Archive for the ‘Deleuze德勒茲’ Category

塊莖思維 09

June 11, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze and Gattari



An Introduction : Zhizome

導論:塊莖思維 09


To these centered systems, the authors contrast acentered systems, finite networks of automata in which communication runs from any neighbor to any other, the stems or channels do not preexist, and all individuals are interchangeable, defined only by their state at a given moment–such that the local operations are coordinated and the final, global result

synchronized without a central agency.




Transduction of intensive states replaces topology, and “the graph regulating the circulation of information is in a way the opposite of the hierarchical graph….There is no reason for the graph to be a tree” (we have been calling this kind of graph a map).




The problem of the war machine, or the firing squad: is a general necessary for n

individuals to manage to fire in unison?




The solution without a General is to be found in an acentered multiplicity possessing a finite number of states with signals to indicate corresponding speeds, from a war rhizome or guerrilla logic point of view, without any tracing, without any copying of a central order.




The authors even demonstrate that this kind of machinic multiplicity, assemblage, or society rejects any centralizing or unifying automaton as an “asocial intrusion.”




Under these conditions, n is in fact always n – 1. Rosenstiehl and Petitot emphasize that the opposition, centered-acentered, is valid less as a designation for things than as a mode of calculation applied to things.




Trees may correspond to the rhizome, or they may burgeon into a rhizome. It is true that the same thing is generally susceptible to both modes of calculation or both types of regulation, but not without undergoing a change in state.




Take psychoanalysis as an example again: it subjects the unconscious to arborescent structures, hierarchical graphs, recapitulatory memories, central organs, the phallus, the phallus-tree-not only in its theory but also in its practice of calculation and treatment.




Psychoanalysis cannot change its method in this regard: it bases its own dictatorial power upon a dictatorial conception of the unconscious.




Psychoanalysis’s margin of maneuverability is therefore very limited. In both psychoanalysis and its object, there is always a general, always a leader (General Freud).




Schizoanalysis, on the other hand, treats the unconscious as an acentered system, in other words, as a machinic network of finite automata (a rhizome), and thus arrives at an entirely different state of the unconscious.




These same remarks apply to linguistics; Rosenstiehl and Petitot are right to bring up the

possibility of an “acentered organization of a society of words.” For both statements and desires, the issue is never to reduce the unconscious or to interpret it or to make it signify according to a tree model.




The issue is to produce the unconscious, and with it new statements, different desires: the rhizome is precisely this production of the unconscious.




It is odd how the tree has dominated Western reality and all of Western thought, from botany to biology and anatomy, but also gnosiology, theology, ontology, all of philosophy …: the root foundation, Grund, racine, fondement.




The West has a special relation to the forest, and deforestation; the fields carved from the

forest are populated with seed plants produced by cultivation based on species lineages of the arborescent type; animal raising, carried out on fallow fields, selects lineages forming an entire animal arborescence.





The East presents a different figure: a relation to the steppe and the garden (or in some cases, the desert and the oasis),, rather than forest and field; cultivation of tubers by fragmentation of

the individual; a casting aside or bracketing of animal raising, which is confined to closed spaces or pushed out onto the steppes of the nomads.


東方國家表現不同的面貌:跟大草原及花園有特別關係(或者,在某些情形,跟沙漠及綠洲),而不是跟森林及田野。個人零星的培育根管植物,拋棄豢養動物的欄柵, 動物若不是被限制在封閉空間,就是被放逐到遊牧的大草原。


The West: agriculture based on a chosen lineage containing a large number of variable individuals.




The East: horticulture based on a small number of individuals derived from a wide range of “clones.” Does not the East, Oceania in particular, offer something like a rhizomatic model opposed in every respect to the Western model of the tree?




André Haudricourt even sees this as the basis for the opposition between the moralities or philosophies of transcendence dear to the West and the immanent ones of the East: the God who sows and reaps, as opposed to the God who replants and unearths (replanting of offshoots versus sowing of seeds).16




Transcendence: a specifically European disease. Neither is music the same, the music of the earth is different, as is sexuality: seed plants, even those with two sexes in the same plant, subjugate sexuality to the reproductive model; the rhizome, on the other hand, is a liberation

of sexuality not only from reproduction but also from genitality.




Here in the West, the tree has implanted itself in our bodies, rigidifying and stratifying even the sexes. We have lost the rhizome, or the grass. Henry Miller: “China is the weed in the human cabbage patch. The weed is the Nemesis of human endeavor… Of all the imaginary existences we attribute to plant, beast and star the weed leads the most satisfactory life of all. True, the weed produces no lilies, no battleships, no Sermons on the Mount… Eventually the weed gets the upper hand. Eventually things fall back into a state of China.  




This condition is usually referred to by historians as the Dark Age. Grass is the only way out…. The weed exists only to fill the waste spaces left by cultivated areas. It grows between, among other things.




The lily is beautiful, the cabbage is provender, the poppy is maddening-but the weed is rank growth … : it points a moral.”




Which China is Miller talking about? The old China, the new, an imaginary one, or yet

another located on a shifting map?





America is a special case. Of course it is not immune from domination by trees or the search for roots.




This is evident even in the literature, in the quest for a national identity and even for a European ancestry or genealogy (Kerouac going off in search of his ancestors).




Nevertheless, everything important that has happened or is happening takes the route of the American rhizome: the beatniks, the underground, bands and gangs, successive lateral offshoots in immediate connection with an outside. American books are different from European books, even when the American sets off in pursuit of trees.




The conception of the book is different. Leaves of Grass. And directions in America are different: the search for arborescence and the return to the Old World occur in the East. But there is the rhizomatic West, with its Indians without ancestry, its ever-receding limit, its shifting and displaced frontiers.




There is a whole American “map” in the West, where even the trees form rhizomes. America

reversed the directions: it put its Orient in the West, as if it were precisely in America that the earth came full circle; its West is the edge of the East. (India is not the intermediary between the Occident and the Orient, as Haudricourt believed: America is the pivot point and mechanism of reversal.)




The American singer Patti Smith sings the bible of the American dentist: Don’t go for the root, follow the canal




Are there not also two kinds of bureaucracy, or even three (or still more)? Western bureaucracy: its agrarian, cadastral origins; roots and fields; trees and their role as frontiers; the great census of William the Conqueror; feudalism; the policies of the kings of France; making property the basis of the State; negotiating land through warfare, litigation, and marriages.’




The kings of France chose the lily because it is a plant with deep roots that clings to slopes. Is bureaucracy the same in the Orient?




Of course it is all too easy to depict an Orient of rhizomes and immanence; yet it is true that in the Orient the State does not act following a schema of arborescence corresponding to preestablished, arborified, and rooted classes; its bureaucracy is one of channels, for example, the much-discussed case of hydraulic power with “weak property,” in which the State engenders channeled and channelizing classes (cf. the aspects of Wittfogel’s work that have not been refuted).




