Friday, May 20, 2011

Simondon


Simondon, Gilbert. Individuation psychique et collective. Aubier: Paris, 1989.

Chapter One:
Individuation of Perceptive Units and Signification

1. Segregation of perceptive units; genetic theory and theory of holistic grasping determinism of the good form.
First of all, a problem of individuation can be defined relative to perception and knowledge taken in their totality. Without prejudging the nature of perception which can be considered as an association of elements of sensation or the grasping of a figure on a background, it is possible to wonder how the subject grasps separate objects and not a confused continuum of sensations, how it perceives objects having their individuality already given and consistent. The problem of the segregation of units is solved neither by associationism nor by the psychology of Form, because the first theory does not explain why the individualized object has an internal coherence, a substantial bond that gives it a true interiority that cannot be regarded as the result of association. Habit, which is then called upon to guarantee the coherence and the unity of perception, is in fact a dynamism that can communicate to perception only what it has itself, namely this temporal unity and continuity which are inscribed in the object in the static form of the unity and continuity of the perceptum. In this genetic theory of pure appearance that constitutes associationism, the recourse to habit (or, in a more diverted form, to a bond of resemblance or analogy which is a statically grasped dynamism) in fact constitutes a debt to a concealed innateism.  Mere association by contiguity could not explain the internal coherence of the object individualized in perception. The former would remain simply an accumulation of elements without cohesion, without mutual attractive force, except the ones compared to the others partes ex partes. However, the perceived object does not merely have the unit of a sum, of a passively constituted result by a “vision in reverse” that would be the practice and the series of repetitions. The perceived object is so unlike a passive result that it has a dynamism allowing it to change without losing its unity: it has a unity, autonomy and a relative energetic independence that makes it a system of forces.
The theory of Form has replaced the genetic explanation of the segregation of perceptive units by an innateist explanation: unity is the grasping of a whole in virtue of a certain number of laws (like the laws of pregnancy [prégnance] and good form), and this psychological phenomenon should not surprise us since the living world with organisms and the physical world in general express phenomena of totality.[1] Seemingly inert matter conceals the virtuality of forms. Supersaturated solutions or liquids in superfusion make it possible for crystals to appear whose form is predestined in the amorphous state. However, the theory of Form allows an important problem to persist, which is precisely that of the genesis of forms. If the form were truly given and pre-determined, there would be no genesis, plasticity, or relative uncertainty in the future of a physical system, an organization, or a perceptive field; but this is precisely not the case. There is a genesis of forms just as there is a genesis of life. The state of entelechy is not entirely predetermined in the bundle of virtualities that preceded and preformed it. What associationism as well as the theory of Form lack is a rigorous study of individuation, i.e. of this critical moment where unity and coherence appear. A true sense of totality should affirm that the theory of Form does not consider the ABSOLUTE SET. In the physical world, absolute unity is not simply the solvent and the dissolved body; it is the solvent, the dissolved body and the whole of the forces and the potential energies that are translated by the word metastability applied to the state of the supersaturated solution the moment when crystallization begins to take place. In this moment of metastability, no determinism of “good form” is sufficient to envision what happens: phenomena like epitaxy show that there exists at the critical instant (at the moment when potential energy is maximum) a kind of relative indetermination of the result: the presence of the smallest external crystal nucleus, even of another chemical species, can then spark crystallization and direct it. Before the appearance of the first crystal, there exists a state of tension that places a considerable energy at the disposal of the slightest local accident. This state of metastability is comparable to a state of conflict in which the moment of highest uncertainty is precisely the most decisive moment, the source of the determinisms and genetic sequences that find their absolute origin in it. In the world of life, a genesis of forms also occurs that supposes a setting in question of prior forms and their adaptation to the vital milieu. Every transformation cannot be regarded as a genesis of form, because a transformation can involve degradation. When crystals are formed, erosion, abrasion, crumbling, and calcination modify the shape of the crystal but are in general not geneses of form. It can retain some consequences of the form generated during crystallization, like for example the privileged directions of cleavage, due to the reticular structure of the crystal made up of a great number of elementary crystals; but then we are dealing with a degradation of form, not a genesis of forms. In the same way, all the transformations of a living species cannot be interpreted as geneses of forms. There is a genesis of forms when the relation of a living set to its milieu and itself passes through a critical phase, rich in tensions and virtuality and ending with the disappearance of the species or the appearance of a new form of life. The entire situation is composed not only by the species and its milieu, but also by the tension of the set formed by the relation of the species to its milieu in which relations of incompatibility become increasingly strong. It is not simply the species that is modified, but also the whole of the vital complex formed by the species and its milieu which discovers a new structure. Lastly, in the psychological field, the set in which perception takes place, and which can be called the psychological field following Kurt Lewin, does not simply consist of the subject and the world, but also the relation between the subject and the world. Lewin justifiably says that this relation with its tensions, conflicts, and incompatibilities is integrated into the psychological field. But, according to the theory we support, it is precisely here that the theory of Form reduces to two terms that which is a whole of three independent or at least distinct terms: only after perception do tensions actually become incorporated into the psychological field to form part of its structure. Before perception, before the genesis of form which precisely constitutes perception, the relation of incompatibility between the subject and the milieu only exists as a potential, including the forces which exist in the phase of metastability of the supersaturated solution or solid in a state of superfusion, or in the phase of metastability of the relation between a species and its milieu. Perception is not the grasping of a form, but the solution of a conflict, the discovery of a compatibility, the invention of a form. This form which constitutes perception not only modifies the relation of object and subject, but also the structure of the object and that of the subject. Like all physical and vital forms, it is capable of degrading, and this degradation is also a degradation of the entire subject, because each form creates part of the structure of the subject.

2. Psychic tension and degree of metastability. Good form and geometrical form; different types of equilibrium.
Thus perception would be an act of individuation comparable to those expressed by physics and biology. But to be able to consider it in this way, it is necessary to introduce a term that could be called “psychic tension” or more so the degree of metastability, because the first expression has already been employed to indicate a rather different reality, since it does not abandon the concept of crisis. Consequently, the laws of good form are insufficient for explaining the segregation of units in the perceptive field; indeed, they do not take account of the nature of the solution brought to a problem presented by perception. They apply to the transformation and degradation of forms more than their genesis. In particular, many laboratory experiments utilizing a subject in perfect stability do not realize the conditions under which the genesis of forms takes place. We must note the ambivalent nature of the concept of “good form.” A form like the circle or the square easily emerges from a network of incoherent lines upon which an overprinting is superimposed. But, in spite of their simplicity, does a circle or a square relate to forms superior to what the artist invents? If this were true, the most perfect column would be a cylinder; it is on the contrary a figure of revolution not simply thinned, degraded at the two extremities, but still non-symmetrical compared to its center, the largest diameter being placed below the medium height, according to the Orders of Vignolle. The author of this work considers these proportions as resulting from a true invention which the Ancients could not make. As for the Ancients, they also proved the feeling of having been inventors, and Vitruve shows how the three traditional orders were successively invented under conditions where the prior forms were not appropriate. It is necessary to establish a distinction between FORM and INFORMATION; a form like the square can be very stable, very pregnant, and receive a small quantity of information, in the sense that it can only very seldom incorporate in it various elements of a metastable situation; it is difficult to discover the square as a solution of a perceptive problem. The square, circle, and more generally the simple and pregnant forms are structural designs rather than forms. It may be that these structural designs are innate; but they are not enough to explain the segregation of units in perception; the human figure with its friendly or hostile expression and the shape of an animal with its typical external characters are as pregnant as the circle or the square. Portmann notices in his work Animal Forms and Patterns that the perception of a lion or a tiger is not forgotten, even if it takes place only once and in a young child. This supposes what the simple geometric standards do not take into consideration: it would be very difficult to define the shape of the lion or the tiger and the reasons for their colored coats, through geometrical characters. Actually, between a very young child and an animal there exists a relation which does not seem to borrow from the “good forms” of perceptive designs: in the animals which it sees for the first time, the child shows an astonishing aptitude for recognizing various parts of the body, even if a very weak similarity between the human form and that of these animals obliges us to exclude the assumption of an external analogy between the human form and the shape of these animals. It is in fact the corporeal diagram of the child which, in a situation strongly developed by fear, sympathy, or terror, is engaged in this perception. It is the tension or the degree of metastability of the system formed by the child and the animal in a determined situation which is structured in the perception of the corporeal diagram of the animal. Here perception not only grasps the form of the object, but its orientation as a whole, its polarity which makes it lie down or draw up on its legs, makes it fight or flee, or makes it adopt a hostile or trustful attitude. If there were no preliminary tension or potential, perception could not arrive to a segregation of the units which is simultaneously the discovery of the polarity of these units. Unity is perceived when a reorientation of the perceptive field can be accomplished according to the object’s own polarity. To perceive an animal is to discover the cephalo-caudal axis and its orientation. To perceive a tree is to see in it the axis that goes from the roots to the end of the branches. Every time the tension of the system cannot be resolved in the structure or the organization of the polarity of the subject and the polarity of the object, a malaise remains which habit hates to destroy, even if every danger is averted.

