continent. 2.2 (2012): 155–158
Michel Serres. Biogea. Trans. Randolph Burks. Minneapolis: Univocal Publishing. 2012.
200 pp. | ISBN 9781937561086 | $22.95
Conveying
to potential readers the significance of a book puts me at risk of glad
handing. It’s not in my interest to laud the undeserving, especially on
the pages of this journal. This is not a sales pitch, but rather an
affirmation of a necessary work on very troubled terms: human, earth,
nature, and the problematic world we made. It is this world that
aspirates the silence (so to speak), and therefore the subject which,
along with the development of the “made world” exports the excess
augmentation of the cosmically missing, this silence of the natural, et
cetera. Had we learned from Locke that lesson of “labor,” to consume
what we need… but perhaps we need more than what matters?
Serres’ Biogea
has several functions on this manner, if it is indeed a book to be
consumed. First, readers searching for novelistic entertainment have a
place to dwell. Biogea deserves a place in your back pocket;
biographical generosity and poetic fluidity should satisfy most textual
fetishes. For lay philosophers who want to refresh their acumen, Biogea
deserves a place on the book shelf, one already reads a sorely needed
postmodern tune-up here. Serres’ style is clearly French; he leaves few
cheese crumbs on his words, rather preciseness and breathing in the work
give way to a sweeping manner that breaks the narrative line of sight. A
circular narrative and anachronistic fragmentation of terms allows an
abyssal atmosphere to swell, if only to pump into the book the
externality of its broader text. Biogea aspires to a higher
standard and the book, at times, is thinking this negentropic problem
too. Univocal, the publisher, has crafted a book appropriate for the
hands to hold and the translations are an achievement of an otherwise
difficult writer to translate.
Terms are the conditions of a
broader text. It is important to note that Serres’ content is as much a
thinking of terminal ports. There is a regard for the transportation
technology of the written word. For me, this is the mark of genius, a
craftiness that tells of a book device that I may trust. Serres is an
accomplished thinker and a necessary voice to check the putative
trendiness of anti-postmodernist and market-driven theory of endless
cultural liquidation. Offering interventions on subjectivity as an open
system we are given a chance to affirm the human, not merely to discard
it, but to engage its poetic image emotion, the calibratory silent sense
of the analogic world; the terms on which we base our efforts.1
The human is the center of its own negation, constantly mediating it.
Something deeper at stake appears in the work then, and it is quite
obvious from the onset. Certainly, a book is an intensification of
possible text and those who brought this actual book into existence have
captured a rarity in regards to the subject matter and artistic
accomplishment.
I mentioned terms as conditions, so let us understand Biogea as bio-yea, a yes to bios.
An affirmation of living and accepting presence for all of its defiance
of images, words, and things temporal. Therefore Serres’ existence and
its existants plays parts; out of linearity and still like a porous bone
pumping blood it manufactures into the fleshy life it becomes. Starting
from a man named silence chaos emerges, or the man “Old Taciturn” takes
up a journey anticipating a great flood. In other words, a development
akin to the one in Genesis. In dealing with this ancestral occupation,
fusing Genesis with contemporary philosophical terms, Serres initiates
this anachronistic fragmentation under the forming subjectivity of his
own autobiography.
This mutation in the open system is precisely
one of Serres’ terms. There an abyss is at work, stated, but also
measured by heels on the ground—the abyss dispatching earthen tensions,
that which plays our tunes, that which we abide by and recognize in
volcanoes, rivers, oceans, earthquakes and weaponry in the battles of
the world. Set in later stages of the book, such tensions are harnessed
through scientific principles in an attempt to unify the terms of
natural force if only to terminate the world. Thus the elevation of the
earth into the world is clearly set forth.
Here already, and few
pages in, a resonance is set forth under appellations such as the river
Garonne, a subjectivity as much as it is inhuman, the river is the
inhuman that makes us human. I get the sense that Serres is taking up a
challenge issued by Wallace Stevens; namely, that the great poems of
heaven and hell have been written, but that only the poem of the earth
has resisted composition.2 On this level we cannot avoid the
killing factor of silence, given that our cognition blocks its pure,
radical obliteration. Thus a silence of attunement to the earth is in a
novel dialectic of the rithmic and rhythm. A technological world, a
triumph of termination is set forth. If a text imposes its will given
the reader who authorizes it, it is made to convey or convect a
presupposition to a reader or its inhabitant(s). Text is therefore both,
in-content, contenting, contentedness, and in reading it, a way to
navigate self-destruction (dis-content).
Here then would one note
that the “inhuman” reveals itself, “an aperiodic rhythm of lovers and
beloved…the sea as our friend…but as our enemy…maternal vivifying sea.”
