wilderness. Yet we cannot by all che bbme ac the feet of such paired terms: unpaired or mulciply linked terms bríng wich them chdr own problems. Whac is most important is to interptct these terms in ways chac are descrípcively rkh and phüosophkally producóve. Anocher set of probfems is in fàct more grave; these bear kss on lan* guage or mechod than on matters g subscance. Is tbe natural world really somethii^ we Is this worid to be cocKcived as noching buc a border or perimete^ The very idea of edging tntt from buile piam inco the wild worid beyond presumes che primacy of a humanocencríc scarting point: the hearth, the home, the house, the dty. have just seen that these centers cannot bold; capadous as chey are, chey cannot contain tbe diversicks and vidssicudes of che place-world. Must we aiways begin then with an anchropocentrie AnU^> Or, if we have already so scarted, need we stay there! Are there rxx ocher places to go, as well as ocher pbces co start from! Just as we have quescioned che somacocencrism that lurfcs in approaching places from


(be body akxK, so now we must question the anthropocentríc (or more ex* acciy, tbe domocentrk) belkf chac the most significanc mockm is from buih places into the natural worid, as though this lacter were some seccmdary realm, a mere outposc of human experience to be entered bdacedly and on cencerhooks. One thii^ is certain: che very kc of putàng tbe nonhuman world at tbe periphery of whac b cultivated marginalizes Nature. But what if Nature (wbid) I shall hencelbrth capitalize when stressing ics sovcrcign stature as an unassimibbk Other} is the primary term, noc to be bdd in abeyarKe on the periphery of dvUizacion! Whac if the supposed margin is icself a center! In ocher wcvds, whac if Nature is che true a priori, chat which was chere fint, chac from whkh we come, chac whkh sustains us even as we cultívate and construce! heard che earth singing ber>eath the Street,** writes Wmddl Berry? Nature is not just «mmd us; or rather, there is m atwtnd

Nature, whkh is at all times umUr us, indeed m us. In chis r^ard, Nature can be considered che Bncompassing, noc jusc in Jupera’s sense of the aU*in* dusive (dar buc also in tbe literal sense of che word, "to be within che ctmipass of.*^ In this cnpens in tbe human realm. (Noc surprisu^y, Western European nations enlisced Harrison*s ctv* rece diraiomecric determinación kx^tude in cobniaüst and imperialisc enterprises during che eighceenth and ninetcenth cenruries.) It is áme co respect Narure in its own terms, to take our kad from ir racber tban from our own inwrought personal selvcs and ii^rown social structures. 1 have gestured intermitcencly in chis direction by rcfrrring to the importance of landmarks, che borizonal are, and chree-mrmed eco-variables. My discussion of “regkm” in chspur 4 opened up che conceptual space fix a oonsideration Nature as cbe most encompassing of regkms kncwn to us, a regkx) of r^ions. Furthermore, “cultivación” implies an uncultivated re* gkxi in which no procectíve sheher or pedelineated pathways may be prof* fered co us, where we may noc only become lose in ^ace and time but may lose any efíective oocurol of the situación. I conduded the preceding chapter by saying chat we cannot confine pbces to those “elideed or encountered by our own acckms and mocions.* Now ir is time to underline tbe word etwnmtorod. Given that rwmffttr is a lií^uistic cousin of ewsriy, our encounter with Nature ought co take account of the countryside, a landed regkm no longer regaeded as M the matgin oí our existence but a its very cerner.^ An outright geocencrism—or perhaps

becter, an engaged ecocencrism—is che most eflSeadous antidote to c^turies of un*self*ods, and Soil. so chann* ing> and fhiirfut; and all ocher Things so «^re(able> chac Ihiradíce it self sccm’d to be there, in Hs first Narive Lustre.

BeveHey published these words in 170$, when Virginia could sdU be chañe* terized as an **Cdenk land of primitive spkndor inhabited by noble sav* ages.”** But by itSi, J. Héctor $t. J then> thtt wilderness was r^arded by the Romantics as a natural Seat of the machematical sublime. Wilderness gives itself co us as something surpassing whac any decerminace set of sensuioru could convey—-and as de* fying exact measurement by the sbeer fvc of its constantly changing appear* anees. Of any given wild lartdscape we could say that ir possesses ^'a ^eatness comparable to itself alone," thus *transcending every staxulard of sense. Yielding to survey only with difficulty, wilderness regarded as sublime calis up tbe idea of infiniry, i.e., that which exceeds the efíbrts of human under* standing to grasp it intuitivcly as a single objecr wich definiré limits.^

Construed as st^lime wilderness outstrips us still further. Now its sublimicy consises in ics “might" before which we perceive ourselves to be powerkss and thus “fcarful” ififnhtbar).^ Ahbough Kanc bolds that we may set asíde such fcarfulness by realizing our own ultímate independence of nature as noumenal or spiritual beings, his own examples of the dynamically sublime (e.g., “boid, overhanging, and, as it were, threat­ ening rocfcs, thunderclouds piled up [in] the vault of heaven ... volcanoes in aJl cheir víolence oí destrucción") point instead to che judgment chat “the inesistibilicy of che might of nature forcea upon ua che teo^nition of our physícal helplessness as beings of nature" who are subject to constanc “hu* míliation" at che htnds of an overpoweríng natural workJ.** Wilderness ía

here unleasbed in its dynamicaJ witdness, not only too great to measure buc also too forcefol co concain. Kant does not speak expressly of “displacement" in hia discussion of the sublime in the CríRpur tf But che realización of human inadequacy in representing sublimíty in its machematical aspea nevertheless e^ccs a psy* chical di^lacemenc, a donotion downward in our aelf*eateem as cognizing creatuces. Ftx* we have to admit chat however considerable our e^^res may be, we cannoc measure up co che machematical sublime. Similarly, the fear* fulness and humüiacion occasitmed by the dynamically sublime displace us from che presumpcuoumess of believing that we can control nature and are &ee from its descniccive power. Wben conhontíng “che high waterfall of some mighty river,"*^ we cannoc hclp but feel displaced in the midst of Na* cure, unable to accomplish ambitious aims of unHderstanding or of dennina* tion. Indeed, “our power of rewtance," as Kant avers, is “of triflir^ mcxnent in comparison with JNature's] might. "** Before Nature in iu douWc sublimity and far frcm any secure borne-place, we find ourselves dispossessed of any commensurate natural powers of our own. The result is a State of mind pn:^ erly designated as “desolaied." Kanc twice mentions “desdacion" (Verwiatut^} in bis discussiem of the sublime. The first mención oceurs in tbe pbrase “hurricanes leaving desda*

Thf Arc

Do^Utvtn «tX cbe Amy of Dacriffwn


tion in their tracL*** Here desdacion connotes physicai devastación, layii^ Waste, makíng che knd barren by depc^laring it. The second passage is stiU moce percinenr

But in what we are wonc to cail si^lime in nature there is such an absence oí anything leaüng co particular objective prindplcs and oxresponding fbrms of nature, chat it is r«hcr in its duos, or in its wUdest and most irr^uiar disorder and desdation, provided ic gives signs of magnkude and power (AÍMfrr), chac nature chiefly excites the ideas of che sublime.*^ Here desolación means something ocher chan material destrucción. It con* notes Nature in ics “discHder” and also signifies Nature as ín* dofnitabk, wild beyond measure. Thus, when we bce nature in its doubk sublimity, wc are noc only displaced before it—disíodged, and accordingly dismayed at being unabk to function wkh our usual cognitive and practica! efficiaicy^but also desolated by the prospect of such a dc^y disordered scene. Ws are desoUted at being so fearfully donúnaied by a brute Nature unoMUroUed (perhaps even untouched) by àdor or a Nature, rather, co be grasped as cctuaiki and dM.

It is not the void but wildemess thac here presents itself as duos, chac is, a disorderly realm fiercely resístanc co whac Kant calis **ídeas involving Without che systematie order bestowed by such ideas, Na* higher fiiuiiry. cure is *beyoftd our rcach,"*^ and we as ks human wicncsses, displaced in relation co it, cannot be anythii^ but desolated. (And sometimes, of course, enHbnttaf, as tbe Romanties presumed we A&ttU be. But this prcsumpckx) is itsdf presumpcuous, being contingent on the attainment of ideal condi* tions much mem difScuk co realize than the Romantic poets and Natvr* pbtíMõphtn were wíliíng co admit.) Landsc^>e r^arded as an obfcct of aeschetic pleasure, of a distincciy dis* incerested inreresc—of **bcaury* in Kant's strkt sense of that whkh inhetes in ^he fort» of the ol^t”**—is thercby challenged by landscape regarded as sublime. In ics sifolimiry, a landscape possesses an inherent penver of ics own chat can no longer be contained within coherent eidetic form. Ic has become wildemess. Otherwise put, laruitaipe heu hecúHu viUsca^. Of wildscape we can say, as Kant says of Nature in ks dynamkal sublimicy, char it is ‘'an obyect even drwd As formkss, a wildscape is displadng and desolating in ks very beii^ and rKX just in ks presentación and cffects uprm us as its per*

ceivers. The ‘‘limiclessrKss*'” of a wildscape exceeds our immediate—ín foct, even our ultimate—powers of comfwehension, which cannot pass ‘‘beyond the narrow confines of sensibilky.'’^^ The most grandíosc prospeccs of Na*



cure, it» wüde$t reache», throw u» back upon the limited reeources human cognidon.


VII The AsCTonomen, The Phümophen, The Crowd, of them, Thir^ These daigenxu feekn, far understanding, now ths I am done so much I cao manage to hesr anocher tbu^ sànging threa^ oiy face describíAg the arc and the constam return... way out no«^ desoibing ta own voice ás reasoA —Imanu Amih Baraka, "Evíl Nigger WaíB far Lighmin* ** In the Iwdtcape I am aomewhcR.

—Erwin ScnuK Tht

tf 3nua

But orr wüd place» “ócvoid of fbnn*? So it nuiy appear, espedally when we first enter their tnidst and find a realm that ia, if noc chaock outright, ac lca»t axiñisÍRg in its inaugural appearance. My first apprehen»on of Camp WMd and its environii^ hills found something so formless chat I oould pn> onto it all of my homesíck annety. The same amorphousness durará^ ized tbe wildscape oS Tibet as I peredved it during my stay there. Hills, mountains, and valley» were juxtaposcd in no recc^izaÚe partem: where I expected vegetación, ic was where 1 did noc expect animais, they wm. The effect was not jusc dísconcerting but deeply disrurbing. Appearance» can be dccepóve, and nowbere more so chan in the midst of wilderness. Had 1 not been so bcxnesick at Camp Wxxi or had I lingered longer in Tibet, I most lih^y would have decected an inherent design in the confusing appearances. This design would have been found boch at the mieroscale— c-g-, chat of grass, mo», cock formaeíoa, etc.—and at the much la^er scale of whole mouncain rar^es, hili diapes, valley forms, etc. Since U 1» a matter of the natural world, wc can be assured that tK) macter how wild it is, an immanent order (w, mexe likely, sevcral orders) will be present, and if this is noc evident co us then it will be transparent to a kmgtime residene or a naturalist scanding in our place.

Tht An tf Daciatiw atui thc Amçf rf Dcscriptwn


But ofdcr also arises at anocher kvel, more pcrrincnt for the descriptive analysis 1 am undertaktng in this book. I rcfcr to the order inherent in cct* tain kading tnits that eharacteríze wild places. I have already identified sev­ eral such tnuts, e.g., banenness, isolackMt^ impenctrability, and vastness. But grasped as they were on the ms of displacement and dcsolauon, tbese features cannot be hekJ to diaracterize every wild place. Now it is time co consider several traits that appfy to all wild placa. Before we can undertake this emotíonally and descríptively more positive path, we need to make a basic distinction becween wilderness and landscape. Wilderness is noc just the detocalized totality o< wild (Maces; ic is the undespoÜed natural realm, Narure in ics abmgiiial independence. Wilderness is

tbe natural world nsT cts vicv^ aiKl espedally not ere is che sensuous surfoce of wild places. In chis surfoce, or becter m ic, are proffered a number of ‘‘seaxidary quaiicies.*' These indude noc only diape and size but also again color, con* strued now as adhcric^ to the surfecc of thir^, as an idencifying charac* ceriscic, racher chan as something simply evanescent. Whatever qualifies chis surf^ can abo qualily the surfecc of the ground as well. In thi$ way we reach a levei of sheer immediacy in whkh we attend to che sensiKxis surfoce àí oton regarding it with a seemingly disinterested incerest. This sur* fece serves as the interface between tbe two pairs of foatures cluscered ac the left and right ends of the diagram. Actir^ as a bdíreaionally porous mem* brane, it brices chese four fearures together. Without such a comcnonly con* tiguous surfàce, wild pbces might fali inco di^enion, as happens when we penxive these places in certain halludnaccMy modes or represent them in the manner of Soutine or Ek Koonii^ (both of whom make the sensuous surfece independent of tbe very things h would ocherwúe connect). The diagram abo shows the sifojacent presence of che body and che su* perordinate presence—tbe ‘‘surprescnce”—of the surrounding array. From here Mup, my lived body ccmducts ksdf in che midst of the middie realm oí things on the ground, above whkh arc and aimosphere are sicuated. My body b an insisteut interlupei in wild places. It tiansfornis cIk kakidoscopic presentations of the surrounding array into a read^)le text of qualities üid

forms. From ahove and «nwad my body chb array disposes icself in ever vary* ing partems chac nevertheless help to compose cbe scene as one idenofiable whole. Accing in concert, body and surrounding array eflèct a double enclosure, creating a (more or kss) coherent connection throughout.

IVtU Piaca


The schenu intímates that the basic feacures of a given wild place exist in a sote of at least provisional equipoise among themselves. Such equipoise may be the source for the solace and serenity that wilderness can bring ín its tnin. This profeund padficatioA, involving the inregratkxi of otherwise disparate elementa, could not come either from the beautíful alone (ic is coo decorous co oonstituce the appropriate depch) or the sublime alone (for this, in and by itsdf, can be quite disturbing). Ib realize che sonority of wilderness, a broader base is reqoired, one in which ground and things, arc and atmosphere, are interinvolved wkh the mezzo*aoprano of the surrounding array and the basso profundo of bodily being. The same schcmatism of the wild implies that the lack or dissolution of such equipoise amounts to a structural displacement whose disorder may deeply disconcert us and oceasion actual displacements in the life*world. Los* ing the ground under their feet, the Navajo lost the equilibrium of cheir landed life. The dúequilibrium of a disrupted experience in whkh ground and things are lacl^ing, w arc and atmosphere temóte, or tbe surrounding array awry, disturbs bodily existence in wild places and consigns ks vkcims to a condición of desc^atfon. Desolating indeed is the effect of wilderness when its ñsh features have becoene errant causes, and no Ice^er lecommodaúí^ signa, of immersion in its midst. The aix moments, or **leading traks* (as we can also cali them), are thus nor randomly selecced. They have a pattern of their own. Moreover, they belong to their own r^ions. Thus ground and sensuous surfoce form prt of che narrà, that ta, land and bndscape, sea and seascape. Arc and armo* sphere pertain to the overarching región of the ¡ky. Material things are feund in becween the archaic (and still extant) r^ions of earth and sky. They pin down and popúlate this middle zone of existence and experience. The sur­ rounding array does just che c^posite; diffused throughouc all of tbe regions and interregions, it acts to connect what material things serve to separare. should noc be surprised chac the six leading traits under descripción here coalesce around an earth-sky axis. Many of che worid’s peoples, among chem the Navajo, have long recognízed tbe cosmok^ical imponance of this Axií teme’. The Navajo worid or universe consists of a shallow, flat disk in the form of a dish, topped by a simibr form whidi covers ic like a lid. Tbe knver part ís rhe Earth. while che upper part (the lid. so to speak) is the Sky. Neídwr of chese forms on be conceived of as genuinely round, dishlike forms, since boch are represenced as human or anchropomorphic fonns, lying down in an arching stretched manner, one on top of dK other. The lower one is Mother Earth, nahasdzáin shimí, lying from easc to west, while che upper one is Facher Heaven, yá* shitaa', lying in the same dirección, on top of and above the Earth**

Tht Art (f DcsíJiañ^ Ofui tbf Array tf Dacriptüm


But we need not hive recour$e to cosmok^y to redize how powerfully scruc* turíng the eanh-dcy dimensión can be. W: need cnüy step outside and kxÀ around. What do we see? At the very least, we see some aspect of tbe earth and catcb scxne ghmpse of the sky. However coveted over—and, in particu* lar, built over—the earth*s surÊKc may be, and however much the sky is ocduded from view, we cannot help but sense their vertkaily arrai^ed, al' most columnar co-presence. Nor can we avoid notking the things on the ground around us and underfbot that, ín their comparative solidity, distín* guish themselves ñean the ethereal entities of the atmospheric upper world. Nowhere do we find a complete lack of things, thu is, anything like a strict void. Bperywberc títtrt is even tbough the somechír^ itself can belong to any of several elemental regions.^ When we ventvre still fanher oucside rhe sanctuary of our domíale, moving into an increasingly undisturbed natural realm, the siruatkm jusc de* scribed becomes ever mote compeliu^. For then the earth and sky seem co seq) forward of their own aceord. They b^n co set the terms, such thac we act and experience throu^ them and even at their behest. In Heid^ger*s words, they “take the measure.”*’ £arth reveáis itself as an abiding yet evet' ptoliferating ground wirh a densely ceztured surfàce, sky shows itself to be a constantly changing yet inherentiy orderly atmosphere, things mani&st themselves as coagulations of marter, an array of teemir^ bnd^ms and life* forms and airforms surrounds us on all sides, and an arc endoses ground and things from tbe beyond of the sky. The wild places that come forward in this way not only lend themselves to descnpoon, they sotiàt it. 1 shall cake up this solicitarkm in the remaínder of thU chapeer, discussing the several moment«craits 1 have just distinguished.

VIII The pbce ís offered lo ioelf. —Gary Snydcr, Thf Praaiet tf tíit One of the mon salient yet rarely discussed features of being in wild places is the way in which we are constantly surrounded by natural lifè and inorganic marter, sometimes to a írightcning degree (when we feel invaded) but also sometimes quite rcassuringly (when we f«l sustained). This fèarure, the sitvay, has a solid búsis in ordirury percepción. In The Etth

kíffiaii Afftvach a Visttal Peneptwt^ J. J. Gibson sets fonh tbe view that optical and other sensory cues surround us at all times and ate apperceived mas»vely and spontaneously by the central body trunk and especíally by the pivotirtg head.* On tbe Gibsonian model, we are always in the midst of a

field of perccpcual “affordances” that embody and transmit información con* ceming the immediate physkal environment. As perceivers, we continually

2CS pick up thU infornwion ínxn the ^ambient array** (ccxKcntratcd mainly but not exdusively in tbe available light) to which our active bodies give us ac* cess. Thus, for cxampk, we gain infbnnation about depth by artending to various felt and seco “gradíents* immanent in the spre^-out, receding field of sensory awareness. Many otbet aspeccs of the sensory world are also pre* sent and dircctiy grasped in tbe ambient array. Takic^ a cue hxvn C^mi's pioneeríng work, let us say that wilderness presents itsdf to us as tht àTatmãmhieneí tf tht K conspicuous

instince is a mountain Chain that heightens and rings a kw-lying valley or a large inland lake that extends our petcepcions outward indcfinircly. Even in less conspicuous cases, however, a circumambient world surrounds the im* mediare array of perceptions, e.g., in the midst of the gently rolling hills Sonoma County, CaJi^nia, or in the hilMess buc stili rollÍE^ prairie of west*

ern Nebradca. In each case, the perceived land surrounds in two bask ways. On one hand, it moreZ» a particular place (e.g., a field or a pond), hdpíng co delimit it as just that place and no other, while also, as a corollary, fácil* itacing the pictorial representation of chis same place (the painterly represen* tarion in eflèct enframes the initially afforded endrdemenc).^ On the other hand, the land fiUs ow that place; by no means an empey &ame, the land provides detail, indeed unending detail, by which our perceptions are (in Husserfs word) “fulfilled.” Think only of how an entire valley of wild ñowers acts to All ín what might, at Arst glance, be gnsped only in terms of a few contours and cokM^. The twofold Operación oí endrcling and fílling*out is enacred by the sky as well as by the land. The sky encirdes the earth ñom above, endowing the larrer with ilhnni nación arhd shadnw» rhar 611 out its senstKXis surfiee. When earth and sky boch enact this double operación, rhe result is an intensífied and deepencd circumambience. The initially affbrdcd sensory array, the first circumambience (thst of the near sphere), is set within a second array, thac provided by earthscape and skyseape as these are set in turn within the fiir sphere. The inserción of the inicial array within a stili more comprehensive array is no merely mechankal matter. The nesting of one array in another is gradual and súbele, proceeding as mudi by sensory quality as by perceived quancity. Nevertheless, the surrounding amy remains distinguidi¿le from what is immediately present in the near sphere. VVt realize this every time we gaze at a photograph of a scene wc have once perceived. Rarely does the [riiotograf^ retain the complex interplay ot initial and surrounding arraya. Instead, it tends to give us eme or the other in a representación chat artifid* ally separates two arraya continuous with each ocher in (Migoir^ sensory cx* perience. Sensed together, these two arraya furnish an an nf abandanct for a given wilderness scene in ^diich we find ourselves. By means of this doubly arrayed

The An of Desoiation and the Amf



are, rhe wild scene surrounds particuiar whüe suppiying an inde* finitely fine*grained backdrop. That bacfcdrop censists of a sensuous sea of open^ended qualities and structures that serve co deepen what, ín che inicial sensory afTbrdances, is ñactened out by its sheer proximity co che sensing body* A given wüd place thus serves co dnt» eia dopth^ thac is, co cake it toward, up to, and sometimes seemingly beyond, the horizon, «diich is a bourtdary for depch icself, dosing the drde of that place's own encirding structure. Ib suspend che continua] enórdement and [denary presence of tbe sur* rounding array is to suspend our moet intimatc connecckxi with the wild worid; ic is to undermine what Santayana called “inimaJ faith” in chis wcxld. No wonder thac, caught up in sudi a drcumstance (e.g., in a steep canyon Chat offers no visca and no egress), we feel cuc off as we encounter a scene

deprived of extended sensory presence arrayed around us. A livii^ wildscape has become a momoicary scillsc^. When before we may have sensed too tittteh to inventory, or to represent pictorially in any adequatc way (even the f^KMograph fails us), now we grasp Siv tòrir to satisfy our insttiable souls, thriving as we do on the nurture provided by che open-ended raiinenc c( che environing earth.

IX For my own pan I am pleaaed enough with íuHace—in bet they akwK sean to me to be of much importance. Sudi thing» for otampk a»... the biri of a me, the abrasión of gnniie and aand, the plunge of dear water into a pool, the foce of (he wind—whai ebe i» thóe^ What dw do we need^ —Edward Abbey, Deton StüBún

The sensuous nerfooe is an aspect of che surrounding array that stands out in our first encouncer with a particubr wild pbce. The surbee is che moment of impingement, wha my sensing body first nocices.** Tbe “local character* of a wild place is conveyed co us by che sensuous qualities of the surfáces h rurns toward us. The sensuous qualities themselves are of many sores—as many as our own sensory syseems, working singly or cc^cher, can a(^>re* hend. They inelude cbssically determined primary and secondary qualittea, such as motion, sh^, and color, as well as such less funUiar variables as density, himmosicy, and espedally texture. Neglected by almost all philosof^rs and psychologiscs of perception (again with the nocible excepción of Gibson),* cexture is decisive impor* tance in che decerminarkm cd the surfices of wild |^ace$. *Bxnire is a crucial compCHKnt of depch perception, for instance. The finer tbe granulación of che sensed surbee, the forther away we perceive the surfice (O be ñom us.



But tcxturc abo cmbodies the peculiar cangibílity, or “fed,” of wilderneae. This last point for cmphasís. What is at stake in the cexTuraiity of a wild placds sensuous surface is above all its inherent which is a moat eñective basis for conúng to know that placeas distinctive cooúguration, its physk^nomy. If we are about to walk into this place, we need to know whac sort of terrain our body will experience, how its surface is organized, and how h would feel to traverse it. At this preliminary moment, we learn a greac deal merely from guing at the surâce ccxture arrayed before us, or from lightly touchii^ or stroking it, or ftom simply st^>ping on ic. Palpacioo aod visión and kinescbaia often combine synestheticdly, to be joined, perhaps, by audición and olfKtion: «c sense sounds as emanating from certain sur* foce», and odors as dinging to them. Only by means of sxufKe tcxturc can the fuU sensuousness a wildscape, its alnindant changing-environing 4^ pearing, come into our ken. Gven what has just been said, ic is cempeie^ to assimibte the sensuous surfoce to fiah. Flesh, too, is primarily tactiU, and it presenta the aurfoce of our body in a snug, yet entirely revealing manner. But unlike epidermal skin, Aesh goes deeper into thc corporeal sdf. More than ^skin deep,* it mediatts between the intMr sdf ard the surrounding world. Netther msRtr nor mind, flesh is more like a oommon **element,” a **general thing* thac exists *msdway between the spaàotemporsd individual and the idea. Flesh is not only taj Aesh. It also belongs to my dreumambient setting experienced as a "landscape world* (in the phrase (Â Erwin Straus).* When this world is wüd in chat'

acTcr, ic has its own fleshlike character. Ics Aesh intercwines with my Aesh, and each is continuous with tbe ocher.^

The sensuous snrfice of wild pbces can be conscrued as an exemplary instance of the Aesh of che world. This surfoce is bound co wilderness not as a loosdy fittii^ oucer garment but as a one with its basic conâguracions. As Aedüike, it sinks bdow tbe seen surface as such, and for chis reason visión must be supplemented by other senses for che surbee to be fully experienced. More than a merely visibk pellide, it is tht motf fluw^r rríUfmoí prO’ ents iatíf to tu io h tfrmr. As Gibson ^thily remarks, "The surface is where mosc of tbe actkn is.*" Moreover, as che filt surface of land (or sea),

d. Ground, chen, is chac aspect of earth that seeps into the sensuous surfece of wild places whik also extendíng chac surfece downward. It is chus che earth-ba^ of the irodcfs body, its very fiesh. Ground presents icself (and can only present icself) chrough surfece; even when we dig into che ground.



we still coníronc nothing but new surfKcs of eanh. Whereas che sensuous surfoce is the earth as cumed outward—henee as *telling’* in its display, ics visibilicy—grourKi is che «ame earth curned ínward, ke^ ouc of sight, the


unseen inseam of che land. Far ñom being a merely concingent fiearure of the earth, the ground is indiq>ens^le in its invisíbilizic^ rede: **The earth, as Kilke says, “has no ocher refuge excepc to become invisible.’*^

XI *71)6 Sú GnndAshers have placed ía thú world many thii^a; aU of whidi should be happy. Every IÍRk thinf a «ent íbr sorrtetbír^ and in chac thing there shculd be happíness and rhe power to nuke happy.

—Black Elk. BUdt Sik It might be choo^t odd co indude amcmg leadíng ícarures of wilderness. Buc it is odd cmly because it is so obvious: is noc sotkaWí^ always presenté **Oux first truth—which prcjudges noching and cannoc be axmted—wül be chat there is presence, that ‘someching^ is chere.”*^ Thtt axiomstic starement Merleau*Foncy*s is difficuk to deny. Ic fits whh the £act cha the notion of a strict vc^ even when poshed as cosmogonically necessary, withers away upon analysis. Place ís found just where no^pbce was supposed to be, and tf there are places from the start, chere are also (some) thac occupy chese ur^^aces. The idea of no-chü^ at the origin is un* sustainable. On the contrary, nochir^ is not ac che or^n. At t/ft arr M fiUítt. The things in quescion can be as large as oceans or as di­ minutive as planktra. Just as pl^es are everywhoe in che beginning, so things are also chere, all over the pt^. This contínues to be true in the human experíence of wüdeme»; here, too, we come aooss noching but thir^s-in-places. Other anünab doubtless have much the same experience. Indeed, íbr all animais (and presumably also plants), che wild worid is as ching* rich as it is place-replete. Thii^ configure a given wildscape in many diffcrent partems. Scxnetimes they crowd ic with chàr muhicudinous presence. Sometimes chey give che appearance of a dearth of chings themselves. Upon scrutiny, however, even the most barren wasnland displays a considerable variety of thii^. The Gteat Plains are carpcced wich a remarkable range of nacve grasses and weeds and ocher scrubby v^caòon. lhe valleys and hilisides SwiczerUnd fisacure myriad rocks and stones, anything from boulders to pebbles. Even che íkxx of Deach Vdley is fissured inco thingUke ‘Aplates” of dried mud, and n fca* cures discinctive wild fkxwen. Although there may be £tr finver things in a given wildscape than we might wish when we hunger after plenitude, no*

Tht An ff DewiiOi^ ntul tht Artvy of Dmiftion


where is tbere noching to be found. Thii^ are all ananá w. But what ís a tbii^l A thing is vbttnvr 0 ^nfiloá on be tonatoiu fnrfiuo tín^mná. In cmler to accommodatc birds and clouds (whose profik appears on the sky), let us say more generally chac a thing is something wàh a áiftinetivo eontottr^ But a thing ís more chan its own precie; it is also densely mttcríal, a ocmdenstfion of marter, thus scmchíng litertUy palpable. As dense and material, things need a ground. The ground subcends noc only my body as moving on (and sensing) io surfoce but also the very chinp ths oberude on this surfoo, providing ftw tbem a ^primitive bonK*pUcc. Ihings need cbe grounding of the earth (or water) as the ^roor-basis* without which chey would be merely detachable obyecta.*^ A sign riiis roocedness is found Ín tbe fâcc

that things are “gnvid,” pregnant wich their own vright. Things noc only fit onco the ground but are puUed down into it at all ümes, settling back there as if by a primitive rite of natural re*inhabícation. Things, then, are physical oitíties that stand ouc in the natural domain. Tliey are objects m and chis domain, material moments of it. Racher than detadiable parts, chey arc aspects intrinsic to the very strueture cf Narure. ^Things,” said Merieau-Rxity, *are scruetures, frameworks, the stars of our Their gravity is manüwd by char ability to punctuate the natural worid, much as mn paint a poinciUism of riw darfc sky. lhe pr^Ung, ocnlenaing, and punctuaring powrrs of things are reaiixed nowbere ebe but in pbce. Boulders ect of acmosphere: “Just as our soul, being air, holds us together, so do breach and air cncompass the whok world. nJOI Anaxímines is here building on che

The An of Dtsolation and the Arrt^ ef Descriftion


Imguiscic fact that che Greek word for soul, psyehd is azignace with /vyri&rm, to breathe. Snath {^netoM) and «ir («wr) are In curn ccmnecced by the Cict that for che Greeks eer signifies che lower atmosphere, che immediate envelope of lifo earth and thus the source of breath for all land animalsJ*’

Anaximines, who held that everything is ultimately axnposed of alr (vía processes of omdensation and rarefacción), is by no means alone in anribuc* ing spedal powers co the atmosphere. The Navajo also consider air co be sacred in ics signiñcance?^ Whs is most important, however, is to notíce chat the aeriform atmosphere is noc as charactericss as we might think in beií^ aware oí Its apparenc Invlslbüicy. As Theophrastus wroce In reforence co Anaximines's nocíon


[For Anaxlminesl the underlying substance was one and infinite. He did noc, however, say h was indeterminate, libe Anaxlmander [i.e., as in the larter^s concepción of the Boundless, te «pánmj, but determínate. For he said It was Air.^* Paradoxically, air is determínate in srs very chat^eahiiáy. Anaxlmines, the first philosopher of alr, observes chac air Is noc ar all times, or even uniformly, invisible: '‘Where h is mosc even, ic is Invisible to our sight; buc a)ld and hcac, moisture and mocion, make it visible.”** In ocher words, armos^Mterk effeets change cheir very appearance as chey impinge on our senses, with tbe result thtt a given landscape will present Itself to us as quite different In ics aeríat character fnxn seascei co season, day co day, even minute to minute. Think only of how one and the same spot on a bcach can aher aspect dras* ticaJIy as an early morning mantle of mist gives way co che dazzJii^ Ixight* ness of high noon, ceding place In turn to che velvetine languor of twilight and finally to somber darkness. At each scage, che atmosphere is part and parcel of the cyde of changes that deliver tbe spot to us in its manifeld guises. Closely linked with change Is metwn. Air, said Anaximines, ‘‘is always In moóon; for, if it were noc, it would noc change so much as Ic does.”** The moócns in quesclon are those of air currents arxl air masses. If we do noc tee these mocions directly, we smell them or foel their immediace impact quite cangiNy on tbe surface of our bodies, or we read them off in the sensuous surfoces of the surrounding array: che way the douds move, or how che bfceze is blowing thxough the trees. In the latter cases, moáon Is reflected in change of ^lape, e.g., in the aherlng configuración of a single cloud or in che flurtering partern of leaves on a single limb. Afuximines was on tbe verge of discoverlng that the atmosphere is the major component of wh« would coday be called tbe **bios(^rc.” The biosphere is the larger whde of which lile on tbe surte of the earth and deep in ics oceans forms an integral part. Noc only breath but many ocher organic


WiU fíaos

(and inorganic) processes are ituerinvolved in the biosphere. James Lovelock, che propounder of che Gaia hypothesis, has this to say about che biosphere: The entire range of living marter on Eanh, fxom whaks to víruscs and from oaks (o algae, could be regarded as consikutíng a single living entity, capable of manipubting the Eerth*s aonosphere to suit its overall rteeds and endowed with facultics and powers fer beyond those of iu constituent parts.’’’ af^Mchend che biosphere the atmoepdKre. Not only is *^he aemosphere in which we live and chink ... a dynamic extensión of the planecary surfece, a foncrieming o^an of the Earth”—here che intimare link between atmosphere and ground is asserted—buc, in addition, the atmosphere is itsdf part of a vast alive enticy and essencial to ic: “myriad forms of biocic expe* rience, human and non*human, may collectively conscicute a cc^Ktent gloM experience, or life, chat is noc without ics own creativicy and sentience.””*

“Experience” and “sentience" name features of the atmosphere in which we live and brcathe and have our being. Atmosphere, chat seemingly mosc elusive and vaporous of wildemess fea­ tures, shows icself to be highly struetured. Concerminous with che earth's biosphere, h is changedile and motile, shapefui and emotionally toned—and alive. In particular, ic is immanenc to che experience of wild pbces as chdr cMnmon and altc^ther pervasive médium. Atmosphere is che mediatrix of che wild worid. lc is noc just a chird term but a conscant (albeit a conscancly changing cemstant) found chrot^hout this world in ics many and varied av> atars. Boch in che b^nnir^ and ac every subsequene point, ic permeates che surrounding array, bringing cogether che arc and the grourul, che things and che sensuous surfeces chac characterize the wildemess scenes into whidi we venture or suddenly fell.

XIV Place and d)c scale of apaa muir be measured agaime our bodies and tbdr apabilina. —Gary Snyder, Tfe Pnaia

tbt WiU

Ánd the pbíx cif body in all chis? It is present throughout. Each the aix main craits of wild places brings with it its own chancccnstk bodily Íngression and acrion. This is most evidenc in che case of arc and ground, both of which cali for a quite manifest corporeal âmtributkm: a receptive sprcading*out and taking*in in one case, a detcrmined being-scarkxKd or striding-forth in che other. Buc we could not experience the ground's own sensuous surfece «x the surroundii^ etny» either, without che agency of our

Tht Are (f Dacíafwi aeui tbe Âmj



moving^perceívir^ bodies, whose considerable synesthetic powers put us in touch with chis surfàce and array. Nor could we enter fully into the domain of things and atmosphete, those epicenters of wildscape, witbout the ínter* vcnckx) of our bodiiy being, whether by way of dealing with particular ma* tenal objccts or by breathing tbe drcumambient air. In each inscance, the effects of the living body are indispensable, even if they often go unrecognUed in offidaJ cpistcmologics of space. ¥èt any sailtx x sea knows of these effects at first hand. If he is artending co the immediate tasks of sailíng, he will not percdve or think that he ís sailii^ ‘hiphiil,* but if he cums away from the near sphere of his actual nau*

ckal praxis to look into the distance he will see the surrounding occan as bon*d*$hapcd—as ao aqueous arc—and will sense himself sailii^ into ics rim. In view of thtt uphili stru^k, we should not be surprised to leam of the extent co whkh Puluwac navigacors, who must direct themselves over an immense open sea, often prefer co arccnd to their concrete bodily scnsa* dons racher ciún ro what is perceptible on chc horizon. Noc only in sailing

but in countless other cngagements with wild piaos, the eff^ts of bodily bearing and praccice upcm che percepción and use of bask wilderness feacures is « once powerful and súbele. But rhe reverse also obeains, in chac wild pl^es pstf tbr body into oction. Whereas many built places serve to bring the body to rest—indeed, to bríng it to a virtual stasis in the case of living rooms and bachrocxns and bed* rooms—a wíld p^ace calis for alen apprebension, adroit cxploration, and re* sourceñil action. ^‘Acción’* here ineludes observación, e^>ecially in chc form of a literal drcumspecncvi, a *seáng*around,” that takes account of che mui* ofárious qualiries and shapes of chc surrounding array. Ic also means outright climbú^ walkii^, and sometimes ^>rintii^ (gettir^ away from chac ratcle* snake jusc ahead on chc rrail). Some wild arcas cali circumambuladon. Inscead of wtlking seníght towtrd a destinación, we must oñen valk aronnd it (an acción ricualized in tbe approad) to a holy mountain such as Mount Kailash in western Tibet). Ac times, we cannoc even find a way co get around a natural object but must backtrack and take elabórate byways that lead us into a number of peripberal places. Insolar as bodily movement chrough a wildscape takes us into these by*placea, the menemene can be considered a literally a **by*work.” Sixh was che movemenc of Odysseus on his drcuitous and deferred rerum to hhaca. Be)^>nd cbe indírection of tbe body’s movement—and tbe resulcing pro* lifcration of pl^es*on*the*way and out-of*the*way—dwnmMtiM is anocher quite pervasive effccc of wíld places on tbe human body. have seen thac built places serve to direcc, suppm, and sustain the dyadk reltfions of up— down, fconc-back, and righc-lefc, orienting us ever more securely ín these dimensional terms. Domídles build on—and ouc from—che alre^y exisring



bodily dircctkxtaliry such terms spedfy, henee the uncanny resemblance be* tween many buildings and the human body itself. But when we come to Und and sea in their wild extensions, we cannot count on any such reassuring resonblances. Instead of struetures that mimic the body even as they pnxea it» the struetures cí natural things and of amy and atmosphere» ground and arc» ate often radically independent of human corporeal intentionality, to the point of challer^ing and undermining this intentionality. For example» dimbing in rugged mountain terrain can lead to disequilibrium in terms up versus down» so that the dimber’s basic sense of levei may be set askew. IIk same confusión can arise with regard to the other dyads first sii^led out by the Pythagoreans. As we wend our way through a heavily forested región» the sequence of r^ht versus left tums may become a bewilderii^ maxe (perh^ this possibiliry underlies our fear of being lost in a foiesc, engendering “place*panic”). Even the seemir^y infrangibie dífference be* tween front and back ís subject to axifusion when we inhabic wilderness in che dark: was that strange sound directly in front oí me or just süghtly to the right^ At ocher moments, however» 1 am quite well oriented and m home in the wild, enjoying a lucid and heightened sense of how I am when I am. Moreover» the more I perceive or come to know wilderness as an orderly scene^“that whidi ^pears to be chaotic in nature,” says Gary Snyder» “is cmly a more ccxnplcx kind of order® —the better are my chances of findíng my way around and feeling securc there. Ifet in certain wild pbces my sense of secunty may be altogether undone; Oliver Sacks reports that, suddenly confronted by an angry bull on a Norw^ian mountain trail, he was thrcnvn into a maelstrom of confused reactions, ending ín a disascrous fàll that sus* pended any scable sense of up and down?^^ The always lurking possibilky of being undone at some unpredictable moment—of being disarrayed in che surrounding array—distinguishes wild from domesticaced pbces. litis is why we freJ so “exposed® in wilderness» always at risk there co some degree. The other dyads besides up-down examinad in part two are also ac stake in the experience of wilderness, though often in less dramacically disoriencing ways. When 1 experience wild platts in terms the near and che br, I find myself enmeshed in a lived tensión between what is directly underfooc or dose by and what is remoce from me. The “far® presents itsdf as the domain where the arc of rhe wildscape vanishes frwn my sight or touch. What is far diaappcar» at (and sometioic» over) thc horiaon, which sunouixU Und sca laceraUy as surely as the ground on which I stand or move delimirs my near sphere from below. If my moving body is ofren mainly concerned wnh near chings and surbees-^.g., with how co move just over there co che next turn on the trail—it also encers inco relationship with more dístancly sicuaced cheres: say» that sutnmit toward whkh tbe same trail leads. When I am bod*

Tbt Arc of Daolatim Mtd thc Array tf .Dismjpfwn ily cngaged in che bcrc—there dialectic wilderness, Huaserfs notion oí tbe *absohue here” as a *nul] ptant” of orientation is continually contested. Not only does my corporeal implacement in wild pbces resist formai geometriza* tion—to concave of my body as a mere foiat is to indulge in “morbkl geometriam”^*^—buc, stili more importanc, tbe osition of the artfuUy shaped with the narurally wild portexxl for the problematic place of human beings within the wildness of wilderness? Otherwise piu: how do "culture* and "nature* relate, or ftil to relate, in the unsettlii^ sertii^ of wild places?

II On tbe rudesT surtace of Engjíd) cartK there b ie«n (he efleec of cencurtes of crvihzarioA, eo ihat jou do noe ck (that) is as much a sense of resisting as of being acted upon.*^^ ^irce imcnded this last sentencc to be a description of light* ning, a paradigmatk phenomenon of Nanue in its wild indifíèrence to hu* mankind. An unancícipated stroke of lightning, disruptivcly iJluminating tbe land or sea over which it brcaks, puts an entire cukure on norice.^

A wild place is a Second to culture—its very Other—insofar as its very existence consritutes a challenge to cultural hegemony. Each experíence of a wild place jabs us in the ríbs and takes us by surprise, if we are truly open ro the experíence. But the shock valué of wilderness is predsely what makes ic valuaMe ro those immersed in what Thoteau calis a “culture merely dvil.”^ In its rebarbarive sring, wilderness reminds us of what precedes and exceeds rhe comforts of cukure. Predsely as resisting complete capeívation by cultural constructs, k recaíns an insrrucrive impenetrability, a permanent impassiviry, an obduratc outsideness *

Ybt the wild world, fer all its independence and resistance, remains, if nor culture*bound, at least culture*penneable. It lends itself to expresston and representacioA in cukurally spedfic objects, not only in words and images but abo in bodily and institurional practkes. The Secondness of wilderness invites the Thírdness of its symbolizarion.^* Indeed, we cannot identify a first

place of wilderness noc already marked by such symboJizacíon. I say chat “w cannoc identify* such a firsc acultural pbce. T? detect, even to imagine, a pristine place of wilderness b already co project our own presence ot rífof piaa^ if noc in fi^t then in mind. There b no fint wild pbce noc already ín the second place of cukure. There ís no abyss of wilderness noc already papered over (or under or around) with tbe text of culture. This texc b a oxitexture: at once a tex* ture—something cbsely uoven—and a context. Cukure contextualizes every corner of narure, induding tbe wildest ones. The wild texcure of these cor* nen b already fhiyed by the domesticatíng f(r)iccicm of acculturaring and encukurating processes. Even “the polymorphism of wild Being” is as tied to che cultural wodd as Prometheus—the first bearer of cultural lifé—was tied to the desolaa rock on which he was exposed. Just as there ia no strict void (i.e., a sparial void devoid of things*in*

place), so there b no ahsolure wildemess, a wilderness altogethcr devoid of, or impervious co, cultural categories. Even if chese categories are invedeed post boc, this does noc prevent their of wilderness.^ The jar in

lènnessee, chough an ordinary object, is excraordinarily engaged wich ics wild surroundings. It permeates them much as a caregory permeates the things it categorizes, subeiy and yet pervasively. The same is crue of any cultural object that engages wilderness. The at least prtial truth of cukuraJism b that some such object b alwap already stationed in wilderness: Íf noc a jar» > jug; if noc a jug, a pach; Íf not a paih, a bridge; if not an actual bridge, an imagined bridge."

The aÍ7yss of wilderness, its fearscxne unknownrKss, may be the generative force lyir^ behind boch che antirKxnical positions I have been examining. Each position can be seen as a response co abyssal wildness. Each would be a dbtínctive way of dealing with che place*panic occaskmed by wilderness* as-void, exemplified in the rccurring image of wilderness*asve all) nature and culture themselvcs in thàr intimate incertwíning. The rooc of tbe probiem b not just rbe anta^nism of tbesb and andth* esb. It b also, and more Aindamentsüly, to be found in a hidebound exdu* sivity, a conuTKX) (buc inverso) aetempt to keep the Other, whether as Nature or as Culture, entirely outside the selfenclosed orbit cach takcs as an exdu* âvc scardng'poinc. The nacural and che cultural pervade each ocher ureerly, however. Everythíng b (incipíently) cultural 01 nãtun and everyth ing b (ul* timately) natural m atltvtt.

IV Nffure is so pervaded wiih human lift that there is something of humaníty ín all. and in every porticubf. —Ka^ Wüdo Emerson, /jifsir Ekspíte the manifest disparities between che two contrary (but not am* cndictory) posítkxu I have jusc analyzed, in che end ¿0 extrimes S9 twAtnt.

Thesis and antithesis convc^ noc just in cheir dogmaric ail-or*no(hing ac* àtude but abo—as [ have just intímaed—in a shared scance of mutual ex-


tisf iMd


dusion. each, ín artempting to cxclude ics Other, ends by covertly in* corponcíng chis Other inco icself. In this chíasmabc cross^back, we witness the unanticipated return of the repressed and thus a axjnter^dialectk that can be ctmsidered a spcdes of auto-deamstructicm. In the inmncc of posi­ tion that of *Svüderness only.** cultural ^cors subtend ics own statemenc and condición its very possibility. Cukure returns, whether in the lorm of a fHt need to sketdi and make notes upcxi witnesàng wilderness or merely

an ordinary hifce in the woods in which we realize how the natural world allows fbr human presence (on the trail) even as it discoura^s ic (in dense uixkrbrush off the trail). In che case of position **culturc cverywhere,^ wildness, thac alien renegade lâctcr, returns to cultural settings, includir^ chat described in **Anecdote of the Jar.” For the poet has no choice buc to pba the jar in an airtaJy exiísit^ wilderness. In its precedence, as well as by its continuing recakítrance, chis wilderness cannoc be altogether excluded. The hili in '^nessee proves resiscanc to cultural dissolution in rhe form of poetk sublimación. The return of che repressed is here che return of nacive ground, and this return U as insistent as the return of a reinfbrced cultural category. Each otherness reencers the othCT. In this scerte of mutual invasión, noc only atn the two aherities coexist; they nw# do so. The ultimate compatibiliry of the nacural and tbe cultural within wild places has already been hinced at in my assessments of positions i and i. What does mean but a situación in which wilderness itself makes room for culture in advance, that is, a priori? Raiher than a model of culture as superimposed, a model of predisposed (but noc preestablished or prediceable) harmony suggests icself as a way out the impasse irnphed in anti* nomtcaJ positions. Ry harmony I do not mean balance or cquilthrium. In place the ideal of equipoise between dwellir^ places arul environing world often at stake in part three, here nature assumes tbe leading role. This role is evidmt in the relationship between lighcnii^ and the lighcning rod. Ughtning scrikfis first. But thanks to tbe lighcning rod—whose vercicatiry echoes tbe direcckmality of lighcnir^ itself—lighcning can be tamed and even made usefui. COTversely, we c4)servc a bending-bade of culture into nature when we rcad Muir*$ aceoune of his discovery of Glader Bay: the rhecoric, the wordiness, thc "pkcure” thb account sets fixth brings us into a new (or rerwwed) proximicy to the ice-bound wildrKss it so movingly describes. The Other certainly does return, noc only as repressed ku as expressed. The Ikm lies down with the lamb in ever-new verskxu of ”Tbe toceaUe Kingdom” (die title of Edward Hicks^s rcmarkaèle paintings of an innocenc diild in che axigenial company of wild bcasts). Nature rejoins culcure and culture nature, terms noc just fitting buc mucually enlivening, achieving what ^^^ndell Berry calis "a continuous harmony.” Sudi harmony does noc OEClude disharmony, any more than tbe same, in Heidegger^s account, cx-

WiU Piaos

dudes tbe different. Nature and culture, while noc equal or identical, differ within a sameness to whidi chey both, preàsely as dífièting, bekmg.^

Ptrh^ this is whac John Ruskin had in mind when be wrote thac “above the village of Otampagnole ... is a spot which has all the sdemnity, wich none of tbe savageness, of the A^; where there is a sense of a great power b^inning to be manifested in the earth, and of a deep and majesde omeord in tbe ríse ctf the loi^ low lines o( píny hílls."” These words suggcst that « even short of “sav^eness," a wild pl^ can possess its own “great power. But this power, “manifested in the earth,” need noc attain the sublime, whkh Ruskin ddiberately plap down; the lower Alps cxhibit, he adds, a “scret^h [that] is as yet restrained.”* Instei of the dnmtfic dis(X>rd inherent ín the suUime—a discord, aceording to Kant, becween imaginación and under* standic^^there is “a deep and maiestk oncord.” This ctmcord, I propose, exists not iusc becween the outlines of hills buc also between the cultural and che natural. Rudtín condudes his descripción: “The deep crests of che sable hills thac rose agaínst che evening received a deeper wonhíp, because tbeir for shadows foll eastward over the iron wall of Joux, and tbe four*square keep of Gran* son.”’^ We have seen that “worship” is the root sense of odrur, the etymon of rtdfwrr as well as íuüitwf. Ruskin espies the cultural ín the scene of the natural, most explidtly in the form of tbe abandoned French fortresses of Joux and Granson. Culture connecu closely with Nature in the format of architecture. But the interiadng can take place ín many other formats as well, some of which are not architectural ac all. One of chese formats is che wrítten word, which boch Ruskin and Muir (himself infiuenced by Ruskin)^ employ wich exquísite effecciveness ín axiveyíng an alíve sense of wilderness to their readers. Nature Alíve ín language I In this acculturacing act, the wildness of the land ís recaptured and redeemed ín che wilderrtess of the werd.

V tn Wildne» is the preservarion of the Wxid.