The despot acts as a river, not as a fountainhead, which is still a point, a tree-point or root; he flows with the current rather than sitting under a tree; Buddha’s tree itself becomes a rhizome; Mao’s river and Louis’s tree. Has not America acted as an intermediary here as well?




For it proceeds both by internal exterminations and liquidations (not only the Indians but also the farmers, etc.), and by successive waves of immigration from the outside.




The flow of capital produces an immense channel, a quantification of power with immediate “quanta,” where each person profits from the passage of the money flow in his or her own way (hence the reality-myth of the poor man who strikes it rich and then falls into poverty again): in America everything comes together, tree and channel, root and rhizome.




There is no universal capitalism, there is no capitalism in itself-, capitalism is at the crossroads of all kinds of formations, it is neocapitalism by nature. It invents its eastern face and western face, and reshapes them both-all for the worst.





塊莖思維 08

June 10, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze



An Introduction: Zhizome

導論:塊莖思維 08


Look at what happened to Little Hans already, an example of child psychoanalysis at its purest: they kept on BREAKING HIS RHIZOME and BLOTCHING HIS MAP, setting it straight for him, blocking his every way out, until he began to desire his own shame

and guilt, until they had rooted shame and guilt in him, PHOBIA (they barred him from the rhizome of the building, then from the rhizome of the street, they rooted him in his parents’ bed, they radicled him to his own body, they fixated him on Professor Freud).




Freud explicitly takes Little Hans’s cartography into account, but always and only in order to project it back onto the family photo.




And look what Melanie Klein did to Little Richard’s geopolitical maps: she developed photos from them, made tracings of them.




Strike the pose or follow the axis, genetic stage or structural destiny-one way or the other, your rhizome will be broken.




You will be allowed to live and speak, but only after every outlet has been obstructed. Once a rhizome has been obstructed, arborified, it’s all over, no desire stirs; for it is always by rhizome that desire moves and produces.




Whenever desire climbs a tree, internal repercussions trip it up and it falls to its death; the rhizome, on the other hand, acts on desire by external, productive outgrowths.




That is why it is so important to try the other, reverse but nonsymmetrical, operation. Plug the tracings back into the map, connect the roots or trees back up with a rhizome.




In the case of Little Hans, studying the unconscious would be to show how he tries to build a rhizome, with the family house but also with the line of flight of the building, the street, etc.; how these lines are blocked, how the child is made to take root in the family, be photographed under the father, be traced onto the mother’s bed; then how Professor Freud’s intervention assures a power takeover by the signifier, a subjectification of affects; how the only escape route left to the child is a becoming-animal perceived as shameful and guilty (the becoming-horse of Little Hans, a truly political option).




But these impasses must always be resituated on the map, thereby opening them up to possible lines of flight.




The same applies to the group map: show at what point in the rhizome there form phenomena of massification, bureaucracy, leadership, fascization, etc., which lines nevertheless survive, if only underground, continuing to make rhizome in the shadows.




Deligny’s method: map the gestures and movements of an autistic child, combine several maps for the same child, for several different children.




If it is true that it is of the essence of the map or rhizome to have multiple entryways, then it is plausible that one could even enter them through tracings or the root tree, assuming the necessary precautions are taken (once again, one must avoid any Manichaean dualism).




For example, one will often be forced to take dead ends, to work with signifying powers and subjective affections, to find a foothold in formations that are Oedipalor paranoid or even worse, rigidified territorialities that open the way for other transformational operations.




It is even possible for psychoanalysis to serve as a foothold, in spite of itself. In other cases, on the contrary, one will bolster oneself directly on a line of flight enabling one to blow apart

strata, cut roots, and make new connections.




Thus, there are very diverse map-tracing, rhizomeroot assemblages, with variable coefficients of deterritorialization. There exist tree or root structures in rhizomes; conversely, a tree branch or root division may begin to burgeon into a rhizome.




The coordinates are determined not by theoretical analyses implying universals but by a pragmatics composing multiplicities or aggregates of intensities.




A new rhizome may form in the heart of a tree, the hollow of a root, the crook of a branch. Or else it is a microscopic element of the root-tree, a radicle, that gets rhizome production going.




Accounting and bureaucracy proceed by tracings: they can begin to burgeon nonetheless, throwing out rhizome stems, as in a Kafka novel.




An intensive trait starts working for itself, a hallucinatory perception, synesthesia, perverse mutation, or play of images shakes loose, challenging the hegemony of the signifier.




In the case of the child, gestural, mimetic, ludic, and other semiotic systems regain their freedom and extricate themselves from the “tracing,” that is, from the dominant competence of the teacher’s language–a microscopic event upsets the local balance of power.




Similarly, generative trees constructed according to Chomsky’s syntagmatic model can open up in all directions, and in turn form a rhizome.





To be rhizomorphous is to produce stems and filaments that seem to be roots, or better yet connect with them by penetrating the trunk, but put them to strange new uses. We’re tired of

trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and radicles.




They’ve made us suffer too much. All of arborescent culture is founded on them, from biology to linguistics.




Nothing is beautiful or loving or political aside from underground stems and aerial roots, adventitious growths and rhizomes.




Amsterdam, a city entirely without roots, a rhizome-city with its stem-canals, where utility connects with the greatest folly in relation to a commercial war machine.




Thought is not arborescent, and the brain is not a rooted or ramified matter. What are wrongly called “dendrites” do not assure the connection of neurons in a continuous fabric.




The discontinuity between cells, the role of the axons, the functioning of the synapses,

the existence of synaptic microfissures, the leap each message makes across these fissures, make the brain a multiplicity immersed in its plane of consistency or neuroglia, a whole uncertain, probabilistic system (“the uncertain nervous system”).




Many people have a tree growing in their heads, but the brain itself is much more a grass than

a tree. “The axon and the dendrite twist around each other like bindweed around brambles, with synapses at each of the thorns.”




The same goes for memory. Neurologists and psychophysiologists distinguish between long-term memory and short-term memory (on the order of a minute).




The difference between them is not simply quantitative: short-term memory is of the rhizome or diagram type, and long-term memory is arborescent and centralized (imprint,

engram, tracing, or photograph).




Short-term memory is in no way subject to a law of contiguity or immediacy to its object; it can act at a distance, come or return a long time after, but always under conditions of discontinuity, rupture, and multiplicity.




Furthermore, the difference between the two kinds of memory is not that of two temporal modes of apprehending the same thing; they do not grasp the same thing, memory, or idea.




The splendor of the short-term Idea: one writes using short-term memory, and thus short-term ideas, even if one reads or rereads using long-term memory of long-term concepts.




