This page contains materials
intended to facilitate class discussion.
The materials are not necessarily the
same as the instructor's teaching notes
and are not designed to represent a full
exposition or argument. This page is
subject to revision as the instructor
finalizes preparation. (Last revised
11/23/04
)
Nick moved along through
the shallow stretch watching
the banks for deep holes.
A beech tree grew close
beside the river, so that
the branches hung down
into the water. The stream
went back in under the
leaves. There were always
trout in a place like that.
Nick did not care about
fishing that hole.
He was sure he would
get hooked in the branches.
It
looked deep though. . . .
Nick
waded over to the hollow
log. He took the sack
off, over his head, the
trout flopping as it
came out of water,
and hung it so the trout
were deep in the water.
Then he pulled himself
up on the log and sat,
the water from his
trouser and boots running
down into the stream.
He laid his rod down,
moved along to the shady
end of the log and took
the sandwiches out of
his pocket. He dipped
the sandwiches in the
cold water. The current
carried away the crumbs.
He ate the sandwiches
and dipped his hat full
of water to drink, the
water running out through
his hat just ahead
of his drinking.
It was
cool in the shade,
sitting on the log.
He took a cigarette out
and struck a match
to light it. The match
sunk into the gray wood,
making a tiny furrow.
Nick leaned over the
side of the log, found
a hard place and lit
the match. He sat smoking
and watching the river.
Albert Borgmann, from Holding
On to Reality: The Nature of Information
at the Turn of the Millennium (1999)
The
ancestral environment
was profoundly coherent
because of the regular
interplay of signs
and things. When
a band of the Salish,
some two hundred
or two thousand years
ago, moved from its
summer camp in the
Missoula valley north
to a winter camp
by the "Stream
of the Little Bull
Trout," now
called Rattlesnake
Creek, the distant
narrows where the
creek turns east
must have been the
first sign they followed.
Once they had reached
that area, a western
tributary to Rattlesnake
Creek would alert
them that they were
within a few hundred
feet of the campsite.
Finally cairns, tipi
rings, or remnants
of brush and hide
shelters marked the
place where they
would winter, protected
from the punishing
east winds and just
a few hundred feet
below the level to
which game retreats
from the snow.
Natural signs disclose the more
distant environment, yet they do not get in the way of things. A natural sign,
having served as a point of reference, turns back into a thing, . . .
naturally and quietly. Thus the ancestral environment, however and wherever humans
moved in it, maintained a focal area of presence with a penumbra of signs referring
to the wider world. The ancestral environment
of the Salish was well-ordered as well as coherent because some natural signs
stood out as landmarks from among the inconspicuous and transitory signs of creeks,
rocks, trees, and tracks. Landmarks were focal points of an encompassing order.
(p. 25)
Even
the most perfect reproduction
of a work of art is
lacking one element:
its presence in time
and space, its unique
existence at the place
where it happens to
be. (¶ II)
We define the aura of the latter
[natural objects] as the unique phenomenon of a distance, however close it may
be. If, while resting on a summer afternoon, you follow with your eyes a mountain
range on the horizon or a branch which casts its shadow over you, you experience
the aura of those mountains, of that branch. (¶ III)
Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The
Railway Journey: The Industrialization
of Time and Space in the Nineteenth
Century (1986):
As
the space between the
points—the traditional
traveling space—was
destroyed, those points
moved into each other's
immediate vicinity:
one might say that
they collided. They
lost their old sense
of local identity,
formerly determined
by the spaces between
them. (p. 38)
The
regions, joined to
each other and to
the metropolis by the
railways, and the goods
that are torn out of
their local relation
by modern transportation,
shared the fate of
losing their inherited
place, their traditional
spatial-temporal presence
or, as Walter Benjamin
sums it up in one word,
their
"aura." (p.
41)
Marc Augé, Non-Places:
Introduction to an Anthropology of
Supermodernity, trans. John Howe
(London: Verso, 1995) [orig. pub.
in French, 1992] (book
cover)
If
a place can be defined
as relational, historical
and concerned with identity,
then a space which cannot
be defined as relational,
or historical, or concerned
with identity will be
a non-place. The hypothesis
advanced here is that
supermodernity produces
non-places. . . .
A world where people
are born in the clinic
and die in hospital,
where transit points
and temporary abodes
are proliferating under
luxurious or inhuman
conditions (hotel chains
and squats, holiday clubs
and refugee camps, shantytowns
threatened with demolition
or doomed to festering
longevity); where a dense
network of means of transport
which are also inhabited
spaces is developing;
where the habitué of
supermarkets, slot machines
and credit cards communicates
wordlessly, through gestures,
with an abstract, unmediated
commerce; a world thus
surrendered to solitary
individuality, to the
fleeting, the temporary
and ephemeral, offers
the anthropologist (and
others) a new object. . . .
(pp. 77-78)
Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism,
or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham:
Duke Univ. Press, 1991) (images
of postmodern spaces)
Technology/Media
Wolfgang Schivelbusch
The
empirical reality that made
the landscape seen
from the train window
appear to be "another
world"
was the railroad itself,
with its excavations,
tunnels, etc. Yet the
railroad was merely
an expression of the rail's
technological requirements,
and the rail itself
was a constituent part
of the machine ensemble
that interjected itself
between the traveler and
the landscape. The
traveler perceived
the landscape as it
was filtered through
the machine ensemble.
(p. 24)
Panoramic perception, in contrast
to traditional perception, no longer belonged to the same space as the perceived
objects: the traveler saw the objects, landscapes, etc. through the apparatus
which moved him through the world. (p. 64)
Sue Thomas, Hello World:
Travels in Virtuality (2004)
[On
LambdaMOO:] Some
people try to make
a map, but the complexity
of the place always
defeats them. Some
even make models
out of wood or plastic
or clay, but this
is going in the wrong
direction—it's
impossible to physically
capture the multi-dimensional
nature of virtuality.
(p. 26)
Walter Benjamin
During
long periods of history,
the mode of human sense
perception changes
with humanity's entire mode
of existence. The manner
in which human sense
perception is organized,
the medium in which
it is accomplished, is determined
not only by nature
but by historical circumstances
as well. (¶ III)
Earlier much futile thought had
been devoted to the question of whether photography is an art. The primary question—whether
the very invention of photography had not transformed the entire nature of art—was
not raised. (¶ VII)
Marshall McLuhan, "The Medium
is the Message," in Understanding
Media: The Extensions of Man (1994)
[orig. pub. 1964]
In
a culture like ours,
long accustomed to
splitting and dividing
all things as a means
of control, it is sometimes
a bit of a shock to
be reminded that, in
operational and practical
fact, the medium is
the message. This is
merely to say that
the personal and social
consequences of any
medium—that is,
of any extension of
ourselves—result
from the new scale
that is introduced
into our affairs by
each extension of ourselves,
or by any new technology.
It
is not the least of America's
charms that even outside
the movie theatres the
whole country is cinematic.
The desert you pass through
is like the set of a Western,
the city a screen of signs
and formulas. (p. 56)
It
is useless to seek to strip
the desert of its cinematic
aspects in order to restore
its original essence; those
features are thoroughly
superimposed upon it and
will not go away. The cinema
has absorbed everything—Indians, mesas,
canyons, skies. And yet
it is the most striking
spectacle in the world.
Should we prefer "authentic"
deserts and deep oases?
For us moderns, and ultramoderns,
as for Baudelaire, who
knew that the secret of
true modernity was to be
found in artifice, the
only natural spectacle
that is really gripping
is the one which offers
both the most moving profundity and
at the same time the total
simulacrum of that profundity.
(pp. 69-70)