A note on structure:
This book isn’t a scholarly work. It comes from outside academia, which gives it some freedom from some academic convention. Although I write in the genre and style of philosophy, my hope is that those less acquainted with the nuance of particular discussions and philosophers will derive meaning from this text — that references to ‘big names’ or concepts can be glossed over without much loss.
The book is for those who are interested in responding to calls from beings all around us: environmentalists, anthropologists, those who love plants, animals, and other living beings, including other cultures, those who are fighting to dismantle colonialism and the dominion of capitalism, and those who feel that responsivity is at the core of living well.
The book is organized in a series of sections.[3] Within each chapter (I-III), also called layers, there are 108 sections. Sections flow successively (horizontally): e.g., in the first chapter are sections 1.1, 1.2, 1.3…1.108, then comes the next chapter (2.1, 2.2, 2.3…2.108), and finally the third. Sections also flow vertically: 1.1, 2.1, 3.1. I call these sectional overlays. Thus, we can leap through each chapter and read the first sections together, then the second sections, and so on. Thus, the book is structured so one can read front-to-back or by leaps, horizontally or vertically.[4]
The book has resonances both within layers (e.g., 1.1, 1.2, 1.3…) and between layers (e.g., 1.1, 2.1, 3.1). Yet, while there are intra-layer resonances available to be explored, the text is meant to be read, at least at first and most completely, in the regular front-to-back direction.
Each layer has a unique flavour. The first layer, chapter I (e.g., 1.1, 1.2, 1.3), is tightly aphoristic in structure, concerned with the theme of transformation and an introduction to basic concepts. The second layer, chapter II (e.g., 2.1, 2.2, 2.3), is written in prose paragraphs; it engages more overtly with the history of philosophy and draws out arguments and assumptions of layer I. And the third and final layer, chapter III, is a quasi-theology, a mythic layer, that strives to think the onto-theological differently.
Like a bell or curtain drawing us across a threshold, each layer begins and ends, opens and closes, with what I call a bow quote. These quotes introduce an intentional element—they strike a dominant tone for the chapter—as though we’re bowing before entering a dojo, kwoon, or hall, and again as we leave. Or, as though we draw the bow, ready for a target; ready for the cello’s strings and its resonances. Our intention, focused, like a graceful ribbon, knotted; a boat that sets out to sea, and returns to harbour. In each layer, we set out on an adventure, and return.[5]
Because each layer resonates with previous and future layers, our journey traces a spiral: a whirlpool, where each circle occurs on a slightly different plane and level of resonance. Thus, we approach the middle of a circle: the transformative experience, that which draws this text into being with its gravity and the space it creates. Thus, imperceptibly, we approach the experience of transformation. But, at times, we ripple out from the experience, a reversing whirlpool, a pool with a stone tossed in the middle. — We move, at turns towards, at turns away from the middle, in a tidal system created by the experience of transformation and the attempt to write about it. We do not travel in a simple, unbroken line.
In tracing this path, I found I couldn’t write as if things were settled: it’s as though I’ve seen shapes and figures in the distance, with glimpses of them here and there up close. Not that my text is ill-defined or needs more precision, but this just may be how this landscape is. Thus, I invite the reader into this particular vein of unsettled thoughts, where writing forges its own path, forced into and forcing its own twists and turns, like a river in the heart of a forest. Writing is never fully transparent. It’s as though you have in your hands a sheet of stained glass. Or perhaps three sheets, layered on top of one another.
I tend to think aphoristically — thoughts bubble to the surface from the din of many voices, like horses in battle who suddenly breach the enemy’s lines. The first layer is the most aphoristic in form, which is why I’ve provided the reader with this foreword as a kind of guide. If the first proves too austere, the reader may wish to start on the second layer, or skim the first, and return to the first layer in more depth at a later time.
My thinking is indebted to many who have come before. In addition to Heidegger and Zwicky, my influences include Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, Husserl, Foucault, Deleuze, Rancière, Watsuji, and Derrida. Again, this book should be of interest even if you don’t know these thinkers at all.
In all honesty, I’m probably a bad philosopher: what you have here may be better described as a painting or musical composition, with swatches of colour and tones struck at various intervals. — Perhaps it’s a bell, several bells, tolling from across the intervals of a city, one rooftop to the next, from buildings for which no one can remember the use. May the tones be pleasing—engaging and helpful—and may this place be welcoming to you in your time here.
[3] In text, the symbol ‘§’ is used to denote “section.”
[4] A navigator with four links will appear on the bottom of most pages. The right and left links move you forward or backward, respectively, and the bottom and top enable you to jump to another section in the overlay, forward or back, respectively. If you’re in the first or last chapter, the bottom or top links will loop you back to the corresponding sections in the last or first chapters, respectively. See the “Navigating the Site” page for more details, which comes after this Foreword.
[5] The navigator uses X.109 for the bow quote at the end of a chapter, and X.0 for the bow quote at the start of a chapter. This is merely for ease of use: the bow quotes are not strictly speaking sections in a chapter.