Nature and Logos: A Whiteheadian Key to Merleau-Ponty's Fundamental Thought

nature and logos This is the first book-length account of how Maurice MerleauPonty used certain texts by Alfred North Whitehead to develop an ontology based on nature, and how he could have used other Whitehead texts that he did not know in order to complete his last ontology. This account is enriched by several of Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished writings not previously available in English, by the first detailed treatment of certain works by F. W. J. Schelling in

Hamrick / Van der Veken

PHILOSOPHY

William S. Hamrick

the course of showing how they exerted a substantial influence discussion of Merleau-Ponty’s interest in the Stoics’s notion of the twofold logos—the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos. This book provides a thorough exploration of the consonance between these two philosophers in their mutual desire to overcome various bifurcations of nature, and of nature from spirit, that haunted philosophy and science since the seventeenth century. William S. Hamrick is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville and has written and edited several books, including (with coeditor Suzanne L. Cataldi) MerleauPonty and Environmental Philosophy: Dwelling on the Landscapes of Thought, also published by SUNY Press. Jan Van der Veken is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the Catholic University of Leuven and has written and edited several books, including (with coeditor Patrick Burke) Merleau-Ponty in Contemporary Perspectives.

S tat e U n i v e r s i t y o f N e w Y o r k P r e ss w w w. s u n y p r e s s . e d u

nature and logos

on both Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead, and by the first extensive

nature and logos Jan Van der Veken

A Whiteheadian Key to Merleau-Pont y ’s Fundamental Thought

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NATURE AND LOGOS

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NATURE AND LOGOS A Whiteheadian Key to Merleau-Ponty’s Fundamental Thought

WILLIAM S. HAMRICK JAN VAN DER VEKEN

State University of New York Press

Cover painting: Paul Cézanne, French, 1839–1906, The Bathers (Les Baigneuses), 1899/1904, Oil on canvas, 51.3 x 61.7 cm, Amy McCormick Memorial Collection, 1942.457, The Art Institute of Chicago. Photography © The Art Institute of Chicago. Reproduced with the kind permission of the Art Institute of Chicago. Published by

State University of New York Press, Albany © 2011 State University of New York All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY www.sunypress.edu Production, Eileen Meehan Marketing, Michael Campochiaro Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hamrick, William S. Nature and logos : a Whiteheadian key to Merleau-Ponty's fundamental thought / William S. Hamrick and Jan Van der Veken. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. ISBN 978-1-4384-3617-3 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 1908–1961. 2. Whitehead, Alfred North, 1861–1947. 3. Philosophy of nature. 4. Ontology. I. Veken, Jan van der. II. Title. B2430.M3764H35 2011 194—dc22

2010032060 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

for Sandy, for her constant patience, encouragement, and love —William S. Hamrick and for Professor Albert Dondeyne and Professor Alphonse DeWaelhens, who introduced me to the fascinating world of Merleau-Ponty —Jan Van der Veken

And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. —William Wordsworth, Lines, Composed a Few miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye During a Tour. July 13, 1798.

CONTENTS

Abbreviations

ix

Introduction

1

Chapter I: Nature as a Phenomenon

11

Chapter II: From Dualism to a Twofold Ontology

47

Chapter III: The Way of All Flesh

73

Chapter IV: Logos Endiathetos and Logos Proforikos

103

Chapter V: The Schellingian and Bergsonian Heritage

123

Chapter VI: Nature and Life

153

Chapter VII: Beyond the Limits of Phenomenology: The Fate of the Subject

181

Chapter VIII: Com-prehending the Flesh

205

Conclusion

235

References

241

Index

253

vii

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ABBREVIATIONS

MAURICE MERLEAU-PONTY AD

Les Aventures de la dialectique. Translated into English as Adventures of the Dialectic.

C

Causeries 1948. Translated into English as Maurice MerleauPonty, The World of Perception.

CAL

“La Conscience et l’acquisition du langage.” Translated into English as Consciousness and the Acquisition of Language.

E

Éloge de la Philosophie. Translated into English as In Praise of Philosophy.

HT

Humanisme et terreur. Translated into English as Humanism and Terror.

Hes

Préface à A. Hesnard, L’œuvre et l’esprit de Freud et son importance dans le monde moderne. Translated into English as “Phenomenology and Psychoanalysis: Preface to Hesnard’s L’œuvre de Freud.”

IP

L’institution, la passivité, Notes de cours au Collège de France (1954–1955).

N

La Nature, Notes, Cours du Collège de France. Translated into English as Nature: Course Notes from the Collège de France.

NC

Notes de cours, 1959–1961.

OE

L’Œil et l’esprit. Translated into English as “Eye and Mind.”

PC I

Parcours 1935–1951.

PC II

Parcours deux, 1951–1961.

PhP

Phénoménologie de la perception. Translated into English as Phenomenology of Perception.

PM

La Prose du monde. Translated into English as The Prose of the World. ix

x PrP

ABBREVIATIONS The Primacy of Perception and Other Essays on Phenomenological Psychology, the Philosophy of Art, History and Politics.

Prim.Percp. “Le Primat de la perception et ses conséquences philosophiques.” Translated into English in PrP as “The Primacy of Perception and its Philosophical Consequences.” RC

Résumés de cours, Collège de France 1952–1960. Translated into English as Themes from the Lectures at the Collège de France, 1952–1960.

S

Signes. Translated into English as Signs.

SC

La Structure du comportement. Translated into English as The Structure of Behavior.

SNS

Sens et non-sens. Translated into English as Sense and Non-Sense.

TD

Texts and Dialogues, Merleau-Ponty.

UAC

L’union de l’âme et du corps chez Malebranche, Biran et Bergson. Translated into English as The Incarnate Subject: Malebranche, Biran, and Bergson on the Union of Body and Soul.

UI

“Un inédit de Maurice Merleau-Ponty.” Translated into English in PrP as “An Unpublished Text by Maurice Merleau-Ponty.”

VI

Le Visible et l’invisible, suivi de notes de travail. Translated into English as The Visible and the Invisible, Followed by Working Notes.

ESA I

Emmanuel de Saint Aubert,. Du lien des êtres aux éléments de l’étre. Merleau-Ponty au tournant des années 1945–1951.

ESA II

———. Le scénario cartésien. Recherches sur la formation et la cohérence de l’intention philosophique de Merleau-Ponty.

ESA III

———. Vers une ontologie indirecte. Sources et enjeux critiques de l’appel à l’ontologie chez Merleau-Ponty.

ESA IV

———, ed. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, avec un texte inédit de Maurice Merleau-Ponty, La Nature ou le monde du silence (pages d’introduction).

ALFRED NORTH WHITEHEAD AI

Adventures of Ideas. New York: The Free Press, 1967 [1933].

CN

The Concept of Nature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920.

ABBREVIATIONS

xi

ESP

Essays in Science and Philosophy. New York: Philosophical Library, 1947.

FR

The Function of Reason. Boston: The Beacon Press, 1958 [1929].

IS

The Interpretation of Science. Ed. A. H. Johnson. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1961.

MT

Modes of Thought. New York: The Free Press, 1968 [1938].

PANW

The Philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. Ed. Paul A. Schillp. New York: Tudor Publishing Company, 1951.

PNK

An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Natural Knowledge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1919.

PR

Process and Reality. Corrected Edition. Ed. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne. New York: The Free Press, 1978 [1929].

RM

Religion in the Making. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1927 [1926].

SMW

Science and the Modern World. New York: The Free Press, 1967 [1925].

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INTRODUCTION

What is it to perceive and to be perceived, to experience and to be experienced? How can we best understand the relationship between us and the world around us, between ourselves and other people? In Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s late thought—what he sometimes termed his “modern,” but usually his “new ontology” (e.g., at RC 91/128 and VI 166/222)1—he takes up these questions in terms of how Being must be given so that we can experience it. How is nature to be understood so that human experience is attuned to it and that we are inextricably tied to it? Merleau-Ponty began to formulate his “new ontology” about 1956, and it was during the 1956–57 year at the Collège de France that he offered what would turn out to be the first of three courses on nature.2 These courses, together with his other writings during the last five years of his life (1956–1961), make plain that a new understanding of nature is indispensable to an “ontological rehabilitation of the sensible” (S 166–167/210) because what we are somehow emerges from nature (RC 64/94). On his view, therefore, nature is neither an arbitrary access to ontology nor one among equally important alternatives. In developing this “new ontology,” the last “Working Note” for the completion of what we now know as The Visible and the Invisible specifies that Part I of the entire project would deal with “The visible,” and that the latter text forms an unfinished beginning of it. Part II would treat the subject of Nature, and Part III, unwritten, would deal with the Logos (VI 274/328). So the relationship between eye and mind, or between Nature and Logos, becomes the most prominent theme of his latest reflections. Merleau-Ponty wrote Eye and Mind in the summer of 1960. In fact, it is an elaboration of the basic insights that he developed in the third Nature course, “Nature and Logos, The Human Body,” that he had just completed. The influence of the latter on the former is considerable and explains references in the

1. Citations from Merleau-Ponty’s texts will reference the English and then the original pagination. The original texts will be provided for substantive quotations and for altered translations. 2. “Le Concept de Nature” (January–May 1957), “Le concept de Nature (suite). L’animalité, le corps humain, passage à la culture” (January–May 1958), and “Nature et Logos: le corps humain” (January–May 1960).

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first few pages of Eye and Mind to embryology, biological gradients (measures of the speed with which an organism or cell changes in its physiological activity, metabolism, and growth), operational thinking, and cybernetics. In this work, we wish to articulate how the aspects of Whitehead’s process philosophy that Merleau-Ponty knew helped him to formulate his “new” fundamental thought—that is, how he found Whitehead’s thought to be consonant with his own philosophy. We also want to illustrate how Merleau-Ponty, had he been able to extend his thinking about nature beyond Eye and Mind, could have found even more assistance in Whitehead’s texts that he had not yet read. As we shall see, Merleau-Ponty’s notion of “ontological rehabilitation” requires a new method that will turn out to be a descriptive generalization of the body as perceived and as experiencing subject. This general notion, which he labels “flesh,” encompasses both experience and that which is experienced. In Merleau-Ponty’s reappraisal of his own earlier thought, questions about nature and how human experience—earlier termed “subjectivity”—can be related to it require a broadening beyond the limits of his earlier phenomenology. Interrogating the being of nature and ourselves placed within it leads him to realize that we would not be here if nature were not such as it is and if we were not in a way made out of “the same stuff” (OE 163/19). Therefore, Merleau-Ponty seeks a common notion to include the experient and that which is experienced, or the world. Further, Merleau-Ponty is also clear that his “new ontology” requires a double overcoming. What must first be overcome are those aspects of his earlier phenomenology that make it still a philosophy of consciousness, even though he already positions his early phenomenology as an alternative to Husserl’s view of transcendental subjectivity. It is not that he will consider consciousness to be irrelevant or avoidable, but rather that it will be reintegrated into a more inclusive whole. The second necessary overcoming aims at displacing the Galilean-Cartesian concept of nature that, as he stated in his first nature course, “still overhangs contemporary ideas about Nature” (RC 67/97), even though, as Merleau-Ponty himself pointed out, its presuppositions had already been undercut by science itself. His earlier writings already seek to provide a phenomenological rehabilitation of the sensible in counterpoise to the Cartesian dualism. However, as we shall see, Merleau-Ponty’s last writings take the earlier phenomenological critique to be not radical enough. The Cartesian view is characterized, first, by what Alfred North Whitehead criticized as “the bifurcation of nature” (CN 30) into “nature apprehended in awareness and the nature which is the cause of awareness”

INTRODUCTION

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(Ibid., 31). On this view, what passes into our eyes—light waves—is not visible, and what is visible—colors and other  “secondary” qualities—is not there. Thus, we have “two systems of reality” (Ibid., 30), nature as scientific object and nature as perceived, the one being “true and not perceived” and the other “perceived and not true” (Wahl 2004, 121). This doctrine is “the original sin of modern [seventeenth- and eighteenth-century] epistemology” (Van der Veken 2000, 327), and Merleau-Ponty captures well the oddity of this unsatisfactory bifurcation when he writes, “Nothing is more foreign to perception . . . than the idea of a universe which would produce in us representations which are distinct from it by means of a causal action” (SC 188/202–203). The “bifurcation” took different forms throughout modern philosophy and science. Some of the principal forms consist of things in themselves, whether knowable (e.g., Galileo, Descartes) or unknowable (Kant) as against things as they appear to us; bodies as against minds/souls (e.g., Descartes, Malebranche, Kant); the realm of facts versus the realm of values (e.g., Galileo, Descartes, Malebranche, Spinoza, Kant, and Leibniz, who tried to unite them); and the closely related distinction between the realms of efficient and final causes (e.g., Galileo, Descartes, Malebranche, Spinoza, Kant, and, again, Leibniz, who attempted to unify them). This unbridgeable split between objects and what we perceive about them was proposed first by Galileo. This remarkable individual, although not himself a philosopher, had a tremendous influence on the whole of modern thought. It was precisely the development, elaboration, and implications of his view of nature and our place within it that ran from Descartes, passing through Leibniz to Kant, Baron d’Holbach, La Mettrie, Laplace, and beyond, and created a philosophical and scientific impact powerful enough to reach even twentieth-century philosophy and science. Despite evident differences in their concepts of nature, all these thinkers agree on three fundamental, interlocking, and mistaken beliefs. The first is that the externally real—matter, substance—is exclusively quantitative and therefore known only through mathematics and its practical applications. The second belief, which flows from the first, consists of the forced exile of all purposes and values, all “secondary” qualities, from nature. The third belief—shared by many modern philosophers and scientists—is that nature is an object standing over against us as subjects, or spectators. Following Merleau-Ponty, we refer to this doctrine in all its forms as “the ontology of the object” (TD 11/PC II: 298). This ontology of the object in a way evacuates human beings from being active participants within nature and reduces them to onlookers disconnected from it. For Descartes, Leibniz, and Berkeley, the class of spectators includes God as well. In The Visible

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and the Invisible, Merleau-Ponty no longer refers to this absolute spectator as “God,” but as a “Kosmotheoros.”3 It was in the process of criticizing this pervasive view of nature in modern thought, and overcoming the bifurcations that still haunted philosophy and science, that Merleau-Ponty found helpful support in the philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. The texts that he read in preparing for his first course on nature are The Concept of Nature, Science and the Modern World, and Nature and Life, published in English and then in French before being reprinted as Part III of Modes of Thought. Merleau-Ponty also knew Jean Wahl’s Vers le concret, the long middle chapter of which deals with Whitehead. Merleau-Ponty found in Whitehead’s writings very similar reasons for rejecting the Galilean-Cartesian view of nature, although Whitehead did so in a much more systematic fashion. These similarities account for the fact that, although Merleau-Ponty knew little about the technicalities of Whitehead’s later process metaphysics,4 he felt some consonance with Whiteheadian themes such as “brute facts,” “the passage of nature,” the rejection of “vacuous actuality,” and the “fallacy of simple location.”5 Merleau-Ponty’s creation of the all-encompassing notion of the flesh is an instance of what Whitehead would call descriptive generalization. In addition, Merleau-Ponty found in those texts a comparable view of nature as process (passage), activity, passivity, and auto-productivity. In what follows, we will attempt to point out how Merleau-Ponty’s earlier phenomenology already contains a critique of nature in modern philosophy, and how he elaborates this insight in his “new ontology” of flesh. In turn, we will also examine the limitations of that ontology, and show how Whitehead’s philosophy constitutes a more adequate response. Whitehead 3. Kosmotheoros is the name of a late work on cosmology by Huygens (1629–1695) and published posthumously (N 181, n. 4 [editor]; note not reproduced in the English translation). In Phenomenology of Perception, Merleau-Ponty undoubtedly would have spoken of “God” or “the Absolute,” and in his lectures on “Institution,” the Kosmotheoros is defined as “un observateur absolu” (IP 120). See also VI 227/280. Yet, in general, the change toward the religiously neutral term kosmotheoros allows for a greater openness in the late works for the ultimate question of rationality. In this regard, see Jan Van der Veken (1989, 202–209). 4. Vers le concret does discuss Whitehead’s major exposition of his process metaphysics, Process and Reality and, indeed, demonstrates an astonishingly accurate grasp of it for the time. (Process and Reality appeared in 1929, and Wahl’s text in 1932.) However, there is no evidence that Merleau-Ponty employed, let alone understood, its technical vocabulary. Also, as Franck Robert states, “In the unpublished course notes [from the Collège de France], Merleau-Ponty specifies that Whitehead’s ideas are ‘developed freely’ [“développées librement”], not in the terms of a positive and objective reading” (2008, 363, n.2). However, this is an easy admission because it is also a fair description of how Merleau-Ponty dealt with most of his sources. 5. The extent of Merleau-Ponty’s reading and appreciation for what he found in Whitehead’s texts did not become clear until the 1995 publication of recently discovered student notes (La Nature) from his three nature courses. That book contains a thirteen-page essay titled “L’Idée de Nature chez Whitehead.”