—Henry David 'nwrcau, *UUking*

But 1 Rcained the Undscape. ^Thorcau, HftUm The fiues of Narure and Culture are intenangled^ and have been ever since human beings began to roam and secete the earth. Even to indícate bounds arwfui an impenetraMe wilderness area—in fkcc or ín imaginación— ís to ínvokc a cultural practicc, i.e., boundary*setting, in the delimítation of the arca. Indeed, the very idea of delímitii^ and ‘‘preserving’* wild placea ís culturally charged and historícally specific. One form of preservariem oc-



the LofU

curred in tbe proccction of copses^ or small forescs, in medieval England. Anocher form aróse in che dedskm to set aside ^bsemia as a State park in 1S64. The chinkif^ behind chis latter decisksi had been formulated by Thoreau in *Why should we not... have our nacional preserves ... in which thc bear and thc panthcr, and some even oí che huncer race, may stili CDSC, and noc be *dvilized off che face oí che carth*^”** Rather chan thinking oí Nature and Culture as antipodes between which we must makc a forccd choice, we ought to regard chem as coexistir^ in various forms com* mixture within a titúUU raiimt a gcnuine “multifarious between,” in which the partoers are in a relation —better if a councry seat.”" A “country

seat** makes “living in the councry** possible, and is an epkome of the middle realm between nature and culture. At Wüden Thoreau not merely fntm this realm; he CMftitnta che realm itsdf by building a residence near the shore of a pond. In building his cabin, he rc*seats himsdf in tbe house of nature: n-íüUrt means to settle back. No soener has Thoreau built his cabin and finally piu a roof over ic than he describes ^eeñiUy putting his possesskms cmto the ground outside in CMxicr to scrub the floor inside: It was pkasant co see my whok household eflècts out on riw grass, making a litcle pile like a gypsey*s pack.... They seemed glad co get out chem* selvcs, and as if unwilling to be brought in. I was semedmes ccmpccd to stretch an awning over chem and take my seat rhere. Ir was worth the while to see che sun shirK cm these chings, and bear the free wirxi blow on them; so much more intcresdng mosc familiar objects look ouc of doors than in the house." Anocher crosfr-over is here realized: domestic items that usually hekmg inside are brou^r oucside, where Thoreau cakes up a cmHnentary tMbuilr seat. But more than contingent reversal of position is at stake. Tbe household effeccs wekome cheir pbce in che sun, and cheir i^>pearaiKe becomes distinctly ^more iniercsdng.'’ What matters, then, is not cuscomary position buc con* gerüality of place. In a truJy con*genial place such as the natural worid fur* nishes co furnitute, there can be a free exchange of ^operties, made possible predsely by the loas of the usual doiscered ax>d possessive sense of and The molded wood of furniture me^es wich the wood from whkh it came in the first place: ... life^everhsdng grows under tbe cable, and blacfcberry vííks run round ics l^s; pine cones, chescnut burs, and strawberry leaves are strewn sbouc. It looked as if this was the way these forms came co be transfcrted to our fumirure, to cables, chaira, and bedsteads—because they once srood in cheir midst"



In chis enacrment of rhe middle realm, culture rcíoins narure by an act arate in late*Vktorian times. His activdy ambulatory body was the third term chat connected dvilizaticm with wilderness: "natural” itself (or as natural as Muir’s soaring spirits could invine h to be), this body bore the brunt cd* cuhure while abo holding out the pcomise of disburdenment fiom h. The suUimity of tbe wild places to whkh che walking body gave him access was at once (in its loftiness) a displaced expression of che high cuhure be left behind so defiantly and (in its wild rcmoteness) the most celling refutación of rii» cuhure. In and through walkii^, embodiment and disanbodimenc, as well as che nacural and tbe cultural themselves, interlaced. "When we emerged inco tbe bright landscapes of the sun,” writes Muir, "everything looked br^ter, and we foh our fiich in Narure’s beaucy screngthened, arxi saw more dcarly that beauty is universal and immortal, above, beneath, on land and sea, mountain artd plain, in heat and cold, light and darincss.”^ Thoreau’s walking was less embodied—we rarely receive a direct descrip* ckm of his bodily States—buc ic was no less concerted in leavii^ cultivated areles for che nacural society he craved. In his posthumoudy puUished essay "Wdking,” he declares: "Let me live where 1 will, on chis side is che city, on that tbe wilderrKss, and ever I am leaving the city more and more, and witbdrawif^ inco che wilderness.*^* By walking, he could leave the very dty onto whkh he could then gain a proper perspective fiom the disunce gí wild piaos:

Fiom many a hilI I can see dvílizabon and che abodes of man afàr.... Man and his afhirs, church and State and school, trade and commerce, and manuívtuies and agrkulrure, even politks, che most alarrning of than all—I am pkased co see how lictie space they ottupy in the landscape.^

Wilkir^ then, allows fer tbe literal dis-cemíng of culture, its endrdemenc and limitación, ftom a wild place th« is a lookouc upon cultural space. In chis r^ard, walking opens up poMnoMf, a fevorice term of mid*nmeteenth*



century discourse apphed boch to artistic and to tecfmok^cally produced ttgrand vicws."^^

Buc Thorcau’s purpose in walkii^ out of Concord is not just co survey, or co iook down upon, local cukuíe. The point is not only to put jejunc culture behind him but to *begin, having a petnr below freshet and frost and ñre, a place where you might found a wall (x a State.”’* The mode

of walking ro such a beginning-placc must suk tbe projecc to which it will be puc, as well as the setting in whkh it will oceur. Thoreau opes for saunin his earnest elfort to determine *‘the art of Wdking, that is, of taking walks,*” and he discusses two somewhac futdfui origins of the verb rv smw*

At; the word stems either fiom amx trm, landless but “at home evetywhere” (whkh is said to be “chc secret of successful sauntering”) or from Sattug-’Qrnr, someone who walks to the Holy Land or at le»t pretenda to do so. Thoreau professes to prefer the latter signification, sina he would like co think of walking into wild places as “a sort of cnisade, preadicd by Peter the Hermit in us, co go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from chc hands of chc Infidcls.”’* The Holy Land, of course, is wilderness itself, and tbe Infidels are those who ignore or exploic it. Sauncering implies a certain leisurcly insouctance that atlows the walker co be more thoughtfui and more open co the land chan if he or she were to rush over ic with a Muirian eye to discovery or exploración.’’ Consequently, saunening noc only better exrmpf^ the middle kingdom between narure and culture—since it combines walking with rcflecring—but it cvArMÍf chis kingdom by cnaxiragíng thc walker co cake continuai note of what he or she oxncs across. In contrast with a mere survey, this close scrutiny involves an intense interinvolvemem betwecn cultural and natural factors. Such is this intensity that Thoreau urges would*be walkers to think of themselves as leaving hcxnc forever. Tbe author of Hk/dm is at his most scathing in discouraging thc prospect of retum: ... we are but fúnt*hcarted crusaders.... Our expedicions are buc tours, and come round again ac even ing co the old hcarth*side from whkh we sec ouc. Half cbe waJk is but recracing our steps. Wc should forrh on tbe shortest walk ... in chc spirit of undying advencure, never co return.... If you are ready to leave fàther and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, arxl never see them again ... then you are ready for a walk,71 ” Thoreau here antkipatcs Levinas's critique of nostalgic homecoming—e.g., in the paradigmack case of the O/fyssty—as a concerted rerurn*tO'the>safne. Pk Odyssean projcct prívileges culture, i.e., the a/tw of the hearth, by guaranteeing a safe retum to the home*place from adventures in the Medi* terranean world. The drcuit proceeds frexn homerd co be un-oriented. But how does cmentacion occur in the middle realm between one’s domicile and the Dismal Swamp? Whac form does guidance cake? One model is implidc in Muir’s maneuvers in che wild. His mocions are at otkc direcced by himsdf and direcced toward somechii^ ocher-than-self. They are self-direcced insofor as chey proceed in an intencional and willful way, fiiMlowíng a carefully conceived travei plan; buc chey are also direcced by something other, namely, by that sublime othcrneas he sought in the nacural world. Muir’s dírectionality, then, takes place in between the personal ego and the metaphpical Ocher. Thoreau walked co a diflerent drummer. On one hand, he was rKX selfdirected in any resolute way. Often he would spend considerable time spinning his body in cirdes before dedding in which direction co set out on a walk: **I rurn round artd round irresolute sometimes for a quarter of an hour, untiJ I decide. On the other hand, Thoreau ultimvely respecta the direction that tbe larxi—the quite phyucal, nonmetaphysical Und—indicares co him. After his ^nnning exercise, for cxample, he found that he invarisfoly walked toward the wesc or Southwest. From this repeaced experience, he concluded chat **chere is a súbele m^necism in Nature, which, if we unconsdously yield co k, will direct us aright.”*^

The Thoreauvian between, then, is noc that of finice ego and infinite Other—both being sbscractions—but that of the waiking self and che wildsaq>e thac lures it onward in certain definice directions. Such a sdf and such a scape are quice concrete in char^ter. So too are the very directions the ambulatory self takes. These directions are noc bare positions on a ccxnpass but telltale vcctors of actual movement. For example, ^‘east” is noc merely a quadram to the right of magnetic north buc where Thoreau’s body-self goes “cmJy cmly by fònx, force,” while “wcst west” is where “1 go free. free.’*“ Just as definice is the alliance becween west and wilderness, and between cast and culture:



ÍViU Placa

eascward co reaiJze history and study the worics of an and Uceranuc, retrae* íng che steps o( the race; we go wcscward as into che ñiture, wich a spidt of enterprise and adventure.”*^ Ib waik into wild pbces is co walk away from

cultivated OTcSt but the *away” retains dements of that from whkh it proceeds. (Ib be adequace co chis situatkm, d earth—the life-world—I come co expe­ rience. But neicher nacuraüst would cocKur with Scevens’s furcher stacement thac *Svhat I saw or heard or feh carne nct Inttfrom Muiros egoistíc walker is in the end ovcrwhdmed with che sublime prospect he confronta, while Thoreau's atruned ambulator is in touch wich something much more than his own self can acrounc for. In boch cases, we are led to che important notíon Ib be guided is rKX merely to guide oneself. Ir is to be led by something or swneone clac. The somethii^ is uhimately the natural worid, Íes particubr configuración, the by of the land. But shorc of chis (and just because che landos lay may noc be evidenc or may be quite confusing), human beings rely on intermediary presences. One such inKrmediary is tlw m^; anocher is che local gukk, the stxneorK else who knows the way. Muir, ^)prDaching che térra iaa^ntta of gl^iers in western Canaria, re­ lied on che only existing map, made in an eadier expedkion by che explorer Geo^ Vancouver. At an inlec near Gbcier Bay, Muir reports, ‘‘I could see nothing that could give me a clue, while Vancouver's chart, hicherto a bithful guide, here biled us altogecher.**^ When maps bU and perceptuai dues are tacking ambiguous, one must have recourse to ocher means of guidance. Even Muiros ocherwise reliable general guide, Sicka Charlie, “now seemed lost.** Ib leam vhar kmé ofpiacc one is in when cmk Ís thus adrife— as Norse explorcrs would have called ic—one muse tum elsewherc. Fortuitously, Muiros fixlom band suddenly spotted a fáinc trail of smt^ in che distance. Rowing in its dirección, tbey discovered a group of Hoona seal huncers who knew the Gbder Bay región well. One of these hunters joined Muir’s expedición as ics local guide.

G9»|^ ÍTíW 0» aW Nàther Muir nor Thoctau, despíte a sceady exempliâcation of Emerson^ ian seJSrdiance by boch, hesitaccd to kt himself be led by Nacive American guides. Thoreau needed neithcr map nor local guide in che Cona>rd area, where he preferred to be led by tbe land he had known all his Ufe (a trip to Wdden in eariy childhood left an indelible impression). Buc once ouc of his narive región, he relied heavily on maps and espedally on Indian guides. This is mosc evkknc in his cnended account of craveis in the Maine woods. On his 6rst crip co Maine, he was so anxíous fer cam^nphic guidana that he elaborately traccd GreenfeaPs map of Maine on oil doth, only to dis&jvet thac the map was *a labyrinch of errors.'*^ Even if it is crue that a map is tbe mosc gr^hk and ecorKmic expression of che wiy in which one comes to terms with (and measures) wilderness, afeer this disiliusiomng experience wich die Greenleaf map Thoreau cumed co narive guides, who rarely used maps. One sudi guide told Tboreau thac even after goir^ in the mosc dr* cukous rouce through che Maine woods he could unfailingly return to che poinc of origin a virtually straight line. ** *Kow do you do chatr asked I. I can*c tell yoa^ be replied. *Great diiference between me and whice man.*”" What is che difference? Thoreau daims thac che narive guide "guided himself in the woods.”* But che more ccxnpkte answer is that tbe Narive

American—who is referred to out *‘8u* per® highway whose only identifyíng 1^1 is che empty coponym —is a bbie of che progressive denixlacion of a primai wilderness. it is a charac* teristically modernisc tale. In the course cachis bnef ttip, basic tnics of what was at least partially wild to begin with were ^Hogressively eliminaxed until tbe landscape itself became, if noc lifèless, fiafttrtías. Tbe landscape became before my very eyes just what Descartes had posiced prophetically as **Na* cure®: a monolith of ^Mce. If Matter and Space are idencical, then Nature can have no **seccmdary qualities® of ics own. There are rK> ^pearances co bc saved, since che lain why it is chat Americans at this poinc in history rum with such relish and relief co wilderness in whatever form íc can be found—or padu^ed. If we fàil to find it in the stretebes of actual wildemess that are allowed ro survive in nature preserves and rwional parks (or in scattered ®green beh® developments),*^ we seek it avidly tn blacanriy artiâdal and construeted sites such as Disney World, MarirK Wxld, Sabri BsrL The capitalization of these latter place names (itself perhaps reflecting their coruidend^le motKtary cap-

Gwtg Wüd m the Land


ícaUzaàon) bctrays a paradoxka] drcumscance in which the wüd is prcsented, and reprcsented, not on its cnvn terms and by its own means but by a tech* nobgicaUy contrived suppHXt system. The raciónale seems co bc: tf we ate wüling co aeace artificial fiowers, why rxx conscruct artificial places? But where have all the real fiowers and the actual wild places gooe? W; are noc likely to find sacis^tory answers to chese questkxis in our present historical predicamento in which we are strung out between wüder* ness and site. Wiidemess may be what we wanc (or ac least it is not dear how much actual wilderness we can toleraR, or fbr hcAv Iwig), but site is what we are gettíng, and gening increasingly. By ^strung out between wiidemess and site” I mean that we drastkally lack viable and significam intermedíate positions between these cwo enrem* ides. Such alcem^ve middle*rai^ opdons were availiòle in abundarKc at the time Thomas Cc4e painted 7Ív Cbiev, and they are even given explidt

representación in his palndng: fitrms that are noc strktly rectilirwar, smoke rising noc fnxn satanic milis and f^tories buc from industries conscrueted on a human scale, a ferry boac crossíc^ the ContKcticur River, limited dearcutdng of fewescs dlstant mountain slopes, a wirxling road that respects che oxitours of the land, etc. By and large, we lack contemporary equivalents of sudi abernadves, aixJ fix chis reason we beiieve that the cxily meaningfui choice b chat between wild aixJ sited existence. Buc b thb so? Here we should nocice that wilderness and sice, despite their andthetical status, possess a similar resbtance co memory and hbtory. Only rately does wiidemess yield co history—e.g., during Ru^in^s epipluny in the Jura, or Mulr’s ecstasy at Glader —and it only inf^uencly serves as a seteing fbr remembering. Sites tesbe memory and hbtory even more fiercely. Their erec* don offen means the destrucción of local hbtory, and their fedie replacement by ocher sites (or by newç **improved” buildings on the same site) induces a radical fo^etfulness. But one group of cruciai differences between wilderness and site remains: those bearing on che lived body. Wilderness actively sc4iàts bodily movemem. Indeed, wild places n^rt the body*s intervenócxi, smnetimes for che sake of sheer survival. W: cannoc doubc chat tht Uvfd boefy fidfy er^a^fíd éy vüdímoi. Thb body becomes the world in which it walks. The same b noc true for sírs, which xt to dbengage bodily xtiviry and presentt. Sites dbcourage corporeal acrivity by confining human beii^s co simple locations. Their conscrueted—and of^ literally overconstruetcd—“nature” does man-

age to alleviate any o>ncem as to i^tysical survival. But such construcción ends by being a conscrktion. The waywardness of world b reduced to tbe pinpcnntii^ of site. A site leaves predous Isttle room for a líving-moving-perceivii^ body. Sometimes, as in stretches of construcción alor^ I-91, a site will predxxie



even tbe bare perccpckxt of an environíng bndscape. Pbin walking is minimized, as when automaced walkways provide movement whÜe rcnderíng oti* oee the mocion itself walking. Oftcn walking is not even a consideranon, as when one drives to Hartford to woric, or co pcxider the dryscape as I did in my car. Accordii^ to the larKlso^ bgk of 5^^Uace Stevcns (a kK^time rcsidenc of Hartford), rw walking means no worid. Sudi is tbe price pay fer a site-sarorated existence that has kst touch with wild pbces: atrofby «f tht

IX Each place 0 it» own place, forcver (evenfuaUy) wild.

—Cary Snyder, nThc Pln, (he Región, the Comnwn»*

Such sited but unplaced lives, dissevered from wilderness as they are, might as well be pursued underground, an idea explidtly pn^x)sed by Jules Wrne. Apart from sdence fiction, bowever, is there a way out, into a ridier, wider world? If there is, it lies chrcx^ reconneccion with tbe earth. Such reconnection b noc limited to literal incurskms into nature. Even if 1 am not walking in che wilderness but drívii^ through it, I can be attentive to ic. My bare gbfKe can take it in, and I can ruminace on what I have seen. What matters mosc b rm precise mode of movemenc-~how cc by what means I move—buc what my moving body lets me experience. Whac matters b bs* tht tand tahe tht Uttd. Instead of taking che lead myself, ix., as guided by my own egological intereses, I need co kt the earth be che guidir^ ferce, the fírst voice, che primary presence. Instead of imposii^ myself w che earth—realizing my perscmal (and all coo oíten Promethean) plans there—I need to seek ouc, from within the cues offered by tbe earth itself, certain dedsive directions co be taken. Tbe right directkm b to be feund less in myself and in Mher human bdngs concdved as humanocemric agenes chan in the land («x sea) that lies befere and around me. If che modem predka* ment stems in brge pare from che ^ocenerbm chac underlies humanocen* crism—oftcn disgubed in che unquestíoned meliorbm of a technok^ical exbcence—the ferm of a possible solución may well be eccettOrie in diar* acter.’* An ecocentríc direction has emerged spontaneousiy ac several points Ín chb part. lake, fbr example, the twin phenomena of dbplacemenc and deso­ lation as dbcussed in the preceding ch^^^* Although we would be mbtaken

co bold Chat they bektfig intrinsically more co wild places chan to the indi* viduab afflkced by them, che basic pattern of a dbplattment between par­ ticular places—e.g., as oceasioned by a ferced em^ration—fi^lowed by an experiertee of desolation was telling. Tbe desecación concerns borh the place

G0if^ WiU M the Land being left and che new pbce to whkh one is going. Thus we were noc surprised to find that “dcsobtion in the bnd” is a basic pberKxnerKm that brings in ics train connotations of *desert,* “wastcland,* and “wilderness* hsdf. Thc ^errand into the wilderness* undertaken by che New En^and cokmists was a journey inco a land rhey found dismaliy desoíate to start with. '* Displacement and desoUtion of this sort may therefore be considml primarily, even if not exdusivdy, phenomena of wilderness. Their psychical expressions reflcct a sorse that che immediate landscape is barren and unyielding. They starT wich—and often continue as—an experience of che envimiing world as alien and hostile, a pbce unfit fbr inhabication. Or rather, as no [riace ac all but a site for suffering. Ib say “site” is to extend tbe fieid of displacement and desolttion to conremptMary New England as well. My experience of ap* proachiog Hartford and of Hartford itself—Ín tbe bean of New England— was one of the “sitificarion” of a comparativeiy unmarred landsc^e. 1 sensed (and not only perceived) chac thc land icself become displaced—in che case of che massive highway ccmstruccion, literally so—and was rendered desobtt. I fidt displaced myself as 1 drove through this scarified scene. Even here, the land^ albeit a lacerated landscape buried beneath che ckatrix of site, cook the kad. In Muir's aceoune of his cxplorackxi of Gbcier Bay, Thorcau’s encomium of walking, and Ruskin's elegak descripción of che Champagnole landscape, we witness tbe individual subject drawn out of any putative “egologkal* cen* ter and thrust, quite wiilingly, inco the environing world. The adventurcsome, walking subject finds himself already caught up in the contour of che wild land. In their peregrinations, Ruskin and Muir and Thoreau kt tbe land speak co chem—co their moving bodks—even as they articulated hs presence in thàr writings. None of these nineteenth*cenrury nacunliscs would s^ree wich Roberc Frost: “The land was ours before we were che lancfs.***^ From their point of view, Frost has it the wrcmg way arourxl. Wt are in tbe land’s hands firse of all; ic becomes wn only afterward, when possessive egocencrk life cakes over. Another case in point is found in my own peri-phenomenok^kal de­ scripción of the fundamental feacures of wild places.*^ Eadt of these fetfures

stems ftom, and is primarily sicuaced in, the wildscape thac surrounds us. Material chings, for exampk, acc as cynosures for our accention and interese. Things are densely ecocentric, drawing us out of our cgologkal confinement and into che environing worid they serve co diversify and popúlate. That world itself is deódedly outside our ego, cxtra-epidcrmal. It has its «nra afem: the sensuous surfoce of things. This surface, deepened inco the flesh of the world, ffcracts us by ics qualitative richness, especially in the fwm of its manifest palpabilíty. W: conscancly to cocKh it. The movement is ecstatic. 5^^ also go out of ourselves inco the arc of che land—or che sea—as


Wüd Piaus

we find ourselves swept up in its embrace. Tbe ancient and still surviving wish to find the end oí a raínhcnv entaik a desire to kave the axifinemcnt of our egocentric predicament so as co discover a treasure mtt tben^ at the place where tbe couches the ground. Further, tbe very ground di* rectly under our stationary or waiking feet is certainly cxtra-egological. le takes US out of our locked*in, ¡n*s¡ced selves; it cakes us dev» under. Tbe atmosphere, in concrasc, takes us up and aut‘. wc draw our breath fivm nx ñom ourselves. In this way as well, and reinforced by the atmospherc’s muícifarious luminosity, we become exterocencric to ourselves. All these Ibrcgoing fearures appear to us by means of a qualitative arr^ environing our lived bodies. In sensing and peredving wild places, we cake our lead from this array, which is no mere set of r^resentations but an entire worid-spherc. In this sphere, we are already oucside of ourselves, be»de our* selves, as it were. Ws are mosc fully beside oursdves in wilderness, whkh calis fbr beightened akrtness and attuncment. In wild places, the surroundii^ array finds ics deepesc source and resource. A wild place is boch the terminus a ^ua and the terminus ad fuent o( our sensing and perceiving lives. From ic, presentarionaJ immediades derive, arKi co it they revert. In between, chey pass through the drcuit of the self thanks to che cemerete incermediacy of che body. Even che body is outside che ego. By chis I ntean not just chac ‘^he ego is first and foremosc a body ^o,”'* but that the sdf is already outside itself. cransceruiir^ itself in its immersion in tbe natural worid. Far from being an inert suppcxt fbr egoic mind, che lived body takes us ouc of our own skin inco the wmkTs flesh. At the same time and by the same acción, che lived body takes us back into place. My body is a body*in*place. b is cmbedded in a pbcC'World. Place is where we are (when we are) bodily. Ib be i n place is to be beyond ourselves as ^ocentrk site*setting selves. Even bdng bert is to be ocher than a self*cencered self. b is co be already on che va^ of being out fhertf in various places. Many of these are sodally spedfied p4aces, i.e., places that rcflecc our historkal and poÜtkal being-withsxhers. But some are predominanrly natural (riaces, wild in their being there.** Into chese lacter

our body moves us, scMnetimes preceded by our imaginarion and language. Wild places kad our bodies ouc of chemselves and inco the natural worid. The siod self, in conrrasc, is ac once bodiless and placeless—and otk because the ocher. This is as much as co say that it lacks wildness. But every self remains delineaced by culture in ks many fbrms. Culture, however, eventually recums us to nature. Even if the scars of tbe sicc'^)ed* fied self have replaced furrows cm che soil, chese same scars lead us back i^ain to the earth. A main meaning of senrify is to ‘‘toosen tbe surfKC of the soil.** Even cime-lines and horizcm-lines—those primary $car*lines of moderniry—

WiU w thf Land


ue finally wrinUes in the fiesh of the very wüderness they serve so rckntlessly (O repress. Holmes Rolston puts tbe point thus: *Evcry culture remains residenc in some environment.'*^^^ That is co say, every cukure bas its pUct m sme tutt-

tttU however much chac rcgkxi has been devastaced and levcled inco a scene of sites. Culture, that last fastness of che collecnve ego, reconnects, despice icself, with a wild realm of natural platts. In order co suscain and reoew itseif, h must touch base with the wild earth from whidi it arises. Hartford, the cultural center of its región, is situated alongside the Con­ necticut River, whose occasional vident âooding reminds the dty dwellers of cheir prodmity to virtually urKontroUsble natural forces. Beneach and be­ yond cbe all-too*fr^le surfoce of a site such as Hartford is a residual wild­ ness, even if wüdemess as such Ís difficult to k>cau in this oversited dty. Wild weeds grow in its gutters. The paved-over surfoces crack open to rev^ tbe earch subcending che acute areies of che architecture overhead.

X b b thftjcfeit csscmial to look again at che whok question of our conceptioA of pbce, both in order to pass on to anotlMr age of diflèrence {since each inttÜcctual age conesponds to a new medíatíon of difiimnce), and in onia lo consenxt an echia....

—Luce Irígany, '*Seiual DifRerence" If foüowing the lead of the land leads us ro ecocencrísm, ecocentrism leads in curn co ¿mmrrúm. And one because the other: to be other and outer in the direcckxi of thc eco- (from Gre^ aúhv, house, bousehold) is to be other and outer as implaced. For what is finally in first place is pbce itself, loatí. Even che natural pbces that underlie contemporary sites have been pre­ ceded by stiU earlier wüd places in tbe course of the earrh^s prokmged evo­ lución. Noching is unünpbced in narure, even if many places have become the denuded sites of our dcified/sitxfied selves.^^' A stance of ecocentrism does noc, however, signify that tbe only genuinely issue is whether we can save ix preserve the land, espedally wild land. Ws can and should and must do just this. But the more pressing quesàon from a lococentric perspective is wbcrher we will Ut tbt Uuui smv uf. làkii^ tbe lead from landscape means letríng its intrinsic s^acity and valué become ottr s^acity and \^ue. W: must *\alue Earth because it is valuable, and not che ocher way around.*^*^ This means being wilUng to learn lessons from tbe natural world—lessons, for instance, concerning tbe wisest use of naniral resources—instead o( wreaking our violcnce on it, ex-

Jó* pccting it co be obedient and to yield to our a^rcsáve designs. Racher than sceing nature a$ mete “standing-reserve* ro be exploíced by che finine*up, or GtstfUt of fcchftology/ it ís a marter of alkwing the knd ro guide us in action and choK^ht by its own deep structures. Con^trating on whac we can get out of it—its “natural resources* as source of efficient energy—must give way to a recognición of its inherent causai efRcacy. Ití power, not ours in relatkm to ic, is wbar is at srafce. And this power is none other than the power of place: âyiuums in Arístocle's fbrtuitous formula. Land power is lococentnc through and through; ir is found in and among places, not in space and not in rime. In this lococencric light, an alcernative rcading of Frost*s evocacive poeck line suggests itself. That the land was Qttrs befbre we were the land*s may mean thac, ac first, in their New Wbrld fever, Americans tended to expropriate rhe larvl, managing and marshaJing ic for their own selfish and short* sighred purposes. Ir was a marter of pushing back a dreadcd, unknown wildemess making radical invasions into it (e.g., in rhe destructíve tech* ñique ofclear*euttingforests}.‘'* But more recencly a quice difforent approach has emerged: permitting large tracts of the land ro remain in cheir orinal stace (í.e., in designated “wildemess areas”) or letting the land return to a wild State (as is now happening here and there in che Greac Plains). Each of these larteT'day developmcnes expresses a growing convkcicm thac the land is no longer ours co exploit buc chac, if anyching, we are the land’s sub^cts: we belong to ic, and noc it to us. The land, i.e., cultivared and unculcivated earth alike, must be allowed ro stand on its own and co repossess ks own rectitude. is dosely relued to r^r. Essential ro rectifying the status of land ís to recognize ics incrinsk righrs. Not only a person but ¿and also has righcs. Ib speak of land righcs—not righcs to land but righrs ^land, including what rhe land has a right ro expect ftom us—is ro tum ethics in a new directkm: away frcnn a sanctioning source in God, society, or the irxÜviduated or cc^ieccivized self and back toward the natural worid and its own proper denizens. John Muir grasped this dirección in a foumal entry of 1867: “How rurrow we selfish, conceíced creaturcs are in our sympathíesl How blind to che r^rs of all che rest of creationi”'*’ Judged by tradicional criceria, such an ecocentric direc­ ción is decidediy eccenrrk. Ir may have lirtle to do with racionally justified rules of conduct and nothing whacsoever to do with insrrumemal valúes (whkh are all too often valúes aimed at che exclusive benefit of humankind). An ecocentric ethics recognizes the inherent valué of the natural worid icself. It insista Chat we rttpond to this valué. A new sense of responsibility emerges in whkh human beings have an abiding ctxnmctmenc to respect the earth— i.e., ics landed (and aqueous) places—as well as monbers of ocher specks. Even our responsibility to humans is ultimately to poofle in not co

WiU in tíft Lan4


unpbccd persona existing in a void. When it comes to beir^ ethkal, there is no esc^Hng tbe imperadve of place. Lococentrísm prevaiJs here as fbr thoac who wül let landscape back into cheir Uves. Aldo Leopold was perhaps the first person to argüe expUcicly fbr a land* based ethia. Observing that ^heie ís a$ yet no ethic dealing wich man^s relackm to land,” he proposed an extensión of ethícal precepes to tbe earth icself.”* The most bask of these precepes ís that *a thíng ís right wben it cends co preserve the integriry, stability, and beauty of the biode conununity. Ic ís wrong wben it cends ocberwise. ” * It only nccds to be added that such im^rity, stability, and beauty beiong not just to tbe indwelling inhabitants buc » fUea mhabital by tin biotií eommtmisy. Pbtts, as well as tbe ñora and fauna chat occupy them, can be int^ral, stable, and beauüful. Indeed, in the biock conununity, place and occupanc*of'place beloi^ together in* diasolubly. As a result, boch parckular places and their natural denizens cali fbr our cespcccfui nurturance as enticíes valuable in their own right. Places embody valúes; betur yet, they ànuttt them. If the valúes themselves ace generic—i.e., characterize many sorts of things, including buildíngs and paincings and pecóle—their instantiation in particular places is always unique, "ídiolocal,’' as it were. An ecocencric echies, an tohtthia of che sort Muir envisaged and Leo­ pold speüed ouc, retums ethics to ics place(s) c( origin. The word ttíña itself stems from ftinn, which in Homeric Greefc signífied che habitats oí wild animais. Such abodes are the rigbcfui places of these animais, who are fully jttsrified in living in them and tbereby moving in che various ways charac* terisric of them as natural speócs. Human beings have no righc to dislodgc them, much less to impose their own peculiar way of fife on chem. As Levinas pues k, ic ís a matter of **recogniai^ in the Other a right over [our] egoim.”* The lead is from tín OfArr M ftom ammalicy co hurrunity. Buc chis ís as much as co siy that guidance is to be found in tin itmd (or iby or sm) firtt, since animais (induding ourselves as animais) arc endemic crearures the earth. Wb« is right Ibr earth—for its ecosystem as a whole—ís r^t for the creacures wbo live on ic and in tc. When we aüow the earth to ^me first, we are in effect enaccing an ancknt mytb of origin char stems from pre*Hesiodic times in Gree». ln Apollodonis’s verskm of this mych, **Ouranos was first kíng of che ordered worid; he married Gaia.”^^* Gaia, goddeas of earth, was there first, there as teliurk Chaos before her marriage co che cosmk procreasor Ouranos, god of the Heavens. In thàr elcmemaJ compact, chese cwo dàtks prefigured the partnership tíí ground and arc in everyday e:^erknces of wilderness. The primaey of earth extends from the mythkal to the mundane. The ecocencrkity for whkh 1 am arguing must allow room for a poly* centercd earth, i.e., for a **polymor^ism cí wild Bàr^.* Noching would be

IVíU Piafa


pined from merely repbdi^ tbe monocemrism of egocentric Ufe wich a monocentrimi of Ntfure as rcified into a gigantk MonoUth, a colossus of Space dcfying a nonspaàat Sdf or spirítuaUaed Soul.'* Wc have seen how miskading such an oppoàcional model can be in che dosdy related case of Narure versus Culture. Just as che laner dkbotomy is at once bridgcd and undermined by the multíplex role of tbe human body, so any monocentric view of Nature is placed in question by rcfcrcncc to che diversity of its in*

habkants. m if 0s fiaea: diverse inhabicacion of tbe earth means diversity of eco* biock nkhes, manyness of biotopes and bioebores. Ecocentrism entails a mui* cüocular earth. In chis light, the term ofiiígf might seem to be ill*€bosen. For che buried within che word connotes a ratkxially undied strueture, a conceptual monocemrism. But if we trace back co the active verb Z^* en, we soon reach and suggesting chac what is crucial in ecok^y is bow the earth is gathered together, disposed, laád out: how che lay of che land is configured.*^' “ Ecology” is sanctioned by ics concern with (he dis* posición, the lay*out of the earth construed as diversely alive and polycencrk* ally implaced. If cco-cthics ceaches us to lec the earth bt in its living (and nonliving) variety amid mulciferious habicats and locales, (his does not mean thar we are íorbidden co alter anything whatsoever on (he planet. Wt may bc called (^>on co change things on earth on bohaf of fbe oarthy 22 solkiced by the piight of its endangered denízens or regkms. Ib prevent the earth’s despei* ation requires concerted íntervention, e.g., for the sake of saving deeply threatened rain foresis.‘“ But the need for such kxaUy spccific councer*actkm does not mean that the ethical rok of humans is co become “scewards’ of the earth. The role is better conceived as chac of srZemt* hnsbattAy. In ics oldesc accepcttion, hudxutdry does noc consist in mascery—as the assodacion of busbatui and tnastfr might sug^t—buc in the careful and caring pursuit of househdd economy: signifies '‘house managemem.* Given that otím is cmbedded in eeonon^, and ic follows that the nat* ural world as ctmceived from an eco-perspective, fer from being ancithetkal to dwelling*as*residing, invites i( and makes h possible. But this does ixK mean that the earth ís nothing but “tbe house vàm? mortais The earth’s desdny is not to be (he site for human habitación akme; nor does the idea of (he earth as a house need to be conceived by anak^y with a human house. It might well be the other way around: ottr dweiling places may draw their most teiling in^radon foxn its dweiling places. This is certainly the case if the earth is indeed the pnmary place of residence for all spedes, the worid’s first housing agency, as it were. Regarding such housing, wc are enioined to practke coxKxny, its economy, “nature’s ecorKxny,” the GreM Economy of Narure itself.'*


Wüd in the


Natural ecod^wç* is also rooted in to graze, pasture, spread, ap* porción, dispense. This bericage gives to netnas a different nuance than is evident in che abstract term ncmèí^gienit

Nenus is Greek for "pasture,® and the "Nom^® is a chief or clan eider who presides over the allocation of pastures. Nmkv rtxus came to mean "law,® "fiur distribution,® "that whkh is allottcd by custom®—and so che basis of all Watem law.'* It Í5 important to distínguish, howcvcr, between and fftfcinfftw», Aüficarwi in^)liea human intervention in tbe form of apportionmcnt by cus­ tem or taw. In traditíonaJ Tibet, lands in the Lagyab Lhojang atea the Northern Pbteau were allocated to nomadic households by the I^ndien Lama. Every three years a reaUocackm occurred based on the amount of livestock owned by a given houschoW. This househokl (ttsdf oftcn composed of several families) was allowed access to a number of pastures to be used in different scasons. Even though they were not fenced off, boundaries were staked out by the Pinchen Lama and sirktly observed. In nonaUocative áittrünaian^ ín contrast, a nomadk pastmlist allowed his flocks to range freely over an open temin, typically when en route to allocated pasturelands. The oldest root of namaíf older even than whkh is assodated with allocation and thus wkh law—is nm-, whkh refers to the free distributMXt of animais in places not bound by l^al decree: "The occupation of sbepherd, in the Homerk age, h^ nothing to do with a parcelling of land; when tbe agradan questwn came to the ft>f^iound, in the time of Sokm, it was cx* pressed in an entírely different vocabulary."’^ After Sokxi, and joíned fortts inside tbe cky walls (foreshadowing the eventual hegemony of site*space), leavii^ the extramural world to fend for itself. Such fendii^—the word means shifting or venturing—meant letting animais graze in arcas unrescrkted by law. Thus the nomadk trajectory became one that "díscributes people (and animais} in an one that is indefinite and noncommunicating.®*” But even the freest-rai^ing nomads still follow the landas lead. They do not roam entirely at random over the land but '*cling to tbe smooth space left by the receding ícMcst, where the steppe or the desert advance.®^* Such econcxnizing remains true to its nenh root by first respecting the di^osition of the land in its narural State—e.g., by acting ar "specific locations® in ac* cordance with the "divagatkm of local climates®^^'—arul only then firting

into r^mes of allocation. In this sense, the landos dís-position, its lay-out, precedes both distributkm and allocation. In tbe uístere eaxxxny of pastoral nomadism, naturc*s disposing regulates the proposíng of human beings. In chis Great Ccxmomy, wm- takes the lead over amut and t^/fein over just as place takes prccedence over site. Lococentrism prevails.



What would be desoíate wilderness fbr the dry*dweUer ís wekome terrain for the nomad, who fèels at home, even in the most fbrbiddir^ desert or steppe. Just such unlikcly places as these provide dwelling for nomadk populaàons: that Ís, dwellíng*as*wandering, within which the primary dorni* cile is the rentJ® As Ibynbee remarks, ncxnads characteristically "fling them* selves upon the Steppc, not to escape beyond its bounds but ro amít £¿vmffJp0 at Iwfu m The econcxny practiced in such a seemingly un* proprtious location is decidediy ecocentric. In kning grazing animais lead tbe way and in respectit^ thc seasons, the pastoral nomad perforce fc4low$ the lancfs lead. Open*ended pastures rather than fonced'in fields are the furK* tional units of implacement. Not unlike gardens in this re^ect, pastures are way*$tations between civilization arxl wilderness; they are also middk grounds between thc high mountains (where grazing is not possible) and the dty (tbe she of the allocarive actkxis of law and justice). In a pasture, as in many gardens, one can gaze into the deprhs of thc local landscape.**

The surrounding array is urtoeduded, and the bask landscape fèatures are disclosed in starfc luddity. In such an outward'tending middie rcalm, andry replaces mas­ tery, sbepherding bdng the only form of allowable stewardsh^. A gcnuincly pastoral econoiny is thereby realized—one whkh, regulated by tbe con^uratkx) and character of the vdld land, guides animais and humans alíke in a common ecocentnc venture.

Wild places can be found anywhere on earth. They do not ezdude the presence of human bdngs. They may even irKiude a jar that is left thought* lessJy on a hili along with ocher debris. But h remains necessary to gec co the bíll, if only to see how che wilderness surrounds the jar. Then one will view the composite scene, at once nacural and cultural, in ks own depth.** As it is, in the contemporary worid, serious sojourns into wilderness are all coo rarely undertaken. In their scead are pointless and endiess errands, noc into wild places but into the supermarket and rhe shopping mall. Tbe Msll, a cerm that stems from the Britísh Mall (a walkway bordered by trees in Saint James Puit in London), is whac che wilderness has become. Noc only has k taken the place of an aboríginal wilderness—being construeted on the very ^xx chac ona was wild—but it is itself a wilderness in the perjoracive sense familiar to the early American cc^onists: chaotk, unproductive, arxl unlocxed. For it is literally true that a shoppir^ mall yklds few places buc many sites. A site ís no place to be, much less co remain. It ís noc even worth a posemodern rKxnadk journey to get there. Once there, moreover, where are we^ W5 are ín thc midst of a d^ert of shops, a waste lartd of servkes, a chaos of oxnmerce. If rxx nowhere, we are in an excremdy shallow some*



the Latid


where. No depth, noc even any significant perceptual deptb, b found here. The depth of nature—what Levinas calis “depth in distance”—has ceded platt to a purely “synthetic’* depch, depth in the shallows of human experi* ence, depch boctomed outJ* soon as I artempt to kxÀ into tbe horizoncaJ

dbtance, my gaze is cut off by che busy bodies of ocher shoppers. If 1 try to look or mC, my view b blodced altogether. Earlier arcades, such as those located in Milán and Paris, at least allowed a glimpse of the sky, thanks co cheir transparenc glass rooft.’^ The transparency has for the most part become ocduded by opaqiK building materiais thtf keep the natural worid out of view and ouc of touch. Tb foel the ultimate desolarion and tbe equally ultímate dbplacement that diaracterize thb scene, imagine yoursdf lodccd in a mall overnighc, empty of people and featuring only shadowy shops whose Windows concain unmoving and unspeaking mannikins. Noching ative here, much less anything “un* ^>eakably pure and sublime.” Nothii^ but the comedy—or che cragedy—of plástic and metaJlic objeets and forms. Everything, Índuding the site, b arei* ficial. OnainJy iw **fit place fix life. One could not survive fbr long in such a hard-edgcd drcumstance. The desecación stems not just from the arid architeceure «x the monocixiy of the building complex as a whole. Ic abo seems from a sense chac in being here one has been deprived of (^ace itsdf, cast into a placeless realm. Otk knows instancly that a better imfriacemenc exbts elsewhere, whether in one’s own hcxne or in tbe wilderness. Even if tbe mall b a wilderness of sores, it b not a housebold. No natural economy, no husbandry b pracciced on ics prembes; here che economy b demand-based industrial ecotKxny, che “little eoxxxny” of commercc.*^ Although reminb* cent of a desert, there b noching pastoral here, there b no aem in thb hulk* ing lonely strueture. Dbtribution of animab and land has given way co the allocacion of marerlab and monies. The disposición of natural ¡Mace has yielded to the imposición of artificial site. The mall b noc only desoían but deMÍttaf fbr ics of deep ecology. Ecocencriciry b out of pbce here. Even if the mall b filled with plants arid

other reminders of the nacural world, thb world itself remains eitfndr, scMrte* wbere eise on earth. “Narure b still elsewhere. True place b ebewhere. Real life b mbsing, **ia vnur vie at jsésrnñr.”*** Ac best, real life and true

place are re^referttfd in che mall, e.g., by phocc^raphs of wild places or by recorded sourtds of animal or human volees. The three*dimeiisionality place and voice—cheir dbtinctive depth, their life—has been replaced by the twoslimensicmaliry of lifeless visual and auditory kons. Time aml space come together in such a site and its attenuaced images, buc neither life nor place ^)pear in thb flartcned*ouc, homogeneous scene. The clear sight of open landscape has given way co tbe clear*cut dimen* sions of a rectilinear and sdfendosed building complex. Depth, the dusive



basis of all dimensions, indeed tbe “first dimensión,”^** has been elimiruced in fimx of shaüowness affect and image, a flacness reinforced by glossy walls and sUek floors. Walking is scül allowed but is accivdy discounged by che escalacors chac iransport cxk^s inert body upward from fioor co floor untü, at che cop, onc views the empty-fúU prospect of an infernal and unreal non-scape fulJ oí sound and sight, si^üying "noching that is not there and the noching that is” (Waliaa Stevens). Ic is to this estranged scene chac I cravded as I corr^üeted my trip to Harcfi^d. Earlier on the same iourney, 1 had glimpsed arKXher >w>rld, obscutcly but impressively present. Even as viewed from I*9i, chac wtn^ che natural world, was seen to possess its own inalienable configuration and depch. From wiriiin my speeding automobik, I could noc help but nocice an alluring set of places, indeed an encire r^ion cxhibiting its own landfbrm features, arc and atmosphere, things and ground, all connected by shimmer* ing sensuous surfeces. I was given a landscape even as I was driving cowird a sitesG^. What more could 1 ask for? All 1 have to do now is to drive back lo thar beckoning región, leave my car, and start walking. Then an unmalled world of wüd [^aces rtot visible from, much less touchable in, the urban scerte will open up. Emerson was right: “Cities give noc che human senses room enough.”’** lò get che right room, 1 need only sauncer out oí che maU and return to whacever unwalled wüdemess remains. If I do this, I wül find my* self in agreemem with Thoreau: “When we walk, we narurally go co che fields and woods: what would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a malir’**


Moving between Places Ufe ahalJ not «ase from cxpbnrion And (he end of all our exploring WiJI be (o arrive where we staned And fcfxsw the pbce for the firsc ame.

—T. S. Choi, *LR()e Gidding"

9 Homcward Bound: Ending (in) the Journey wouJd like OAly, fix OAce> n> get to where we ere aJready.

—Mvein Heidcgget* “Language*


H£ BOC^ lOU have been reading consütutes a twofeld |ourney. It has taken us, author and reader on a conceptual iourney concerning place—coKcrning ha charam* and tbe nunilbld ways in whidi we come co know a given pbce—as well as on a líved and remembered journey between particubr places: between Kansas and Tibet, Vicenza and Xfenicc, Vaux-lcVicomte and WsaiJIes, Gbcier Bay and Walden Ibnd, Nonhampton and Hartford. Despite manifest diñerences, the travel in concepts has been con­ tinuóos with the experiential trips; indeed, each form of voyage has called for the other. Kant’s basic rule that concepts without intuitions are empty, intuiüons withouc ccwKepts Uind, remains valtd in the pbce-world. Ib do a phílosophy of ^ace requires recourse boch co the luminosicy of corKepcual disrinctions and to the feh density of actual occaskms. In both regards and often in quite parallel wiys, chis text has represented a journey back ¡neo place: a virtual re-installation in pbce icself. But does not the very idea of/mniry cake us back instead ro che putative primacy lo give a quasPnarrarive recountir^ of che varieties and vidssicudes of place as 1 have done in successivc chapeen of this book sug­ gests that I have myself fallen inco some son of temporocentrism. Have I not given a running (if noc ahogecher breachless) account m of as­ pects of oríentation and dirección, of certain basic bodily ctmtributions to impbcement, of two ways of dwelling, and of fundamental features of wílderness pbces? Have I noc been celling a rtery of pbce and thereby transíante pbce itsdf into temporal terms? Does noc explidriy invoking che cheme of joumey at tbe end only renim us co the very position I attempted to abandon in che beginning? Must we not then concede prioriry co time after all? A cióse scrutiny of rhe nocion of joumey shows, however, thac even such an ostensibly temporal idea as this (the French cognate jwmü means "day-




Mcvir^ bftvtm Piacts

long”) harboTS a commitment co pbce. Much as lumtfivcs of many kincU I (induding those of journcys) cannot help but allude to place: in tbe form of seriously I "sertíngs,* ' » ’ so •journcys f themselves .... —whether ..............migrations ç,........................... , undcrtaken I or mere pleasure tripa—are pba-bound and placc*spedfk:. Place would not


j I I

macter so much if joumeys consisted merely in returning co a precise point in Space or Time conceived in terms of simple locación. Such exact spariotonporal pointülism means reverting to the identical, to jtt/t tAv spot on a map Of a calendar (ideally, boch at once)—a spot that is no pbce at all but a site. Yfet the cffcct, if not tbe expresa purpose, of most journeys is to get us back into an accommodating, nonpuncdform place, noc exduding a pbce defined mainly in temporal cerms (c.g., **the beginning place**). In foct, when we joumey back to the same place, tbe place itself need not be strictly the same; it would even be bizarre for the place co be altogethcr unchanged. Wc know it as different even as we rerurn to it as idenrifi^y (but not identically) the same. And this is so because of the inherent plasticity and porosity of place icself, its nemeonânement to predse sparial temporal parameters, its continua] c^>acity to overfiow (and someúmes to undermine) these limics. More than mere backdrop, places provide che cha^ing but indispensable matena] IKMIUIIl hVlMJ médium kM of fKJWIfVj», journcys, (UtiUMJ fumishing way stacions as well as origins and destinations of these same journeys. Homecoming presents an espedally scriking instance of tbe di^nnee thar platt makes in a joumey. Wben Odysseus comes b^ to his borne kíng* dom of Ithaca, he is as struck by the changes he observes as by tbe con* tinuities: persevering Penelope is ostensiMy selfidentical, but life at court has become insubordínate and unruly. (By hangíng slave-girts and killing l^nelope*s suitors, however, Odysseus evinces an unwülingness to live wich such disturbing diflerences and an insistent desire to rccurn co the ítanhy. &c these very cvents, which form the fod of narratlon, are not without (daceful properties. The allure of my childhood home even ineludes its address at **)aio W»t iTth St.,’ for me an almost talismanic place-marker. However dis* tañe in space itmI time ic has become for me, cbe house ar this address is scill a place, a mosc significant place, as I retum to íl “Home is where one stares from,”* and it is also where ect, the daily duración, che of che journey—but the ín-bctwccn places ate just as interesting, and sometimes more so. Wbeteas the scarting- and ending*[Maces are the same—paradigmatically so in the case of homeceaníng—che interplaces are incrinsically diver^ sometimes to che poinc of being distracting, as in the picaresque manner of D^n Qituott, But they may also be highly struccured among themselves, as in epic journeys of many descriptions, irKliKÜng the O^ftsey and the Dtfms These larcer joumcys cxhibíc an essentially disparate sparialky, an irrecusable otherness of intermedíate places visiced by rhe epic bero. Noc only are there nine drdes in Dante^s visión of Hdl, but nny given drde is ksdf further díversífied: the eighth drde, for example, has ten subdivisions, each with ics own peculiar pladality. A journey of the kind undertakcn by Don Quixote or Dann or Odysseus is a journey throí^ what Deleuze and Guattari cali the “Dispars”—thac ís, a dívetgent and heterotopic spariality—ín contrast wkh the *‘Compars,* a homogeneous and metricaily determínate space. The Dispars, whkh ís also (somewhat paradoxkally) called **smooch space,* is described thus: Smooth space is predsely the space of tbe simllest deviación: chercfore n has no bomogendry, except between infinhdy proxímate poims, artd the tinking of prcBomicies is effected independently any deiermíned pach. It b a space of contact, of small tactile or manual kóots of contact, rather than a vUuaJ space like Eud>d*s striatcd space.... A 6eld, a heterogeneous

btn^ecn PUcts

smooth space, is wedded co a very particular type multiplidcy: non*met* ríe, acentered, rhizamatk mulciplkicies which oceupy space without “councing* it and [which] can “only be ei^lored by legwork.** In the cases dtcd jxist above, t^wxk is rhe main means by whidi a journey is kxomplishcd. Whether ng-lcgged horse (e.g., Dcm Quizóte and Sancho Panza^ or the iegendary Crusa¿rs) or literally on fbot (e.g., Dante

and Virgil)» the journey is made by maintaining bodily concact wich tbe underiying earth. Even Odysscus, che intrepid saUor, muse explore on fooc che coasts and islands he comes upon; and in Joycc*$ tetelling of che Hcxneñc epic, the procagonises continually walk from place to place in and around Dublin. In such perambulations, prcícular places are linked “independently of any determined path." A pocent factor of the undecermirwd, ote) of disdnee danger, tftends the journeyer and eliminaces the security of a predetermined craieccory, as is expressiy signaled ac che beginning of che in Dancéis immersion in **a dark fexest* (una teiva íBctm) and in his frightening encounters wich severa] savage beases. Moreover, what marters on such herok (or, in che case of Den and Ufysfa^ mock-herme) journeys is an immediate, unpremedicaod engagement with a particular pl^ rather than a survey, i.e., a distanced visual percepción of the scene. The “rhiztxnack mulriplidries** constitucive such journeys are found in unsurvey* able (^aces wlxwe idiolocal pecuüahtíes are experieneed in che first person by means of couch and sound as well as sight. Disparacness of plaa reigns over the self'identity of sp^ and the punctuaJity of time. Journeys thus noc only take us to ^aces but embroil us in them. For chis reason they cannoc be reduced to superficial visitacions, or “day crips,” in which wc careen or cruise becwcen places considered as arbitrary stopping* points. Don Quizóte, for all his bizarre antics, gets deeply involved in che places he encounters. Ib be sure, tbe cartograpber and the topc^raphical landscape paincer—along with che historian of a región—legicimacely avoid complete immersion in the places with which they are concerned. But where chey assume a certain distance ten places (indeed, che very idea of “land* scape" implies chis disrance), tbe journeying person is caught inescapably in a placeful net of che Dispars. Only in the striccly homogeneous space of the Compars can we im^ine ourselves glidir^ between places in a frktionless teiion. The O/fysít^y chat ur*ep)c of Western tradición, is densely place*besec in ics strxKture. The ñames of ics primary episodes are place-ñames or surrogates of place-names: toponyms or eponyms.^ Moreover, “che essential rhychm of the Oífyísty is set up in the ípatial alternación of its pisodos. Beyond the foct chac che very nc«ion of “episode'* cannoc be grasped excepe in sparial terms (t^ifotUt derives frcMn /peúodcv, com ing in besides), cbe epi*




sodes are the very.episode» íf particubr pbces. The narratíve of chese same epbode» is less a mean» of linking them rogetber in a common stream of cime than of íncenwínii^ them in space—and, more pankubrly, in {Mace. “Much of the action of che narratíve,'* writes Michael Seiòcl, “connccc» pbce and process fer Odysseus.”^ Indeed, the essential unic of Homer'» í» cbe rtilw, i.e., the natural lócale, the particubr regkm signdied by such pbcenamcs a» “Hades,” “Wmdcring Rocks,” “Pylos,” “Scheria,” etc. lixncr

“speaks wich ñames”—‘wich local pbce-names—and in his epic che bnd and sea are ac once sources of ñames and echical preserves, realms of valúes and vircues as well as mnemonic resources. For archak Greek bards as fer con* tcn^xxary ^^ksccrn Apache scoryallers, pbces provide permanencc, a bedrock basis for sicuacin^ stones in sttncs that possess ntoral cenor.* The Odpsrr k tbetefere at leasc as much a narratíve of place as it i» a narratíve of events. It às a narratíve of rmn m Such a narratíve is inhercntiy “chiwocopk” in cbe Bakhcínian sense of offering an indissoluble mixture of spatío*tcmporal happcnings.* Chrmocopism is all the more evi* dem in the É>i9mt Camafy and where a cosíetermination of date and

pbce ís continually effecced. Dance*» epk takes pbce at Eascertide, A.D. i)oo, between cbe night of Maundy Thursday and W^lnesday noon after Easter, wich visic» to parckubr pbces daced even more exaccly: e.g., Dance*» arrival at tbe gace of Hell at 7:00 P.M. laces that corre^xxid co actual Street addresses in a reocMStructed map of Dublin.*^ In a noc^ook preparacory to Joyce wrote: “Ibpical HÍ5C(xy: place» remember cvcni».”** Tbe inicial spaóo-tcmporal equipoúe of che phrase “topkal history** is subverted by the daim chac chc active agem is pbce aixJ rm hiscorkal events, tbe former activdy rememberíng che beter. Joyce calis into question the characterístkally modern concepción of viewing memory as exdusively cime*bound, i.e., as recollection of che past. The in* berent localism of memory also obcains for narración, in whkh pbce», instead of beii^ merely settings or seenes, are active agente of commemoration. Nkk Thompson, a ^^cer^ Apache scoryreller, put» it thi» way: “All chese pbce» have scorie».** Tbe copotropism of Homer and Joyce, Cervantes and Dance, also appears in che earth epk» of che ^^stem Apaches, noc to mention che Auscralian Aborígines, che Navajo, che Salteaux, and cbe Lakoca Sioux. In chese dí^rrse epkal traditions, ^^%$tcr^ and non*\^^tern alike, memorable journeys consist of evene» in pbtts. Hearii^ of such Journeys, we come co know places wich as mudi righc and as much insighc as we know che dme in whkh tbey have transpired. Narración hereby lives up to ics own origin in/MTKr, knowü^. In learníng of narrated rimes and pbces—rimes-of*pbtts and fMaces* in*rimes—we aequire a distinctive form cS local knowlec^.