3. Relation between the segregation of perceptive units and other types of individuation. Metastability and information theory in technology and psychology.
The psychological problem of the segregation of perceptive units indicates a fact that has been perfectly clarified by the founders of the theory of Form: individuation is not a process reserved for a single field of reality, for example that of psychological reality or physical reality. For this reason, whether it acts in the field of psychological reality or material reality, any doctrine that limits itself by privileging one field of reality and making it into the principle of individuation is insufficient. It may even be possible to say that it only exists due to an individualized reality rather than a mixed one. In this sense, we will try to define the individual as transductive reality. We mean by this that the individual is neither a substantial being like an element nor a pure relation, but that it is the reality of a metastable relation. There is only a true individual in a system where a metastable state occurs. If the appearance of the individual makes this metastable state disappear by decreasing the tensions of the system in which it appears, the individual becomes entirely motionless and unevolving spatial structure: it is the physical individual. On the other hand, if this appearance of the individual does not destroy the potential of metastability of the system, then the individual is alive, and its equilibrium maintains metastability: it is in this case a dynamic equilibrium that supposes a series of new successive structurations in general, without which the equilibrium of metastability could not be maintained. A crystal is like the fixed structure freed by an individual that would have lived only a moment, that of its formation, or rather of the formation of the crystal nucleus around which successive layers of the macroscopic crystal lattice came to be incorporated. The form that we see is only the vestige of the individuation that was formerly achieved in a metastable state. The living is like a crystal that would maintain a medium of permanent metastability around itself and in its relation. This living entity can be endowed with an indefinite life, as in certain, very elementary forms of life, or on the contrary limited in its existence because its own structuration is opposed to the maintenance of a permanent metastability of the unity formed by the individual and the milieu. The individual loses its plasticity little by little along with its capacity to return to metastable situations and address problems with multiple solutions. It could be said that the living individual structures itself more and more, thus tending to repeat its former arrangements when it moves away from its birth. In this sense, the limitation of lifespan is not absolutely related to individuation; it is only the consequence of a very complex form of individuation in which the consequences of the previous individuations are not eliminated from the individual and are used by it at the same time as an instrument to solve future difficulties and as an obstacle to reach new types of problems and situations. The successive character of apprenticeship and the use of successiveness in the achievement of different functions give to the individual higher possibilities of adaptation but require an internal structuration of the individual which is irreversible and preserved in the latter simultaneously as the designs discovered in situations surpassed the determinism of these same situations. Only an individual whose transformations would be foreseen could be regarded as immortal. As soon as the functions of the succession of the arrangements and temporal sequences of acts appear, a process of irreversibility specializes the individual due to the appearance of temporal laws: for each type of organization, there is a threshold of irreversibility beyond which any progress made by the individual, any acquired structuration, is a chance of death. Only beings having very little enervation and a slightly differentiated structure have few limits to their lifespan. Generally, they are also those for whom it is most difficult to determine the limits of the individual, in particular when several beings live aggregately or in symbiosis. The degree of structural individuality, corresponding to the concept of the limit or border of one being compared to other beings, or to that of internal organization, is put on the same plane as the nature of temporal structuration involving irreversibility but is not its direct cause; the common origin of these two aspects of the reality of the individual seems in fact to be the process according to which metastability is preserved or augmented in the relation of the individual in the milieu. Thus the essential problem of the biological individual would relate to this character of metastability of the unity formed by the individual and the milieu.
The physical problem of individuality is not simply a problem of topology, because what topology lacks is the consideration of potentials; potentials, precisely because they are potentials and not structures, cannot be represented as graphic elements of the situation. The situation in which physical individuation occurs is space-time, because it is a metastable state. Under these conditions, physical individuation, and more generally the study of physical forms, concerns a theory of metastability which considers the processes of exchange between spatial configurations and temporal sequences. This theory can be called allagmatic. It must be put in direct connection with information theory, which envisions the translation of temporal sequences into spatial organizations or vice-versa; but information theory, proceeding on this point like the theory of Form, instead considers sequences or configurations already given, and can hardly define the conditions of their genesis. On the contrary, it is absolute genesis as the mutual exchanges of forms as well as the structures and the temporal sequences that should be considered. A similar theory could then become the common basis for information theory and the theory of Form in Physics. Indeed, these two theories are unusable for the study of the individual because they employ two mutually incompatible criteria. It is obvious that the theory of Form privileges the simplicity and the pregnancy of forms; on the contrary, the quantity of information that information theory defines is higher as the number of decisions to be considered is larger; the more the form is foreseen, corresponding to an elementary mathematical law, the easier it is to transmit with a small quantity of signals. On the contrary, that which escapes from every monotony and stereotype is more difficult to transmit and requires a higher quantity of information. The simplification of forms and elimination of details increases in contrasts corresponding to a loss of the quantity of information. However, the individuation of physical beings can neither be assembled with simple good geometrical form nor with a high quantity of information understood as a great number of transmitted signals: it composes the two aspects, form and information, joined together in a unity; no physical object is simply a good form; but in addition the cohesion and the stability of the physical object are not proportional to its quantity of information, or more exactly to the quantity of signals of information that it is necessary to utilize in order to correctly transmit a knowledge about it. Hence the need for a mediation; the individuation of the physical object is neither pure discontinuity like the rectangle or the square, nor continuity like structures requiring a number of signals of information tending towards the infinite in order to be transmitted.

4. Introduction of the concept of quantum variation into the representation of psychic individuation.
It seems that a whole path of research can be discovered in the concept of the quantum. Subjectively and very paradoxically, it is possible to increase the quantity of useful signals by introducing a quantum condition which, in fact, decreases the quantity of information of the true system inside of which there is information. Thus, by increasing the contrast of a photograph or a television image, the perception of objects is improved, although information is lost within the context of information theory.[2] What someone perceives in the objects when he or she grasps them as an individual is thus not an indefinite source of signals, an inexhaustible reality, like matter which allows itself to be analyzed indefinitely; it is the reality of certain thresholds of intensity and quality maintained by the objects. Pure form or pure matter, the physical object would be nothing; alliance of form and matter, it would simply be contradiction; the physical object is the organization of thresholds and levels that are maintained and transposed so as to traverse various situations; the physical object is a bundle of differential relations, and its perception as an individual is the grasping of the coherence of this bundle of relations. A crystal is individual not because it has a geometrical form or a set of elementary particles, but because all the optical, thermal, elastic, electric, and piezoelectric properties undergo an abrupt variation when we pass from one side to another; without this coherence of a multitude of properties with abruptly variable values, the crystal would be simply a geometrical form associated to a chemical species, and not a true individual. Hylemorphism is here radically insufficient because it cannot define this character of unified plurality and pluralized unity making a bundle of quantum relations. For this reason, even on the level of the physical individual, the concept of polarity is dominant; without it, we could not understand the unity of these quantum relations. It still may be that this quantum condition makes it possible to understand why the physical object can be perceived directly in its individuality: an analysis of physical reality cannot be separated from a reflection on the same conditions of knowledge.