INTRODUCTION

5

was not a phenomenologist manqué, nor Merleau-Ponty a speculative metaphysician malgré lui. Rather, what we want to show is that Whitehead’s more developed conceptuality can expand Merleau-Ponty’s emerging ontology, which his tragically premature death prevented him from developing. Both thinkers argued against the representation of nature in modern philosophy, and their search converged in the direction of a convincing alternative. In the pursuit of this objective, what Merleau-Ponty learned from the Whiteheadian texts that he read, and what he learned from other authors that he studied when preparing his lectures on nature, helped him to begin to formulate his final ontology. The Whiteheadian texts with which he was not familiar could have been of further help to make his own position more precise and adequate. Both thinkers, however, offer us an ontology in which, as John Compton says nicely, “nature is through and through fluid, active, generative, expressive, inter-weaving and inter-corporeal and, indeed, inter-sensory.”6 Besides providing at least an outline of what we take to be a philosophically adequate ontology of nature, there are four other philosophical issues at stake. First, it is an instance of the ancient task of “saving the appearances” through a defense of one single reality overcoming all forms of dualism. Or, to phrase it differently, rejecting the bifurcation of nature unites reality and appearance. Second, avoiding this bifurcation furthers the traditional aim of philosophy “to understand how things in the broadest sense of the term hang together in the broadest possible sense of the term” (Sellars 1963, 1). These two reasons taken together express the Whiteheadian philosophical requirements of empirical adequacy and logical coherence. These reasons are, of course, as old as Western philosophy itself. By contrast, the third and fourth reasons stem from practical concerns. The third reason is that the doctrine of the bifurcation of nature is not a dead historical artifact. The notion that nature is essentially quantitative survives not only in physics, but also in contemporary self-understanding at large. Further, the idea that nature is a spiritually empty set of causal relations persists today, not only in pure science, but also in its biotechnological applications—even though pure and applied sciences no longer subscribe to the mechanistic causality of modern thought. Also, the belief that nature is an object standing over against us as disengaged subjects, or spectators, survives today not only among many philosophers, but also with non-philosophers successfully conditioned by the sedimentation of “common sense” derivative from Cartesianism. How else can we explain why it took so long to develop 6. Personal correspondence, 13 October 2007. Also worth noting is his statement, “Our experience of engagement with nature is at once an experience of nature as for human life and of human life as firmly in nature. We are a constant and reciprocal interdependence with the natural world.” “Toward a Phenomenological Philosophy of Nature” (2002, 201).

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an ecological consciousness, to bring people to an awareness that they are not disconnected from their environment? The awareness that a new worldview is in the making also exists among some scientists. Tim Eastman, a plasma physicist, refers to Ervin Lazlo as a case in point: Quantum field theory shows the world as a plenum of events at multiple scales, now extended in networks of relationships to cosmic scales—a “process universe.” . . . All things are constituted ultimately by networks of relationships, from microscopic to macroscopic and cosmic scale. Research in nonlinear dynamics and ecology also demonstrates the emergence of new structures and entities in multiply-interconnected systems. (Lazlo 2006)7 Merleau-Ponty adds in the 1957 course on “The Concept of Nature” that the influence of the Cartesian view persists despite the fact that twentieth-century physicists working with relativity and quantum theories witnessed very non-Cartesian developments and “the possibility of another ontology” (RC 69/99).8 Two years later, he expands on this theme as follows: But today, when the very rigor of its description forces it [physics] to recognize as ultimate physical beings and full right relations between the observer and the observed, such determinations that only have meaning for a certain situation of the observer, it is the ontology of the kosmotheoros [contemplator of the world] and its correlate, the Great Object, which take on the shape of prescientific prejudice. (VI 15/32)9

7. Tim Eastman, “Our Cosmos, from Substance to Process,” to be published in the World Futures Journal special issue “Process Philosophy and the Sciences,” ed. Franz Riffert and Tim Eastman. The cited reference, included in Eastman’s text, is to Ervin Lazlo, Science and the Reenchantment of the Cosmos: The rise of the Integral Vision of Reality (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions Press, 2006). 8. In The Visible and the Invisible, the author states that physicists such as Eddington show the untenability of the ontology of the object, but they think falsely that this has no bearing on psychology. They still describe the world in terms of a Cartesian separation of primary and secondary qualities, as if their work “ceased to be valid at the frontier of our body and did not call for a revision of our psycho-physiology” (25/45). 9. See also N 103/141. At several places in his texts, Merleau-Ponty identifies Laplace as a thinker who subscribes to the view of scientist as kosmotheoros. See, for example, N 135/181. In Causeries 1948, Merleau-Ponty makes an analogy between the way that modern art replaces classical perspective and the manner in which relativity theory has replaced the standard view of modern philosophy (C 39/19) that space is a “milieu of simultaneous things” dominated by “an absolute observer . . . without a point of view, without a body, without a spatial situation—in sum a pure intelligence” (Ibid., 41/21–22).

INTRODUCTION

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The fourth reason for undertaking this project is quite different. It consists of the negative practical consequences of a cleavage between nature and values. There are many illustrations of this unhealthy division. At one level we lose a deep philosophical justification for ecology at a time at which recent accelerations in climate change, coupled with the reckless consumption of natural resources,10 have shown us how crucial a principled ecology really is. Intercorporeal relations form a crucial part of our linkage with nature and provide a foundation for a broader than anthropocentric ethic. When people become desensitized to these relationships, the bodily basis for community is fractured. This cleft between nature and values, in which the basis for affectivity has been badly damaged, is more and more apparent today in the abuse and exploitation of both humans and other animals in a plethora of depressing phenomena. In order to accomplish these objectives, this essay is divided as follows. Chapter I recounts Merleau-Ponty’s early view of nature as phenomenon— that is, as a correlate of perceptual consciousness. It summarizes his descriptions of the lived body’s perception and behavior in both normal and certain pathological cases, as well as the origin of meaning, in order to contrast his views of the body and its interactions with nature with those of several modern philosophers. Chief among these is Descartes, Merleau-Ponty’s constant sparring partner. The chapter concludes with an analysis of Merleau-Ponty’s criticisms of a latter-day Cartesian, his estranged friend, Jean-Paul Sartre. The second chapter explains why and how Merleau-Ponty thought it necessary to transcend his earlier phenomenology of nature with his “new ontology” and how the principal Whiteheadian concepts with which he felt some consonance can be a help in doing so. The chapter then develops and articulates the main themes of the “new ontology” by showing how Merleau-Ponty sought to replace dualisms with a twofold ontology. This in turn leads to Merleau-Ponty’s concept of flesh, which is the subject of Chapter III. In developing his “new ontology,” Merleau-Ponty holds that the most difficult aspect of the chiasmatic reversibility of flesh to understand is “the bond between the flesh and the idea” (VI 149/195) or between Nature and Logos. The intelligibility of nature is not imposed on it from the outside. Rather, meaning is in-[the]visible as its hidden latency and lining. This notion is the ontological radicalization of his earlier phenomenological descriptions of perception as a “nascent logos”: “Here again, we grasp . . . a logos before language, which will perhaps help us to better understand the expressed logos” (PC II: 29).11 In his later writings, Merleau-Ponty approaches 10. For a rapid summary of the most depressing details of both reckless consumption and extinction of species, see Edward O. Wilson (2003). 11. “Ici encore, nous saisissons . . . un logos avant le langage, qui nous aidera peut-être à mieux comprendre le logos proféré.”

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the relation of ideality and flesh in terms of the Stoics’ notions of a logos endiathetos and logos proforikos. The meaning and significance of these notions, referred to in The Visible and the Invisible, the author’s retrospective summaries of his courses on nature, and in the Nature lectures themselves, have been latent in the literature until now. So we devote considerable attention to them in Chapter IV. Merleau-Ponty’s critical analysis of modern philosophical accounts of nature and our relationship with it were not cut out of a whole cloth. He was influenced not only by the Whiteheadian concept of nature, but also by the work of two other thinkers who reacted negatively to modern rationalistic philosophy—F. W. J. Schelling and Henri Bergson. It is their heritage that forms the subject of Chapter V; the examination of Bergson’s views of life in nature continues in Chapter VI as the context for Merleau-Ponty’s own reflections on life, animality, and the relationship of mind and nature. Chapter VII begins by articulating a recent, prominent challenge by Renaud Barbaras to the tenability of Merleau-Ponty’s “new ontology.” It indicates how Merleau-Ponty could have responded to these criticisms, and it then uses Whitehead’s process philosophy to show how it can provide additional support for Merleau-Ponty’s likely response. That in turn serves as the point of departure for a demonstration of how Whitehead’s philosophy can furnish Merleau-Ponty’s last ontology with a firm metaphysical foundation. It is here that we explain how Merleau-Ponty could not only benefit from the few Whiteheadian texts that he knew, but also could have profited even more from the texts with which he was unfamiliar. This task requires the remainder of Chapter VII as well as the final chapter. In seeking to clarify the intertwining of Merleau-Ponty’s “new ontology” and Whitehead’s process philosophy, we are mindful of the fact that we are writing for two separate audiences that usually do not communicate with each other, and for which we hope this work will serve as at least a partial encounter. In process philosophy conferences, it is normal to hear that Whitehead is the most ecologically sensitive and supportive twentieth-century philosopher, without any mention or perhaps even knowledge of the work of Merleau-Ponty. Likewise, in meetings dedicated to the latter’s thought, the same thing is routinely said about him by those who know little of Whitehead’s philosophy. In this book, we show how these two masterful thinkers can be conjoined in a novel and enriching unity—what Whitehead calls, and Merleau-Ponty after him, a “concrescence,” a growing together. Also, because we are writing for both audiences, who are accustomed to reading only one of these two thinkers, we have occasionally provided the required background explanations. These necessary explanations can easily suggest that this work is simply a comparison of Merleau-Ponty’s and Whitehead’s conceptions of nature and

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a demonstration of their consonance. However, our aim is to transcend the merely comparative approach by fleshing out at least the initial stages of an ontology of nature, to which Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead provide a fertile and productive access. A note on sources is also required here. The appearance of four remarkable volumes by Emmanuel de Saint Aubert: Du lien des êtres aux éléments de l’être, Le scénario cartésien, Vers une ontologie indirecte, and Maurice Merleau-Ponty—published in 2004, 2005, 2006, and 2008, respectively— have been tremendous resources for scholars because of Mme Suzanne Merleau-Ponty’s permission for the author to access not only all of her husband’s unpublished manuscripts, but also his personal library. Therefore, de Saint Aubert’s texts provide a wealth of indispensable information not used in earlier studies. This trove of inédits is so valuable and will be so often referred to that the four volumes have been included in the “Abbreviations” page after Merleau-Ponty’s own texts. Finally, we would like to express our gratitude to Professors André Cloots, Institute of Philosophy, Katholieke Universiteit Leuven; and to Jocelyn Dunphy-Blomfield, Monash University, for their considerable help with this book. This work is much stronger because of their significant insights and criticisms. Leuven April 2010

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I

NATURE AS A PHENOMENON

Nature appears in Merleau-Ponty’s early texts more as a context for a phenomenology of embodied existence than as a topic of interest in its own right.1 Since the philosopher became intensely interested in nature only from 1955 or 1956 on, one might think that an exploration of the earlier phenomenology of perception and behavior constitutes a digression from the later “new” ontology. Yet there are at least two reasons why this is not so. First, although Merleau-Ponty deploys his phenomenology as a critical response to previous philosophies, principally Cartesianism and its progeny, it also serves as a groundwork for the “new” ontology to come. The latter preserves the early work because, as noted in the Introduction, although Merleau-Ponty significantly changes his conception of method for doing philosophy, he does not repudiate his earlier descriptive results. Merleau-Ponty’s late work “remains passionately phenomenological” in some sense because it thinks “as closely as possible to phenomenality in order to better inhabit it” (Janicaud 1991, 15). However, the later writings will advance a new way to think phenomenality and, as we shall see, drive the earlier phenomenology beyond its limits. Furthermore, the expression, “new” ontology, shows that Merleau-Ponty does not regard his later texts as replacing phenomenology with an ontology. Since he already considered his early work to be an ontology, the later writings consist of what he took to be a more adequate ontology. In the early works, nature appears as a phenomenon, a correlate of consciousness,

1. “The natural world is the horizon of all horizons . . . which guarantees for my experiences a given, not a willed unity underlying all the disruptions of my personal and historical life. Its counterpart within me is the given, general and pre-personal existence of my sensory functions” (PhP 330/381). “Le monde naturel est l’horizon de tous les horizons . . . qui garantit à mes expériences une unité donnée et non voulue par dessous toutes les ruptures de ma vie personnelle et historique, et dont le corrélatif est en moi l’existence donnée, générale et prépersonnelle de mes fonctions sensorielles.”

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albeit a body-consciousness that he distinguished from a Cartesian cogito or a Kantian and Husserlian transcendental subjectivity. In The Structure of Behavior, nature is the complex of “indifferent” things, and the structure of behavior disengages the body from that complex and reinserts the body “as a totality to be understood in the perception of the spectator” (PC II, 17). In Phenomenology of Perception, perceptual consciousness is situated within nature rather than outside it, but in both works nature appears as a correlate of a body consciousness. By contrast, in the later writings, nature is no longer only what one can “show,” or “let appear” as phenomenon inasmuch as the visible is always doubled by an invisible that on principle cannot itself appear.2 Second, the earlier phenomenology provides necessary concrete details for the otherwise largely empty notions in the late texts, chiefly The Visible and the Invisible. As Rudolf Bernet rightly points out, revisiting the earlier texts prevents the central notions of The Visible and the Invisible from languishing as puzzles and remaining void of “phenomenological content” (1993, 55). One cannot go directly to the flesh for ontological understanding any more than, as Husserl never tired of stating, one can go directly to an essence. Therefore, in the current work we will approach Merleau-Ponty’s late ontology of nature as he himself did—through his earlier phenomenology.

PHENOMENOLOGICAL DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURE In these earlier writings, Merleau-Ponty portrays nature from the perspective of the lived body—also called “the phenomenal body,” “the body proper” (le corps propre), “my own body,” and “incarnate cogito”—and its correlative life world. These topics, as well as his conception of phenomenology, have been the subjects of multiple lengthy commentaries, including our own, over at least the last forty years, and Lawrence Hass’s fine new study (2008) is only the latest addition. Therefore, it is not necessary or even desirable to resurvey the same ground in fine detail. Rather, our interest lies only in its major outcroppings that are most important for understanding Merleau-Ponty’s early view of nature.3 To begin with, the lived body is immersed in the world with others, and exists in perceptual-behavioral circuits with things. To express this

2. Merleau-Ponty insisted on this difference. As he told one of us (Van der Veken), the invisible is not like the hidden back side of a chest that could be seen if the back were exposed. It is also important to keep in mind that, as Janicaud notes, Merleau-Ponty defends, “ ‘not an absolute invisible . . . but the invisible of this world’ ” (1991, 22, citing VI 151/198). 3. For much more about the treatment of nature in The Structure of Behavior and Phenomenology of Perception, see Toadvine (2009), Chapters 1 and 2, respectively.