Moving hotmm PUua

II But what of onr own journey», che travdmgs of our (so-called "ordinary*) selves, tbe irips of those who are not dasska] heroes, fblk heroes, even mocfc* or anti*herocs^ A quite basic, yet setdom noóced, strueture of mundane ¡our* neys is a phenomenon I shalJ caJl "double-tracking.” As I journey from place to place in rhe everyday life-worid, rwo paralld and simultaneous processes are likely to oceur without premeditarion. O) one hand, I find myself attend* : íng closely to the immediate perceptual environs, the "near sphere* or "focal fieid* {as I called h in part two) whh its usually less than Odyssean lures 1 and dai^ers. I must make my way salèly across or around wtwever obstacles lie before me in this dose world if I am to reach my destinación sucassfuUy Here most of my cues stem from the unaided perception of wh«ever presents itself to the naked eye (and to the equally unadomed ear and the direct smses of touch, taste, and smell). I notice tíns kxxnir^ person or tíua on* comir^ car in my path. On the ocher hand, I am also aware of a more ' encompassing dreumambient fieid within which the focal fieid itself is sec. Although this larger fieid is mapp^le (it would constícute a dístrict or r^ion on a map), 1 do not take it as metrically determínate or even as laid out in a r^lar way. Instead, I grasp it as a diversely configuraed, mulüdimensional envimunent wich ks own inherent directionaliry. Thus my sense of the "car* dinal directions* arises from such comparativeiy remoce natural phenomena as the risii^ and serdi^ of the sun, the path of the moon, the conscellations of the stars, the disposición of hilis and mountains that surround me. Less direa cues indude the relaivc speed and height of clouds coming fhsn over the horizon, allowing me to infor that tbe ocean is located "over there.” On a journey, I attend to these indica of the fir sphere, whether they are in the dirección of my destination or noc. For they ínfbrm me of v^at lies before and around me, even (and espedally) when a given destination is out of the rKMinal rar^ of my direcc perception. As I pursue my everyday journey, e.g., from my home to che Service station where my car is co be fixed, it is crucial that 1 rdate boch kinds of Information—chat coming from from che focal fieid and that from the dr* cumambient worid—to ach other. Noc cmly do 1 keef tmdt of my journey, I ÁottbU’tnuit it, heeding noc jusc two sítate sets of cxks buc their continu* ing ínterrelacion^ip as well. A particular percepción in the here of my protoplace takes cn ics fuU significance only as ic links up wkh whac is in the chere of an oncoming com*place or axincer*place. Conversely, I cannoc grasp what is chere in the nen stage of my journey eacept in relación to che here of where I am just rxnv. My journey, in ocher words, is rtoc simply from here to chere bur from here co here to here, or more predsely from the here*in*

Homevori 3ound


vkwsrf-thcrc to che thcre-re^chcd-from-hcrc. Á diakctk of pbce ensues üi whkh I go not jusc between discretc and preestablished points but find my* sdf within an ew^lving nexus of evn*changing pbces, ãll of which can be duractcrized by hereness as well as chereness. Even if eadi che pbces of my journey remains re^giúzably the same, a given place is whac it is only . in relación to the ocher fMaces.*^

The diakctk of an everyday journey is temporal as well as pladal. It is | V a maner of now and then as well as here and chere. The here oí my journey is at the same time a now (tbough noc necessarily a scrkcly momentary now), and a given there is also the then of my arrival at the next sta^ and even* tually at ir^ destinación *‘thcre in the fururc* (as Alkinoõs says to Odys* seus)?’ Ib che essencial heterogeneity of place, ics hecerocopism, is ccxijoined

a mulàpliaty of times, a heterochtonism. Kight now, as I walk about my near sphere, I nodee che unfolding of several disparan temporal phenomena: chat ocher walker accomplishing his "l^^work* at a certain pace, rhose on* Corning cars bearing down upon me ac high speed, chac li^nne dog advancing toward me at an abrming rate. So, coo, 1 experience the day of my journey* ing as possessing its own pdyrhychm, its diurnal “parts” (morning, high noon, afternoon, dusk, evening) succeedíng each ocher in a manner thac may noc be dironometrically deternüntte but is nonetbeless noc ^lapeless eicher, each of ics unique evenes having its own cempo. When che icmoteness that lies beyond the visible horizon Ís taken inco account, the complexity becomes chronk indeed. For the chen of the chere may indude such cver'Shifcing AM* pora/M as weeks, months, ennre seaaons of the year, and even sometimes phases of my life. These I also cake inco account, however indefinite chey may be. Even if I do not perceive them as such, 1 have co be alert co cues corteerning their inoxning or outgoing presence: those March winds usher* ing in ^ring, as well as the heavy Friday aftemoon traffic signalú^ tbe cviset of che weekend. All of chis needs to be noticed, and is usually noticed, albeit subliminally. Ic would be more accurace to say, then, chac as a journeyer I perform a double*trackii^. Noc only do I relace the near co che fàr in cerms of l^ace. I also tie tt^echer che double piacial ambic chus achieved with che double temporal outiay just described. Ib move forward at all on my daily rouruis, co **advan(x” coward the Service scation—which fiv me now in the present is at once a place (for repair) and a time (a dose future)—is to reduxi wich the intricate incertwining of all tbe pertinent (facial and temporal paramcKn of my murulane voyage. It is to enrer inco a hi^aly ramified net* wxk places aml times. I accomplish che redoubled cracking by traversing various particular way stations on my journey. These way stations serve as condensed remmders and retainers of my joumcy*$ plado-tcmporality. As such, they (along wkh be*


Moring bftwtfn PUucs

ginning* and end*places) are designated by extremely economíc toponyms. When stxneone asks me vilvrr I am tww ín my journey, I almost aiways an* swer by gíving a discrete ^ace*name: **Quogue,” “Atlanta,” "Amherst, Amhcrst, ” **New Haven,” etc. Similariy, if I am asked where I am I tend (o respond by offering stili other topor^ms: **Santa Barbara,” **Srony Brook,” '‘Fairhekl.” The use of such pLace*names is no contingent matter, something I could do without. They are the locaiMy units of everyday journeys, Índices of attadunent to the land (or sea or air) through which such journeys are made. Signs of literal progress in one sense, these "local s^s” are also in* sígnía of just where and when we are and have been in the placc'wodd. Even on mundane journeys, places are areas of posdble wtmfrtvm. Far fhxn beii^ superBcial "posidons”—which, having no dimensionaliry, can of* fer no room fix immersíon’*—they are lod of and for involvement. But such

multilocular involvement requires motion on my part: motion ín/between places. 1 effect the motion of a journey by linking places ín signíficant propinquity to each other on a more sxKh immersion, such motionless motion in place, that I am able to move to the other way stations of the journey, and evenrually to my destinarion. MoTcmtnt is tíiert’ fifrt ir»trÍMsi( to fisset—thus to whac ís ofeen taken to be che very paradigm of the lasting and the wimoving in human experience. As hc4díng and mark* . ing the stages of a journey, places exhibir notably srationary virtues. But as 'the lod of ei^aged motion—both the more ccmspícuous motion of moving* between-places and che more subtle motion of being*in*place—places show ^themselves to be remark^y nonstatic. They are the fixi of Bow on the path* way of the journey.

III The doubling and redoubled structure of ordinary joumcys is fbrccfuliy inscribed in an extraordinary namtfívc account written by Matsuo Bashò ín (he late sevemeenth century. Neither heroic nor mocfc*heroic, neíthcr comic nor tragiq chis ís the journey of a poec wbo> having achieved workUy success as a genius of haihu, dedded to give up material and social arcachments and to travei to places famous fer their irkspiratíonal beauty or historical signifi* canee, from Edo (andent Tòkyo) in eastern Japan to C^aki ín the west, pass* íng rhrough many locations in northern Japan, without returning to his place of origin. Bashõ wrote several autobíogra^ical aceounts of his journey, one of which has the íntriguing titie “The Narrow Road to the De^ North.”‘^

This titie combines the two primary domains at stake in the double*tracking

Hffmcvoni Scttnã


dbcussed in the last scction: “the narrow toad” is the immediate focal field of the cravekr, while *thc deep north” alludes to the remoce ^>here sought in his traveis. A coordínate double*cracking of time is abo suggested, since che now of cach suttcssive way stacion b correlated with the then of more encompassing temporal units, such as months and seasons. Precisión of (riace (in che form of piacc-namcs) concatertaces with a commcnsurate exactitixle of time: *lt was eariy on the morning of March the twenry-seventh that I took to che road,” he writes, adding ai the end of che ttxt that hb |oumey was completed by tbe eariy summer of “169+,” five years laterJ* And yet he nukes it dear that he b offering the reader somethii^ ocher than a mere compcndium of hb daily travebJ^ Whac, then, does be offer? One important due b given by Basbó’s own haiku as found chroughouc (he cext. Tbe poet composed these sevenceen-syllablc poems (scsnctimcs cm che spot) as he craveled, and each of them presents a condensed image of an experience in a particular place. In fàct, every such image can be said co “dot” che experience of chac place. •• For example, after remarking that by climbíng arournl che deserted temple of Ryushakuhi be ‘'felt the purifyir^ power of thb holy environmenc pervading my whole being,” Bashô adds thb haiku:

ln tbe ucter silence Of a icmple, A dcada's voke alone Bmetrates the rocks.** Thb dbcinctly chnmotopic uteennee offers tbe prospect of a beterogeneous scene of rocks, temf^ and deada—all brought together in the extended pre* sent of an *utter silence.” The silence siguíes the poetas immersion in thb scene, hb arresced motion ac the place of che temple (tbe bete) and hb equally arresced actention íí the sudden soundir^ of tbe cicada's vmee (the now). As che cicada's voice ‘'penetrales” the rocks, so do (Mace and time penétrate each other in the poem, meeting in tbe center place of the temple. Despite the intensity of hb engagement, the poet declares hb awareness of wbhing to move on to the noct scage of hb journey: wanted co sail down che River Mogamí.”* As the A&enr that will be re^hed thgn^ tbe Mc^amí River beckons beyond che boriztm of cbe cunent scerK ac the temple. (}uite apart frexn its descriptive merits, such an epbode illuscrates Basbõ^s commitment co the Buddhbt doctrine of m/p, aceording co which all things are impermanent, fieeting, and empty. Hb decisión co undertake an arduous joumey when he was in Í11 health and getting on in years reflects thb same commitment. The travcler's inns in whkh he ofeen stayed ace them* selves concrete symbois of hh^, bringing n^echer impermanence in time


Mõfing bttwun ^aas

(the ovcrnight scay) and merely momentary stability ín space (che rented room). William LaFleur observes that ^^as a place that houses transíents, [such an ino] articulatcs cransience.*’^ The ino thus contrasts both with che compamíwdy stable klentity of the home and with the even greaer striMlíty of tbe hermit^s hut.^ An inn is che transitory haÍQng*place of che ambulacocy joumeyer whose ongoing moóon assures chac no place, noc even the place destinackxi, will be a scene of complete arresc. Thus Bashô, soon after reach* ing his goal of Ogakí, decides to dq>art cnce again; his very descinatien is no more than a pbce of departure: Everybody [in C^akil] was overjoycd co see me as íf I haJ rctumed unexpectédly from the dead. On September the sixth, however, 1 left for che Ise

Shrine, chough che fàc^ue oí the kxig journey was stili with rne, for I wanred to see the dcdication of a new shrine chere. As 1 scepped into a boat, I wroce:

As firmly conented dam-shells

Fali apart in autumn, So I must cafce co the road again, FaiewcU, my friends.’^

Like human Uft icself, Bashõ’s bold jcurncy consists in a continuai alcemarion of staying put and moving (mi. His sojourn is a líminal stare wich no lasting stopping pla^s. Ke pauses at an inn or temple only to leave again right away; no sooncr is in any case, outside of scrious sctentíÂc ron* ccrn). And yet it was predsely as rclative, as a matter of internai and externai rebttions of distance and positíon, thac place was mainly creaced—when ít was treated at all—by Descartes and Locke and ¿Kive all Ldbniz. How difhrait is che case of Badto*, who was as unabashediy place* attuned as his contemporarks in ^Wstern Burope were unconictingly place* purbiind! Ac scafce here is noc just a axitingent divergence between J^>anese and European sensibilicíes in a given htstorical period. Bashó’s eagerness ro fèacure place pcominently in the narrackxi of a journey—in a descriptively hch petâ rüô—becrays an entire way of being*in*the*world in which pl^es are nx>re cruciai constituents than are space and time. While even absolute Place is subordinare to absolute Space in Ncwton’s great narracive of modern physks, places counc in Bashó’s text rtM despite but bccoitíc of cheir reiativiry co each other. This very telacivíty allows them to be the ultimace unícs, the ^concact*loci,** not jusc of mobility but of stability as well, and thus co be the epicenters of every journey. The same reiativiry also enabks places ro be the mosc revealing arenas in which ro experience che dialectic of here-there, near—far, now—then, beginning-halcing, and permanent-transitory, a dialec* tic that subtends the progress of any given journey, and of any given life. Japan, unlike W»rem Europe, did noc undergo a violent rupeure be* tween a premodern or medieval period and an identiñably modern epoch. In place of radical scission, a gradual and slow modiheation of percepción and thought occurred "pianissimo** (in Robert Bellah^s word).^ Bashô, as a rep* resentacive figure of the seventeenth century in Japan, drew inspiración from such medieval figures as Cyc^i (e^hth cencury) and Saigyo (twelfch century) without feeling any disruptive discontinuity between himself and these illus* tríous pr«lecessors. In fxc, he was eng«^ed in a poetic project that carried forward their pioneering vencures—vemures that were already acutely place* sensitive. Although anchored in a period one cannoc hclp but cali "modern,’* Bashô was deeply ctmcinuous wich a period which the cyranny of hiscorical periodiciry forces us to labei "medieval.'* Bashõ*s sensibilicies sic achwart the modernisc thinking of his near (but fir-flui^) contemporaries Descartes and Lodee, Newton and Leibniz. But the fiict that his sensibilities connect with much eariier perceprions of place in Júnese culture suggescs chac it is concretely possible for those who exist in a porrmodem era in the Wtst to take inspiration from premodern as wdl as nonmodern instances of [^ace*appreci«ion.^ In (his vein we should not hesitate to apprt^riate insights fnxn Bashõ himself, despice his historicaJ embeddedness in che sevenceench century and his geographical locus in Japan, and we can do so wich mudi the same inspiration he took from the inaugural work of Gyogi and Saigyo. At the same time, we can forestall any charge



that we have merely r^reaal KJ the premodern, since Bashd's life and work cali the very distinction between modern and premodern inco question. l^haps che most basic thii^ to be kamcd from Bash&*s journey is that a fundanúntal distinction can bc made becween and rtMtíty when ic comes co matcers of place. By ‘‘fixity” I mean two chings. On (mk hand, I refer to the assumption that only what is «ferrpaf /rem » fixai position or **perspoeti9t** in externai space is co be aceorded objecóvity as a phenome* non.* On the other hand, fixiry impUes a strkt determinacy in the pwitwt tíft objM chus viewed: e.g., tbe center of a perfect drcle in Eudidean space, | * or any poinc ac whidi che coordinares on a Cartesian grid incersect in ex*| pressing the valué of a given variable (induding che locación of a sice on a map by means of comparable coordinares: Flagscaff, say, at *0'4** on a ro^ map). Fixity of position is an instance of simple locación, i.e., the presump* tkxi char a given object caken as an independent individual thing possesses one (artd txily otk) determinate site.’^ Boch simple location aod fixed, one*

poim perspective are important chapters in the modernist grand narrative of ¿^Mce. In this metascory, chey scumÍ in dose proximiry to daims that all sp^ is homo^neous, isocropic, and indnite and that, nevertheless, fitr us no ol^t

in space t$ experienced directly buc muse be represeneed in our minds as che spedfic conrent of an *idea* or a “perceptiem.* *S(abÍ]iry** is quite another mmer. From Bashõ we learn that it signifies I a way of being in space that suspenda fixarion on fixity itself in boch of thc (‘ senses jusc disònguished. One corterete sign of chis double suspenskxi is the fact that Basbô employs ptuntis^ as ntsips fer his journey rather than using offidal maps, which, by che latter half of the seventeenth century in Japan, were already drawn feom a fixed vtocage point above che landscape.* An*

ocher sign is the ccocínual crearion of expressly chronotc^ haiku, which may be taken as spontaneous poecic deconscruetions of simple locacions. For exam^: Behind chis door Now buricd in deep grass, A diñerent generación will celébrate The Festival of Ddls.*

Not only is che door noc simply locaced in space in the presoic (any such punetsae localiwion is here dissolved by tes tmmersion in *deep grass**), but its implacemcnc is diversified by ics rt^ in a ñiture wdten it will be a do«x for othm, In neither way is tbe door omsidered the kind of individual sifestance thar is strictly separable in space (and in dme) ñom other substances. Instead of simple locación, it possesses *mulciloculariry.*** in the case of che rhizome (which sports roocs at múltiple kxations undeiground), a given



pboe in the force field of Bashõ^s poetk visión is mukilocular, and yet re* cains its own stabilicy. A striking instance of this rhizomatic stabilicy appears in a final pair of haiku, boch written by fiashô*s traveling companion, Sora: A thicker summer grass Is all that remains Of che dreams and ambiciona Of andent warriors.

1 caught a gbmpse Of the frosty hair of Kancfüu VMwering amtxig Tbe whicc bkxsonu of wn«ks»M. u

Here onc and the same pbce is tbe oceasion for two difforent locaiizanons. In the first haiku, tbe place evokes tbe «Uekikv of the world of ancient warrico, who exist only in memory. In tbe second, this wodd is rendered mo* fQcncarily proau by che poet*s imaginación of the gray hair of che aged warrior Kanefusa. Memory and inugination complicare and diversify che self* same f^ace, which keeps its rtoMtíoí icâ chroughout chese variacions. In such a pbce as chis (as in che haiku’s own certual pl^} we realize chac whereas strict fixity of position and penpective is incompatible with the movement becween pbces essencial co a joumcy, stabilicy proves to be such movcmcnt’s constam compankm. Stabilicy and movement are compUmentary, each en* harKir^ tbe other in che course of a journey thac is as pbceful as it is eventful.

V From Qme co bme, a nun Itfts hb head, anifb, linens, considera, rccognizcs hb position: hc thinb, he sighs. and, dnwing his wacch from tbe pocket lodged against his chest, loofcs ac the time. Whtn m Z? and Whãt Ãw á itf Such are che inexhaustibk questiona nirníng from ua co che wodd.... —Fad Cbudd, Árt

The ongoing alliance of stability and movement in tbe progresa of a jour* ncy entaíls an cntanglii^ of space and time in the particular pbces and path* ways of thac journey. The deoiled narranve of chis incertwined spaa and time, bat^ pbce*bourtd and pbce-refiective, is not to be omfosed with the great (and greacly confining) narracive of Space and Time. In che modem V^^tern wrkl, aixi very much thanks co the /nand rüií of Space and Tune with which this world was inauguraced (and by whidi ic has cominued to

2S7 be susQíned down to the present day), we have Uctk cboíce but to regard time and space as rivalrous opponencs, since tíme is considered co be strictly cvcf-akering and sequenrial and space tímultaneous and unchanging. In the modern myth, eadi enooaches on the vrritery of tbe other, threatening it wich Qsurpatíon and even annihilackm. No wonder chat so many have come to suffer from this dire competítion (dice because there is no prospect of an irenie resohition), and that entire pathologics, both social and psycht^ogical, have issued from disttxtíons of temporal and spatial experiences in agonistíc relations with one anocher.* As Kant showed in tbe (f JUaw*,

the anrinomy chac resulcs from taking space and cime as separare parameters is unresolvable, espedally when che antinomy is seated in terms of whether the worid has a determínate heginning (or eiKÜi^) in spaa or tíme.^ And' yet the merest daily joumey brings sp^ and time cogether in the event of | plaa. In such a journey—and all tbe more so in an epic joumey—tbe merg' '' ing of motkm and scabilicy repbces the sepárate dimensíonalities of time and > space. In chapter 1, 1 traced out cwo sources of the modem prcdícament as ei^endercd by the o Space and Time: an oveniding concern the exact measurement of time (symbc^ized by the desperare search for a reliaNe marine chroncmter) and an obsesskm with che idea of mental representatíons (aceordir^ co which nothing can count as an experience unleas it is represented within the mind r^arded as the of nature’*). This concern and chis obsesskm have set the sceiK of modernity askew. They have led, for example, to a view of memory as having to do mainly with the predse represencation of the pase in quasi*visual ‘^recoHections.’** More gen* erally, they have produced che frenaed sense that there is never *wwld enoi^ and time” co lir^er in the leisurely pursuk of our mosc cherished


pn^ts, or even for che fulfiUment of our most mundane goals. But, as I have indkated at many subsequent points Ín this book, we also sufíer greacly from defident modes spatiality. With ^ace shrunken to friere site in acaxdance wich a paradigm of isometric extensión, wc find ourselves in leveled-down landscspes, dreary tractscapes where che Identical triumphs over the Díffcrent and the Same, che Compars over che Dispars. Even if we are less personally preoccupíed with spatial imprisonment tlün we are with tem­

poral di^lacement, wc are no leas the vktíms of modernist conceprkxis of space chan we are cS “modern times.* Our building, our daily living, ouri mappii^ our sodal relations, and our pditical (dis)en^owermerKs all refrect! our c^itívatíon in sice-spedficd spaces. Much as we would like to make time more expansive, it only seems co vanish, while space, on che ocher hand, appears to be alcogether too extensive—too empey and infinite—for concrete undertakings. If time has beome all coo “eestatie,” disint^rating before our


bítwfin Ptacef

very eyes, space stands stock'Still, offering no adequate basis for our stabilities and instabílicies. The dxial domiiuncc of Space and Time U an cxpressiorK as well as an I originai and continuing cause, of che neglect of Place in human experience.

Once more, this dominance and its cfTccts are easier to detect in tiú case of time. As Vine Ekloria pues ic, **If cime becomes our primary consideración, we never seem to arrive at che realiry of our exiscence in places.”” The Hopi,

however, know better; for them, “if ic does noc happen ‘at this pixe,’ it does not happen ‘ac this cime’; it happens at ‘that’ place and at ‘chat* rime.”* In other words, time and place are as inseparable in the end as chey are in the beginning (a beginning in which we ask ourselves CbudePs questions: *Where am IP “What rime is itP). But it is equally true that preoccupation with spxe obscures our immersion in concrete places. If something does noc happen at these ic also will noc happen in the encompassing but abstract sparial extent in whkh they are located. Ic—an “it" best rendered as an “event** (Heidegger) or as an “actual oceasion” (Whicehcad)—haj^ens at that place in that space, as well as m that rnae: in all three together, ssmtti. Or let us say that cime and space, racher than existing before place and independently of each ocher, iwb inhere m píace n ítarr vith. Anocher redou* bling oceurs just here—and now—as we fc^low che double helix of space and rime as enmeshed in parckular places. Chronocc^ism runs deep; it char* acnrÍ2es che very dcpths of Tiamat, che dcpths c^ primordial Place as it exists before the superimposition of Mardukian or Demiurgic geometrism and che eventual modernist scission of Time and Space. The spatio-temporal matrix, instead of preceding places, is part of their very stability, ingredient in their very permanence. The permanent icself is not only a temporal category (e.g., “everiasring," “sempicemal") situated somewhere bccween the unchanging* ness of etemity and the everchangingness of rime. Ir is also and equally a placial category. What Kant soughc to prove regarding time—thac ic “presupposes something permanent in perccfKion*'** —we may assert of space as well. They both presupposc the peraumenr m piact. Just as there can be no experience of cime except as the rime of cvents in places, so there can bc no sense of spacc chac is noc anchored, finally if noc immediacely, in particular places. The ultímate “Refutation of Idealism** lies in the permanence of place. lhe Navajo, who suffor so acutely from dispixement, are presdent in their belief that their land is scmeching “persisring through eventual changeDinécah (Nav^ Land) is scancthing permanent, and this means something lasting indefinicdy in space and time—or, more exactly, enduring in a space indissodable frc»n a time, boch togcchcr beii^ inexcrícably engaged in a particular place. It is thanks co the intimate interiacing of space*and*

Hffmtward Bcund


cime-in*placc thac anything like permanence, noc to mención stability, is pos* sibic. Buc the same inrertwining also gives rise co movement, including che kind of movement chac is ocmstácutive of journeys.

VI I know Pm noc here to oplore vacuousne*» tt (he heart of Amerk». Fm only in search of ú here, here in (be middie of the Flim Hilla of Kansas. Fm in quest of the land a»l what infenns íl —William LeaM Heac*Moon, fVarry&tS 0 Dtef Míif)

Journeys, then, are noc just travcU in time or acros» space. They engage t US inelucc^y in place—often in many places (and noc just in successkx) buc!

also all-at-once, as in the dialectk of che here-tbere). But we can say just as well that places engage us in journeys. This is so to tbe extent chac there is TX)Ching like a complecely statk place, a place involving no movement, no change, no cransieney. If places introduce permanency inco journeys—sínce chey are where we can nmaw as we move about—journeys Itfing out what is impermanent and omtinuously cbanging when we are in place itself. Ib be in a place is to be somewhere in which movement in tbe local landscape and Chus journeying in that landsc^ becomes possible. In a sin, by contrasc, we are sruck in space (as well as fhnen in tiriK) such that we can irxwe eftecávely only insoftr as we overccxrte distance at various races of accelera* tion—che hi^Kr the race, supposedly tbe better. In this circumstance, sicestasis sets in, and journeys bec^ne mere traveis or crips. In contrast, bcÍAg*in'(riace brír^ with it actualities and virtualities of mocion that have lictle if anything to do with speed and everything co do wich exp4oracion ai^ ínhabitation, with depth instead of distance, horízon rather than border, arc and not perimeter. Therefbre, jusc as places make jourr>eys possiUe by siruaring bodily move* ment and giving more or leas tenadous support co this rrxwcment, place» themselves engender aruJ encourage jourrwys in their midsc. If being on a journey is to be in or among places, to bc in a place is co be odible of

journeying. Between places and journeys chere is a relacionship of mutual implicación. Eventful and placeful as ic can be, every journey, induding that under* caken in this book, muse come to an end. TMr end is tn pina itu^. In this regard it does not matter if the journey moves continually in one place (e.g., phUosophizing while walkir^ within an aiKient atoa, or reading the chapters of this same book) or manage» ro move between numenxi» places. What marters is the movement itself as well as the fact that all movement, short of





a m í knows a ttrminus. hnf^aced and concínually re^ímplaccd, ' ioumeying oxnes co rerm evenrually. It finds its way back to place. Tbe place to which a fourney comes need nor be a single spot. aui come to a set of places and axisider dw the end of tbe voyage. This happens, fer exain{Me^ when we return co an ac^lcmk community we left tnany years ago. The journey ends in severa! places on the campus: a donnítory, the library, several classrooms we stül remember. Nor need che end of the journey consist in a place ve have krwwn before. I can journey to Ibpolobampo, México, somewhere I have never been. Nevertheless, unless I am emígrating to this exock pk^ (or am caught there in a political revolución), I wiil retum to my b^neland, which will be a second and familiar destíña' tícei of the same total journey. Ends of joumeys fidl into two extreme exemplars: homesteading and homecoming. In homatuuid^, E journey to a new place chat will become my future home-place. The homesceadíng place is typically unknown co me, or known only from ^counts given by others «4>o have preceded me. But I am determined to settie down tbe kxig cerm in this novel place. For instance, my Swíss ancestors homesteaded in Kansas, wbose flatlands were ucterly alien to char Alpine home-worids. They setcled in fer thc kmg cerm—which did nor prevent chem fnxn gazing nosta^cally ar paintir^ of tbe mountains and valleys they had left behind. Only the millir^ they pursued in the new land served to link them with che oíd country. Homesteading need noc be as literal or as land'based as this, however—given chat a scead is any place in which one can take up continuous oceupaney.*^ I can bomesccad in a dty where I have accepred a new position. All that marters is chac I commic myself to rcmaining in che new place fer a stretdx of tíme suffidenc for buildii^ a significant future lifo chere, sexnetimes for severa! generatíons. In homesteading, then, we witness tmee more che deep alliance chat can be ef« fected between tíme and place. In tbe duración of this alliance is no longer of major impor* tantt. What marters most now is the face of return to íhe same place.** My great'grandfather revished his Swiss village of origin several decades after hcxnesccadii^ in America. He stayed for two weeks, repaid chose who had lent him money co come to tbe New Wzxld, then abrupdy left, never to retum. Brief as his return journey was, ic was kmg enough to aceexnplish homecoming. If tíme is thus noc primarily at seake in homeccening, neicher is space. Once more, che issue is that of returning noc to the identícaJ spot in space buc to a place that may icself have changed in che meanwhile. As we have seen, this was predsely Odys$eu5*s face in coming home co ¡chaca. But ic is also everyone*s desciny who has rerurned bome only to discover strikii^ difftrcnces, e.g., chac cme’s childhood home is much more diminutíve than One had remembered ic to be.

291 Hocncstc^iíng and homecoming possess two features in common. Oni one haixl, they boch involve n^iK^iAeemtnt. An inicial implacement is suc* I cccded by a displacement elsewhere as a joumcy is undcrcaken; the displace")

ment, which may icself be múltiple, in turo gives way to a last implacement 1

at the end of tbe journey chac is comparatively condusive and stable. The dificrence, of course, is that thc re"implacing realized in homeste^ng is con* sfÁcuously “sccady,’’ noc just bng-lasting but such as to involve dwcllingsu* residing.** In homecoming, the re>implacú^ may be momentary and need

rwt indude residing or rc*rcsidíi^. Indeed, homecoming may be foUowed by yet anocher joumey, e.g., back to one’s íont9mf9rary hexne, «diercas the in* mtíon in homesteading is to remain in ooe*s newly adc^>ced bome-place. But homecoming is no leas poignant fbr lacking loi^evity. On che ocher haixl, both homesteading artd homeoxning can achieve ■■ xv-AaMAsm^. I bortow this word ínxn Thoreau, whom ic signifies a special ¡ kind of setcled coexiscerKe between humans and the land, between tbe nat-j ural and the cultural, and betveen one^s conttn^Kxvies arxl one*s anees-, tors.“ In homeste^ing (ac least that of an ea^ogically sensicive sort), one seeks co atcain an ongoing co-habicaney wich one*s new homc'place arxl ics denizens. Indeed, only by a concerted and prolonged cohabitación between the homesteader and the larxi can bomeste^ng become stxnething more than forccd explohahon of chc regicxi. Co*habicancy thus construed is dif* ficuk to achieve. My ^iss fixebcars did rxx accortmlish it during rwarly cwo decades of assiduous eflbrt on the **ptajryerth,***^ whereupon whereupon they they tumed tumed back co niiUing arxl to co-habicartey wich the Smoky HiU River. E>e^tc ics ftequene fáihires, homeste^ng fiouriahes when it anairu tbe equipoisc of co-habitarKy. Irxieed, witbout the realizackxi of a certain minimial co-habi* caney, homesteading becomes abortive or even sclf*defeacing. For it then Ciils co come to terms with whac che larxi cafIs for by way of an abiding partner* ship. In homecoming, by contrast, che co-h^taney is disdiKtively different. By coming home, I ef^t a series of spedal aUiances: with those who still

remain chere; with chose who were n. Wking ouc from Con­ cord, he re-implaced himself on a firm that was once homesteaded by the Spauldings; but it was also, and much longer ago, homesteaded by a com­ muniry of creatures more deeply and unself-consciously erhical chan their human successors. Thoreau*s own journey co Spaulding’s Farm was a home* oxning 10 a place where, though he had never lived there, he knew co-habhancy to chrive. Tb enter and reenter a h^cat in homesteading and homeccMning, the premer h^itus is also called for: the right set of skills for inhabitir^ or re*

Hofnívard Btrand


inbífoíting that endíng*place. As Th catednes», whose symbolk cx^ession is che Street address. Buc in pursuing! a iourncy we also discover ourselves to be w in quite anocher sense: *íiin” as 1 immanenc, immersed, and in4)laced. In such an in, we are noc just contained 1 or located but undergo the Rx>re radical experience of merging with the pbce ■' we arc in, losing our sepárate selves as travekrs and becoming one wich the '

landscape we travei chrough. This is the **in” at stake in rc-m-habitation, which aims noc merely to find a place in whkh co subsist buc to make livii^ there intrinskally valuable and memorable, so that someday we can say “tArre we have been.” Oseensibly, rr* is a tempocal term and m a spatiai word. In bcc, each is spatiai artd temporal. move back is to regress boch in space and in time. To in^habit or rc'inhabit is to enter a place remporally—with the righc rhythms—while merging wich it spatially: **co*habnancy” here takes on yet anocher dimensión. Ultimacely, however, the reZin pair is icself pladal in char* accer. This is evident in “getting back/into/pbce,” What we get htuk iroo is a place where che journey can come co an end in space and címe, enabling us to experience it on its own merits as che pbce that it is. Just as we must adtnowledge a past that was never a presenc, so we must aver a pbce that is no position, much less a physkally or mecaphyskally jSnr position. It is to this pl^e, an cnd-pbcc, that we get back on joumeys of homesteading and homecoming. Such a pbce is in efifect wrjí’nr inasmudi as ic is noc literally Awsrvibre. Ic is this unpositioned pbce—noc co be con* fused with che void, a strkt wn-placc—that gives rise to the paradoxical fàte of being known boch fbr the first time (even when ic has been known before) and Ibr che second time (even when it has never been encounwred ac all). If we are to get back into pbce in this nonprimary and mmsimple sense, we must take our time. A retarded movement back, a mocion m riâcrdimds, is prescribed. In exploring and discovering altogether new pbces, the tempo tends co be acederated. Buc in che retum to tbe ncxiorigin of an end*place, the proper rhythm is slow rather chan swifc, a matter of^nsri&u racher than cdenMf. The habitus ensconced in re-inhabkation signifies just such slowed* down speed: the need fbr the gradual re*acquisition of che right habies, che sedimcncation oí the ^propriace habitudes, the growth of eflective habitua* tions. All of these larter are matters of memory, and of body menx^ in partkubr. For it is che remembering body that, conduding a ríme*consuming but cimely and weibcimed journey, brings us back inco pbce. When we are brought back into a pbce at the end of a journey, we also find cxirsdvcs imagining ocher possibilicks than our body may have experi* enced before. Ws come to live in this old/new pbce in ahered corpweal comportments. The ^re” and *in” are transformed—trvwpbad—beyond ex* pectacion. The normal recainers of time such as docks and cakndars are sxkI*

bffwtfn Piacc


denly insufficient, even irrelevanc, to the experience of being in chis accustomed/unattustomed pbce. The usual cmcainers of space such as ciry limics, nup Unes, or the grids of the National Survey of 179$, spring leaks as an entire new worid floods inco the [riace where our jourrwy has put us bad: down. ]ust when we are in ünminent danger of beú^ overwhelmed by che strangeness of che end-pbce (whether ^viously known or noc), we are able to aceon^ish re-in^>bcemenc and co-habitancy. W: axe back into place in a txxibackward way. And, as che exemplary place of Walden has taught us, what we are rKxw in is someching equally without, just as che without we are in is itself ukimately within that enoompassú^ wild pbce called **carth.” Joumeying wdk* I say, keeping in mind chat there are many ways of dwelling, cwo of which I have em^asized. Like land and character themsdves, these two forms of dwelling often coexist and in their very redprodty give rise co the further expression of character. Willíam Least Heat-Moon (who lives in Missouri) ís a soiourner in che Kansas county whose longtime deizens he has incerviewed and come co know. His form of dwelling (i.e., as wandering) ccmiplements cheirs (dwelling-as-residing). On anocher pilgrimage in another oountry, Bashô peregrinated between settled places. Dut in boch cases the genius of the places the authors vísiced becomes evident in the kind of writing they do. Whether in the brevicy of haiku or ín a voluminous quasi-autobéographica] account, the character of Matsushima and Mount Gassan, of Saffordville and Cononwood Falis, comes through in the genre and styk of the tcxrs that describe them. Character will out, and this is as true of the character of places as of peoplds character in those same places. \Wstern Apache **stalking stories" draw upon much the same expressive qualities of a particular place. Such stories ampty nkr tf tht plací. Much as Thoreau '^retained the bnd­ scape* in the language of Wdr», so these stories retain the bndscape of wTstern Arizona as the uniqudy appropriate scene for tales poignant morai import. The ethical point they make is by words buc, like character (i.e., raèor), the ethics is uirimately rooted in the land. As one of Basso's informants, Benson Lewis, a concemporary Apache, says:

1 think of that mountain called **white rocks lie above in a cocnpvt duster* as if it were my maternal grandmother. I tecali stories of how it once was at thar mountain. The storiea told to me were like arrows. Elsewhere, hear* ing chac mouncain's name, 1 see it. Its name is like a picture. Stories make you live right. Stories make you replace yoursdf.^ The ethical ene^y, the earth character, Bows from land to words and back again to land, as **you replace yourself* in the earth that ís the source of character and stery alike. Between land and language stands the speaker or wríter as their common **$u$taining médium.*’* Ir is precisdy as such a me-

dium, as a moving mediatrix bftveen people and places, that itíneram authors such as Bashô, Thoreau, and Least Heat-Moem can express the dusive but brefui link between place and character. Ws must be carefui, however, not to be drawn back into literal ization.

betvm Piaos

The prerequesite peregrination need txx be between get^raphkaüy Ulenu* fiable places, any more chan homecoming requires a stricciy ídentical home* place to which co retum. IhU b noc to deny that journey» can be mapped, and uscftiüy so. Nobuyuki Yuasa, tbe transbtor of He Road » tht Dtep 2>iortht appends three maps of BashO’s nirteraríes. Anthropc^ogisc Fred Mycrs fmsents eighc maps of his Pintupi ínformanc Maantja tjui^umyi*» nomadk excurskxu in che Lakc MacdonakJ r^ion.^ Buc tbe exacc trajecto­ ries, even the predse destinanona, are noc aiwap known; nor need they be. VSb do not know predsely where Tborcau went on his afternoem walks out of Cemeord, and we often do noc knenv just how Least Heat-Mocn moved


across Chase County despice his oopious descriptions and decailed maps of tbe Kansas landscape. Although Victtx’ Bérard cried to map Odysscus^s actual movements in che Mediterranean, we no more have co know exactly what tbe Greek héroes movements were in cartographic space than we have to ktx?w jusc how bell hooks crossed her hometown co gec to her grandparents’ home. What is impcRtanc in all these cases is rht cattrst atuí /ürtoian íf rhe àstif^ its tenor and import, whatever its predse path may be. Tb depnand üteralism of che path, whether in word or in inv^ is to convert che ! plasckity of places inco che rigidiry of sites. The same de-Uttraliaaàon appbes ro the movement inherent in joumeys. Even though most joumeys in^ve actual movement between places, one

may journey while remaining in a sin^ pl^. Each us does something like chis, as I su^esced earlier, within our own bome*place. A friend of mine likes to walk around the same piece of land she lives cmi, sometimes scidting co the surrounding lawn, sometimes going to rhe mail box at tbe end of a half-mile lane, sometimes stroUing ro a nearby difí and beach that lie on the w^tern side of tbe same pkx of land. Making a joumey-in-place, she visits various w^ stations within the drcuit of the place as a whole. Even when the trajecttvy remains tbe same, che variacions incroduced by time of day, seasex), her own mood, her dc^'s pace, etc., suffice to make the perambuladon a distinctívely different journey every time. I Whac .. tIM maners on a journey *—- J lAis (f,ZV not IIK/tMIIWIIl movement «O as OUW* such buc tbe Llf^ JVt fifrsa R» ' 1 wnm. At the limit, one can cravel without moving. Ibynbee says of desert iKxnads that, strktly speakir^, “they do noc move.”*° Or racher, títey mcvs

m piao^ that is, in a seasonally determined cycle of places within che región chey inhabit on the edge of the desert. Ntx* does one need tbe desert to be nomadk in this manner, fer there are urban nom^, nomads of che sea, rKxnads of the mind.*^ One can even be altogether “sruck in plaa,** as are the main characters in Beckecc*s “Happy Days,” and still experience a vivid sense of joumeying in chat place. Distinguishing between a “cree travel” ex* emplified by Goech¿s ItaUainise arul a “rhizome cravel” illustrated by Kleist’s Marianorartheatery Dekuze and Guartari remark that “what distinguishes che



two kinds of voyages is neither a measuiaUe quanticy of movement, nor something that would be cxüy in the mirtd, feuç thc tf ' chc manner of being in s|4ce, of But when we de*litcralize ¡ movement by focusing on the form or mode of motion, we are no longet; rescrkted co two kinds of voyages: not only arborescenc crips of courism (Goethe or Ruskin or Edith Wharton, all in Italy) or rhiaomatic under* ground «^jyages (Odysseus in the underworld; Dantt in Hell; Kafka^s K bc* neaih tbe hotel, in Târ CMtU) buc also voyages of exploración (e.g., Sir Wdter Raleigh on the Orinoco) and of sóentific discovery (Darwin ín the Galápagos), noc co menckm ^^nmage», whkh fell into a oxn^ex fesckk of diffeient cypes and sdxypcs that range feom rdigious to secubr and from havii^ fixed routes (e.g., to the shrine at Santiago dc Composteb) co pos* sessing varying ^proaches (e.g., to Bañares, City of Light). In each instance, dose inspection would reveal íts own "mode of spttialization,” or, racher, ics own kind of pbdalization, its own way of ^teing back iruo p4acc.

xu Knowing where and who are iramaiely linked. —Gary Snydcr, ^fU'lnhabóaoon*

Where we are has a grear deaJ to do with who and what wc are—chis continuing leitmotif has ics converse in Whícehead*$ proposition thtt ‘^he actual entity, in virtue of being «*te it is, ís also whtre it ís.”*’ Where something or someone is, far frcxn being a casual quaiification, is one of ics de* termining properties. As to the vàe, it is evidenc that our innermost sense of personal ídenticy (and noc only our overt, public character) deeply reílects our implacement. It foUows that thteats co chis implacement are also threacs to our entire sense well'being. As Proust avers, **noc knowing where I was, 1 could noc even be sute at fine who I was.”** Concerning instances of **place*alienaQon” in which a pl^ has become something quite other than one remembert ic as bong, Sv«n Birkerts can wnte: **No nuner what plea or adjustment 1 make, I cannot cacch hold of the peculbr magic of rhose (^aces. It is less that thty are gone than that I am.”*^ When pbces change aspect or fKle in significan^, I change or fade with them: rfaàr alteración is itty aheration. But my own chaires may be funded back into the very pl^cs that have been so fixmacive of my idencity in tbe firsc place. Given chis redprodcy of person and place, placc'alienackm is itself cwo* way: I from it, it from me. When caughc up in chis double*sided ocherness, I feel, almosc licerally, ‘‘beside myself.” I feel myself co be ocher chan myself and noc just somewhere ocher than where I am in world*space (e^g., my exact address, my carcographk location, etc.). Even though 1 am licerally here in a

btnftfn Piaui

panicuUr place, my place ís not tíiit place. By the same tokcn, this place is rw longer tity place: indeed, my place has become ocher ro (and ocher than) me. Tbe entire situation, and noc just my psyche, is schízoíd. Mosc of rhe rime, we deny the mutual decermination of person and place, tend to biame either the person or the place for what has gone wrong in our lives. If we don’t bUme anocher human being, we single out che place we are ín. Under the sway of an ar^ry mood, we become ourspolaenly criticai of our place’s malevolenr powers, its *íllth.’'*^ We experience what Aristotk called the **accíve influence” of a place as an influence fcc the worst, and our alienación may become obsessive as we ruminace on the baneful efleccs of the i^ace. Our animus is directed against this place precisely because (and in propoction to) our convicción chat che place has been at leasc che primary occasion, if not the exclusive cause, of our current dístress. An extreme form of place-alienation oceurs when human beings (nor to mention other animais) are forced ouc of a plaa. Yet displacanenc as involuncary relocation is the unforcunate fare of many peoples on earth, irKluding che vast majority of Native Americans. The Navajo experience a sense of wich special acuity because of their ccmvictkm that the iand on which tbey have lived for many generations was given to them as a per* manent residence ftom their criticai moment of emergence in this, the fifth and last worid. Nor only was everyching given its ^oper place ac thac ab* originai moment, buc they, the Dinéh, were granted an entire región of places chey were meant ro occupy indefiniceiy: '‘Tbey were placed in a Holy Livir^ in this Wiy, ‘‘persistii^ throt^ eventual dunge,” allows no room for dísplaconent.** Henee there arises a círcumscance in which anger

(at the displattrs) combines with incredulity (ac being dis{Maced) as well as with intense longing for the place vacaced. Much the same combinación outr^e, unbelief, artd nostalgia exists amor^ those everywhere—ftom Amer* ka to Europe to l^lestine to Tibet—for whom displacement has meant un* wanced expulsión ftom a native land or región. The longing for return to a home-place and a hcxne-terrirory is the cu* rious converse of the circumstance of many journeys. On a joumey, a travcler often ftfij íüípioífMcnt, whether in rhe adventuresome pursuit of rhe dispa* rate or in order to reach a definiré descination. This is why so many journeys (including the inns at which one stays on journeys) are apt expressions of the doctrine of mm/ò, the murabiliry of all things. For an adberent of waçja such as Bashõ, not to kcep moving on, responsive co change ac every step, is to risk being bound co a false and ddimiced ego-self that is the personal expression of being scuck*in-place. As Saigyo put ir in a haiku chat ccxnments his own decisión ro leave a secure position as a guard in the retinue of a retired emperor,

Honuvani B&und

So knth to lose What really sbould be loatbcd: Onc’s vain place ín lifc, We maybe reacue best tbe self Just by throwif^ ic away.^

Ib thrw away the finíte egoíc self, then, it is important to ehof^ flote and above all to kave “(xk’s vain place/ The endorscmenc of mucability and tbe eñbrt to Uve in a manner appropriate to it—e.g., by continualiy traveling from place to place—startda in scark ctxitrast with the Navafo desire to re* main in one stabk ancestral place. For the Navajo, not to stay in that ultiman (Mace of te^dence, that resting*(Mace, is to lose noc only one's personal iden* City but the Creat Self that provides the cc41ective identity of an entire pco* ple. In one regard, however, the Navajo themselves might not disagrec with Saigyo^s counxl. If the particubr place in which one exists is just serving onc’s vanity—if it is a question of a shallow place, a mete site—then one should eachange ic for a more authentk and engaging venue. But if onc’s place is noc merely sdf-serving, che Navajo would insist that one can move— and move mcaningfuNy—while stili remainíng in chat same place. There is something overlooked by the Miçe adept: a sense of abíding place cied to a selfhood exceeding anything that can be experienod by the istMated, ego* fixated individual. Alienatkx) from any such larger sense of place—exemplí* fied by the whole región of Dinécah—is cantamount to alienación from che Great Self. But what of those in a displaced, secular, and posemodem age who lack any sense of a perduring place of collective selfbdonging, much less a Great Self chai is che councerpart of such a place? Whac also of chose who are noc only displaced hom a particular región but who have in effoce nenlvFr Such a nowhere is, as ic were, the existencial equivalent of che no'place of cosmogonic accounts of creación. By “nowhere to go” 1 mean not so mudi literal bomelessness as tbe pervasive foct that no single place or group of places seems any longer to offer an abode for a more capaàous selfhood. This is noc, however, to poslt (m* presuppose some hypostatiaed ideal place*—a Shangri'ia of the Self—that could resolve postmodern perplexitíes. Ratber than any such deluscry copomania, ic would be better to fbllow che desultory and modest path of Basbõ, pladng and re"pl^ng ourselves on narrow roads as we pursue our own contemporary jourrteys. Such journeys need noc consist of aimiess wandering between places, sal* utary as thac might be as a first stage. Whatever che valué of sheer v^^xmd* age, something else is at stake, namely, jvrr»^ touk iote pUee back inco che very ídea, indeed the very experience, of pbce. Hete we might take ín*

bttvtín PioíG


spintítt) from landscape painters, who get back into the (riacex^orígin from which they bcgin-e.g-, the Connectkut River Oxbow as pinted by Thomas Cole from rhe heights of Mount Holyoke—and transmute it into the píctoriaJ content (at once Gthait and GotaZr), the sublimated substance, of their completed work, In this way, landscape paínters manage to make the most of a place, giving it an aliure and a directkm that may not have been noticed in its initial discernmürt. Such a pbce is re*phced from its sedouary existence in the perceíved landscape to the aesthencally vivid pl^iality of a finished painting. The result is redempcive, not only of the pbx-of-origin as it finds new [Mctoria] depths and of the artist who has eficcted the transfbr*


mation but also g ourselves as the spectators of the art work. Thanks to the work and even short of xtual travei, we get back into place. As Bashô in* dicates in the postscript to Thi Narr^v Road w üft Duf Abmlr, we need íkx undertake a literal fourney in order to appreciate the virtues of being back in place. W: can find our way back to pbce on the basis of the guidir^ and instaurative work of others. Alienated we are in many ways—so lost in space and time as to be dis* placed from place itself—but the existence of pictorial and narraiional journeys to and between places reminds us that we are not altogether without resources in our pl^elessness. When the resources of re*implacement and cohabitancy are drawn upon as well, we find ourselves back cm the road to a resolua return to pbce. The ro*á itself is a route of rerwwed sensídvity to place, aífording a reheshed sense of its cominuing imppen in its midst and the dwelling buüt on ic. It was the shock of seeing the complete destruetion of my greac*unde*s home in Enterprise that first tmxighc me, abruptly, co an awareness of che significa rxe of pbce. Scarii^ at tbe raaed scene, my only ccmsolarion was to r^ct that althoc^h his much-loved house was gone, riv pber nauatud. In chat pl^c, empty though ic was, I could begin co put back cc^cher che