Short-term memory includes forgetting as a process; it merges not with the instant but instead with the nervous, temporal, and collective rhizome.




Long-term memory (family, race, society, or civilization) traces and translates, but what it translates continues to act in it, from a distance, off beat, in an “untimely” way, not instantaneously.




The tree and root inspire a sad image of thought that is forever imitating the multiple on the basis of a centered or segmented higher unity.




If we consider the set, branches-roots, the trunk plays the role of opposed segment for one of the subsets running from bottom to top: this kind of segment is a “link dipole,” in contrast to the “unit dipoles” formed by spokes radiating from a single center.




Even if the links themselves proliferate, as in the radicle system, one can never get beyond the One-Two, and fake multiplicities. Regenerations, reproductions, returns, hydras, and medusas do not get us any further.




Arborescent systems are hierarchical systems with centers of signifiance and subjectification, central automata like organized memories.




In the corresponding models, an element only receives information from a higher unit, and only receives a subjective affection along preestablished paths.




This is evident in current problems in information science and computer science, which

still cling to the oldest modes of thought in that they grant all power to a memory or central organ.




Pierre Rosenstiehl and Jean Petitot, in a fine article denouncing “the imagery of command trees” (centered systems or hierarchical structures), note that “accepting the primacy of hierarchical structures amounts to giving arborescent structures privileged status…. The arborescent form admits of topological explanation…. In a hierarchical system, an individual has only one active neighbor, his or her hierarchical superior….The channels of transmission are preestablished: the arborescent system preexists the individual, who is integrated into it at an allotted place” (signifiance and subjectification).




The authors point out that even when one thinks one has reached a multiplicity, it may be a false one-of what we call the radicle type–because its ostensibly nonhierarchical presentation or statement in fact only admits of a totally hierarchical solution.




An example is the famous friendship theorem: “If any two given individuals in a society have precisely one mutual friend, then there exists an individual who is the friend of all the others.” (Rosenstiehl and Petitot ask who that mutual friend is.




Who is “the universal friend in this society of couples: the master, the confessor, the doctor? These ideas are curiously far removed from the initial axioms.” Who is this friend of humankind?




Is it the philosopher as he appears in classical thought, even if he is an aborted unity that makes itself felt only through its absence or subjectivity, saying all the while, I know nothing, I am nothing?)




Thus the authors speak of dictatorship theorems. Such is indeed the principle of roots-trees, or their outcome: the radicle solution, the structure of Power.





塊莖思維 07

June 9, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Delezue



An Introduction: Zhizome

導論:塊莖思維 07


5 and 6.




Principle of cartography and decalcomania: a rhizome is not amenable to any structural or generative model.




It is a stranger to any idea of genetic axis or deep structure.




A genetic axis is like an objective pivotal unity upon which successive stages are organized; a deep structure is more like a base sequence that can be broken down into immediate constituents, while the unity of the product passes into another, transformational and subjective, dimension.




This does not constitute a departure from the representative model of the tree, or root-pivotal taproot or fascicles (for example, Chomsky’s “tree” is associated with a base sequence and represents the process of its own generation in terms of binary logic). A variation on the oldest form of thought.




It is our view that genetic axis and profound structure are above all infinitely reproducible principles of tracing. All of tree logic is a logic of tracing and reproduction.




In linguistics as in psychoanalysis, its object is an unconscious that is itself representative, crystallized into codified complexes, laid out along a genetic axis and distributed within a syntagmatic structure.




Its goal is to describe a de facto state, to maintain balance in intersubjective relations, or to explore an unconscious that is already there from the start, lurking in the dark recesses of memory and language.




It consists of tracing, on the basis of an overcoding structure or supporting axis, something that comes ready-made. The tree articulates and hierarchizes tracings; tracings are like the leaves of a tree.




The rhizome is altogether different, a map and not a tracing. Make a map, not a tracing. The orchid does not reproduce the tracing of the wasp; it forms a map with the wasp, in a rhizome.




What distinguishes the map from the tracing is that it is entirely oriented toward an experimentation in contact with the real.




The map does not reproduce an unconscious closed in upon itself; it constructs the





It fosters connections between fields, the removal of blockages on bodies without organs, the maximum opening of bodies without organs onto a plane of consistency. It is itself a part of the rhizome.




The map is open and connectable in all of its dimensions; it is detachable, reversible, susceptible to constant modification.




It can be torn, reversed, adapted to any kind of mounting, reworked by an individual, group, or social formation. It can be drawn on a wall, conceived of as a work of art, constructed as a political action or as a meditation.




Perhaps one of the most important characteristics of the rhizome is that it always has multiple entryways; in this sense, the burrow is an animal rhizome, and sometimes maintains a clear

distinction between the line of flight as passageway and storage or living strata (cf. the muskrat).




A map has multiple entryways, as opposed to the tracing, which always comes back “to the same.”




The map has to do with performance, whereas the tracing always involves an alleged “competence.”




Unlike psychoanalysis, psychoanalytic competence (which confines every desire and statement to a genetic axis or overcoding structure, and makes infinite, monotonous tracings of the stages on that axis or the constituents of that structure), schizoanalysis rejects any idea of pretraced destiny, whatever name is given to it–divine, anagogic, historical, economic, structural, hereditary, or syntagmatic.




(It is obvious that Melanie Klein has no understanding of the cartography of one of her child patients, Little Richard, and is content to make ready-made tracings-Oedipus, the good daddy and the bad daddy, the bad mommy and the good mommy-while the child makes a desperate attempt to carry out a performance that the psychoanalyst totally misconstrues.)




Drives and part-objects are neither stages on a genetic axis nor positions in a deep structure; they are political options for problems, they are entryways and exits, impasses the child lives out politically, in other words, with all the force of his or her desire.




Have we not, however, reverted to a simple dualism by contrasting maps to tracings, as good and bad sides? Is it not of the essence of the map to be traceable?




Is it not of the essence of the rhizome to intersect roots and sometimes merge with them?


Does not a map contain phenomena of redundancy that are already like tracings of its own?




Does not a multiplicity have strata upon which unifications and totalizations, massifications, mimetic mechanisms, signifying power takeovers, and subjective attributions take root?




Do not even lines of flight, due to their eventual divergence, reproduce the very formations their function it was to dismantle or outflank?




But the opposite is also true. It is a question of method: the tracing should always be put back on the map.




This operation and the previous one are not at all symmetrical. For it is inaccurate to say that a tracing reproduces the map.




It is instead like a photograph or X ray that begins by selecting or isolating, by artificial means such as colorations or other restrictive procedures, what it intends to reproduce.




The imitator always creates the model, and attracts it. The tracing has already translated the map into an image; it has already transformed the rhizome into roots and radicles. It has organized, stabilized, and neutralized the multiplicities according to the axes of significance and subjectification belonging to it. It has generated, structuralized the rhizome, and when it thinks it is reproducing something else it is in fact only reproducing itself.