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fundamental, inextricable involvement, Bernet states that Merleau-Ponty’s sense of the phenomenological reduction consists of a “reduction to natural life” in place of a “reduction of natural life” (1993, 57). This is true, but only if we bear in mind that there are also certain senses of nature that Merleau-Ponty rejects. One of these, discussed by Bernet himself, is nature considered as scientific objects in the sense of wholes of isolable parts existing in external relations with each other—partes extra partes. Another is the conception of nature as an immutable substratum to which cultural meanings get added. For Merleau-Ponty, there is no fixed and abiding layer of human nature to which culture gets added. Everything about us is equally “fabricated” and “natural,”4 rooted in “simple biological being,” but also what eludes “the simplicity of animal life” (PhP 189/221).5 For example, at times our existence is dominated by biological norms, as when our desire for self-preservation holds sway. At other times, however, those norms can be displaced by a “personal choice” (Ibid., 78/93) that places our continued existence in jeopardy, such as risking our lives to save others in danger of being killed. Because there are “many ways” for a body and consciousness to exist (Ibid., 124/144), the body supports “an indefinite number of symbolic systems” that surpass the meanings of “ ‘natural’ gestures,” but which also atrophy if not continually funded by our bodily involvement with other people and with things around us (RC 9/18). Because there is no immutably natural substratum of our existence, Merleau-Ponty will later criticize Marx in a way to which we shall return with Sartre. He will argue that Marx’s theory of history is grounded on a view of unexplained and “perhaps mythical” Nature6 that is supposed to be self-contained, “pure object, being in itself,” but which is never present in our experience because the latter always “shapes and transforms it” (RC 64/93).7 Therefore, this pure Nature in itself is “everywhere and nowhere, like an obsessive fear” (Ibid). In his early phenomenology, Merleau-Ponty’s positive characterization of Nature begins with this unity of the physical and the spiritual, the 4. Cf. VI 253–54/306–307, and for additional discussions of Merleau-Ponty’s rejection of classical natural law theories, see Hamrick 1987, 187ff. 5. Cf. PhP 160/186: “[B]iological existence gears into human existence and is never indifferent to its distinctive rhythm” (PhP 160/186). “[L]’existence biologique est embrayée sur l’existence humaine et n’est jamais indifférente à son rythme propre.” 6. From the 1957 course on “The Concept of Nature” onward, Merleau-Ponty usually, but not always, capitalizes “Nature.” It is there that he discusses Schelling for the first time, which is perhaps related to this stylistic change. We will follow that practice when referring to Merleau-Ponty. 7. The view that experience “shapes and transforms” our view of Nature is decidedly untrue in the famous episode in Sartre’s La Nausée when M. Roquentin encounters the dark, gnarled tree root, of which more below. It is more nearly he that is shaped and transformed than the tree root.

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body and its cultural milieu, and develops with increasing specificity and sophistication to symbolic systems. At the first and most basic level, Nature presents itself to us as pre-predicative, anonymous, pre-personal bodily life out of which personal life develops by means of a “recovery [reprise]” (PhP 254/293). This pre-personal life is characterized by the “on,” i.e., “one perceives” rather than a cogito that intervenes with personal acts. It is a “silent” or “tacit cogito” (PhP 402/461), “another subject beneath me” that takes up a preexisting world and that designates my place in it. This “tacit cogito” is described as a “captive and natural spirit,” as opposed to “the momentary body” that is deployed in making “personal choices” (PhP 254/294). For Merleau-Ponty, human existence consists of a continual interchange of the pre-personal and the personal (PhP 84/99), the natural aspects of the lived body, of material things, other people, and the world around us, and the body’s spiritual dimensions. However, the pre-personal and the personal are not joined together externally, an in-itself and a for-itself, as separable “parts.” Rather, they interpenetrate, so to say: personal life finds its anchorage in Nature because the pre-personal body is already animated by life. The “physiological” and the “psychic” “gear into each other” (s’engrènent les uns sur les autres) (Ibid., 77/91) because they are never separated to begin with.8 Moreover, just as the existential structure of Dasein for Heidegger consists of being-in-the-world-with-others, so also, for Merleau-Ponty, the lived body, other people, material things, and the world around us all form a unitary system. Thus, Merleau-Ponty writes, there is an “ontological world and body9 which we find at the core of the subject” (Ibid., 408/467). In its continual oscillation with the personal, the pre-personal life of the body manifests itself most directly and primarily in perception, behavior, and expression. To describe this pre-personal life, Merleau-Ponty relies heavily on the experiential and experimental results of Gestalt psychologists. Indeed, in his 1946 address to the Société française de Philosophie in which he defended the principal theses of Phenomenology of Perception, his explanation of “perception as an original modality of consciousness” begins immediately by referring to “the unprejudiced study of perception by [Gestalt]psychologists” (Prim.Percp. 12/103). It has proven convenient for some philosophers during and after Merleau-Ponty’s lifetime to indict his work as “merely psychology”—a charge 8. The early texts, mainly Phenomenology of Perception, employ a number of dyadic descriptions of this unity, which shift in meaning from one set of terms to another. As Hass compendiously lists them, they are “(1) the habit body and the personal body, (2) the impersonal and the personal, (3) the biological and the individual, (4) the sedimented and the spontaneous, [and] (5) the organic and the existential” (2008, 87). 9. The English translation conceals the fact that “ontological” modifies both “world” and “body”: “Le monde et le corps ontologiques. . . .”

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that has been leveled more than once against phenomenology itself. In the 1946 address, he showed that he was aware of this criticism (Ibid., 13/404) and subsequent discussion indicated that he was correct to anticipate the objection. As we shall see, his struggle to demonstrate the ontological import of phenomenology formed one of his main reasons for developing a “new” ontology. Merleau-Ponty takes both Gestalt psychology and phenomenology to have significant ontological import, although the Gestaltists themselves, he believed, did not grasp how their research results undermined their causal account of perception.10 Their traditionally mechanistic account of perception construed it to be the passive effect of prior and separable stimuli, whereas their research results revealed perception to be an active process of spontaneously organizing or structuring a given perceptual field. Perception is, thus, neither passive nor separate and distinct from the stimuli that purportedly determine it. Instead, in the way that perception selectively arranges and organizes stimuli according to certain bodily norms, to achieve equilibrium with its environment, perception helps constitute the stimuli as such. Therefore, objective properties and subjective intentions are not just intermixed, but in fact create a new type of unity. This new type of unity comes about because, as opposed to supposedly atomistic sensations of pure color, sound, and the like—which are actually the objects of a very artificially framed consciousness, usually in laboratory situations11—the simplest perceptual datum forms part of a perceptual field as a focal point against a background context, and is already “laden with a meaning”(PhP 4/10). A perceptual field opens itself to us and we to it. We inhabit this field not as spectators, but as active participants, and it is this participation that explains the fact that body and world are to be found “at the core of the subject.” This participatory structuring of a perceptual field is evident in the description of a Gestalt structure. Negatively, Merleau-Ponty defines it as a whole that is irreducible to the sum of its “parts” (VI 204/258). The structure is neither a thing, a collection of things, nor opposed to them. Positively, a Gestalt is a whole in which each part is internally related to each other part. The whole is present in each part, the whole is more than the sum of 10. This was the first of many instances that Merleau-Ponty advanced this critique of science. Also, as we shall see, he understands the full ontological value of the Gestalt to be disclosed only in his “new” ontology in which he bluntly states, there is “no other meaning than carnal, figure and ground” (VI 265/319). 11. Cf. Heidegger’s observation that “[w]hat we ‘first’ hear is never noises or complexes of sounds, but the creaking waggon, the motor-cycle. We hear the column on the march, the north wind, the woodpecker tapping, the fire crackling. It requires a very artificial and complicated frame of mind to ‘hear’ a ‘pure noise’ ” (1962, 207).

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its parts, and a change in one part does not leave the others undisturbed. Hence, each part is interdependent rather than independent. Exactly how such experiences are “laden with meaning” depends on how values of space and motion and rest are distributed according to the focal point and background of the phenomenon. To consider only spatial values, there is the way that a change of the spatial significance of some part(s) within the whole changes its (their) experiential identity as, for example, in Edgar Rubin’s famous illustration of the “face or vases” (see, for instance, Gurwitsch 1964, 118–19), or in the equally familiar “duck/rabbit” example that Ludwig Wittgenstein discusses in The Philosophical Investigations (1968, 194). Such examples illustrate the first entry into Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of the celebrated theme of ambiguity—that “what we live or think always has several meanings” (PhP 269/197). Here, as with bodily phenomena discussed below, the chief significance of ambiguity is to stress the active structuring of a perceptual field as opposed to deterministic causal accounts of perception and behavior. Ambiguity also permeates Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of social phenomena, as discussed in detail elsewhere (e.g., Hamrick 1989). For the same reason, such phenomena also contradict the ontology of the object. They demonstrate that what is given in perception is not something purely objective to a spectator-like subject, but rather comes into being in the way that the lived body participates in the fact that and how it is given. This is certainly the case with the well-known Müller-Lyer illusion (PhP 6/12) in which, when angled lines are attached to horizontal lines of equal length, the two horizontal lines appear unequal. What is particularly interesting about this example is that not only does the phenomenon not correspond to the stimulus, but also one can know theoretically that the two horizontal lines are parallel before, during, and after the addition of the auxiliary lines and yet the illusion appears anyway. For Merleau-Ponty, this is no mere psychological curiosity, but rather something with ontological weight. Therefore, he will argue against placing the Gestalt in the framework of consciousness and cognition (VI 205–206/258–59). Each “part” has a functional significance within the whole that is, in turn, “considered as the equilibrated and balanced coexistence of its functional parts in their thoroughgoing interdependence” (Gurwitsch 1964, 149). The selective structuring of a perceptual field is also temporal. A melody, for instance, does not equal the sum of its notes because each note has only a functional significance within the whole, and Merleau-Ponty points out that this fact explains why the melody survives transpositions to a different key. Conversely, one change merely in the relationships between the notes will suffice to decisively change the melody (SNS 49/87). Similarly,

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in films the perception of any given shot is contextualized by what precedes it, and this sequence of shots generates a new whole that does not add up to the mere sum of its individual shots (Ibid., 54/97). The organization of a perceptual field likewise characterizes behavior, for different situational responses occur to the same bodily excitation. We react to stimuli holistically, and in different situations they will assume different meanings for the bodily organism. The reflex is not the product of preexisting stimuli because there is a reversibility between the two such that the reflex “turns back upon” the stimuli and gives them a meaning that derives from the entire situation (PhP 79/94). Therefore, subjective intentions and objective properties are thoroughly mixed up with each other and comprise “a new whole” (SC 13/11). For Merleau-Ponty, this “mixed-upness” implies that perception and behavior are intelligible sense-giving activities that evidence a pre-reflective motor intentionality anterior to the intervention of conscious acts or reflective constitutions of meaning. It is usual to point out that intentionality, as Husserl conceives it, means that consciousness is always of something, but it is not as common to add that intentionality is much more than that. Motor intentionality for Merleau-Ponty is not just one feature of experience among others, but also their common pivot. It is the axial theme of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy of incarnation because it is through our motor intentionality that, as opposed to the objective body, the lived body, also called “the knowing body” (PhP 390 n. 1/357, n.4), becomes a system of powers for exploring and making sense of its world. It becomes an “I can” in addition to an “I think,” a view that persists in Merleau-Ponty’s later works as well (OE 163/21). This “I can” or “I am able to,” which Merleau-Ponty borrows from Husserl’s unpublished papers (PhP 137/160)—possibly the manuscripts that became Ideas II (see §60, 277)—is the means by which perception can become “a nascent logos” (“un logos à l’état naissant”) (Prim. Percp. 25/133). In the birth of this logos, consciousness and mobility are so intimately intertwined that either can be said to be the cause of the other (RC 8/17), though they are simply two “halves” of the same whole. Conscious awareness and movement measured in objective space amount only to two abstract aspects of one existence (Ibid.). Or, as Merleau-Ponty expresses it later in “The Philosopher and His Shadow,” motor intentionality “ties together the stages of my exploration, the aspects of the thing, and the two series to each other” (Ibid., 167/211). Further, the motor intentionality through which we possess many holds on the world provides in the same movement both the unity of the senses and the more inclusive unity of bodily processes and systems. In our intentional directedness toward the world, the senses achieve a “never-finished integration into one knowing organism” (PhP 233/270). The senses have

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a synergy in virtue of which they interpenetrate in corporeal synesthesias, and Merleau-Ponty interprets the unity of the body according to the same model. Like the senses, bodily processes and systems also have a Gestalt unity because in their functioning they are not a collection of independent parts, but overlapping parts of a whole existing in internal rather than external relations with each other. In addition, spatial unity becomes visible “only in the interplay of the sensory realms” (PhP 222/257). That is, the unity of things that beckon to our intersensorial explorations comes about in the same movement as does the unity of the body in its intentional explorations. Motor intentionality does not produce the unity of things, nor does the unity of the thing bring into being the correlative unity of a body consciousness. Rather, it is the relationship that is primary, and the unity of the body consciousness and the thing are dual and inextricably linked aspects of it.12 We will return to this relational primacy with regard to Merleau-Ponty’s debt to Paul Claudel. Given the centrality of motor intentionality for understanding how we form part of a unitary system of bodies, material things, and the world around us, it follows that the lived body cannot be simply an object amidst other objects. It is both empirical object and inhabited by a subject. It is “our general medium for having a world” (PhP 146/171), a theme that The Visible and the Invisible reprises with its claim that all notions of objects presume our “perceptual life” as their necessary correlate, a life that brings about “the primary openness to the world” (37/60). The early writings express in several ways the non-objectivity of the lived body, as opposed to the objectified body studied in the sciences. There is, for example, the argument from permanent presence. My body, unlike all other entities, cannot be arrayed before me because it is always on the margins of my perceptual field. In this way, it is always “with me” (PhP 90/106).13 Second, bodily motility entails that the body’s spatial existence differs in principle from that of a purely material thing. The latter can be described as “in” (dans) space (and time) in a contained-container relationship, but the lived body ex-ists, stands forth dynamically in its various projects. Rather than being “in” space and time, the body “inhabits” them (PhP 139/162; cf. UI 5/403). Instead of being “in the world” in the first sense, it is “au monde,” something like “at the world,” the meaning of which is caught in English

12. Hass nicely states that, for Merleau-Ponty, perception consists of “a ‘synergy’ between my living, embodied self and the transcendent, natural world. It is the site where other embodied selves emerge, where our perspectives meld, cross, or intertwine (2008, 24–25).” 13. Whitehead also views the body in this way, expressed in identical language (and even in italics), when he states that “the ‘withness’ of the body is an ever-present, though elusive, element in our perceptions” (PR 312).