Homopard Bound

shards ctf my shanercd experience: to re*pbcc myself ín the presenc. I rcalized chis re*pbcing by means of ruminackm and writing, buc I might have done ic difiercncly. Had I continued co live in Kansas, I might have tried co rebuild the physicaJ house, as a form of litenü “rcpUccmcnt-’* Had 1 been a historian or a biographer rather chan a phüosopher, I might have ateempted co com* pose a history aS Enterprise in which this house would figure prominently, chereby giving co ic a commemoracive re*presence in words. Had I become a painter, I doubtless would have tried to re*create, by purdy pktorial means, the strueture in ics former glory. Exactly which fcam my eflbn toc4c does noc matter greatly. Whac marters is chac I was moved to aedon in the first place by fiact dtdfy and with whatever means were at my disposai. Here we must ask finally: what goes on when 1 (or an^tfK else deprived of place) undertake such concerted acckxis of rc*pbcemenc, acckms having so lítele ostensible utilicarian significance? The answer is: a rc-creation of che self who inhabits ( >■ I • and describe these layers. Does chis mean that we must ensconce ourselves in psychical incerionty in order to rc; this lúic rcappeara in Husserfs fomous “diagnm oí time” ín his tpoj lectura on ínner cina-constiousness. 17. *Tirk will nor ÉUl; for it is always at a beginning" (Aristoik, Pbytia, 2226, j-49 Hardie and Gaye translation; dsewherc 1 mainly áte the recciu cranslation of Edward Hussey, Xnrtstidr Pbpia [Oxfod: Oxford Universicy Press, 19^)). Arianxle’s modd of time, Idee that oí Plato, is Rac^uceJy circular and cycÜcal. 18. I say “of our own making” because onc couLd argüe thac modem scheduled time is iodf a creation of Late-eighceemh pp. xofF. 22. Lodx abo poíno expUdrly to d)e origin of the lineartty oí time in the inwvd ciKcesBttA of ideu. E “fleeting anemíon" i$ **bu( «5 h wcr the loigth of one straight Une, atended m che subjeetive source of thh atended time*línc ís found by “reâection on the tnín of ideas, which wc find to appear one after acKXber in our own minds.® (From fohn Lode, An Eai^ Htaiuit UHÁfrrtanáii^^ ed. P. H. Nídditdi [Oxford: Qarci^cm Presa, 197}), bk. 2, dksps. ij and 14, respectively.) lí Desunes and Loche *cre the first to Uncarixc túne so dedsivdy, the tempeation does not end with seMemeenth*cenniry thinkers. Kartt continua the tradítion late into the dfhteenth century, and it is stiU evident in a Twentiech-ceruury phdosopher sudi as C D. Broad: “Every opcnencc has some duntion. It is, in this respect, Like a finia srraight Une attd not Ukc a geometrkal point* (Xn E.naswerww MíiggKrth PbÜoufby (Cambridge: Cambridge Uiúwsity Press, >90], voL 2, pt. t, p. jt). 2}. Alftcd North Whitehead, ^oees tmi ed. D. R. Gríffin and D. W. $bec* buroe {New Vori: Ftee Press, (978), p. 129. 24. Henri Bergson saya cellingly: “W; set our soca oí consetousnes side by side ín

Nifto Of



such a as (o peneiw them aimuhaneously, no longcr in one anocher, buc alongaide one another; in a word, we peoject dme inco space ... and succeatíon thus takes the form of a concinuous line or chain, che paro of whkh roudi wichouc penetracing one anotha* 6. Simplkáua, Ia ArironUí Canconas CnmamriMi, p. r?;. a?. “Even if it ís dark and we are not acied upon through che body, but chere 0 some dunge in che soul, it inuncdiaicly seems to us chst some time has together wítb che change* (^£700, area, 3-0; Huasey tnnskaóon). at. James Hillman, JU*VuáMÕ|^ (New fork: Harper tc Row; i97S), p. i)o. 29* Betgson, Tsnr and Fnt ITsB, p. 104. The phrase tba aaá taa 0 from Elioc*s “Wute Lânl*: “A fortnighc dead, fixgot the proâc and kus,! A cwrent under aea! Pkked his bones in whispers* (sec. 4, “Death by Wuer,” IL jxa-ió). )o. Bcrgaon, pauit tt U tweansor (Paris: Pecases üoiveraiiaircs de Franee, 1^), p. 91. Thb insensrtivity is doubly ironk: fim, insofor as one mi^it have eape^ied a mote nuanced appredsóon of “lived space” (whidt would certainly include a descripción of pbce) from che penon who taught us so much about lived time; second, because Bergson wrote a (heab in Latin, ¡n thc same year Taat aaJ Fnt WiU fim ;^>peare(l, enotled “The Idea of nace in Aristotie” (Qwd Afüwtitt dr Laea Saoerit). Did he therefore believe chac ^ven the dUficulties in Arbrorle's nockM of Mpw ro whkh he potnted in chb theaia, chac oould not be a more construetive assesament of pbcel p. On the che role of pbce in Hesdegger's HeMle^ger's choche, choche» see aee Joaeph )oseph P. Fell, /£rí4|^rr atui ia*uf Sartrr.' Aa Eaaff sn aaU Ptaa (New forfo Cohambb Univertiry Prcas, 1979), and Otro P9ggekr, Drr Dnka^ Atam HriUtggtn (PfuUii^m: Ncalce, re^), csp. alo-reo (Hb* pologk des Seins"). Bachelard's “ropoanalysis,” ro whídi I reforted in the prefoce, con* verges with Heidegger*s “ropology of Beit^” but Bachdard foils ro dktú^uifo berween “spaae* (a|Mú mind is ós own place. ArisRXk, De Atuiiut, 429», tf. $9. This is noc to deny that my mind, by means of ics own intenóonaUty, is abo capaUe of tnnsoendii^ its own pbcCt u we when w sey cha **niy mind b •onv* «Itere else." On the subject of mindful memory, see my easay “Rememberú^ Resumed: Pursuing Buddhiam and Phcnomendogy in Pnecke,” in |. Gyacao, ed., /« the Mémr ef Mueery: R^Uetieiu en Mhu^itbtea eiul Rnunubiasa he /adían euh Tsbsán AsiddUns (Ah bany: State University of New ¥otk Press, 199a). 00. Simplidus, Centíeheue he in Sambursky, The Ceeu^ ef Maet ás Neepietewiey p. t4i. di. On thb point, see íbid., p. 140, n. 14. oa. Sambursky, Tlv Gwnpt PUee he Neefhmnúee^ p. tj. Januner adds chac "it seems rcasonabte to assume that originaUy thc cerm ^ptace* (lasbaj was uaed only as an abbteviaoon for *hoty pbce* (autoas iadsié), the pbce of che *Shekinah* ” (Jammer, Can* e^ts ef Speft^ 27). This ís not to deny thai as Judak theology became more sfcsmct, che concrete metonymy was leas insiscently ínteided: Goefa omruprcaence, not his Place, was thc dominant theme of many subsequenc spcculMions, as Ís evident in Fsalm is9. Saint Augurrine inquires into Goefs pbcelifce properties in the Cb^fonsar. “When you have fiUed heaven and earth, does thac part of you whkh remains flow over into some oriwr pbcef* (bL i> chap. )>. 6i~ Cited in Sambursky, The Cetuepe ef PUia he Leite AbspbnMBáoa, p. ij. 64. Cited in Íbid., p. from Philo's De Seiieieit. 6$. Cited from Henry More*s Bfuhtrihhnie neaaphyáaaie^ chap. I, by Alexander Koyr^ Frene the Cíeeeh HhrU »the ¡lefniu Utenene (Bahimore: Mws Hopkini Univenñy Pnes, i9$7), p. 144. 06, The deperaonaliasion of God and his conception as a Place is hinted ac by Pb* cinus: “the place of thc intdligibb «orid (ue^ the pbce of God) is the (4ace of lifo and the very prindple and source of the Soul and the InceUect" (fmwadr, U, $, j, jo; óted ín Sambursky, 71v Ceruept ef Pteee he Leite Ne^hetemon^ p. J9). 6?. Nor does ic noRcr if (he idenrity of God is sii^ubr or plunl. Simpliaus reminds US thac che ñame of the Syrian goddess “Atargads" (probably the Phoenioan goddess As* tarie) means “the place ef gods” {CsnAannM he Leen^ as died in íbid., p. 141). 68, Hofy Biihe: Pmeh Steereherh ^reele (New Vxk: Nebon, 19$)), p. i< I have capital' iaed “Deep” for che aake of emphasis. 69. 1 cite rhe rransltfion of Hesiod^ The^peet^^ II. ii6>-j4, ín G. S. Kirk,). E. Raven, and M. SdwAeld, The Preeurttée Phileeefhen (Cambridge; Cambridge Univenity Presa, ííU). p« »-


Noío to


fo. Chéot ñon) (he Minc Gnefc rooc « does ehim: as Ín AaJu», dM' rm, co gape, yswn» open wide. *lb open wide ts (o craie a pUce, hawT5v índeâncB, within tbe boundâfies of the opcnii^ kself. On che inherent lo^ ín duos, see Gary Mar and Pmkk Orim, “Panou and Chaos; New Imgcs in the Sonantia of Ruadox,* Nmr (1991), pp> 6)9-94. 71. AnKocle> Fèyno, aoSb, ji-jx. Rmó., 209b, 16-17. Bui Aristodc b surdy noi concet in bis view chat “in che 7T^eniT> (Plato) stili dedared chac pbce and space (ms (spM m» eWnm) woe the same thing* (ao9h> x)~i6). lhe TasaasM delineales predsely how spedâc pbces (npo) become différentiaied (rom general regíofts. Such ^aces are the únmediaa lod che material Chat result ftom dx Doniurge’s intervención into the primordial scene of the RccqMadc. n. Cúed by Charles Long, A^ahs; Omm (New Ibrfc; bazlUer, 196;), p. 06. 74. Ched from D. A. Madeensie, j ês tf CióM ^fan (London: AUen 3c Urwin, 19H). p aM> 7i~ “Of dd, Heaven and Earth were noc yet separaied, and the In and Vb [femininc and masculine pnndples] not yet dívided. lhey fermed a chaotk mass like an egg whicfa was of obanucly dcáncd limits and contained germs. The purer and clearcr part was chinly drawn out. and formed Heaven, while the heavier and grosser element settled down artd became Earth" (ftom che Niiwm (ca. AD. 720) as dced in The crans. W. G. Astoo [London: AUen & Unwm. i9)d(, p. i). “!n the begiiúng Earth and Heaven were greac World'giants.... The Hea^ in those days lay upon the Eardi” (John Rhys, lastairo m tbf Or^in áati Gitivtít tf Rei^gwn tu /Ibrrnised itj CtUU HrarBrwónw (London: Williams and Norgate, iS6a), p. 669). 70~ A licK is made up of pointa, and R is of rehtced interest thac Huaseri ccncavcs the now as a point expressly described as a “Umit” artd as a “source.” (See Husseri, iwttttukgj tf /«rri'waf 7%nr-Cm«se«nssB. secs. ij, 2S*-29, }i). As such, che now-poinc may be che secular equivalent, here bdow. of God*as'Fbcc. The point of human time and rite place of the universe are epicenters in excremis. No wonder, then, chat Husseri could as* cribe such cosmic power 10 time at (he levd erf' absduce flux, (o whkh ihe now-poira ofleis direet access. For ftirthff discussion of Husaorl's modd of time, see Paul Rlcoeur, 7%w and Nstijuím, trans. K. Blamey and D. MIauer (Chicago: Unívenícy of Chicago I^esa, J9tt}, vot. ), pp. 25“44, esp. |^. a*-)o on the tensión between (he rx>w as limic and as aounre. ?7> Placo, Tonaflo, 97d. 70. Saint Augustine, Gnsfhnsns, bh. ti, chaps. li and ai. My italks. As Rkoeur ie« marks, riw where question “consisa in seekíng a bosava for future and past things* (TSwr assd Nwitiss, vd. I, p. to>. 79. For Saíne Augustine, (he pbce of time ís co be found in che mind: “All difftrent times do exúc » ab Mmd (and) nowhere else (hac 1 can see” (CbçSsíPW, bL ii, d)^. ao; my iealks). But co say *in che mind” ís mt lo say paasively omtained chere. On tbe contrary. It is the mind's inherent dynamism (hac “rcgubccs (his process (of temporal tnnsi' tion|” (bk. n, chap. at). Only cbe mind “performs [che] chree functions... of e:^ecca(Mn, arcencioA. and memory* (íbíd.). Rkoeur, dting thís same passee, observes chac even in this memi activism “the quasi«spatial (i.e., pbàal] imagery of a movement ftom the future toward che past through tbe Aiture has no( been eliminated.... The vocabulary here con* tinues co oscillare between activity and pastivity” (Tüws ««d Nsmstnv, voL 1, p. 19). So. For an enumeración of such desoíptions, sec D. C Williams, **n)c Myth of Ris* sage,* in Gale, ed., The PhÜasafhy tf Tans, p. lo). Ii. See Sainr Augustirte, bL ii, chap. aS. This represenes more chan a mere


Nfftts to



example because, like tbe >11»^ ¡nstance of melody, k shows thac there k no such thing as a pm pass^ of tune, í.e., a paasagt thac does noi pas8.^«iiB one pbce to another. Ib pass ís to pasa throu^ a place. iSe place icself can be as diaphamus as a note or a «ord or even as omologically sUm as a “qualiry* (in Ahstotle’s sense of che term) artd yec atiU oura as a place*fcom«which or towbkh omporal passage k made. Pusing, like mcwing (of wfudi ic is a spedea), k a transition berwren places. Rkocur, discussing che celebrated passage about tbe psalm, says chat che place-lar^uage *has ks ultimate íustificacion in che paaaivky thac acconqwúo ¿e entice pnxeas*—even if we duuld be *no longer mkled by the representación of cwo places (te., pase and fiicure), one of which k fiUed up as che ocher k empóed, as aoon as w« have asoibed dynamk dtaraccer co this repreaentation (by tise invocation of che mínd^ active role ín dútsKtk jmmsi]* (TImr and Hsmisne, vol. 1, p. •9). fí. ). M. E. McDg^art, as repnnted in Cale, ed., 7%r tf Tnv, p. •7. I). Ibid., p. 8S, n. He adds: "But spatial movemeni ín which díiection^* k preásdy che r^hc quescioci, since in my catimate spacc (qua luuoguieous and isorvopk) offisn no dúwtwM/ irtdkation. Only pbce ís intrinsically orienting. Í4. fbíd., p. my kalks. Elsewhere ín hk celebrated artd much*comroverted artide, M^Diggan offers a vericable cornucopia of (4ace preposkions. Thus ás», tía tf, to■urak are all drawn upon ín bis desenption of *che movement of time” (p. 81, n.). 8$. "The locomotions of the natural simple bodies... not only show that place Is something but abo that k has some powo, since cach body, if noc ímpeded, moves to ks own place” (Pbyno, aolb, 8-1}). In this sacement Aristotle suggests thac locomotion Ís a depervlent variable of che pbces between which k moves. X Díspbconent

i. )úhA Lúdx, Síaof attonut^ ed. P. H. Nidditch (Ot* ibvd: Cbrendon Press, i9?j), bà. x dup. sec. lo. The xjiiuiu in which this phraae is embedded commenees with s virtual reiteración of the Archytian axksn: **For to say chac cbe world ís somewhat, means tto more than thac it does exist; this, though a phrase bomnwd ñotn place, sígnifying only ics custEncc, not location; and when one can find ouc, and fnme in his mind, dearty and distinctly, the place of the uníverse, he wiU be shle to tell us whedwr k moves or stands stili in che undistinguishable inane of infinitt space.* ln the very nen pangraph tlv £09, however, Loche maltes che dmscmúck modem reducción of place to che posición of a subordinare part of space: ‘The idea, there* fore, of place we have by the same means thac we get the idea of space (whereof chis ís hit o fortiailor íàitàfá wndriunaii)* (my kalka). s. Issac Newim. SdioUum to che Oetinítions of jlUffirwisnfal Pmafia tf Ütawti PMsHpA^', sec. a. Heidegger parodies the Gomainar nvwld, whkh is ultimacely derived from Aria* totle, in a passage from his rns Icctures on time: TThe desh in the classcoom, the claasroom in the university building, che building in the dty of MartM^, Marburg in Hessen, in Germsny, in Europe, on Earch, ín a solar system, in worid-space, in che wortd—a uníform relation of being *hkh is in printiple no diflatnt in all cX these connections* (M. He* dqger, tf tin CsMtpr tf rrans. T. Kisie] [Bloomir^ton: Indiam Uni^mity Preñ, (9ts), p. i$l). Sudi s model, Heid^ger adds, only touches on *ourward appearacKe” and is dominaced by che mec^thysks of the **prcsent>ac-hand* (Krfiasdeiumi). 4. An adequate wtobíography, or a chocot^ biography, if k is to be *crue of a (penon*s] Mx>le Ufe* (Saint Ai^ustine, Gmitekw, bh n, dtap. at), must diacuss, or at

Nota to


leaM alhsde to, che rooM «fnificant pbce^namea experieneed in that Ufe—even if by way of peeudo-iDponyms! ). Gcorg W- P. Hegd, fftmwffiirfy Sfieit, (rana. A. V. MUkr (New Iferfc: Oxford Univenity Presa, i97f\ chap. i (*Senae Cenainry*), pp. $***46.1 rerum briefly to the rtarus of loeadve expieuMXü it rhe beginnii^ of y tf Their Origms end Ase^^nwMlr (LorKiem: Angus & Robenaon, 19B7). *. fean^François Lyotard, *$capcbnd,* ín Tht Lt/eOtni fUader, ed. A. Benjamín (Ox* ford: Bbdiwril, tMo), p. ata. Notíce chat Lyocard in effecc coUapaea the disdnetion between pbyúcal and psychologíca] place: “statt* and “atare mind* are concerminous concepes. 9, Ibsd., p. uj. Lyocud kMs ihe qualtScaúon “if (date is ccfnatc wnh destinación,” and be ínvofcea Ariatotk's notton of as “a pbce without a MSTINY.” In focc, how* ever, an Aristocelian Apar has a disártci destiny, even a deadnariún: co act as che natural repoaitory for the bodis thac belong to it. 10. I mi^n cali a feàuã^ of the bndacape view “Crartd letons,” but this refiecia the foct that che paincing, unlbe my own view, b framed, and thus a determinaiely bounded enciry that can bear a proper name. The painring singles out the inicial pocepruaJ deter* minacy of a landscape and ^ve» lo Íi the added dcrerminacy of an image*in*a*fnme. 11. VUhjálmur Stefensacai, Áfy leiAi tbt Ethiates (New Ifork: MacmíUan, 191)), pp. i4*>49. A similar inddent is reponed on pp. 146-4?. I owe dits refijence co J. Melvin Wxidy. 12. *A white hunier who goes seven miles south, ihen three miles easc, then four miles Southwest, and two miles northwesc, will have a feírly definíte idea of how 10 draw a line tha will talx hím thcncc to his original startii^ poinc” (foid., p. 14*)> Stefenaaon adds condesondingty chac *chc Indian or Eskimo in my experíence will have no such no tion, and instead of gotng straight home wíU go back over the route by whidt he carne, unlesa there are some landmarks in sight which he recognízed cadia ¡n ihe day.” holds thac an Eakímo ladts “the general prindples to guíde hím chai ve dear in the mind of che average whiie man.” But Siefensson nevertheless rejeets tbe idea of “intdncdve” sbUi* ties supposedly posaessed by “primitive” peoples and anributes significam differences in preferred fon» of orknianon co “the environmem under which they have grown vp fiom diildhood” (p. 149). 1$. li is a curious fecc chat “deadUnes” are incerpreced almost entirely ín temporal eemu in che modern world. ¥rt 10 mece a deadlíne in time one has 10 ddiver a produce somewhere in space: e.g., che pose office, the bank, the puUishing house. In che end, the cwo lines coincide; che criticai rime is 10 be realized et a particular point in space. 14. “Most white men, even ihose of slighc educatioti, have a knowledge of the prop-

Nota to



erries of angka” 0^ 9ttb tbt Diíinej, p. t4t). The cnnh of chis dubioua daixn dependa on che meaning of tbe amUguous phnse *‘sl¡ghc education.* 1$. Ijmdfnarfcs require (a) conapkuous appeannce sudi that they can be vie«ed (or heardt or smeUed) from alar; (b) memory, individual or o^Ueetive, of previous expcriences wich ebem; (c) krtowledge of how they relate co ocher ob0co in their natural aeteings. None of chese eoncheions ww mee in the situación mmeed by Strftnsson in Afy tbt Eáánttt. 16. The kegend of llqiaia é reeounced In David Lewia, We, Ae IbtvigÉtvrs (Honohdu: Univerairy of Hawaii Fres, ton), pp> iT—i». 17- On che nocion of **seaRiarK" Thomas Oadwin, £arr It ít Ség (Cambridge, Masa.: Harvard Urüvcniry Fres, (970), pp. i6aff. For che most part I have foUovred Ciad* win's anounc, with supplemencxion hom Lewis, m, tbe Nsr^issn, and R. Robín Baker, Hmim Nspi^rím and tbe Sisetb Serue (New 1M: Simón & Sdwscer, It. For a helpful diagram that eaplains che etak system, see Gladwin, £sr b < Bent, p. (S6. Cladwin explains chst *when che navigator envitioiu In his mínd^ eye chst the reference island n pasing under a particubr star he noces chat a certain numbo of segmenes have been con^leted and a certain proporoon of che voyage has cherefbee been accomphshed," Qadwin also remaiks that **The contribution of etak ís noc co generare new primary infennaion, but w provide a fhmework inco which the navígator's knowke^ of race, time, geography, and astronoeny can be integraced incegnced co provide a convenicntly ex* pressed and cornprehertded staemenc of dlstartce iravekd" iM). For a critique of Glad* win*s reliance on unió of spaiial discana and fix an ahEnudve model, aee Edwin Hucchins, *UndentandÍng Mkaonesian Navigacton,” ín D. Gencer and A. L. Stfvens, eds., Matíal M»irb (HÍUadale, N.J.: Erlbaum, 198)), pp. ao^ff. t9. On tbe fiiature of **high imagedHliry* as OMciaJ to landmarks—and m all ímpor* tañe public pbces—see Edward Re^ PUee Mf Fbedonus, (London: Fion, 1976), p. ». On che idea of a landmark as a *spedal costfigurarion ín che landscape,* see Yi*Fu Hian, Sfãee tná Pitee: Tbe Penfeetiee af pjeferienee (Minneapoiis: (Jniversícy of Minnesota Presa. W7), p- n. ao. Gladwin, Beat b t Big fiwW, p. 184. ai. But for a detaUed discua&ion of certain senses ín whkh dead reckoning, on whídi Colombus relied fbr che most pan. b vaKdly anploycd by che FuluwMans. see Lewia, 1K, tbe N/eeigutrty di^. 4, and Hutehins, *Understandif^ Mkronesían Navigaóon,* p. aoa, n. a. aa. Gbdvrin, Btst íttB^ Béri, p. tTi. Lewis temarts similariy thsi *hoiding course by sutUs seems always co be a matcer more of fed chan s^c* (ftb, tbe p. *7). a). Spoken by che Sanca Cruz nav^amr Ikvake as dted ín Lewis, We, tbe Nireigiittn^ p, I7. The speaker is from che Sodety lalands, but che cecbnique he describes ú abo used by Puluwat navigacora. 34. *1 have heaid from several sources thac che most sensíúve balance was a man*s tsstides, and chst when at nighi or when tbe horizon was obacured, or inside the cahtn, this was the method used co find the fixua of d>e rwells off an island* (communkadon from Capeain V. Ward dted in Lewis, tbe Nsa^itsrr, p. I7). This is surely nav^stíng by rix shorc hain! aj. Baker, Hioiane hfssiyirisa, p. toi. Certain birds use a quice similar tedvuque. The "general area" m^hc mosc narurally be termed a "r^iort" 36. I díscuss horizons and regions more fuUy in chap. 4. Let nte only say rtow chss che horizon of a landscape s once detimio the r^ion of whkh ic n che outer Limit arel adumbmtes whtf is outside that r^ion, invisible yet acccasible (íf only wr can locomoee


Nata t0


suifiácnüy to g?t tboc). A* sudt, a horizon can no more be consmined by—or arciculaced geography'* (p. m. i9- Nonethekas, a membet of (he cocnparatively stationary Ibnne cribe of Sterra Leone has *no need co make a consdous eflon k> scrueture ^nce, since the spaoe he moves in is so nnxh a pan oí his routíne lUc thac it is in bet his *pbce.* TIm lemne has his place, knows his place, amt ís rarely duUengcd by unstructured ipuc’ (íbid., p. 79). ja fiy speaking of **inovicig bodies” I do rtot wanc to suggcst thac htcral movement oí the body is required for the generación oí ^aesseapes. Whac macten is how che body bears on landscape. As 1 look at the mountains before me, ( may be scanding scill and moving only my eyes; and c'^ if I do ckx move my eyes but fecus steadily on one particular poínt in che lartdscape, say a distant diff, I am aedvely o^anizing and ínlerpre^ eng what I see. I am making the landscape a plaoe*for«me (or a place-for-us if I am pereeiving in the conqwiy of ochers). As ís che case with che Puhjwac nav^ator who ha supine ín hís canoe sensing che ocean swells, I am sh^ting an üitu space chac will be a place for experience» preaent and co come. Such a pbcocape b noc a given, mudi less a preven, entiry. Ic ís oMzed into extscence by my actually or virtually otfving body, a body that ís nevenheless drawn oui, mrsed, by particular landso^ foacures. (tandseapes suggest many posible movemenes, induding the movemene of no(«movíng.) A placeac^ is rhe foínt product of che iruavtíon of my body and che landscape upon whkh it bean; or we fflight say that it is the quoticnc of cheir différence. jt. By *douUc horizon” I have in mind che analogue oí whs Edmurtd Husserl dis* (ínguishea as *incernal” va. “externai” horizons ¡n hís Caperuner and /M^^Nsenr, rrans. J. S. Churchill and X. Ameriks (Bvanscon, 111.: Northwestern Universiry Press, 1971), pp. j6o61: **Whac comes co selfpossesskn as a tífág ís surrounded by a prcaun^mve horizon, an interna] horúon artd an externa! horizon" (his italks). Husserl makes perceprual horizoos paradigmack for his analyais. ja. While I am not ptopocír^ Chat place involves what Hussod ealh an “aéatíOTr fiux,” 1 am suggcsting tíui the overflowü^ness just discussed is che phcíal analogue oí (íme*B deep*going Auotey. Con^re Martin Heide^er on chis point: “All chings of earth, and dze earth cesdf as a whoic, Aow wgether into a reeíproeal Kcord” (*nhe Origín of dK Wxk of Art.” Ptary, Lat^uagt, ttans. A. Hofat^her [New fork: Harper, 1971). P« *?)• B. On the cukural divcrshy and speàfiàty of che human body, see the evocacive coUection of artklcs on thk subject ín Fn^tatatsftr a tíistary tht fitttaaa ed. M. Feher, with R. Nadaff and M. Hci (New Vbrk: Zone, mi*), j vols. H* In Greek, ee* signifies “ouc of,” while pms means “anen^ erial, cese.” Eiafwhai also derives hom pen, 1$. Thís ís noc to say chac chere cannoc bc impiovemenc ín (he MrrmmnaMrim by whkh a cheoretical poric is determined and ucilized. Thus Pierte Le Roy construeted a

Nb&sr to fi^ts 31-3}


nurine chroAorncte in i?66> whkh, because of its aMtbinadon of efSóency and ufflpUdty, aoon became the standard woridvnde. EventuaUy Thomaa Eamahaw construeted an ineX' pemive sea dodi chfi was widety adopttd because rt ac4d for one«centh che going pna oí a duplkaie of fohn Harrison*s No. 4. )6. If pbces were absobiiz mctaphyskal poats. they wouJd noc require navigaàon to reach chan. Navigacion às an tnhetencly ciperúncntaJ—indeed, a nsky—procedure chat oc* cun orüy in «nfiimUiar terrain or waters. Thus navigsion is co be distinguished from mete pUoQge, whkh is *che method of detomining che direction of a frmiliar goal acroaa ft* miliar terrain” (Bahcr, Htttiuui p. 4; cf. pp. S4"a)). Since theae ingredients are ahva^ cukural in status to aocne degree, n would be more oocrect to say chat impbconent rv-acculiuraces ihe ícems thsi have already become awruiruratcd in thc natural worid. 1 ihall return to the issue oí culniracion in chap. i. |l. The sodality of place ts preserved in sudt pbce-words as/¿asa, fitaíi, fioet, Pbitt^ and all of whiÀ connote a coramunal urban space set aside spcd&aUy fer socialiaíng oí various sorts. VinccDt ScuUy, Tht Eonh^ tht HtHfU, md flb Gsdr.* Gras* SnovdXnaHCAnffv {New Haven, Conn.: )Süe Universty Preaa, 1962), pp. 2-4. See also p, 6: ”ln chsi archiiecture the actioo oí buildings and landsc^ was fully reciprocai Ín meaning as ín form.” Maràn Heidegger also analyzes early Greek cem{4es in rdation to their surrounding lartdscape; see his *CMgin of the Wsrk of Art* (died ín n. p), pp. 40-44, esp. p. 4a: **rhe tempte-work, standing (here, opens up a worid and at thc same rime seta (his world back again on earth, whkh itself thus emerges as native ground.” 40. ScuUy, Tht E^nh. tht Pwyfr, and tht Gtth^ p. í Scully cbims thsi in noncultural comczts *thc landscape is normally a corucun.” But is laMstape ever «ivssHri Is ít not ever-dtai^ing, boch in physiognocny and ín meaning? 41. Ibíd., p. 2; my icalks. 42. Orient originally meane *east,* one of the cardinal direetioiu on earth and an especialJy privil^ed dirección because rt is in thc case that the sun rises each day {and \teus desõrrds each night). Similarfy, pbces orient us by ilJuminacing daily the Saturnian darkness of our obaeasions and obligacions. They do so noc by proposing determínate goab but by grrii^ guidance in thc guise of direction. 'Hanks to (rfscK, tlw sun abo rises— wichin. On the earth-aky axis as a * Dimensión,” see M. Heidegger, *Ik>ecÍcaUy Man DwcUs. -.,” ¿aryay, Thoi^t, pp. aao-aa. 44. CoiKeming cardinal ity in (he formarion of an andenc Chínese dty, see Paul Wheailey, Tht Piw tf tht FttirQMinm: A Entimhury Eitfuity hUt tht Or^fhu OHtt ChtirâOtr tf tht ÀMieitt Chhuít Chy (Chkago: Aldme, 1971). diagrams of the cardinal di* recrions and (hdr diverac axrnotadons in Chinese, Maya, and Pueblo cubare*, see TUan, ¿qMcr land Pbut, p. 94, fig. 9. On (he general ín^xxtance of cardinal dírections for a pre* modern senae of orientation and for an ínsíghtful treacment of non-Westem notíons of space, see Emst Caasirer, 7>r tf Syriihtht finw, trans, R. Manhcim (New Haven, Cocuu: University Press, i9$$h 'eiL a, pp. 83^14. *Bian, Spotr loui Phur, p. 92. 4d. Much (he same cautionary socement can be made rcgardii^ a phesiomenoQ iha is, structurally speaking, the cosmae of the Naaca mariíngs: the Holy oí Holíe* in (he lewish tafcernade. In úm farter, H ís che enclosing and withhcdding of space wffHe the tmyk raihcr than io open-air manifèstarion that constirutB the creatioA of a sacred pbce. Boch the buib«up imeriority of (he tabernacle and (he buib*out ex(erwri(y the Naaca


Natfs te figures iUuMnte a deep conanuity bciwt» narure and euhure. 'The poM-Exodua rempk was situaRd spedficaJty in the low>}yii^ desen of the Pnmiaed Und, io sdf'SedusiOD reflcecing the hanhness of that panicular place, while the Nazca earthworfcs are locatcd m the highlands of I^mi m whkh the sky seems to be an almon tangible presence. In both cases, cuUunl pbce has been carved out of natura] remin in such a way as to mirror che larar even as it is tnnsfonncd. On the Nazca figures, sec Thomas Brusca, **rhe Nazca Mariings," BiraMs a (197*}, pp. In *The Mysterious Markings of Nazca” (Ntfmí iO (1947), pp. ao^^), Paul Kosok and Maria Rekhe speeulate that the naarkings were used as aids 10 astronómica] observaóons thai were in rum employed for calendrtcal purposes. On thc stmeture of the Jewish cabonade, see Irving Friedman, **The Sacred Sp«ce of ludaism,” a (t978>, pp. ao-a^ and fonarhan Z. &nith, S ThJte PUu (Chicago: Univenity of Q)kago Press, 1987), pp. 43^7), Sj-ld, col—iz. 47. A more rompiere treatnrent would also point ro aspects of body, r^ion, and horizon in die cultunl constitution of pbce: e.g., the processíoA (tf bodies in tbe Puu* thcnaea on lhe Acrópolis, ihe grouping of sacred buildings in tbe región of the mwrw (prednct of dx ten^le), and thc function of spccificaJly cuburaJ horizons (for instance, in Gtdamer*s concepàon of HoritffnfS9mtiitiuU»ir^, acairding co whkh cultunl horizons boch establish a radkal ocherness and submit co mutual *Yusing” upon adequaie comprehension). By thc same toben, conádentioa of narratíve aspects oí pbcc as-encultured is called for. A suggestivc start has been made by Stephcn Oitea, ''The Spatía) Dimensions (tf Narratíve Truchteiling,” in G. Greert, ed., SreiMiwiBf Atahonty out ií^raàft ¡narfrmtieit (Phil^lphia: Fortress Press, 19I7), pp. 9?-u8. On **horizon-fusíng,” see H.*G. Gada* mer, ThÊtb «W Afrsfod (New Vxk: Seabury, 197)), pp. aó^fí*. For a daniying phüooophkaJ chscussèon of culture as such, see foseph Margolis, CUtwre «sd Cutemf J^imrd a Nnv Uitity Sàtttct (Dordrecht: RcKkl, (9I4). 48. Nocably multídimcnsional is the Maya model of tíme: "nbere, a cunously discinc* tíve cooceptíon of tíme as multídlmensknal and eternally recurrerti kd ro che creación ctf two intevmeahíng tíme counta, whkh in combinación permitted che numberiog of yeara in cerms of a cycle of fiity«two* (Wheatley, Phvr ef the Fettr Qiuirterí^ p, $*4). As hávii^ several dimensiona and bang cyclkal, such a concepción b the exact converse of che mono linear modd of early modern thought. 49. An account of such a órcumstancc-’^sne ihac tumed ouc wveil in tbe end—is given by Vilhjílmur Sceánsson in titutím ef the Gretf Nanh (New Vbrk; Hareourv Bnx, T9az), pp. 78-tt. For a sensicive treatment of che *ice desert,” espedally its effect of de* emphasizing visión ín Favor of ocher sensory s^tems, see £. S. Carpenter, B.. Flaherty, and F. S^irley, BAheto ('bronro: Uníversity of'Tbronro Press, 19)9), and Barry López, Arme ¡tttagwwe atU Dahe ñ a Nffréibn* Lanebeafe (New ¥3rk: Bantam, (987). (O. Lyotard, in The p, aiz. EMnngemenc* is in capital leñera in the origina] statemenc. $1. On uncannineaa, see Stgmund Freud, **Tbe Uncanr^,” Scendenf EAtian ef the Caat' fUte BiyAei^ieai Wrrh, rol. 17; Martín Hcklcgger, Beú^ aaá Time^ trans. |. Maequarríe and E. Robinson (New fork: Karper, 199a), secs. 40, s?. For a challenging discusston of being out^ place as at once a curse (e.g., as homelessness) and a blessing (Irom an ere^ hitíonary perspective), see Neil Evernden, Tbe Natural Atíeii: Hueuaeiháui aeut EtmraaaufU (Ibronio: Univeraity of Ibronco Press, 1985), chap. $. 5Z. Thaycr Scudder et al., EeepeOe^ ¡tufaos tf Ceuefuisary Keloemu au Naa^ (Phib* de^b: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, (979), p. oz. Noc only rural peoples buc also teminomsdic hunters and greherers such as che Ik ctf eastern Africa have suBered gieariy frem ferced eonfinemeni ro a tírale area chac had formerly been only a resting pbce üi an annual nomadk eyde. In the cax of thc Ik, thc symproms of dssplacemeni

Noto to



were even more extreme than among the Navajo artd índuded indifkrerKe and savagery ! toward their own A detailed and moving account oí tbe Ik ia Colín M. lumbuU, k AíflMwrai» (New Yixi: Simón & Sebuner, (9n). From a atatcment by a Dinéh diíef ín the brochwe *BÍg Mounain Qiná) Reaist Belocadon»” íaaued by tbe Bíg Mountain Support Group, New ¥vi, 1997. \ H* Lassiter, **Rdocation attd lUneas: The FIÍght of the Navajo,” ín David Mi* Chad Levin, ed., tf theJUaáfm St^: Smáus m Nanúnof^ ScHiapbv* «á^ afU Defmoa (New tevfc: New Voric Unimsity Preaa, 1987), p. xaX. Gned ín ^td., p. aa*. $6. Ibád. J7. íbíd., p. aay. PauJ Shepard, Nirw mí Maíms (San Frartciaco: Sierra Chib Boolu, i9ta), p. a*. Shepard add»: *llKy are mnanonk: integrated componenta of a sacred hiatory artd the remend>ered and unconsdouaJy feh past. The whok of the r^íon or borne range becomes a hierophantx map, a repoaítory of the 6nt creatíon that panltds and overtíes history.” Shepard is here aliuding to the Austrahan Aborígíttea, but his stasemertu are equaUy per* onent to the Dínfb, For accounts oí the Austrahan Aborígines, see R. M. Berndt and C H. Bcmdt. Tbr Spwfciy Land; Afytá Stffy tu (New Ibrit: Bsiguin, 1989), artd Bruce Chatwín, Ttr (New Iforh: I^nguin, t9l7). J9. Lassit^, “RekxatíoA and lUnesa," p. aaí. Cf. NovaJis: "Ntfute is everywhere che ground on which history gtows, season after season” (fhxn his notebooks as dced in 'Thomas Frick, ed., 71* sáemí Tttory íf tbt Sartb (Berkeley: North Atlantic, 19I6], p. yt). But the very idea of rtatural ground, hr from báng prehiscórical, is icaclf historkaJ through and throi^. 60. *The Dínát*» artcestral lartd is thar most important source of cultural knowledge. Virrually all leaming in tradídonaJ Dínéh culture ís experiential; it oceurs in che process oí raising lívestock and makis^ * particular ancestral place. It involvea beámw^ a pan of that place* (Lassícer. *Belocanon and Hincas,” p. sai). di. Mermry losa ís a ñequcntly reporced symptom amor^ displaced Nsvajo; h is often asaodared with dísohentation (see abad., pp. laj^ao). In other words, dísplacemerK is can* camount to dlsorieniation, in percepción and memory as wdl as ín cuhute. 6L Cited in **Big Mountain Din¿h Resist Rdocasíoo.” A number oí relocaced Navajos, afcD an unsucccssful attempt at adjustment, have vaniahed. See Laasiter, ”fUlc»ation arul lUness,” p. aa^ on tbe issue of disappearance. H* ^9 Miiton L. MUkr, Nutfíjgúf A Ptytbountfytte Sttuij tf Mtnti Pmtsr (Porr Wisbirtgton, N.Y.: Kennikai Press, 1969), 64. For this interpretación of nostalgia, see my essay *7be Wsrld of Nostalgia,” M/m taui so (1987)^ pp- Mi-U. 6$. Bren Birkerts, ”PUce: A Fragment,” in Frick, ed., Tbt Barred Tlspry tf tbt Etvtb, p. M. 06. LawRAce Durrdl in has Almnibia Qaarfrr, cited in íbíd., p aaj. Cf. the saying of Edward \M»on: landscape of a peo^ is the greacest Ftetor in moJding cheir habíts, their look». their physKa] and spirrtual actribuces” (ibtd.). And see Dumll*» coUec* den of crevd wrícü^s, Sfint tf PUte: Latttrt aiul Essi^ tti Thattí (New York: DuRon, 1969)07. Lássiter, '^Kelocation and Hincas,” p. aa6¡ my ítalics. 61. Birkeru. ”Place: A Fragment.” p. $4. 69. See M. Heidegger. "nhe Age of che Hbrid Pktuie,” Tbt Qtianan eoiumui^ ’Bdi’ afui Otbtr Eisiifí, tran». W. Lovítr (New York: Harper. 1977}, pp. 70. Mark Schoqsñe et al.. **rhe Human Impact of the NavajoFfapi Land Dispute,"



NbAo t9 psgo 39“4$

Navajo Community CoU^e, Shíprocfc, AnL> NovonbCT, t^lo. Ahhough the t9?4 parmxio of ij million acro remains deacUodcd, in Ncrrember 199a the Hofri were giren 400*000 acro of pubÜc land kxaced elsewhere. ln exchange, the Hopi will grane serenty-fire-year teari to 1)0 Navajo ânulies who stili Uve on Hopi cerróory 00 the understanding thac (he Navajo wiU evennially transfer the land thus leased back co cbe Hopí. Metnwhüe, che grief eootinuca. For a detaiied aaatunmw of the orenll áruation, aee Emily The Wiiui HM JÚMV Air; .4 Hiaary íbt Latiá Di^tOr (New Vxi: Knop>

3. Directions I. £maM £fid, ronzas one and two, as tnnalrod by N. K. Sandan ia fWm tf end fitU frvut js Gmoà; Tbt St9fy tf (ytíBwit, ad ed. (Oucago: Uoiversny of Chicago Presa, 1963), I preftr thai of Sanders fbr ita poetk doquence and philoaophkal appodreneaa. s. /Wmr tf Htü, p. 87. }. Ibid., p. 90. 4. Ibid., p. 9a. ln che Heidel cranslation the second sentence reada: *He apüc her open like a muñe! into rwo (parca]; half of her he irr ès fitut, and Ibnned the aky [eberewich] as a roof; he fized che ooa^ar (and] posted guanta; he cnnmankd them noc co let hre weten escape" Gataii^ p. 4z; my Ralica}. j. ^nu tf Httttftt tuul Itíit p. 9$. On p. 9a, Nebiru, “zeních” or che cencral band of (he hearens (as wdl as Marduk*! astral name), is set up as an ukúniEe ground of cü* rectioft from on high. Aiso conceming Nebiru, see p. 102: ‘‘Nebiru, at cbe stiU center, is (he god tbey adore." On che cheme of directions as ^acea, wich copioua evidence hom other cultures, see YÍ«Fu *!»», Sftut Pitut (MinneapoÜs: Univeniry of Minnesota Presa, 1979), dupa. 9-^, and chap. 4 ü) chia booL 6. AvMV ef fiwim and HsÚ, pp. ln ocher creatien mycha, a msk body serves aa cbe msterial of aeatson: e.g., in cbe souebem Chínese mych cycle of Fan Ku (c^ chird oentury A.D.): “Fiom his diull was ahaped tbe dome of cIk sky, and from hia Seah w« fenned che soil of (he õeUs; Iron his bones carne che cocks, ñom hss blood (he riven and seas; Irom hia hair came all vegetación” (ciced in Barbara C Sproul, ed., PrtKuti Afynhr.* Oiaim^ ehr Hbrid (New Vori: Harper & Ro«; 1979), p. aoa). ?, Nevcrchelesa, tbe aÉMf^inal State of Plsco*s RÁxpcacle is one of tUmaual oonfu«on—Le.* a confusión of four sorta of clcD»na--and ia dw not ahogethv diffírott fiom che inhial scene in the Mesopotamian epk, in which (wo kinds of wacer Ue "mingled ccgether.” Furthermore, Pialo describes che Receptack aa a "macrix”: **By nature ic ia ihere aa a macrú for everyching” (Trosm/, “macrú” is Comford’s cranalscion of ceM^ris*!, a Soft mass in which in^tressions are made). Tbe bask dementa are said co be “bodies” wkh "depeh”: "In the fint place, then, k is of couree obvious to anyonc that fire, earth, water, and air are bodies; and all body haa depih” (^). Buc such bodies, etiating ín sud) a matrix, aisr only co be cransformed by geometric r^uhrizarion. The very note sencertce in che cen reads: “Depch, moreover, must be bounded by surfisce; and every surfice that is rcctilínear is compcécd of mangles.’* 8. By “body* 1 mean noc an inen material thíng buc tbe anímate, sclfmovüig, sdF awve body of a Uving organiam. Bxamples of inert material chinga indude the atereo metricaliy faahiocted physical bodies as crafted by cbe Demíurge ín the Tinttttta or cbe extended bodies wich whkh Descartes klentifies ^lace kself. 9, Aristotle, Péyeia, x>8b, is-ió; my italks. 10. Ibid., 20^ 64—18. n. On chis probiem and íes consequertces, see Max Jammer, Cmcsprr tf Sftuty ad ed.