5. The perceptive problematic; quantity of information, quality of information, intensity of information.
It is necessary to define with more precision what we mean by the quantity of information and form. Two very different meanings are presented by the theory of Form and Information theory. The theory of Form defines the good forms by pregnancy and simplicity: the good form, being that which has the capacity to be essential, overrides forms having less coherence, clearness, or pregnancy. The circle and the square are thus good forms. On the other hand, information theory responds to a set of technical problems relating to the use of weak currents in the transmission of signals and the use of the various modes of recording of audio and luminous signals. When a scene is recorded by photography, film, a tape recorder or video recorder, the total situation must be broken up into a set of elements that are recorded by a modification imposed upon a very great number of physical individuals ordered according to a spatial, temporal, or mixed organization, i.e. space-time. Photography can be taken as an example of spatial organization: a photographic surface, which can support signals in its active part, is constituted by an emulsion containing a multitude of silver grains, originally in the form of a chemical combination. The optical image being projected on this emulsion, if the perfect optical system is supposed, obtains a more or less accentuated chemical conversion of the chemical combination constituting the emulsion; but the capacity that this emulsion has of recording small details depends on the smoothness of the particles: the actually chemical translation of a continuous optical line within the emulsion is constituted by a discontinuous trail of sensible grains; the coarser and rarer these grains are, the more difficult it is to determine a small detail with sufficient accuracy. Examined under the microscope, an emulsion which, if it were of a continuous structure, should reveal new details merely shows a fog formed from discontinuous grains. Thus, what is called the degree of the definition or resolution of an emulsion can be measured by the number of distinct details able to be recorded on a given surface; for example, on an emulsion of the current type, a square millimeter can contain five thousand distinct details.
On the other hand, if a sound recording on a covered ribbon of magnetic iron oxide coating, on steel wire, or on disc is considered, it is seen that here the order becomes an order of succession: the distinct physical individuals whose modifications translate and transmit the signals are oxide grains, steel molecules, or clusters of plastic ordered on a line that unravels in front of the air gap of a polarized electromagnet or under the sapphire or diamond of recording equipment. The quantity of details that can be recorded per unit of time depends on the number of distinct physical individuals that unravel during this unit of time in front of the place where the recording is carried out: the details engraved on a disc must be smaller than the order of the magnitude of the molecular chains that constitute the plastic; furthermore, frequencies cannot be recorded on a magnetic tape when the number of details (particles magnetized in variable degrees) is larger than the number of its particles; lastly, the variations of a magnetic field cannot be recorded on a steel wire whose sections are too small to be able to receive a magnetization particular to each one. If we wanted to go beyond these limits, the sound would merge with the background noise created by the discontinuity of elementary particles. If on the contrary a rather large tape speed is adopted, this background noise is rejected towards the higher frequencies; it perfectly corresponds with the indistinct fog of silver grains that appear when a photograph is looked at under a microscope;[3] sound is recorded in the form of a series of a clusters of particles more or less magnetized or laid out in a furrow, just as photography consists of a juxtaposition and distribution of clusters of more or less concentrated silver grains. The limit of the quantity of signals is justifiably the discontinuous character of the information carrier, the finalized number of distinct representative elements ordered according to space or time in which information finds its support.
Lastly, when a movement is to be recorded, the two types of signals, temporal and spatial, both conflict in some way, so that the former can only by obtained by partially sacrificing the latter, and then the result is a compromise: to break up movement into fixed images or transmit it, cinematography or television can be utilized; in both cases, the temporal sequences in a series of successively fixed or transmitted instantaneities get cut out; in television, each separate image is transmitted point by point due to the movement of the exploration of a “spot” analyzer crisscrossing the entire image, generally according to the successive segments on the right-hand side, just like the eye reads. When the movement to be transmitted is faster, it requires a higher number of images to transmit it correctly; for a slower movement, like that of a man walking, five to eight images a second suffice; for a fast movement like that of an automobile, the rate of twenty-five complete images a second is insufficient. Under these conditions, the quantity of signals to be transmitted is represented by the number of details to transmit per unit of time, similar to the measurement of a frequency. Thus, to completely utilize all the advantages of its resolution, a television with 819 lines was able to transmit approximately fifteen million details a second.
Therefore, this technical concept of a quantity of information conceived as a number of signals is very different from what is worked out by the theories of Form: the good form is characterized by its structural quality, not a number; on the other hand, it is the degree of the complication of data that requires a high quantity of signals for a correct transmission. In this respect, the quantity of signals required for the transmission of a given object does not take any account of the character of “good form” that it can have: the transmission of the image of a sand heap or an irregular surface of granite requires the same quantity of signals as the transmission of the image of a well aligned regiment or the columns of the Parthenon. The measurement of the quantity of signals which should be employed makes it possible neither to define nor to compare the different contents of the objective data: there is a considerable hiatus between the signals of information and the form. It could even be said that the quantity of signals appears to increase when the qualities of the form are lost; it is technically easier to transmit the image of a square or a circle than that of a sand heap; no difference in the quantity of signals appears between the transmission of an image of text having a meaning and an image of text made of randomly distributed letters.[4]
It thus seems that neither the concept of “good form,” nor that of the quantity of pure information is adequately appropriate to define the reality of information. More importantly than information as quantity and information as quality exists what could be called information as intensity. It is not necessarily the geometrical and simplest image that is most expressive; it is also not necessarily the most thought out image, meticulously analyzed in its details, that has the most meaning for the perceiving subject. The entire subject should be considered in a concrete situation with tendencies, instincts, and passions, and not the subject in a laboratory, in a situation that has a weak emotive valorization in general. It appears then that the intensity of information can be increased due to a voluntary reduction in the quantity of signals or the quality of the forms: a very contrasted photograph, with a random distribution of clarity and obscurity, or a slightly fuzzy photograph can have more value and intensity than the same photography with a perfect gradation respecting the value of each detail, or more than the geometrically centered photograph without any deformation. The geometrical rigor of a contour often has less intensity and meaning for the subject than a certain irregularity. A perfectly round or perfectly oval face, incarnating a good geometrical form, would be without life; it would remain lifeless for the subject that would perceive it.
Intensity of information supposes a subject directed by a vital dynamism: information is then what allows the subject to be situated in the world. In this sense, any received signal has a possible coefficient of intensity forcing us to constantly correct our situation in relation to the world in which we exist. Pregnant geometrical forms do not enable us to orient ourselves; they are innate designs of our perception, but these designs do not introduce a preferential sense. It is on the level of the different luminous, colored, dark, olfactory, and thermal gradients that information takes a predominant, intensive sense. A quantity of signals only gives a ground without polarity; the structures of good forms merely provide outlines. It is not enough to perceive details or sets organized in the unity of a good form: it is still necessary that these details as sets have a meaning in relation to us, that they are grasped as intermediaries between the subject and the world, as signals allowing the coupling of the subject and the world. The object is an exceptional reality; in a quotidien way, it is not the object that is perceived, but the world, polarized in such a way that the situation has a meaning. The object itself appears only in an artificial situation and in some exceptional way. However, the very rigorous and absolute consequences of the theory of Form relative to the spontaneous character of the perceptive processes deserve to be examined with more precision. It is undoubtedly true that the grasping of forms operates directly without apprenticeship or recourse to a formation which would be achieved by practice. But it is also not true that the grasping of the meaning of a situation is primitive and that no apprenticeship intervenes. Affectivity can be moderated, transposed, or change. It can in certain cases also be inverted: one of the aspects of defeatist behavior is the general negativism of subsequent control; all that formerly, before the failure, attracted the subject, is repulsed; all spontaneous movements are refused, transformed into their opposite. Situations are taken in the wrong way, read from reverse. Failure-neuroses express this inversion of polarity, but the training of an animal presenting definite tropisms or taxies already shows this possibility of the inversion of polarity.
This existence of a perceptive polarity plays a dominating part in the segregation of perceptive units; neither good form nor the quantity of signals can take account of this segregation. The subject perceives so as to be oriented in relation to the world. The subject perceives so as to increase not the quantity of signals of information nor the quality of information, but the intensity of information, the potential of information of a situation.[5] As Norbert Wiener says, perceiving is to struggle against the entropy of a system, it is to organize, maintain or invent an organization. It is not enough to say that perception consists in grasping organized wholes; in fact it is the act that organizes wholes; it introduces the organization by analogically connecting the forms contained in the subject to the signals received: to perceive is to retain the greatest possible quantity of signals in the forms most deeply anchored in the subject; it is not only to grasp forms or to record juxtaposed or successive multiple data; neither quality, quantity, continuity, or discontinuity can explain this perceptive activity; the perceptive activity is a mediation between quality and the quantity; it is intensity, the grasping and organization of intensities in the relation of the subject to the world.
Some experiments on the perception of forms in vision has shown that quality is not enough with perception; it is very difficult to perceive forms represented by colors having even a luminous intensity; on the contrary, these same forms are very easily perceived if a luminous difference in intensity marks it, even when the colors are identical or absent (degrees of gray). The differential thresholds of intensity are remarkably low for sight (6/1000) but the thresholds of frequency are even lower in differential perception; thus the aforementioned fact cannot be maintained under peripheral organic conditions. It is the central perceptive process of the grasping of the forms that is concerned. In the same way, a weak frequency modulation of a sound is not easily discernible from a modulation of intensity, or from very short interruptions in the emission of the sound, which could be called a phase modulation: various types of modulation converge towards the modulation of intensity, as if the dynamisms implied in the perception retained primarily this type of modulation.
If to perceive consists in generating the information of the system formed by the subject and the field in which it is oriented, the conditions of perception are analogous to those of any stable structuration: metastable states must precede perception. Kant wanted to explain perception by the synthesis of the manifold of sensitivity; but in fact there exist two species of the manifold: the qualitative and the quantitative, the heterogeneous and the homogeneous; the theory of Form has shown that perception cannot be explained by the synthesis of the homogeneous: a dust of elements do no constitute a unity by simple addition. But there is also an intensive manifold that renders the subject-world system comparable to a supersaturated solution; perception is the resolution that transforms the tensions that affected this supersaturated system into an organized structure; it could be said that every true perception is the resolution of a problem of compatibility.[6] Perception reduces the number of qualitative tensions and compatibilities by transforming them into a potential of information, a mixture of quality and quantity. A figure on a background is not yet an object; the object is the provisional stabilization of a series of dynamisms that go from the tensions to the aspects of the determination characterizing a situation. While being oriented in this situation, the subject can reduce the aspects of qualitative and intensive heterogeneity to a unity, operating the synthesis of the homogeneous manifold; indeed, this act of orientation reacts on the milieu which is simplified; the multiple world, the problem proposed to the subject by perception, and the heterogeneous world are simply aspects of the time preceding this act of orientation. It is in the system formed by the world and the subject that, by its perceptive gesture, the subject constitutes the unity of perception. To believe that the subject directly grasps forms that are ready-made is to believe that perception is a pure knowledge and that forms are entirely contained in reality; in fact a recurring relation is instituted between the subject and the world in which it must perceive. To perceive is rightly to take through; without this active gesture which supposes that the subject forms part of the system in which the perceptive problem is posited, perception could not be accomplished. Borrowing the language of axiomatics, it could be said that the subject/world system is an overdetermined or supersaturated field. Subjectivity is not deforming, because it is that which operates the segregation of the objects according to the forms that it brings; it could only be hallucinatory if it were detached from the signals received from the object. The perceptive act institutes a provisional saturation of the axiomatic system which is the subject plus the world. Without this coupling[7] of the subject in the world, the problem would remain absurd or undetermined: by establishing the relation between the supersaturation and indetermination, the subject of perception reveals a finalized number of necessary solutions; the problem can, in some cases, compose several solutions (as in the figures with reversible perspectives), but it generally composes only one of them, and this unicity creates the stability of perception.
However, it is necessary to distinguish the stability of perception from its pregnancy. The perception of a circle or a square is not pregnant, and yet it can be very stable; this is because the pregnancy of the perception comes from its degree of intensity, not from its quality or number of signals; such perception can be pregnant for a subject, and some other perception for another subject: perception is much more pregnant when the dynamism of the previous state of incompatibility is stronger; fear or intense desire generates a great intensity for perception, even if the clearness of this perception is weak; the perception of an odor is often confused and does not discover firmly structured elements; however, a perception that incorporates olfactory data can have a great intensity. Certain tonalities, certain colors, certain timbres can enter an intense perception even without constituting a good form. It thus seems that one needs to distinguish between the clearness and the pregnancy of a perception; pregnancy is truly related to the dynamic character of the perceptive field; it is not a consequence of form only, but more especially the range of solutions which it constitutes for vital problems.
What has been known as the segregation of perceptive units can apply to the genesis of concepts. The concept does not result from the synthesis of a certain number of perceptions under a relational design conferring a unity to them. In order for the formation of the concept to be possible, inter-perceptive tension is needed that generates the meaning of the relation of the subject to the world. An assembly of perceptive data cannot be constructed simply from perceptions; neither can it be established the meeting of the perceptions on the one hand and an a priori form on the other hand, even if it is mediated by a schematism. The mediation between a priori and a posteriori can be discovered neither from the a priori nor the a posteriori; the mediation is not of a similar nature to the terms: it is the tension, potential, and metastability of the system formed by the terms. Moreover, the a priori forms are not rigorously preexistent to the perceptions: in the way in which perceptions have a form each one for itself, there is already something of this capacity of syncrystallization that appears on a higher level in the birth of concepts: in this sense, it can be said that conceptualization is to perception what syncrystallization is to the crystallization of a single chemical species. Moreover, like perception, the concept requires a permanent reactivation in order to be maintained in its integrity; it is maintained by the existence of quantum thresholds that support the distinction of concepts; this distinction is not an intrinsic priority of each concept, but a function of the set of concepts present in the logical field. The introduction of new concepts into this logical field can bring about the restructuration of all concepts, like any new metaphysical doctrine; before this reorganization, it modifies the threshold of the distinction of all concepts.