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expressions such as being “on the town,” “on top of the world,” and the like. Hence, to characterize this lived contact with the world, Merleau-Ponty’s early works typically use “spatiality” and “temporality” for the lived body and “space” and “time” for the objects of scientific measurement.14 Third, our bodies present themselves to us as a non-objective “corporeal or postural schema” (UI 5/403).15 This schema orients us spatially because in the “practical system” (Ibid., 102/119) of perceiver and perceived, our bodies consist of the “zero point of orientation,” as Ideas II terms it (1989, 61; cited at N 75/108) or, as the Cartesian Meditations states, “my animate organism . . . is inseparable from the absolute Here” (1960, 123). As such, it gives meaning to words such as “on” and “under,” “near” and “far,” “up” and “down,” “left” and “right,” and “here” and “there.” Since the “corporeal schema” is how we perceive our bodies with respect to horizontal, vertical, and other crucial environmental coordinates, the lived body cannot be a mere object existing “under the gaze of a separated spirit” because that body is already subjectivized, or in-spirited, so to speak. It consists of our permanent perspective on the world around us, other people, and perceptual objects. As such, it consists of “the place where the spirit takes on a certain physical and historical situation” (UI 5/403). Finally, the lived body possesses the ability to integrate instruments, tools, and other objects into its spatiality—for example, the blind person’s cane, the pianist’s or typist’s keyboard (PhP 154/180). The “body image” is an openness to the world (Ibid., 143, n. 3/168, n. 1) and provides us with the “mental and practical space” required to establish a stable equilibrium between the body and its environment. This equilibrium comes about as a result of habitual patterns of behavior that obviate the need to think our way through each new situation (Ibid., 87/103). 14. Merleau-Ponty’s distinction between space as an object of reflection and objective measurement and the spatiality of the lived body owes much to Heidegger’s differentiation of space (der Raum) and spatiality (die Räumlichkeit). See, for example, Being and Time, ¶ 24 (1962, 145–48). Nevertheless, it appears that Merleau-Ponty considered the latter’s expression, in-der-Welt-Sein, insufficient to distinguish the spatiality of the lived body from that of a container-contained relationship. Hence the substitution of “au” for “dans.” 15. For Merleau-Ponty, a synonym for “corporeal schema,” or at least a very close cognate, is “body image.” This expression first appeared in Henry Head’s Studies in Neurology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1920), and was taken up in the notion of the “corporeal schema” by “Wallon, by certain German psychologists, and has finally been the subject of a study in its own right by Professor Lhermite in l’Image de notre corps.” Merleau-Ponty, “The Child’s Relations with Others” (PrP 117). This text was cited from the 1960 Cours de Sorbonne publication. See also the later publication of these lecture notes in the Bulletin de psychologie, 236 XVIII 3–6 (novembre 1964), 295–336, esp. 298–99. Likewise important in this regard is Paul Schilder’s classic work, The Image and Appearance of the Human Body (1950), which Merleau-Ponty certainly knew well before his 1960 course at the Sorbonne. Schilder had published a small study of the “Körperschema” in 1923, which Merleau-Ponty cites at PhP 77, n. 4/92, n. 2; and 99, n. 1/115, n. 1.

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As a result, our knowledge of our body image as it gets expressed in habitual patterns of behavior is not primarily theoretical. A meaning is grasped in the development of a habit, but it consists of “the motor grasping of a motor significance” (PhP 143/167). For example, we may not be able to say where a certain key on a typewriter keyboard is located, but our fingers can find it (PhP 144/168). If asked the location, we will typically not answer with the keyboard coordinates, but rather hold up the appropriate finger. Conversely, we can know intellectually the location of a certain key on a foreign keyboard, but this cognition is ineffective against and “neutralized,” so to say, by bodily memory. This is because typing is “knowledge in the hands,” which is disclosed only as a result of the habitual employment of the hands (Ibid.). Something very like this also happens in speaking a foreign language. Without the speaking context, the speaker may have cognitive trouble finding a certain word or expression that comes to mind (and tongue) spontaneously in situ. For Merleau-Ponty, the development of bodily habits generates sedimented meanings16 that, among other things, create the power of staying actively engaged with the world. The habitual body provides the spontaneity and energy of our motor projects with practical, patterned contexts in which they can successfully operate. We require stability “in durable institutions” in order to increase our freedom through which meanings are created (UI 4/403), and bodily habits comprise a key element of such institutions. In this way, inhabiting the world therefore literally becomes in-habiting. In turn, our motor intentionality adds creatively to those sedimentations through seeking additional optimal solutions in changing circumstances. To paraphrase Kant, spontaneity without habit is empty of enduring commitment, while habit without spontaneity is blind—without orientation to new situations. However, as against Kant, for whom “Man is antiphysis” (Freiheit) (N 26/47), freedom and Nature are not antithetical for Merleau-Ponty. It is not a question of freedom versus Nature, but rather the incarnation of freedom in the lived body’s motor intentionality that unites bodily spatiality and the space of the external world in a “practical system.” Further, although Merleau-Ponty’s discussion of the habitual body takes place in a chapter ostensibly about spatiality, temporality is likewise implied by the depth of experience required for sedimentation. Later, in the Passivity lectures, he speaks to this explicitly in the course of comments on Proust, and concludes, “Time reads itself in the corporeal schema . . . time is incorporated and sedimented in it” (IP 255, 256). 16. Sedimentation is a Husserlian concept, though the habitus that he has in mind “pertains not to the empirical, but to the pure Ego” (Husserl 1989, 118). See also 233, 324, and 344ff.

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Merleau-Ponty seeks to illumine motor intentionality and the habitual body through various and, by now, familiar, cases of pathological behavior. One such case will suffice here to articulate the philosophical importance that he attaches to such cases. Schneider, a World War I soldier who suffered a brain lesion in the occipital region caused by a shell fragment, exhibits a “morbid mobility” (PhP 103/119). In part, this means that he is incapable of abstract movements, such as pointing to a certain place on his body, because, contrary to the normal bodily spatiality just described, “the order has [only] an intellectual significance for him and not a motor one” (Ibid., 110/128). He can move his body, and his thoughts can represent movements to him, but normal motor intentionality exists between movements seen from a third-person perspective and intellectual representations (Ibid.). This is because the world presents itself to Schneider “only as ready-made or congealed” (PhP 112/130). He does not lack any sensory data, but tactile impressions, for example, fail to call forth any sense of potential responses as they do in normal motility. Rather, they are “opaque and sealed up” (Ibid., 109/127). For Merleau-Ponty, the difference between normal and pathological motility is not identical to that of completeness and incompleteness, because pathological motility is not normal motility with only one or two features missing. Rather, the patient, just as the child or someone with a “ ‘primitive’ mentality,” possesses a “complete form of existence” (PhP 107/125). Rather than lacking any sensory data, it is a question of what Schneider must do with them—intellectual calculations to make abstract movements and to interpret visual impressions—and what he cannot do with them through spontaneous, pre-reflective, meaningful bodily intentionality. Since he is not open to possibilities, he cannot selectively structure a perceptual field and articulate its intelligibility. Schneider lacks “the concrete liberty” (Ibid., 135/158) of being able to initiate situations; he has no “horizons of possibilities” (Ibid., 135, n. 3/157, n. 5). Merleau-Ponty also briefly expresses Schneider’s “morbid motility” in terms of the concept of an “intentional arc” that he borrows from Franz Fischer (PhP 136/158). This “arc” is said to subtend “the life of consciousness—cognitive life, the life of desire or perceptual life,” to project around us our temporal and “human” settings, “including our physical, ideological and moral situation” (Ibid.). Merleau-Ponty ascribes to this “intentional arc” an explanatory power for “the unity of the senses, of intelligence, of sensibility and motility. And it is this which ‘goes limp’ in illness” (Ibid.).17 17. “qui fait l’unité des sens, celle des sens et de l’intelligence, celle de la sensibilité et de la motricité. C’est lui qui se ‘détend’ dans la maladie.”

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However, as de Saint Aubert points out, despite the apparent importance of this concept for Merleau-Ponty, he uses the expression only three times (at PhP 136/158 and 157/184) and then, “without any explanation of its alleged explanatory power, forgets it purely and simply” (ESA II: 138). In the absence of any explanation, it seems appropriate to think of it as a tentative, incomplete attempt or as a restatement, quickly abandoned, of the living, motor-intentional connection between perceiver and perceived. For Merleau-Ponty, Schneider also demonstrates the falsity of two interpretations of normal perception and behavior. The first one consists of the causal analysis mentioned above—by which he always means mechanistic causality—which cannot account for the ways that normal motility structures an environment and therefore also the “stimuli” that are supposed to be the cause of the perceptual, behavioral “response.” The second mistaken interpretation is that the perceptual, behavioral significations that are crystallized in the body’s normal openness to the world result from cognitive acts imposed on meaningless sense data. Various forms of this interpretation pervaded and distorted modern philosophy, had decisive and destructive ontological consequences in terms of the separation of mind and body, and were rejected by Schelling and then by Hegel. This account of perception lasted well into the twentieth century in doctrines of phenomenalism, logical atomism, and in both the mechanistic and intellectualist accounts of perception with which Merleau-Ponty contended. Sometimes called a “form/matter” analysis of experience (PC II: 20), it holds that experience is made up of unintelligible sense data—the “matter”—that receive their meaning by the imposition of rational judgments—the “form.” In the Cartesian version, coupled with a mind/body dualism, the “form” becomes a mental representation of sensory data. Without this principle of intelligibility, experience would be incoherent: in William James’s famous expression, “one great blooming, buzzing confusion” (1904, I: 488). As opposed to these mistaken interpretations, for Merleau-Ponty normal bodily motility can only be correctly grasped by a different kind of thought, “that which grasps its object as it comes into being” for the percipient “with the atmosphere of meaning then surrounding it” (PhP 120/139–40), and which attempts to slip into that “atmosphere” in order to discern, beneath apparently disconnected “facts and symptoms, the subject’s whole being, when he is normal, or the basic disturbance, when he is a patient” (Ibid.).18 Nor is it the case that normal percipients use the same procedures much more rapidly because of continual use (Ibid., 108/125). Normal motility is such that we do not have to reason inductively to reach an interpreta18. “derrière les faits et les symptômes dispersés, l’être total du sujet, s’il s’agit d’un normal, le trouble fondamental, s’il s’agit d’un malade.”

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tion of “opaque and sealed up” sensory data. In normal motor intentionality, as the Gestaltists showed, the incarnate cogito opens itself to a perceptual field and, in complicity with it, arrives at meanings that are already sketched “in outline” (“en pointillé”), as Merleau-Ponty often says, anterior to the imposition of acts of interpretive judgment. These meanings are open rather than “sealed up,” available for discernment rather than “opaque.” Therefore, the potentiality that characterizes normal motility is really a double and symmetrical one inherent in the system of percipient and perceived. Both are open to each other, a conception that becomes radicalized in Merleau-Ponty’s last ontological writings about Nature. On the one hand, material things, other people, and the world around us are such that we can relate to them intelligibly; they are open to all the diverse ways that we engage them through our motor intentional projects. On the other hand, what it means to be a lived body is to be open to material things, other people, and the world at large. Our bodily projects fit them like, to use again one of Merleau-Ponty’s favorite images, engaging gears (PhP 160/186). Therefore, on his view, the meaningfulness of the world is neither fully formed, waiting to be discovered by consciousness, even a bodily one, nor produced within consciousness to be applied to an inherently meaningless world. Rather, through bodily motility, meaning is developed in a way that is analogous to how a photograph is created in the developing fluid.19 The paradox of the world, as of each perceptual object, is that it is “already there” (déjà-là) before we take it up in any given situation, but it is also a world that “only exists as lived by me or by subjects such as me” (PhP 333/384). A perceptual object is, therefore, a paradoxical “in-itself—for-the-percipient,” and Merleau-Ponty counts it as “probably the most important achievement of phenomenology” that it has found a way to unite “extreme subjectivism and extreme objectivism in its notion of the world or of rationality” (Ibid., xix/xv). In this context, Schneider’s case contains a crucial epistemological significance concerning the second mistaken interpretation of normal perception and behavior, namely, that their intelligibility is imposed on meaningless sense data by cognitive acts. Since in a representational theory of perception, the intelligibility of sense data derives from an “act of understanding” (PhP 131/152), on this theory, “perceptual disturbances” could only be disorders on one side or the other of the experience. However, what patients such as Schneider show us is that the disturbance is situated at the intersection of both perception and meaning (Ibid.). As a result, Schneider, 19. The image of photographic development is too simple to express all the richness of Merleau-Ponty’s conception of sense making. We mention photographic development here only to underscore his view that sense is not imposed on unintelligible matter, but rather that meaning is already sketched out in advance. When we come to discuss the logos proforikos in Merleau-Ponty’s late writings, we will see that there are at least five intertwined images of sense making throughout his works, images that apply to perception, language, art, politics, and science.

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“verifies mediately and clarifies his hypothesis by cross-checking facts, and makes his way blindly towards the one which co-ordinates them all” (Ibid., 131/152–53).20 By contrast, in normal experience the perceived “speaks” and is inherently meaningful; the signification does not have to be imported from outside. As opposed to the form/matter analysis of experience, “matter” is already pregnant with its “form,” to use the Gestaltists’s language.21 Yet, Merleau-Ponty at this stage does not go far enough here. For philosophers such as Descartes, Hume, and Kant, although their accounts differ, the form/matter analysis is only that—an analysis. It is not a description of what anyone is said to experience, but rather a reflective “unpacking” of what had to occur in order for there to be coherent, intelligible experience. However, with Schneider, it is a description of what he lives. The emergence of new meanings implies expression, and Merleau-Ponty’s writings about the body in its relation to nature and culture always emphasize creative expression,22 whether in connection with perception, the emotions, behavior, or cognitive life. In fact, “every human use of the body is already primordial expression” (S 67/84). So far, we have been concerned with perception, but emotions constitute another level of creative expression in the mutual openness of perceiver and perceived. Emotions such as love, anger, joy, and sorrow are not inner “psychic facts”—“confused ideas”—of which behavior is only a meaningless physical re-presentation. Rather, emotions exist and are expressed only in and through speech and gesture. They “exist on this face or in these gestures” (SNS 52/94). Rather than being concealed behind such gestures, an emotion is “a variation” in the ways that our “bodily attitudes” display how we relate to the world around us and to others within it” (Ibid., 53/95).23 Emotional expression is one manner in 20. “vérifie médiatement et précise l’hypothèse par le recoupement des faits, il chemine aveuglément vers celle qui les coordonne tous.” 21. In the unpublished preparatory notes for the 1953 Collège de France course on “The Sensible World and the World of Expression,” Merleau-Ponty writes: “[T]here is no matter without form and inversely.” “[I]l n’y a pas de matière sans forme et inversement.” He then goes on to discuss “the Gestalt as opposed to matter or to form” (ESA III: 26). 22. One of the strengths of Hass’s overarching summary of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology consists of its emphasis on the centrality of creative expression throughout Merleau-Ponty’s accounts of perception, language, art, the construction of geometrical proofs, and in cognition generally. See particularly Chapters 6 and 7. However, what we discuss here and elsewhere in this work is, for the most part, missing from Hass’s text. This is especially true with regard to all the unpublished writings that de Saint Aubert has made available since 2004. 23. Cf. C 63/45, 46: “[T]his malice, this cruelty that I read in the looks of my adversary, I could not imagine them separated from his gestures, from his speech, from his body. . . . [F]inally anger inhabits it [his face].” “[C]ette méchanceté, cette cruauté que je lis dans les regards de mon adversaire, je ne puis les imaginer séparées de ses gestes, de ses paroles, de son corps. . . . Mais enfin la colère l’habite.”