Muo t9



(Cambrid^ MaN.: Harvard Univentry Preat> (969), pp. 76ff., and Richard Sofal>ii,iMAO’, Sfaot tnutMttítn N.Y.: Comdl Unívenicy Proa» MS), pp. uffF. o. Á noabk aoeptian b Gccxge Bcrfcdey, who males bodily moàon (along with touch and vbion) incnnsk co the eatimaóon oí dbcanoe: *Whac [one] tees only sug^ests (D bu understanding, chat after having paaaed a certain distance, to be measured by tbe mooon of his body, which b pcrcetvaUe by touch, he shall come to perccive aud) and fudt tangible ideas whkh have been usually conneeted with such and such visible ideas" 0# EíSí¡f tmitrái Nnr Tluvry tf FcMn [London: Ocnt, I9M1> P> t). HeUenbóc and espedally Neoplaconk authon do Rtac "body* üi relaon 10 pboe, buc long in advance of Descartes che body in quesóon has become che sheerly phytícal body. The spedfically lived, and stáll more spedfically human, body ís rtoc recognited fer fCs unique role ín the consdmáon of place. Far leprtseuutive sec Shmud Sambursky, 71v Cattafs tf "PUia 9» Latt (Jerutalem: laad Aadcmy of Sàcnces and Hiuranitka, Ma), pp. 4;* 51* 99< 14. âmpUdus, GsAiniiM tU Laea^ part of whkh b ín ibid., pp. i^fT. 1$. A paradox worth ponderú^ b cbe bct thac pber and body are just aa raudi ídendfied ín nychkal thought as are «psur and body in Cartesian Tcflection. But in one case cbe idenúty is through an way r.g., "body-oCTianw"—while in the other it is duot^ a i.e., d>e essence of body and space as "extensión." The resuh of this wianc ferm of identicy is chac place ís enhanod and validsed ín cbe Sumerian epk while it ís brought dose co odnccion ín che early modero account. On cbe ascendancy of the infinite in hce medieval, Renaissance, and early modern thinking, see Alexandre Koyrt, Asm bv Oaisd Mrb ts the Ittfifuu uàèterte (Baltiinore: Johns Hoplína Univtniry Press, mr). The body> pbce alliance has been ghen ínsightful inspecCMCi by Ernsc Cassirer in Tb PkiVawpfi/ tf SfsaMv AwMr, trans. R. Manheím (New Haven, Coon.: Xaie Unívertiry Press, 19$$), voL X, pp. Ihie n> his inspíratíon by the modonism of che Eniightenmeac, Caaaircr prefers to ^cak of tbe body*s rede ín the guwj ation of "space* rather than of "pbce," even tbot^ many of his daims are in bct moro applkable to the laner than o the fermer; e.g., "Because all eximnce is artkulaied ín the ferm of pw» and all change in the rhythm and periodkity of rime, every artribute whkh adberes to a spedfic spacioiieinporal fiaa is immediately transferred co the contem chat is given in h* (p. Ii; my halks). The umntDnqxcd tranaickin ftoro "space” to "pbce* wkhin one and the sacne sencEDcc ¡s symptomatk of the nonchalance wkh whkh Cassirer regards ^ace per se. uk Immanuel Kasit, Onfur tf Ptm Jb«on, trans. K K. Smitb (New Ibri: Maonil* bn, i9ffX Bi. ICanc adds ünmedíaiely tha "n does noc fellow tha [all our knowle^] arvw sas of experknce” (my icalks). ‘fe start iú experíence ia not to derive ftom that experíence. Ub can say by crtcnoon chat all our experíence starts with bemg'io'pbce, even though it does not fellow tha all experíence deríros ftcen pbce. 17. On chese prodivides, see Msírtin Gardner, 7>r Aasfedeors» Uwent: L^, and the FttO ef Airsry (New IbrL Mentor, 1969). In the precedü^ semence ín the text, I am en^loyíng antMertma in an extcndecl, nonlienl sense. I will roturo to chc subject of biAircatíon ín díscussíi^ the hero-(her«. iR The rosufting lived btnarism b noc co be oonfused wich dre lir^ubtk and meta* ph^kal binariam subject to deconscnicdve aod on dre part of Derrída and ochers. Where dyads sudi as /p/ vs. /t/, mind vs. body, sdf vs. othox, ofter us only fantá i.e., limited dtokcs detemuned in advance by proexistíng fnmewovi». no such predetermina' don normally obtains when 1 am bodily in place. In a situaDon of the sort 1 have described in the text, cbe way lies quiro radkally open. 19. Tbe full scRrnera ís "ncíthcr/nor, tha ia, càher or” Oaoques Der* rida, Antóiu, trans. A Bass [Oúcago: Univeroiry of Chkago Press, i9lt], p. 4); hia Rilks). ao. Even chc precise designación of a grien dyad remains open; wha ís front or bad:


Nato tú


fer me noy be efaaúgwwd » right or tcñ fer aoineone cbe víewing my body from its side. Not only my the individuaJ meinben of i gi^rn corporeal dyad be eachanged, chen, but (at ihít exampk thows) entire dyadt may be ínterchanged wirh one another. SI. wñneas rhe vicw’s persistence ín this reptesencarive tcatement: ^AMwugh space itself is ocberwise isotropic, tlK carth’s gnviiational 6dd determines a locaUy unique up* r^hi dircetMO and, abo, a prevaÜíng soUd sutékc thac (on a auicabk scale) is ^qiproumatáy fíat, orthogonal 10 the local upright direcóon, and henee bounds die locsd space of hee mobility from 1>elow’ * (IL Sb^ard and S. Hurwitz, ‘‘Upward Direcnon, Mental Bota* don, and Diseriminsciún of Left and Right TUms in in S. Pinker, ed., rúsaal [Cambrw^ Maa.; MIT Fresa. 1989). p. lAt). aa. **rhis (threc) dimenaonality of space is stül roüed in che sfxúality of che readytohand” (M. Heidegger, Brit^ muí Tiiu, rrans. J. Maequanie and B. Robinsoo (Nnr Vbrk: Harper, 196a], p. i)6). Elisabeth Scrõker suggesu bow dímensionaliry aríses from < direcdoAaUty: **By dimensión wc undenond a ccndnuum of poesible transíckxu of em* ' ttMW ^potttimu^ 01 Piriimofby tnns. A. Mkkunas (Atbens: Ohio Uniwníty Proas, 1987], p> 6}, n.; her icalics). ‘‘Orientationa] opposítions* can be oken co reler to the diree dyads discussed ín chis chaprcr, each of which ínvotvea an oppoeicional pairir^ of cenns. Ouc of cheae binarles of corporeal direedonalíry the dimensions of the lib wortd—and pohaps ultimacely of puré ^Moe^-'onoge. ti. Por Maurke Mctleau-Püoty’s dístirKtion, rrans. C Smith (New ¥hí;: Humanídes Press, J99a), p. 244. For Heidegger*s companbie discinC' non, see muí 7%Kr, 41S-11, wbere tbere is, however, no menrkx) of cbe bved body. Edmund Husseri's of spatial idealización ¡s found paradigmatkally ín Tfc O'w^&rspnM &úiua má Thnsensdniasl Bbwwwnoíqjp, mns. D. Carr (Evanston, 111.: Northwestern Univerairy Press, 1970}* sec. 9 (“GalUeo*s MachematUacion of Narure*) and the nMch*discussed appendíx, *The Origin of Ceomeery." 24. 1 borrow che pbrase from Kanc: **Tbere are iwo snms of human krtowledge, namely, sesuiUlrty and understandic^ which perhaps spring from a common, buc ro us urtknown, root” (Kant, Oírifsw Ãrr As*m, Ais Bs9, p. 9i>. a^ **ldi 6nde so auch ‘meÍAen Leib’ vor, ich nehme ihn bescindig wahr sus drr Húr" (Edmund Husserl, Zur PMumutiuí^gu íím ZMrmfjrrEafnaCr, ed. Iso Kern [The Hague: Níjhoff. t97ib P* ítalka). On p. vf7 Husserl says simply chac “nwn Ldb ist fUc mich da durdi meinoi Ldb.* 24. **AU worfdly chings there for me condnue co appear co me ro be orienced árouc my phenomenally míonary, rosdng oeganiem. Thar is, they aro orienced wirh ropecc ro hete and chere, right and lefc, etc., whereby a firm zero of orientación persáts, so To speak, as absc4uce here* (E, Hussai, **nie W)rM of the Dving Present and che Constitudon of che Surrourxling Wxld EzttmaJ co che Organism,* (rana. P. D. EUiscon and L Lángadorf, in HuBtfi: Slonrr ed. P. McCormkk and F. EUísron (Nocro Dame, IncL: Uní* versity of Notre Dame Press, 1981), p. ajo). On che ídentificadon of die absolute here wich che body as nuU-po«m« see E. Husserl, Curtísimt trans. D. Caima (The Hague: Niiboff, 1900), p. IS): “(My Nsurc) ¡s constíiutcd as an identkal unity of my nunífeld modes of givenness^an idemkaJ uiúty in changing orienotions around my aninute or* ganism (che aero body, Hk body in rhe absolute Here)." 27. On afcuned ^ece, see Sir^xr, JupatigfUimu m Pbtiamfify pe. 1, chap. i. eap. che ataiement on p. 27: “My phenomenal place in attuned space is not asoertainaUe. As an artuned being, I have no «kwrninabk kyarion in this ^acc.,.. Actuned space has no cencer of reforence from which it wwld be possible ro order and separata (he ezperi* enced things and determine them as there in reladonship ro a fixed hete.” In Seroker*» view; che lived body becomes a center of refimnee—hena a bearer of che here only in

Notíf t9


wh« ahe caUs "the ipa« of anwn" and "che ípace of imuítion.'' (On eheae bccer two kinàt of space^ aee htf chape, a and ) K^>ecnveJy, panicularty pp. Sçff.) My own view is that arruned space> while it certainly exists, s much mocc csceptional than Strúker supposes and that thodbrc ic cannoc be tafeen as ezemphry when ic comes to the dimensión of rhe here-there. y. Atnof^ firenda MUner*s daask srudiee of H. M., aee espeeíally **rhe Memory Deièct in BUacml HíppocampaJ Lestons," ^r^cfeáarhc Ríseartif ii (ip$9), pp. 4)^. On the genera] quescion of tvmponl lobe eplepsy, acc D. Blumcr and A. E. Walferr, *Mem* ory in lbtq>onl Lobc Epilépticaín 0. A. TaUand and N. C eda. Tfe (New Ibrk: Academk Press, 1969), pp. 65—?♦. 29. On che noeíon of che *^now)ng body,* ir arfs (^tutisuuu^ see Merteau-Poncy, Phtttonierttiegj af Pvntftwt^ pp. aX) and )09i n. )o. By makic^ thís dual daim, I am maíntaining no more than thv the body is a aÈ^àtftí condchon of being in^laced. ThaC the body ts also a ««asiwy conditkwi will be demomerated ín che oourse of chis chapeer and che neu. 31. On the ZentmütSrftr^ see snAr «¿ás Husserl, GarlisMR AísdàvRw, p. 32. CoAcrening chis panicuhr kxalization, ace Huaaerl's ronarks on the "HswAuibsp/* 01 uid /Umi fThe H^ue: Nijhoff), aec. «4, pp. »7-y. (I owe chis reftresxe co EJizabech Behnhz.) 33. On this migraion, see Erwin Siraus, **The Forms of Spariabcy," Ptydiei^, trens. E, Bng (New Vorii; Basic Books, 190$), p. >6: **n)e T of che awafex, actire penon is centered in the r^wn at che base of the nose. betwvcn the eyes; in che dance it descenda into che trunk." 34. For ché example, see Husserfs amuslng (and inatruccive} analysis of the "infinítely distant fooc,* which nevertheless remains bound up wich my Zcfr-ZmmM loeaicd in my uppo body; ttftá IUms, p. ato. Elizabeth Bdinhr suggescs (in a privace communiGKion) th«c at chis levd of analysis che body becomes a "where*houae" of here-chere op* positions. 3$. Despice his recognition of che here in sense 1, Husserl appears to adopc chb second sense when he vnites that *1 am btn somstfkaily, the center of a primordial 'wotid* oríented around me. Consequeruly my mhnr prtmsnto/ evmao, proper co me as a monad, has tix contenc of che Here" (Crtom AíssEòasnm, p. it9; Husserl italidzes "here”; che rest of che «Ik* are mine). 36. Standing, moreova, allows us eo oppore our body to che bodies of ochers, ftirther reinfereing our sense thac wc are àrrv in poesession of our pUce. our own body>place. The idea of a "scanding army” coma ro mindt "Scanding army, stand down: you are reushii^ che people you are supposed to procecc" (William Safire, *The Great ^handler," Nfw Tirk 7)NMr, |uly i), ipçt, p. Aij). 37. Bange b ccstrictBd to "rcach* when my body ceasa to move as a total enriry; even as scationary, 1 can reach out wich my arms and explore a place thac eicceds the perimeter of my body proper. On riw nocion of readi, espeeísJty as ic extettds co our entire "world within readt,” see A. Schutz and Th. Ludtmann, The Stntítttres tf titt trans. T. Engdhardt and B. Zancr (Evanston, Hl.; Nordnwstern Untvenby Presa, 1973), pp. 4rff. The auchors drew on G. H. Mead's idea of che "manipulatire sone.” ¡ 38. For furrher discussíons of regioA, see disp. 4, see. 1. 39. Husserl, Csrcemm AlnàMSMw, p. ttr, hb icalícs. 40. As Husserl puo b, "Each of these contenta (Le., my here vs. che ocher's here] oeduda the ocher, chey csuinot boch exbt in my sphere of ownness ac the same time." Ibid., p. C19. 41. I say "at leasr" the five ferms in question, since other ferros may ctisc. For ex«




ao^>fe, cnning bodüy on the cvth bnngi wich it a «pedal icrue of tcnevtriâl hotutu^ btn nv this b not juet another regional hete but sui gcncria. Soch a pfmetary here ü so embedded ín che lives of human betngs rhai j^KXognphs of the earth taken from the moon-*—from s place chs had always been regarded as “ouc chere*—wete quite shockíng m behoM. Wká had been taken to be a pomanent Here was suddenly represented as 'Ihcrc. Th» iwtnal of bcatory status had che efiecc. however, oí hdping humans to appredMe their earth«bound here all the more fully. Further reinforcing che status the Earch Here {as we may eall íc) ís Husserfs claím that even íf we were to coloniae anocher planee—or live ín outer space on space shíps^we would dmply reesublidi anocher earthly here tívrr. (Cf hhiaaéfs laie eaaay, **Foundacioaal Inveatigadons of (he PhBnosneoobgícal Orígin of the Spaoality of Natuie,* in Haoarvf; Shortgr pp. u4-at.) A N. Whírehead, Pnete astá Rsaütft ed. D. K. Gríffin and D. W. Sherhume (New Ibrk: Free Prca« (978), p lyo. Whinhead adds char the km traveler “hae got hía own body, but he has loat [che *other places*}/ In HuacrTs Unguage, he has aecure poa* (Wfiiíon of his ®Aaolute Hem,” but he lacks a predse sense of the corresponding theres of chac here. 4^ Erwin Straus^ 71* ftiwaiy Wwid if Stiuet, trans. J. Needieman (Glencoe, UI.: Bce Proa, 19^), p. ao». 44. By thc aame token, thc chere, ín its very manyneas, cdls fbr the oneneas of the here. Thb b noc to deny, of coune, that ín numerous instances my here ís in Ésct paíred wicb an equally singular chere—e.g.. when I pursue a sin^ goal co be realized in one cbere-place only (that bookcase, that kitehen). 4^ Husseri writts; *nhcsc two primorctial spherea, mine which is fbr me the origioal qihere, and hb whidi Ís for me an apprescnied sphere-^re they noc separated by an ¿711 1 cannoc actually cto», since Crossing it would mean, afrer all, that I aequíred an original (racher ritan an q>prcMncü^ experience of someone else^* (Gsm»» Afríównnw. p. m; Husseri underiines ^sepaiaced"). For Enunaiuvl Levinss*s concepckm of sqMratkai, see hb assé tnns. Á. Làngb (Píctsbuigh: EXiqucsne Unirentcy Press, tvdp), pp. J3-9t, (OZ-). 40. Wt may frd coumer*pbces in leas draroscic sírusiíons as welL Even as 1 sercie ínto my “easy diair,* 1 am aware of the dífférence between being just bete, ín thb coxy spoc, and bdng over tbere ac the piano, which co play would require a certain (kfinire effon. Despite bs geMnlly wdeome presne, the piano as thm stiU stands over againat me, MMittnv me, ai b weie. 47. The primary acacus of che here—there, its status as a paradign of the pre^phettom* enslby of body>ÍA-pbce, «ntaíls ba nooreducíbiliry n> metric determination. An índefiníte dyad indeed! Whenever we experience ourselvea in the hae-there axis—and we never frU (0 opcrience ourrelrea Ín b insofv as ire frei oursetrea to be embodied beings—vre find ourselves ín a drcumstance of the nonmeasured. Thus as I sb ín my own living room and gare across ac che wall opposíce, 1 apperceive the dífrèrertce between my here bm and che wall over dvrv as a frb and adverbial, not as a mensurable, distance. Tbe point b not thac I oould noc measure cBk dbtancc from my chair to thc wall—1 certainly could; but ín so measuring it I would not hare specified the frb distance, the between my hereness and the walf» thereness. Nor can I even traverse thb distance in ai^ mecely met« rica] manner; I move grrver* tbe hete Md the there not as between rwo poiras ín qnce bts as between two (daces whose loa are oontinually changing. 44. The geographkal índependence of (he near-frr dimensión b abo realized in rela­ ción (o che here-there. Threa^bout my foumey, I experience myself as here in a rery



particubr car^ibce. 'núi 2oml here {íodr ccntcrcd on the ¿beohne here of my lived body) i* in tum bcated in a icgkraJ here: beii^ here in Connecocut ard then (a* I aoai tte State bortier) bein^ here in Mamdwsecu. Al each point of my trip conesponding theres arise in the form of councer* and com^pbcet, resfricted as well as regional. But rhàs diabetie of the here and tbe there h^>pens on íts own, largely unafbcted by tbe changing melo drama of my sense of the rwar and the fiu, even when this sense reflecta tbe lâlíry of geognphical distance. b b as if the pbenomenal bí*pRaence of the here and the there— desptie bs own compleaty of form—subtends che bss reliaMy constanc raso of the near and dre &r. 49. The {i)here s nor a case of simuhaneous commixrure but of varísDon by sbua* tion: whac b now chac for me is hoc for someone ebe (or for myself ac a sufcáequent point). The 'odusivity and opposition of the herc^therc dyad is maintained cwn when boch members of che dyad acc ínvobed in orda 10 do justice to a particular dcoumstanoe. The phenomenon cf oommitnire implies rhs cbe ñr and the near diffèr by d^rees, och* owise tbey oould not incermtngle so rhoraughly. Thus I cannot agice wbh Sadker when she daims that *the dtffercnce betwcoi [neameas and nmotEnes) ia not a moe maca of d^ice; cteamess and remoteness diffor qualiraívely” (Ziucni^tfimr às fMsippA^ tf P-»)$0. Scraus, Tht Prántfy WU tf Smar, p. Ml* si. Sneicr hints a chis lase point when sív wrins tha *R is only where neameas ccmoKneas are «WuBsd—í.e., Ín metnc space—tha space and time acc sundered* (Jisra* c^paiew M PWtespiy af p. )o; my bailes). $2. Here I must dis^ree wbh Strais ^idan he wrius tha "HeR and There are not purdy ^anl decerminstiona; they arc spaticHEmpoval phenooiena* (7fo /bimaj JtMá af Saiaaa^ p. jt$). Tbey rruy not bc ftmfy spatial in connotaiion, but they are so> and pccdsety in ontrast wítb the near artd the 6ir, whídt, a Straus hünself insiscs, are *spaix> temporal ferms of sensbig.* $). On the ^ntiocemponlby of the lifeworid, see E. Husseri, Tiv Ovú tf Sàattta PasMstiflBBf Phfwwismrfqy. trans. D. Carr (Evanston, lU.: NorthMOon Univcnby Press, 1970), pp. sio, and esp. 16I: ^The (lifc*l«orid is a spati^temponl world.* H- Straus, Tle ^âwa»7 HMd af Satuas^ p. jtf. ü. My notion of nesr spherc is dosely reheed » but not identical with Facr^ Hee« lan’s “near zone” of hyperbolk visual ^ace; see thc ins^bful eveatment in his 3^^ Air tafrian íuut tha Phitumfb} tf Sàafua (Berfceley: Uetiversiey of California Press, 19^), pp. aí-Vi The term Mear jpAwrr oceura ín Husserl*s lacee writin^ e.g., in rhe phrase “primarily familiar near spherc, che corc-sphere (KmsftMrr)” (**Tbe VMd of the Living Present,” p. wp). In an appendix co Tfe Oúv tf Eiàrafaaiti Sfwwra (p. 3m), Husseri uses tbe expeessiotu “near svotid” {íUnatit) actd “Iv wodd” (AnnstiSr), where rtear world is made e^vilent to “domestic wtxld” (HnMwlc). I ranaín indebted IO Eliaabeth Behnke fbr help in mckíng down chese reforences ín the hbynnth of Hussecfs publiahcd and unpifolisltfd wrmngs. s6. I borrow the notion of adrertability ftom Sdua and Luefonann: che woeU within actual ccach “embraces not only actually perceived obyeocs but abo objecta that can be perceived through arcentive advotence” {Tbt Stnuttirts tf sk p. ^). SdwB actd Lucimann*8 acute analysis of reach b flawed only by their view that “the world ín my actual reach, tltt sector of thc world thar is acceatible in immediate expsnence, has a fixaá ftntotpa rè • fwrebMS çsims” (p. >7; my iolícs). Whs guanntees the presence of sudi a scruetur^ What sact purpose does ít servel


Nora ro


S7. As Sdtun snd Luckmsnn ocpress chis point, “I un to vvious here—e.g., when incerprered aa Eudídean vbual space—co be eukurally condítiorted but not eonvemionally detmnined; see 14?, i?e. 172. 71. On the difTcrencc between Hréimdr and fuidudr. see Husxrt, Zatr PMm' otteruí^fit titr JfUrrjttàfthittttí, The same cuhunl spedficíty obtains fbr here-chere, only lesa dramatícally ao, aa we wwM expect since here and chere are less direecty reAective of thàr immedíace suroundíngs than near and fiir. I thank Antisony Steínbock fbr bringing che importance of home-wmld vs. alíen-world in HusserTs writings to my artention, 7a. Place, says Locic, ís "made by Men, fbr their common use. thac by k chey might be able co desígn che panicular ^sinon of Things" Çdx £as^ ettutrtA^ Httuttui UfuítrmiafHy, ed. P. H. Níddírdi (Oxford; Cbrendon Presa, 197$), p. 170). "Common uae" refera co manual labor, and I cake “the pankubt Pocitlon of Things" co im^ place that haa become prívate propeny. For tcxkc's vicwa of property and vabc. see hb Seaná Thatút to Gtttifuotat- 1 have benefited from dbeussion with James E. Donelan and cspecíaJly from readir^ hb unpublíshed paper "Loeke, Place, and Properry." 7}> Alfred North Whícehead, Saew mU At Meátro Wttí (New Iforfc: Free Presa, WJ), p- P* A more cechnical definición b aa foUows; **lb say that a bit of matter has AofU



pa¿fet 6^-67

Uettün rafiftn» dut, in oytíaing ics spado-tcmporai KbckiAS> k is sdeqiuse lo «ase thac it is whac k is» in a dcfinkc finiic r^icn oí space, and chrot^hout a definiie finíte durscion 43f úmc. apan from any cascntial Kftjuax of tbe relaàona of that bn mattCT tn otha r^kvis of space and lo other durnocw of túne* (p. $1; hís ialícs). 74. Ibid., p. 19; my itaiks. 75. T S. *Bumt Noran," second stania; his iealies. As Heidegger observes, che same distinceion obcains between *hac* ami **«dwre**: **The *here* does not mean che Svbac* of somethu^ picscnC"ac«hand** (Heid^ger, afU Tan/» 7^. 1 plan to trace out the history of che reducción of place to sne ín a sepárate moctograph on tbe vidssuudes of che concept of place ín Ubsiern chought. Kr b dús same reducción thst mocivaeed tbe search fer exact fengÍTude on whkh 1 focused io chap. 1; longirutk, afts all, is nothing buc am(Mc locabon ac a determinsie meridian. 77. Whirehead, &»mr «U tU Moiam IMM, p. $1. The phrasc *íundamental assump' Qçn” is used on p. 9. tc is in instance of whai F.. G CoUú^wood» in Áft £ffi^ sn p fiifaef (Oxibrd: Oxford Universicy Press» 1940), chsp. j, would term an “sfcet^uce presuppoeitíon.” 79. Whnehcad, Saaut ani tht HMd, p. 58. ?9> fold., p. 9C. to. Ibtd.» p. 9). Hb iialks. On che body as a total evem, see p. 7}. On the wichness of the body, see Whirehead*s Ptwas ami Raaüty^ ed. D. EL Griffin and D. W. Sherbume (New IferL EW Prcas» 1979), p> lit li. Whitehcad, Sonsa md tbt MaUra WU, p. 70. tx. On modal iocackin, see ibid., p. 71. The phrase *hocadon cbcwhetc” oocurs there. On *prehensíve uníficaiíon of moda! presences of endcies beyond iiadf,* see p. Ty. I). Whittbead, Praao and Raaüty^ p. 7. K4. The fomiulacion b by M. Maieau*Ibmy, af í^taftian^ p. a$5.1 die ic for co conàseness. Berfcciey himself dedared depth to be nothing but distance as measured ín "^aces or miks* (£iaiy mnirb e Nr* 7>iwy ef Vmm (1709) in Tbt Hftrfo af Gaary ed. A. A Luce and T E. Jessop (London: Nelson, 194I), vol. t, p. 171). 1$. MerlesihPonry» tf Pvntfàaa^ p. 2$). 86. G. W. F. Hegel, Pbiiaaafhy f Nsmrv, trvis. M. |. Pecrey (London: AUen ic Unwín, i97o), vol. I, p. 20. Descartes hid che ground for chis indifícrenast posición whoi he daimed that ^here b a merely nominal diflerence between che three dimensions of body^length, breadeh, and depth; for úi any given aolsd it b quice ímmatenal wludi aspccQ of ita acension wc okc as io kngth, whkh as io brcadth, eic." (Rcné Deacanca, AhÍ0 /br At Dinaiaa f At MAá^ in Tbe PbÜatofbieai WnA^ ef I>estàrta^ ed. J. Cotcingham, IL Stoothoff, and D. Murdoch [Cambridge: Cambridge Uní^^nity Prcas, t98$|, voL a, p. 60> J> J> Gibson remarts Thac *che rvxion of space of three dimensions wich three axes fer rarf^an coordínales was a greai convenknce for marbemstks... btu an abstractkn diai had very little co do with actual percepción" [The Eeai^fúal AfpnaA ta Vmuü PtntftwH (HiUsdak, N.J.: Eribaum, 19I6], p. ul). 8?. Mcrieau'Ebnty, fbswwwrwrfy ^/bre^hso, p. a$6. Merfcau«Etey's índktRmt a« (ends to all modem phílosophers, ftom Descartes 10 Be^son. 88. Ibid., p. 266. 89. Ibid., pp. 20, 2$7. Anocho definitioft of primordial depth b *a levei of dbtances and abes" (p. 266). Sisch a levd ^defines the for and che near, the great and the small, before any object ansea to provide us with a standard fer con^rison. On le^U see pp. 244-S4. 90. Ibid., p. 266. **núdinesi" transbres ífetiísner. Construed in chb way, depth b like


Natts to


void—*'pbce bercft of chings* in Aristodc’s definición at)b, chai dep^ is noc empty buc always already fuL 91. Mcricau-RwTty, Phcnanieiitiígf tf p. a66. $a. Ibid., p a0$. The aRrUwtion of "originaUfy* oocun in the pceceding senaence: *T)ús beíng simultaneously present in experiences which are nevenhdess murualJy oídu* sive, chia im^tcatíon of one in the ocher, thís concracòon into one pereqxual act of a whole perceptual proceis, conscinaes tbe or^inaliry of (primordial] dc^h’* (pp. 264-^). 9}. The quemd |4uaae » Heidegger’s: all ük fim, original, lior^y indpient citending üi «hich lhe unity of trttf time conaists *nearií^ neamea’ {nUitmit Httr). ... ” (*Time and Beii^ in Ób Tãav taU inns. Sombough (NÒv Iforfc: Harper, waj» p. U). 94. Merleau-Ttonry, PiititoiittitíUgf f AnapiM», p. aóa. 9). Maurkc Mericau'Bmty, "Eye aml Mind,* crans. C. Oalka7, in 71w fiíwafy ef hreeftiot^ ed. J. Edíe (Bvanston, 111.: Northwestern Uniwsity Press, (964), p. ito. f. J. Gibson, abo a oick of tbe view of depch as an indínèreni **third dimensión,” ne* up wicb a similar modd of depth aa envelopment-by-ocduaiort For Gibson, depch arúes from “an array of adíoining surfiices* in iHitcb an oedudon of tbe edges of thóe surâces ts a criticai finor. Sn Gbson's Eaí^iní Affmtit b Vimoí Pmtftion^ pp. ato, )0^ and Gb* son*s cariier trexment in Tbt tht Visooi (Cambridge, Mass.: Houghion MifBín, t9jo), pp. 60*. I have compared Merieau>Ponry and Gibson at greater length and developed my own chougho ¿louc the relation between depch and plaee in “ *Thc Ekment of Msluminauaness’: Depth and Pbce Re^exatnined,* in M. Dillon, ed., Meríuu Asifj Vsw ass (Albany: State University of New Ibrk Prcas, i99o>, pp. i-»9> 96. ^^^viing nott oS April 1960, in Herieau*R}nry, Tbt Vúibit omí tbt Jini/Mt^ p. 141; my iialio. 9?. MerieahRmcy, *^e and Mind,* p. ilo; hia italks. Merieai-Fonry adds: "Once dqith is unlostood in this way, we can no kx^ oU it a thüd dinunaion. In tl^ fim pbce, if it were a dimensión, Ít would be the fim one; (hete are foims and definite planes only if íc ia sdpulaied how fiit fim itit cheir diflerent para are” (hb italies). 96. Whitehead, Soous and flW Aúdam RMd, p 9t. 99. Thb line ís abo from "Bunu Normn,” second stanaa. 1



(. Shakc^carc, /fanbt, set 1, scene 1. í. On riiiftus a fiwm of syncat^txemKk expression (i.e., Husserfa term fix 5Mxds whose meanings are contat*dependent)—*in the fixm of deàcck and aA^:4)oric verbal s^ns, aee U. Eco, A Tbtory Stmitria (Bloomic^ton: Indiana Univeníty Press, 19^6), pp. 115—aa. Aut the meaning of a shifni b that what it ñames may not exíst or has never oisixd. ¥ri ÍD deagnarion is '*rígid* (ín Kriphe’s term) ín that the expression desígnales che same individual ín any possible worid no marcer wbecher thai individual eúats or noc. (See Saúl Kripke, Ncmó^ tuni í^etsaty [Cambridge, Maas.: Harvard Universky Press, 1980], pp. 4t‘-49; 10, n; ai^ 49, o.) David Kaplan díatinguishea between "pure indeocab* si^ as 1 and "demonsmtívcs* such as tba and fie, arguíng that "che lefeiuu of a pure indexkal dependa on the oontext, and che reférent of a dcmonstnriwe depends on the assocíaced derrronstratíon” (“Demonstracives: An Essay on tbe Semanrics, Logic, Metaphysks, and EpisterrMriogy of Dcmonstncives and Otber Indexicala,* in |. Almog, |. Ptfry, and H. ^Wttstein, eds., Tbtnita fim Ktfi^ [Orfixd: Oxford University Prcas, 19I9), p> 49>; sec

Neta to



abo pp. atifT). AS inóoúcab are rigid desigiMior»; ciiey ve, ín KapUn’s prefcrred phnK> ^directly reféremiaJ” (aee p. 493.) 3. Aa Kart Bühier aays> *rhe worda J and jm refer r> (he role boldera ín che OA*goúig apeed) dram^ ía tbe speech action.... 'Hte maín and origiittl ftincckxi of personal pronouns lUx / and b noc (O aender and receiver, juR aa nan» dowar. but only co relcT co cheae role hokters" (from p(. a, chap. 7, aec. a as tnnsbced ín R. larvella and W. Kkin« Sftttb, PUiet, Md Aatwo.* Sntdíar m Dtixú tuui RÁutS Tófia (New Ibrt: Wíiey, 198a], p. 19; hta italks}. 4. Merteau'fonty, tf p. aá?; my italka, $. On *bí*pR9cnce,” aee k L4vy*BtuhJ, 7>e Mxefaeb n» /Vwvtrw ACmaBAí^, nans. P. Rivéte (New ¥cMt: Harper, 1978), pp. 4-4,18, 38, 74^76, T79. 6. Eüaabeth ScrOker suggeaca chac che onencaDona gíven by (he dímenaíonal dyada “are neither cuporeat rtor ín or of chinga. They are relacioAahipa of che lived body roward chc Thing; these rdacionships aic netcher eaml nor tdk, but primarily funciiona! rclamn* ahípa fine constitutii^ themaeívea in the incerplay beTwren chc actíng body and chc wxM to be acced upon. And (hey are given co (he aubyect ín no other way chan in (he $ubiee(*a dealing wich The wortd* {JwHsñgKtietu áa Pirtí«»piiy Sftair» p. 64). In icKxIern stempta co find (he simpk beation of space and time> one set of chinkers—Deseartea> Galileo, Gassendi, and Ncwton inoet prominencly—plant them firmly ín the outer physkal world, while another group, Ied by Kani, pues space and dme rcaolutely inside the human subjccc. la noc chis ancínomy of origín (o be resolved by admírhng bi«loca(ion ín (he manner of Spíncoa and LesbAÍa, Hegel and Whitehead? ?. A number of wñtcn on whom I have drawn ín (hb part—most nocably Kanc. Whitehead. and Hcid^ger—have si^gested che need for a more cncompassis^ wm (han fiíur- Heidegger, for exampk, insbes on the necessicy of positing a rcgwn as chac “out of which what is de*severed brings itself cloae, so (hac one can come serosa ir wich r^srd co ics place” {Stv^ ami ímu p. t^). In che perspective of 4Kd TSna^ places are in every case pkces virírin whkh ncvoihclás give thonselves to us as “rcady-co-hand already in individual pbces* (p. 137}. £wn regions whkh ace not ready'fc^hand, such as d)ose provided by che sun*s daíly crsjeccory (Í4., sunríse, noon, sunset, etc.), count as fully regional and thus provide che “whithers” for particular places. A given whitber organizes a región as a “totality of places* within whíd) ín tum given things can be said co “bekmg somewhere* (both phrases in (his scntoKc arc on p. 136). For further (learmcnt of Heidegger's view of place, see my easay “Heidegger In and Ou( of Place,” A Ctit~ tamiãt Appnúsal (Pittsburgh: Silverman Phenomenc^ogy Center, 1990), pp. to—98. 8. Aríscotle, Ribyrkr, 212a. ao^aa. 9. Merkau'lbnty, ef Prraftim^ p. 140. 10. On chc ToMcisf as antkipahng modernist omeeptions of space, see M. Hetd^gv, /nrmbsnws » Metafhytia, crans. R. Manhcim (New Haven, Conn.: Uniwrsity Prcas, ;i| T9S9), p. M: “che rransfórmacion of tbe barely apprehended essence of place (tepsa) and of }l flWins into a ‘space* defined by extensioA was íníciaced by (he Placonk f^iloaopfay.” n. Plato, TbwMMs, 43b (Comford translación). Such mocions, adds Plato, an *unxegulaicd, now reversed, now side«long, new invened” (44c). n. These are tbe pam and kinds of place: above, bekm; vid the lesc of che síx dimensions” (Aristock, Rfi^sso, aoíb, 13-14). 13. Ibid., tí. Ac 208b 10 Aristoik says that place “has a certain power” («cAn Cáta dawaiWMi). 14. Ibid., 14—c8. 1$. Only the [daces of maihemacical objeces—e.g., poínes^^an be said (o be dmrr* mmaf by our bodily position and (hus to have no inbennt position of their own: such

T ,

Nota to



obfeets *are not in place, but atiíl have r^c and left according co their positioA reütivefy to us^ wMi *r^hi* and *lcft' in a sense mady reháve to position, since chey do not have dther of these by nature” {ibsd-, 16. See René E>escanes, Oprw, trans. and ed. J. Cottin^iam, R. Stoothof, and D. Murdoch (Cambridge: Cambridge Universiry Press, i980« *ol> b pp> i64*-70. Descartes, who is o/ten aasumed co be an unrcmitting oeulocentrist, remarks on p. 169 thac “as re* gards position, i.e., che orientation q each pan of an obfeet lelativc to our body. we perceive ¡t by means of our eyes «aiafy as 9f atssmt sf 9» hansb” (my ¡alies). 17. The rhreefeld dimensión [oí space] seems to aríse ñom the bcr ihsc subsances ID che existing worid so set upon one anocher tha the strength of rhe acción holds in* vendy as che scfuan of the distanecs [between these subsonccs)* imW ofExffrioMal PtyMgy: GomtW mi (lols), pp. iít-tjy. Hddegger ronarks riut “che narure oí the Dimensión is a mering ouc. Mering ouc {/tío Zuonanu^) is not yec measuremem* (“Iberically Man Dwells... ,* p. sao). He adds: “Wc now cali che span chus meted out che Dimensión." to. Morteau IkNuy, PfwwrwiMfqgy of p. 344. JO- Brwin Scrws, Upright Pasnuc,* Pbainoaut^fieaí trans. E. Eng (New York: Bask Books, 1966), p. 14a. A con^anUe imporcance oí vertksü hlewchy in NietMcbc’í Aíiin>4/~and pmóely as scemming from che active—paasiw body—is emphasized by Gilíes Deleuae in his “Active and Reactive,” trans. R. Cohén, in D. AUsson, ed., Tlv Nrv Nioajdfc (New ^brk: Deba, t977)> pp> *off. ji. On chc invenson oí che perceiwd worid, sec C. M. Stratton, “Vistoo without Inversión oí che Retinal Lnuge,” AyeM^úaf R/vwv (1897); discussed by MerleabBxtty in

Nota to poga 79-So

«f ffrttfáony pp. 244-jo. Concerning (he room teen obliqudy in a mirror, aee Max Wathdms, *Experiineniidk Studicn ütn da* Seto van Bcw^ng,* fitr hycket^ (i9is}> discussed by Mcrleau«I^nty> ibicL, pp. a44-$o. 9. Abo active are the “vesobuJar saca,* which maincain a Iracne of reference scnoQve to rix kan change ín hodíty position or rrtoverrtenr aa meaaured agamn graviiaeional forcea. 33. Thia ^vaae ia fourd in ibid., p. aoó. Spatial level ia diacuaaed on pp. 144-^. H* Olivo Sacha rqx)rts a potíov «kh Barkinaon^s discaac who pp> As in the ouc of the Stratton experiment, a dkrinct gradualism was evídent: Mr. MacGregor*! “spirit spectacka" (as he called ihem) ^vrorised, in a fashion—tf kast he scopped tilting; but ít was a continuoua, exhauating corase. And then, over the cnauing weéka, it goc easler and easíer.” Mr. MacGregor had an unimpaired pbyaioiogtcal sysom of cquihbrium—indudb^ a normaj (aul IhEral) levd of fluid in his scnudrcular canals—but hk ncurological defldt, introduced by Birfcinson*s disease, meant chat che pcobkm lay racher in *his abilicy co sur his balance oegarts, in conjunerion wich che body*a sense of itself ard with íta viaual pterure of rise worid.” Sad^s*! emphaais on the active use of the body rejoins Mericau-Pon(y*s stteis on che body as respofwbk actor “as a mass of cactik, labyrinthine and kincsÜKÓc data, the body has no more deflnhe orientación than tbe other contents of experience... nevertheless, ar m ic playa an essential pan in che establiahinenc of kvd” (Fhmssurws^^ of p. 344; fliy icalks). 0. Merleau-Itomy, Phatouurtotfgy of p. mA. He *«pafial kvd.” )6. On rhe constaney phenomñion (not to be ctmfused with the “oxisiancy effect”), see Strws, "The Uprighc ftxture,” pp. 14$, 147. }7. *Wbat all of these GaoscÍc tradicions have in conunon is che theme that che ahüity co stand upright is a human fcarure whidi cbe ardtons were unal>k co inúcate wben chey civaied chdr own human (being). The created body came ro possess chis uniqueJy human afoüity only by divine gift” (Mkhael A. Williams, “Divine Image—Priaon of Fkah: ftrceptiom of (he Body in Anckni GnosDcisn,” ín far o füwy tf tift Haotton Bsi^, ed. M. Feher, with R. Nadaff and N. láa (New líxk: Zone, 1989], voL 1, p. 139). 3I. Heidegger, ood Tbur, p. ijt. In anocher passage Heidegger underlines how abové-bdow dútíncoDfu on be opcricñxd as inhering in partkular placo: **n)c ‘above’

k what is ‘on the cálsng*; the ^tefow* k what k ‘on the floor*; tbe behind* k whac k the door* ” (pp. IJ6-37). 39. Aceonding to che Gwpsu rtymzrifsuw. “the head corre^onds co the sky, a pbce inhabited by (he spirk and by highet ¡noU^cnces, whik raan*s lower half^Mve goiital parta, tbe origin of geuciaücwi, are in che Imvcr part* saya Pioo della Mírandoü—^rorrC' sponds ro that part of che unívene whkh is locaied under the Moon, an area whac, ‘as erei^uK knows,’ says Pko, *generaúon artd corrupción are bom’ ” (Patrizáa Magftí, “The Face and the SouL* ín Fn^^iavMr far » Hitttrj of ek Htoiuiit voi. a, p. (09). But there k an impUcct hterarchy even in thk oorrespondcntíal vkw. On one hand, che upri^n posture representa an acensíon of (he redius of the canh; on (he ocher haod, tlv same poature k *ak 000 oriy md afariaff rerries/ skrwrim” (cited and Ralktsed by Magh, p. no, from K. de Supervük, £naai sur la t^gna áuomlitwmtríí átav (Leyden, Ita?]). The lacter daim would seem to make (he upright body (he source of the venicaliry of che coenoa.


Nauí u


40. On (he dimncáon between ^«(heteaJ worid" and *to>nb norid,” ice Ludwig Binswangcr, ‘'The Caae of EUen Wsec,” trans. W. M. Mendel and ). L^cns, in R. May, E. Angel, and H. Elknbcrger, eds., Exitteiut (New Ixfc: Baste Books, t9^), pp. A more technical way to put the disciACtioA is to say that “i^íwand ñom ground levd a unmarked, or poaiQvc, and downwacd is matied, or negarivç" (Cbri, "Spacc, Time, Se* mantks,'* p. ¡9), where a marixd term is more comptex, or more problemMk, than an unmarfced term taken for granted or as a potíáve standard. 41. lhe quoted phrase is hom MagU, *rhe Face aml Soul," p. ito. 4a. Erwin Straus remarks that "isotropy holds only for purely geometrk, and noc for ph^kal space,” and he gives as an eaamfdc che case of 'hrrtícals” ín (he "space of the ohaerver”: “White horizontal paraitete appear to oostverge, the verticais do not foJlow this transfornucíoA—an IndteatíoA of the roíe thac gravtry and us overcosning play tn the for* matíon of aensery spacc” (Msn, Tsmt, and trans. D. Moas (Pinsburgh: Duqueane Vnivtnity hca. 19S}]. p 149) > 43. The logic of “beyond” or “over” is of ^>edal interese. Clark (“Space, Time, Se* mandes,” p 44) argües chac the use of “beyond” in a sentence sudi as “A is beyond B” entaiis two poincs of reforence; *A ís on the for side of B from riw point of view of C," when C is preàscly the bodily poshxm of (Iv speaker. 44. A psychoiogkal scudy of orieniir^ behavior in both actual and imagined peroe^ rual sãtuations has demonscrated chac when asked to irtdteace wlxre focal lartdmarks are, subyects hesiiace for less if chese landmarks arc thought co be focaced in from of racher than behind them; '"p$4). This firxling implies thac che entire dyad of ahead-behind possesses an oriencationaJ advantage in comparisoA with che ocher twodírmuiona] dyads. One suqxcca, howcvra, that (his generk vhancage only carries forward the particular sticngth of the forward dirccóon in orienorion to tees/ landmasks. Th» advantage ts for from absotute. 1 hara àced rite FrankJin and IVersky uudy in whkh down reaeckm ames were coiuistently fovored over front-baek. ln the same study, ii was ateo shôwn chat the priviteged position of front vs. h^ foeaboiu is qukkly suspended when su^ects are asked to imagine chanselvcs racüning, in whkh case response times for obfeots focaied ahead of or behind the observer «rre equivalecK, while updown ceaetion times fose their usual advantage (“Seardiing Imagined Environmems,” pp. 70-?i, 74~7).) 4), Franklin artd Tveraky, “Seardiíng Imagined Envirorunents,” p. 74. 46, AnatDmy and languagc are hera cfosely cclated. Hill remarks on the striking foct rhM “lhe back” ¡n seveni languages names boch the entire región behind us and a parcku* lar part of our backside, whik there is no comparable semanck spread in regard 10 “che fronc”: *^rhat back and (in Hausa) actually refér co a porrfon of the body, unlike from and jnte, suggests che seminal role that human anatomy playa in detoroining refrrenrial funcrions for chese leakal items; for referencial asytnmetry is apparently relaced (o (his anatomical asymmetry; Chat k co say, the greaier difrcraniúKion of (he anterior part of the body leads to a variery of speeific names, whkh usctfp, as ii irare, the ruming function of che more gerteral cerm” (“Up/Down, FroM/Bad:, Lefr/Right,” p. i)). 4f. Clark, “Space, Time, Semántica,” p. 43; hts aalks.

Nota to fí^ 3^-89 Ahtfode fint aplktly endoncd the privilege of vúion: **We prefcr sághi to elmoM anythinf ebe. 'The rmon b thar thb, moct of all the aefkse&, makea ua know *Qd brit^ to hrtwetn {Mttafhyña^ píoa, 35-3!; my Italia). On the primacy c/ vistan, aee alao Hans fonasi, *Thc NobilUy of S^ht: A Srudy in the Phenomcnology of the Senaes,” Tht Phtnoottnon tf L^: Thwtnb o fMnVdw/iárna/ Sioitgf (Chicago: Uniwnby of Chicago Press, iota), pp. 4*. Scnus, **The Upright I^aanire," p. toa; my italia. The quoce b ñóm ibid. )i. Or do cndta move sidcway»? Clark observes that “the ñom ís nonnaUy the end tsS the object containing the perceprual appacatus (e.g., dogs, fish, cnbs, etc.), or the end that bada when the object b ín rypical moóon (e.g., * in R- hrvdk and W. Klein, Pí^, mtJAawt (New fori; WUey, 19I*), pp. S9-4O> PUbnore icgard* nich lebced case* as *che diüd b üi Iront of che cree" (whidi he paree* a* “the chíW b near che tree, on cbe bde of rite cree deán* » aa ünpbdcty egoeenirk. Even HilTa aubde dbdncdon berween **ego-aligrMd” and “egooppoaed" deixi* (dted by FUInore on p. 44) stiU dnwa covcrtiy on tbe central poeition of tbe human body. On cheae iaauea, aee abo Clark, “SpMX, TtmCt Scmaruk*,” p. 47, cók $, where a dbrinctfon berween “nonegoccnt' rk, nonincrinak," “nonqi^uçejiirk, incrinaác," and “egocctwric, nonincrinác” pcefMxmon* 0 mainoined. In my view; all chree caiegcxie* are made pocsibk by the pivocal pociáoa of che body chroughouL )9. **The left/righr onencaciún .., b posible for an obiect only if that ob^c ha* iMb a vertical or up/down orkmacion teté a ñora/baiA Orientación* (Charlo 1 FiUmore, “Sanca Chía Lecture* on Ddxb.* [Bloomington: Indiana Uniwreicy Linguitck* Oub, t97$], dttd ín HiU, “Up/Down, Front/Bad;, Lefo/Righc,* p. )S; Filbnore’a ícalica). HÍ21 conuneno on thb paaiage that “cbe left/right axb b, in effecc, derived from an imereeerion of che oeber two* (p. )9, n. 6). Indireet cvidence for thb prioriry oamea from the fhenomenon of left-righc imnal in minore. Oosc analysb thb mrreal revéala cha n b in fon depen* dent on a prior front-back reversal of che body of tbe person who 0 viewing henelf in the fflirtor. (See Gardner, TTie AjttMaarvití ÜMrérrw, pp. *9—ti. e*p. p. )o: “In a nrke machematkaJ sense, tbe mirror has noc reversed lefr and right a all, ít ha* reversed front and bacL* 'The “senet nuthcnutkal sense* here in question refer» m the fecc cha tbe nÚROr reverses only the aás cha 0 perpendicular to its surfecc—and chb b the front-bai axb » onc stand* fodng the mirror. Buc «x idendfy oursdve* wich che image of che penon fl* t3e Hñerer and thu* assume cha a right-beft reveraal ha oceurred: *b b only beeauie ycM im^ine yourself standb^ behind che glasa, fodng cbe other way, cha you speak of b a a lefr-righc reversaL*) 60. *rnie confosioR of lefr and r^t oceure... wich regard co figure» that have no mocor, but onty a purely opaca! (for example, omameneal) interest" (E. Mach, 71* As buried co the righc side oí the door to che house, that oí giri» to the lefr, vhik men are buried lying on their right side, «tmen on their lefr (On the proNems oí such aacriptíon, see Needhanfs introducción, esp. xix*zzx.) Accoeding co the Nyoro, God himadf points upward wítb his righc hand and proclaitna, **ThÍs ía heaven,* meanwhile pointii^ down wich hb lefr hand in order to aey, *Thb b earth” (p. Edí). Gsnxmíng che Chínese atricude toward right artd lefr, see Marcel Gnnct, “Righc and Lefr in Oüna,* ín Needham, pp. 4)fF. On che Zuñí, see E E. Evana*Prtcdurd, ín* cioducáon co R. Herez., Damlr mí Rfg9r Ziamí, crans. R. and C. Needham (London: f94o), p. aa. 71. Ocher instancea of che oDmplemanary vabes attached to righc and lefr arc kas tran^went. Thus the lefr hand b che mosc aacred men^er oí the Mugwe, a priestiy carie oí the Meru people. Ic alone possesses ritual power. Even so, if a tshle oí assodated valúes

to pi^ts 91-92


ts coAstructtd fer thc Meni, «c find tbe feUowü^ (adspond fíesn R. Needham, ^The Left Hand of the Mugwe,” in NeaUum, ed., Cr L^, p. ii6>: Uft

day nnrth can aeníor man tunrise l^ht dder eiden polnical power

night south wen junior woman/child sunset darfcnes )wnger Mugwe religious authoriry

Hete a reverval of vahies ís posiced spedficaUy^-and only—fer chose who, like the Mugwe, have religious authoriry. In other cultures, oceptions are recognized only for ercraotdinary States such as slecp ami death. Thus for lhe lanne che left hand beorás scnic^ than tbe right and communícaKs with God after desch, even though che same hand ís eonsíd* ered inferior during a personas lifedme. (On chis exampk, see James LiRlefobn, *”Ifcinne Ri^n and Left,” ín feld., pp. a94fF.> Ti. Qied by Lioyd, "Right and Left in Greek Philosophy,” p. 1*0, ftesn "Oualísm and Symbolic AnricheaU in Iruloncaian Sodery,” by ). M. van der Keoef, Aamnm Xn* íírspsiqpff 0 (J9í4b p^ UTff. 7^ E. E. Evans*Priiidurd, /ftvr (Oxford: Oxford Uníversíry Presa, 1996), p.

Frand* La Fleache. and Left in Osage Ccrcmonícs,’ in Needhann ed., tí" 19—40. The Osage imagine chis symbohc man as havu^ mocion: as he menra, ao che entire cribe (wich both of its dívisions) movea. Ti- *n>e Chief hokSs his reeepàon scanding on a dais with bis back to the north and his ftee to che aouth, íe., Êung che light or Vuig ... when che Chief stands ficing lhe south he tcoeiws che ftiU rays of che sun; he chus aasimíUces the Iftng, the tuminous prindple” (Gnnct, * Right and Left in China," p. 49}. Ib chis obcervatioci, we need only add thü che sun rve m che diieD (i.e., emperor^s) left «de, whkh is thus fàvored. 76. Littlejohn, *1bnne Right and Left," p. 191. b is cempeing co speeulate thas d)e criúcat ftetor is leu the san as such than whatever direction is pendved as gcncraw of and hcat. Thua che primacy of the south in China—and in che Aeoni artd Arab cultures—would be txúy a varianc on a corcunon cheme: i.e., our **primary oriematíon" ís coward whacever dirección provides daylighc most readily and reliably. Such specuhtion cejMiis the provocaiive critique of Hertz oflcrcd by J. Chethod, *A Contribución co the ProUem of the Frc*Eníncncc of thc Righc, Bascd upon Arabk Evidence,” in Nccdham, ed., Rfpftr pp, Instead of proposing sacced va. protfàne as the mosc primidve opposioon—as did Kuii Chelhod argües, on the basis of Arabían sources, that light and shadow, hoi artd cold, and chus south and north may be even more determínadve of righc*hand predominana. (On the Aeoni predilcetion for the north^south aás su atigning right-left distincTiona, sec Charles Fnke, "Order in the Atoni House,” in ibíd., pp. ao)Our headf aJthou^ 1 tin^ as ODAcrenzed in che case of ean and eyes. In certain coMexts, the head ís uaed to point out right and left

Nòta a



dírectioos. (The auné principie appUes to /un of (he head; Tibetans pdnt out dírectiooa wkh thór lipa.} Tt. "Symmetry probably hu eurvival vahie u di/fcrem levds. (In evohitíon frotn na* oona/y aea organiama to movü^ crotuxes] radial symmetry probably gave way co hibw«l symmetry as organiarns crohcd thc apaüry to moc, since linear movement is most effidenily accomplished by a syetem thai is bibtenlly symrnetrícai* (Corballis and Bcale, "Bilateral Symmetry and fiehavior," p. 461, drawing on che eariy work of Hermán H%yl, ^jwwrny [Princeton: Princeton Univeratey Press, ?9. Icrome Bnmo points to the poanUe connectíon between holding and acting with two handa and lopk and conunent in language ("Vp from Hetpieameas,’' a (1949), p. JO. Corballis and Beak, M)o dte Bruner on this point, observe that "asyitb metry ín intermanual ñinctíoiu may therefbre have set the stage for che cortical asymmetry of function ihac b chanctcristic of language repeaemarion in the human braln" ("Bilateral Symmetry and Bchivior." p. 4bz)10, Both MMàtfamõ^ actd auniMdarisn stem Ñom Latín mmu, hand. 11. Imnunuel Kant, "On the First Ground of the Disúnenon of Regions in Space," (rana. J. Handyside, íci |. Handystde, ed., /nasi^vns/ Dismaswn Md£«nb M (Oiicago: Opal Court, loap), p. A contemporary ^«^rapher beara out the truth of Kant’s observador: "An^me who is uaed to «orking with map» will kncw how cnie this (obaervadoo] is.... once one has located che rtorch potncer, one orienta oneaelf co cbe map by automatkally ^^‘aring east wich the right hand and west with che lefc hand" (J, A May, Xanr^ Canc^ af and /o » R^nt Gt^fnplfiaii Thot^ [University of Ibronco; Dei^cnenc of Geography Research Publicarions no. 4, 1970), p. 7]}. From Kant’s descripóon of ustng a m^, it ís also clear thai north as ijisplicitiy opposhe che head of the msp reader b assodated with "up”-"(he "north poincer* points rcMluidy ap—just as we wcádd expect from the upward position of che head ín reiscíon to the rest of dx body. As a result, to walk due north as índicsced by che map ia to walk


Ss. Kam, "On che First Ground," p. h» n places that estduie as intemaUzed within thú body. WUliam James has this ro say on Ac maner: ^The pbces chas first sensibty known are elements of (he chilift spece«w>rid whidi remain wñh hun aU his liie... to the end of dme certain pbces of the worid remain defined for him as the phoes vfim ifins tanatíaiu arart* (Tht frinafia af (New 1M: Dover, íOíoJ, vot t> p. b: his halics).