That is why the tracing is so dangerous. It injects redundancies and propagates them. What the tracing reproduces of the map or rhizome are only the impasses, blockages, incipient taproots, or points of structuration.




Take a look at psychoanalysis and linguistics: all the former has ever made are tracings or photos of the unconscious, and the latter of language, with all the betrayals that implies (it’s not surprising that psychoanalysis tied its fate to that of linguistics).





塊莖思維 06

June 8, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze



Introduction : Zhizome

導論:塊莖思維 06



Principle of asignifying rupture: against the oversignifying breaks separating structures or cutting across a single structure.




A rhizome may be broken, shattered at a given spot, but it will start up again on one of its old lines, or on new lines. You can never get rid of ants because they form an animal rhizome that can rebound time and again after most of it has been destroyed.




Every rhizome contains lines of segmentarity according to which it is stratified, territorialized, organized, signified, attributed, etc., as well as lines of deterritorialization down which it constantly flees.




There is a rupture in the rhizome whenever segmentary lines explode into a line of flight, but the line of flight is part of the rhizome.




These lines always tie back to one another. That is why one can never posit a dualism or

a dichotomy, even in the rudimentary form of the good and the bad.




You may make a rupture, draw a line of flight, yet there is still a danger that you will reencounter organizations that restratify everything, formations that restore power to a signifier, attributions that reconstitute a subject—anything you like, from Oedipal

resurgences to fascist concretions.




Groups and individuals contain microfascisms just waiting to crystallize. Yes,

couchgrass is also a rhizome.




Good and bad are only the products of an active and temporary selection, which must be renewed.




How could movements of deterritorialization and processes of reterritalization not be relative, always connected, caught up in one another?




The orchid deterritorializes by forming an image, a tracing of a wasp; but the wasp reterritorializes on that image. The wasp is nevertheless derritorialized, becoming a piece in the orchid’s reproductive apparatus.




But it reterritorializes the orchid by transporting its pollen. Wasp and orchid, as heterogeneous elements, form a rhizome.




It could be said that the orchid imitates the wasp, reproducing its image in a signifying fashion (mimesis, mimicry, lure, etc.).




But this is true only on the level of the strata-a parallelism between two strata such that a plant organization on one imitates an animal organization on the other.




At the same time, something else entirely is going on: not imitation at all but a capture of code, surplus value of code, an increase in valence, a veritable becoming, a becoming-wasp of the orchid and a becoming-orchid of the wasp.




Each of these becomings brings about the deterritorialization of one term and the reterritorialization of the other; the two becomings interlink and form relays in a circulation of intensities pushing the deterritorialization ever further.




There is neither imitation nor resemblance, only an exploding of two heterogeneous series on the line of flight composed by a common rhizome that can no longer be attributed to or subjugated by anything signifying.




Rémy Chauvin expresses it well: “the aparallel evolution of two beings that have

absolutely nothing to do with each other.”4 More generally, evolutionary schemas may be forced to abandon the old model of the tree and descent.





Under certain conditions, a virus can connect to germ cells and transmit itself as the cellular gene of a complex species; moreover, it can take flight, move into the cells of an entirely different species, but not without bringing with it “genetic information” from the first host (for example, Benveniste and Todaro’s current research on a type C virus, with its double connection to baboon DNA and the DNA of certain kinds of domestic cats).





Evolutionary schemas would no longer follow models of arborescent descent going from the least to the most differentiated, but instead a rhizome operating immediately in the heterogeneous and jumping from one already differentiated line to another.




Once again, there is aparallel evolution, of the baboon and the cat; it is obvious that they are not models or copies of each other (a becoming-baboon in the cat does not mean that the cat “plays” baboon).




We form a rhizome with our viruses, or rather our viruses cause us to form a rhizome with other animals.




As Francois Jacob says, transfers of genetic material by viruses or through other procedures, fusions of cells originating in different species, have results analogous to those of “the abominable couplings dear to antiquity and the Middle Ages.”




 Transversal communications between different lines scramble the genealogical trees. Always look for the molecular, or even submolecular, particle with which we are allied. We evolve and die more from our polymorphous and rhizomatic flus than from hereditary diseases, or diseases that have their own line of descent. The rhizome is an anti-genealogy.




The same applies to the book and the world: contrary to a deeply rooted belief, the book is not an image of the world. It forms a rhizome with the world, there is an aparallel evolution of the book and the world; the book assures the deterritorialization of the world, but the world effects a reterritorialization of the book, which in turn deterritorializes itself in the world (if it is capable, if it can).




Mimicry is a very bad concept, since it relies on binary logic to describe phenomena of an entirely different nature.




The crocodile does not reproduce a tree trunk, any more than the chameleon reproduces the colors of its surroundings.




The Pink Panther imitates nothing, it reproduces nothing, it paints the world its color, pink on pink; this is its becoming-world, carried out in such a way that it becomes imperceptible itself, asignifying, makes its rupture, its own line of flight, follows its “aparallel evolution” through to the end.





The wisdom of the plants: even when they have roots, there is always an outside where they form a rhizome with something else-with the wind, an animal, human beings (and there is also an aspect under which animals themselves form rhizomes, as do people, etc.).




“Drunkenness as a triumphant irruption of the plant in us.” Always follow the rhizome by rupture; lengthen, prolong, and relay the line of flight; make it vary, until you have produced the most abstract and tortuous of lines of n dimensions and broken directions. Conjugate

deterritorialized flows.




Follow the plants: you start by delimiting a first line consisting of circles of convergence around successive singularities; then you see whether Inside that line new circles of convergence establish themselves, with new points located outside the limits and in other directions.




Write, form a rhizome, increase your territory by deterritorialization, extend the line of flight to the point where it becomes an abstract machine covering the entire plane of consistency.




“Go first to your old plant and watch carefully the watercourse made by the rain. By now the rain must have carried the seeds far away. Watch the crevices made by the runoff, and from them determine the direction of the flow. Then find the plant that is growing at the farthest point from your plant. All the devil’s weed plants that are growing in between are yours. Later you can extend the size of your territory by following the watercourse from each point along the way.”7




Music has always sent out lines of flight, like so many “transformational multiplicities,” even overturning the very codes that structure or arborify it; that is why musical form, right down to its ruptures and proliferations, is comparable to a weed, a rhizome.





塊莖思維 05

June 7, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze




塊莖思維 05



Principle of multiplicity: it is only when the multiple is effectively treated as a substantive, “multiplicity,” that it ceases to have any relation to the One as subject or object, natural or spiritual reality, image and world.





Multiplicities are rhizomatic, and expose arborescent pseudomultiplicities for what they are.