[1] The Theory of Form does not establish the essential distinction between a set, whose unity is merely structural, not energetic, and a system, a metastable unity made of a plurality of sets among which there exists a relation of analogy and an energetic potential. Sets do not possess information. Their becoming can only be that of a degradation or augmentation of entropy. On the contrary, the system can be maintained in its being of metastability due to the activity of information which characterizes its systemic state. The Theory of Form has taken sets as totalities, whereas in fact they are only property of systems; however, systems cannot be totalized, because treating them as the sum of their elements ruins the consciousness of what informs the systems, namely the separation relative to the structures they contain, an analogical structure, disparation and, in general, the relational activity of information. What forms the nature of a system is the type of information that it conceals; however, information or relational activity cannot be quantified abstractly, but only characterized in reference to the designs or structures of the system where it exists; we should not confuse information with the signals of information, which can be quantified but which could not exist without a situation of information, i.e. without a system.[2] Indeed, the number of decisions falls when contrast is shown: if there are only white and black colors in an image, then there are only two possible states for each physical surface unit; if there are various nuances of gray, there is a greater number of possible states, and thus of decisions.
[3] The reading of a magnetic tape at high speed is the equivalent of a perception of a photograph at a distance.
[4] We could only take account of the degree of the probability of this form’s appearance; there are only a finite number of good forms, whereas unspecified assemblies can be indefinitely varied. But it is only because of this, through the intermediary of a possible coding implying a lower number of decisions, that the good form is easier to transmit. A very simple coding, in the case of straight lines, consists in reducing the number of possible states to two: white and black. It is in this sense that drawing a line is more easily transmitted than an image in different tones of gray.
[5] In the reflexes of perceptive accommodation, we simultaneously find operations that increase the quantity of signals (convexity of the crystalline lens) and others that direct living entities privileging interesting signals selectively: hence fixation, i.e. ocular movement in tandem with a moving object.
[6] Simple heterogeneity without potentials cannot promote becoming. Granite is made from heterogeneous elements like quartz, feldspar, or mica, and yet it is not metastable.
[7] This word is taken here in the sense that Physics gives it, particularly in the theory of the exchange of energy between oscillator and resonator.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Machines Fucking


Dr. Strangelove is obviously a film all about machines fucking. It is about a system of machines: machines at work. “It is at work everywhere, functioning smoothly at times, at other times in fits and starts. It breathes, it heats, it eats. It shits and fucks. . . . Everywhere it is machines — real ones, not figurative ones” (Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: p. 1). But of course, in Kubrick, as the prevailing critical discourses on his oeuvre go, people are machines as well — they are either always already machinic, or become-machine through evolving within the existential universe depicted in all of his films. In order to run smoothly, machines need energy, fluids; and this is a film obsessed with fluids. From the opening shot of a B-52 bomber being refueled in mid-air with a markedly phallic fuel pump (sometimes a retractable, fluid-ejecting appendage is not just a retractable, fluid-ejecting appendage), to the conversation between General Jack Ripper (Sterling Hayden) and his British aide, Group Captain Lionel Mandrake (Peter Sellers), in which Ripper, the catalyst that sets the whole machinery of the plot in motion, explains the reasoning behind his plan to attack the Soviet Union, the dominion of fluidity in the world of this film is asserted. In this conversation — one of the most important scenes in the film — Ripper discusses what was a common theme among far rightwing, John Birch Society-types in the post-war era: the belief that water fluoridation was a communist plot to brainwash the American population. Here is the key section of dialogue:
Ripper: Mandrake, do you realize that in addition to fluoridating water, why, there are studies underway to fluoridate salt, flour, fruit juices, soup, sugar, milk, ice cream. Ice cream, Mandrake, children's ice cream.
Mandrake: Lord, Jack.
Ripper: You know when fluoridation first began?
Mandrake: No, I don’t Jack.
Ripper: Nineteen hundred and forty-six. 1946, Mandrake. How does that coincide with your post-war Commie conspiracy, huh? It's incredibly obvious, isn't it? A foreign substance is introduced into our precious bodily fluids without the knowledge of the individual. Certainly without any choice. That's the way your hard-core Commie works.
Mandrake: Uh, Jack, Jack, listen. Tell me, Jack. When did you first become, well, develop this theory?
Ripper: Well, I first became aware of it, Mandrake, during the physical act of love. Yes, a profound sense of fatigue, a feeling of emptiness followed. Luckily I was able to interpret these feelings correctly. Loss of essence.
Mandrake: Hmm.
Ripper: I can assure you it has not recurred, Mandrake. Women sense my power and they seek the life essence. I do not avoid women, Mandrake.
Mandrake: No.
Ripper: But I do deny them my essence.
Here, Ripper seems to be describing a kind of phenomenology of the post-coital: a “profound sense of fatigue, a feeling of emptiness.” This is what the French call “la petite mort.” It is an aspect of sensuality that obviously disturbs Ripper, and his “lack of essence,” the expenditure of libido, is (mis)interpreted as a commie infiltration of the public water system. In Eroticism: Death and Sensuality, Georges Bataille describes well the anxious affects that can attend the vitality, the “life essence,” necessary for the exchange of bodily fluids, an exchange that Ripper now withholds:
[S]ome aspects of sensuality put us on guard from the start. The orgasm is popularly termed ‘the little death.’ The reactions of women are comparable in principle with those of females trying to escape from the fatality of love; though different from those of the religious assailed by temptation, these reactions do reveal the existence of a feeling of dread or fright generally bound up with the idea of sexual contact. These aspects have a theoretical confirmation. The expenditure of energy necessary for the sexual act is everywhere enormous. (Eroticism, p. 239)

The moment of expenditure is what disturbs Ripper. To avoid this feeling of emptiness he denies women his essence, in other words, he doesn’t cum; he keeps his essence in reserve. What is really interesting, and what connects Dr. Strangelove to my discussion of Three Days of the Condor below, is Ripper’s use of the word “essence.” Here I must turn to Bernard Stiegler’s discussion of the epiphylogentic evolution of homo sapien in the first volume of his Technics and Time series, The Fault of Epimetheus. Stiegler writes:
Only the animal is present at the origin of humanity. There is no difference between man (in his essence) and animal, no essential difference between man and animal, unless it be an inactual possibility. When there is a difference, man is no longer, and this is his denaturalization, that is, the naturalization of the animal. Man is his disappearance in the denaturalization of his essence. Appearing, he disappears: his essence defaults [son essence se fait défault]. By accident. During the conquest of mobility. Man is the accident of automobility caused by a default of essence. (Technics and Time 1, 121)

There is much to unpack in this dense passage, but for our purposes here, I want to focus on the last sentence (while keeping in mind Stiegler’s broader play with “essence/essential” throughout). In the original, it reads: “L’homme est cet accident d’automobilité que provoque une panne d’essence” (La technique et le temps 1, 132). “Essence” carries a double-meaning in French: its English cognate, as well as “gasoline” (the distillation of petroleum: petroleum’s essence). Une panne d’essence rendered into English loses the sense of an “empty tank,” a “lack of fuel.” Ripper experiences this empty tank when he ejaculates, the B-52 in the very first shot of the film is refueling its empty tank, and it is the empty tank of the only plane that doesn’t get the message to abort the bombing run — the crew that we have been following all along — that compels it to drop its nuclear payload on a secondary target because it is quickly running out of gas, and as Major Kong (Slim Pickens) says, “We didn’t come all this way just to ditch this thing in the drink.” In the sexual economy of Strangelove, the fluids of war and the fluids of copulation are two sides of the same coin. Bataille’s fundamental belief in the knotting of death and sensuality is no more clearly on display than in the climactic scene (pun intended) of Kong riding the giant warhead to his death. It is this experience of transgression, of life at the threshold, that ravels war and with the libido in Dr. Strangelove. Another passage from Bataille might be illustrative: in the following passage, for “Saint Theresa” read “Colonel Kong”:
The desire to go keeling helplessly over, that assails the innermost depths of every human being is nevertheless different from the desire to die in that it is ambiguous. It may well be a desire to die, but it is at the same time a desire to live to the limits of the possible and the impossible with ever-increasing intensity. It is the desire to live while ceasing to live, or to die without ceasing to live, the desire of an extreme state that Saint Theresa has perhaps been the only one to depict strongly enough in words. “I die because I cannot die.” But the death of not dying is precisely not death; it is the ultimate stage of life; if I die because I cannot die it is on condition that I live on; because of the death I feel though still alive and still live on. St. Theresa’s being reeled, but did not actually die of her desire actually to experience that sensation. She lost her footing but all she did was to live more violently, so violently that she could say she was on the threshold of dying, but such a death as tried to the utmost thought it did not make her cease to live. (Eroticism 239-40)