The sea is an open book, or vaginal birth canal, where the engagement of
text comes forth: “…woman sea, open vulva.” One sees like the sea, but
only after it, when the uninhabitable truth of inhabiting it switches
the polarity of the sailors soul: “I was seeing like the sea” (9-11). In
other words, we are invited to embrace the nonsense of the visible.
At this point I am taken to Jean-François Lyotard’s work The Inhuman, specifically the first entry on negentropy that would be congruent with Serres’ thematic.3
The human being exports, deports, or transplants its relation through
text, through the system— and this is its sense or relation to silence,
to music. Unaware of Serres’ proximity to this work, the concept of
gender interrelation as regards a solar catastrophe runs clear. It would
be, on this basis, that Serres references his peers, the other texts
that, as mentioned above, are discarded in philosophy today. For
students of philosophy what we have here is perhaps a gift, a needed
project.
If silence and death are at work, there is a political
valence to deal with, and here, much like the domain of the text and the
dominion of the reader, we confront the world of natural, fluid
violence. The anti-postmodernist critique is in part based on a weak
idea that the loss of ideology, of a world vision, motivates the
“correlationist” project.4 Serres seems to offer another way
to view this when he notes that whereas persons “sometimes kill,” it is
clearly “the collective” that “always kills” (17). What is the
collective today, if not an organizing function we never see yet acts in
its favor in the name of truth? One feels a sense of enigma here, if
only to link to what Stevens remarked of communism as a “grubby faith,”
providing this applies for capitalism as well, namely any ideology of
progress overly interested in absolutes. Here we get the sense that the
inhuman, silence, this type of killing, always killing, could not be
matched by human-made, political dynamos. Or that if it comes to an
equilibrium, a catastrophe is never too far from us to read with our
heels. We are left to note that the forces of nature presuppose and
permeate political systems, the more these systems obtain force, the
more the system takes upon itself the proper name of nature that
motivates its dissemination, albeit falsely. This note, that in an age
of ecocide and technological captivity (sustainability and transparency)
political regimes won’t grow our soul-learning ears any larger than our
tongues, stands clear to us. The promise of technological
desubjectification is here pushed aside.
Regarding politics, Serres illustrates this fact:
Where
did this corpse come from? Who was it? Who killed it? I don’t know. I
won’t try to find out. I refuse to get vengeance for it. And I only see
Garonne. For our victims, today, are the rivers, too. Their waters have
irrigated my life, enchanted my thought, invigorated my body; I’ve
known them to be threatening, untamable, as dangerous as the sea when it
rages. Yes, murderous.
They decided to control their courses; dams,
sometimes senseless, destroying sites and valleys, reduced entire
populations to servile displacements; programs for the irrigation of
thirsty farmland, often beneficial of course, completed their drying
up.(22)
Serres enters into his idea concerning the captivity of language from the natural into a world system:
For
thousands of years, we have been licking things with our tongues,
covering and daubing them so as to appropriate things for ourselves. If
language boils down to a convention, this convention took place between
the speakers without consulting the thing named, become as a result the
property of those who covered it in this way with their drawn or voiced
productions. Malfeasance analyzes these acts of appropriation.
Thus
every inert object, every living thing as well, sleeps under the covers
of signs, a little in the way that, today, a thousand posters shouting
messages and ugly riots of color drown, with their filthy flood, the
landscapes, or better, exclude them from perception because the meaning,
almost nil, of this false language and these base images forms an
irresistible source of attraction to our neurons and eyes. This
appropriation covers the world’s beauty with ugliness. (38-39)
Technological
concealment coming to bear, we begin to get a sense of another
commentary on the condition of sensing, driving home the necessity of a
text dealing with such subject matter to be what its terms insist. Thus
toward new openings:
The new opening.
As low beneath our feet as you like, the Biogea opens us to another
space, high enough for us to be able to acquire a wisdom there, that of
redeveloping this same place differently from our fathers, this place
that’s still politically cut up by old hatreds, beneath the flood of
tears and blood that we call history. Without this soft place,
spiritually very old, but newly conceived in this way, without the
juridical construction of a common good, opposed to our filthy
ownership, I don’t see how our planet, hard, will survive. Hardness that
depends on a softness, material belonging that depends on this
temporary rented location (51).
Serres enters into a summit on
the content and the structure of his work. Archimedes is brought in with
the concept of three volcanoes. Meaning fire, but as well earth, water,
air. For it was Archimedes’ war machines that sought to lift the earth,
thus bringing in the question of principles of science: “can a
principle be invented while controlling its consequences?” (66-7). May
the earth be put in a sentence, terminated by terminology, appellations,
gone wild?