There is no unity to serve as a pivot in the object, or to divide in the subject. There is not even the unity to abort in the object or “return” in the subject.




A multiplicity has neither subject nor object, on1y determinations, magnitudes, and dimensions that cannot increase in number without the multiplicity changing in nature (the laws of combination therefore increase in number as the multiplicity grows).




Puppet strings, as a rhizome or multiplicity, are tied not to the supposed will of an artist or puppeteer but to a multiplicity of nerve fibers, which form another puppet in other dimensions connected to the first: “Call the strings or rods that move the puppet the weave. It might be objected that its multiplicity resides in the person of the actor, who projects it into the text. Granted; but the actor’s nerve fibers in turn form a weave. And they fall through the gray matter, the grid, into the undifferentiated….The interplay approximates the pure activity of weavers attributed in myth to the Fates or Norns.”3









An assemblage is precisely this increase in the dimensions of a multiplicity that necessarily changes in nature as it expands its connections.




There are no points or positions in a rhizome, such as those found in a structure, tree, or root. There are only lines.




When Glenn Gould speeds up the performance of a piece, he is not just displaying virtuosity, he is transforming the musical points into lines, he is making the whole piece proliferate.




The number is no longer a universal concept measuring elements according to their emplacement in a given dimension, but has itself become a multiplicity that varies according to the dimensions considered (the primacy of the domain over a complex of numbers attached to that domain).





We do not have units (unités) of measure, only multiplicities or varieties of measurement.




The notion of unity (unités) appears only when there is a power takeover in the multiplicity by the signifier or a correponding subjectification proceeding:




This is the case for a pivot-unity forming the basis for a set of biunivocal relationships between objective elements or points, or for the One that divides following the law of a binary logic of differentiation in the subject.




Unity always operates in an empty dimension supplementary to that of the system considered (overcoding).




The point is that a rhizome or multiplicity never allows itself to be overcoded, never has available a supplementary dimension over and above its number of lines, that is, over and above the multiplicity of numbers attached to those lines.





All multiplicities are flat, in the sense that they fill or occupy all of their dimensions: we will therefore speak of a plane of consistency of multiplicities, even though the dimensions of this “plane” increase with the number of connections that are made on it.




Multiplicities are defined by the outside: by the abstract line, the line of flight or deterritorialization according to which they change in nature and connect with other multiplicities. The plane of consistency (grid) is the outside of all multiplicities.




The line of flight marks: the reality of a finite number of dimensions that the multiplicity effectively fills; the impossibility of a supplementary dimension, unless the multiplicity is transformed by the line of flight; the possibility and necessity of flattening all of the multiplicities on a single plane of consistency or exteriority, regardless of their number of dimensions.



The ideal for a book would be to lay everything out on a plane of exteriority of this kind, on a

single page, the same sheet: lived events, historical determinations, concepts, individuals, groups, social formations.




Kleist invented a writing of this type, a broken chain of affects and variable speeds, with accelerations and transformations, always in a relation with the outside. Open rings.




His texts, therefore, are opposed in every way to the classical or romantic book constituted by the interiority of a substance or subject.




The war machine-book against the State apparatus-book. Flat multiplicities of n dimensions are asignifying and asubjective.




They are designated by indefinite articles, or rather by partitives (some couchgrass, some of a rhizome ).





塊莖思維 04

June 5, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze




塊莖思維 04


1 and 2.

Principles of connection and heterogeneity: any point of a rhizome can be connected to anything other, and must be. This is very different from the tree or root, which plots a point, fixes an order.





The linguistic tree on the Chomsky model still begins at a point S and proceeds by dichotomy.




On the contrary, not every trait in a rhizome is necessarily linked to a linguistic feature: semiotic chains of every nature are connected to very diverse modes of coding (biological, political, economic, etc.) that bring into play not only different regimes of signs but also states of things of differing status.




Collective assemblages of enunciation function directly within machinic assemblages; it is not impossible to make a radical break between regimes of signs and their objects.




Even when linguistics claims to confine itself to what is explicit and to make no presuppositions about language, it is still in the sphere of a discourse implying particular modes of assemblage and types of social power.




Chomsky’s grammaticality, the categorical S symbol that dominates every sentence, is more fundamentally a marker of power than a syntactic marker: you will construct grammatically correct sentences, you will divide each statement into a noun phrase and a verb phrase

(first dichotomy ).




Our criticism of these linguistic models is not that they are too abstract but, on the contrary, that they are not abstract enough, that they do not reach the abstract machine that connects a language to the semantic and pragmatic contents of statements, to collective assemblages of enunciation, to a whole micropolitics of the social field.




A rhizome ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and circumstances relative to the arts, sciences, and social struggles.




A semiotic chain is like a tuber agglomerating very diverse acts, not only linguistic, but also perceptive, mimetic, gestural, and cognitive: there is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, slangs, and specialized languages.




There is no ideal speaker-listener, any more than there is a homogeneous linguistic community.




Language is, in Weinreich’s words, “an essentially heterogeneous reality.”




There is no mother tongue, only a power takeover by a dominant language within a political multiplicity.




Language stabilizes around a parish, a bishopric, a capital. It forms a bulb. It evolves by subterranean stems and flows, along river valleys or train tracks; it spreads like a patch of oil.




It is always possible to break a language down into internal structural elements, an undertaking not fundamentally different from a search for roots.




There is always something genealogical about a tree. It is not a method for the people.




A method of the rhizome type, on the contrary, can analyze language only by decentering it onto other dimensions and other registers. A language is never closed upon itself, except as a function of impotence.





塊莖思維 03

June 5, 2009

塊莖思維 03


The radicle-system, or fascicular root, is the second figure of the book, to which our modernity pays willing allegiance.




This time, the principal root has aborted, or its tip has been destroyed; an immediate, indefinite multiplicity of secondary roots grafts onto it and undergoes a flourishing development.




This time, natural reality is what aborts the principal root, but the root’s unity subsists, as past or yet to come, as possible.




We must ask if reflexive, spiritual reality does not compensate for this state of things by demanding an even more comprehensive secret unity, or a more extensive totality.




Take William Burroughs’s cut-up method: the folding of one text onto another, which constitutes multiple and even adventitious roots (like a cutting), implies a supplementary dimension to that of the texts under consideration.




In this supplementary dimension of folding, unity continues its spiritual labor.




That is why the most resolutely fragmented work can also be presented as the Total Work or Magnum Opus.




Most modern methods for making series proliferate or a multiplicity grow are perfectly valid in one direction, for example, a linear direction, whereas a unity of totalization asserts itself even more firmly in another, circular or cyclic, dimension.




Whenever a multiplicity is taken up in a structure, its growth is offset by a reduction in its laws of combination.




