2
3diacritics / summer 2003
THE SUSPENDED
SUBSTANTIVE
ON ANIMALS AND MEN IN GIORGIO
AGAMBENʼS THE OPEN
LELAND DE LA DURANTAYE
Giorgio Agamben. THE OPEN: MAN AND ANIMAL. Trans. Kevin Attell. Stanford:
Stanford UP, 2004. [O] Trans. of Lʼ aperto: Lʼ uomo e lʼanimale. Torino: Bollati
Boringhieri, 2002. [A]
With a title as enigmatic as The Open, the reader might well wonder, “the open what?”
Is the titleʼs adjective to stand alone? Does it need no substantive to support it? This
unfamiliar title is not what one might fi rst guess—it is not an awkward translation from
the workʼs original title. No substantive follows in the original, and none is meant to.
The idea that gives Agambenʼs book its title is that of an openness which is uncondi-
tioned—and perhaps unconditional, an openness which is unspecifi ed—and perhaps
unspecifi able.
If the answer to the question “the open what?” can be answered with no substan-
tive, might we ask in what this opening occurs? Between what more substantive things
has an indefi nable space been opened? The fi rst answer to the question can be found
in the workʼs subtitle—Man and Animal. The open space in question is that which
separates and distinguishes man from animal. Philosophers, anthropologists, social
scientists, zoologists, chemists, taxonomists—and many others—have had no small
diffi culty in agreeing upon the matter.
Philosophers have traditionally had a low opinion of animals [cf. de Fontenay].
Descartes had especially little respect for the minds of animals and infl uentially classi-
fi ed them as automata mechanica. As Agamben notes, the great naturalist and taxono-
mist Linnaeus responded to this assertion with the laconic rejoinder: “Descartes obvi-
ously never saw an ape” [cf. O 23/A 30; translation modifi ed]. Philosophers have been
more eager than taxonomists to put distance between themselves and the animals—and
for this reason have been particularly interested in studying what separates man from
animal. The last great philosophical attempt in this regard is that of Martin Heidegger.
Despite his preference for the primordial, his openness to the woods and the wilder-
ness, his opinion of animals ʼfaculties was not much higher than that of Descartes. In
his view, animals live in an environment in which they are receptive to various stimuli,
but where they have nothing approximating what we call a “world”—animals are, as
he claims, “poor in world” (weltarm)—or even “without world” (weltlos). They live
in such intense and incessant proximity to their environment and its stimuli that they
do not see the existential forest for the environmental trees. They can never take a step
away from the immediacy of their perception and for this reason cannot be said to pos-
sess a “world” in the sense that man, in Heideggerʼs view, does.
As mentioned above, the title The Open is, for all its strangeness, not the result of
diacritics 33.2: 3–9
Derek Young
muse
4
an awkward translation from Agambenʼs Italian. Its strangeness stems, nevertheless, in
large part from a translation. Or, to be more precise, from two translations. The fi rst of
these is from the German. The German in question is a special one—that of the pro-
foundly idiosyncratic technical vocabulary that Heidegger fashioned for his philosoph-
ical purposes. For Heidegger, “the open” is something literally fundamental which lay
at the heart of his thought. “The open” is the space revealed to us in the moment when
the world we live in, which because of our many tasks and travails we tend to take no
distance from (like animals with their stimuli), opens out onto something larger. This
moment of distancing ourselves from our everyday concern with means and ends, with
stimuli and response, is what gives us not just an environment, but a “world.” “The
open” is what we fi nd ourselves in when the bustle and haste of our environment re-
cedes and we see that environment in all its strangeness and immensity—as a “world,”
greater and less graspable than our restricted and fi nite representations. This experience
of “the open” is, for Heidegger, what makes us human, and what separates us from the
animals. And this open moment lies at the origin of philosophy: the humbling—and
potentially frightening—moment of wonder that spurred speculation into the fi ner and
deeper reason for things. As was his wont, Heidegger introduces a special phrase to
describe this experience of acceding to the open, “the world worlds,” “die Welt weltet”
and in the very next sentence states that “the rock has no world. Plants and animals also
have no world” [Holzwege 31].1 When the world, strangely enough, worlds, we fi nd
that world open before us; we are standing, to adopt Heideggerʼs terms, in a “clearing,”
a step away from both trees and forest. The world is no longer too much with us, and
we suddenly see trees, forest, and ourselves in an uneasy and changing relation to one
another.
“The open” is a term amongst many in Heideggerʼs technical vocabulary—ulti-
mately one that found little place in his later philosophy. It nevertheless played a crucial
role in the development of that philosophy. This is most clearly visible, as Agamben
points out, in Heideggerʼs lectures in Freiburg in the fall semester 1942–43. In the
midst of the most bitter and brutal combat, Heidegger was lecturing on Parmenides.