Notes to


a. On these tw> stagea of deconstructkxi, see Jacques Dernda» DtsfMsunsfi, rnna. B. Johnson (Chicago: University of Oiicago Presa, 19I1), pp. 4-^, where Derrida íntists that the stages are enacced *in a kind of disconcerting róasd." See abo Derrida, (rana. Á. Basa (Chicago: Uruveniry of Chicho Press, pp. whoc Hk stage of “overtuming'* ia comnstcd with that of '"a posióvety disptadi^ (nnagreashe” deomcruc" tion. j. On the social a priori^actd on (he confidente Amy of other a prion fcructuces^see Mikel Dufrenne, The Netien ef the A h'ieri, nana. E. Casey (Evasuton, 111.: Northwestern University Presa, 1947), and ¿‘wsiwínii do a frión: de (Parb: Bouigoss, t9li>. pp< ao*-ao. 4, EmoM EhA, crans. N. K. Sandars, in B. Sproul, ed., Awae/ Afyflk (New fork: Harper, 1979). p-109j. An engaging tresameni of ihe theme of the hotel as a modem dwelling phee par exccUoKC b Jamo CliffonTs "Tnvding Sdvea, Ihveling Ochete” a alk ddivet^ « the conforence emítkd "Cultural Scudies Then and Now," Univecsity of lUinob, Urbana, Apríl 1990. 6. I say “apparcntly antícheácal” becKise the kindred term which weam •errer’ or “dehision” as wdl as *stupc^ng drink.” may be a bridge betweoi (he rwo oth' erwise sepárate ur«senses of Ib be stupefied (whkh ü rhe meaning of the Middk DxMch dMUm) is to be hindered or deiayed in one’a course, made co catry in a way chat begins (o reaembk residing somewhere. On chis question, see Erk Ptrtridge^s estoy ut^er "dwell,* espedally his statemoit that chis word "comes from CS to wandcr, 10 lis^cr, to arry> akin to OE deofian, C^ris to wander, be in error, OE dwk, error, ^rís O£ doubt, and ON co lir^9, delay, carry* (Or^gou: A Sierr Efynuí^fúol Dütietutty sf Aiaiem Et^tsb (New York: M^mUlan, 19)9), p. 172}. ?. "Alies RáujnLiche dehnt sich aus* (Tbeodor Lippa, Ibuimaathrtii ttnájmwx/rúcb» oftiuOt üi ágr Ca^iath^ fíif Ftngbtti^, voL a, iB97> dted by Budolf Amheim, Tbf DyiuuHÚs ef ArdntuatnJ F»nii (Berkeky: Uni^Trs)cy of California Press, 1977], p. S6). On che cornplex cultural and social signiScance of arcades, see Susan Budi^Morsa, The DioUítia ef Seeii^: miiter Ajytwwn «wf the AmuUs Etvjea (Cambridge, Mas.: MIT Press, 1999). Bcniamin saw arcade^linc conArucied in Paria in rhe cariy nlncrecnth ccnrury^as pandigmark modern phenomena. The wxd araadr de* rivea from the Laún anw, bow^ herKe rhe bowed cedings and skylígha and (he aerpentíne winding of ccrridors. S. Wha tnatters here ts not rhe sheer calendtkal kngth of ixir acquaioonce wiih a given dwellii^, the Êuniltaríty may emerge rapidly and may bear on the kheá of dwcUtng nther rhan on a particular building. Thus need noc have lícetally inhabíted a given darUing to find rt ^miliar in Hs ambiance or structure. "1 find chis fiunüiar,* I may say co myaelf, setclii^ into a cabin on che north rim of the Craiul Cancón, even thou^ I have never stayed rhoe before. I rcoc^nue the form of dwelling at sctke and thus fod "ac home” immediaiely. 9. On the incenorñy of dwelling places, see Edward Belph, Ptocr «wf Pkcsfomuo (London: Pión, 1976), pp. p-0. Even if "le ¡s che inaidenea that mosc poopk experience when chey are at home and Ín their own towm or r^ion” (p. 0), (his still does not mean that such insideness ia a sete een of all significanc dwelling, as b im(4ied üi Emmamid Levínas*s daim chac the home possesses an "essencial ínterioriry* {ThtaÜtj toeh ittfiettíjy trans. A, Lingís [Prtcsburgh: Duquesne Unlversicy Press, Ti(9. Leon Bartisca Atberti, Dt n bL 1, dv^. 1 (dted by Wittkcwer, XrobAuruns/ PnsMpto, pp. si-aa). My kalks. As Leonardo*! friend Luca fteioli pu( it, "Afrcr having considered che r^c ajiaiyntent of che human body. the ancienes propertioned aU (har work, particuUriy (he temples, in accordance wiih it" (dted from Paciob*! DMm prspsrmr by Wicrkower, p. ij). What guanruees the peraJklism between tbe proporcions of che body and chose of che building is che existence of what Wittkcrwcr calis "coanúc tatioa," i.c., proporcions ths are common m boch: "As man ís the image of God and the proporcions of his body arc produeed by divine will, so che proporcions in ardiiteoruic have to embrace and express the coemic order” (p. toa). But the human body remains che concrete basis of proportionalicy. Alberci proposed a system of architeetuni meaaurcment whidt be called "exempeda" (licerally, *ou( of íèet”) and which is based on human feet as bask units. (On this system, see Erwin Panofiky, Htsrory of che Theory of Kufflsui Ftoportiona as a Refrectioo of tbe History of Scyles," reprinced in ^nofrky*! M tht Vüaal Am (New fork: Doubleday, 1955!. pp> 9S'-96.) 20. Fig. t is from Winkowcr, Afthèttnmi Prmtiiiay pl. ia. Thb vkw in plan (U., from on top) has the pandoccal efrèet of making che body contained in the church appear to be borh standing arvl prorw. ai. For a nuanced discussion of such resembUnces, see Kcsx C Bloomer and Charles

/ib» te




W. Moore, Sttfy, huí Afdfittenm (New Haven, Conn.: We Universicy Presa, a-^ T am indebeed co filootner for a series of ÍUununaxing (bscuasions thac have darified and expanded on his piortcering worL as. Palladlo, Tit Booh tf Ardrittowr, Ul í chap. s. Conunencmg on this pass^ Geoege Hcney remarks cha “a pabee is in fect mctaphOTícdly a dotbed body.... The purposc of the clothes is w show off beautiful oegans and hide ugly ones” fWaso; md Anakrisoairv . 2}. M. Heid^gB*, HM ¿gr H/tÉttfhuitá {PfuUii^ai: Neske, »997>» p. t). I ^W1 retum to this ímpornnt pnsaage in ch^. I. 34. Óted ñom Jane Auscen, £hvm, by Wicold Ryboynski, /fimr.* A Sfort Hvttry gf ati Uta (íkw 1M: Penguin, I9l6>. p. loi. s$. For Freud*s met^>hor, see his “Formulations on the IWo Principies of Mental Funcrioning” (iptl), 5«ini¿rd fidirim gftbt Caatfletg Mrir, mns. J. Soachcy


(London: Hogarch, 1954), vd. la. p. aaa: “In che same way (i.e., as in che provisión for a cbi)d*s fantasying], a nación whose wrahh ceses on the exploicarion cf íts soíl will yec set aside certain areas for reservarion in their original staie and for procection from rhe changea brought about by ávUezation (e.g., Wlowscone PariL).” On cransmonal space, see D. W. Winnicott, TthnMtkmaJ Obleas aM 'nansicionaJ Photomena.” ¡ntm^ioaalfMtraal ^Fry* cbsnu/Tsif H (i9Si). Winnkoct somccímes refors ro this space spedfically as **place,” for oamplc ín (he foÜowíng passage from anocher p^>er: “(sud) space is] tbe only place where (4ay can sean, a place thsí ís a the condnuity-ccotíguíry moment, where cranrirional phe­ nomena origánate" (*”nie l***»-^*^ of Cuhural Expcrience,” /iwrnMrirM/ /mnud tf gataiftis 4S (i9d7}v p. m)ad. One q>proadtes the Audíence Hall along a linear central axis that rana smighi north chrough tbe Gate of Heavenly ftace and the Can of che Noen Sun before readiing the Forbídden City within. See Nelson I. Wu, Chitun' «af Miau Ardrittcnm (New Vark: Braaálkr, 196)), i)6> as óted in Yi*Pu Iban, ^aa M Ptaa: Tbt Ptr^gonr a^Bxfgrwa


(MinneapoUs: Uni^miry q Minnesota Press, 1977), p. 39. 37. On this pouK, see Bloomer and Moore, Btify, Mgatary, tM Arehnrfnn, pp. 4^ at. I (cftr co AriMode'a discusión of che various *Svaya one thuig is said ® be as anocher/ PIts»» atoa, and to Heidegger's treaonent of *Boi^«in* in Aràif m4 7W, mns. ). Maoquame and E Robiiuon, (New ¥brfc: Hvper, 190a), aec. o, pp. 70-86< Al one etrikr point, Heidegger menóons, only 10 diambs at mere ^ourward ip* peannee,” tbe reJarionship of *Mw d^ in cbe dassroom, the dassroom in the unívertiry building, che building in the dry of Marbuig.... * (Tlv ílirtory fts Gwiupf tf TbaSf crans. T. Kiaie] (filoomingcon: Indiana Univerticy Ptess, (995)> pp. U7-^)> ap. 7110 ís Amhcim’s fAnaing Zucfcer’s potitíon; see RudoJf Amheim, Tkt n^nia 9f Artht^fmrai Fsrm (Berfceley: Universiry of California Prettt (971}, p. 9a> with reference to Zud¡er*a arúcle ín a sytnposium on “Inside and Outside in Archítecture»* JbMTMf sfAtttbeóa tnulArt Crititáiit 1? (1966), pp. j-ij. Por a set ooas-cuhuraj scudies of boundaries, sec J- F fiourdieu and N. Alssqryad, eda., SmianM Tbadi* riso.* Ooff-Curiwa/ Brv^wriws {Lanhacn, Md.: Universiry Pteas of America, 19B9), pe. a, “Quescions of Boundaries.” )o. IW are “cut cm” of suefa places. Emst Cassirer notes thac “aiipAws (Greek te»' mes) goes back to the rooc «m, ^to cuc,* and chus agníSes thac ndiidi is cuc ouc, ddimicedEc first desigiutcs the saoed pcccincc belonging to chc god and consecrated to che god and then, by extensión, orry marfced*ofF piece of land, every bounded field or ordtard, whether it bdongs n> a god, king, oc hero” (7>r BMnvpby Jbrw, crans. It. Manheim

Nbío f9 [New Hsven, ^Sik Univcrtiry Pre», 19$$], vd. p. 100^. On tbe sune sharp “cxn* beiweca two beeic kindt oí epacc, aee M. Eltade> Tht Sâtrtá nHá iW nt Namnr tf (nm. W. *lh*k (New Tforfc Haraourt, 19)9)» introduction aod di^. 1, and )ean*Chude Gaky, ed., íbt fimiplr, voL a (Hria. I9l6}. /VoiSnc íodf u a piacc tenn since k means Uarally the appahuon,* Le., before tlte appartóoci of che numinous being belonging co tbe inner depth of cbe cempk. St. Robot Maxruri, Cdsyien^ mad Cwfnsirfimsw in AjrtifwTWH (New Ibrfc: Museum aí Modem Art. I9M)« p. M. íi. Gastón Bachefard. Titt fWno ttans. M. )obs (Bocean: Bcaoon Ptcss, 1964), pp. «T-J». SS. Ambcim. Tltt AnMuauni ftmty p. 9a. }4« Edfflund Huseri. ^Fnnndarinnal Invesogatíons of che Phenomenological Or^ia of the SpooaJicy of Nanue.” cnns. F. Kcnten. io P. McCormtcfc and F. Ediaon, eds.. /¿Mcr*; Wvr (Nock Pune, Ind.: Vnivenny of Notir Pune Fn», tHth pp' as$**a6. For a devUopmenuI view aí the prc-checic posición, see Julia Kríiteva, AcwàtM 0» Jterw Lai^ai^ mns. M. VKüler (New Vxk: Cobmbú Univctsiry Press, i9H}> p> 4^ Khsteva hersdf speaks only of “ihrac,” but I am interpreting hó notion of “sooiotk eWns” ss equivalem to pre>thetk, even cbough Khsteva henelf insista thac concepruaUy (even if noc devdopmenially) the ebetk qus “symbolk* is presupposed by the semiotk. I chank 'Cboi Brockelrnan fbr usduJ discuaúons of Kristeva's work as k bears on arcfaitecTure. 36. The pbn is from fUbdio, Thf Four Sooít tfAniiiffam^ bt a, pL 1. 37. James 5. Adcennan, Asttasb (New Vbrk: taiguín, rodO), p. i64< The onpbymcm of *ak)ng* and *alongaide* ín chis staicmem ís revealing. Acfcerman adds thac *chis duality was reoognized by the dient, Girolamo Qúcricati,* ddng cbe larcer^s pecíòon of Mardi lyt fbr a buUding permit: *I have been advised by expert arebíteets and by many revered otBots co make a portko along che fxade of my house on che Isob fbr gicm convc* nience to oof artd for the convenience and ornamentación tf thr atíirt atf* (my àtabca) 3I. From I^Uadio, 7%r Four Boohs ofArMttatm^ bt a, pl. a. 39. Henri Bergaon, Aíanrr and Mtaury^ trans. N. M. and W. S. Mmer (New Vwk: Doubleday, 1939), p, 14). In italks in cbe originaL 4O> Aldo van ^ek in Ar^âtttaroí Pa^yR ja ((9dSh ched by Msvuri, Ctmfiixit) aoid Qiwmitffhsii. p. H. ^ck adds: 'The transición {betvren inside and oucside] must be ankulaKd by means of defined ín*berween places whid) índua simulcaneous awareness of wbat ií tigni^nr on cithcr lidc.* Thoe “in'bctween plxcs* are whac ancwcr ardxícec* turally to che inCEmiediafon of the body as an ongoú^ «rtaca in human aporioioe. «. This is Heidqger*s phease from Hehtí dtr Han^ronad, p. 19: ^Tbe single houses ... the villages. the àdes are works of acdticeccuie, «hídt ín and around chemsehes gatber cbe mulcifiirious berween." 4S. On aura in tnemory. see my Ruaumhiíu^: A Phtntamoi^fñal Stad^ (EUoocnington: Indiana Unhtnicy Pra, I9k7)> pp* 70-7t ao*. Concenung am as “unique exisonce ac the ptace where [a work of art] happens to be,” see Witter Benjamín, *The Wxk of Art in che Age of Mechankal Reproducción,” /tfwwiiwerisw/, crans. H. Zohn (New ¥brk: Schocfcen, 1969), pp. aa^. 49. Aekcrtnan. MJsdw, p. toj; my icalia. Thus, for cxample, “ihe smalksc (room in the palazso) b a' x j*', its neíghbor il' x it', (the next] 4* x 30'.* In chis sequcncB, che larger dírrtension of one room becomes che imaller (or che equal) in che iten room. Each of the numbers ú a mulàpk of 6, cheieby rcsulcing in tbe proportions s:), 3:3 (• 1:1). 3:3. Mhdío must have been aware chac chis last serio oorvesponds co che fifth, uníaoA, and msfOr sixcb as measured by discuvEs on a monochord. Here the harmony becween


Nota to

uchhectujc and muaic—a Pythagonan notion rtintroduced by Albcrti—becomca cvidem. Nbdio wm ñirther than Alberd, ho«wer, in unifyu^ hii buüdíng by tudi coonk bar* monies in aU timr dímentioAs; **Whac diñérentiates Palbdio’s proportíons ftom AJbertí'a b ch* they are uaed in intcgmd systcnu that búxl plan and clevation, úuenor and ene* rior, room and room, giving a aenae of the pervativcm» of the ardünct's coanrol* (p. 167). On (he rebtion between muak and aidñie^iure in Rcnaisaance architecture, aee WiRkonrr, Arahbmroa/ MuaíBíe, pp. lor-ad. 44- See James, tf wd. a, pp, tj4-*4. 4). M. Hádegger, ''The Or^in of the Wxk of Art,* in Patttj, Ttvijfirt, pp. 6J-64; *Ihjth estaUbho inetf as a stnib wúhin a being that is «o be brought iórth in such a way that che conHkt opens up üi chis being, thai is, this being ís itadf broughc into (he nfc*design (Rio). The rtfr*design is che drawíng*together, ínio a uníry, of sfcecdi and bask design, bread) and outUne (lAnno), This acrife that ¡s brought amo che rife and thus act bad into thc earth and thusjixsd m fiar (Ja^arttí/g) b figure, shape, Ccnb* (my Ralks). Por an ejiiaided criticai assesamene of Heidegger’s evoKir^ notion of pbce, consuh my “Heid^gcr In and Out of Place,” A CmOMry Appntise/ (Pitti* burgb: Silverman Phenomenol^y Cerner, 1990), pp. 6a-9t. Indebced as 1 am (o Ikidegger’a pioneering «nitings on place and región, I find thar nowhere does be account fer thc active ageney of thc human body in issuea of implacement. Abo, hc does noc attempt to determine what place itself u, proposing only a family of rebied cerms (beatián, att, jftua va. fiecr) thar cannot be subsuirkd under space qua Greek mrdisn (distance, coterval), Reman futison, or Cartesian enmnr. How this family of place^ternu ís itsdf configunted—aiW how it has an aiconomy of to own—is iwer estaUuhed, 4d. Por thc cofRnst «tu» jrntfiaaw and Sfidntim, see Htidcgger, ’Hlie Origin of che Wxi of Art,” p. 61. 47. The Greek temple a Paestum is firsi mentioned in ibid. on p. 40 and is under dose analysis fer the neu fbur pages of the cext Tbe only “conunon ground* (ne^ Omdr) betwecn earth and worid identified by Heidegger b the incimacy cflécicd the ríft (Rus) becween these cwo feccors chemselves: *rhü rife carries (he opponents into che source of cheir unity by vírtue of their common ground” (p. 4^). IroníõUy, “ríh* lends itsdf to a somstic incerpretscion never given by Heid^ger. (I refer here co (he “sdf-split orjgo" as oudined in pan two.) 4*> Ibíd.. p. 4i. 49. Upright posture is a condnuing condition of such acción. Siraus remarks thai “wtchin ihe (ocaltry of che new spmal dimenskvu aequired with upright posrure, loenl space is perhaps moet important* (Tfe ^wnary UMá af trans, J. Needleman (Glen* ooe, IIL: Piee Press, 1969), p. 14a). ''Lateral space,” ri)c ^>ace of ñee movement, is dosdy akín co whac I am here cailing “leeway.” ln architecture, leeway gaíns expression in what I RoberT Wnniri calb “podsé," i.e., tbe residual leftover space ín a buUr srructuK (see his I Gnwpfawty snd CMmsÁcrkn, pp. 8a-t4, where both “dosed* and “open” poché space are ! discussed as tbey figuro into buÚdii^ and even imo entire dties). I dnnk 'fem Brockelman Ibr this refciencc. 50. HUadio, TW Fatr Rsakr tf bk. 2, chap. la. Cf. Hesd^ger's dktum that (he ardtiteci “makes space fer spaciousness" ('Hbe Origin of the Waik of Are,* p. 4J). $t> Concorong íntimace ímmensiry, whkh is dose co whai 1 am calbng “opencd4q> implauiJKiJi,” see Gastón Bachebrd, Tfa ^trus f chap. i. For an ins^hefuJ scudy of (he chilcTs experienro of domestic places, see M. ). Langevdc, **nM SdlIiMss of tbe Secret Place* and 'Hbe Secret Place in (he Life of (he Q)ild.* Pinaiaruí^ and I (198)), pp. u>-t7 and iBo—91. $a. The bodíly basis of arehicecturc did not escape Goethe's atiention: “One vrouU

Nm u



think ÜUK aidútectUR » 9 fine «t ttorii «otely for the eye». In*«d, tt ahouU worfc priinanly for the sense of mechanicsl moóon in che humsn body^somethín^ 10 whkh scuK setention b p built pbces. By invcAing Hermes and Hestia and desaiptions such as (heee, I do not mean to inply thai rhe two kinds of building and dwelling to whidi chey aie exici^ed in this dupter are to be described odusively üi cerms of the gender diflèrences chai üihcre, all coo stereotypioUy and tendentiously, in (he ordinal concepcion of chese gods. *Ibus conccntriciry and rectilinearíty tu nsib i.e., as formal*geomctric preper* cies of building—are not based on gender, or fbr Chat maRcr on secuaL difièrcnoes. b should also be rtoced chac dte Greek coneepóon kaelf ís not without cenain ctxnploncs: Homes is at ortee che god of coaununkacioa ai^ yet cIk ke^ter of silence (as is sàU sígnificd in the English phrase hfnuau Àbwr and, more gerarally, in brwtw in che sense of ertclosed or ooncealed). 73. Cricidzing architecrure of che previous generation ín America, Wright remarks that “che 'interiors* coAslsted of boies beside or inside otho bous, ealled resHB. AU boises inside a cninplkaad boxii^. Each domesóc *function’ was propedy ben to bCBL ( oould aee lítele sense in this inhibUkn, (his cellular sequestraóon chac implied ancescors fiunilbi wáb tbe cells of penal institutíons” (^imi Uryti p. 43; his iialics). 74. This is not tn deny tbe possibility of «hg» ways of spedfyü^ tite*space via aher* nacive non-Eudâlean and non-Omesian geometriea, pw as there are a least seweral sig*

New to



níScant form* of paRídpational*topolcgKal ardúcectunl ímpbcemenc. For a sense of (be consideraNe range of such formal poesibilitie*, induding cboae with e*o(eric roce*, see AF berto Phen-Comc*, Anhiticnm ttiá tht Ow tf Mtiitn Sdtiut (Cambridge, Mas*.: MIT Pwa». 103). 7$. For che Piagedan model of the developmem of spatial ^xnepúon, see fean Píaget and Blrbd Inhelder, Tht ChüA Ctaa^fitit tf Sfttr^ trans. F. J. Lai^don and J. L. Lunzer (New Ifork: Norton, 1967). These autbors insist that boch Eudtdean and profoctlve geom* etry are derivative from the copofogkat phase, in whkh the key nockna are proamity and separación, order and endoswe (see pare oik [Hbpologkal Space*] and pp. y, OI, ryj. kX. 76. Space M d4ra> amlo^zed r> a mifror, i« amoq>hou* and haa no qualicy or nruc* nuv of io own. In tbe pcccoamic acage, whaievcr b co become own panidpace in cbia van Bxcepodc^ the scuiec of aU becomb^ Becoming itaelf oceur* by way "r^ion»* (rMnei) and Optases” {n^), for i^ich the Beceptade pcovides a *acat* {ináv). TK» hearthlike seat furnúhes a distinciivety partkipatkauJ and copdogka] matrà onto whid) tbe Demiurge can mperimpoae che geometnc shapes fhxo whid) soUd obfect* an built up in a coonk aecbíoeetare strikingly hocnol^cau co the devdopment of Euebdean ge* ometry in che diild or to land«survcying in che aduk. In hb coostiTuexm of a wdkordered univenCt the Demiurge » aimultaneously dúldlike (inao&r a» he begins wich a díscincciwly pre*EudÍdean ^*ace) and adule (as a mional vKxU*architecT for whom formal geomecry is eüemplary). ??. Hestia Seta as a mcdiacc* for paychological im^mion analogoua co Kennea* mediadng acóvióes as connector and mover of aoul* (Barban Kirfcsey, ^Heatia: A Back* ground of Psychological Focusing,” in Jame* HiUman, ed., ftniy tht Gtiíi [Dallas: Sprú^ PubUcadoAS, (0o], p. 107). 71. Dememkc^oulOB, *Hcstia,* pp. $p-oo. The coadunscioA in quesdon is preinaerfoed in the curious knguisck foct chac the lndi>Euiopean root wi*. underUea boch «rt* and arrw, The bourd character of tbe arch is hesoal in inspiración, whik the swiftness of tbe (straight) arrow is a main crait of Henne*. 79. The iUustradon ts hom lo) tn Norman T. Newton, Dti^ tu tht ¿jsnd; 7%r ¿Xtf I tH/fnpr AiMti't«ei»(Ciinbndga, Masa.: Harvard Univerairy Pteas, 1971), p. woSo. 1 take the term wrfr from Kevin Lynds, who defines Mdo as *the stsat^k fod imo whidi the obaerver can enter, typkaUy ehher junctions of pacha, or concentraions of aorne duracteristk* (Tht tf tht Citf (Cambridge:, Masa; MIT Press, (960], p. 7a). Lynch describes che Piaxu San Mateo as a node that is "highly diflerentiated, rich and incricaie, (and Chat] stands in sharp contrast to the genetal character of the dty and co che narnm^ twisting space* of ics immediaie approadÑa* (p. 0). n. Ambcim, Tht D^fiumia tf Anhittctimi fbn», p. ftç. la. *Bwple gnvhate naurally toward che edge of puUk spaces. They do noc Unger out in che open. If che edge doá noc provide chem pbces when it ia nstural lO linger, che space beoocnes a place to walk ehroc^h, noc a place co stop. It is therefoce dear Chat a pufalk square should be surrounded by podeta of activíry... dte edge muse be aolloped* (Chrisropbo Alexander. A dted by M.*J. Doeio, P. Federsen, and K. Nosdut, "Bvcryday Ufo on an Insignificnnt PuUk Square: Vknks,* Bhhtia )o (19^], p. K4). 8^ By listing in randoen order the paira of cernís Chat hm been discusaed ín tbe chree prccedü^ chapcsn, I do not mean to imply chac they are of índdforent aignificanee ín tbe human experience of pbce. Importam diflennes* of strueture and type remain. One sudi difierence b found in the foct chac che fiir dyads discusaed in part two (bere-thoe,

Nota to


right^kfi, etc.) are of more general acope chan those described in thb chapeer. For these 6ve paira apply to bodily being in euip given place^buih or narural^wheteas che recemly discussed paira (ioside-outside, wnh-betvveen, etc.) are roost partkularty perúnent n> bulle places and do not have corrunensuna rclcvance ro naninl places. Othen^ put. the peevtous five dyads all ^enre on each of che slx new terms. There b a right vs. left, near vs. fiar, etc., opcion for asck wbh, eeub between, etc., while che reverse operación does nor obeaio: chere b «sr ahvaya a wich or a between fer a given righc or left, above or below, etc.

6. BuikUng Sites and Cdcivatíng Pbces I. lunes HíUimm (Ne* Ibrk: Harper, 19?$), p. m; my ialia. s. For i CKSRneni (hese (wo sones in s broader but stiU quíte rekvant context, see Miras EJÍsde, Tit Sétrtá ãtul fbt tí kiu Tlft üíittm sf (New tork: Hsfcourc, 19)9}, chsp. t. khvui von Goethe, /este Jntrw^ trans. W. K. Auden and B. Msyer (San Francisco: North Kwic Press, i9ts), p. 50. 4. Ibid., pp. tr^). ), *nús phnse b from tbe title of one of Wdlacc Sreven/s bte poema, *A Mytbology Reáeco Its Región.’' 9. I borrow thb dbtiíKtKXi from Spiro Kostof, A Hür^ry Anhiaenm: tuui RinuUi (Oxford: Oxford Uiuvertiry Press, i9t$), pp. aiff. For Kostof, both forros “jn> ply a determined marking of nscure. Humans impose throu^ them their own order on lururc” (p. 21}. 7. A boundary » not merely a *botder* or a “perímettr,* i.e., a linear contour Ut* erally drawn arourtd the edge of an object. In establishing boundartes, ardutecture refoins nature, whidi possesses many boundaries but fow borders. The boundaries of buildings, like boundaries in nature. consist of marginal r^ons in which tensions are played out and resofotions reached (or at least suggcsted). A» Rudolph Arabám puu it, "Boundaries are rhe precarious produces of oppoung forces" (Tbe Dyn^tmüí 1/Anbiteervral Fom» [Bcrfcelcy: Univerbry of Califmrua Prña, 19^), p. 7j). For thb very reason, boundaries deUmít in manifbld ways, noc just in the geometric or legal senses thac ínfbrm borders. They dbplay divene dynvnisnu in difforcnt settings. (On thb last point, see Henri Fodllon, Tbe Fonu fo An, tnns. C B. Bogan and G. KuUer (New foti; Zone, 1999], dup. 2, esp. p. 66; "Even if reduced mereiy co a ilender and itnuous Une, (an ornamental boundary] b already a frooder, a h^bway.*) 5. The drawing b from Kostof, Hietory ef Aftbiuettm^ p. fig. 2.2. 9. Ibid., p. 21. JO. Ibid. A ptt house, insolv as i( b fourtd partially urtder che soil (e.g., "aod houses" bulle in Kansas and Nebrasfca prairies in the míddie of the nineteetKh cenrury), is strietly speaking a "burrow" in Aroheim's sense of the term: a form cf primitive buildir^ that icveab its fonction by its wry shape. A "shetter" need «ar maniftst its fonctioA by its outer surface. Buc che huts at lérra Amata seem cieariy to be at once djehers and bunowa, based on Arnbeim's criceria. (See Arnheim, Tbe Dyiumia rf Anbiteenmi Amu, pp. 144p.) On the anbek npnwwatiine of such "primitíve huta," see Joseph I^wert, O» AAaw^ MÚuv m PeratUse: Tbe Ueee tf tí>e Zb'iwuhw Hut bt AnébactNriif Húrwy (Cambridge:, Masa.: MIT Presa, J9B1). II. Broffirtfii means "ledge house” in Navajo. *nK buiUü^ irself, houever, b not Nav« ajo in origin; tbe Anasaaá, artcettora of coday’s Hop* and Zunl, are ethnkaUy unrelated co che Nav^o, who Isas setiled in the r^ion.

P^ :

Nota to


o. For a diseerning study of honsomality vs. verticality, see Bomd jager. ^Honzontaliry and WnicaHty: A Phenomenotogical Explontion into Lived Space/ Cb* fStfmr Síitáús OT PhnMHfWÍ^'eal i (1971), pp. aia-». I). In this cnUeged coniext, buUt |daca are the nodal points of cbe bidirecóonality» as wtU as of the honzomality and vertKality, ín whidi bodsa and buildings coc^om in the áreumpresence of narure. As providing the ímmedisie locus of edifices, buik placa are lesa capacious chan the natural world in idiich these edifioa are aet; but as the arena of Ínhabitation (or as way>stations on a joumey), they are more cztsntive than the diaexae pnaso-places of bodily action. 14. remaris tn chis oonnection thar in buíldu^ **the ekmenis are cnade use of in accocdartce with cheir narure artd cooperare fer a produce by which they become constrained.... Ihus dtey fertify a strueture fer Kaw and ordre ^amrr themselva* (C, W. F. Heget, AnoOTi m /fsmivy, trans. R. S. Hartman (New 1M: Uberal Ans Preaa, lOHb p> his ialxs). 1 ouv chU rdmee to J. Melvin M^Mdy. 1$. Vitruvius, Dn Baatr mXreirtrmrnf, rrans. M. H. Morgan (Cambridge, Masa.: Har* vard Universicy Press, 1914), p. i?o. 16. See ibid., bk. t, chap. 6 (on winds); p. iBi (on guaran of che ahy>; and pp. (on nsrunl lsghc>. Vitruvius thinks dui archirécrure must abo bc sensitive to the chanceen and demanda of tbe gods and thac building sha ahould be dsoaen wich deídes as well » the natural setting in mind. See bk. 1, dup. 7. 17. Palladlo, Tbg Pmr Botáj ifArdnuam (New Mxk: Dovs, múj), p. as. Por Pal* ladio’s treatment of grounds, rivera, swamps. etc., sec bt i, chap. 7, and esp. bk. a, dap. la, *On the Site to Bc Chosen fer che Fabril of Vilbs.” I*. Charla W. Moore, WÍUiam J. Minhell, and Wilbam llimbull, Jr., Tlv JWrúr GanilrOT (Cambrl^e, Masa.; MIT Press, t^O), p. o. 19. MÜton draws explidtly on hes eariy experiencE of kalian gardens aa modcls fer hú descripcioo of Paradisc as a garden. Sec fíntUtt Lert, bk. 4, IL aaj-6). bailan gardens had walls and doubdess were inBuenred by Moorish models that are in tum tracesbie to Míddb Bastem origins. ^^Uls creace enclosure, and ^srdm ¡s derived from the IruSo-European root which signifies enclosed space. |. B, Jacfcaon remarks thac *the carlicst gaedou in our hisRxy were eascntiaUy endosurea, built for defensa or privacy or sionge ot for giow* 0^ food” (*Nearcr Than Bden,** Tlr ÜMUúy /ir JUóv [Amhent: Universicy of Masas* dnuetts Presa, i9>o|, p. u). ao. I construe ^úaMs/ in Víctor Tiroa'a sense of che term. Instead of aedcíng ¡n lofe in ritual as he doa, however, 1 shall take ics spaml or, more exactly, its pl»al aspeas aa these emerge ín gaidou. Sec 'Bimer, 7Ír fbn» «f Aifteo tf íUftititi Rjttnií (hhaca, HY.: CorndI University Press, 19^), pp. otff ai. I^using for viewing—and for medlesing—haa been an in^ortam fearure of gar> dens ñom China and Japan to western Europe. Loub XIV wroa in che gusdebook he intended fer visitón co tbe gardens of MaaaíUa: *on fen une pause pour comidácr* (óted from Louia XIV*a M^nün Ot tuturtr le /Máv Ot ^intáUe (170)] (foria: Pión, (951], see. 10). u. iUbert Kartmon, ¿avmtv S/wfrf (fioccon: Godine, 19O), p. 4. As HarbísoA sbo ronsriu, gardow sre *SmcnMdufe cnoi^ lo rnske us think ihey m nanuc and ix* aúnply «mbdlishments or «nhsnamema of U. re^wni which unJike poinongs kt us forget chere b anychüig bc>md* (p. }). But I sh^ srgue that many gardens foreefuUy resnind us of what lia beyond them. a$. Jackson, *Nearer Than Eden«* p. so. **Evcn within a given culture thtfc are many venions of the farden. ¥et we somehow rcoognizc them slt* There are atiU traces of the original 6eUs laíd out in Er^and by dw Ar^lo*5a»m

Nffta ce

and «trty Scandanivün seftlen. Noc unol che Conquesc, houvw, can w diacem an ío' renóor co aec atide particular pioo aa plaaaurc gardena or “pleaiancer." See Tirvor lUwley, “Medieval FUkt SynEnu>“ ín Leonacd Cantor, ed., The MeehfMi Ijutetscn^ (Phila* ddpbía: Üníwníty of ftnruytvan» heaa> ]9la), pp. aj-*a*. On the diatinction becween gardens and Btids, eapedaUy che enooachmenc of one upon cbe orher, aee Jacfcaon, “Ncacer Than Eden,” pp. vfT. a$. Ciced by John Harvey, Gardaw (Londoo: Batsford, 19*1), p. 10. 16. Cned Ln íbid. >7. The nounahing aapect wouU be qucsàoocd and ronoved by tbe French gardenen of che aoenceemh century; Louii XIV expceaity fbrbede the grwing of comestibk fhúca ín hia gardens at Vbnaillea. aâ. Harvey analyzci chis oample ín Madíma/ Gardrax, p. u. ap. On cheae four forms of game garden, aee Leonard Cancor, “roreata. Qaaea, Mu, and ^^^irena," in his .Madim/ X i^rrapr, pp. j6-8$. 30. On tite variou* vahxa of cree», aee Harvey, /üdãamal Gardnu, p. 17. >]. Rnd., p. 14a. за. Thia aame anirude pervadea cbe maker» of tbe daaaícal Chíneae gardert Buc in che tarar caae narure ia noc ao 011^ wdifdfd aa rapraaond within cbe cntioÃire of the garden iodf (e.g., by miniature Undscapes chat imicace enecnal nwdeb). See Edwin T Morria, Thr Gavdnw tf Chhut: Hàwy, An, tuuí (New ¥bvl; Scribner», 1993), esp chap». 9 and 7. See alao the dáacusaton cf Chineae garden» aa apedal place» for remembering, ín my JUnanaforn^.' A PftntteiuMti/^’arí Snt^ (Bloomü^con: Indiana Unlveraíry Prea», 19I7), pp. aO7'L*» >60, 33. William Howard Adam», TW Fmuh Gardm tfoo-Ooo (New foeh; BrazUIea, 1979). p. It. Even che aUegoncal character of che medieval garden, evident in such comrnon ap pellatxxu aa ^Ihe Garden of Lowe* and “The Garden of Saivaiion,” wa» adll manifèsc in early »ixttauh*century French garden». 34< *nK 6guic is ñom íbid., p. 19, fig. ti. 3J. Íbid., p. 11. зб. Mooce, MitcheU, and lurnbult, The l^etia ef Gardnw, p. 14. 37. Fig». 13 and (4 are from Adam», The Frtneh Gtmieit^ p. 9?, fig». 9a and 9^. ln the fuU ^an, cbe petit f»n i» che dense, square central area just above the inverted V>shape. 39. “Unlike \^*be'Vkonis, che gardens at Sbmilles impoae no particular pcomc' nade, deapice an equally strong central axis «hídi actually kad» co a mulocude of pocsble paehf of dfrarhissMntf' (AUen S. Wtis», “AnaniorphQsis Abeanditus,” An a^i Tixi fipl?), nos. tj-H, p. 6). Ai Vbrsailk» che ocberwise ansider^)le distance» of cbe garden (the central axb abnc was «m dght míle» since it abo connected up with cbe central awnue of the dty of WrsaiUes} are Gqjcríenoed as reduced because of foccihomung ef* focts. 39. Vinccnc ScuUy, Aráàttcnm: The Ihatirai tmá Ae Mamaaâe (New Ifork: St. Mar* cin’» Presa, 1991}, p. tt. 40. For the des^ of dw OUteau Bichebeu, aee fig. 79 in Aduns, The Fneuh Gwdns. The plan of the chiteau consiscs in essence of four square» (índuding che square containing the caatJe itself) síruamd on a longitudinal axl» between two cirdes. Adam» alao diacusae» cbe “obsesaive harmony* of tbe never-completed Charfeval, where “narure 1» hypooòzed by an almon totalctarian viiion of a Renabonce on earth* (p. 44). 41. fbíd., p. 99. 4*. Qced in íbid., p. 97. For a formal anal^ of chese racio», with spedal em^iasú on their rooc» ín FÍcíao

to and Alberti, tet George Heney^ extnocdínary aoaiym in otU Xmfcrtrrfwwf » flir Itotíoo ¡t/oôiínoter (Ithaca, N.Y.: Comdl Unhmiiy Pre», 1976). 44. *Thoe cadenced acccnOt carefuUy spaccd» furcher em^usized tbe eeraixxúal ían* ertfy or promenede which became an im^nl part of the experience of the French garden. The ideal worid of memory, of cocMempbooA, and of the pkarurea of tbe aeaacs had co be hdd together by a peribetly orebestrated score of riiythmk wdb arvl Aopa* (Adama* rhr fremí» Ganfai, p. 52). Such r^ulated petambulson eonenata with that *enoneoua wanderir^" whidi vras índuced by a Baroque garden audt aa che BoboU in Fkxence. (On tbe Boboli. aee Harboon, Eansrií pp. ó-io.) Moote, MicdieU, and lumbuU, Tb Autia ^Gardiaar, p. I99< Boinaij^ co the lame

ambivalence* the authon add (hs a hndacape archàect such a» te Hdttc *uaes finite formal geocnetriea co brír^ ua to the brink of infintey,*' 46. Francês Yitts has escabUshed chac a wideapread Hermetic behef in dte muninoui* oeai of nunixr and dupc. itcnuning ñon KabbâlisQC and 9; Repcon’s italks). $8. Aletander Pope, "Epistie on Ikste," dted by Moore, MíceheU. and *Thmbull. The Arrio tf CMflu, p. 14]. )9. For an cOEnsive analyas oí ConflaNds painting, see E. H. Gombrich, Art ttU fíímn (Frinceton, N.|.: Prínceton Univenity Prcas, 1961}, pp. On che infUiezKx oí Oaude at Scouri)ead, sce ScuUy, AraMMurr, p. 334. 60. fioch paimen and gardeners "cried co dimínate nature’s acddencal flaws, chereby aUowing an Immanem beawy to emerge** (Moore. Mnchell. and *Tbmbull. The Pteha tf (Mcnínu, p. 05). The same authon observe wicrily thai "the waorcolorists painted ideal landscapea, the gardoien then buih them, and che wiccrcidorísts painted diese in tum" (F- 9). 61. For a cióse anaiyais oí Blenheim. see íbid.. pp. 64*63. 62. Norman T. Newton, ütsign sr tíee jo The T>etdofeoeitt tf htoetscope Arehiteettm (Cambri^e. Masa,: Harvard Universiry Fress. 1971). p. 207. Cí Qifibrd*s Gon^nnKe State* menr "In England in the third derack oí the e^teenth century chere be^ to be ap­ parent (he Ores Gardening Revolución. 2 reimal oí rasce wichout precedem in che history oí garderúi^ and hardiy co be equalled ín char of any ocher an” (/fõwy ef Geethat

I U:

Nafa ro


p. a|>. For an exceUent coUection of oses th« bear on (he deveiopineni English gardens from the seventeench (o (he nineteemh oenrury, see J. D. Hunc and P. WtUta, Tht G^rttm tf tht Phtct: The EttgUsh LemelK^ft lOao-tr^ (Cambridge, Masa.: MIT Presa, t99o)< 6). NewtcA, Desigte w nW p. »o; hís itaha. 64. The figure is from Cl¡ffr)rd, ef Gemítn 64* Of. Cíted from Honce Wúpole, The Hattrj ef the Moüm Thm ñ Cte^ereie^ . en Hum and WiUis, The tf the PÍmí, p. p). 06. The “halha!* had a fence en Asmas (tt> keep wandering líveaKxh at bay). pok remarked thac chanks to ihe haiha! the English gardei was *set free from ita prim c^ularity, rhM u might asson wtch the wiUer councry without” (from The Uirury ef Ae MoAm Uuu m dad in ibid.). Harbíson contiders che halhal a durveoisócaUy Bncish way of achieving boundUasneas; fot che English garden, “an un«wall had co be invenced, whkh perfrvnu the phyakal frinctions without having che ^sual vahx of a walJ. The ha-ha or sunken ftnce is an Englidi ¡cÁe on law and order thatnrrniwt real coniiraini with English deviousness” (Harbíson, fmttfrfr Sp/KO, p. $). tfj. Cmd by Mocee, MstchcU, and TbmbuU, TW AMúr ef GemUeu^ p. 4d. 65. In ics dlscontinuous dumping, a behed boundary is well suíted to belp realize thc goal espresaed by Stephen Swíaer in his Hétetiet (1743): “I would ehrow my Garden open co all View, co che unbounded Fdiacies of discant Prospect artd the «xparuive volumes of Nature hersdf* (died by Clifrbrd, Htttety ef CeiíiUte Desigee, p. (34)* 6p. Ibid., p. jjo. Clifíbrd acUs «an^tifally? “given such a scale, a unified and appeopriace endíng to it all seems scarcely possibk short of sunoundir^ the enáre domain with 1 palseial ... a mouncaln tange, or tbe ocean ¡tadf.” 70. Moore, Miichell, arw) TlimbuU, The ^etia ef Geenteeu, p. ai. 71. *nK Prendí gardeners of che sevcnteenth cenrury «rere by no means the firsc, nor «rere chey even che moa monumental, in applying such stríct Icnearity (o the landscqic: (he Nazca lina Ín Fbru delineare giganhc triangks, rcctanglcs. and trapez941), p. 179). Ibis fram an afdútect wbo once detened a colotsal *inüe*hi^” hiildíqgl 97. On che theme of inomace immcnsity, aee Bachclatd, Tk Ams» tf Spaa, trans. M. Joba (Boston: Beaoon Pecas, 1975), dup. 8. 98. I cmploy chis common term wich some misgivíf^ Nevertheless, there ís a norv sense of adr, as Invoked ín chis comment by an afdútect pondering Hpídrgger^s tracb^ of Orr (site) to *cip of a lance*: “infinirdy small but m^hcy by ita power co encompaas and condense, [the Ort is] where all brees and rectora arc conecntrased co be IflKrated and releaied chrough a m^veerious transformación of enetgy into macter, of ímage inno buílt feroL This cransíónnaoon becomes ak ksnry ef Ae áte m fUe^ (Raimound Afaraham, **The AnrídptMwi of Afdútecture,* in £dM0ÍM tf att ArAheet^ ed. E. Dille,


^4»» to p«ges 17Í-79

D. Lewis> ind K. Shapkh [New líxi: RÍ220U, p. 140; my kalkt). *nw phnae, hcmevcr, indtcatcs thit ote alone does noc sufficc to capture tbe usk of buildíi^ m a cukivaóonaJ mviiwr. 99. On we Martin Heid^ger, íin¿ Tmw, inn$. ). Maequanie and E. Robiiuon (New Vori: Harper, 190a), pe. t, dív. j, ehap, 6 (“Carc aa cbe Being of Daaeín*). Tbe **care'Struccure* ¡a global inaofar aa by tta raeans che vahoua **ci¡atentials" are held cogether ¡n Daacúi’s **potcnrialjcy-fbr'Bc¡i^a*whok* (cf. div, a, chap. ?). ££rw)^, lUenlly "cace for,” meara boch aoUdcoua coctcem for othera and social «rilare. mdea OR ibia ambíguKy in hia diaeuaaion of eare, concern (hsw^n), and ”aoüctcude,” e*p. on pp. rp^. too. This phraae oceura ín Maurice Merleai-IkMity's «orking noce of Novtmbet 19)9: *$ay that tbe chinga aie atructuRS, banic«orfca. che atan oí our Ufo: noc befixc ua, laíd ouc ai penpechve ipectaclea, but gravitating about ua” (Tlr FioMr taté ck ItmsiiU^ trana. A. Lü^ [Evaniton, lU.i Nonhwwm Univenky Pros, 1900), p. im). 101. Oa^M Eí^^isir Dictwitry. Símilariy, Germán focacm, to build, ia closety oed to kww, ¿«cUing; indecd, Old En^ish kan ia che root of Amen itaelf and rrwana co remain or rtay in a ptace, in d)on, co dwell in one of na cwo primary acmés. Símilariy, and «Mr Item foorn Old English Man, to May, wait—and chua abo encail dwellic^*a»*reriding. IOS. Ak«, che Indo-European source of b akin co che Sanakric AM, wht^ means to be, become, arise, emerge; say, abide; happexi, occur. k ia in tum related co Mtf—í, earth, aotl, ground; territory, dÍArkc; place, site, situación; posíóon, powure, aa^fF. Petrie traiulves XurrerúAsrói as selfeztemaliry. j. ¿MaMUir aa meeting (from FiuKh SMenmer) ís relsied to smnrry vía che ecymoci ssnma. against, opposke, and ukimaiely chrough the Indo>European rooc tou, whid) also underliea Greek fci»áw. common. б. CoAcerning cbe cransítion frem huiHiJ^gachering to setcled agricukiinl aocse* ciea, see Pul Shepard, Nsatmnd AísdRSD (San Francisco: Stem Qub Presa, 198a), ch^. } and >. On the «ncepc of “secad,” sec John R. Stilgoc. Cswuwsw LsMÚcap* ef Axttnai: tí9o~ti45 (New Haven. Conn.; Vale Unhmky Press, 1982), i4"i6. I shall retum to che coAcepc cf homenead ín chap. 9. 7. Sínce irild is cognate with wiU artd ntst aignifiea “pbce," it foÜowa that víUmus connores “ihc will of rhe pbce”-^ín contrast wi^ the will of human beings to subdue artd cukivite wild placa. (I owe chis observation co Bruce WÜshíre.) On (he vexistg subfeec of wiidemess va. avilizsrion, see esp. Kans Pecer Duetr, Pn—vísu: Csiarevw|f ttv Bswrd ary JFiUmev «ud Oritessisn. trans. F. Goodman (Oxford: Bbciwcll, I98j).