The world of Dr. Strangelove is a “closed world” par excellence, to use Paul Edward’s terminology, and Kubrick may be the great auteur of cinematic closed worlds. In The Time-Image, the second volume of his Cinema books, Gilles Deleuze classifies filmmakers as creators of either “cinema of the body” or “cinema of the brain.” For Deleuze, Kubrick is the acme of the cinema of the brain, while Cassevetes (and somewhat counter-intuitively, Godard) epitomizes the cinema of the body. (It is a fun parlor game to update his taxonomy with modern day examples: I would propose that someone like Olivier Assayas falls squarely into the body category, with Asia Argento’s hyper-corporeal performance in Boarding Gate being its most palpable instantiation, while the mind-fuck cinema of Richard Kelly [e.g. Donnie Darko, The Box] is located in the synaptic circuits of the brain.) As Deleuze puts it:
If we look at Kubrick’s work, we see the degree to which it is the brain which is mis en scène. Attitudes of body achieve a maximum level of violence, but they depend on the brain. For Kubrick, the world itself is a brain, there is identity of brain and world, as in the great circular and luminous table in Dr. Strangelove, the giant computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the Overlook hotel in The Shining. (Time-Image, p. 205)
The closed world of a world-made-information thus comes to be identical to the architectures that dominate and prevail in them. The brain trust assembled at the round table in Strangelove — the military-industrial-complex-incarnate — has created this brain-like world and now are beholden to it. It is when this cerebral architectonics begins to malfunction that the dangers of an enclosed world become evident:
[I]f the calculation fails, if the computer breaks down, it is because the brain is no more reasonable a system than the world is a rational one. The identity of world and brain, the automaton, does not form a whole, but rather a limit, a membrane which puts an outside and an inside in contact, makes them present to each other, confronts them or makes them clash. The inside is psychology, the past, involution, a whole psychology of depths which excavate the brain. The outside is the cosmology of galaxies, the future, evolution, a whole supernatural which makes the world explode. The two forces are forces of death which embrace, are ultimately exchanged and become ultimately indiscernible. (Time-Image, p. 206)

If and when the computer — the brain — breaks down, the consequences will be dire, as we see in Strangelove. This will always be a danger when the brain is connected to the war machine. The fleet of B-52s depicted in the film is a literal depiction of what Deleuze and Guattari, in “1227: Treatise on Nomadology—The War Machine,” chapter 12 of A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, call the “nomad war machine.” The advantage of keeping bombers in the air around the Soviet Union 24/7 is total operational mobility; the nomad can move and strike at a moment’s notice. And as we see in the film, the war machine wants war. As Deleuze and Guattari put it, “Speaking like Aristotle, we would say that war is neither the condition nor the object of the war machine, but necessarily accompanies or completes it; speaking like Derrida, we would say that war is the ‘supplement’ of the war machine” (Thousand Plateaus, p. 417). Kubrick’s interest in the war machine, as well as war as supplement to the war machine, would continue, manifesting itself again in his penultimate film, Full Metal Jacket (1987). As the drill sergeant (R. Lee Ermey) tells the new recruits: “If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minster of death praying for war. But until that day you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth.” In is through the crucible of training they are individuated, in something like Gilbert Simondon’s sense (see Steven Shaviro’s discussion here), but also transindividuated into the war machine itself. 

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Three Days of the Condor and the Long 1970s


Three Days of the Condor’s temporal position as one of Paramount’s major releases of 1975 is significant: this is one of the first cultural products to cognitively map this crucial moment in the transmogrification of the world economic system, significantly coming only a year after the oil crisis of 73-74, and at the dawn of wide-spread financialization, speculization, and informationalization of capital. Gopal Balakrishnan has recently suggested that we are still trying to recover from this mutation in capitalism: “The last three decades of neo-liberal capitalism can be characterized as a prolonged, unsuccessful attempt to transcend the world economic crisis of the 1970s” (“Speculations on the Stationary State,” New Left Review, Sep/Oct 2009, p.10). The crisis gave rise to what Balakrishnan calls “The long 1970s,” a decade that has lasted 30-plus years—one which we are still mired in. The collapse of 2008 is part and parcel of this long 70s logic: “The implosion of the American-centered financial and real-estate bubble is the end of the line for a whole period of gravity-defying account imbalances, asset bubbles and debt creation” (Balakrishnan, p. 11). Condor, then, stands as an important document for tracing the topology of the inception point of our long neoliberal nightmare.
The growing prominence of the technical prostheses that would make this world-made-information possible, at least in the lives of the bourgeois middle-management and intellectual laborers of the intelligence apparatus, are everywhere on display in the world of our hero, Joe Turner (Robert Redford), an researcher-analyst for a New York City satellite of the CIA. The way that Redford navigates this new system of (mis)communication and control makes up the bulk of the film: in classical Hitchcockian mode, we follow this wrongly accused man as he seeks to clear his name, solve the mystery of who is really pulling the strings, and get the girl (Faye Dunaway) in the process. But unlike in Hitchcock, where the movement of our hero is still largely confined to the transportational networks built in the 19th century (e.g. North by Northwest’s train voyage across the American mid-west), in Condor, Redford moves among these visible, pedestrian networks of the of bodies and vehicles (there are several nondescript cutaways to exits on the I-95 corridor to serve as establishing shots of Washington D.C and northern Virginia), as well as the invisible networks of information and capital flows. In Fredric Jameson’s brilliant essay on this cycle of 70s conspiracy films, he highlights the role that the new conjunctions of technology and capital play in the world of the film—one that clearly maps the real world of its day:
Communicational and informational technologies—the scientific machineries of reproduction rather than of production (which, however, then trail the latter in their wake and turn it inside out, as their misunderstood predecessor)—foreground and dramatize [the] transformation of the object-world like its material idea. But they themselves have become magical only when grasped as the allegories of something else, of the whole unimaginable decentered global network itself. The new ingredients are already registered in the opening credits of Three Days of the Condor (Pollack, 1975), elegantly telexed in stylish computer graphics. (The Geopolitical Aesthetic, p. 13) [Well, “stylish” for 1975 anyway.]

It is precisely this “unimaginable decentered global network” that the film attempts to imagine, to make figural. To try to discursively come to terms with this same aporia—the attempt to imagine the unimaginable—Jameson focuses on one sequence of the film in particular: a privileged site in which the material substrate of the imbricated grids of capital and espionage are momentary revealed. All of Redford’s spying skills, gleaned from reading alone—as he protests at one point, “I’m not a field agent; I just read books!”—are brought to bear on trail of the assassin who murdered all of his co-workers. In the bravura sequence in question, Redford sneaks into the phone-bank of a large metropolitan hotel to make contact with the killer and surmise who is operating him; Redford then goes to the headquarters of the New York Telephone company, which the signage in front tells us is “Part of the Nationwide Bell System,” and taps into their massive mainframe of lines which presumably is a central hub for telecommunications on the east coast. It is here, in this quasi-cortical figuration of the inner workings of world system, that the rasion d’etre of this type of film is articulated most cogently. Jameson again:
 [The] promise of a deeper inside view is the hermeneutic content of the conspiracy thriller in general, although its spatialization in Condor seems somehow more alarming than the imaginary networks of the usual suspects: the representational confirmation that telephone cables and lines and their interchanges follow us everywhere, doubling the streets and buildings of the visible social world with a secondary secret underground world, is a vivid, if paranoid, cognitive map, redeemed for once only by the possibilities of turning the tables, when the hero is able to tap into the circuits and bug the buggers, abolishing space with his own kind of simultaneity by scrambling all the symptoms and producing his messages from all corners of the map at the same time. (The Geopolitical Aesthetic, p. 15)

Here Jameson is referring to the fact that the CIA—who believe that Redford has “gone into business for himself,” “turned around,” “gone rogue,” as Sarah Palin would say—trace the call that Redford places to them from within the Bell System mainframe; but when they finally get a mark on his location, it suddenly changes on their (comically primitive) analog display screen: Redford has wired together numerous phones with ease from within this communicational “brain,” scrambling signals and locations with the same plasticity that exists in the always-individuating synapses of the encephalon (see Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do with Our Brain?). Thus, the integrated system of espionage and capital—working towards exactly the same ends—sees the dangers of the transition from “energetics to informatics” (Steven Shaviro, “The Bitter Necessity of Debt,” p.3), which, as we know, takes place at precisely this post-Fordist moment when “control is based on floating exchange rates” (Deleuze, Negotiations, p. 180). When the methods of both capitalists and spies are virtualized, made immaterial, they become more easily usurped, especially when one can gain access to the “inside” as Redford does, and as we have seen recently with Julian Assange: WikiLeaks has bugged the buggers.
The other side of this informatic dynamic is dramatized in Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight (2008), in a scene in which Batman taps the phones of literally everyone if Gotham City, clearly stepping outside of the bounds of the law. While we can endorse Redford’s hijacking of the system to his own advantage—a kind of telecommunicational détournement—as the actions of a wrongly-accused man against a global network of imperial sovereignty; in the case of Batman, he is the (self-appointed) sovereign. The power he yields is the power of the sovereign; as Carl Schmitt famously puts it, “Sovereign is he who decides on the exception” (Political Theology, p. 5). Here we can clearly see Giorgio Agamben’s thesis from Homo Sacer at work: the figures of sovereign (Batman) and the bandit (Redford’s Joe Turner) are intimately linked by both being excluded—banned—from the juridical force of the law (see esp. Agamben’s chapter “The Ban and the Wolf” in Homo Sacer, where he writes: “The ban is the force of simultaneous attraction and repulsion that ties together the two poles of the sovereign exception: bare life and power, homo sacer and the sovereign. Because of this alone can the ban signify both the insignia of sovereignty . . . and expulsion from the community” pp. 110-111). For the neocon louts at the Wall Street Journal, this scene—in one of the most financially successful films ever made—proved that the people supported extraordinary security measures en masse. As one Andrew Klaven put it at the time of the film’s release:
There seems to me no question that the Batman film The Dark Knight, currently breaking every box office record in history, is at some level a paean of praise to the fortitude and moral courage that has been shown by George W. Bush in this time of terror and war. Like W, Batman is vilified and despised for confronting terrorists in the only terms they understand. Like W, Batman sometimes has to push the boundaries of civil rights to deal with an emergency, certain that he will re-establish those boundaries when the emergency is past. (“What Bush and Batman Have in Common,” The Wall Street Journal, July 25, 2008)