The course was dedicated in large part to the translation of a single word—but a cru-
cial one—aletheia, “truth.” Heidegger suggested a number of ways of translating the
term, but the fourth and fi nal way was as “das Offene und das Freie der Lichtung des
Seins”—literally, “The open and the free in the clearing of being”—or, more simply, as
“the open” [Parmenides 195]. In his woodland terminology, Lichtung, a clearing (as in
a forest), is etymologically a “light-ing,” an opening and an illumination. The “open”
then corresponds to originary truth: it is the open space in which truth in its original
(Greek) meaning took place. It stands thus, for Heidegger, at the heart of philosophy:
at the heart of its history and its essence.
In these lectures, fi rst published in 1993,2 it seems that Heidegger arrived at his
translation by sounding the concealed depths not only of ancient Greek, but also of
modern German. This modern German was a poetic one—that of Rilke. As he intro-
duces his translation of Parmenidesʼs term for truth, Heidegger is well aware that the
unusual expression “the open” will lead his listeners to think of Rilkeʼs celebrated
Duino Elegies (1923) and, in particular, to Rilkeʼs repeated use of the curious term
1. One might compare the curious phrase “the world worlds,” with an equally curious one
which Heidegger coined for the opposite movement: “the de-worlding of the world [Entweltlic-
hung der Welt]” [65].
2. These lecture notes were published as volume 54 of Heidegger sʼ complete works. The
Italian edition wrongly lists this volume as the forty-fourth (“XLIV”) in the series. Attell sʼ trans-
lation repeats this error, reproducing the bibliographical material from the Italian edition while
simply translating the Roman numeral (“44”).
5diacritics / summer 2003
in the eighth elegy (though neither Heidegger nor Agamben notes this, the term had a
longer poetic history and had in fact been used by Hölderlin in one of his most famous
poems, “Bread and Wine”: “So komm! dass wir das Offene schauen . . .”). Rilkeʼs el-
egy begins: “With all its eyes the creature sees / the open” (“Mit allen Augen sieht die
Kreatur / das Offene”) [Rilke 2.224]. In his poem, we (mankind) are excluded from
this glimpse of the open granted to all other creatures. Years earlier, on a visit to Parisʼs
Jardin des Plantes, Rilkeʼs sensitive eye had been captured by a panther. For Rilkeʼs
panther, captivity was the central fact of his existence. “It seems to him,” wrote Rilke
of his great cat, that, “there are / a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world” [Rilke
1.469]. What interested Rilke was how impenetrable, how full of incommunicable will,
strength, and silence the animal was; what awakened his poetic sensibilities was how
closed off that animalʼs world was. The worldlessness of the animal proves in the later
poem to be the fruit not of his nature but of his confi nement. In the eighth elegy, the un-
named animal (“die Kreatur”) is accorded a different glimpse of the world: it sees that
world in all its openness. It sees what fear of death and fear of life prevent humans, the
smartest and saddest of creatures, from seeing: the world in all its intense and intercon-
nected immediacy.
Heidegger is quick to distance himself from this immediacy. Though, as he notes,
he and Rilke are employing the same term, the same “wording” (Heidegger repeat-
edly uses the term Wortlaut instead of the simpler Wort), “what is being named,” says
Heidegger of his use of the term “the open,” “is so different that no opposition could
hope to convey it,” as “oppositions—even the most extreme—demand that those things
which are to be opposed to one another can be placed in the same realm” [Parmenides
226]. “The open” that Rilke praises and sees refl ected in the eyes of animals is, for
Heidegger, mere blindness. This is a blindness of a particular sort: historical blindness.
Rilkeʼs problem, his misapprehension of the deep meaning of the term “the open” and
his consequent inconsequent use of it, following Heidegger, stems from his unthinking
adoption of a traditional view of the relation of man to animal typical of a fundamen-
tally unrefl ective modernity [cf. Heidegger, Parmenides 231, 235]. “The open,” Hei-
deggerʼs translation of Greek truth, is a different one than that which Rilke famously
invoked. It is deeper, richer—and it is that which distinguishes us from the animals. It
is not the animals who see “the open”—they are open to nothing but stimuli. According
to Heidegger, we alone see “the open.”