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which there is an interchange between the ways that the other sees me, and how “the image of the other can be immediately ‘interpreted’ by my corporeal schema” (PrP 118).24 And just because we can see, all other visible bodies can participate in this schema. It thereby becomes, as he describes it toward the end of his third course on Nature, “a lexicon of corporeity in general” (RC 129/178). It is part of this expressivity that motor intentionality constitutes our “impulse of being in the world” (PhP 75/92), and what puts “the patient’s being, his power of existing” (Ibid., 134/156) in question. Because reflexes are meaningful expressions of how we orient ourselves to our situations rather than passive, determined reactions to “stimuli,” in normal behavior they “adjust themselves to the ‘direction’ of the situation” (Ibid., 79/94), in the double senses of “le sens,” meaning and spatial orientation. For Merleau-Ponty, this orientation and the “impulse of being in the world” behind it lie primarily in emotional rather than cognitive life, anterior to the achievements of a Cartesian cogitatio or a transcendental, constituting consciousness. For a patient with a phantom limb, for example, the emotion involved amounts to being part of a situation that he cannot honestly accept, but from which also he does not want to flee. “The subject,” Merleau-Ponty says, “caught in this existential dilemma, breaks into pieces the objective world which stands in his way and seeks symbolical satisfaction in magic acts” (Ibid., 86/101–102).25 One “existential attitude” solicits another and, in the case of the phantom limb, forms an indivisible unity with memory and emotion (Ibid., 86/102). Expressivity is also central to normal motility in more diverse ways, and Merleau-Ponty usually discusses it in terms of styles of actions. In our “being at the world” (être-au-monde), styles represent the mélange of matter and form, third-person physiological processes and first-person psychic acts. Styles thus become Merleau-Ponty’s version of Hegel’s notion of the Inhalt, or content, according to which, “Matter contains form locked up within it and is absolute susceptibility to form only because it has form absolutely within itself only because form is its implicit determination” (Hegel 1969,

24. The citation is from the 1960 publication of “The Child’s Relations with Others.” In the 1964 French publication, Merleau-Ponty states, “[T]he perception of my body can be transferred to the other and the image of the other can be immediately ‘interpreted’ by my corporeal schema” (298). “[L]a perception de mon corps peut être transférée à autrui et l’image d’autrui peut être immédiatement ‘interprétée’ par mon schéma corporel.” 25. “Plutôt que d’accepter l’échec ou de revenir sur ses pas, le sujet, dans cette impasse existentielle, fait voler en éclats le monde objectif qui lui barre la route et cherche dans les actes magiques une satisfaction symbolique.”

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451–52).26 For Merleau-Ponty, it is through styles of behavior that the body as a “lexicon of corporeity” can be read. For example, walking embodies a certain manner of inhabiting and interpreting the world in robust health or when sick or injured, by means of types of clothing, lithe or stumbling movements, hesitations, and the like. In these and other cases, form and matter are united; the bodily intelligibility of each situation is not added by cognitive acts to a series of causes and effects whether construed mechanistically or not. Rather, the style is already incarnate in the movements. Just as emotions exist “on this face or in these gestures,” behavior is not a meaningless sign of the signified hidden behind it.27 Merleau-Ponty elaborates this unity of matter and form in behavior in terms of two key concepts that retain their importance in the “new” ontology. The first concept is Paul Claudel’s notion of “co-naissance,” a term that he coins in Art poétique.28 Claudel’s neologism is designed to stress the primacy of the perceptual, behavioral relationship over the relata, and Merleau-Ponty appeals to it in order to reinforce the view that perception and behavior have an inherent intelligibility. Claudel’s term is meant to describe sensory experience by joining together the concepts of birth (naissance) and knowledge (connaissance). As de Saint Aubert remarks, co-naissance expresses “a radical conception of the life of perception as experience [épreuve] of being, in the double passive-active sense of the verb ‘to experience’ [éprouver] (to feel and to put to the test, to perceive and interrogate)” (ESA I: 238). In this situation of co-naissance, our experiences of our own bodies prefigure our experience of objectivity in a kind of “sensuous reflection”29—a 26. J. N. Findlay observes that Hegel’s notion of Content (Inhalt) “can indifferently be taken to represent Materialized Form or Formed Matter. . . . The Content of a thing in the sense used by Hegel is inseparably one with its Form: Romeo and Juliet could not have had the same Content if produced in prose or some non-verbal medium” (1958, 196). 27. We noted earlier that the body’s motor intentionality is invested in symbolic functions of increasing complexity. Styles of behavior comprise a fairly minimal level of such functions, and we shall see later that in the Nature lectures, Merleau-Ponty elaborates on similar behavior for different animals as well. For human beings he details the upper reaches, so to speak, of these symbolic activities in terms of language, art, politics, law, and other dimensions of the social world. For a more detailed study of these subjects with reference to Merleau-Ponty and the lived body, see Hamrick, 1987, especially Chapters I–IV; and 2002, especially Chapters 1–4. 28. Further details of Claudel’s influence on Merleau-Ponty may be found in ESA I: 234–55. Among other things, we learn that, in Merleau-Ponty’s own library, “Art poétique is the most worked over and one of the most annotated volumes. . . . Merleau-Ponty discovers this text in October 1935, at a time in which his conception of philosophical knowledge [connaissance] was already forged against the idealism of Léon Brunschvicg” (Ibid., 236). See also the reference to Claudel at N 97/134. 29. Bernet (1993, 60). For Merleau-Ponty, the primary importance of co-naissance is that it reinforces the primacy of relationships over the relata. In “The Philosopher and His Shadow,” he also interprets Husserl in that way (S 177/223–24).

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concept that derives from Husserl’s descriptions of touching-touched relationships in Ideas II (§36), and of which Merleau-Ponty made much use in both his earlier and later writings. This type of reflection is exemplified in the familiar case of one hand touching the other. For the touching hand—or, more exactly, for the body consciousness following the hand—it is a question of the subjective body experiencing part of itself as object. However, when the touched hand changes into a hand touching the previously touching one, the relationships are reversed. The body becomes both subjectivized object and objectivized subject, which reflects exactly Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of Nature itself in his early writings. Merleau-Ponty sometimes speaks of the symbolic functions of the body in terms of “pregnancy,” a pregnancy that precedes acts of expression (creation).30 In this context, he appropriates a second concept to reject the bifurcation of form and matter, Ernst Cassirer’s notion of “symbolic pregnance”—a phrase coined to describe “the way in which a perception as a sensory experience contains at the same time a certain nonintuitive meaning which it immediately and concretely represents” (Cassirer 1957, III: 202). In Merleau-Pontian parlance, Cassirer uses the phrase to depict “the absolute simultaneity of matter and form” (PhP 127, n.2/148, n.2), the separation of which Cassirer describes as “untenable” (1957, III: 198). For Cassirer, as for Merleau-Ponty, phenomenology shows that “there is no more a ‘matter in itself’ than a ‘form in itself’; there are only total experiences” (Ibid., III: 199). “Pregnance” denotes the “interwovenness” of perception and meaning—the fact that perception, in its totality and fullness, “is a life ‘in’ meaning” (Ibid., III: 202). Accordingly, Merleau-Ponty also describes the inherent intelligibility of perception, its capacity to be a “nascent logos,” in terms of pregnancy. For example, in regard to synesthesia, he depicts sight and hearing as being “pregnant one with the other” (PhP 235/272), a conclusion based as much on Cassirer’s symbolic forms as it is on Gestalt psychology. The latter goes on to say that, as part of this life, we anticipate the future in the present: “The now is filled and saturated with the future: praegnans futuri, as Leibniz called it” (1957, III: 202).31 30. In this relationship of pregnancy and creation, it is possible to hear an echo of Diotima’s speech in Plato’s Symposium, especially when she says, “All of us are pregnant, Socrates, both in body and in soul, and, as soon as we come to a certain age, we naturally desire to give birth” (206C) (1989, 53). 31. Merleau-Ponty acknowledges his debt to Cassirer at several places in Phenomenology of Perception. See especially 127 n.2/148 n.2, 235 and n. 2/272 and n. 1, and 291/337. Merleau-Ponty appropriates Cassirer’s distinction between “phenomenon of expression (Ausdruck),” “verbal expression (Darstellung),” and “intellectual significance” (Bedeutung)” (PhP 235/272) to argue for the mutual pregnancy of “visual and auditory experiences.” He also uses Cassirer’s distinction to maintain that expressive experiences are “anterior to ‘sense-giving acts’ . . . of theoretical and positing thought,” that “expressive significance” precedes “sign significance,” and finally that “the symbolical ‘pregnancy’ of form in content” is prior to “any subsuming of content under form” (Ibid., /291/337).

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Merleau-Ponty notes approvingly that this sense of pregnancy, overlooked by psychologists, consists in the “power to break forth, productivity (praegnans futuri), fecundity” (VI 208/262). At the same time, the body’s symbolic system is always a dedication to the world that counterbalances it by soliciting it to fulfill the body’s expressive possibilities. The Nature of the body’s surrounding world32 has what Husserl called “affective force” (affektiver Kraft) (Steinbock 2000, 66)33 that draws us to make some features of our environment stand out as “figure” and relegate others to the “background.” When this happens, the figure becomes “prominent because it says something to us in a way that makes a difference, and does not achieve prominence in an indiscriminate manner” (Ibid., 68). For example, what we call “familiar terrain” consists of “an affectively optimal, orientated environing world” (Ibid., 69). It is part of Husserl’s notion of an “aesthetic logos” of the life world that helps create an intimate bond between the body and consciousness. The fact that the natural life of the body is “the bearer of an indefinite number of symbolic systems” expressively adapted to the practical tasks of daily life has another important implication. Namely, it follows from the mutual openness of the experient and the experienced—le sentant et le sensible—that the Nature that beckons affectively must also be in some sense a symbolic system(s), or to some degree subjectivized. There are indeed suggestions of such a view of Nature in the Phenomenology, though, unlike his later ontology, the perspective adopted is still that of a philosophy of subjectivity.34 The suggestions emerge in the way that the Phenomenology prefigures the later language of reversibility by describing things gazing at us and at each other, just as we gaze at them. For example, if we look at an object on a desk, we take it to have not only directly visible qualities, but also those that the wall behind it can “see.” The back of the object, say, a lamp, “is nothing but the face which it ‘shows’ to the chimney” (PhP 68/82). Therefore, “every object is the mirror of all others” (Ibid.), and our very ability to perceive an object presupposes that “objects form a system or a world” and that the permanence of any object is underwritten by this ability of other objects to be “spectators of its hidden aspects” (PhP 68/83). 32. Both symbolic systems as well as the notion of a “surrounding world” (Umwelt) are present in many forms of (other) animal life as well. See N 168/220 ff. 33. Steinbock also notes (2000, 66) that “this affective force of something prominent is linked to the discriminating experience of optima” in the sense described above for Merleau-Ponty. It “summons me” to a more complete perception of the object (Ibid., 65) and its context, and where “the affective force is strongest, it provides ‘favorable conditions’ and summons privileged comportment in relation to which it can become prominent and optimal” (Ibid., 67). 34. For a more complete discussion of this theme, see Bernet (1993, 64 ff.).

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For Merleau-Ponty, things have an expressive power, an ability to “display themselves” (PhP 68/82), but within this philosophy of subjectivity, it is our gaze wandering among things that releases that expressive power and ability. The upshot of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of Nature is a “naturalization of the subject [that] goes hand in hand with a subjectivization of Nature” (Bernet 1993, 65), an intertwining that effectively erases any sharp dividing line between the two. The body has “an all-embracing adherence to the world” anterior to any synthetic apperception of a given manifold of data or the conscious positing of objects. “Nothing here is thematized” (PhP 241/279).

MERLEAU-PONTY’S SPARRING PARTNER: DESCARTES In the discussion following his 1946 address, Merleau-Ponty states that phenomenology could not have preceded all other philosophies, but rather that it emerges as a corrective to the “rationalist tradition” and “the construction of science” (Prim.Percp. 29/137). As noted in the Introduction, on his view phenomenology functions as a means of restoring or rehabilitating the sensible, which we have followed in the previous section to describe his early view of Nature. We have traced the ways that he positions phenomenology as an antidote to a cluster of closely related doctrines associated with “the rationalist tradition” and “the construction of science” that pervade modern philosophy from Galileo to Kant. These doctrines include mechanistic causal accounts of perception and behavior, intellectualist constructions of their meanings, the form/matter analysis of experience, representational theories of perception, a dualism of mind and body and, as described in the Introduction, the bifurcation of Nature and the ontology of the object. Although a variety of thinkers throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries subscribed to diverse versions of these doctrines, and despite the fact that Merleau-Ponty comments on almost all of them, Descartes has a special prominence in his criticisms. As we have seen, it is specifically Descartes against whom Merleau-Ponty sets himself at the beginning of his first course on Nature. Moreover, beyond the subject of Nature, Descartes is present in Merleau-Ponty’s writings from one end to the other. Indeed, the notes found on his desk the evening of the day he died dealt with Descartes (ESA II: 23), in all probability because the subject of Merleau-Ponty’s last course at the Collège de France was “Cartesian Ontology and Ontology Today” (January-April 1961). How to explain this Cartesian preeminence in Merleau-Ponty’s thought? Almost all explanations focus on Merleau-Ponty’s many (justified) criticisms of Decartes. Hass, for example, is only the latest to express the view that

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This is perfectly true, yet despite the usual stress on Merleau-Ponty’s negative relationship with his precursor, there must be more to Merleau-Ponty’s continual return to Descartes than obsession or the reiteration of criticism. If that were the whole story, it would have been much simpler and easier for him to refer to his earlier critiques. We believe that this negativity misses at least two key facts. The first is that Merleau-Ponty was certainly aware of the perennial relevance of Descartes’ philosophy. Claude Lefort expresses this well when he says that there is a natural connection between Descartes and us because we share the same problems that stem from the same source, namely that “it is always a question of time, space, things, and bodies that are and are not things, and of what one calls thinking, feeling, desiring, communicating” (NC 16). Lefort then states that, whereas Merleau-Ponty creates an ontology to contrast with that of Descartes, we must realize that “the contrast is not given, and that he takes it upon himself to establish it” (Ibid.).35 The second missing part of the explanation consists of what Merleau-Ponty finds of positive value in Descartes’ philosophy. He locates in Descartes both the best and the worst of a philosophy of embodied existence. In his unpublished La Nature ou le monde du silence (probably in the autumn of 1957), Merleau-Ponty writes, “Descartes is simultaneously the most profound and the least satisfying of philosophers” (ESA III: 125, n. 1). The worst is the strict demarcation of body and soul, which produces “ontological positivism or ontology of the object, ontological negativism or ontology of the subject, . . . ontological diplopia, i.e. instability and

35. Perhaps to stress the continuing relevance of Descartes for Merleau-Ponty, Jean Wahl states, in the discussion following the presentation of “Man and Adversity,” “Descartes, great precursor of Merleau-Ponty—and there is no irony in my words” (PC II: 326). Lefort notes that the course on “The Cartesian Ontology and Ontology Today” describes the purpose of the course as the formation of an ontology “that remains implicit, in the air . . . by contrast with the Cartesian ontology (Descartes and successors)” (Ibid., 166). In the unpublished “scraps” of radio interviews with Georges Charbonnier during the spring of 1959, Merleau-Ponty indicated that the philosophical problem that oriented all of his research ever since his school days was “the relations of the soul and the body,” and that even as a student he was always struck by the fact that his teachers, such as Léon Brunschvicg, were Cartesians. ESA II: 17 n. 4. L’Œil et l’esprit is probably Merleau-Ponty’s best effort to come to grips with Cartesianism despite the course on Cartesian ontology the following year.