But, of course, unlike in The Dark Knight, Bush’s state of exception has not been rolled back; indeed, it has continued unabated under Obama. The “virtual wars” of what James Der Derian calls the “Military-Industrial-Media-Entertainment network” rage on. I would briefly like to consider a different sense of “virtual war” than the one that Der Derian emphasizes, however, by returning to Three Days of the Condor and its power denouement, a scene that has to now be counted among the most prescient in film history. Der Derian tells us that “’Virtual,’ from the Latin virtualis, conveys a sense of inherent qualities that can exert influence, by will . . . or by potential” (“Virtuous war/virtual theory,” p. 780). It is virtualization as potential that operates at the conclusion of Condor.
Redford has turned up a secret CIA plot to invade an undisclosed Middle Eastern country in order to acquire oil reserves; his discovery is what sets the whole plot into motion. In the final scene, Redford confronts Higgins (Cliff Robertson), the deputy director for the New York section of “the company,” demanding: “Do we have plans to invade the Middle East?” Higgins replies: “We have games. We play games. What if? How many men? What would it take? Is there a cheaper way to destabilize a regime? That’s what we’re paid to do.” It is literally the CIA’s job to plan virtual wars, potential wars; and they are good at it, as Higgins says, “The fact is, there was nothing wrong with the plan. The plan would have worked.” Redford’s discovery of the plan stops the virtualization from becoming actualized. Had he not turned it up, however, it’d be a “different ballgame,” as Higgins puts it. The fact that the plan was not actualized, that it remained virtualized, that it remained as potential, is part of the very structure of imperial sovereignty of the Military-Industrial-Media-Entertainment network (or as Hardt and Negri call it, simply “Empire”). The potentiality comes first, and retains an autonomous ontological status even when actualization occurs. Agamben’s account of the primacy of potentiality, which he develops from Aristotle, is critical for understanding his project and for how “political philosophy” becomes “first philosophy” as depicted in Condor. Agamben is worth quoting at length on this score:
[E]very authentic understanding of the problem of sovereignty depends on how one thinks the existence and autonomy of potentiality. According to Aristotle’s thought, potentiality precedes actuality and conditions it, but also seems to remain essentially subordinate to it. Against the Megarians, who (like those politicians today who want to reduce all constituting power to constituted power) affirm that potentiality exists only in act (energe monon dynasthai), Aristotle always takes great care to affirm the autonomous existence of potentiality—the fact that the kithara player keeps his ability [potenza] to play even when he does not play, and that the architect keeps his ability [potenza] to build even when he does not build. What Aristotle undertakes to consider in Book Theta of the Metaphysics is, in other words, not potentiality as a merely logical possibility but rather the effective modes of potentiality’s existence. This is why, if potentiality is to have its own consistency and not always disappear into actuality, it is necessary that potentiality be able not to pass over into actuality, it is necessary that potentiality constitutively be the potentiality not to (do or be), or, as Aristotle says, that potentiality be also im-potentiality (adynmania). (Homo Sacer, pp. 44-45).

In this case, for the CIA, discretion was the better part of valor, but we are left with the question of: “for how long?” When will the potential not to become a (perceived) necessity to? As Higgins says, “It’s simple economics. Today its oil, right? In ten or fifteen years, food, plutonium, maybe even sooner. What do you think the people are going to want us to do then?”

Monday, May 16, 2011

Becoming-Fox

  
"Chaos Reigns"
If we were to map the topology of the biopoliticization of the world it would look like what Deleuze and Guattari refer to as a “smooth space” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 474-500). There would be no holes, no gaps. Foucault says as much in his lecture of January 29, 1975 at the Collège de France, in a section in which we can clearly see the seeds of what would become “Right of Death and Power over Life,” the final chapter of La Volenté de savoir [The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1], to be published the following year. Foucault, speaking of a transformation in state apparatuses and institutions in the eighteenth century, says:
There was the elaboration of what could be called a new economy of the mechanisms of power: a set of procedures and analyses that enabled the effects of power to be increased, the costs of its exercise reduced and its exercise integrated in mechanisms of production. By increasing the effects of power I mean that there was the discovery in the eighteenth century of a number of means by which, or at least, the principle in accordance with which power could be exercised in a continuous manner, rather than in the ritual, ceremonial, discontinuous way it was exercised in the absolute monarchies. … Instead of being brought to bear on arbitrarily defined points, zones, individuals, or groups, mechanisms of power were discovered in the eighteenth century that could be exercised without gaps and that could penetrate the social body in its totality. (Foucault 2003a, 87; my emphasis)

These new mechanisms of power evolved into two basic forms: “these forms were not antithetical, however, they constituted rather two poles of development linked together by a whole intermediary cluster of relations” (Foucault 1978, 139). One pole was an anatomo-politics of the human body: “centered on the body as a machine: its disciplining, the optimization of its capacities, the extortion of its forces, the parallel increase of its usefulness and its docility, its integration into system of efficient and economic controls” (139). The other pole was the regulatory controls of a biopolitics of the population: “focused on the species body, the body imbued with the mechanics of life and serving as the basis of the biological processes: propagation, births and mortality, the level of health, life expectancy and longevity, with all the conditions that can cause these to vary” (139). As Foucault succinctly puts it, “The disciplines of the body and the regulations of the population constituted the two poles around which the organization of power over life was deployed” (139). These polarities—these two scales of biopower—made it possible to totally colonize the world, at the level of both individuals and populations, under the sign of biopolitics; it is these imbricated poles that make up the gapless system, the smooth, continuous space of control that defines the ontology of our political present. But is there no point at which the smooth edge stops and the possibility of an emancipatory entropy begins?
The biopower described by Foucault may seem all encompassing and totally without gaps, but there is space for a micropolitics of resistance left open in Foucault. Indeed, as Rainer Schürmann puts it:
To the many brands of liberation ideology, Foucault opposes more modest tactics within reticular formations of knowledge and capillary strategies of power. The struggle against power effects “as such” remains piecemeal, pursuing ever new targets (which are not instances of any one Enemy), starting over ever again, displacing coordinates of thinking as far as is as strategically possible. The anarchistic subject constitutes itself in micro-interventions aimed at resurgent figures of subjection and objectivation. (Schürmann 1985, 546)