This is the point at which Agamben takes his title and enters the discussion. Agam-
ben neither laments Rilkeʼs historico-ontological naiveté, nor accuses Heidegger of in-
sensitivity toward poetry or animals. His interest is fi xed upon another point—the open
place where he feels that the two irreconcilable positions meet—the point at which
the animalʼs unhindered openness, or receptivity, to stimuli in its environment and
manʼs openness to the world in all its ungraspable immensity converge. One might
ask whether these two types of openness, these two types of receptivity have anything
in common, whether they bear the weight of comparison. For Heidegger, they clearly
do not. Agambenʼs assumptions that they do leads him to conceive of another type of
openness than either Rilke or Heidegger had conceived of, an openness of inactivity, of
disengagement from oneʼs environment and, perhaps, oneʼs world.3
3. Neither Heidegger nor Agamben seems aware that Rilke appears to have borrowed his
enigmatic term from a specifi c source: the German writer Alfred Schuler. Schuler enjoyed a cer-
tain celebrity at the turn of the nineteenth century and belonged along with Ludwig Klages and
others to the so called Munich Kosmiker. In 1917–18, Rilke heard a lecture by Schuler and met
the author afterwards. He was so fascinated by what Schuler had to say that he returned when
the lecture series, entitled “The Eternal City,” was repeated. The curious substantive “the open”
is employed repeatedly by Schuler, alongside the term “open” in its linguistic variants. In the life
6
The openness that interests Agamben is then not one of daily immersion in im-
mediate stimuli and short-term tasks, nor an exalting in the immensity and strange-
ness of the world, but of a special sort of inactivity, which he uses another strange
substantive to denote—the French term désœuvrement (“inoperativity”; inoperosità).
Agamben dedicates signifi cant passages of The Open to the exegesis of this term—both
at the beginning of the book, in his discussion of the debate which grew up around it
between Georges Bataille and Alexandre Kojève, and, at the bookʼs end, where the
penultimate chapter bears the title Désœuvrement (the title is left in French in both the
Italian original and the English translation—though in both the original and the trans-
lation the word is curiously misspelled). This is far from the fi rst time Agamben has
confronted the idea. It is one that excited the intense interest of two writers Agamben
feels close to, the late Maurice Blanchot and Jean-Luc Nancy, who both wrote works
centered around this term in Batailleʼs work, and its applications and absence of appli-
cations beyond it [cf. Blanchot, Nancy]. In The Coming Community (1990), Agamben
indirectly responded to Blanchotʼs and Nancyʼs speculations on désœuvrement, com-
munity, communism, and identity in novel fashion. In his next work, Homo Sacer, he
traced the termʼs genealogy as well as offering his own singular interpretation of it.
Therein he writes that “the only coherent way to understand inoperativeness is to think
of it as a generic mode of potentiality [potenza] that is not exhausted (like individual
action or collective action understood as the sum of individual actions) in a transitus
de potentia ad actum” [62, 71]. For Bataille, the term meant a radical refutation of the
utilitarian aims of modern society and modern philosophy (represented for him by
Hegelʼs dialectic), a commitment to inactivity and excess, a refusal to contribute to
the great work (the œuvre of dés-œuvre-ment) of history. For Agamben, it is this and
more—désœuvrement is not about exhaustion or even excess but, curiously enough, of
what he calls potentiality. It represents an energy that has not been exhausted, energy
that cannot be exhausted in the passing of the potential to the actual (“transitus de po-
tentia ad actum”). In the postface to a new Italian edition of The Coming Community,
Agamben recenters his speculations in that work around the idea of inoperativeness,
and suggests that the term might form a “paradigm for politics”: “Inoperativeness does
not signify inertia, but rather katargesis—that is to say an operation in which the as if
integrally replaces the that, in which formless life and lifeless form coincide in a form
of life [Inoperosità non signifi ca inerzia, ma katargesis—cioè unʼoperazione in cui il
come si sostituisce integralmente al che, in cui la vita senza forma e le forme senza vita
coincidono in una forma di vita]”; “. . . not work, but inoperativeness [is] the paradigm
of the coming politics [Non il lavoro, ma inoperosità [è] il paradigma della politica
che viene]” [93]. Inoperativeness is not laziness or inactivity, but in Agambenʼs relating
of the term to the Greek katargesis, it is the open space where formless life and lifeless
form meet in a distinct life-form and form of living—and which life-form and form of
living is rich with its own singular potentiality. This is “the open” that Agambenʼs title
strives to name.
In Agambenʼs fi rst work, a study of art and aesthetics in their progress from Plato
to the present entitled The Man without Content (1970), the fi nal two chapters of the
work occupy themselves with two divergent thinkers: the next-to-last chapter with Hei-
degger, the last with Walter Benjamin. This fi rst work sets a precedent in this regard.
Virtually all of Agambenʼs works present novel interpretations of Heideggerʼs thought;
and virtually all of his works follow these novel interpretations of Heidegger with
novel interpretations of Benjamin.