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dialectic between appearance and reality36 (Ibid.). And it is precisely this “instability and dialectic” that are implicated in what Whitehead called the “bifurcation of nature.” However, what Merleau-Ponty considers the best of Descartes’ philosophy consists of the descriptions in Meditation VI and elsewhere of the ways that body and soul are thoroughly mixed up with each other—“confondu et mêlé”—as, say, by means of feelings of hunger and thirst. This second understanding of the “Cartesian idea of the human body . . . is perhaps the most profound idea of the union of the soul and the body. It is the soul intervening in a body that is not of the in itself” (VI 234/288).37 It is but another dimension of the natural ambiguity of the body: it is and is not an object and soul and body ambiguously blend with each other. There are in fact three different kinds of confusions for Descartes on which Merleau-Ponty never ceased meditating and commenting: “ontological confusion (the soul and the body, being and nothingness), epistemological confusion (confused thought),” and “carnal confusion, that of feeling and desire” (ESA II: 32). The existence of these “confusions,” as Merleau-Ponty often points out, gives rise to two different meanings of Nature for Descartes, to which two different ontologies correspond. The first sense is that of the “natural light” of reason, from which Descartes believes the “ontology of the object” follows (because of the clear and distinct ideas of material and mental substances). The second sense is that of “natural inclination,” which derives from the “confusions,” and which expresses an “ontology of the existent” (RC 88–89/125–26). The Cartesian “ontological diplopia” produced by such confusions stems from the fact that the natural light of reason leads us to believe in the separation of mind and body, which is what Descartes teaches us in the first three Meditations, while natural inclinations disclose the unity of mind and body, which is the lesson of the last three Meditations, and especially Meditation VI (ESA II: 26). However, since it is impossible that 36. “positivisme ontologique ou ontologie de l’objet, négativisme ontologique ou ontologie du sujet, . . . finalement diplopie ontologique, i.e. instabilité et dialectique de l’apparence et de la réalité.” Merleau-Ponty borrows the notion of “ontological diplopia” from Maurice Blondel (1935) (RC 90/127). 37. “L’idée cartésienne du corps humain en tant qu’humain non fermé . . . est peut-être la plus profonde idée de l’union de l’âme et du corps. C’est l’âme intervenant dans un corps qui n’est pas de l’en soi.” In Meditation VI, Descartes puts it this way: it is by means of “feelings of sadness, hunger, thirst, etc.” that “nature teaches me . . . that I am not only lodged in my body as a pilot in a vessel, but that I am very closely united to it, and so to speak so intermingled with it that I seem to compose with it one whole” (1967, I: 192). For Merleau-Ponty, a crucial rehabilitative function of phenomenology is to remove Descartes’ “so to speak” and “re-establish the roots of the mind in its body and in its world” as against bifurcations of an autonomous consciousness from perception and behavior construed as the result of mechanical causation (UI 3–4/402).

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a Cartesian understanding could possibly conceive of a mélange of mind and body, and since there is always an “inextricable confusion” (PhP 454/518) between them, as well as between ourselves and the world, and ourselves and others (OE 176/54), it follows that some other way must be found to think their unity.38 In the following section we will revisit this same confusion and problem of understanding with regard to Jean-Paul Sartre. In this regard, it is worth citing here vis-à-vis both Descartes and Sartre a retrospective statement by Merleau-Ponty that reaffirmed both his desire to account for human experience and his opposition to dualisms. In his fifth radio interview with Georges Charbonnier, first broadcast on June 19, 1959, he explained that ever since his student days, what interested him was the connection of mind with the rest—with the body, with society, with everything social. . . . It’s always the connection of being and nothingness, or the mélange of being and nothing, that has interested me. . . . [Sartre’s philosophy] was and remained in large measure closely tied to the Cartesian position of the Cogito. . . . mind, if one can think it in itself, [and] liberty, so to speak, face the world, and not tied to the world. The idea of connection is an idea that he does not like (ESA I: 111).39

38. This is why Merleau-Ponty much prefers Montaigne to Descartes: “Montaigne’s realm, on the contrary, is the ‘mixture’ of the soul and body; he is interested only in our factual condition, and his book endlessly describes this paradoxical fact that we are” (S 201/254). “Le ‘mélange’ de l’âme et du corps est au contraire le domaine de Montaigne, il ne s’intéresse qu’à notre condition de fait, et son livre décrit à n’en plus finir ce fait paradoxal que nous sommes.” 39. “le lien de l’esprit avec le reste—avec le corps, avec la société, avec le tout social. . . . C’est toujours le lien de l’être et néant, ou le mélange de l’être et néant, qui m’a intéressé . . . [la philosophie de Sartre] était à ce moment-là, et est restée dans une large mesure dans la suite, très solidaire de la position cartésienne du Cogito. . . . l’esprit, si on peut la penser en elle-même, la liberté, sont pour ainsi dire en face du monde, et non pas liés au monde. L’idée de lien est une idée qu’il n’aime pas.” See also Merleau-Ponty’s comments to Charbonnier that he had always found “shocking” the idealist contention that thought was complete immanence cut off from the world and other people, and that he had long since set himself the problem to make those connections “thinkable” and “comprehensible” (ESA I: 111, n. 2). See also here Patrick Burke’s “Introduction” to the English translation of UAC, especially p. 17. Still, it is certainly unfair to Sartre to say that, for him, “mind, if one can think it in itself, liberty, so to speak face the world, and are not tied to the world.” The for itself is ineluctably tied to the world from which it is nevertheless radically different. Here Merleau-Ponty appears to conflate connection with mélange. Also, to say “The idea of connection is an idea that he does not like” appears to conflate “like” with “accept.” De Saint Aubert repeats all of this uncritically, and also never takes into account Sartre’s remarks about moral responsibility in, say, Existentialism is a Humanism. Nor does Merleau-Ponty link his remarks to Charbonnier to that text.

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For Descartes, the natural light of reason shone most brilliantly in mathematics. Like Galileo,40 Descartes also held that “Geometry or abstract Mathematics” explains “all the phenomena of nature” (The Principles of Philosophy, Part Two, Principle LXIV) (1967, I: 269) and that, “of all the sciences known as yet, Arithmetic and Geometry alone are free from any taint of falsity or uncertainty” (Rules for the Direction of the Mind) (1967, I: 4). In sharp contrast to this intellectual knowledge, imagination, “a certain application of the faculty of knowledge to the body” (Ibid.), is confused and unclear. The former takes as its object all of the quantitative aspects of our experience. The latter concerns sensory qualities, the apprehension of which are “confused thoughts” (The Principles of Philosophy, Part IV, Principle CXCVII) (1967, I: 294). This epistemological distinction is important for Descartes’ ontological conviction that, as with Galileo, what John Locke (1969, II, 8, § 23, 71) would call “primary qualities” exist in material objects, whereas (Lockean) “secondary qualities” “represent nothing to us outside of our mind” (The Principles of Philosophy, Part I, Principle LXXI) (1967, I: 249–50).41 In Whiteheadian terms, they are “psychic additions” to nature. In Descartes’ famous example of the melted wax in Meditation II, the reason that he gives for this conviction is that quantitative factors comprise the only permanent characteristics of the wax: its spatial extension, flexibility, and mobility. Those are the objects of intellectio, whereas, he tells us, “nothing of all that the senses brought to my notice” could reveal its nature (1967, I: 154).42 40. For Galileo, the sensory world consisted of delusory appearances that became intelligible only through the intervention of mathematics (1964, 271). His universal mathesis of nature and his view of the relationship of primary and secondary qualities have had momentous epistemological, moral, and metaphysical consequences for the history of Western philosophy and societies alike. He reversed the double assumption that human beings and external nature are part of a seamless whole and that human beings comprised its most important part. In Descartes’ hands, Galileo’s mathematical science of “local motions” became a full-fledged “mechanistic despiritualization of Nature” (Windelband 1926, 403). Not only that, whereas Galileo was content to relegate final causes to the spiritual life and to God—his view, as expressed well by Cardinal Baronius in 1598, was that the Bible shows us “how to go to heaven, not how the heavens go”—Descartes, in a prefiguration of unknowable Kantian noumena, holds that God might have purposes, but they likewise cannot be known. Moreover, none of his descriptions of human mental life ever refer to purposes. 41. Berkeley held the same view in identifying “esse” with “percipi,” but of course linked to the radically non-Cartesian rejection of matter. 42. Hass rightly points out that Descartes uses the example of the wax to defend a representational theory of perception inasmuch as what is perceived (read: conceived) as constant is an idea of the wax as solid and then as melted (2008: 14–15). Perception for Descartes becomes judgment. Hass could have added that Descartes had a scientific explanation at hand to justify, or at least reinforce, his representational theory. As Whitehead points out, with the development of transmission theories of light and sound, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophers argued that a secondary quality such as color emerged from the transmitted waves of light, and so was not itself in the object or the light waves projected from it (CN 26–27).

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However, Descartes’ argument from permanence suffers from the fatal flaw that, regardless of changing color and composition, some color and resistance remain in whatever shape the wax takes. “The fact is, and this is of central importance,” as E. A. Burtt points out, “Descartes’s real criterion is not permanence but the possibility of mathematical handling” (1954, 117). From that point of view, it is instructive that, as David Abram points out (2007, 156), Descartes’ strict separation between primary and secondary qualities and dualism of bodies and minds, was necessary to deal with Copernicus’s and Galileo’s stupefying disclosure of the untrustworthiness of our senses. The Copernican worldview required that the mind had to distance itself as clearly as possible from the body as a locus of sensation. This withdrawal, crystallized in the ontology of the natural light as a mental substance, becomes, like Kant’s transcendental ego, an anti-physis. As with Galileo, the “world-machine” (Burtt 1954, 165), becomes a positive infinite, an objective plenum of matter in which quanta of matter exist as particular, self-contained, delimited magnitudes of space existing in the partes extra partes relationships described above. They differ from each other only as modes of extension. Partes extra partes relations between quanta of matter are also temporal. Time on this view consists of a series of isolable, self-contained “instants,” or present “nows,” each of which is cut off from its predecessors and successors. Here also, each quantum is self-contained and therefore not implicated in the existence of any other quanta. Moreover, what is true of external nature is also true for the internal. As Descartes tells us in Meditation III, “all the course of my life may be divided into an infinite number of parts, none of which is in any way dependent on the other; and thus from the fact that I was in existence a short time ago it does not follow that I must be in existence now” (1967, I: 168). This temporal schema is also central to Descartes’ view of mind-body interaction. This is because, in the “machine of our body” (Descartes 1989, 26), sensations that are carried along nerve pathways to the brain cause nerve excitations at discrete instants, and finally are transmitted to the mind via the pineal gland such that the corresponding mental representation also occurs as a discrete event—and vice versa for mentally directed bodily movements. Along the chain of these discrete events, “the passions” of the soul, consist of “all the sorts of cases of perception and knowledge to be found in us” that the soul “receives . . . from things that are represented by them” (1989, 28). Descartes’ explanation of mind-body interaction begs two intertwined and well-known questions about a putative connection between a material body and an immaterial soul. Since Descartes obviously thinks of this connection in terms of cause and effect through contact, what mode of contact could there be between material and nonmaterial entities, and what would

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such a contact mean? Descartes never addresses the more basic question of meaning, but he does consider that of verification, and in a way that is most enlightening for the relationship of phenomenology and ontology. Elizabeth wrote to Descartes, June 20, 1643, that she could not understand how the soul could move the body. “ ‘I must admit,’ she wrote, ‘that it would be easier for me to attribute matter and extension to the soul, than to attribute to an immaterial being the capacity to move and be moved by a body’ ” (1970, 140). His answer, dated June 23, 1643, stated that she should “feel free to attribute this matter and extension to the soul because that is simply to conceive it as united to the body” (cited at UAC 34/14). Descartes goes on to say that pure intellect and/or imagination can only obscurely express the union of body and soul. For that we need the senses, and that is the reason that non-philosophers, guided solely by their senses, have no trouble believing in body-soul interaction and understand them as a unity. In other words, it is only by avoiding reflective thought that we can somehow understand the unity of material and immaterial entities. It is this unsatisfactory state of affairs that drives Merleau-Ponty to conclude that, if it is a mental confusion to think of the unity of mind and body, how could we ever arrive at the notion of the cogito, and if we do arrive at it (through unconfused thought), “how can I be the unreflective subject of the Sixth Meditation” (UAC 35/16)? Elizabeth very likely reached a similar conclusion, for she answered Descartes’ letter of June 28, 1643, as follows: “ ‘The senses teach me that the soul moves the body . . . but neither they nor the intellect nor the imagination teaches me how. Perhaps there are properties of the soul unknown to us which will overturn the conviction of the soul’s non-extension” (1970, 144).43 Doubtless, Elizabeth considered Descartes’ definitions of mind and body so radically different that their unity would be miraculous. Equally miraculous in such a dualism is Descartes’ astonishing claim in a letter to Mersenne (April 1, 1640) that, since the pineal gland is “not at all suitable” for storing old memories, part of the memory of the lute player is “in his hands”! The reason is that “the ease of bending and disposing his fingers in various ways, which he has acquired by practice, helps him to remember the passages which need these dispositions when they are played” (1970, 71).44

43. It should also be noted here that, in a letter to More dated April 15, 1649, Descartes distinguished an “extension of substance” (matter) from an “extension of power” that supposedly belongs to the soul (cited in UAC 34/15). However, the latter extension appears to be a description of body-soul interactions rather than an explanation of them. 44. It is very strange that Merleau-Ponty does not refer to this letter. It is neither obscure nor difficult to find, to say nothing of the addressee. And it is highly improbable that he did not know the letters thoroughly.

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Unfortunately, Descartes does not venture an explanation for the possibility of such motor intentional memories, and the rest of his philosophy provides two powerful reasons against it. First, there is literally no place in the bodily machine for memories, and the mind is the source of all intelligibility, including that of memory. Therefore, second, what we sense, what the lute player would feel with his hands, is but a sign whose significance comes from thought laid over it, a bifurcation of matter and form. Furthermore, because ideas are mental representations of sensory representations of supposedly external objects, nothing in the ideational act could certify the correctness of the representation. Thus, when, via “the mediation of the nerves,” we see the light of a torch and hear the sound of a bell, the sound and the light . . . [excite] two different movements in some of our nerves and thereby in the brain, impart to the soul two different sensations, which we refer to the subjects we suppose to be their causes in such a way that we think that we see the torch itself and hear the bell, and not that we only feel the movements proceeding from them. (1989, 31; emphasis added) There is, therefore, a double problem of unverifiable reference: the sensation to the external object that is its supposed origin and the idea to the sensation that it putatively re-presents. Clearly, one attraction of conceiving nature to be what can be known mathematically is that it offers a way to avoid facing such insoluble problems of correspondence.

A LATTER-DAY CARTESIAN: JEAN-PAUL SARTRE Sartre does not hold a representational theory of perception, but his early philosophy is nonetheless closely allied with that of Descartes to such an extent that Merleau-Ponty develops his phenomenology of Nature, as well as almost everything else in his philosophy, against both of them together. Moreover, he has an equally complicated relationship with both. Sometimes, as we have seen, this leads him to quite unfair criticisms of Sartre. Another instance is his claim that in Sartre’s philosophy there is “no place for a conception of Nature or for a conception of history” (N 70/101). In fact, he has both. As regards history, we immediately think of the Critique of Dialectical Reason, the first volume of which was not published until a year before Merleau-Ponty’s death. Yet, history as embedded in sociopolitical phenomena is not absent from Sartre’s early writings, not even from Being and Nothingness. Inversely, consciousness is not completely absent from the Critique—though, there, its author is more interested in “the life, the objec-

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tive being, of the investigator” (1976, 51)—and freedom is associated with action and praxis instead of being identical to consciousness. Therefore, just as Merleau-Ponty’s early thought is still present in his later writings, so, also, is that of Sartre. Merleau-Ponty wrestles throughout his entire professional life with Sartre’s “phenomenological ontology,” to use part of the subtitle of Being and Nothingness, and this includes the theme of Nature. Whereas Phenomenology of Perception is extremely deferential to Sartre and offers only the gentlest of criticisms, the tone changes considerably over time until the trenchant criticisms of “Sartre et l’ultra-bolshevisme”—the last chapter of Les Aventures de la dialectique—spelled the decisive break between the two. (See also the “Introductory Pages” for the La Nature ou le monde du silence in ESA IV: 44–52.) Despite the famous rupture, however, both Sartre’s influence on Merleau-Ponty as well as the latter’s attempts to provide a definitive answer to the former’s ontology of being and nothingness, endured right to the end of Merleau-Ponty’s life.45 We will study later the ways in which Merleau-Ponty continued his one-sided conversation with Sartre in the Nature lectures and in the unfinished ontology of The Visible and the Invisible. Our concern here, by contrast, is the way that Merleau-Ponty’s early phenomenology criticizes Sartre’s views of consciousness and Nature, and of their bifurcation, how he accepted the validity of Sartre’s phenomenological descriptions, but disagreed with their philosophical conclusions and implications. Those phenomenological descriptions, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, “pose the central problem of philosophy” in the light of the development of modern philosophy, and they do so directly and with new depth (SNS 73/145). Descartes has shown us, he holds, the fundamental difference between existing as consciousness and existing as a thing, and nineteenth-century teachings about the “historicity of the spirit” have shown us that “consciousness always exists in a situation” (Ibid.). Given both of these intellectual acquisitions, we must try to comprehend them together. As regards the relationships of human existence to Nature and the life world in general, Merleau-Ponty underscores the value of Sartre’s avoidance of two classic positions: that human beings as parts of Nature are reducible to the effects of various natural and social causes, and that human 45. Not only is Sartre’s philosophy the subject of the longest chapter of The Visible and the Invisible (“Interrogation and Dialectic”), and amply present in its “Working Notes” as well, but also this chapter title described their personal lives as well. For instance, Michel Contat related to one of us (Hamrick) an interesting event shortly before Merleau-Ponty’s death. The latter told Contat at an exhibition in a Paris art gallery that he had viewed the paintings once with little comprehension, but that, after having read Sartre’s review of the exhibit, he now understood it.

