Index for A Non-Philosophical Theory of Nature: Ecologies of Thought Book Event

An index to the posts of our recent book event:

James Stanescu: “Meditations on Second Philosophies” (A Non-Philosophical Theory of Nature Book Event)

The author of this post is James Stanescu

What’s in a prefix? The non- of non-philosophy, as Anthony frequently reminds us, is the same as the non- of non-Euclidean geometry or the non- of non-standard physics. Indeed, Laruelle, it seems, has taken to referring to this as non-standard philosophy rather than simply non-philosophy. The non- is not, therefore, an anti- or an un-, it does not signify either an oppositional discourse, or a mark of being outside and other. In the same way that non-Euclidean geometry is still geometry, or that people working on non-standard physics still see themselves as physicists. What does the non- of non-Euclidean geometry and non-standard physics have in common? Well, both are moves that question the defining axioms of their respective fields. In both cases they argue that the axioms that geometry and physics use to describe the world are not always sufficient for the task. Furthermore, these non-s are not primarily critical projects. They simply indicate a field in which there exist several positive projects (such as hyperbolic geometry, or string theory and M-theory). The non-, then, is fundamentally a marker of an immanent relation. It does not come from outside as a master discourse to finally tell philosophy what it is, but rather comes from within philosophy (or physics, or geometry) in order to re-examine its fundamental axioms in order for its intellectual projects to continue. Or at least I think so. This is probably a good as time as any to point out that I don’t know anything about Laruelle (and I know roughly the same amount about theology), but here I am anyway. But, if non-standard philosophy wishes to change or adapt axioms or principles of philosophy, what axioms and principles are under consideration? Read the rest of this entry »

Not Weaving, Not Unweaving: Feminism, Fabrication & the Disruption of Intellectual Culture

When I learned that Helen Tartar, editor of Fordham University Press, had died in a tragic car accident, the first thing I thought of was the fact that my school’s (Drew University) annual Transdisciplinary Theological Colloquium was only a matter of weeks away. I go to this conference every year, and I found it impossible for me to imagine the TTC without Helen in the audience, patiently knitting and listening while she sat through the extremely long and intense weekend conversation. I still remember the first time that I attended the TTC, as a new PhD student, in 2009. I saw this elegant woman in the crowd, quite obviously attuned to the intellectual discourse, yet simultaneously knitting this incredible and intricate lace garment. I found it oddly empowering. I was unsurprised to learn, over the course of time, what a subtle, elegant, and intricate critical imagination Helen had—as a thinker, and an editor. In a certain sense—though she was extremely kind, deeply unpretentious, and totally unassuming—you might say that she almost wore this on her sleeve. As an editor, she did so much to broadcast the kind of intellectual work that was being done at Drew. She started a series, to publish the annual proceedings of the TTC, and the kind of feminism that’s emerged from the ecosystem that is Drew University (deeply informed by thinkers like my advisor Catherine Keller, by Virginia Burrus, by Laurel Kearns, as well as former administrators like Maxine Beach and Anne Yardley) came through so well in powerfully simple things like the covers of these books. But over the past couple of days, I’ve been trying to articulate what it was that I found so oddly empowering when I saw Helen knitting in the midst of an academic conference.

On some levels, it’s obvious. I grew up in a family of women who sew. My great grandmother was skilled at making lace crochet. By the time I knew her, she had lost much of her hearing and much of her eyesight. But the home of my grandparents, and my own home, were graced with curtains she’d made decades earlier. The lace was thick, but the patterns she wove were large enough to filter the sun into speckled streams. My mother and I were both a little heartbroken when our crazy beagle, Teddy, chewed off the corner of one of these curtains so that he would have a small porthole to stick his head through, to stare out the window. I think either my mother or I might have cried. But who can really blame a dog for wanting a better view? My grandmother used to make these fantastic dresses for herself, and for her grandaughters. Living in an immigrant family (with seven children), who’d come to the U.S. after living in a displaced persons camp, my grandmother never had much money. But she worked as a seamstress and had enough to buy, periodically, some beautiful silky fabric for an elegant dress. And enough to keep a little bottle of Chanel No.5 on her vanity, for special occasions. She was glamorous, and I was in awe of her. One year, for Christmas, she made my cousins and I these velvety dresses in different shades of red. I felt like we were royalty. My mother went through a period in her hippy youth where she made all of her own clothes. And we still own some of the intricate and embroidered little garments that she made for me as a small child. I used her old sewing machine until I was in college, and I cried when it broke down. I did. I had to call her, thinking that I should ask for permission before I got a new one. She laughed, because it’s just a machine. But for me, there were histories bound up in the machine: ties to my past, to the women of my family who’d passed away and left me with their skills and sensibilities.

It’s weird, I know, for me to write about this at a place like AUFS. Even though I’ve written about things like Barbie before, I kind of feel like this is one of those places where I go to be a little bit more of a dude. But I’ve seen this blog billed as an “anomalous” space. So I’m just going to go ahead and anomalize a bit. Say what I want.

This past weekend, at the TTC, we ended up making a quilt for Helen. Read the rest of this entry »

Katerina Kolozova: “Toward a non-Marxist radicalization of ‘nature': Reading Marx in dialogue with François Laruelle and Anthony Paul Smith” (A Non-Philosophcal Theory of Nature Book Event)

The author of this post is Katerina Kolozova.

The human aspect of nature exists only for social man; for only then does nature exist for him as a bond with man – as his existence for the other and the other’s existence for him – and as the life-element of human reality. Only then does nature exist as the foundation of his own human existence. Only here has what is to him his natural existence become his human existence, and nature become man for him. Thus society is the complete unity of man with nature – the true resurrection of nature – the consistent naturalism of man and the consistent humanism of nature.