The abortionists of unity are indeed angel makers, doctores angelici, because they affirm a properly angelic and superior unity.




Joyce’s words, accurately described as having “multiple roots,” shatter the linear unity of the word, even of language, only to posit a cyclic unity of the sentence, text, or knowledge.




Nietzsche’s aphorisms shatter the linear unity of knowledge, only to invoke the cyclic unity of the eternal return, present as the nonknown in thought.




This is as much as to say that the fascicular system does not really break with dualism, with the complementarity between a subject and an object, a natural reality and a spiritual reality: unity is consistently thwarted and obstructed in the object, while a new type of unity triumphs in the subject.




The world has lost its pivot; the subject can no longer even dichotomize, but accedes to a higher unity, of ambivalence or overdetermination, in an always supplementary dimension to that of its object.




The world has become chaos, but the book remains the image of the world: radicle-chaosmos rather than root-cosmos. A strange mystification: a book all the more total for being fragmented.




At any rate, what a vapid idea, the book as the image of the world. In truth, it is not enough to say, “Long live the multiple,” difficult as is to raise that cry. No typographical, lexical, or even syntactical cleverness is enough to make it heard.




The multiple must be made, not by always adding a higher dimension, but rather in the simplest of ways, by dint of sobriety, with the number of dimensions one already has available—always n-1 (the only way the one belongs to the multiple: always subtracted).




Subtract the unique from the multiplicity to be constituted; write at n – I dimensions. A system of this kind could be called a rhizome. A rhizome as subterranean stem is absolutely different from roots and radicles. Bulbs and tubers are rhizomes. Plants with roots or radicles may be rhizomorphic in other respects altogether: the question is whether plant life in its specificity is not entirely rhizomatic.




Even some animals are, in their pack form. Rats are rhizomes. Burrows are too, in all of their functions of shelter, supply, movement, evasion, and breakout. The rhizome itself assumes very diverse forms, from ramified surface extension in all directions to concretion into bulbs and tubers.




When rats swarm over each other. The rhizome includes the best and the worst: potato and couchgrass, or the weed. Animal and plant, couchgrass is crabgrass. We get the distinct feeling that we will convince no one unless we enumerate certain approximate characteristics of the rhizome.






塊莖思維 02

June 5, 2009

A Thousand Plateau by Deleuze



塊莖思維 02


All we talk about are multiplicities, lines, strata and segmentarities, lines of flight and intensities, machinic assemblages and their various types, bodies without organs and their construction and selection, the plane of consistency, and in each case the units of measure.




Stratometers, teleometers, BwO units of density, BwO units of convergence: Not only do these constitute a quantification of writing, but they define writing as always the measure of something else.




Writing has nothing to do with signifying. It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come.




A first type of book is the root-book. The tree is already the image of the world, or the root the image of the world-tree. This is the classical book, as noble, signifying, and subjective organic interiority (the strata of the book).




The book imitates the world, as art imitates nature: by procedures specific to it that accomplish what nature cannot or can no longer do.




The law of the book is the law of reflection, the One that becomes two. How could the law of the book reside in nature, when it is what presides over the very division between world and book, nature and art?




One becomes two: whenever we encounter this formula, even stated strategically by Mao

or understood in the most “dialectical” way possible, what we have before us is the most classical and well reflected, oldest, and weariest kind of thought.




Nature doesn’t work that way: in nature, roots are taproots with a more multiple, lateral, and circular system of ramification, rather than a dichotomous one.




Thought lags behind nature. Even the book as a natural reality is a taproot, with its pivotal

spine and surrounding leaves. But the book as a spiritual reality, the Tree or Root as an image, endlessly develops the law of the One that becomes two, then of the two that become four




Binary logic is the spiritual reality of the root-tree. Even a discipline as “advanced” as

linguistics retains the root-tree as its fundamental image, and thus remains wedded to classical reflection (for example, Chomsky and his grammatical trees, which begin at a point S and proceed by dichotomy).




This is as much as to say that this system of thought has never reached an understanding of multiplicity: in order to arrive at two following a spiritual method it must assume a strong principal unity.




On the side of the object, it is no doubt possible, following the natural method, to go directly from One to three, four, or five, but only if there is a strong principal unity available, that of the pivotal taproot supporting the secondary roots. That doesn’t get us very far.




The binary logic of dichotomy has simply been replaced by biunivocal relationships between successive circles. The pivotal taproot provides no better understanding of multiplicity than the dichotomous root. One operates in the object, the other in the subject.




Binary logic and biunivocal relationships still dominate psychoanalysis (the tree of delusion in the Freudian interpretation of Schreber’s case), linguistics, structuralism, and even information science.





塊莖思維 01

June 4, 2009

A Thousand Plateaus 千高台

By Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari 德勒茲及瓜達里

1. Introduction: Rhizome 塊莖思維

The two of us wrote Anti-Oedipus together. Since each of us was several, there was already quite a crowd.


 Here we have made use of everything that came within range, what was closest as well as farthest away.


 We assigned clever pseudonyms to prevent recognition. Why have we kept our own names? Out of habit, purely out of habit.


To make ourselves unrecognizable in turn. To render imperceptible, not ourselves, but what makes us act, feel, and think.


Also because it’s nice to talk like everybody else, to say the sun rises, when everybody knows it’s only a manner of speaking.


 To reach, not the point where one no longer says I, but the point where it is no longer of any importance whether one says I.


 We are no longer ourselves. Each will know his own. We have been aided, inspired, multiplied.


A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds.


To attribute the book to a subject is to overlook this working of matters, and the exteriority of their relations. It is to fabricate a beneficent God to explain geological movements.


In a book, as in all things, there are lines of articulation segmentarity, strata and territories; but also lines of flight, movement deterritorialization and destratification.


Comparative rates of flow on these lines produce phenomena of relative slowness and viscosity, or, on the contrary, of acceleration and rupture.


 All this, lines and measurable speeds, constitutes an assemblage. A book is an assemblage of this kind, and as such is unattributable.


It is a multiplicity-but we don’t know yet at what the multiple entails when it is no longer attributed, that is, after it has been elevated to the status of a substantive.


 One side of a machinic assemblage faces the strata, which doubtless make it a kind of organism, or signing totality, or determination attributable to a subject; it also has a side facing a body without organs, which is continually dismantling the organism, causing asignifying particles or pure intensities to pass or circulate, and attributing to itself subjects that it leaves with nothing more than a name as the trace of an intensity.


What is the body without organs of a book? There are several, depending on the nature of the lines considered, their particular grade or density, and the possibility of their converging on “plane of consistency” assuring their selection.


 Here, as elsewhere, the units of measure are what is essential: quantify writing. There is no difference between what a book talks about and how it is made. Therefore a book has no object.