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existence is a “constituting consciousness” with an “a-cosmic freedom” (SNS 71–72/142). Fleeing from the inescapable difficulties in the first view is not a sufficient warrant for embracing the second, and Merleau-Ponty sees Sartre as giving us another way to understand human existence, existence defined as “the movement” by means of which we involve ourselves “in a physical and social situation” (SNS 72/143). As with Husserl, this new way consists of viewing subject and object as drawn together in a “relationship of being” (SNS 72/143–44). (How this “relationship of being” differs from the idea of connection that Sartre purportedly does not like is unclear.) Also, in terms of phenomenological descriptions, Merleau-Ponty’s conception of the lived body is largely indistinguishable from that which Sartre advances in Being and Nothingness. For example, both thinkers portray the expressive body in identical ways and both hold that emotions are not internal mental realities re-presented in external behavior. However, on an ontological plane, to say that consciousness, or “human reality,” as Sartre interchangeably refers to it, is “être-au-monde” bears only a verbal similarity to Merleau-Ponty’s own view, even in his early texts. The reason is that Sartre’s conception of consciousness not only mediates our contact with Nature, as if it were a lens through which Nature is revealed, but does much more than that. Sartre defends the much stronger claim that what Nature itself is becomes determined through consciousness as he understands it. His conception of consciousness is, of course, nothingness (“le néant”), negation, nihilation, freedom, pure flux, flight out of itself, project (from pro-iacere, to throw forward), (self-) transcendence—and other well-known descriptors elaborated in great detail throughout Being and Nothingness. In that work, for Merleau-Ponty, “the subject is freedom, absence, and negativity and . . . nothingness” (SNS 72–73/144). This nothingness, however, is not a mere absence of being. It is also a process of temporalization, just as Merleau-Ponty and Heidegger described the lived body and Dasein, respectively. Sartre says that consciousness “temporalizes itself by existing” (1956, 136), that “freedom, choice, nihilation, temporalization are all one and the same thing” (Ibid., 465). This process of temporalization is also at odds with “the magic duration of Bergson’s philosophy” (Ibid., 170), which is inconsistent with Sartre’s view that consciousness and decision, or choice, are identical (Ibid., 462). “Bergson with his duration, which is a melodic organization and multiplicity of interpenetration [of past and present], does not appear to see that an organization of multiplicity presupposes an organizing act” (Ibid., 135). Bergson, he continues, was correct to discard the Cartesian notion of the instant, but Kant was more right than Bergson to insist that “there is no given synthesis” (Ibid.). Since, for Sartre, the subject “is only nothingness,” it therefore has only “being for itself” and not, as a thing, “being in itself.” As “for-itself” instead

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of “in-itself,” it, like Husserl’s transcendental ego or Heidegger’s Dasein, cannot “come into the world” (AD 142/190, 191). There can be no genesis of the subject in Nature because the for-itself is not part of its warp and woof, but rather a “rift in the fabric of the world” (SNS 73/146). In the last analysis, for Sartre, “there is pure being, natural and immobile in itself”—things in themselves, plenitude, pure Bergsonian positivity, completeness—and there are transparent consciousnesses that exist in tandem with it (AD 142/191). As with Bergson, as we shall see in Chapter VI, negativity is a function of consciousness, never of (positive) facts, the in-itself. For example, if we say that our friend has not yet arrived at the café or that the lunar eclipse is not yet complete, these “not yets” are introduced by the subject who disrupts the plenum of the world, creating a “rift” in its fabric. The point of rehearsing these familiar descriptions of Sartre’s early philosophy is to emphasize that, in place of a natural genesis of the subject, Sartre gives us a dualism of interiority and exteriority, negativity and positivity, nothingness and things. It is therefore impossible for consciousness to be inscribed in things. There can be no unity with Nature, let alone, as Merleau-Ponty said, an “indivision” with it. In radical contrast to the role that objectification plays for Husserl and Merleau-Ponty—what Bernet terms “sensuous reflection”—for Sartre, if the for-itself became the in-itself, this reification would amount to the death of consciousness. To be anything would objectify and thus destroy the subject. More than this, however, reification is a threat for Sartre because the for-itself has a deeply conflicted relationship with the in itself. On the one hand, consciousness preserves its freedom—or, rather, is freedom—because it comprises an unending series of acts of negation of the in-itself. On the other hand, the subject, since it is solely negativity, therefore lacks the being necessary to support itself (SNS 73/144). Thus, the for-itself needs the in-itself that it constantly flees. The in-itself then presents itself as enticing, or tempting. It offers consciousness what it lacks: stability, order, and justification. Corresponding to the “affective force” of objects in the life world for Husserl, this aspect of the in-itself presents the world as “promise” in addition to being a “threat” to the subject. It is “the world which sets traps for, seduces, or gives in” to the for-itself (S 155/196). Hence, the dialectical relationship between the subject and the in-itself consists of an ontologically necessary one of repulsion and attraction, flight and desire, rejection and envy. Intentionality for Sartre always leads consciousness toward a unity with things that can never be completed; it is an impossible synthesis (SNS 76/151). The repulsion side of this contradiction is why in Sartre’s dualism, unlike that of Descartes, Nature is not only radically other than consciousness, but also frightening. In fleeing from its own death by “nihilating” the in itself, the subject experiences Nature as totally alien to its own sort

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of being. This quality of being completely other is experienced as shocking, ugly, and disgusting. Merleau-Ponty expresses Sartre’s view well when he quotes Pascal’s famous statement, “The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me” and adds, “there is something horrible, repulsive, and unchallengeable about things which simply are, which mean nothing” (SNS 75/149; translation altered).46 The locus classicus of Sartre’s depictions of nature is the scene in La Nausée in which the narrator, Antoine Roquentin, is finally struck by the contingency and gratuitousness of not only his own life and freedom, but of the in-itself in general. However, this is no mere fiction for Sartre. For he states in his autobiography, Les Mots, “I was Roquentin, I showed in him, without the desire to please anyone, the web of my life” (1964, 210). He realizes that he and everything else are “de trop,” superfluous, without justification. In this passage, he can no longer tolerate the close proximity of things, so he descends from his tram before it stops. In the public garden, he sits on a bench and sees the dark tree trunks stretch toward the sky and the dark root of the chestnut tree under his feet. What he recognizes is that, like most people, he had never before understood what existence meant. Now he sees things “naked, with a frightening and obscene nudity” (1938, 180). This thunderbolt of illumination, as Nietzsche might express it, extends even to his own eventual corpse. Returned to the dust of the earth one day, he would be “de trop pour l’éternité.” Sartre will later describe this feeling of “fundamental absurdity” (Ibid., 182) as an ontological nausea, which is an “insipid taste which I cannot place, which accompanies me even in my efforts to get away from it” (1956, 338), and which is foundational for all empirical nauseas. This basic nausea is the insipid taste of contingency and facticity. The utterly alien and threatening character of Nature bifurcated from consciousness also manifests itself in the phenomenon of the disgusting, particularly in relation to the viscous, or slimy. The threat here is one of dissolution, and we react with disgust because we resist being absorbed in the in-itself “as ink is absorbed by a blotter” (1956, 610). Sartre observes that we can dive into water without fear because the liquid environment does not threaten our solidity. Everything about water makes us think of the for-itself, so much so that “psychologists (James, Bergson) have very often compared it to a river” (Ibid.) However, with slime, we lose that assurance “because the slimy is in process of solidification” (Ibid.). We lose 46. “Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraye . . . il y a quelque chose d’horrible, de repoussant et d’irrécusable dans ces choses qui sont simplement et ne veulent rien dire.” The English translation, “express nothing,” is too weak for “ne veulent rien dire” because the reason why, for Sartre, things cannot express anything is, as Merleau-Ponty’s text plainly states, they “do not mean anything.”

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our equilibrium because we are haunted by the threat of “a metamorphosis” (Ibid.).47 On Sartre’s view, the slimy is such a horrible image because “it is horrible in itself for a consciousness to become slimy” (Ibid.). Such a transformation would destroy the for-itself’s temporality in that it could no longer be a free flight out of itself toward a future, but would rather be sucked back into the past. Yet the slimy threatens the for-itself with becoming a type of being that cannot actually exist. A sticky consciousness, so to speak, would be exactly the structure that Merleau-Ponty attributes to every perceptual object—an “In itself-For-itself,” which “is only represented by the slimy” (1956, 611). The slimy is therefore an unrealizable but dangerous type of being for consciousness, and which always haunts us with the threat of being sucked into it. In addition, there is more than one kind of context in which we worry about getting “stuck.” Just as Sartre distinguishes between ontological and empirical nauseas, so, too, does he differentiate experiences of sliminess from their “valid ontological pattern beyond the distinction between psychic and non-psychic, which will interpret the meaning of being” (1956, 611). Sartre holds that it is present in different types of sliminess. For example, even a child experiences “the kind of sticky baseness which we figuratively name ‘slimy’; it is there near him in the very sliminess of honey or of glue” (1956, 612). In the adult world as well, any type of object can suggest sliminess whenever this mode of being arises, and this may also be why we are repulsed even at “slimy,” unctuous, fictional characters in literature, such as Uriah Heep in Dickens’s David Copperfield. In The Adventures of the Dialectic, Merleau-Ponty notes the “apparent paradox” that Sartre became famous precisely for his descriptions of the unrealizable “middle ground” between the for-itself and the in-itself, such as “the root in Nausea” or “viscosity” (the slimy) (AD 137/185). It is not clear why Merleau-Ponty includes the former example here, since the description of the narrator’s experiences betrays no evidence of a “vague, soft effort” to suck him into it. On the contrary, the gnarled, dark root horrifies him because it becomes the visible presence of his superfluity. However this may be, Merleau-Ponty correctly observes that the paradox is “only apparent” because it requires a for-itself as Sartre describes it (AD 138 n. 78 /185 n. 1), and that a different conception of consciousness, namely his own that emerges in the “confusions” of mind and body, could dissolve the paradox. 47. Many years ago, in a source long since forgotten, an unknown philosopher made the point that Sartre’s argument provides an explanation for an otherwise strange but common experience. People who feel no disgust or threat in the phlegm in their own throats usually cannot abide looking at it, let alone touching it, after it has been expectorated, even immediately afterward.

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Nonetheless, the earlier Sartrean view of freedom and consciousness follows its Cartesian forerunner that construes Nature more according to the “natural light” of reason than it does following the “confusions” of mind and body. In both cases, as with Kant, it is a question of freedom against, rather than within, Nature. Too, there are several close similarities in Kant’s and Sartre’s views of freedom. Both thinkers strongly underscore personal autonomy and responsibility for one’s own choices, and both agree that responsibility cannot be imposed on the will from the outside. For Kant, outside (“heteronymous”) forces are inconsistent with autonomy, while Sartre views them not as forces, but rather as the constant temptation to pretend that there are limits to freedom and hence “bad faith.” “Without any help whatsoever,” Sartre writes, human reality “is entirely abandoned to the intolerable necessity of making itself be—down to the slightest detail” (1956, 440–41). Sartre holds this view as a result of the way that he attempts to counter criticism from Gaston Bachelard that phenomenology does not adequately appreciate “what he calls the ‘coefficient of adversity’ in objects. The accusation is just and applies to Heidegger’s transcendence as well as to Husserl’s intentionality” (Ibid., 324–25). Yet contrary to what Bachelard had in mind, for Sartre we are the coefficients of our own adversity. This is because “causes and motives have only the weight which my project—i.e., the free production of the end and of the known act to be realized—confers upon them” (Ibid., 450–51). This is an entirely consistent claim for the author of Being and Nothingness to make, but it hardly seems what the narrator/author of La Nausée would hold. It would have been a good deal more shocking than the dark, gnarled root itself if M. Roquentin had got off his park bench and entered into a cognitive process of affirming his liberty by negating the weight of that disconcerting part of the in-itself. The truth is that he finds the root to be oppressive rather than making it so. Consequently, Merleau-Ponty certainly would argue here that (1) such valuations presuppose a more fundamental, corporeal involvement with the world and others, and (2) such experiences present clear examples of how we enter into complicity with the world to realize its meaningfulness rather than impose intelligibility on it. It is also remarkable that nowhere in Sartre’s early writings does he appear to acknowledge the fact that our motives—the free, protentive desires of a certain future that are supposed to constitute the past causes of our actions as such—are themselves to some degree predictable. Following that line of thought would eventually have shown him that it cannot be the free project of the for-itself that assigns all “weight” to Nature. It is not surprising, therefore, that Merleau-Ponty notes that what Being and Nothingness lacks is

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“a theory of passivity” (SNS 77/133), institution, not constitution—which Sartre remedied in his later works. There is one final aspect of Sartre’s early writings: intersubjectivity, to which Merleau-Ponty reacts, and which will be carried forward in the “new” ontology. For Merleau-Ponty forms his own phenomenological view of intersubjectivity in the light of Sartre’s position as much as he did in that of Husserl. Sartre states that the latter has demonstrated that “the ontological structure of ‘my’ world demands that it be also a world for others” (1956, 272), but whereas Husserl found it necessary to reason from the constitutive activities of a transcendental ego to the existence of the Other, the problem for Sartre is that others are insistently, invasively there to begin with. For, along with the in-itself, it is others that pose the most important threat to consciousness. This occurs through what is the primary form of communication between them—“the look” (le regard) that attempts, through its various modes of objectification, to pin down, freeze, congeal, classify, and categorize the other’s free-flowing for-itself in order to turn it into something—an in-itself. Sartre provides a number of insightful, fascinating, and well-known descriptions of the experience of being looked at (1956, 252ff.), perhaps the most famous of which concerns the experience of shame in being caught looking through a keyhole (Ibid., 259). However, from the perspective of the bifurcation of Nature and consciousness, what is important for Merleau-Ponty in such experiences is the way that they replicate the antagonistic dialectic between the for-itself and the in-itself—this time, through the danger of self-objectification. Self-objectification is not for Sartre knowledge of the self as consciousness through self-mediation—as, for example, on Schelling’s view—or even in Husserl’s “Art von Reflexion” (touching-touched relations), but rather the death of consciousness. Thus, shame becomes “the recognition of the fact that I am indeed that object [a voyeur] which the Other is looking at and judging. I can be ashamed only as my freedom escapes me in order to become a given object” (Ibid., 261). The appearance of the other in my world amounts to the complete disruption of my already anxious relationship of attraction to and repulsion from the in itself. For Sartre, this destructive relationship stands over against Heidegger’s conception of Dasein as “being-with” others because, for Sartre, the best symbol of Heidegger’s “being-with” “is not that of a conflict but rather a crew. The original relation of the Other and my consciousness is not the you and me; it is the we” (1956, 246). Moreover, even if it could be proved that “being-with” were an “essential and universal capacity” (Ibid., 248) of the for-itself, Sartre holds that such an ontological structure could not explain concrete examples of “being with” that include conflict (Ibid., 247).