By means of these
element-dominating laws, this old physicist began to tear nature away
from the ancient myths; by a strange return, today we’re plunging our
successes back into the anxieties and terrors from which that ancient
physics was born. Yes, our new history of science and technology is
plunging, today, as though in a loop, into the fundamental human myths
from which Empedocles’ first laws came. A major progression and a
regression on the nether side of the origins. Consequently, the
contemporary time requires that we try to return to that unity in which
the principles of hate and love are at the same time human, living,
inert and global. We will never attain a deontology of our knowledge and
actions without thinking the subjective, the objective, the collective,
and the cognitive all together simultaneously. Here, hate and love are
the result of these four components.(71)
Working then on the
concept of fire-starting mirrors to the atomic annihilation of the
Second War, Serres works into the subjectivity in question on the matter
of rhythm—say rithmic— precisely at that point:
Knowledge
is changing today. The all-political is dying; the monarchy of the
sciences said to be hard is coming to a close. The science of the things
of the world will have to communicate just as much as the things of the
world do, which do it much better than humans do, who don’t always want
to do it. Let’s celebrate two changes this morning. The first one
strikes a new blow to our narcissism. No, knowledge and the world don’t
resemble our analytical enjoyments of refined cutting up, of endless
debates and of exclusions full of hate. They, on the contrary, form a
bloc and a sum, alliance and alloys. Uniting the fields of knowledge
among themselves the way the things are connected among themselves, the
second newness puts into place sets united by interlacing, webs and
simplexes that combine with the things of the world, themselves
combined, the combined knowledge that understands them.(130-1)
Biogea
closes on its opening flood thematic, approaching the initial telos of
Genesis. Here the trees are brought into a position with atmosphere, the
opaque abyssal reservoir, the tomb of the sun, sea in the polarity of
the earthen heaven and hell. The poem of the earth then is silent but
deadly, indeed, as funny as that phrase is, mainly a tomb gas.
The
meaning of the living and the non-meaning of things converge in the
muteness of the world; this meaning and non-meaning plunge there and
come out, the ultimate eddy. Mundus patet: through a fissure, through an
opening, a fault, a cleft come noises, calls as small as these
apertures. I’m listening, attentive, I’m translating, I’m advancing in
the scaled-down meaning and science. Mundus patet: should the world open
greatly, it will launch me into its silence. The totality remains
silent. Knowledge expanded in elation. White origin of meaning, fountain
of joy. (198)
Final Remarks
One test of a
review is the long term trajectory the referee thinks the book will
have. I see Serres’ text lending greatly into the vision of Biogea.
In fact, in the vision of the novel inquiries of Stephen Jay Gould’s
work there is something to be thought on the level of the individual and
the species; namely, that humanity and its uniqueness is in its
deferral, its thinking and naming, a thinking surrounded by silence that
filters into everything, that pulls us through the world, the kinetic
pulse we recognize, and all of that we cleave away in the base
philosophical maxim of difference itself. Unique individuals are spatial
creatures: we dwell, and we ought to get good at it. Yet this is an
imaginative space that, if you are crazy enough to believe it,
de-term-ine the conditions of its own terms. That is why we are not
merely creating spaces on the acceleration of time, or so this ignoramus
thinks, to accidentally transcend. Imagination already has this
insatiable silence that we drink up and fail to manifest. Space is
timeless. The imagination itself, shared by humans for themselves, their
objects, and the species as a whole, is a non-defined space of
relation; a whole human trajectory as part of nature, and part of worlds
that are the other side of thinking nature, the consequence of it, at
least our attempt to do so. Our survival is based on our deliberation,
our caution, our natural deconstructive sense toward this silence that
is already part of the song, sung, singing of this century without end.
Good books will let us inhabit this space and recognize a form of life.
Serres’
text moves toward dwelling, as noted, in masterful and accessible ways.
The pitched battles are the falling replays of anemic and dead
politics. As soon as we realize there is humanity, we may be able to
enjoy the end of it, our inhuman capability of listening to silence.
NOTES
1. See Michel Serres. The Parasite. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. 2007.
2. Wallace Stevens, “Imagination as Value” [ca. 1945], in Collected Poetry and Prose. New York: The Library of America. 1997. 724-39.
3. Jean-François Lyotard. The Inhuman: Reflections on Time. Trans. Geoffrey Bennington & Rachel Bowlby. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. 1992.
4. See the introduction: Quentin Melliassoux. After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency. Trans. Ray Brassier. New York: Continuum. 2008.
EDITOR'S NOTE:
This review was updated on August 8, 2012. Substantial edits include
block quotes from the book under review as well as the inclusion of
comments from the author.