Nmd to


8. On the Abnhâmk noòoo of wildemen^ ice Max Odadih^cr. ¡ám tf átmtK frvm Vt9lmt9iy f the ef í^et^ (New Haven, Coon.: lúüe Univeniry Prest, wo, pp> 49-5>p. Ched fnxn Roben Beveriey, TT>e üewy «U i>aflW Staa tf (iTOs). by Leo Man, The Míiehiiu ài (8a Ganüw; euul Ae fíutenii Ueai w (Ne* Ifark: Ozferd Univenity Presa, ip6+)> p> 10. Man, The M^thme m tir GerAity p. •). 11. J. Heóor St. John de Cròrcoeur, Lettm /nen m ^iiemcan Pãnur (Ne* Vní; taiguin, ipte), p. 7%. Críwoeur ia, of course, rdêning co Naow Amehcana, buc be Ís repeanng the medicvaJ convkoon char che wUd forcsc ia pryifafg** by unhempc and unaafè beuífa. u. [bM., p. pf. At WiUiam Cronon rcmarta, *hi this viòoft, cbe transfemiaeioo of wUdemcst beoÁened (he phntú^ of a garden, not the fiül fram onc* (Cfca>|jw às the ftiiá' MAev, Ctienfff, entet Ae Eaitej Ee^Ím4 JNcw Ifbrfc: HiU & ip9)]> p.)}. 13. Cned fttxn Lánut P. Brocken, O«r l*ir(rr» E/Hfinj «e the Ne9 Wat Beyeah the Minittifti, by Henry Nash Smith, Ltmí Tia XjHsrwaH Wirr «r Sytabei aeat Sfyth (Cambridge. Mass.: Harvard Univcracy Prest, »970), p. (8). 1*. TThe gees Interior VaÜcy *w cnrofonned into a ganden; fbr (hc ünaginatioa, che Garden of che Worid" (Nash, V09M Laneis p. 03). The epàhet *breadbasket of (he was nill sppiied to Kanaaa *hen I was giowing up tbere in che 1940S and i9$os. 1$. Tbe sentence cned como ñom Adakrd WUby. X Vüir t9 íhrA Aaiene» (London, as quoccd by Roderick Nash, WiUenun tirXwrKsai Afmf (New Haven, Conn.: Ihle Unhersíty Presa, 1983), p. ao. Nash observes: “Clearty the Amerkan wikferDCst was roc paradise. If nen eipected to enjoy an idyllk envíronment in America, chey would h^ (O w p> I3>> If this is ense. then landscape will ahibit certain expressions and moodt (ha( are often fim noticed in the ph)asognorny of the human face. Buc “firsc nocked* is no( to be confused with “first fiven"; n ronaini mooc ai r> uhecher physíognomk oprenioo is utaicnately looced in tbe land or ín the person. See Glen Mazia, Eeaeeion ttná £w8udHWt'Wf.' Onasfiify (New Ihrfc: Lang, lOM). 18. WiUace Scevena, “The Snow Man,* in T%< CaUsrtsd fWw H^tfarr Stramr (KnopC 19)$)» pp. 1^10. hac stanza. ($. Greíd Ehriich, The Sehice ef Ofen Sftiees (New Yori: Penguin, ip8$), p. 9. ao. On Kansas as a “dusr bowl,* sec Dcnnia Famey, “Oo che Gceat Plaina, Life Be* comes a Fight fbr Wter and SurvivaJ* (Rfctf Stnet feternaí, Aug. I6,1989). See also Paul Gruchow, Jwnuf ef e ^asrú üer (Minneapoüs: University of Minnesota Press, tsrtj). ai. Ec it rKX surprising co kam thai one cf che earlíest meanings of viMrniOT was precisely che desert. Along wich the uncharted sea, che deserc was r^arded as ardiecypaUy deaobis (The Oeford Be^iA DúrwMry, abridged ed., ñom which 1 draw (hb âcc, uses daaftfr chtee túnes in the entry fbr “wUdemcst,” fbr ezan^, in (hc phnse “a waste or desoíate r^ion of any kind, e.g., of open sea.” Nocice alto thac che Germán mxd fbr desolanon, P^rwflrnc^, concaint che nem *ârr-, che basis of Mr», deserc, aitd related (o Engliah mana via Latín ninau, empry.) On the continuing cubural importante of che deserc fer che Wisiun mirai, aee Shepard, Mirwn and AísduD, chap. **Thc Desert Fatbers.*

Nota to



aa. Oq cbe accommodaive cbancter tbe CoAoectkia Kivcr «Ucy, aee J. B. Jack> aoo, *A Puntan Looka at ScoMry,* ¿Xaawjuy c*r Hrwamtor ¿awrfrfapr (New Haven, Cocui.: ¥ale Universiry PreaSt (9*4). pp. » 6 Krt adapting fiath fbr my own purpose», I am eakif^ over a orm whose sense In Meriesu-^MryS thinking b overtly onrok^icaL My own more modest employnMn of the temí b more puiely desenpehe or phenomcnologicaL 64. Erwin Senus, Tfe fVúiawy Hfeid tf Eetaa, tnns. J. Needlernan (GIcncoc. IIL: Fiee Peess, 1963), pp. jiTff. 9$. On the Aesh of che «wxld, see esp. Merfeau*I^3my, Tht l'úsNr totá At /jcrasMe, p. 30 (where ic b said co be *índÍvtsíoA of thb seruible Being thst I am and all che rest which fixb Icaelf in me”), p. ad? (*rt b a question (á finding in che presenc, tlx fiesh of che World”), and p-171: Hite Aesh of the worid « ics Hwisawcfe^k^^fecr (interior and ex* tenor horizon) surrouitdú^ che chin pellkle of the strkt visible between these r*^> hori* zona.” On interrwtning, see p. ijí (“there b recqxocal ínserrion and íncertwining of one ín the ocher”) and esp. tbe working noce of November 16,1960: “Chissm [of ] my body-^ the chinga, cealiaed by the doubUi^ up of my body inco ínride and outside—and che doubling up of che chin^ (their inside and their outside)(.] It b because chere are these a doublif^'up ch« are possible: che inserción of che worid between the cwo leaves of my body [and] the Insertíon of my body between che 2 kaves of each thing and of the worid” (p. 264). MerieauTkmty insists on che byfsrrd nacurc of che Aesh, which b *qoc a face or a sum of facta, and yet [b] adherent to laaasian and w rix wv” (pp. i}9-^i hb ralba). 66. Gibson, Tht Eatl^fual Affraach ta Vinal Ptraftiaa^ p. 23* These actions indude líghc reAeccance, dxsnical reacciona, touchlng, vaporizaeiort, en. 67. Ludw^ Wictgensiein, Zriiri, trans. and ed. G. C. M. Anscombe and G. H. von Wright (Berkeley; Univasty of Califixnia Presa. 1967). 68. On che ftac and k^ aapeecs of gtound, see Gibsort, Tfe Enl^ral AffnaA ta Vinal Anqsww, p. n and p. 34. Conceming termínology, ^taanl b closely rclaced (0 Arrwb, which conveys che acrual foel of a bndscape in tea eanhíness (e.g., as b implied




in a phrase such as *gening to knew the terrain’). Bm oken in the strict sense, Bsmiài relèrs 10 *a rract of couocry consideted with r^acd 10 its natunl features, oonfigunàon, etc.; ín nulitary uae, e.g., as affèccing ics tactkal sdvantages, fiertess fòr maneu^rring, etc.; abo, an ettent of ground, región, eerricory* (CCD). On orte hartd, che meaning of srmam is c^htly tied to suHàce fearures (as in cbe firse rwo senses just dted abow); on the ocher, conatrued in a broader sense (as in tbe third saue), unaw» rcfoi to an a^cct of ground itsdf Hettee my prefierence Ibr staying with ^rwid, which 1 abo prdêr to «arth or ¿«d B/ggtif is too extcnÀve for presenc purposes üuolàr as ii names the enáre phnet on whkh we residej in its more restikted sense as *‘soíl,* ic ia 100 narrow. íjuul is al*> 100 restrietíve when R b used in (he sense of cuhrvaiBd Belds; arvl even in the larger sense of “any definite sne r^arded as a portion of the earth’s surâce* (a deúniÓQn in American law), R is stíU too tied to che aurfoce of the earth to lahe (he pbce ofin tbe polysemous senses in whid) I shall be employing chis wor± 6p. James HiUman, Thr Dmim «ad sér Ibdrravdd (New ¥brfc: Harper, ipTp), p. >6. Throughout che present dbeussion I am indebted to Hilbnan's insíghtful trestman. Neí> ther he nor I pode (he Earth Mocha, or Grat Mocher, aa a literal figure or aa an idoL But che incerpretaàon of Gi üi maternal terms is fraughc with tendentious aarumptioru: e.g, tha fcrcÚity b only fèmale, that che worcun standa mutar che earth*s surâce and ¿mn ics fuU wdght, thac she b ihoefisre «moHs and swdnwd, etc. Also, the association of Mxnan with earth gnrs rise to a damagii^ dispan^onent; bo(h ace presumed co eiiat fbr (he aake of ocploKaoon or subo(dina(ion. I am indcbced to Shaion HartIicK fbr bringú^ chese impUcationa to my actention. yo> Ciced fiom Wilamowita-MoeUendorCs Der Ctenfir by Híllman, ibid., p. 71. tf the chthonk seons eo resemble the sea's d^du, we shouU rccall thac the bner are the unmediaced underdde of (he sea*s auriàce. Lacking che ¡nterposition of a middie realm sud) as thac of CC, (he wacery depths are ac ona more frighcening in prospect and more unknowrt in eomenc chan are cbe depths of earrh. Tbe underworid ia usually pop ulaced with shacply delineated regions and parckular figures—as is mandèst fiom Komer*s Oifygt^ (O Dwi(e*s Ififingg—while che aqueoua ikpchs ace chanctoistkaUy left an a stace of vagueneas, aa if to respect the diaaohíng capadty of waon at^ng means *wave* m Frend). Tht Drtmti tttui tbt p. >6. nMÍ, p. u« 7i74. *TIk ground b quite UtoaUy rhe Iwxt oí cbe behavior of hmi animab. Ax^ ic ia abo the b»> thàr vinul poccptkn’* (Gibvn, 7%a foiqfHW ZppcMà » FáoMÍ f^tntp sitit, pp. hia tealks). Husaeri oMicaves the earth as a basis by employing the nig' geacive term EniMttt^ UteraUy “earth'basis* but usually rranslaicd as '‘grouíxj,” (See B. Huacrl, *R>iivtatirtrtal Iftvescigatkina of the Phenooienol^ical Origin of the SpatiaBty of Narure,’ cnos, F Kersten, in P McCormkk and F EUiston, Hiasgrí: Shertrr [Soucb Bend, Ind.: Uniwníty of Notte Dame Press, ipti), pp. aa4-2$: "1 can always go fiinher on my eanb*hatíi.... Tbe 'earth* as che unitary eard)«basis cannoc be at rest and thetefore omnx bc cxpaicncBd as a body.*) While Cibaon and Husserl emphasize cbe literal or phyncal status of ground as basis, VibsdeU Berry dnws on che logical sense of cbe word: cboose principie over conununity ... n to destroy tbe only giound upon whidi prindpk can bc erueted, and rcaewed* (**E>isd[4ÍDe and Hopc,’ X GrehaMswr [New Ibrfc: Hacoourt Bracc. 197C>)> p> td4)> 7Í. See Martin Kcide¿er, Htf Msi^ trans. It Lilly (Bloontington: ln* (bacu Universtty Press, 1991). 7O- Henry David Thoreau, joumal entry of May ao, 1B51; óied by Barbara Hovab,

Nffto » fãga U2-16


Zitfm and Gdsvrr; Xavríens ¿awdtfspr and fhwiráuj fasf-*!!?; (New IferL Oxford Uni* vcraicy Presa, 1980), p. iij. 77. Husserl, “Foundational Investigaóons,” p. 2x7. “Basis-ptsce** nanslams Badenridsar, 78. ii is thb horizontal axb chat nfodivídes íruo che four cardinal directions, a» well as into right va. left, from vs. back, etc. 79> From the letter oí Novtmbcr i}, S9^> to his E^Miab cranslaror. ln che same letcer Rílke abo says thac “our task b co stamp thb provisional, perishing earth into oursdves so deeply, so painfuUy artd passionaKly, chat ba beíng may rbe again, Snvisibíy,* in us.* Straus abo (he intrinsic invissbátiry oí landsõpe ln 71* Pnm^ tf Serugr, pp« 80. Merieau«l^nty, 7)r VmWr «d tAt litfitMty p. tdo. 81. Husserl, “Foundaríonal Invescigarions,* p. ^o. 81. The term raor-htàr (^aaMwMm) b appUed co the earth by Husseri, ibwt, p. »?: “f must alre^ be a human being for myself on che eanb as my root*basis.* 89. MofcaU'fímty, 71* VáiAU aiui tbe lirvifiib, p. aao. Tlte full naicmenr oí thb working no« oí Novémber, 1959 b: "Say th< the chings arc Aruetures, frameworks, che scars oí our life: rtot before us, laid oui as perspective ^eccacles, bus gnvitaring about us.* 84. On Secondness, see C S. Mrce, Caffrrtrd Phftn, ed. C. HarTshome artd P. Hkias (Cambridge, MA: Harwd Uníveracty Press, 198$), voJ. 1, p. STSflf. Meriesu*ftmty writes ín the same vein chac a thing “b an ob'jecc, thac b, k sprâds ksdf out before us by ks own efficscy aitd docs «o predsety because ic is gathered up in kselP (7%r FvsMr nad d* hninMr, p. iM). Concernir^ coUecrion into groupe, see Erm Caisirer, “Group Concept and I^écpúcm Theory,* Ptdasspky end BteMsoend^yK*/ JLsnirak (1944L *ol. pp. i-y. 8$. fí. M. B.ílke’s phnse in dx Ninth Ekgy:

Pniac tbe worid to the Angel, not the untclU>k: ctn'i impre» him wsh che ififendour youSr Ht; in che comt» whac hc iDotc fedíngty fceb you*ic úvüy t ryro. So show him «ome simple thing, nmouldcd hy «ge aftw tiU k hve* in our hmds and eyes s« « pan oí oursehrs. *ftU him (Dha« f/yn, trws. J. B. Loahmw and Stephoi Spendcr (Ne* Vxh: Nomn* 19^], pp. 7S-7«; ítalk» in tbe onginaL) Rifte does not, howrw, restrict *MúngB* to nanaml thir^ but ÍAclufSes ss weU juga and other crsfted objeets. 96, I take tbe *wd nrhAred from one of Merteau-Pooty’s last wwking notts (Nu«uj^ ber ipdo): *not objeets, but Bdds» subducd bcii^ non^chetk beii^ bei^ before being* (71* VuaÍMr taní nk ImièU, p. aO?). Meriesu«I^cy is hen díscussu^ Bschdard*s aenae oí "macerial dementa.* For s nuinced and Ins^tfuJ analysis oí mountains (and other nacural objeco) as “things," see David Strong, OiasyAlmnMMr (fortbeocning). •7. tí gtound and thu^ posses “causai effiacy* and the sensuous surface and sur* rouctdii^ array oí landscape exhibir *presentackinal immedistcy ” then aic and aamoaphere prcaeru us wkh cbe imnguúig phencmenon oí an acausal immedsacy: “acausal” in not being opencive in che manner oí discretc substactees chac tnflucnce case actocher, “imme* dias* in havüig cffects thac are directly cransparenc to che obaover. (I am uú^ smsb/ jç^Seao* and /roñaOBmaf casmedàn^ üi Whicdscad*» suggestíve connruals. tn a rclanomhip oí efikacy, things “confbrm* to one another and rhe cause is “objectífied* in the effixL PicsemacioAal inunedlacy b the directly present, pberwcnenaf aspect oí che perceiwd worid; the tom is thus dose in meaning to whsa I have called “surrounding array.* See


Nata K

N. Whkdwad. f& ^Onwriy m/ EffKt (New Iferk: Macnúlbn, 1927], dup». I and X) U. nite idea oí flUeno, thai is: every relarion with beii^ is jguMtawwKrfy a aku^ and a besn^ lafcen, the hold is held; it is iiuíriM and insenbed in rite same being dial ít takes hold oí” (Merieau-^wny, VmMí íu tbe InruibU^ p. uo; his ícallcs (worfcing note oí November 1960]). "nie same phrase, “the hold ís heM,” is used by Heidegger in his anakyais oí numory in Wba h CetHeá UMb^ (New ^xfc: Harper, 196I), p. 3. I9. fwiHwe Sbsb, (ran*. N. K. Sandan, in ftrw tf Hanen leiU Heü Aitóeiet Ma9f9tBiibe (BaMmore: I^nguin, 1971), p. 9a. 90. Fresn che founh scanza oí Sievens*s poem **nK idea oí Order si Key West": “Ii was her vosee chat made / The sky acuten at ics vanishing." 91. Lacin arce, ebese, ts the cxiounon root oí erv¿ and maw. Jua as che bodily chat comaíns md hida the heart and other otgans, so arcane knowledge and archa act lo hold and eonceaJ chín^ within a given Mructure. 9a. JLsKdsM Mmsí Diffiüiwoy. An derivo fram Ladn eraen, bow^ arch, curve. Prendí tm means “bow” 9^ Hete WT rqoín, by a irry diftrent coun, ihe domed Aruenue so important in “domesQc” ardiñecrure, e.g., chac in^red by PaUadio’s VÍUa Roconda in the West or the Navsfo bogan in the American Southwest. In all such caso, che doMMt oí che house in* coepotam and mimks the dome of the Iteavcns, 94. On the “Aancncd” diacadcr oí che are, espedally as it appears in different set* dnga, see fttrkk Hedan, Sfua-PtrtfpeiM tuU tbe PbÜttefby «f Sáetue (Berfceley: Universicy oí California Press, 19^), pp. oy-oi: **The sky ¡s perceived noc as a sf^wre buc as a jbffnRid vaulted ceiling” (p. 60; his icalks). On the Bgypdan icpiocjuation of cbe coamoa, see ibid., p. 31 and 6g. X}. On the Navajo coamogony, see Pinacen, van Dooren, and Hanry, Tbe Aabevfet^ ef ^9ee^ p. 9. 9j. By “dis*appeannce" I mean “beginning noc co appear” rarber chan “ccasing to oisi." NoQce chai in Chus dis*appearing, che arc eomributes powerfuUy to the dynÃníe sublimiry a vnkEscape. It also contrdMco co the immeasunbílicy ¡ndiasodable from che suMime in ¡c macbenurical mode. 90. See M. Heid^ger, Beb^ ttná Tnw, trans. J. Maequarrie and C. Robüwxi (New ¥brfc: Harper, 196a), secs. i^yo. 99. Oro Baensch, “Kunsr und GefUhl,” (19x3); died by Suaanne Langer, ñuf0^ mui fbr» (New ^brk: Scribners, 19$)), p. 19; his iolics. 91, I One th» Une oí thought 10 Bruce ^üabíre, ftom whoee caidiil reading oí thia


enúre pare of che boofc I have bcneficed giealy. 99. The idea of envelope is ^ecíóed in che first two definiesons oí annnpik» ín RWtrry Tbrd Nr* fssarMftewif Dietie/tmy: **i. A gaseous maas envelo^r^ a heavcnly body; tbe whok mass oí air sunounding the eartb; a gaseous onulope or mediiim. x A supposed médium uound various bodies, any sureounding envelope.* too. This b che rbírd definición of muu^bere in Webrteri Tbmi. Notiee how chis statemenc is siTusted on che borderline between the physical and the metaphorical meanings oí the word. toi. Caed (in pan) in fohn Bumer's translación ñom his Sar^ Gneb PbÜmepby (New Ifixfc: MaoniUan, i9)S), p. 7). lox The upper acmosphere, i.x, che supra«)unar realm, is cbe atriifr, ihe fifth demem Chat is a composite oí a purer form of fire and air and chat ^ows overhead: mtbeén means “to bum, glow.* In eariy modem phyaics, etha wns omsidaed co be a subrle aubatance permeacing all qnec. a médium through whkh waves oí light are propagated.

Nóta tc



103. On thia question, aee esp. lames K. McNdey, IFead m Nmato /MasapAy (Hicaon: University of ArUona PrcB, 1981). K4. 'nwophrastvs aa dted by Bumet, Gmfi PhiUtofhy^ p. ?). 10$. Quoted from Kippolytus's Kr^diBwr tf aíi Hfraia by Bumet. ibtd. toé. Ananmina as reponed by Hippolytus, ibád. to?. James E. Lovelod:, Gsúl* A Nm Losh íit 9» Ecrtb (Oxford: Oxford Uoíver* tiry Press, 1981), p. 9. R^aiding tbe Gaia hypotheaia, I have learrted much from David Ahram’a eaaay **The Baeepnaal Implkaciom of Gaia,” Eai^firt (198)), and from dáaeuaaiona with Abnra on tbe phifoaophkaJ s^ificance of the bsoaphere, eqxdaUy with respeet to hs ínner tic to aonosphere and breath. J08. Abnm, 'The l^rceptual Impücationa of Gala,” pp. 96,102. J09. 1 owe thia laat example to a conversación wich ^vid ácrong. lio. Gary Snyder. Tfo Prswriw tf thr WtU (San Fraiwaco: North Bxm Presa, 1990). p». 10. See Oliver Sucia, A to Saattt Oa (New Ifori: Harper, iç»?), chapa. 1 and 2. na. On morbíd geometriam, see Eugene Hínkowaki, Lfrad 7>Kr, (rans. N. MetzeJ (Evamton, III.: Northwestern Universiry Press, 1970), pp. ittíT. On the assodated noctoAS of **null point,* "foaohue heic,* and *2ero (point) of cektuation,* see E. Huaaerl, *nhe Wxrid of the Living Piescnt and the Constitution of che Surroundir^ WorW Citicrml to the O^anian,” crans. EUiston and Langadorf, ín Haufrt: Sionrr pp. >49 jo. 113. Wsnddl Berry, *PreservÍng Wildness,” Htttu Íítitoitiia (San Francisco: North Point Prcas, 1987), p. iji. Berry sees margins as *tbe divisíons between holdings, as weU as between kinds cf work and kinds of land. These margins—lañes, sneamsides, wooded frncoows, and the like-^are alwaje freeholds of wiidneas, where limics aie set on human incention.... This is the landscape of harmony.” Berry develops (he same cheme in *Ge(* (ú^ Akx^ wich Ñafiare," pp. ijiF.

8. Going Wild in tbe Land I. Eíghi of fiftecn definníons of (he ^djective jitiU in (he O. £. D. relate to (he human OMtdítíún. Only two ckñnitkxu rdaic speciñcally to nonhuman nature. Tbeae lates ooncsn nature a» “tumukuous'' and a» 'Svvted*—harcUy co-atcnsive with (he full signióciQon of wild natural placea. Funber reiníbreing (hia humanoccntrk aenae of vtU K R$ etymok^ical or^in in SM^diah bewüdered, aatny, loat» and in Hff, con* hued or giddy: fük ibo sígniíyiflg *uneemrolüble* or '^viJifut’' b oognare with Englúh vtf. a. The O. £. £). lm> thia (tnmlRcnted) soitotce » containing the 6m fcnown uaage: t* deped b« kxide, be 0 knge olee etecn. and wüdemeaae” (ftom the **lhn[i(y) Coü(ege]. Hcert,” p. lói). Roderick Nash daim (he (he fim occurtence of (he wwd if ín (he árly*chÍrtee(Hh. ). Gastón Bachelard, ¿cMTfeiwnr (for»: Gxti, i^), p. ji: aed to awnwsfiTf ... lies e the origin of tmagineion. The primary funccion of imaginadon ís to make ani­ mal fonna* (his italks). «. This laner line of devdopment was reinibreed by importación of the Middle Dutch wrMrmrarr, mfrfrrwigr. Recall that the very fim fuU'Scale landscape painting w» done in the Lowlanda, the place of or^ín íbr aíMnwni in its recognizabty modern Un* guistk fbrmat. >. Thia B Naah’a formulación in IFrffrrwrg tuui tiM XwncBM p. a.


Nm Of

6. Samud JohAion even defined inkitnus in hb 17)$ tf tift Ljiih ai *a deaeii, a inct of loUtude and uvagenea* (dted by Nash, ibíd., p. j). *!> thb day, rhe Fiench language uses thc phrase Hat áítcrt to signify wildcmoa. 7. abo goes back to mUs, to lead astny; nUrr, **to cause to lose one’i way, as ín a wüd or unkctown place,* b soü lisced aa a verb in che O£^. t. On che dbcinctiM) betwecn home*worid and aJien worid, see E. Husseri, Zttt Pbãntituntiagit átr ImmuijtktMtir, ed. Iso Keni (The Hague: NijhoC i97i; vol* V ín che Huaserliaitt senes), pp. SU"», ósa-aj. I owe this refeiena to Anthony Stànbocfc. 9* I draw hen on the entriea *cuJtuie'' and *cuhivaK'* in Tir CbçM JSrymsf^Mi/ 2>íAm*7, ed. C T. Oníons (Oxfixd: Oxford University Presa, 1966). co. )ohn Muir, **The Dbcovery of Glacier Bay by Ics Dbeoverer,* VrsUsraen Eaa^v (Sak Lake Qry: I\a'^nne Smith, 1980), p. 14. CL Ibid., p. utt. CiRd in che emry unda ^landscape” in (he Conoming the oolution of landac^ painring as ít bears on wilderness, see ). B. Jackaon, Dàsewrv^ bv (kmander LM/trtfft (New Haven, Conn.: lÉüe University Presa, 1984)1 pp* df* On painting as paicrgoo, see jaeques Dcrrida. Tsffi 01 Jhônà^. trans. G. Benníngton and L McLeod (Chicago; Ünhcrdty of Chicago Praa, 1987)1 pp* 17*^ :j. •IlispeLUve" aa 1 employ ic here b noc 10 be confused wbh the scrict one*poin( puapetüve viewpnm chM prevaüa ín Renaissance modeb (tf repreaencaiional space. The perspective now in question b that of the smésdbtf ndyiact, who always *cakes up a view" on whacever b being experienced from the cocai scantz (often a cnoving stance) of hb or her lived body—and of a mind whkh, líkc the body itsdf, b inftuoiccd, if noc actually constkuted, I7 cubunJ cagones. 14. Thb passage, from a letcer (tf i8j^ dted mexe ecxnpletdy in cbe epigraph to d)b chapeer, b deed in Thomas Frkk, ed., Tlx &srrsd Thtvry tf tíM Ettttlf (DerfceJey; Nonh Atlantic, 1986), p. íj. By speaking of "seeing a pkture," Hawthome doubtleas haa in miad che ftee Chat che Lake District had been prcviously painted and written about many times before hb arrival there. 15. íbid., p. 14. My icalies. 16. Wallace Stevens, "Anecdoce of the )ar," 71v er ate £tui tf Ebr Aíàid, ed. H. Scevens (New Kxk: Vintage, 197a), p. 46. 17. See Ncil Evernden, Tk NsSwW AUen: HwBUMkmd an/ fcisiiSHiwciir (Iforomo; Univerary of Tbnmto Press, 198$). 18. Recall in thb connectkxi rhe "axucructíon rires" dbcuswd by Mircee Oade: the existence of these rites at the moment of beginning to build signifies the enormous cuirural-reiigtoua significance of rhe act of constructing (cf. Tk Sécnb and ck Pnftnt: Tk Niftwr tf Ad^Ms, trans. W. ft Trask (New fovi; Harcourt. Bracc k WxU, I9f9), chap. i). 19. By “pre^ure" 1 do not mean char such a pbce has been detened or bnended for human use or enjoymem. I mean, rather, that a wild Thing such as Mount Everest Muakr plÀa fbr che possiNe ín^ilaconcnc of human beings. k does so by adumbraring in advance cmaio struetures of access and sojourn. Ahhow^ the mounoin may noc permit perma* nent dwelJmg, b does perenie dwelling in the form (tf wanderíng. Even going astray on its dopes and foiláng 10 readt Its peak introduce the culture (tf cUmbing into its mídtt. Thb culture includes suda specific practices as tbe use of ptwns and rope, cbe sodaliry of difnt> ir^ groups, the foUowing of maps, phocc^raphy, etc. ao. In what foUows 1 take «endnraswfi co refrr co the first phasea of a grren cultural proceas, espedally thcae by whkh something *^nanffal" or "wüd" comes inco the ken of human beü^ and begins to be assimilaied to cheir íntentíons and projects. Efuautnmirb»,

No» to pages


en tbe other hind, signifies the ftill ptoec» oí sseüníbiwn oí narure it> culture: uft-, thc putong as» aiitm oí what steros fnim the naninl worid. A just-bUxed cníl aocukun» ÜK wiUetness in whkh it appcan; the svoe tnil, represemed ín a paínting, has become

SI. On the “ 33. AmsÀsn, the setion of permeacing, deives írom prr (through) + iwírrr, to go, walk. ln walking, then, I pavade the space of my wwM. (Lttin space, and to walk, snoU, are akin.) 33. 1 borrow these various cultural artitees from Heidegger, who reeognizes in them the same wilderness* bindíng power as Stevens finds io a jar. Heid^ger himadf prefèrs to speak of **gatbenng" rather than •binding.’' On the bndge, see Heíd^ger's esaay “BuÜding Dwelling ‘núnking," in Awrr^, faiyy, Tho^f, trans. Hofstadter (New 1M: Har* per, (9?!), pp. iss^; on the jug, see “The Thing,” in ibid.. pp. iM-74; on the path, ^ConvenaQon on a Country Path," in M. Heidegger, Diíeonnt sn Tlxwfciiy, traiu. J. M. Andenon and E. H. Freund (New York: Harper, 1966), p, 70. H* *niie same never coincides with the equal, not even in the empty indiffiaent one* neas of whac is merely idcruical. The cqual or idcnckal alway» mores tcâvard the afasence of diflferaxe, so (hat everything may be rcduced ro a common denominacor. The same, by contrast, is the belonging together of what diñen.... The same gathers whac ís disdnct into an onginal beÍng>at-OAe (fm^^ihsr)” (Heidegger, “Poerically Man Dwtlis ... ” in A>trrj. pp, atS-lp). Conceming the harmony betwrai cuhurul and nat* ural, see WmdcU Borry, X Owmotíj Saayt CtUntral and A^ñadomi (New Ybrk: Harcourt Bracc fovanovich. (970). 3$. fohn Ruskin, TW s n Lata/s XrBMwrwrs (London: Dent, (907; first edición, jt+9), p. tfo. 36. Ibid. 3?. Ibid., p. 181. 38. On the indebtedness of Muir to Ruskin, see )ohn F. Sears, Samd PUtw.* Xmirifim 2brwr Xrmsaimj à» Núuttnub Ctuftay (Oxford: Oxford Uníversíry Press, 1989), pp. WifF. 39. Qted by Nash, and thf Anuritan Aím/, p. lox, from Thoresui’a 18)8 artide on hís second tríp to Maine in the XdAOe On the early formation of national parks, see Seara, Sacred Piaees, and Nadi, chap. 6 (“Preserve che Wilderness!”). Fohowir^ Ybaemíce, Yéllowscone was the next significant step (187a). European fàscmstíon with che idea of natuni preserves is evidoit ín Fmitfs use of YUlowstonc as an analogy to lhe maíntaining of an area of imaginatíve fne play within the deveiopii^ mind (see his “Formulahons On the Tmo Prinàplea of Mental Functíonji^” fJ9aiJ, Standard Edàtan ef Caiafíctt Pf^ded^ftad M^rfj {London: Hc^arch, I9$8), vol. u, p. asi, n.). On che whole idea of wilderness preservación, see VWndell Berry, “Preserving Wildness," Heau Eaaaiaia (San Francisco: Norrii Psint Press, 1987), pp. tjT—5S). 40. I borrow the word «mssi|^i0m9' liom Emerson's discussion of the rdanonship between nature and culture in his Nsrwrr (Boston: Beacon Press, 198$; first edición, 1839), p. 78. The phrase “nTukifarious becween” Zaisíhfn}^ which I have ctted before in chap. ), is from M, Heid^ger, HrM der Hatafrntad (FfoUíngen: Neske, I9f7), p. 13. 41. Quoted from Thorcau's joumab by Nash, Wildama and sèr XswricaR Xfs«d, pp, 108^103; Thoreau’s Ralles. 43. Thoreau, “Walking," Nartiral History Esa^s (Sale Lake City: Peregrine Smith, 1980}, p. 7a. Noiice in this connectioA Thcmau’s fiiscinsiion with che image of Adas: “like Atlas, to take the world on my shouldm” (p, 106). But world for Thoreau is not just somethii^ we shouUer or support; h also connotes beauty and order: “the Creeks called

S *«

Nbfisr üf


tbe worid kúnnoe, Beauty, or Order, bur we do noc aee clearly why chey did so, and we camm a » bear only a eurious philotogical Act* (p. 190). 4a. ItwL, p. iu. 44. 1 take (he important phrase *every where’—»* merdy "everywhere’—ñom this sentence in ThoreaiFs Hhf/m: "Olyinpus b but (he outsíde of che earth every where’ (in Tluirew, ed. Roben F. S^re (New ferk: library of Ámeña^ i9êJb p. )9O). 4$. Ibid., p. >04. 44. Ibid., p. S9O47. Ibid., p. 434. My itaÜcs. 4>. Ibid. 49. ’l found myself suddenly neighbor to cbe birds; noc by having imprisoned one, but havii^ oged myáelf near them’ (ibid.) $0. Compare John Muir’s remark: ’1 only wunc ou( for a walk, and finaily condoded to my until sundowii, for going out, 1 díicovered, was anually goü^ in’ (dted by B. Devall and G. Sessíoru, Dttf Eat^: Lifir^ Aá If íiiftm Àiáfttrttí [Sah Lake City: ftre* grine Smich, 198$), p. aos). SI. Hodcgget, HM áer p. i). Heíd^ger Kalicúcs (he fint use of "worid.’ S». Thoreau, IWfw, pp. Ibid., p. SI7. Thoreau comínues: ’I discovered many a síie for a house noc Ukdy co be soon ímproved, which some might have chot^ht too for fian (he village, but to my eyes rhe village was no for hom it.* Sitt (Ladn suw) is an etymologkal cousin smt. 54. ibid., p. 4U. ibid., pp. 4ia-is. $6. [bid., p. 40a; my italks; che “I* is ín ítalks in che orígicu]. Thoreau also sa^ *1 think thac (he richeat vein ís ssmrvfirrv ttrmènttf (p. 401; my nalki). $?, ibid., p. 403. $t. (bid., p. 409. "What does our Concord culcure amount col’ (p. 407). 99. Ibid., p. 411. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid. 63. KUdm can be construed as a book about wrieü^ or, more genenlly, "scripeure." For chis incerpretatwft, see Stanley Ca^k, Tht Stota tf WtUtn (San Franciaco: North Ibinr Press, 1981; expanded ecL), esp. chap. 1, “Wxds.* 6). *When 1 would recreare myself, I seek the darkest wood, cbe thkfcest and most inuMiíAabU and, to the dúeo. most dismal, swuhp. I enter a swAmp as a sacred plaee, a »«M avwssna*. There is the strength, the marroM^ of Nacure’ ("Watking,” p. »4). Thoreau ptefêra "a DísmaJ Swamp” co "the most besurihil garden thsi ever human an contrived* (ibid.): "I derive more my subsísrence from rite swamps whkh surround my nacive town rhan froen che cultivated gardens ín the vUlage’ (p. it)). h will be nocked, however, that gardens and awamps shaie the common fovure of marginality. If gaiden acc aituated on che maigins becwecn fully buih struetures and whoUy ucfouilc wildemess, swamps are marginal berween wanr and land. Because of cheir amphiblous nacure, chey are often LiceraUy iocaced on che edge of forms or fields. 'niorcau remarks that s che times when he was considering puichasing a fiarm, "1 have ftequently found ths I was anransd sokly by a fow aquaic rods of in^cnneaNe and unfothcânable bog—a nacural sink fo out wmtr tf it" (p. M$; my italies). 64. Compare Heídegger's ínstnsccively different series of ínstances of cbe oü^Ut^ ZivàckeH: "Between earth aM sky, between binh and deach, bctwcon foy and pain, be­ rween work and word* {HM átr HotufnttMÍ, p. 13).

Nota fíf


6^. WáM, p. 4tj. My Italia. Compare Merleau*^3nty’a daim tha che aee bdcngt tD the aeoi: “He who «ks cannoc poeiea the viiM unles he 0 poaiesaed by it. unka» he ü íf ¿f* (7%r FiaWt m4 tbt iimtihttt pp. hb Icalkt). I wbh to thank Irene Kbver for emphaaizáng the Imponance of the chene of rympahy m XhUnN. 66. EUd.. p. 4ÍA. My kalia. tft- Ibid., p. 4a7. See alto the naonem tha *Mte gentie rain which wacov my beans and keepa me in the house to-day b noc drear and mdincholy, buc good for me too” (p. 436). 6&. Uy tefe» to thb Journal encry Jl$7: *There waa a matd) found fer me a lasL 1 feU ín love wtth a shrub oak” (Roben Bly. ed., 71v Lft: Tht IWa tf iittiry Thtnttt [San Frandsco: Sierra Club BooRa, 19I6), p. 114) > 6». HbUm, p. 70. John Muir, rhráfwiwmrw tf (New forh: American Museucn of Natural Hbtory, 1961), p. a0. The editor of thb vohime, |acfc MeCormb^ remaris tha “feho Muir artived In Cdlfemla a fcw daya befere hb chlrcíeth birthday, In tbe spnng of itM. Ahhough he was headed fer feaemhe Vdley. more than a bindréd miles to cbe caa, he ipurried the cnnsponacion fodliócs of che en and sec ouc on fooc" (p. ix). 71. p. 106. 7a. Ibid.. pp. lo^cot. Thoreau relates hb wich havb^ seen panoramas of the Rhine Vüley and the Misiasippi. “a Rhine stream of a diflfcrent kind” (Ibid-, pp. TTk ímpor* tana of panoramas en che middie decada of nineceenchpearance* ch« oboins in acia and towns. The language of pUer b scriking hete: noc only in che phrase “a place where you might found a wall or s scale” buc siso, in the same paragraph, ”ciU we come to a hard boRom and mfo m /¿ser” (my halks). n- “Wdking,” p. oj. ?«. Ibid., p. 94. 71. Noc that John Mub always rusha over che land co get to hb goaL In a durmíng d)^Ker of Tht Msttnttám tf eiKícled *The Bee*Fasnir6” Muir describes hb com* parativdy gentle traversíng of cbe San foaquin ViUey by employing Thoreau's fevorice walk­ ing wotd: “Sauotering in any direction. bundredi of happy nui*pUnts bnuhed ^ainst my foet ac every step, and dosed over them as if 1 «ere waduig in liquid gold” (pp. 361-63). 7«. “WWking,” p. 94. 70. Cavdl, **ThKnkiDg of Emerson,” Ti* $ous f IWdm, p. ijs, •o. “Uklkii^" p. io)« ii. Ibid.. p. 104. ta. IbkL, p. 109. Abo: “Ir b hard for roe R> believe thac I shall fiod faír landicapea or suffidenc wiidneas and fteedom behtnd che eastera horixon." tj. Ibid., p. 106. For Thoveai, the future b adía ym mU óss: “Read your hee, see what b before you, and walk on inco futuney” (p. 411). t4. Thb line, lite chac of che eprgraph to chb secóon, b froen tbe lasr sansa of Stevens's 193c poetn "*&a at the Palaa of Ffeon.” My Italia. 1$. Muir, *The £>isccMry of Gladcr Bay.” p. 6. Muir adds dttc *s daybreak I loofced cagerly in every dirección lo leam whac kind of ^ace we «ere in; but girámy nindouda ootered che mouncabv.” *6. Ibid.

Notes to písges isi—óo


fj. He whei we afsrwucb «scertsuncd to be a lifayiinth of erran» carefully fcUowing the outlínes of che únaçinary lakes wtudi the map concün»” (*Kiaailú,'* Tte Aiome m«ír> reprinted ln TíerM*, ed. Sayre, p. oca). As Thoreau renaria at the condu* skn of “KtaadR.” *thc counrry is virtually unnupped and unexplored” (p. Ojs). See the ^roup of mapa reprimed a» w ippcndu co tbe editioA just dted. M. Thoreau» ^The AUegash and East Bnnch»* Tbt Moittt WWr» p. S9. Ibid.» p. n*< 90. Ibd. 91. AmcL. p. 73$. 91. Erwin Smua» 7W WMd af Satsa, mns. I. Nrrdkman (Gkncoe» 111.: Free Press, 19^), p. }i*. Straus adds that "n> be fully in tbe hndscipe «e mut aacriSce, as £tf as possiMe» all mnporal, spatial» and objecdve precisión* (p. 334}. h should be said» however» tbat Muir's apd *nto(tau*s nstive guldes do wr sacrifice temporal and pcedaion. Indecd, they are hmit precise chan che available “objective* repreaentaiíocis, e.g.» curreni carto^nphk represencacions. It remains truc» however» chst “in che landscape we cease to be historícal bein^ i.e.» bnngs objectifiabic co chanadvcs.... (ThereJ we are beyond che reach of boch che objective wexU and ourselves" (p. jaa). 9j. For these poúita» see WsndelJ Berry» “Getcing Akxig Nature," Hetoa wnso, esp. p. i}: HIk hawk came because oS the conjunccion of the small pasture and iu wooded bordees.... This is the phenomoion of edge or margin thsi we know to be one of che powerfuJ attracóoos of a diversified landscape, both co wildliíé and co humana. ... These margEDS are bwlogically rkh, the meeai^ of rvra kinds of habitat* 94. I owe this phrase to Anthony Weston, whose reader^ cf a penulciniate dtaft of this enore pare has becn ¡nv^uable. I am abo Indebced co David Scrang fer hb ccxrunents on snlheariier rersions. 9). Tbe ftdJ satesnent b “Feelíng make you» / Oot there in open space. / He coming thra*^ yoair body... / because cree just about yexar brother or ñther... / and oee b wacching you* (Bill Nodiie, “1 Give you chb Siory»" in B. Neádjie» S. Davb» and D. Feo» ^ whetha a mere sketch snap nwk as a reminder or an elaborare worid«map of the aort thK became important in tbe Age of Ezploranon—puts rhree-dímensional ^ographkal places inro rhe twxbfflenskml formn of earrogn^k space. Even though many maps (with tbe notable excepción of "comour maps") do not represent such landscape demenc as hiUs or lakes, they are neverthcku lococentrk üi tiieir aim of providing an exact artd nonmislcad* i]^ represencation of partkular places on the surfsee of the earth. Since m^ are usually based on actual visíts co places (or on aerial phocogra^iy of che same places}, they have tiseir génesis ín the localiúd worid of landscape—'the degrec of localization depending on the scale of a giren map. US. Rokton, Enrtmnttnui Etbia, p. 4. Rc^ton insista on the intnnaic valué of na* tute, speak ing of nature as an *fobtective valué carrler." For a discussion of the issue of intrinsk valúes, see Oelschlaeger, Tbe Uto tf WiUena^ pp, 199, ao8-io. 293—9). It). On Gateií (usually translaicd as "enframii^" or ^skcletal fHmewxk"} aml the idea of *sandirQ*re3erve” (BoOMd), see M. Heidegger. Tbe Q^twti antemii^ trans. W. Lovht (New York; Harper dc Row t9^)« pp. (7f. ac4. The American case was itself only a striking instartce of a much move pervasive attitude of explovting nature that came co the fore in screnceemb*century Euiopc. On thk cheme. sec Carotyn Merchant, Tbe Eíeaeb tf Ntoten: Eeti^, tottl tbt IUf* otem (New Ibtk; Harper, 1980).

(S Í^

Ciced by Rodenck Nash, rW R^ts tf NtOim: A HtfWj tf Envirüittitfntêi Etina (Madíson: UncveraiTy of Wiacoiuin Pres, 19S9). p. )9. Nash argües that des|Mcc his pic* coctry OA the question of "rights of iucur/ Muir did not cspouse these righc eonsiRemly chnM^bout his carecr, see pp. ♦off. itO. AMo Leopokt, *The Land Ethíc," Stuut Caauuy Atiiuouu (New Iforfc: Oxford University Press, 19ÍS), p. sti. He also observes th« **land, like Odysseus’ slave-gids, >* fliU properry. The land-relaiioA is stili strictly economk, enoiling privikges buc noc obliga* tiocu.” Ahhough based on a lifotime as a naturalist, Leopold’s fermulatíon of a land ethia dates fioffl tbe late (94oa> Por a cotuprchensive history of an ecobgkaJly based «chica, see Nash, Tbt Ncivs, pp. 6)^70, and OcschJacger, The Ueii ef IFiUtnuir, dtap. 7, esp. pp. aoçff. (’HIk Ew>lution of LeopoM’s Land Erhíe”}. II?. Leopold, X Seutá C^ititty XAMiar, p. 140. iiS. Emmanuel Levinas, 7iMui trans. A. Lingis (Pinsburgh: Duqucane University Press, 109). p> 46. Levinas italicises “right.'* The 'X>her” to which ¡.«vinas refcrs ¡s not Narure buc anocher human being. However, che application of his daim co nonhuman nature is in keeping with his concepción of the Other as an entity ureeriy eranscendent 10 che petty cenorns of che **egoiam" of che I, concerns which beloe^ to the “Same* in Levinas's nomendature. Just as the human Ocha cxpecascs icself Ín an untedud* Me ftce-to-foce relation, so the nonhuman Other of nature expresses itself in an equally unreduciMe conñoncation wich wilderness. Tbe “exteriority* of «vhich Levinas speafcs in this connectíon is co be compared wích the ecocentricicy under díscuasion. ti9. From ApoUodorus, &Nsmlwos, trans. C Doria and H. Lenowltz, in Orjghu: Oe* íBieii TixB /rvM áte Aeiaeia Altíiiuntuuãii (New )brk; Anchor, 1976), p. }i4. uo. Emerson ts toi^nd by this dualisck model in his eariy essay NsSkrr (Boston: Beacon Press, 19S9), esp. chap. 1, which is replece with dichotomizing natemenes sudi as this: “philosc^Kally considered, tbe universe is composed of Nature and Soul* (p. 7). Only in what he calis somewhac disdainfully “the common sense* does Emerson achnowh edge che muhiplidty of Narure: “Nstvn, in the common sense. refere to casences un* changed by man; space, the air, the river, the leaf* The corresponding dar^ of monocentrism is found in the emphasis on a single, «bole earth, e.g., on the part of che Gaia hypocheú. Even íf the earth and íts «mosphere do form one ultimstcly unÍ6ed System, vsnfen chis synem chere is continuai scrife. scruggk. cenor, and as much disrupcion as harmony. tai. On che etymok^y of with special emphasis on “gaihering," see M. Hei* dqger. A» Itanáuavet te Metafhysia^ trans. R. Manhcim (New Haven, Conn.: Yile Uní* venicy Presa, )9j9}, pp. lajíT abo David Michael Levín, The Lâtotit^ Se^ (London: Rouiledge, 10H), pp. ao7-4, xao-)). Greek 19»! is che rooc of Latín itself che souree of *in*arfitip0wy." "fc have “incdlígence wich the earth* is thus a supremely ecMogical acc. las. Por s detailed aceoune of che crisis in rain forests in BrazU, see Caiherine Cau* 6eld, /■ efo Rãèefbreet: Refert fteett a Srnsf^, buferüieà UMf (Chicago: Unlvereity of Chicago Press, 1944). i2i. On scewardship as an ecobgxal imperetive in the thought of René Duboa, foaepb Scttler, arel oti»s, sec Nash, The E^o tf Nwurv, pp. 9f^. The critique of stewardship by deep ecok^ists ís rreaced on pp. t4^$o. ia«. Heidegger, HeM tUr Naw^remsd, p. i}. My ícalict. In this statement, Heidegger comes dangerousiy cloee to cndorsii^ ihe view I am here contesting, namely, that che earth is a place meant or âesthteà for human chrelling. Bj. On chese questiona, see the informarive book by Donald Hbrster, Nmirrir Eeeftete^: A Hirtitry ef Eat^giceti ítUets (Cambridge: Cambridge University Fres, 1977). On nacure*s “Greal Eeonceny,* see Wmdell Berry. **B*d Economíes,* Henee Eemeeneia^ pp. $6ff., esp. p. s?: “There is no human accounring for the Great Econoeny.* Berry contrasta rhe


NbAv M píigo 166-63

Grea Economy oí nanire a a whole with che “lítckc econorny” by whkh human bdi^ Uve and thrivc, all too oâen a che expense of che Ckca Economy that í* io irrei^acBable MXKoe. J26. Bruce Charwin, 7>r (New Ibdi: Penguin, 1987), p. ti*. 1X7. For an oiceUenc recem audy of Tibeon nonudíam in chá wcatern area of tbe Northern PUceau (Changong), see M. C Goldstein and C. M. Bcall, NoKuái tf Wbw» TÍ8et: Tht St/rtivtil tf it Khr (Berkeley: Univerairy oí California Prea, 1990). The is a present dccennined by che Chinese ^vemmenc. For a more geneni audy* see Piene Hubac, L^s timiaín (Parà: La Renaissance du Livre, (94^). 1x8. Cíted from Emmanual Lacoche, Hátoin 8t U nàtu en^r« tutíàtit {Paria: Klíncfcaieck, 1949) by GiJIes Deleuze and Fétá Cuanari in char *Trcatise on Naoiadi> logy—rhe War Machine," in A Tlv«amf nat^un: Giprw/inis «ad Scfasepármúi^ trans. B, Maasumi (Minneapolia: Univerairy of Minnesota, 1987), p. u?, n. ji. Dekuze and Cuanari comment cha “t» a fvtm {tumi) doe» noc refcr co a parceUing ouc, but vo a scat* cerii^, co a reparútxxi of animais” (thdr ítalks}. hku» became che abstracc pruscipk behifld boch justice or rí^hc (attf) and kws all oí whsdi are distinctivdy urban phenomena. 1x9. Ibid., p. Mo. I have subsotuted ^^ard" fer *S)r.” *Tbe firse esghc word» in che ten are italicized. The auchon add chac «e hare co do with *a very spedal kind oí distribución, ene wichout división into shares, in a space wichout borden or cncloaure." AUocadon, by contrast, involves precásely sudt división by means of definice boeders. 1)0. Ibid,, p. )8i> Fven tbe nomad who lives within kgally aUocaied land» also feUows the land’s levL Thc padodk pr«aUocaDon of the tradicional Tlbetan nomadk systent rcDeccs chis lead by “maintaining a balance between livestock numbers and che carryíng capaocy oí the pastureland." On chis point, see Goldsceín and Bcall, hbmad» tf W^trm Tíha^ p. 69. The authors also dalm chac *che long*ierm vísbihty oí aU pascoral groups requiies chst cheir system oí Uvesmcfc managemeru prevenc over^azíng and destrucción of thdr rcsource basc'-the regecacion.* They duw chac even ar che present time an ecologicalJy foaàbk balance has ¿en achieved the nomads of thc Northern Pbteau, despíte effem by the Chínese governmenr co reduce that herda àgnificancty (pp. i74ff.) In contrast with the overgrazú^ thai has ruined the land in many areas of che U.S. Míddlc West and Southwest (where the demands and inieresrs of a sdfishiy human ea>noffly have been predominant), che Ttbecan metlud has husbandcd che locd cnvironment in ecologically sensibve ways. 1)1. Pierre Hubac, ¿0 «aasado (Hrú: La Renaissance du Livre, 1948), p. xó. The phnse *spedfic locmons"—na co be confused wich Whirchcad'a ”ainpk locatíom"—é used in A Thõuauiá Pfumuií^ p. )8i: *the earth does na become deterritorialized (by dis* cribudre nomads) in iis global and relacive movemenc, but tt specific locaóons.” i)x. In this lighc, dwrlling«as«(csiding is dwdUi^ wichin tbe nomological walb oí rise ftiit: walb from whídi Soenees rarely exícs ín his obsessire seareh fix as raciocal strueture. Only when discussing Beauty in che Phãt^nu does he make a conceried cffert co pursue dialectic eura>murally. I». Amold Ibyr^Kc. A Stn^ tf Hütory (New ferk: Oxford University Press, I9S7), abridged ed., vd. t, p- ió8. My italks. 1)4* I do na mean co suggesc that gardens and pastures are panllcl ai every poÍM. Fa one thing, fixmal gardens act 10 delimít one’s craiectory and may^as ¡n che leass aiifa M VbrsaiUes—obetruet visión oí the landscape. Fa snaher, the rok of anímab in che two scttii^ is very ddTàcnc. Where animais kad che way in pastoral lífé—*a nomad*» migración,” remarte Charwin, ”i» a guidcd lour of animais” {The p. 184)—ín garden» they are ecther excluded ot carefully contained ín confined ^pandises.” c)$. John R. Stilgoe cites Stevens’» "Anecdote of the Jar” and comments thac "because




[tix Jar) ís an artificial eooatrucc it makes appareni che pceviousiy unrealizcd wüdemeas. WU/na titt thf BtUtttua it che hül b índiraiiguiahable, and díaos does not czisc berause it is everywhere” (Gwmh Zjwdwiyir ef Anunea: ifêo tt lUí [New Havm, Conn.: lãk Unhenicy Press, i9ts), p> si; my halka). Ib thai, we need only add that n b noc che arcifoct alone but the artifin as coostmaing a fíaa that gives form ro che duos of wildemess. 10. On che dbtínedoo berween chese (w> kínds of depch, see Levinas, "ütatííy íUBt p. 0: the firoe^cofoce rdanon íovolvea “a discance in depch—ths of coRversscion, of goodneas. of Desúc—írTcduàMe to rite distance the syntheck accivky che undetstandii^ escabtishes between the diverse terms, ocher with rcspect to one anocher, thx lend themselves to its syiKJpcíc operación.* Levinafs discussion, though appJyíng spe* òfically co che imerhuman realm, b uncannily pertinent co che quesDon of pbce, e^>edalty natural fdaoe. In the shopping mall, conversación, goodness, and Desire are nocaUy shsem, thar báng ofcai dum, banaUry, and the samfoction of physical and soda) needs. IS7. On thb point, consuk ^Miber Benjamines Anades Pro^ as diacussed by Suaan Bud:*Morss, Tk Dsckoró ef BWttr Jn^sMài and fik Anuía /Mgáes (Cambridge, Mass.: MTT Press, (9*9). tjl. I take thb phnse íirom bmes Lovefocfc, («asa; A Íif9 Ltoi ar sn £arsk (Os* fiard: Osfoid Univerdey Proa, I99?), p* x: Hhe Earth’s living nuntr, air, oceana, and land surfoce form a Comdex system whkh can be seen as a sír^le organbm and which has the ro keep our piMct « fit pUce for lifo.” Th» single ocguiiam ís the spdy named “bsosphoe.” IJ9. On the stringency and wastefulneas of “lirtk econooiy," see Berry, *nu*o Eco* nomica,” pp. dcfT. 140. R. W. Ecnenon, *N«uic,* in Ea^: Saeuá Srrrò, as Rpniaed in 71* CtMfíftt Eaa¡ft íuut Ollar if Rjilfh WiUt Euarau, ed. B. Atkinson (New Iforb: Modem Library, p« 419. 141. Levinas, T3tulity and As/fn^, p. q. Levinas b here dting RimbsiMfs eekbraced as«, which was quoted by Andrf Breron a tbe coodusion of hb first Smrrêlisi Tbe same ^ochegm ís taken enrr »che átk of a nowl by Mibn Kundera, h Ebraífinv, (rana. P. Kussi (New Ibrk: Knopf, 1974). 14a. M. Merleau*R>ncy, LOttí a l*afrii (ftrb: Gallímard, 1964), p. ó$. 141* Emerson, “Nsture,” p. 407. Enárton adds: “Wc go out daily and nightly co focd the cycs on the horison, and require so much acope, jua a we need water for our bseh." 144. *MtUlg,* pp. 9l-99>

9. Homcward Bound

1. Henee Levinas^s írtterpretstion oí Odyssexu*s homecDming « s icturn to the Saíne and s foihire to confront the Other ío h» own home. See E. Levinas, “Or the Tkail of the Other/ tnni. D. J. Hoy, ín PbüiMfb/ Thib^ lo (WMS), pp. 4^44. 1. T 5. Elíot, “Ean Ceíer,” sec. 5. For a disnitiwio of fundamcrnal diffàcncee between rrugnoon and nomadíc lífo, ttf GiUes Oekuze and FéUz GuaRari, *neaciae on Nomadofogy—the Vihr Machíne," X Tb^Hííiitd boou atU SdiiMfiínniíiy trans. 8. Massumí (MínneapoJá; Unhrr* sày of Minnesota Prw, cH?)> pp* ln Defeuze and Guanari's descriptiorí, “the mi* gran goes prindpdly from one point to anocher, even íf clu seoond point is uneertain, unfixcacen, and b mc wdJ locahzed" (p. 3I0), while (he nomad “distributes hisnsdf in a ssnooch space; he occuptea, ínhabits, holds that space” (p. }ti). Put another way, ín mi« gmion the ímermediaK pboes are cocoparsívety irtdUferem, whik ín nomadk lífo they are