These micro-interventions must proceed from the inside out, but this procedure will require an ideological retuning of the subject. As Schürmann notes, “For a culture obsessed with what is deep inside the self—hidden, unconscious, profoundly and unfathomably my own—anarchistic self-constitution means the dispersal of inward-directed reflections into as many outward-directed reflexes as there are ‘systems of power to short-circuit, disqualify, and disrupt’” (Schürmann 1985, 546-47). There are opportunities for micro-interventions in every body. The task at hand is to determine just what a body is and what it can do.
This is precisely what Deleuze sets out to do in his reading of Nietzschean power dynamics in “Active and Reactive,” an object lesson in discursive interventions that seek to make the forces of life itself resistant to power, a theme that Deleuze will latter reiterate in his book on Foucault.[1] Deleuze begins this reading of Nietzsche with a reference to another great materialist philosopher interested in pure exteriority: “Spinoza opened up a new way for philosophy, and the sciences. He said that we do not even know what a body can do, that we speak and chatter on about consciousness and spirit, but we neither know what a body is capable of, which forces are its own, nor what these forces hold in store for us” (Deleuze 1977, 80). Deleuze wants to address this issue, first raised by Baruch Spinoza, directly: what do we really mean when we speak of the body and its capabilities? Deleuze turns to Nietzsche and his philosophy of becoming to seek answers to this question.
For Nietzsche, the body is at once a particular and universal concept. As Deleuze explains: “What is the body? We do not define it by saying that it is a field of forces or a nutritive medium in which a plurality of forces quarrel. For in fact there is no ‘medium,’ no field of forces or battle. And there is no quantity of reality, for all reality is already a quantity of force. There are nothing but quantities of force ‘in a relation of tension’ between one another” (80). These quantities of force come together to create all bodies, be they political, social, chemical, or biological. There is an omni-affective relationality between all forces, and any two can come together to constitute a body. It is an essential aspect of Deleuze’s account that the relations between forces always creates a hierarchic dynamic: “Every force is related to other forces, and it either obeys or commands. What defines a body is this relation between dominating and dominated forces” (80). The Nietzschean body is composed of a multiplicity of atoms colliding in this play of dominance and submission: “Composed of a plurality of irreducible forces, the body is a multiple phenomenon; its unity is that of a multiple phenomenon, the ‘unity of domination.’ In a body, the superior or dominating forces are called active, and the inferior or dominated forces are called reactive” (81). Active forces represent all that is good in a Nietzschean value system: “[a]ppropriating, possessing, subjugating, and dominating are the characteristics of active force. Appropriating means to impose forms, to create forms by exploiting circumstances” (83). The reactive is that which is small and petty for Nietzsche: “the mechanical and utilitarian accommodations, the regulations that express all the power of inferior and dominated forces” (81).
When these forces come together there is always a differential, and it is this schism that creates what Nietzsche calls a body. As Deleuze explains: “The forces that enter into relation with one another have no quality per se, unless (at the same time) they bear a quality that corresponds to their difference in quantity. This difference of qualified forces, active and reactive, in accordance with their quantity, will be called their hierarchy” (81). These differences in the qualities of forces are produced by the difference in quantity between the two forces that enter into the body-forming relationship. This means that there is no inherent character in the relationship that produces the hierarchical outcome and, thus, the form of the body. Instead, the body is produced through the forces’ interaction: the master gains dominance over the slave because the master overpowers the slave through the greater measurement of his force. As Deleuze puts it: “If a force is inseparable from its quantity, it is no less inseparable from the other forces it relates to. Quantity itself is thus inseparable from the difference in quantity. The difference in quantity is the essence of force, and the relation of force to force” (84). Because there is no inherent character that produces this hierarchy, because this formation is always a matter of the interaction of the quantity of forces which in turn creates the dominance of the active and the subjugation of the reactive, dominant forces, possessing what Nietzsches calls the Will to Power, must be cognizant of the quantities of reactive forces who, at any moment, could become greater in the their quantity of force and exert their own Will to Power over and above the current masters.
The issues raised by a particular type of quantification, population quantification, become a great matter of concern for sovereign power around the time of the installation of biopolitical governance. Foucault shows how concern over this issue of quantitative force was instrumental in the institution of the regimes of biopolitical control through the mechanisms of governmentality “that appeared in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries”[2] (Foucault 2003b, 245). Biopolitics becomes necessarily concerned with the knowledge of the quantification of life. As Foucault says, “biopolitics will derive its knowledge from, and define its power’s field of intervention in terms of, the birth rate, the mortality rate, various biological disabilities, and the effects of the environment” (2003b, 245). Where once power could be exercised on individual bodies, now there is a new form of body—and new problems for the dominating power. Foucault continues:
Disciplines, for their part, dealt with individuals and their bodies in practical terms. What we are dealing with in this new technology of power is not exactly society (or at least not the social body as defined by the jurists), nor is it the individual-as-body. It is a new body, a multiple body, a body with so many heads that, while they might not be infinite in number, cannot necessarily be counted. Biopolitics deals with the population, with the population as a political problem, as a problem that is at once scientific and political, as a biological problem and as power’s problem. (Foucault 2003b, 245)

What this shows, however, is that in the relational field of bodies within a biopolitical regime there exists a vital opportunity for individual and collectively reactive forces to become active; nothing about their makeup renders them inherently inferior to the dominating class. It is only a matter of quantities, of mathematics. Biopower fears the multitudinous body of the collective poised to become active.
         Deleuze describes the transformative passage from reactive to active forces in the essay we have been reading. Deleuze tells us that Nietzsche held this process, at least in the abstract, in the highest regard:
For Nietzsche, as for energetics, transformative energy is held to be “noble.” The power of transformation, Dionysian power, is the foremost definition of activity. But each time that we thus note the nobility of action and its superiority over reaction, we must not forget that reaction, just as much as action, designates a type of force. Reactions simply cannot be apprehended or scientifically understood as forces if we do not relate them to the superior forces that are precisely of another type. (Deleuze 1977, 83)

So even though the force of metamorphosis is held up to be noble and good, the reactive can never trump the active; the “lower” will never be elevated above the “higher.” This would be a perversion of Nietzschean values, and “Nietzsche is careful never to present the triumph of reactive forces as a compound force, superior to active force” (93). If the reactive forces were ever to triumph over the active forces that would lead to a situation of “ressentiment, bad conscience, and the ascetic ideal” (93)—all things that Nietzsche considers sickly and bad.
The prospects for the reactive forces in this Nietzschean framework lie not in an effort to divide up active forces through a negative process of subtractionthat is, trying to make the active become reactivebut rather in an affirmative process of addition: a becoming-active of reactive forces. Deleuze calls this process a “chain of becoming”:
Affirmation is not simply action, but the power of becoming active, the becoming active in person; and negation is not simply reaction, but a becoming reactive. It all happens as if affirmation and negation were both immanent and transcendent with respect to action and reaction; along with the framework of forces, they constitute a chain of becoming. Affirmation makes us enter into the glorious world of Dionysus, the being of becoming, and negation hurls us down to the disturbing ground from which reactive forces emerge. (91)

The goal for this kind of life resistance—i.e. that form of resistance that Deleuze describes as responding directly to biopower, when “resistance becomes the power of life” (Deleuze 1988, 92)—is for the reactive, dominated forces to become active. Alas, the quantities of energetic transmission required to elicit this qualitative transformation from reactive to active are great. It is a difficult metamorphosis, which accounts for the inertial dominance of active forces over reactive forces. However, one strategy that Deleuze suggests is what he calls “auto-destruction.” “In auto-destruction the reactive forces are themselves denied and led to nothingness. This is why auto-destruction is said to be an active operation, an ‘active destruction.’ It and it alone expresses the becoming-active of forces” (101-02). Again, this process is not for the faint of heart: “Active negation or active destruction is the state of the strong-minded who destroy the reactive element within themselves . . . even if it entails willing their own decline” (102). 
        Despite Nietzsche’s categorical rejection of reactive forces as everything that his philosophy has sought to destroy, one need not take this to mean that we ought to enact the same wholesale dismissal of reactivity when forming the means of life resistance. Reactive forces have a unique perspective to offer in the hierarchy that is created when forces come together to create a body; they are not active forces, but they too have an indissoluble relationship to power. As Deleuze points out, “Inferior forces (as distinct from those that command) do not cease being forces even though they obey. To obey is a quality of force as such, and it is just as much tied to power as commanding is” (Deleuze 1977, 81). Or as Nietzsche says of this relation of forces, “Individual power is by no means surrendered. In the same way, there is in commanding an admission that the absolute power of the opponent has not been vanquished, incorporated, disintegrated. ‘Obedience’ and ‘commanding’ are forms of struggle” (qtd. in Deleuze 1977, 81). The “inferior” positionality of reactive forces also brings into being new perspectives on the power struggle and allows for the potential forging of the “new weapons” that Deleuze calls for in his widely influential essay “Postscript on Control Societies.” These new weapons may be the very ones that the reactive forces are forced to used due to their reduced, dominated status. Deleuze emphasized this pharmacology of reactional forces here:
It is certain that a reactive force can be considered from different viewpoints. Sickness, for example, prevents me from exercising my powers; as a reactive force it renders me reactive, it narrows my possibilities and condemns me to a diminished milieu which I can do no more than adapt myself to. But in another way it reveals a new power to me and endows me with a new will that I can make my own, pursuing this strange new capacity to its end . . . Here we see an ambivalence in Nietzsche: all the forces that were denounced for their reactive character, are a few lines later, avowed to fascinate him—they are held to be sublime because of the perspective they open up for us, and because they testify to a disturbing Will to Power. They separate us from our own power, but at the same time they give us new power, so “dangerous” and “interesting.” They bring us new feelings and teach us new ways of being affected. (1977, 98)

In seeking models a becoming-active of reactive forces we may turn to political philosophy, to the historical and theoretical paradigms of political transformation. When Derrida turns to this literature in the seminar that would become The Beast and the Sovereign he is struck by a peculiar pattern: “the obvious though surprising abundance of animal figures that invade discourses on the political, the reflections of political philosophy” (Derrida 2009, 81). It is strange that these “philosophers of the political, all of those who are passionately interested in holding a discourse on power, on political power,” exhibit an “irresistible compulsion which seems either to push them toward zoomorphic visions or hallucinations, push or attract them toward a field where there is a greater chance of fantastic animal apparitions” (81). It is in the third session of the seminar that Derrida offers one of his richest accounts of the taxonomy of this multiplicity of animal figures that stalk the pages of political philosophy, each exerting a unique force in this zooanthropology. Derrida focuses on three animals in particular here—the wolf, the lion, and the fox—pointing out that animal fables attribute “cunning to the fox, strength to the lion, voracious and cruel savagery to the wolf” (81). The wolf is always the “sworn enemy. The animal that has to be hunted down, chased away, repressed, combated” (88). Machiavelli insists that, in order to combat wolves, the prince must exhibit traits of both the lion and the fox, but Derrida believes that the cunning fox “clearly interests [Machiavelli] more” than the strength of the lion, “a strength that he does not even name, whereas he names and renames cunning” (88). As in Nietzsche, there is a hierarchical order in place here: “man, fox, lion, going from the more human, the more rational and intelligent, to the more animal, even the more bestial, if not to the more bête” [3] (89). Because the fox is the animal that is closest to the human in this hierarchy it is able to use a trait of the human that is not accessible to (most) animals to his great advantage—the ability to lie. (One might argue that an animal such as a chameleon can “lie” in a literally superficial sense.) As Derrida says, “Precisely because he knows how to be cunning, how to lie, how to commit perjury, because he has the sense and culture of the snare, the fox is close to the truth of man and man’s fidelity, which he understands and knows how to invert” (89). It is the conscious access to the inversion of forces that will aid in the becoming-active of reactive forces, an inversion that is less a reversal of hierarchical power positions than inversion in the dissemination of know-how, a quantitative inversion of knowledge where the reactive forces now posses more cunning than the active forces.
For reactive forces to become active they would do well to enter into a process of becoming-fox. Of course the figure of the fox is (along with the lion) the paradigmatic animal that stands in for the sovereign in Machiavelli’s The Prince, a figure that would no doubt work to keep reactive forces perpetually subjugated as “mechanical and utilitarian” (i.e. dominated) forces. But recall that in the Nietzschean-cum-Deleuzian framework, the objective for reactive forces is to become active—and the ultimate source of active force and dominance in a classic text of sovereign governance such as Machiavelli’s is the cunning prince. Reactive forces, then, have to decide what they can learn from the prince’s force and apply it to their own project of resistance, of becoming-active. In an extended description of the qualities of the fox, Derrida uses language that interfaces in surprising and productive ways with Deleuze’s proscriptions for the becoming-active of forces:
The force of the fox . . . is that his force is more than force, his power exceeds force qua physical force (as represented by the lion), thus as force of nature (physis). The prince, qua fox-man, is stronger than nature or biology, and even zoology, or what one thinks of natural under these words, stronger than physical strength: the fox is not bête or is no longer simply or absolutely a beast. His force of law consists in exceeding the physical manifestations of force, i.e. his weight, size, amount of energy, everything that can constitute a weapon or even a defensive or offensive army, an invulnerable armored army with no weaknesses. No, the force of the prince qua man become fox is, beyond natural force of simple life force, beyond even his visible phenomenon and what can, through the image of natural force, strike with awe and fear, intimidate, as the simple spectacle of a lion can strike the imagination before the lion strikes, the force of the prince cunning like a fox, his force beyond force, is science or consciousness, knowledge, know-how, cunning know-how, know-how without making-known [le savoi-faire sans faire-savoir] what one knows how to do, knowing how to make his very weakness into a strength, finding a resource just where phenomenal nature did not give him one. The fox, the fox-prince is already (like slaves and the sick in Nietzsche) one who inverts the originary order of things and makes of his weakness a supplementary force. (90)