(Karl Marx)

The materialistic stance of the capitalist subject – both wage laborer and the capitalist who owns it – is marked by an “anorexic” treatment of the physical. The modernist idea of the “material” is indeed what makes the capitalist subject happy. However, immersing into the material without control, allowing it to devour you through pleasure and pain renders the material meaningless, “mere matter.” Matter matters only when fetishized as money, as a sculpted instead of mere body, as sex which is not organs and fluids but representation, as a home which is not (just) a home but a procedure of stylization of one’s life.  If the material does not satisfy the fantasized fetishistic expectations, its immediate, unruly, “primitive” needs are treated as defect and their urgencies are (expected to be) subjected to control by the subject of self-mastery.

Read the rest of this entry »

Liam Heneghan: “What sort of ecologist is Anthony Paul Smith?” (A Non-Philosophcal Theory of Nature Book Event)

The author of this post is Liam Heneghan

In the spirit of Schumann who when asked to comment on the meaning of a composition he had just played, simply played it again, it is tempting to suggest to those who want to know what’s going on in Anthony Paul Smith’s book: A Non-Philosophical Theory of Nature: Ecologies of Thought that they simply read it. Cover to cover.

This answer is not a satisfactory one however. There is, after all, something very different about books compared to music. Books are what get left behind as an author moves through thought. And like all books Smith’s comes dead on arrival. In his inscription on my copy of his volume Anthony scribbled: “Here it is in the flesh of a tree.” Dead words on a dead tree. In fact “death” exceeds “life” in Anthony’s book, if the index serves as guide, by seven unique mentions (death has 11, some covering several pages; life tallies a mere 4). Indeed, explicitly within the framework of “immanental ecology” — Anthony’s term, drawn from François Laruelle’s non-philosophy, for an amalgam of ecology, philosophy and theology — he comments how it is the reader who must animate an “energy flow” between her living thought and “those that die on the page of philosophical treatises.” (p114). Words on the page are dead, thought decomposes: the author has sloughed them off. So it is up to us, if we care to, to bring life to Anthony’s book, not simply by playing it over like a concerto, but by transforming it into the flesh of our own thought. Heterotrophs that we are, we are invited into Anthony’s ecosystem; we shall dine upon him.  Read the rest of this entry »

Upcoming Book Event: A Non-Philosophical Theory of Nature


Later this month, we’ll be hosting a new book event here at AUFS on Anthony Paul Smith’s A Non-Philosophical Theory of Nature: Ecologies of Thought (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). I’m guessing that most readers of the blog already have some cursory familiarity with Anthony’s work. For those who don’t, I’d remind them that there’s a handy link to his c.v. above. If you’d like to snag a copy of the book before the event begins, it’s available at Amazon. For those who will still be saving up funds even after the event begins, there is a short preview available via Google Books. You may also want to read through the book preview that Anthony published last summer, at the Political Theology blog. We have an exciting list of contributors who’ll be commenting on the book: some who’ve already posted here at AUFS, some who have not, some who’ll likely be focusing more on Anthony’s ecological criticism, some who’ll be more interested in his use of Laurelle. We’re looking forward to a rich conversation. I’m posting the calendar below. We’ll basically be publishing a new piece every couple of days from late March until mid-April. Anthony, himself, will respond as much as time permits:

March 25th: I will do an introductory post

March 27th: Liam Heneghan

March 29th: Katerina Kolozova

March 31st: Marika Rose

April 2nd: James Stanescu

April 5th: Dan Barber

April 8th: Basit Iqbal

April 10th: Alex Dubilet

April 12th: Adam Kotsko

April 14th: Joshua Ramey

In the meantime, perhaps readers will want to leave comments and let us know about questions you might have for Anthony before the event begins, elements you’re hoping we’ll address, etc…

Is J.M. Coetzee’s Jesus a Postsecular Christ?

I don’t need to say this, to readers of this blog. But I’ll say it anyhow: the figure of Jesus is a charged and loaded figure. To throw Jesus into conversation, or into the title of a book, is to throw a stone into waters that are stagnant with a field of passionate associations, ranging from the affirmative to the disgusted. The fact that J.M. Coetzee’s new novel The Childhood of Jesus has, ostensibly, nothing at all to do with Jesus has been raising eyebrows among reviewers. But, certainly, a clever man like Coetzee wouldn’t throw Jesus into a book title without making some kind of commentary.

I’ve long been interested in Coetzee’s strange and subtle deployment of religious symbols and discourses. There are those, of course, who want to label Coetzee as a postsecular. But this seems, to me, a little too easy. Even if there is something postsecular about Coetzee’s Jesus, this doesn’t really clear up what sort of a Jesus this would even be, or how this Jesus would function in narrative context. Would this be a Jesus that only a Milbank could love? Or would it be a Jesus that only a Caputo could love? You get my drift.

The Jesus in Coetzee’s title (who is conspicuously absent from the narrative) seems to call forth a range of associations: a meaty, sexy, carnal sort of incarnation (one entangled with bloodletting and sacrifice), a salvational logic that bodies can rise from the dead, a distaste for the regulated pace of law and mathematics, a resistance to the community as it’s given (and hunger for another one). The world of a novel is a world where none of these things are very much at home. The absence, in this world, of whatever might be associated with this uncontained, figurative Jesus is ultimately ambivalent. Things are lost, things are gained. Read the rest of this entry »


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 3,581 other followers