NíKff ío flíga

» importam a» (he beginning and «nding |4na; for the paccoral nomad all ihc pbce* oMim at imoral para of the same cyde of movement In ihi» reepecit píJgrimagc fio berween migranon and nomadám, since the imermediaK places on a tàs mm may hm theiz cnvA spedal imerest, e.g., inna and raonasteries in whkh to aopum on tbc way to Santiago de CompottedU. 4. Ibidn p. j. Commenhng on a leadis^ French acholar of (he Mkhael Seidd says: “[Vktor] Béfifd tees the smscrure of the namave [to lie) ín in plaa ñames* Gr* Jmotí (/lyser [Princeton, H).: Frínceton Unívertiry Press, 1976], p. j). 6. TbicL, p. u; my italia. Ibid., p. I}. t. On Wsstem Apadte place ñames as they ^ure into “speaking with rtames” or storytdling, see Kehh Basto, “ ‘Scalkíng wíih Stories*: Ñames, Places, and Moral Narratives among the Wistem Apache,* in E. Bruoer, ed., Tbct, Pia^, a/ul Stvty (New ¥brk: American EdwolDgkal Sodety, pp< ufE (Baato^ etsay is reprioted ín K. Baato, IlhrtrmXpadv ¿■^ly aad enter*.* ift AftdtrvftUgf flbcson: Univeníty of Ahzooa Press, 1990).) —9. MÍMiai] Bakhtin, 7>r Dásl^ytel fwiywtffrsw, ed. M, Hoiquist and trans. C Em­ erson and M. Holquíte (Austin: University oflbua Press, ipBt), esp pp. K^fF., 97, jo«, 2$ofT. By invokíng the chionotope, I do not deny or question tite tcn^Mxality of itarnthv, its ínhenntly chronologkal commitments. After all, chese ammiiments ace ultimaRly founded ín embedded structures of che human ]ifo*wodd. (On chis etnbeddedness, tee David Carr, Tter, NsrJimw, an/ HiíWy [BJoomlngton: Indiana Universiry Press, 19*6].) But I do want to astert the equiprimordiality of (dace ín the foce its dsaracteristic rdegation co moe aecting in licmry rheory (a rdegition reflecting (he modemist prcoc* cupacíon wich linear time). ro. On the oact placement of epàodes in Ufyeti^ Seídel, EfU Gtegtufhy^ pp. (*The Dtfolin of UTyosr*), and Doo Gíñbrd wich IL S. SeUman, Ul¡faa Aímeuutá (Betkeley: Universiry of OlUbmia Press, 1988). Abo duonocopk is the the andent Med* Rcmncan navígKional guide uaed by Phoenidan saÜon to guide them írom ptee to place along a coate or between islands. Iruleed, the very ccnception cf *circumnavigaoon*—the literal meaning of“/m-pte*—brings with n both place-tensitiviry (i.e., co particular coasta and islands) and tioie-awaieness (Le., ín the form rhe gutde's fixed sequence of places to be vtsced). *£> go *araund” (prn) cooro or islands in the manner of Odyaacus, b co o^age ín an activny ai once temporal and qwial. Thus it ís not surprising (o karn thx Homer, sometimes reforted co as “the fother of Greek geography,* may have made enensíve ute of existing Phoenkian whkh “filcer thnxi^ che Homerk rhapaodist's car to tbe tip of his Creek rasgue” (Sddel. p. 4). The use of /rnpbí by Hon» was first explorcd in depth by Vktor Bàvd in £49 Pbteamr rt PQèfoü, a book ths dedsivcly infiuenod foyee. If it ís crue ths (s Bérard efaims) “the Greeks have cheir Mmn; the Semices... their ftnfM " (quoced by Seide). p. 4) ín Komer’s colosaaJ ale rhe homecom* ing eí nortot ía combined with the roundabcwt sailing guided by a As a consc* quence, the epk narrative of rhe Oéfsty oâen has the character ò( a rravelogue, nameir^ srriatim places visited by Odysseus and his crew. Pfriptoi also lie ar che origin of the *portolan charts* uied ín che Age of Díscovery. Thanks to their peculiar konogr^>hy of ^ures oriented (o che natural borders of the landscape. chese duns cncouragcd chc partidpation of tise m^ reads, who àreuhced acound the m^ cable in.che course of a sea voyage. Such rocational movement is itself a form of jourrtey and shares wich other foumeys (he factor of immersion ín successive [daces. II. In Philhp F. Herríng, Uijaia NotabMs m tiv Artek A 1971), p. (19. On Joyce as resumíng hb predeceston in lhe epk tndinon, aee Thomas f. J. Ahíaer, Hitwy atAfMtijfu (Albany: SUNY Presa, i9ê$), chap. 9 rfoycc and the End of History”). la. Scrkcly spealing, (hen, the doubte*tncfcíng of places » ahvxys a tncfcíng. At any Ínterim moment of my journey, my currenr [4ace is related lo several ocher placea, noc only beginning and endíf^ places but intermedíate pbces as »ell. As ihe tnciing becomes more muMple, however, h abo becomes kss concerted and imencional, i.e., doser eo (I wish ro thank Irene Kkaver for a dahfying discuaston of the phenomenon of muhíple tracUng.) i|. Oéfiuy, béi 7,1. 196 (Larcímore translaisoci). 14. William James ranariu that po&ítton **has nothing íntrin^ sbout k; it can only oboin betwTcn a spot, line, or other figure and evmmew cs-tfnbMSer" {The PrmtèfUi èf Psytheiegy (New ^brh: Dover, i9fo|, vot. a, p. (49; hb italks). 1$. **Óhf-Ná-HMS*iadn* may abo be rendered as "Badi Roads ro Far Ibwna,” as in (he

translation by Qd Corman and Kamaike Susumu (Buffalo, HY.: Whiie Pine Press, 1986). 16. The cnation b Irom Maauo Bashfi, **The Narrow Boad to the Deep Nonh," trans. N. Yuasa, in Bashõ, Tbe Abrrw Aosd U tbe Deef Üertb md 0tber TJmví Sbettbet (London: ¡Anguín, I9é6), p. 98. A detailed map of the journey ín question b ptovided by the translaior on p. 147.1 put tbe year **1494" in quotes to indícate that ihb des^nahon b that of the Wátem calendar. For a general study of Japanese pügrimage, aee Oliver Scakr, btpanoe (New forfo Morrow, 1983). 17. Bashõ asks hb lhend Ibsai near the end of hb (rip to *makc a sununary of the day's h^»penings and leave b ac the temple as a souvenír" (ibsd., p. 141). But his cwn text b something oiher than any such summary. For Bashd’s cririque of travei diariea, see *The Records of a Tnvcl'wom Satchel,” ín i^., pp. ??'^4> tsp. tbe remarfc thac most things m sudi diatks '*ate noc evm wxth mentioniRg unless there are hesh and arresdng elements in them* (p. 73). 18. I talx the notion 1 and 4. 99. Vine Ddoria, Gof h Anf (New Vxk; Groaaet & Dunbp, 197)), p. 40. Ekníamin Lee Whorf, "An American Indian Model of rhe Universe,* reprinted in D. ledlock and B. Ifedbck, eds., /hut the Ammeaie Eteni (New Ibrk: li* verighi, 197$), p. 12*; my kalics. 4]. Kant, *The Refutación of Uealbm,* Obifnr tf hm Rnutie, Ban. Ac Bxt? Kant speaks of *the pernana)t ín space* as what b requbed by the conaciouaness and determi* narion of órne. I am grasfiil o Mclvin Wsody for suggcsting thb Une of thought.


to pega


42. R. Pinxten, I. van Dooren, and F. Harvey, Sfiuf. Ei^ioneioiu ètto dif Neterel Ptriíaffi^ ted Sr—tfiifíq tf tbt (PhUade^ihia: Univeniry of toin* tyMnía Ptcsa» i98j), p. j?. The fuU «cmcnce b nhb general dyiumk fcanirt of crcaeed üiinga cannM be undentood as aecuaJ iikmsiiuu or cUspbcanait*, rsher tt b a much Icae aod moce general penbtíng throt^ ewicual dunge.* When Ketdt Baaao poíno co che Wwern ApadM beUef char “grandmocben and undes snuR perbh, buc abr leñbaift wÀWTj* (Baaao, ** ‘Scalking witb $Cúriea>* * p. 4); mx (talks^ he b aUudif^ co cbe kínd of pbcc'pcrmanerKE I hac have in mind. 4). Scnccty apeaking, a homesead b an)r hnd (ucually indudú^ tbe buüdin^ on cha b immune ftoan l^aJ aeízure and tha aca^ ín che same fàmiSy Ibr a number of genenóona. In the United Scaes, cbe Homenead Act of J86a allowed any otízen (or alíen who íntended to become a dtísen) che right co occupy 160 aerea wkh a oommianem co 6nn on it. b wha foUowa. I am atending the oonccpc co indude aoy proloi^ed aectk' ment of a new pbce, urban a wrll a runL 44. The retum efl^cted ín bomecoming need noc be to ock*s actual fisnner home per ac—cha b, che Ihcral houae. One can retum u wcU co a certain rteíghborhood, acate, or regiOD and stili acpaiencc *bomeoDour^" whoae acope b even more conaíderable chan bomencadii^. I shall be onploying both notioru in tbsir mon eeiEn^ soiaca. 45. Af a avoUary, ti enauea char homesteadíng ofm brir^ wírii ic and, ac lean in cbe caie of rural homeneadir^ a conversión of wUd into buih ^acea. 46. For Thoreau*! brief but poínced creacment of co-habitartey. see **ViUkif^* re* prínced in H. D. Thoreai, Novní t&tory Kaejs (Sah take Cby: ^sr^rine Smhh, 19*0), pp. 1 Have hyidsenated che word in orda co emphasíze the to. 1 ara graccful to IreiK Kbver fbr bru^íng Thoreau*! notion to my atcentíon. 47. 1 take the term piaàywtfc from ^^^Uiam Lean Heai-Mooci, freir^t^: A Deep Mtf. In chap. 9 {**Hxnestead*) of thb ranarkaUe book, Moon explores a number of aspects of bomesceading and re*inhab(tac)on of the Uod. 4t. Thoreau ¡nvokes monory ipedScally in hb ¡naugunl dbcusfion of ^cohabttanqr": apeaking of artcescral presences 00 a rertaln fàrm near Concord, he writes: **They &de ifTCVocaMy out of my mind even now iduk I q>eak and estdeavor co recall chem and leooUect mysdf. b b only after a long and serious efibre to reúoUect my best ihoi^hia chat I become again aware of cheir cobabbancy* (“Wdkic^” p. tp). 49. ”Viblking,* p. 191. jo. These are the hst lírtes of T S. Elioc*s ^Ean Coker," Jbicr Qtiettttt. Earlier in che nrac poon, Elka revena che fbnoula: *ln my b^inning b my end.* Either way, tbe lubRac-habftus cyde b very much at stake. ji. Ganon Bachelard, Tbt nans. M. Mas (New ¥a(i: Orion, :964). p. s. I dted thb same aentertee in diap. 4. 1 borrow this term from E. V. Wdter, fftftvniy (Chapei Hill: Untversby of Norrii Carolina Presa, t9n>. Snyda*! descripúon of hb own venture b feund, asar etie^ in hb esaays HTte Place, the Región, sind dv Conunons* and *Good, Saóad,* Tbt tf Át WiU, pp. ap-47, 7t—94. Sec abo Snyder*s essay *IU*b)habiiáDon," Tbt OU Wgr (San Frandaco: Qty Limits, 1977), pp. $7^t6. n. **Tbe land my frmily and 1 live on in tbe Sierra Nevada of Califemía b *baKty good* from an eaoncanic scandpoim. Wóh soíl smoKlmcnts, nueb labor, and the devd* opment of portds fbr holding waier ihrtMgh che dry season, ic b psodudng a frw regeiaHes and some good ^>plcs. li ú bener aa forree: through the miUennia ñ has exceUed ai grow* ing oak and pine* (Tbt ^>eaia tf tbt IFíU, p. 94). S4. The phnse *a past which has nerer been a presóse* oceurs in M. Merleau.Pamy,


Nata to

tnm. C. Smieh (New ¥ork: Humtnioes Pre»> 1962), p. h ú ukcn up by imnunud Leviiu» in 3dcn^ gitá Iiifiitity: Xs m Bxtrritrisy, trans. A. Ungis (I^Rs^rgh; Duquone University fíes», 1969). pp. 69> (}0. 0. Snyder, Tbr Proaitr of dft p. 41, $6. Ibíd. p. 36. This is whax dííT dwdlings exempliíy so idbngly: the real pocsíbUky of ínhabmng a wild place that is apprcdated, tMüt into, and finally left in iia very wüdneas. The nomad, ¡ay Deleuae and CuMtarí, *is in a /««/ an abaolute thac ia mandested locally, and engendered in a series of local opetadons of varying onaicaDooa: desert, steppe, ice, sea” (X Tlioiisaid Piauattí^ p. $82; thar icalks). This local absoluK con* msts wich che “relacive global” of striated space—with sites, whidi are ahvays only telative co ocher sites. 58. S. Kierfcegaard, Airprtítmi.' Aa ás faprruMsW trans. W. Lowrie (New Ifovh; Harper, 1964), Pc. i. Kierfcegaard poces hb expenment in lepeúüon thus: *rhou canse cake a trip to Beriin, when chou han been befere, and convince chyself now whether a rq>etitioA is possible and what significance k may have” (p. h). jp. Mary CXaiglas argües chac there is a spcdal repcacability about msrrwr fumishiogs thtf dístinguishes a home ftom a house: in a homc, “there has co be something regular about the appearance and re*^pearance of its furnishir^” (**Ihe Idea of a Home: A Kind of Space," Sodai Raseaná $8 (lOPib p. a8). Douglas has in mind a pbenotnenon like che roU-up bcd. My own ¡dea of icpexced retum applies co house aral home alike, since I have in mind the enóre entity o which one goes baci after a rourvl«(np joumey. 60. Joseph Ryfcwen. “House and Home,” in ibid., p. $1. R)^wen hete alludes to the £Kt thac Jómt in Latin means “beanh,” “fireplace.” On tbe unbuilt duraccer of hotnes, see also Douglas's commenc: home “does noc need bricks and mortai, it can be a wagort, a caravan, a boac, or a cdm” (**nK Uea of a Home." p. alo), b can also be a hoUow in the ground or a C9i*e, which are even mote ftilly unbuift. 6t. On this point, see John HoUaiKler, “le AU Dependa," Soda/ Raamif jl (1991), pp. 4a>4|. R^arding the houae/bome dístinctloA, Et^lish, Dutch (íw/Iwhb), Germán {Hóu/ Hnns), and Scandanavian lar^uages clearly mark che diftoence. ln all of tbese ttorthem European lat^uages Old None ámu is thc common ancestor of their woed ftir “home," ¡ust as their words fbr “Houk'* may trace back to had, IndoEuropean for “to hide," whereas Romance lar^uages are nororiously vague: Is cha hd an allusson co “his house" or to “his home"^ 61. Robert Rost, **The Dath of tiic Kind Man”; my halles. Wb can abo be webomed back inco che houschoU of the natural wtid^back 10 che earth icself. Homecoming as retum to the (h)eanh. Ih» ú surely what KWdsw pro daims co be ac once eminently possible and desirable. Wild places do rm have to be do mesckaccd or even homesauled in any strtct sense to be oome back to in sud) ceUuric They only need tt> bc pbea we cace about. “Home is where (he hcart(h) is." 11 is also where wr settlc, where we refoin our dnsw or fiimily, tUau being the rooc of che díMMt/ thar houses us as a coUective body. 64. bell hooks, “Homeplace: A Site of Rfsistancc,” Rav, Gradeo, and Cidtwai íRdida (Boston: South End Presa. 1990), p. 4t. I haw kepe “bcll ho>^” in the lower case ouc of respeet for che auchor’s own convención. «. Ibid. 66. Ibid. 6?. (bid,, p. 41. hooks does noc hypbenate “homc'plaúe." In an opptwve soóecy, (he home«place became “che one site where orte could fteely conftont the issue of human* izatkn, where one could resist” (ibid.). hooks also says thac ín her home«^ace “all that

truly manered ín life took pUcC'—dx warm and oomfon of ahdter, the feedin^ of our bodiea, the nurturing of our aoub. Then we bvncd d^ty> integrky of being, there we kamed n> have feith* (pp. 4c-44>. The mencton “bodies" poino to thc politkal dimen­ sión of body*in*pbce, a dimensión whose nuanced anal^ was òoqucntly punued by Foucauh wd more recenriy by feminw cheorins. By che same cohén, the set of buiWíng— an set done hy bodies and /b* bodies—b itself an ínexorabJy poUòcal acc: “All those con* cerned wich building must cecogniac that every fbundanon laid ia always and ínevitabJy a politkal acT" (Rykwen, “House and Home,” p. oa). Concerning aspccts of donsestk space a* approached frocn specifically frmínist per^eedves, see Henrietta Mooce, Sfate, Iba, ãfu/ Gfttílft’ (Cambridge: Cambrk^ University Press, 106) and Daphne Spalrt, Gauitné Sf 7> Douglas, “Tbe Idea of A Home.” p. 303. 74. For instance: “A man from Marión, immediaicly vrsc of here ... cold me: w used es fisU sr dusTM Tbt /My dwrr a* asttkVsM, AñdVm (PnúryErtb^ p. if; his icalies). 73. Frcd It Myers, ?àsn^* Cmorry, PiM/pi St^: ouíkmu PÍms, and htítia Hbfrm Dovrr (Befteky: Universicy of ólífornia Piess. 1991 )> p 9X< 70. Ibíd., p 93. The second phrase Is from this revealing sentence: “This inaeparabilicy of peopk and place makes cerricoda] bourtdarks highly Aexibk if noc inslgníficant.” Here the rcjecrion of a itrict conainer model of the pl« is manifèsc. b is abo significam that kinship among (he Pintupi is determined less by blood and gcneüogy than by the fUea they share, i.e., the camps rhey keep rogerher ‘The underlying idea is that corusidence in a camp Is tbe spatiai expression of a group of kin; shared xelvity constiTures peopk as related” (p. ps). 77. Oced in Baaso, “'ScaJking with Scories,’ ” p. 21. As Annie Feachea, anocher Apache, pues it. The land makes peo^ live righc. The land loofcs afrer us. The land loofcs afrer peopk” (p. ai). The conten^xxary Laguna Pueblo auchor Lealk Silho afrirms the deep link between land and nory: “(our] stories cannoc be separared from geographkal locaDona, from ^tuaJ physical places within che land.... There‘s always at leasc one srory connected wich those (4aca” (“Lar^uage and Utenrure from a Pueblo Indian Perspec­ tive,” in L. A. Fkdkr and H. A. Baker, |r., eds., £f^frak Lúrnmrrr. «p tht (Babimore: Johns Hopkins Unlversby Press, tçíi], p. 69). Concernli^ che rdacionship be­ tween ethks and pbce, see also Charles T^kr, Smctos efe Tbt íáfMity (Can^TK^ Mas».; Harvard Univcnicy Press, 19B9), esp, p. aB: Tb know who




Nfifc to

>ou ve ¡9 n> be oòenttd in moni space. 1 fcd myadf drawn hoe n> use i spaiúl metaphor, but I bebeve chis to be more than personal prcdikcòon. There are signa that the link wíth apadaJ orientaeion Uea very deep in tbe human psyche.* Tt. This ís Gadamet'» phraae fer the pervasive pseaence of languagc: “Langvagc [dv doca not really stand akmgsáde an and law and religión, but repreaem» the sustaining médium of aJI of these manifèstatíocia of the spirtt* (H.*G. Gadamer, *The Narure of Things and the Language of Things,” ín PMotvpiiieâ/ trans. D. £. Linge (Berteky: üniversiry of Callfemía Press, ipTó], p. ta). 79. See Bashô, 7%r Aaad t» At Nwsi, pp. w-47; and Myen, Se^ pp. to—n. The latter are baied on namtíve aceouno by Maantja (ivu^umyi, which are further dsscussed in Myers** doctoral dmertttíon of 1976, Hb Have and to Hold: Á Scudy of IWsístence artd Change in Pinrupi Soda! Life” (Bryn Mawr CoUege). lo. Amold Ibynbee, .4 Sna^ Hirtor^ (New Vwk: Otford Univenify Preaa, i947h voL I, p. 161, wlKre Ibynbee abo wntea; *they Aung thonselves t^on rhe Steppe, not to escape beyond ics bounds but to make tbemacíves a home 00 it.* Defeuze and Guarcarí, who àte this last remaifc and cbe one in the cext, commem that **they are nómada by dint of not moving, noc migrating, of holding a amooch space that they refute to leave, ihae chey leave only ín order to oonquer ard dic* (A TfeMísisd ffatrmf, p. 4i). It. On nomadian of the sea. see )o$f Emperaire, La it U fotr (I^ris: Gal« Umard, t9$4). Ia. Deleuae and Guarcarí, A Thamaui Ptottuití^ p. 4la. My Italies. The audtors can continue co use “spacc* instead of *piace* because, as 1 haw noted above, they make a sysrematk discínctioA between ^amooch” and “stnated” space. Smooth spvc, which 0 rhe spacc of the nomad, 0 ckue co whac 1 would cali “place” in this bocA, whife scriaced space, which ís explidtly rooced in sevemeenth-ceniury homogeneous space, is virrually idenckal with what I prefèr co cali ”siie.” (See esp. che chapto encítfed **The Smooth astd the Striared,* pp. I). Alfred North Whicehead, Pneet atut ed. D. B.. QrifBn and O. W. Sher* bume (New ^bri: MaanUhn, 197I}, p. J9. Hís ícaha. I4. Marcei Prousc, K/mrmfe*ur tif Tiñogi ñur, trans. C. K. S. MoncriefT artd X Kilmartin (New York: Random House, 1911), vol. 1, p. $. 1$. Sven Birkerts, “Place: A Fragmon.” in Thomas Rick. ed., Tht 3aert4 Thetry tf At EorA (Berkelcy: North ^lantíc, 19I6), p. $4; his ñalics. 16. I adipt chis tenn from E. V. Wdter, who um it is che axiverre of “weihh”^ see his essay “Pauperism artd lUth: An Arebeology of Polky,” SaoWyfltf XMlpú h (i973>» PP« 07- Pínxten, van Dooren. arvi Harrey, The Atuhnfei^ tf Sftae, p. vjU. The “general dynamic feature of aeaced things cannoc be undersrood as actual movement or displacement* (ibid., p. 17). The phrase “persíscíng chrough eventual change* is abo found on p. 17. I9. Sa^yo's haiku ís fiom hó .SanbMiw; dted and mnsfetcd by LaFleur. The Karm ef KMr, p, 160. 90. Birberts, “Place: A Fragment,* p. h* 91. Badietard, Tho Teetia tf ^tut, p. I. 92. Aristoefe, PlysMS, 210a, 14-24. Of e^t senses of «n díacinguishcd by Anstotle, the last is staied chus: “v (a thing) ís in a vcssel and, gcnerally, m 4 fttue* (aroa, H~24; my ftahes). 9}. ”For a knowle^e of ínnmacy, localixarion ín the spaces of our ÜKimacy is more Kgent chan determinadoA of date* (Bachelard, The í^tetia Sfaee^ p. 9). 'Dte rempeadon

Notes ro p^es 311-14

ID aworiar dac and pbce ai ¡f they were on a par wMi eadi «her i» aecn in Bopon*» direumon of there cwq betón in .Manrr aW Rana. N. M. Pul and W. 5. Palmer (New líxfc: DouMeday, W9), pp. ijff., aoSff. Roben Bunon, 71b Xmwi^ tf Má^utdnfy, ed. F. Ddl and P. J. Smith (New Ifarfc: *nidD(, 1^). p> P*. Bureen ú here paraphraaing Seneca. 9). I examine the nooon OTOcaUy in my esay *Keep«ng tbe Hwt in Mind»* JUmtw ef rJ PP- 77-95. 96. Kari Jarpen» mUtfflfyy tram. E. B. Athlon (Chka^: Univenóy of Chicago Prest, 1970), voL 1, p. 141. A /ffuif vrè*.* thit ia the mbdoaunam view whidi che med* emití enphaaa on "point of view^* on che ezcemality of che objetive perspective on ihif^ "the view fraan nowbere,* bdu. Indeed, in che pexspectívc of modernity, ic it precrioily oxymoconic id tpeak of a "hoving view*; and yet ic ¡a jual chit view whkh many pbces atk ut lo take. Conremu^ tpiric and aoul in rdation to place, aee my estay "Gettinf Ptaced; SouJ in Space»" in Sfirit aiul oiéí Eaoft in PIrüwpItifol PsjdKi^fff (Dalte: Spring PuMkacioQa, 1991), pp. 190-909.

S ;


A Frión, 110, itj-iia, 3X6, 30, jfi kli Abcnv/Befow: (bmeosiocul fearura of body in place, 7^te Abram, David, 977 n.ioB Accuhuraoon: va, encuhuracioA, S7t n.30 Adtfrman, Jafnca, 139 Addiaon. Joacph, Ahead and Behind, Si-tl Afoerti. León Bardaca. nt. ijt, HO n.4S. n.47, 09 n.iu AUomion (ñom Place), joT-po, sis Afor^aide and Around: aa modei of dweUing, 13$-I0 AlD3cr, T r J., 0t ruir Amboyna Fwple, 0 Anaximinea, aa^av. 30 Animal Ufo: va. plam lífo, ni, 64 Anraeus, 312 Anrhropocentmm, Humanoocntriam, it? Apache: Acra of. 377, JOí. jw ft.77 Arc: of' abundance, 3O*-3O9; archicectural, 1)1-10,147; artkuÍAory, 94,0,99, no, 1I5; of deaolaDon; defined, 10; of deaolarion aa area of vaniahing m wiU places, 307. ufriit, 09, 30-363,30; of earrh, 39I; of cm* bodimenc, 110-iit, 147; horizonal, 6a, 6*, 94-97. (0-1*7; of rendiabiüry, 60,110,10; «naknaL 10 ArchitBcrure, See Building. Built PWo Ardtytaa, 14-1$, 9*. ps AhsiRle, xi. t, 10. 13. 13. 10 19^ 3), 4S. 7$. 76, 90. 104. 336. 399-00, 01, pt, HS 04*. H7 0.69, 04 0.0 Amhám, EUido^*i, t34 Art. &r Ihkkggui: worfc of art Articulaiion: 0 worid vü righc aatd left hand* edneia, 93-97 Aunoaphere: feature of wUd pbcca, 3)^333, 30,363 Auguadne, Saint; on rime, u, is. 14% 0. 03. )33 0.79, (3*1, 0) ft.71 Aura, 10, )U 043


ihchdaid, Ganon, x» >*« sn, n.$i, 07 n.94> 977 n.)« )M n.9r< n.9) BakhorK Mikhaik )M n.9 fiarmnea*; feaure of hndscape, 19; BaatA MaBuo. 3U> 0$, 3I6, 0$. )06. 9O9« )JO Batb-Pfoce, us Basao, Kadt, 0», jn n.S> 01 n.^ 1L77 Before and AAer a phaal, noi oemponl, la Bong io-Píace, xv, 199» j*o» 319, íi4 Bellah, Bxsbert. al*« 09 Bcniamin, Wiher, 0? A.ts? Bo^on, Hoiri, % ih (6. jil 999 n>9S Beridey, Ceorge, 6?, 7«> }77 n.iis. 9I0 n.S4^ n.}9, 09 n.91. 0) n.m Bevcrfey, Bobert. 1I9 Bioaphm: aixl aDnoaphere. ui-au. 977 n>i07 fiirkem, Smca, 97, >07, $it Bkiodel, )ean*Fcinçoia. 163 Bbomer, Kent, ys n.u, s0 n.6f BJy> Bobert. 346 Body, Cmbodimm: baaia of ardUacture, a0 n.p; modcf for buUt pJacea, (ly^uo; and dundling, ii^iao. tp, h^m, 1$}, iBi; dy« adk Aructuces of, aa luMi* uaL. 79*^ >93. 399-997; aa focua of bcre, p-js, n-7»; and joumeyíng. «j; role in rnonory, w, rak ín ittvigarion, 3^39; u orienong, ao, ju, $1$, ju; foaturc of wild placea, 303, vs. V?. 333-339. 399-300. 303 Boundary: in architecture, 00 n.y; ooamologi* cal, (4>t6, 39, in tandacape gardou, Í0, lOt-iól; va. monument, uo-ux, 10,317; in wüdemcaa, 34(^341, See abe Limit; Ho ri2on Boyceaa, |ao(|uca, (éi Bcwdel, Fernand, xiv Bcocfcett, Linui F., 190 Brown. "Capabíbcy." i64> ios, 07, ad9 BOhler, Kart, jp n.69, MO n.j BuÜding. Budt placa: ddnad. 93,114; body aa



Buiküng. Buik places—(cnuáa^) modd for, 117-130; burrow vi. dtekff, )6o (tro; and orug, 17)-I76, fio. 399; as oro* denaicion oí cukwe, >1-33; ccrsonoui «a. eononced, k4^]$3; ai cuMwcng, tTi-iTl; ai mode of dweUing, (14, iT^ilo; Epímethean VI. Promerhean, (73-17$. tíT, 36o¡ etymd* of, 361 (LI02; and fàmiliarity, iió, 17I, 399; building landacape, t6$-i69; participa* tional VI. conceptual, 141-143; and reaocessibility, (16, i99 Bunon, Bobert, )u

Camap, RodoMv a Can, Dsvid, jO n.9 Caaey, Edward S., 3» n.$9. 390 n.js, 39} n.9), n.96 Gntíier. Enwt, 3$4 n.30 Oaoa, 13, a-19; etymobgy oí, 313 n.70; *il* demeaa aa, 3O(-2O3 Ottracter (and Place), 303-107. in-iu Cherwin. Bruce, 3*6 n.i36, rLi34 Chiaamaóc Logic, 344 Qkineae Oeatíon Myth, (9 Chdra, Chodc Space, 143, i?4, aoi, 339 il?4, 379, 3*4 n.iii. Sar nbr PlaRK Tlauov Chorography, 313 Quortotope, 377, ali, al), aO, jit n.9, n.10, }90 n.33 Cítiei, (10, 190, 347, 3(7. 363. aél, 390, 303 Oarfc, Herbert H., 64

Cbudd, PiuL 314, an

Co*Habinncy. >9i->93, >9$. Wf. >91. 3(0, 391 044, 441 Colé, Tbomaa, ar CoUijRgwood, ft. G., 31I n.u Galun¿iua, Qiriicoplw. 4 Coin*Place, j6, 3,141 Comreon'Placea, Cofwable, Mm, 164 Coaumlugka: priority oí placs m. (3-»6 Caumer*ptee, $4, 73, w, (9) Creaiion Mytha, 0-19.49-43,3X> n4. See alao Ewnwe BUA-, Plico: TiwMr CrévecoeuT, J. Héctor St. )ohn de, ittk'190 Cukivttion: ai arii^^bt, (71-173, 1I7; buU^ ing 31 a forro of, 173-176; etymology oí, 139-^; of vikkrneaa. dl-do, I44> >44. S« nbr Cárdena; Building Culture: ai determinam of place, 2^33; and Naore. 339-340.344, aji-ttl, 343-3^. Sar «¿e WUemeaa. Wild Places


Dance. See On*mr Cwr^ Ddmze. CiUei. and Fáíi Ouccan. M36-JO7, )66 (UOÍ, (11)1, Ji? IV), )90 n.90, 19* nJo, delb Mirándola, Pico, m) (ljq Ddoría, Vine, att Depdvaoon (oí Ptecc), jo* De^ 67-^ >09, >11, >6»->7D, xtx, an, 91J DÓrida. lacquea, 49, 6k 79^ 110, ju n.10, 97t (UU DeacarcBs, Reni, n. 9, 7), iTT-iTt. «>6, aU, 313, 3M n.M Dcaoünon; detined, 19a, i93>>94. lat^aao, 33a, 344, M4. 169; and dupbcenien, ion­ ios, 206, Mo-M; darraink fonn, w197; in Kanc, 30^301 Dewey, Mui, )0 Dimottíon: derivative from duection, 49-^0; cix dimenaion* and ftee, 74-100,103 Dtnéh Indáam. Ser Navego Indiana Direction: directional atructurca oí body in place, 49'*7O, (03, 37l. S«r nb» ifae^ Therr. Near/Far Dtwplace, (9$ Diaonenneion: oí Nav^ Indiana after reloca* tion, «-J7 Dúplacanenc, xiv, 300,303,306; of Nevaio In* diana, 34*37; and the auMícne, aoo; aod deadañon, t9i*(9$. 197*303, 344, a6o-36i Dnw CanuM^ tt, 373, 377, >07 DauUe*(racljfig. aTt-'itr Douglaa, Mary, 303,393 n.39 Duftaine, Míkd, 969 n.( DuneU, Lawrence, 3I Dwcfling, Dwdbng Placea: body in, li6-i30; buddir^ aa ferm of, 17^1?*; vi. buik placea, 113-1(4; ctymology oC ii4i two fixnu oí, 114,131,133*133. (43. 303,37« n.19; bemtede, 137-140; heatial, i^-*i)7; heaóaJ aod hermetk aa ecenplanencary, 14^143,300; in na* ture, ^4, >66; two general traicB 0^ 113-116 Dyada, 146-147, (lo, (16.3(3~3(4, b9 C143; and body, 4^*-7o; oí oricmadcA, 133-133; Ín wíl* deraes, 334-33$

fiaite, WilUan, j8« n.ia7 Eanh, ho, »o6“iefr, uks>, «7UO, UO-IM, MO, >60, >63, rr^ 99^ 046; ««. wU, i}o-i3». MO> I6X. I»?, 3H Ecoeencric: vi, egocentric, a6^'>^ 90) Ecológica] VuiiMe*, il?


ItuUx Ecotogy, 366-270. Sar oto Eooccotrk; Echíca Edn, Ridiaid. 4 Edge, 133, ttt, ait, 20, 0» nJt, 9^ (lm; abao* hOB^iS EgypeiaM: Shu, god of aonoaphere, ato Ehrlidi, Cieti, 193 Caaenman, ftter, trt £Uadc, Míscea, 97* ili* Elíot, T s, 69« 271. ttt. MO, 991 lUO Emecaon, Ralph Wddo, )io n.40, 3I3, 3*7 n.Mn, n-t^ Endii^ 09-206, 297 EnaeiM £li0,49-^ 70, in-iu, att Erkimo Orícncacion, 23-26 Frhint) twfccuuk, 264-^70 Evemdon, Seal, H4, 37* o.i? Eípcríenor: x^ti

Far. Near/IW Far Sphere, aot, ut. »)"»*> rt Fillmorc, Ouric»0 FleA of the Wxid. >($—«$6, n o*6$. S« a£i» Mcrtcau-ftnty. Maurice Fancadt, Mj^id. ji? n.i FnnUin, Nancy, m RanUín, Nancy, and BaHan tt, loa, M4 ILia, 344 IM4> n-43, 39 ILW. aw» Fteud, Signamd, x, ií*-iw, 3H iva^ Sto n.)^ 3&4 n.»oA, )9O ILM Fron, Rfiben, 9^ 3B4 itio6 Gadaner, HamXjeotg. 3*3 n.9d, 394 n.7t GaUko,4-) Gaidcna, aftt, xto; aa fcm of (míoci, ro-m; aa cukivaBd, i», i64> Wj?a, t*9; deconstruct bemal v». hcnoroc, 170; and darUíRg. 16^170; eady endoaed, 13^137; formal, 137-163; bndacpae, ttt-ttl; aa luninal, ijs 170; and mood, (6^149; 14. paanm 06 o«iH Garhoif^ 73 Gehry, Frank, iil Ceacaia, ikMik o( it. Sar uh» Creación M^rtha Geuiuciiy, ti, kx^km, 141-143, iTT-iTt, ad, 333; ín M7-lACj of vague* oea, ttT-M* Gfoaon, 1.1., aíí, toT-aoC, wo, aw, »t nJ6, 373 ILA n>^ 0*66, Qadvm, 'TYKmaa, m n*i7, n>rt God: aa phcc. 17-it Goeche, Johann von, 14*, (49, tt6. 334 0.3»


ârcck 'fimpto: and Jandacape, tt Qround; featw cf wiU pbcca. aot, tu-ti4, t0, tA ttt. tt) Grxidtov, F*il, itt, t)6, t?o ftto, Cwdance, tjo-ttt Guidaume de PMiavam, fiiahop, i0 GiwítKh, Amo. M

Habctac/Habtnia, 292-20,293, 297 Haiolcr, ?i Harnaon, foho, 3-6 Hawthoroe, Narhanigí, Hearth. 293^900 HearMoon, William Leaac, 2I9, 909,903,906, 99« n47 Hed^er, H., 913 n4 Hadan, hrrkfc, 999 n.Jt, 396 iu6o He^ G. W. F-, xis 29, 67. 96< Q.M* Hsde|go, Martin, xv, 120, 190-10* 176. >77» 207, 212, 09-240, 249. 234, ttt. 20, 916 n.16. 30 0.3, 940 R.7, 949 0*63, 36* 0.99, !73 n.37. 974 0.73, 376 11.96, 979 n.2*, 3*0 n.39, n*34, 3*1 A.31, 0.64, 9M 0.97, 9*4 n.113, 3*3 n.l2(, n.u4, 990 n.97; wori of art, 244, 06 n.43 Here: direcdonal fiacure of body ín place, 54; five fixnu of, diatinguidied, 32—34; hoe* there aa non^metric, 994 n.47; and ioaimey, 276-279, 2*2-20, 269. S« ate There Hermea, Hermeck. Stt Owdling: heemetk Hotz, Robot, 69, 90, 93. H7 n.64. O.63 Heafod, 13, it Hcatia. Stt Dwelling: hotíal Hetaotopbm. 279, tlr Hkki, Edward, 09 Hillman, Janio, n, aai, 360ILI, 974 KL69, n.71 Home, 121, Í75-I77,17»» 194“»3. 2*2, 294, 29*, 299-30; *2* houae, i*o-i*l, 1*6, 241-243, 266, 206-300, 369 11.112, 392 n.j9> tlAo, n.6i. n.6} Homecomüig, ««-rs, »9o-in, Ml-m, 3K» JW pandom of, »^>96 Homcbnd. Homeateadíf^ 290-20; paradoiea of, 293296, 296-299, 99« n.0, It43, n^7 hooka, bdl, 901-901, 906 Horínn: defined, 6(^. Io, VJ^ «0-224. a>), 319; body and landac^ aa, 20; ínam^ va. extemaL. 926 n.31, 06 D.67 HoráaoniaKMRtical, 72,79 Io, 132, trt, 961 n.12 Hurmnocencnao. i>7 Huaaerl, Edmund, sv, 29.49,31,32,93» A C24«



Huttert, Edmund—(mif/mf/) 167-161,2J9, )i>> «u n.ró, ))2 n.aó, 39$ n.34,, 377 n.iii, 379 a4 Huy9em> Chrátian. j

/find, 91-92 ImagínaDon, Imagining, xvi—zvii Impenetrabüiry: fèaiure of desoíate landscape, (96 In, r», 196-197, 300. 311. M3, 314. IS4 n.l* Inhabitation, lu, 241-143, mp, 293. See eüe DiKUiiig; Re'inhabicaDon laobtion: feanire of desotue landscape, 196 Jacknn. J« B., t» Jager, Bemd, 369 n.iii Junes, William, 331 n.i, 09 n.14 Januner, Max, 317 iLit, 339 n.31, pr n.0a laspers, KarL )t4,391 a.96 Joñas, Hans, xii, 313 n4 Joumey: defined, >73“»74í epic, 174-177; everyday, 131, 178—1*0; doubfe'tn^ing movonoit of, 178-1*0, i*O'i*3; Baahd's, i*o-a*3; ends of, 1*0-191; movement in, 30^307. See alu Homeooming; Homestead' ir^; Nomadísm James, s, 177

Kant, Inunanuel, 7, 9, 40, 9^~9h 96> 9*> aaA, 140,17), 14?,!«, S04, 341 n.l?, 349 n.Si, 330 11.90; aocounc of rbc subhme, 199-aoi, 390 0,37. IML. 391 ILll K01C, William, i04« 161, 107 Kiefêr, Anselm, u Kierfcegaard, SOrtn, 196,198 Kinship (of NseuK), 140, w Koyié, Alexandre, 44 Kriitcv», Julia, 333 n.ji L^Fleur. WilIUm, >1} Lakotr. George, &nd Mari Muuon, Landmarfca, U. 101-10», ui, 3tj n.j$ LaodK^, t43-MSS, aot, 103, 231, aii, 1*9, yfo fut7; and body, 13-19; v«. geogn383 n.o»; pHtming of, 9(0; v». wddcape, 203-107, i», «7,379 o.« Landcope Girdou. Set Gtráaut landscape Lool^u, 9*-99 Leahy, David, jio n.H L«»^. 131.10 Leibniz, G. W, 7, 2Í9 LeNOm, André, ijt

Leopold, AJdo, 103, 3Í3 iLtlO, A.lt7 Levinas, Efnmanud, js, 1??, 178,14*, xój, 149, 3lj n.iif, 3Í7 CL(36. n.141, n.l. 39t n.34 Levine. Marvín, 341 n.37 Lévy^BniM, Ludo*, 73 Liminal, isi. 141.341 Umit: cosmologícaL tj. Ser ete Boundary Local Knowledge, Locke, lohn, 21, 0$, 1)*. 10, 313 n.i, 137 n-71 Looxentrism, 343-170,3*4 Longkude: discovery of, 3^; Board of, 3^ Lovelocfes James, m Lynch, Kevin, 369 l^ocird. Jean^François, 14, 34, 3M n.8, n.9, 3*9 n.27

Mach, Emsc, **

Mageilan, Ferdinand, 4 Mall, 16*—170 Mips, 78,110-131.174,176,1*3,187.19*, 199300, 306, 307, 3(1. 3*3 IL87, 3*4 n.iH, 3*8 Mayan model of nme, 318 n.4* Muís, Glen, 370 n.17 MclÀggan. J. M. £., 10 Measure Our v$. metrk measuiement, 63 Memory, ftemembering, z^-xvii, 3*7. m. 197, 311, 313, 391 "'4* Meriessi'I^my, Msurke, xvi, 33-79 />«««, 99. 1(4,113,131.113. n.ii, 341, 309 n.l, ,75 n43, n.63, m n to, n,83. n.M, lUó, 576 n.88, 3*1 n43, 3*3 nn.98-101, 391 n.34; and dqMh. 68. 69: ^ah of che worU, Micronesia. &r Fuluwat Pe^ée Middle Beabn, 111,141-146,14*, 133,133, 239, 26* Migrtton, 173, 3*7 n.3 Milerus: oample of Imiuiclíc design, 139-140 Milton, John, ló Mind, 311-314 MinLowsfcy. Eugene, 377, 390 n.0 Mispfaccd Conoetenes. &Uacy of, 76 Modernity; and suf^reasion of place, ziv, and tíme, 6-10. &se elt» Space; Time: subor* dínatíon of space by Mood, t6*-t69, 219-210,212,370 n.ty More, Henry, 17 Mouming: fbr placcs, (9*—199; and daplacemene, 198-199 Movement, xi-xii, 280,1*4,1B6-287,1*9,30^ >07 Muir, John, 23J, 131,140, 264-263; and

ífuitíe nau, Í4A-KÍ.


ftjo, >«» ft.77 AÍ19», ati-tfh 3e*> KJ» HuiàlocuUr, ilj Mym, Fred, $06, m " 75. "

)7l, )Sl

J9+ n.»

Namáve, Story, 173, 177, 310; gieac narnti^ of Space and Tioie. Ms. a7; a» un* aaimilsbk Orho, iSfr-il7¡ as subUme, 199aoa. S» at» Culrwe Navifo (DinA) Indiana, 34-37, 39, aoo, sMal9, 9M» »9» m nj5 Navigation, 4-$, aas; rofe of kw^itude in, shS; Puhiwac. a6-M. Ser at» Sailir^ Near/Far directkaaal features of body in place, 37-7 n.3. 3» n.77» 394 ft.lo, n.Bi Nonabnple Location. 6f tfí Norberg*Sdnüx, Christian, w njs NoaalgA 37-A 3(M Nuer Iríbe, 9a, 330 n.^ Njoro ftopifi, 90 Odyaaeua, Oi^, », 331-133» »M» M*-a49, m^vrr^ 301, 30», 307. sis n.i», 3M Oelachb^er. Max. 3I3 n.104,3l4 A»i.Mww»ftí» u]> and navigMson, i6-a9; body*» rok ín. M-a9» >93 Osage Indiana, 9a Outaide aod Inside: as modes of dweUing, laa-iaj Palaaxo Quototi, 1x3-630 Palladlo, Andiea, 117, 131. Ser at» Mazzo Qúmcah; Vilb f^oninda Parmenídes, x hnheaon. 9


Pascal, BUíw, x, tiú 900 I^irce, Charle» Sanden, »($, iyr, í nn44>a6> )BO A.$l Pfra-Gúmo, AJboro, IM7 jM I^nnenCTic. att, )*7 n.) I^norul Idemny and Place, )O7>-sto, jit Ptúk» of AJoandria, 17 Páfet. lean, 3» n.7í Pi^n^ »n, fO7 Pintupi I^ofde, 304 Pinxtcn, k., 391 A.4K )94 n.i? Placewumea. aj-M. Mo, M3 Pfoce*pan< ix, x, au> Pface*iK>r1d, XV, svú (09. no. 179, ilh it6» a67. >7), Mo, >94, 310. 3U Placcac^, xfc ao) Pbcewayx. 39$ Pbto: flwwiudp, 74j PWMiu, 49; Taiamu,


19, 74» 14a, (79-177. jaa n.Ti, 330 n.7, »9 n.Té. Sae ativ C3)Õn fope. Aleundcr, >64. M? fbàtion, xííi, 9, !>$, M6, M7. M9 ^.14. Ser ai» She Rwtmodemity, xiii, xvü, a, at4, ^09^ 313 Pre^poaírton, laa, 13a, 3(3 Prcopbce, jt, 141, iTt, m. «la» Heit Provar, Marcd. x. ai. 397.394 n44 Puhiwac Prapk: as navigacor», M-M

Range, Rangir^ 6o-«i Rsnsom, bhn Crawe, ais Re-implacCRicnt. 43, 104, >99, X9o, a9i-X93, avt. 310 Re*ÍnhabRadon, 149, 393-396. 397, sai fU’fiúndif^ 3ta Re-plaring. 3x1,3»» Reach, Reach Space, 0 RegioA, 7S-74» 9»*^ 117, ao6, us, ai7, aasxa9» M4» asL. a», aes» 170, sts. 176. xtI, >93, 304-30S. 30o, 313; and buílr ^ace*^ il^Mi: ccgnnal hoe. n Regional Qiaraceer. 304-30) Reidwnbach, Han», f Reid, Thomaa, 313 Repctirion, >96 R^Mon, Huiqphiey, m^iTi» 39$ n.73 Rhetonc: and ptace. 1? Right and Left: dimoisional foturea of body in place. M-or, handedneas in Meru ^o0e, 347 n.7)i in Noff Ihbe. 330 B.93 RUke. Rainer María. 179, ai4, jr» n.79, n^s

4C2 Robovu Hoüne»> )*4 fttio, a.iu Rukiiu Mm. i94> m >99. Ml. Mo nn-15-M R)Lituu JoMph. }9> n.M. n.97

Sacha. Odver. aa4.949 ft.94.977 a.iii Sai^ 9ot-9O9 Saaling. 4-9. an, 9** Ser ato Nav^aáon Saint l^tcr*» Cahcdnl. Bramaotr^ deaign for, utt aad. >9* tflO. 341, 347-370. 374. 3*7. 3*4, 900, 904. 90». 9C4> 947 0.9*. 39» n.57, 9»4 D.t3j of rcabtanee, 903-909. 99a 0.47; and wildentee». an-a», ajo-aoo, att Sky, ao^aot. au-aió. aar-at* Scqider, Gary, aa4> 399. 90?. 977 n.iio, ytt nja, n.fl Soul, $34; aa contair» of forma, n Space: Cartesian. 79, 9*. 141, itt. lO?. aao. 39*. 3*9, 969 n4tt «mpty. úii; wich ame. 9-10.3*9-3*41 a*7-a*9» 919,914; VK pboe, 9, 10. II. C7t—179, 334. 344, 374, 374. 3*4. 3*7; reodem dominance of órne and apace, 3*7-399; mbonhnxion of pbce to, *; tubordination to rime, $-4; tnnúcionai, M-iea; unendít^ ín archítecture. 140-141. itt Spuial Fnmeworh, wa—Í09, no Spacbl Leve!. 70-*o

Spinooa. Scnedki de. My Sprit of Pbce, 909-907. 914 Scabiliry; «1, fixtry. alt-aM SceânMon, Vílhflsraar. if Scewent. Willace, ai7, ^a-^9, ayo Scone d«cllín|4 i9&-r$a StnRon. Q. M.: im«rced*vition experímem,

79 &ma. Ervrin. Tt. hK aro. ao. 94» n.90. 944 fMa, 979 n44> 9*9 n.9a Scrtkcr, EJizabech, 991 o.aa. 940 n.a Strong, David. 379 nJt, tn n.ioo. 9*4 SuhUme: Nauce at, 199-aoa, ao6. >47.194, V6 Surrounding Array: barure of wiM placea: defined, aoj; dáteuned, aoy-aop Syiqpahy: Ihoreaib vie* of, 344-349

*Dylor. Onrlea. m iu77 Ibnporocentnm, 4, t, 1*7. Ibeophruru». Theie; here/chere at direetional feantret cf body ào pbce. m-0i >* tfae Thiduning: cooleteence of naiure and cukure. «J“«4 Thtngi; feauR» of vild pbeet, ao4. M4-h4> H* Thompton, Nkh. *77 Thoreãi, Henry David: 100-101, aia, w. Mi, a^ ttt. tth 90»; HUfm. and John Muir, M4-ap Ume: and dbcovcry of iongirude, knl vt. Oeenwieh, 4; modem /ywfaweftia wÁh ipace. xiv. 4-4. ^to. af9; and journey. a7i^4> al6-aS9; linear cinie a» dependent on pbce, 9.19; modem dotnmance of tpace and Tünc. aty-aaw modon vtev of and nd> ordínadon of ipace by. 6-7, pbctal char* accer of. 9-10. la; vt. pbce. ayo. aSI Ibpoanal^ zv. jiwsia. 9(4 *bponymt. &r Placc-nan» *E)ynbee. AmoU. ttl. 394 n.So, 994 n.So Ihmpbced. aor-att lhad». tp-iH. lío Iban. YhFu, M

UncaiMy.«U»bM>ffti', i. m Up «fld Dovn: dímenÂoruI festure* of body IA pbce. T?-tt

van Peunen, ComeUua. tt \teneas: feauic of dMotae landacape, (9;>i96

IftíUx Vbwuri, Roben, Vjiiiaei. Jao. *75 WraaiUea; gardens, tfa Vapoed, Aiooí^ 5 Vilb Roninda: iUusrradon of heatial srdütec* nue, lu-ttf VitnivMu, xd, IU Vsd, iX, X-Xi, 1$, 74, lOJ. 104, m, 106, Kff, M7-atf> 3âi.S^aÍM No*pface Whaire; C—drdr, 17a ^^Ukjng; MT-va, }$3. au, aóo, sto. 3^ ittf; aa beii^-guíded, afo-tp WUpole, Honce. tfo Witter, B. Vn tfi (up, 394 aJ6 W^ Scaciona, a7^'alo> ali. >06 WUcomuig (of Nacuie), >44-44$ Wkrthheüna, Maz: tÜRd«cooRi aperünaic, 79 Whandy, Thomaa, 160 Whitehead, XhÚ9,JS.6s,46, 69, atf,afta, tft> 3O7> D nJ?, tf3 n.ioa, it9 n.M, 300 n>3t, fl.37,394 fUj Whitesú^p, Pailine, WUdernesa, Wild Placea: as culture*bound, as culn*re«ñee. as deaen, 370 nui; as deaobte, etymol^y cC

u^U9; M harowny of narure aid cuhure, >9*-a4o; hÍRory of ln New WxU, vt. Undscape, ao)*-207; maín fiaruR» of, ao*>-io7, a^aA aAi'^HU, >70; aa Secondnesa, a^aóo; ai sublioK, iç^aoa. S«( tiüo t Wilj* maa; Wildacape WÜdftéaa» a»-iaí, *»> Mò> a4i, a». aóa. a^ Wildscape, «3-114, aao, aar-aat, uç. tf*; dctined, »*->» Wibhire, Bnxe, $69 0.7, jtf WínnKDtt, D. W., ui-iaa, t4L. 354 n-a$ Witneasing (of Naiure), mó, WNfe, Thomas, atf WW; *54 Wbrater, Donald, jlj n.u^ WVi^t, Frank Uoyd, itf, i?*, tf7 nós, tf? Wydtoley, ft £.. 140. itf n ó? ISac*, Fnnce*, 0) imó

Zonal Pbee; «kfined, ui Zucfcer, ua

EDWARD $. CASEY is Professor of PhUosc^hy ar the State University of New Ybíi at Sttxiy Brook. He is author of Inu^irut^: A Sfuáy and A PbttMtiurMÍ^iaü Sttufy (Indiana Univetsiry Press), and of S^trir aná Soitl: Ín PhÜáSfiphicai (Spring Publicarions}.