Colby Dickinson and I have been offered a contract by Rowman & Littlefield to publish a co-authored collection of essays entitled Agamben’s Coming Philosophy: Finding a New Use for Philosophy. The book gathers together both previously published and new work by both of us, including a co-written introduction and conclusion. As one might expect, given that Colby is the author of Agamben and Theology and I am the translator of several theologically-oriented works by Agamben, our primary focus is on Agamben’s use of theology — not just in terms of explication, though there is a healthy dose of that, but with a view toward what it tells us about his project and about the possibilities for future philosophical and theological work it opens up.
We will be submitting the manuscript in mid-December, and currently a June release date is anticipated.
(Unrelatedly, the release date for Creepiness has been set for late February.)
A familiar feature of organized crime is the protection racket. In this scheme, a mob leader demands to be paid to protect a business. If the fee is not paid, then that same mob leader attacks the business — hence you are first of all paying the fee to be protected from your protectors themselves.
The same logic repeats itself in mainstream society. Taxes are a protection racket in the sense that if you don’t pay them, you aren’t exposed to the violence of criminals or foreign terrorists, but first of all to the violence of the government itself. The labor market is another protection racket, because in the last analysis you’re not working just to earn money, but to avoid being excluded from the economic system altogether. Many religions also duplicate the same logic, as you are asked to be devout in order to avoid a supernatural punishment that would not be a factor if you didn’t already believe in the religion — so in mainstream Christianity, for example, God is giving you an opportunity to avoid God’s own wrath.
From this perspective, one can understand neoliberalism as doubling down on the protection rackets. The system demands ever more intensive performances of obedience in order to avoid the violence of the system itself. In the mafia scenario, you can pay your fee and go about your business, just as you could imagine paying your taxes or putting in your hours at work and going about your business. Under neoliberalism, though, you are expected to be constantly thinking about your taxes and how to game the complex system of tax credits and penalties, and you must also mobilize all of your resources (all your time, all your social connections, all your hobbies and preferences) in service of the labor market. Even the evangelical Christian groups most in tune with the neoliberal ethos demand more and more constant self-examination and church involvement — you can no longer go to church on Sunday and expect God to leave you alone the rest of the week.
Agamben’s political theory, whereby the signature gesture of sovereignty is to exclude, can be understood as a theory of the protection racket, and his quest is to imagine a political order not structured according to the logic of a protection racket. This is what provides its remarkable contemporaneity, despite its often esoteric and obscure content.
More broadly, I believe we can view the elimination of the protection racket as the ultimate goal of the radical left, and we can define causes as left-wing to the extent that they at least aim to mitigate the protection racket. Hence the push for universal health care, which keeps the job market from extorting one’s participation based on concerns about one’s physical health, or the more radical goal of universal basic income, which uncouples some minimal participation in economic life from the demand to work. It is important in both cases that the provision be in principle unconditional, so that the system of benefits itself does not become a new protection racket that can demand certain performances of obedience — as has happened most vividly in the UK’s welfare system.
The goal is not simply justice, then, but freedom — freedom from continual threats and demands, freedom from having to worry about things. This is surely a more meaningful form of freedom than the abstract freedom of “choice” offered by neoliberalism, a false freedom insofar as we can never be free of the demand to choose, can never go a single moment without getting hassled or evaluated. The goal of the radical left, at least in our contemporary situation, could be formulated as the creation of a world in which society leaves us alone.
I have a piece up at The Immanent Frame entitled “Curse God and Die: On Agamben and Job.” It use Agamben’s reflections on oaths and curses in The Sacrament of Language as a framework for investigating the frequent references to cursing God in The Book of Job.
In many responses to Agamben’s provocative claim that the concentration camp is the nomos of modernity, I have not seen much attention to the text from which Agamben draws the curious term nomos — namely, Schmitt’s Nomos of the Earth. In that text, Schmitt puts forth the concept of nomos as being fundamentally about the way the earth is divided or portioned out, so that the meaning of nomos as “law” is secondary to this more originary meaning. Just as with all of Schmitt’s other major concepts (the exception, the enemy), the most fundamental division is between the inside (the politically ordered zones, in this case) and the outside (the “free zone” — the sea, in the eras he studies most closely).
As Agamben observes of the sovereign exception, however, this “outside” is actually simultaneously “inside” of the political, and indeed represents its most decisive motive force — in what Schmitt regards as the “classical” era of European politics, what was really decisive in the struggle among European nations was not military confrontations on land, but hegemony over the sea. Similarly, he predicts (accurately, it seems) that the US will gain hegemony over world politics through its hegemony over the newly emerging free zone, the air.
Agamben’s countermove within Schmitt’s scheme is to claim that the concentration camp is the more decisive “free zone,” the true incursion of the outside into the “normal” political order. Admittedly, “the camp as nomos” is a compressed way of expressing this, but it’s fundamentally justified in that the defining feature of any nomos of the earth, of any divisioning or portioning out of regions, is for Schmitt precisely the “free zone” that is inside-outside of the political order.