Schuler calls for (“offenen Leben”), “there is no religion because life as such is the religious fact
[Tatsache]”; “In the open life there is no possession, no property” [qtd. in Rilke 2: 267]. The
political tone of Schuler sʼ conceptions of “the open” is close to Agamben sʼ, if not always close
to Rilke sʼ.
7diacritics / summer 2003
Two years after the seminar on Parmenides, Heidegger was tried for his involve-
ment with the Nazi party. In punishment for his active membership in the Nazi party,
Heidegger was banned from university teaching from 1945 until 1950, at which time he
offi cially retired. In his native Germany, this meant his retreating ever more profoundly
into his hut in the Black Forest. More than twenty years later, at the invitation of the
French poet René Char, who had played an active and courageous role in the French
Resistance, Heidegger gave a series of unoffi cial seminars at Charʼs home in Le Thor
(Provence). The young Giorgio Agamben was amongst the select few present for these
seminars, and the experience, by his own description, changed his life. Hitherto, his in-
terests had been largely literary, philological, and juridical. When asked in an interview
for the French daily Libération about these seminars, he stated that it was then, for him,
that, “philosophy fi rst became possible” (“la philosophie est devenue possible”). He
continued: “That is the real interest of encounters—in life as in thought: they serve to
make life possible (or, at times, impossible). In any event, that is what happened with
my meeting Heidegger—and, at nearly the same time, with my coming into contact
with Benjaminʼs thought. Every great work contains an element of darkness and poi-
son—for which it does not always offer an antidote. Benjamin was for me the antidote
that allowed me to survive Heidegger [cʼest bien cela lʼintérêt des rencontres, dans la
vie comme dans la pensée: ils servent à nous rendre la vie possible (ou impossible, par-
fois). En tout cas, cʼest ce que mʼest arrivé avec Heidegger et, presque dans les mêmes
années, avec la pensée de Benjamin. Toute grande œuvre contient une part dʼombre et
de poison, contre laquelle elle ne nous fournit pas toujours lʼantidote. Benjamin a été
pour moi cet antidote, qui mʼa aidé à survivre à Heidegger]” [“Agamben, le chercheur
dʼhomme” ii–iii].
It is perhaps this role as antidote which explains the curious and decisive role Ben-
jaminʼs refl ections play in Agambenʼs works. From The Man without Content onwards,
there is a recurrent pattern of a sort of Benjamin ex machina where at the end of an
essay or work the contradictions uncovered are, if not resolved, placed in a new—and
more hopeful—light thanks to a particular insight culled from Benjaminʼs thought.
The Open is no exception in this regard. After six chapters of Heideggerian exegesis
(chapters 12 through 17), Agamben turns abruptly to Benjamin. Just as the knot of Hei-
deggerian reasoning has begun to tighten around man and animal, a new light is offered
through a conception of the open taken from Benjaminʼs reference in a letter from 1923
to “the saved night.” The chapterʼs title is “Between” (“Tra”) and suggests a different
form of the open glimpsed in this strangely redeemed night. This openness is what
Benjamin elsewhere called the “dialectic at a standstill,” the “between” or “interval”
between two terms or two coordinates—an unresolved opposition, a désœuvrement at
the heart of a dialectic which had hitherto known no standstill [O 83, 85].
In a number of essays, Agamben speaks of an authorʼs having a single most person-
al and intimate “gesture.”4 If we were to apply this principle to Agambenʼs own writing,
we might fi nd such an intimate and defi ning gesture in the curious idea of a “division
of division.” This gesture is best seen in a philological emendation which Agamben
makes in his remarkable work on Saint Paulʼs Letter to the Romans. In glossing the
suspension of the divisions that separate men (such as Jew/Gentile, circumcised/uncir-
cumcised, married/single, and so forth) which is to characterize the messianic kingdom
invoked by Saint Paul, Agamben directs his readerʼs attention to a curious passage in
Benjaminʼs unfi nished fi nal work. There
本文档为【On Animals and Men in Giorgio Agamben's The Open】,请使用软件OFFICE或WPS软件打开。作品中的文字与图均可以修改和编辑,
图片更改请在作品中右键图片并更换,文字修改请直接点击文字进行修改,也可以新增和删除文档中的内容。
该文档来自用户分享,如有侵权行为请发邮件ishare@vip.sina.com联系网站客服,我们会及时删除。
[版权声明] 本站所有资料为用户分享产生,若发现您的权利被侵害,请联系客服邮件isharekefu@iask.cn,我们尽快处理。
本作品所展示的图片、画像、字体、音乐的版权可能需版权方额外授权,请谨慎使用。
网站提供的党政主题相关内容(国旗、国徽、党徽..)目的在于配合国家政策宣传,仅限个人学习分享使用,禁止用于任何广告和商用目的。