Derrida’s description of becoming-fox emphasizes the coming-into-cunning of the consciousness, a cunning that can then overcome all physical forces that pose a threat to it. Here we can see a clear example of the “force beyond force” of consciousness leading to a becoming-active of forces, a useful strategy for reactive forces to take up, to be sure. Deleuze would want to insist, however, that a program of life resistance should not lose sight of the body, for active forces by nature “escape consciousness.” “Consciousness merely expresses the relation of certain reactive forces to the active forces that dominate them. Consciousness is essentially reactive, and that is why we do not know what a body can do and what activity it is capable of” (Deleuze 1977, 82).[4] Nevertheless, it would seem that the most effective weapon that a potentially-active force could possess would be an integration of the affective body and the conscious brain. To limit one’s force to the pure exteriority of a Nietzchean body, in the face of Derrida’s contribution of the cunning and invertible force of the fox, would be unnecessarily restrictive.
One potential that a process of becoming-fox could afford to life resistance is this “know-how without making-known,” a potentiality that gains its force from its standing-in-reserve. In this way, reactive forces could enact an inversion of the active force of sovereignty by appropriating one of most effective tools, impotentiality, or, the potential-not-to. This is an important contributions to a theory of sovereignty that Giorgio Agamben gives us in “Potentiality and Law,” one of the densest chapters of Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Agamben relates the dynamic of constituting and constituted power in the work of Antonio Negri to the “relation Aristotle establishes between potentiality and act, dynamis and energeia” and concludes that “the relation between constituting and constituted power (perhaps like every authentic understanding of the problems of sovereignty) depends on how one thinks the existence and autonomy of potentiality” (Agamben 1998, 44). The potential of the sovereign—the potential to suspend the rule of law in a state of exception, for example—is inextricably linked to its potential not to do so; the autonomy of potential is independent of its actualization, a concept that Agamben locates in Aristotle:
According to Aristotle’s thought, potentiality precedes actuality and conditions it, but also seems to remain essentially subordinate to it. Against the Megarians, who (like those politicians today who want to reduce all constituting power to constituted power) affirm that potentiality exists only in act (energe monon dynasthai), Aristotle always takes great care to affirm the autonomous existence of potentiality—the fact that the kithara player keeps his ability [potenza] to play even when he does not play, and that the architect keeps his ability [potenza] to build even when he does not build. What Aristotle undertakes to consider in Book Theta of the Metaphysics is, in other words, not potentiality as a merely logical possibility but rather the effective modes of potentiality’s existence. This is why, if potentiality is to have its own consistency and not always disappear into actuality, it is necessary that potentiality be able not to pass over into actuality, it is necessary that potentiality constitutively be the potentiality not to (do or be), or, as Aristotle says, that potentiality be also im-potentiality (adynmania). (1998, 44-45; emphasis in original).

This is clearly an important trope for Agamben because he will go on to rearticulate it in The Open: Man and Animal, published seven years after Homo Sacer. Agamben, in the midst of an exegesis of Heidegger, writes in this later text:
What appears for the first time as such in deactivation (in the Brachliegen) of possibility, then, is the very origin of potentiality—and with it, of Dasein, that is, the being which exists in the form of potentiality-for-being [poter-essere]. But precisely for this reason, this potentiality or originary possibilitization constitutively has the form of a potential-not-to [Potenza-di-no], of an impotentiality, insofar as it is able to [può] only in the beginning from a being able not to [poter non], that is, from the deactivation of single, specific, factical possibilities. (2004 67; emphasis in original)

The logic of sovereignty exists in this question of first philosophy, of the origins of sovereignty’s potentiality whereby “politics is returned to its ontological position” (Agamben 1998, 44). In an ontologically fundamental sense, sovereignty has even more power while remaining in a state of impotentiality, keeping as Heideggerian standing-reserve the threat of potential actualization. As Agamben says,
it is hard to think both a “constitution of potentiality” entirely freed from the principle of sovereignty and a constituting power that has definitely broken the ban binding it to constituted power. That constituting power never exhausts itself in constituted power is not enough: sovereign power can also, as such, maintain itself indefinitely, without ever passing into actuality. (1998, 47)
This is the point of (micro-)intervention for the potentially-active forces of life resistance. Through their own cunning, based in part on techniques leaned from the sovereign itself, these forces can withhold their potential to act as a force until the opportune moment. The reactive-forces possess a similar impotentiality as the sovereign, and they know how to exploit it. As Agamben says, “The troublemaker is precisely the one who tries to force sovereign power to translate itself into actuality” (Agamben 1998, 47). The troublemaker, in other words, is the reactive force becoming-active through the bringing into actualization of the active forces of  sovereign dominance, an active force that is all the more powerful for being held in abeyance as impotentiality, the virtualization of potentiality itself. It is not surprising, then, that Agamben closes this chapter with a reference to one of the great troublemakers in American literature (although of a largely in-active kind): “the strongest objection against the principle of sovereignty is contained in Melville’s Bartleby, the scrivener who, with his ‘I would prefer not to,’ resists every possibility of deciding between potentiality and the potential not to” (1998, 48).[5] Bartleby’s ambiguous refusal to work “push[es] the aporia of sovereignty to its limit” (48). Bartleby offers no critical reason for his refusal; his strike is purely a strike of the body. This is what the French collective Tiqqun would call a “human strike.” According to Tiqqun, it is precisely this type of troublemaking, this type of resistance, that is most effective against our present form of imperial sovereignty: “Not critical minds, but critical corporealities. That’s what Empire is scared of. That’s what’s slowly coming about, with the increasing flow of social defection” (Tiqqun 2010, 218). The practice of the human strike is a new sort of strike for a new enemy: “Behind the question What is to be done? was the myth of the general strike. Answering the question How is it to be done? is the practice of the HUMAN STRIKE. The general strike says that operations are limited in space and time, a piecemeal alienation, thanks to a recognizable, and therefore defeatable enemy” (2010, 219-20). The human strike, on the other hand, is one in which a multiplicity of bodies can come into relation with each other to express their pure potential (and impotential) for becoming-active forces against an amorphous, hard-to-locate enemy in “an era when the borders between life and work have become blurred” (220).


[1] “[I]t is in man himself that we must liberate life, since man himself is a form of imprisonment for man. Life becomes resistant to power when power takes life as its object. . . . When power becomes bio-power resistance becomes the power of life, a vital power that cannot be confined within species, environment or the paths of a particular diagram. Is not the force that comes from outside a certain idea of Life, a certain vitalism, in which Foucault’s though culminates? Is not life this capacity to resist force?” (Deleuze 1988, 92-93)
[2] Foucault’s dating of the implementation of the various domains of biopolitics tends to fluctuate between his lectures on the subject and work being published at that time. For instance, in his lecture of January 29, 1975, he claims that “there was a discovery in the eighteenth century of a number of means by which . . . power could be exercised in a continuous manner rather than the ritual, ceremonial, discontinuous way it was exercised under feudalism and continued to be exercised in the absolute monarchies (Foucault 2003a, 87), but in The History of Sexuality, published a year later, we read that this sort of power, “in which political power had assigned itself the task of administering life,” started in the seventeenth century (Foucault 1987, 139).
[3] Upon the first appearance of this word in Derrida’s text the translator inserts “stupid” in square brackets, an obviously inadequate translation as it is left in the French thereafter. Derrida dedicates all of session five to an explication of the words “bête and bêtise” through readings of Deleuze’s Difference and Repetition and A Thousand Plateaus.
[4] Nietzsche insists on the superiority of the body over consciousness: “From the intellectual viewpoint, the entire phenomenon of the body is as superior to our consciousness, our spirit, our conscious ways of thinking, sensing, and willing, as algebra is superior to the multiplication table” (qtd. in Deleuze 1977, 82).
[5] Agamben has dedicated a long essay to a reading of Melville’s story; see “Bartleby, or On Contingency” in Potentialities (Agamben 1999, 243-271).




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