Thus Agamben is not saying that every state is “secretly” a concentration camp or anything of the sort, but that the free zone in which the earthly powers carry out their struggle is within the strange ontological topology of the camp — as opposed to the recognized political boundaries, for example. The experience of the War on Terror seems to bear this out, insofar as the US prefers to ignore recognized national boundaries but is very attentive to establishing camp-like spaces of extra-legal violence (most notably Guantanamo). We might also observe that the struggle between Israel and the surrounding Arab nations, after a brief episode of “traditional” military confrontations, has primarily taken the form of a struggle over the strange political no-man’s-land that is the Palestinian Occupied Territories (neither “officially” part of Israel, nor a “real” country, they are something like a huge refugee camp that has persisted for generations). More generally, under the contemporary global political dispensation, national boundaries are regarded as sacrosanct and unchangeable, so that military conflict tends to produce populations of refugees that constitute the real site of political struggle between and within nations.
Now I’m not going to say this account is indisputable. There are other candidates for the nomos of modernity — Schmitt’s example of the sky springs to mind still, as does the sweatshop — but Agamben’s diagnosis does seem fairly robust and defensible.
While I was in San Francisco this summer, C.S. Soong of KPFA’s Against the Grain invited me to record an interview about Agamben’s work, which has now aired and is archived here for your enjoyment. If you’re a Facebook person, please consider visiting the show’s Facebook page and expressing your approval in the appropriate way.
A big thanks to C.S. for inviting me! I enjoyed recording it, and I hope you’ll enjoy listening to it.
Seamus Heany once said that the best part about translating is that you get to finish something you didn’t have to start. It’s a strange feeling, though, finishing up something for someone else — and not only that, finishing something that is always necessarily secondary and supplemental to that work by someone else. It is supplemental in the full Derridean sense, insofar as a mistranslation can become a “dangerous supplement” whose incorrect rendering replaces and obliterates the author’s original meaning.
That’s not where my anxiety lies as a translator of Agamben, however. Agamben is not a “difficult” author to translate in the same way that, for instance, Laruelle is. His writing style is smooth and straightforward, and he very rarely places a lot of emphasis on the specific resources of the Italian language (in the way that Derrida could be said to push French to the limit, or Heidegger German). My anxiety is less dramatic — I worry I’m going to make some dumb, low-level error. Nothing that obscures or distorts Agamben’s meaning, just the kind of thing that makes me look like an idiot.
There are errors of that kind in my published translations. They’re not huge, but they bother me. The worst is when I simply transcribed the Italian word “due” instead of translating it as “two.” It’s surprising in a way that something like that doesn’t happen more. When I run a spellcheck over my translation work, I notice how my spelling has been strangely influenced by Italian, and more generally how the quality of my typing deteriorates when I’m doing the relatively mechanical work of translating rather than producing material in my own name. Most of that comes out in spellcheck or at the various stages of editing and revising (whether I’m pressing friends into service or responding to the press’s copy editor). I comfort myself that some Agamben translations have more such errors than mine, and I have yet to find a translation that has none.
The worst part with Agamben isn’t the translation as such, but the vast apparatus of citations. For every source he cites, I must determine whether an English translation is extant. If so, the press requires that I base my quotations on that translation, though I must often “triangulate” between the English, the original text, and Agamben’s provided translations. Sometimes I must supply formal citations where the text lacks them (above all in classical references), and just for the sake of thoroughness, I have also taken up the habit of supplying macrons and breathings in Greek citations where the text lacks them. Agamben also loves to cite untranslated Latin, sometimes a paragraph at a time, and I must often provide my own translation in a concession to the monolingualism of the other.
Tracking down these sources is extremely time-consuming and often frustrating. The method I’ve developed is to put quotes in boldface in my draft. If it’s a long quote from a text I know to be translated, I’ll often simply put “quote” at that point in the text. If it’s a short quote, I’ll usually do a rough rendering of Agamben’s Italian just for my own convenience in tracking it down later. Then I go back after I have a full draft and fill in the quotations. Every time I do a translation I consider whether there’s any way around leaving them for the end, and I’ve decided it’s unfortunately the only way to go — tracking down quotations and translating are two fundamentally different tasks, and switching back and forth hurts the quality of both.
Better to stay “in the zone” of translating, I say, so as to get a full draft as quickly as possible. And sometimes I can really, really be “in the zone.” Those days can be satisfying, albeit in the weird way that intensive data entry is satisfying. I feel like I’ve accomplished a feat, but I weirdly don’t have anything to show for it. This is not to say that I don’t benefit from doing these translations. I get paid, and I also get the credibility of an “expert” on Agamben (or on certain texts of his), with the invitations to speak and write that go along with that. But at the end of the day, the person who really has “something to show” for my work is Agamben, who is after all the author of the text.
The best I can hope for is to be invisible, not to draw undue attention to myself through mistakes or overly aggressive translation choices. My fondest hope is that my translation will “hold up” after three or four close readings, at which point anyone wishing to go further would have to turn to the original Italian in any case. My nightmare, of course, is that I’ll wind up one of those accursed translators everyone hates (like the poor guy who did Adorno’s Negative Dialectics) or that one of my translation choices will later be regarded as having set back the scholarship by a generation (like the translation of Freud’s Trieb as “instinct”). I’ve probably already avoided the former, and the latter seems intrinsically unlikely given Agamben’s writing style.
And yet, and yet… I’ve woken up in the middle of the night, panicked at some translation error I’ve surely made. The feel of those incidents is not like a social anxiety dream (like where one shows up naked to school), but like one of those “work dreams” — the kind where you’re waiting tables and discover you’ve completely neglected one for an hour. That’s what it is, at the end of the day: a job. It’s a relatively cool job, one that helps me keep on top of my language skills, but it’s still a job.