在此,如同在別處,測量的單位是基本的:量化寫作。這本書談些什麼及如何寫作其實沒有不同。 因此,這本書沒有客體。

As an assemblage, a book has only itself, in connection with other assemblages and in relation to other bodies without organs.


We will never ask what a book means, as signified or signifier; we will not look for anything to understand in it. We will ask what it functions with, in connection with what other things it does or does not transmit intensities, in which other multiplicities its own are inserted and metamorphosed, and with what bodies without organs it makes its own converge.


A book exists only through the outside and on the outside. A book itself is a little machine; what is the relation (also measurable) of this literary machine to a war machine, love machine, revolutionary machine, etc.-and an abstract machine that sweeps them along?


We have been criticized for overquoting literary authors. But when one writes, the only question is which other machine the literary machine can be plugged into, must be plugged into in order to work.


Kleist and a mad war machine, Kafka and a most extraordinary bureaucratic machine … (What if one became animal or plant through literature, which certainly does not mean literarily? Is it not first through the voice that one becomes animal?)


Literature is an assemblage. It has nothing to do with ideology. There is no ideology and never has been.


 塊莖思維001 雄伯譯


May 29, 2009

荒漠之島 01

Desert Islands by Deleuze 德勒茲

Geographers say there are two kinds of islands. This is valuable information for the imagination because it confirms 肯定what the imagination already knew.




Nor is it the only case where science makes mythology more concrete 具體的, and mythology makes science more vivid 生動. Continental islands are accidental, derived得來的 islands.




They are separated from a continent, born of disarticulation 分離 , erosion 腐蝕, fracture 斷裂; they survive the absorption 吸收of what once contained 包容 them.




Oceanic islands are originary 原創, essential islands. Some are formed from coral reefs 珊瑚礁and display a genuine 真正的 organism 有機體




Others emerge from underwater eruptions 爆發, bringing to the light of day a movement from the lowest depths. Some rise slowly; some disappear and then return, leaving us no time to annex 合併 them.




These two kinds of islands, continental 大陸and originary, reveal a profound opposition 相對between ocean and land.




Continental islands serve as a reminder 提醒 that the sea is on top of the earth, taking advantage of the slightest sagging 下垂 in the highest structures; oceanic islands, that the earth is still there, under the sea, gathering its strength to punch 敲擊 through to the surface.




We can assume that these elements are in constant strife 衝突, displaying a repulsion 嫌惡 for one another. In this we find nothing to reassure 使安心 us.




Also, that an island is deserted must appear philosophically normal to us. Humans cannot live, nor live in security 安全, unless they assume that the active struggle between earth and water is over, or at least contained 包容




People like to call these two elements mother and father, assigning them gender 性別 roles according to the whim 幻想 of their fancy.




They must somehow persuade themselves that a struggle of this kind does not exist, or that it has somehow ended.




In one way or another, the very existence of islands is the negation of this point of view, of this effort, this conviction.




That England is populated will always come as a surprise; humans can live on an island only by forgetting what an island represents. Islands are either from before or for after humankind.




But everything that geography has told us about the two kinds of islands, the imagination knew already on its own and in another way.




The elan that draws humans toward islands extends the double movement that produces islands in themselves.




Dreaming of islands—whether with joy or in fear, it doesn’t matter—is dreaming of pulling away, of being already separate, far from any continent, of being lost and alone—or it is dreaming of starting from scratch, recreating, beginning anew. Some islands drifted 漂浮 away from the continent, but the island is also that toward which one drifts; other islands originated 起源於in the ocean, but the island is also the origin, radical 激進  and absolute 絕對.




Certainly, separating and creating are not mutually 互相 exclusive 排除: one has to hold one’s own when one is separated, and had better be separate to create anew; nevertheless, one of the two tendencies 傾向 always predominates 佔優勢. In this way, the movement of the imagination of islands takes up the movement of their production, but they don’t have the same objective 目標.




It is the same movement, but a different goal. It is no longer the island that is separated from the continent, it is humans who find themselves separated from the world when on an island.




 It is no longer the island that is created from the bowels of the earth through the liquid depths, it is humans who create the world anew from the island and on the waters. Humans thus take up for themselves both movements of the island and are able to do so on an island that, precisely, lacks one kind of movement: humans can drift toward an island that is nonetheless originary, and they can create on an island that has merely drifted away.




On closer inspection, we find here a new reason for every island to be and remain in theory deserted.




An island doesn’t stop being deserted simply because it is inhabited. While it is true that the movement of humans toward and on the island takes up the movement of the island prior to humankind, some people can occupy the island—it is still deserted, all the more so, provided they are sufficiently, that is, absolutely separate, and provided they are sufficient, absolute creators.




Certainly, this is never the case in fact, though people who are shipwrecked approach such a condition. But for this to be the case, we need only extrapolate 推論 in imagination the movement they bring with them to the island.





Only in appearance does such a movement put an end to the island’s desertedness; in reality, it takes up and prolongs the elan that produced the island as deserted. Far from compromising it, humans bring the desertedness to its perfection and highest point.




In certain conditions which attach them to the very movement of things, humans do not put an end to desertedness, they make it sacred.




Those people who come to the island indeed occupy and populate it; but in reality, were they sufficiently separate, sufficiently creative, they would give the island only a dynamic image of itself, a consciousness of the movement which produced the island, such that through them the island would in the end become conscious of itself as deserted and unpeopled.




The island would be only the dream of humans, and humans, the pure consciousness of the island. For this to be the case, there is again but one condition: humans would have to reduce themselves to the movement that brings them to the island, the movement which prolongs and takes up the elan that produced the island. Then geography and the imagination would be one.




To that question so dear to the old explorers—”which creatures live on deserted islands?”—one could only answer: human beings live there already, but uncommon humans, they are absolutely separate, absolute creators, in short, an Idea of humanity, a prototype, a man who would almost be a god, a woman who would be a goddess, a great Amnesiac, a pure Artist, a consciousness of Earth and Ocean, an enormous hurricane, a beautiful witch, a statue from the Easter Islands.




There you have a human being who precedes itself. Such a creature on a deserted island would be the deserted island itself, insofar as it imagines and reflects itself in its first movement.




A consciousness of the earth and ocean, such is the deserted island, ready to begin the world anew. But since human beings, even voluntarily, are not identical to the movement that puts them on the island, they are unable to join with the elan that produces the island; they always encounter it from the outside, and their presence in fact spoils its desertedness.




The unity of the deserted island and its inhabitant is thus not actual, only imaginary, like the idea of looking behind the curtain when one is not behind it. More importantly, it is doubtful whether the individual imagination, unaided, could raise itself up to such an admirable identity; it would require the collective imagination, what is most profound in it, i.e. rites and mythology.




In the facts themselves we find at least a negative confirmation of all this, if we consider what a deserted island is in reality, that is, geographically. The island, and all the more so the deserted island, is an extremely poor or weak notion from the point of view of geography.




This is to its credit. The range of islands has no objective unity, and deserted islands have even less. The deserted island may indeed have extremely poor soil. Deserted, the island may be a desert, but not necessarily.




The real desert is uninhabited only insofar as it presents no conditions that by rights would make life possible, whether vegetable, animal, or human. On the contrary, the lack of inhabitants on the deserted island is a pure fact due to circumstance, in other words, the island’s surroundings.




The island is what the sea surrounds and what we travel around. It is like an egg. An egg of the sea, it is round. It is as though the island had pushed its desert outside. What is deserted is the ocean around it. It is by virtue of circumstance, for other reasons than the principle on which the island depends, that ships pass in the distance and never come ashore.





The island is deserted more than it is a desert. So much so, that in itself the island may contain the liveliest of rivers, the most agile fauna, the brightest flora, the most amazing nourishment, the hardiest of savages, and the castaway as its most precious fruit, it may even contain, however momentarily, the ship that comes to take him away. For all that, it is not any less a deserted island.




To change this situation, we would have to overhaul the general distribution of the continents, the state of the seas, and the lines of navigation.




This is to state once again that the essence of the deserted island is imaginary and not actual, mythological and not geographical. At the same time, its destiny is subject to those human conditions that make mythology possible.




Mythology is not simply willed into existence, and the peoples of the earth quickly ensured they would no longer understand their own myths. It is at this very moment literature begins.




Literature is the attempt to interpret, in an ingenious way, the myths we no longer understand, at the moment we no longer understand them, since we no longer know how to dream them or reproduce them.




Literature is the competition of misinterpretations that consciousness naturally and necessarily produces on themes of the unconscious, and like every competition it has its prizes. One would have to show exactly how in this sense mythology fails and dies in two classic novels of the deserted island, Robinson and Suzanne.




Suzanne and the Pacific emphasizes the separated aspect of islands, the separation of the young woman who finds herself there;1 Robinson Crusoe, the creative aspect, the beginning anew.




It is true that the way mythology fails is different in each case. In the case of Giraudoux’s Suzanne, mythology dies the prettiest, most graceful death. In Robinson’s case, its death is heavy indeed.




One can hardly imagine a more boring novel, and it is sad to see children still reading it today. Robinson’s vision of the world resides exclusively in property; never have we seen an owner more ready to preach.





The mythical recreation of the world from the deserted island gives way to the reconstitution of everyday bourgeois life from a reserve of capital. Everything is taken from the ship. Nothing is invented.




It is all painstakingly applied on the island. Time is nothing but the time necessary for capital to produce a benefit as the outcome of work. And the providential function of God is to guarantee a return.




God knows his people, the hardworking honest type, by their beautiful properties, and the evil doers, by their poorly maintained, shabby property. Robinson’s companion is not Eve, but Friday, docile towards work, happy to be a slave, and too easily disgusted by cannibalism.




Any healthy reader would dream of seeing him eat Robinson. Robinson Crusoe represents the best illustration of that thesis which affirms the close ties between capitalism and Protestantism. The novel develops the failure and the death of mythology in Puritanism.




Things are quite different with Suzanne. In her case, the deserted island is a depository of ready-made, luxurious objects. The island bears immediately what it has taken civilization centuries to produce, perfect, and ripen. But mythology still dies, though in Suzanne’s case it dies in a particularly Parisian way.




Suzanne has nothing to create anew. The deserted island provides her with the double of every object from the city, in the windows of the shops; it is a double without consistency, separated from the real, since it does not receive the solidity that objects ordinarily take on in human relations, amidst buying and selling, exchanges and presents. She is an insipid young woman. Her companions are not Adam, but young cadavers, and when she reenters the world of living men, she will love them in a uniform way, like a priest, as though love were the minimum threshold of her perception.




What must be recovered is the mythological life of the deserted island. However, in its very failure, Robinson gives us some indication 指示: he first needed a reserve 儲存 of capital 資本.




In Suzanne’s case, she was first and foremost separate. And neither the one nor the other could be part of a couple.




These three indications must be restored to their mythological purity 純淨 We have to get back to the movement of the imagination that makes the deserted island a model, a prototype 原型 of the collective soul.





First, it is true that from the deserted island it is not creation but re-creation, not the beginning but a re-beginning that takes place. The deserted island is the origin, but a second origin.




From it everything begins anew. The island is the necessary minimum 最小量 for this re-beginning, the material that survives the first origin, the radiating 燦爛的seed 種子 or egg that must be sufficient 足夠 to re-produce everything.




Clearly, this presupposes 預先假設 that the formation of the world happens in two stages, in two periods of time, birth and re-birth, and that the second is just as necessary and essential as the first, and thus the first is necessarily compromised 妥協, born for renewal 重生and already renounced 抨擊 in a catastrophe 災難.




It is not that there is a second birth because there has been a catastrophe, but the reverse 相反, there is a catastrophe after the origin because there must be, from the beginning, a second birth.




Within ourselves we can locate the source of such a theme: it is not the production of life that we look for when we judge it to be life, but its reproduction. The animal whose mode of reproduction remains unknown to us has not yet taken its place among living beings.




It is not enough that everything begins, everything must begin again once the cycle of possible combinations has come to completion. The second moment does not succeed the first: it is the reappearance of the first when the cycle of the other moments has been completed.




The second origin is thus more essential than the first, since it gives us the law of repetition, the law of the series, whose first origin gave us only moments. But this theme, even more than in our fantasies, finds expression in every mythology.




 It is well known as the myth of the flood. The ark sets down on the one place on earth that remains uncovered by water, a circular and sacred place, from which the world begins anew.




It is an island or a mountain, or both at once: the island is a mountain under water, and the mountain, an island that is still dry. Here we see original creation caught in a re-creation, which is concentrated in a holy land in the middle of the ocean.




This second origin of the world is more important than the first: it is a sacred island. Many myths recount that what we find there is an egg, a cosmic 宇宙的egg. Since the island is a second origin, it is entrusted 信托給 to man and not to the gods. It is separate, separated by the massive expanse 一大片 of the flood.




Ocean and water embody a principle of segregation such that, on sacred islands, exclusively female communities can come to be, such as the island of Circe or Calypso.




After all, the beginning started from God and from a couple, but not the new beginning, the beginning again, which starts from an egg: mythological maternity 母親 is often a parthenogenesis 單性生殖.




The idea of a second origin gives the deserted island its whole meaning, the survival of a sacred 神聖的place in a world that is slow to re-begin. In the ideal of beginning anew there is something that precedes the beginning itself, that takes it up to deepen it and delay it in the passage of time. The desert island is the material of this something immemorial 遠古的, this something most profound 深刻..