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Prior to The Visible and the Invisible, Merleau-Ponty made one comprehensive objection, elaborated in diverse contexts and for different purposes, to Sartre’s dualism of for-itself and in-itself and to the conceptions of (ontological) liberty and intersubjectivity that its bifurcation of Nature from consciousness implies. The objection is that, despite the accuracy of many of Sartre’s descriptions of the relationships of consciousness and things, freedom, and myself and the Other,48 Being and Nothingness “remains too exclusively antithetic” in its treatment of how we see ourselves as opposed to how others see us, and the fundamental antithesis of the for-itself and the in-itself in place of “the living bond and communication between one term and the other” (SNS 72/144). Everywhere in his philosophy Merleau-Ponty sought an adequate explanation for this “living bond and communication,” and we will later examine his final attempt in his “new” ontology. For Merleau-Ponty, there is one basic problem that underlies all these too exclusive antitheses. It is not that there is no distinction between consciousness and things, or that we should reject negativity and subjectivity per se. Indeed, subjectivity is one of those ideas “which make it impossible for us to return to a time prior to their existence, even and especially if we have moved beyond them” (S 154/194).49 Rather, the fundamental error is the conception of being (in the sense of the in-itself) as pure positivity—as noted above, the same problem at the heart of the possibly mythic Marxist conception of Nature as pure en-soi, “everywhere and nowhere” (RC 64/93)—and consciousness as pure negativity. It is that conception that prevents consciousness from emerging from Nature, blocks communication and any kind of unity or identity between them, makes intersubjectivity problematic, and finally puts human existence in the “impossible situation” of being a “useless passion” (N 136/183). Merleau-Ponty goes on to say that everything is a “failure” (Ibid.) for Sartre because, unlike Heidegger, his conception of human existence is not defined as “opening to Nature or to History” (Ibid., 137). Rather, for Sartre as well as Descartes, the plenum of Being in itself contains no possibilities. It forms a barrier against and around consciousness. There is no Offenheit for Sartre, as there is for Heidegger, because the for-itself cannot open itself to the in-itself, “non-being and being,” which are “notions at bottom Cartesian and pre-phenomenological” (NC 104). By contrast, both Merleau-Ponty

48. Merleau-Ponty holds that there is a “profound truth” in Sartre’s analysis of the objectivating look—e.g., at the keyhole. “But it is a particular case of a more general relation” (N 280/348). “Sartre himself sets up the example this way,” he continues, “by providing the scene” (Ibid.). That is, the voyeur has been trapped only because he has attempted “to surprise or to overtake” the other visually (Ibid.). 49. “une de ces pensées en deçà desquelles on ne revient pas, même et surtout si on les dépasse.”

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and Heidegger argue for a fundamental “belonging to Being” (Ibid.), and it is through our openness to being, Merleau-Ponty goes on to say, that nothingness and being can be understood—and not the other way around. For Merleau-Ponty, then, on the side of the Sartrean for-itself are all clarity and signification; on the side of the in-itself, all opacity and unintelligibility, whereas in reality, there is both intelligibility and opacity in Nature and the life world, and both clarity and opacity in consciousness. Hence, the latter ought not to be taken as a dualistic opposite of Nature, but interwoven with it. In this intertwining, meanings are “open and incomplete” rather than closed and fixed (AD 198/267). This is so regardless of whether it is a question of a perceptual object, an ideal meaning expressed in language, or the sense(s) of historical events and movements. All three are tied together in a unitary life in concert with things, not against them: “[A]ll these perspectives already depend on a truth in which they would be integrated” (AD 199/268–269). Given this unitary life in which meaning is solicited from things, other people, and the world around us, Alphonse DeWaelhens is correct to argue in his Preface to The Structure of Behavior that Sartre’s dualism provides only the possibility of knowing or not knowing, but does not allow different ways of knowing or ambiguous relationships between the for-itself and the in-itself. Pace Sartre, our “collaboration” and “involvement” with perceptual objects “are what give to sensible knowledge a character of constant and intrinsic incompletion, a necessity of being perspectival” (SC xxi/viii). The problem is that, for Sartre, meaning giving is a matter of consciousness imposing its significations on the world rather than things soliciting from consciousness the completion of their meanings. Sartre’s dialectic between perception and things is “invoked and posited rather than included in the phenomenon of perception itself” (Ibid.). Furthermore, DeWaelhens rightly points out that, qua phenomenologist, Sartre is perfectly aware of our “collaboration” with perceptual objects—and others as well, as in the “crew” image attributed to Heidegger—but that his metaphysics cannot justify such cooperation. DeWaelhens is also right that similar problems of inconsistency arise between Sartre’s “phenomenology of the body” and his “metaphysics” (SC xxii/ix). Sartre states that there are certain “privileged experiences,” such as physical pain, that reveal the normally concealed intimate connection of consciousness and its body—“coenesthesia”—“in all its purity” (1956, 331/396). Thus, the for-itself, although a néant, exists in some type of “inherence” with an in-itself, the body, “and in this way carves out a facticity of its own” (DeWaelhens, SC xxiii/x). This is but another way of illustrating the Cartesian “confusions” of mind and body that Merleau-Ponty embraces. But then, how can the nihilating acts of the for-itself establish such a bond with

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facticity, how, “if the for-itself is only the distance of a gaze without being” (Ibid., xxiii/xi), could any facticity “weigh at all” (Ibid.), and how could Sartre distinguish between a facticity that is really mine from any other? These are all experiences that Sartre, the phenomenologist, acknowledges, but which his bifurcation of consciousness and things cannot explain. Though correct, DeWaelhens does not go far enough. This is because there is a more fundamental difficulty for the early Sartre, which applies to Descartes as well. It is that they cannot offer any explanation of how the for-itself exists in the first place—that is, how it came into the world. Since it is not a part of Nature, no causal explanation can apply to it. Since a Sartrean for-itself is pure negativity, any explanation that would objectify it in relation to other things would be equally mistaken. In a certain sense, it does not even have a presence that can be explained. Moreover, this criticism can be extended and adapted to Merleau-Ponty himself. His early phenomenology does not address the question of the origin of the pre-reflective body. How do intentionality and subjectivity begin to exist? All this is taken for granted, and it is only in the late ontological writings, beginning with the Nature lectures, that he begins to address the question in terms of the emergence of consciousness from Nature. That is why he thinks it essential to “a valid concept of Nature” that we “find something at the juncture of Being and nothingness” (N 70/102) and that an adequate philosophy must find a way to understand “the subjective-objective that Nature will always be” (Ibid.). What turned out to be his final answer consisted of “an ontology of the perceived world going beyond sensible nature” (RC 46/66). It remains now to articulate what he found and how it can be understood.

II

FROM DUALISM TO A TWOFOLD ONTOLOGY

In formulating his “new” ontology, Merleau-Ponty benefited from many sources, including Whitehead’s critique of scientific materialism. He saw that they came together for similar reasons and reacted to the conception of Nature in modern philosophy and science in the same ways. As a mathematician, Whitehead was both fully aware of the impact of seventeenth-century science on modern philosophy, and was well qualified to point out that that science could not have progressed apart from simultaneous mathematical advances. As he indicates in Science and the Modern World, “Mathematics supplied the background of imaginative thought with which the men of science approached the observation of nature” (SMW 30).1 It is in this stress upon the importance of the scientific outlook on reality for understanding the impasses of modern philosophy that Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty meet one another. We have already seen in the Introduction that Merleau-Ponty felt some consonance with key Whiteheadian concepts and the discussions behind them that Whitehead mobilized to counter the bifurcation of Nature. Before we see how Merleau-Ponty makes use of these concepts in his “new” ontology, we need to provide a brief discussion of what Whitehead means by them.

MERLEAU-PONTY AND WHITEHEAD: A COMMON CRITIQUE OF SCIENTIFIC MATERIALISM In arguing against the bifurcation of nature both in his earlier writings and in his later systematic process metaphysics, Whitehead advances several closely 1. See also Butterfield (1957, 101).

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related arguments against the Galilean, Cartesian, and, later, Newtonian concepts of nature. As we have seen, this is nature as “a succession of instantaneous configurations of matter” (SMW 50). Such matter, he adds, criticizing the whole idea of material substance and the mechanistic view of nature, “is senseless, valueless, purposeless. It does just what it does do, following a fixed routine imposed by external relations which do not spring from the nature of its being. It is this assumption that I call ‘scientific materialism’ ” (SMW 17).2 For Whitehead, this modern philosophical concept of nature rests on two fallacies. The first is that of “simple location,” which means “to be here in space-time, in a perfectly definite sense which does not require for its explanation any reference to other regions of space-time” (Ibid., 49). Anything that possesses this property of simple location is what Whitehead designates as “matter, or material” (Ibid.). The second fallacy, of which simple location is an example, is that of “misplaced concreteness,” which means “the accidental error of mistaking the abstract for the concrete” (Ibid., 51). Whitehead holds that the notion of simple location is vulnerable to several distinct but related arguments. The first one is based on the experience itself of nature as process: actuality is not static, and its essence includes the “historic character of the universe” (MT 123). Individuated existence implies process and vice versa (MT 131), and as a result, a durationless temporal instant is “an imaginative logical construction” (SMW 65). The second argument stems from twentieth-century science. It is that physics has abandoned the notion of the simple location of bits of matter existing in external relations with each other. Rather, relations and relata mutually imply and modify each other. The relationship is itself “a concrete fact with the same concreteness as the relata,” which we can tell from the ways that causes are immanent in their effects (AI 157). Instead of ascribing simple location to physical objects, there exists “a focal region, which in common speech is where the thing is. But its influence streams away from it with finite velocity throughout the utmost recesses of space and time” (Ibid.). Also, with the denial of simple location comes the recogni2. Whitehead, if not Merleau-Ponty as well, is typical of those philosophers who reject the notion of substance because the “emasculated versions . . . were the only ones familiar to them from classical modern philosophy.” W. Norris Clarke, S.J. (1996, 14). For Clarke, the emasculation consisted of “three major distortions” that “broke the connection” with Thomistic and Aristotelian concepts of active and dymanic substance: “(1) the Cartesian notion of the isolated, unrelated substance, ‘that which needs nothing else but itself (and God) to exist;’ (2) the Lockean static substance, the inert substratum needed to support accidents but unknowable in itself; and (3) the separable substance of Hume, which, if it existed, would have to be empirically observable as separated from all of its accidents, and hence is an impossible fiction” (Ibid.).

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tion that “within any region of space-time the innumerable multitude of these physical things are in a sense superposed.” As a result, in any focal region of space-time, a particular “physical fact” is the compilation of the significance of all other “physical entities . . . for that region” (Ibid., 158). Third, simple location cannot account for the solidarity and, in turn, the coherence of the universe. If isolable units of matter require nothing else to be thought of, their external relationships to other material quanta would be only incidental to their essence. In themselves, such “bits” of matter would bear no reference to others, and would thus lack connections with the whole. Therefore, the universe’s coherence depends on the fact that we cannot conceive of any being as totally abstracted from the universal system: “the unknowable is unknown” (PR 4). A second argument about coherence concerns the notion of time as a series of durationless instants and the bifurcation of nature into causes and produced appearances. The notion of durationless instants embodies the fallacy of misplaced concreteness because time is “an abstraction from the passage,” “development,” and “creative advance” of natural events (CN 34). Also, since isolable “nows” keep separate the “nature apprehended in awareness and the nature which is the cause of the awareness” (CN 31), they also emphasize the separation of the mental and the physical. For example, there is the experience of the redness and warmth of a fire and the “agitated molecules of carbon and oxygen, with the radiant energy from them, and with the various functionings of the material body” (CN 32). The mind would thus serve as their putative juncture, “the causal nature being influent and the apparent nature being effluent” (CN 31). For Whitehead, on the contrary, an adequate philosophy of nature must be able to combine both, “the concrete relatedness of physical functionings and mental functionings, [and] of the past with the present” (AI 157).3 By contrast, he considers that the account of appearances in modern philosophy, beginning with Descartes, contributes to the additional incoherence of conceiving mind and body as two different kinds of substance. He thinks that modern philosophy was “ruined” (SMW 55) by the ontology of the object—in his parlance, “the theory of a materialistic, mechanis-

3. Curiously, Galileo defined “heaviness” as an objective property of objects instead of referring to a percipient for whom a body is heavy (1960, 151, 170–71). Anything mental for Galileo was, in Whitehead’s language, a “psychic addition.” “Secondary qualities” such as color were distinguished from inertia, heaviness, and “pushiness” held to be “primary” qualities. However, as Whitehead notes, this distinction inconsistently privileges touch: “Perceptions of push are just as much the outcome of transmission [via light waves] as are perceptions of colour” (CN 42). Thus, if color is not in nature, neither should inertia be.

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tic nature, surveyed by cogitating minds” (SMW 145).4 On Whitehead’s view, what dualisms of matter and minds fail to take account of are “life, organism . . . interaction, [and] order of nature, which collectively form the Achilles heel of the whole system” (SMW 57). Descartes’s account of appearances of course flows from his representational theory of perception, which Whitehead rejects as subscribing to “the subjectivist principle,” namely, that “the datum in the act of experience can be adequately analysed purely in terms of universals” (PR 157). On this view, the mind is a particular that is qualified uniquely by universals and has no real connection to other particulars.5 To use the previous example of seeing the fire of a torch and hearing the sound of a bell, for Descartes we mistakenly believe that we perceive the torch and bell themselves. The torch and bell do not enter into our experience, but only a certain shape and color of light and a sound of a particular tone. From those sensations, as noted above, ideas as copies arise in the mind. However, Whitehead as well as Merleau-Ponty defends a realist theory of perception (PR 119–20) in the sense that we perceive things directly rather than as mediated by, and intellectually constituted from, their re-presentations in the appearances of atomistic sensations. As Merleau-Ponty puts it, the perceptual object is never given completely—it is always and necessarily incomplete, but nonetheless, it is the thing itself really given to perception in and through its perspectival appearings. The definition of a thing is the “presumption of a completed synthesis” (PhP 388/445), and not a subjective “Abschattung of it.” Hence, Merleau-Ponty effectively endorses Whitehead’s rejection of the “subjectivist principle.” For Whitehead, Aristotle’s subject-predicate logic and Descartes’s substance-attribute ontology reinforced the view that secondary qualities are not inherent in the things themselves, and are just “subjective” qualities attributed to it (PR 30). As Aristotle noted in the Categories, what we term substance “most strictly, primarily, and most of all,” is not said of some-

4. Correlative to the ontology of the object, this surveying activity is what Maurice Merleau-Ponty describes as a “pensée de survol” (OE 160/12, VI 222/276), “overlooking thought” or “high-altitude thinking.” The latter expression is due to Benita Eisler in her translation of Volume IV of Jean-Paul Sartre’s Situations (1965, 229). Although Merleau-Ponty used “survoler” earlier on, the term survol first appears in his 1953 course at the Collège de France, “The Sensible World and the World of Expression.” He borrows it directly from “survol absolu,” an expression used by Raymond Ruyer, the fervent admirer of Leibniz (ESA II: 195). See also VI 13/30, 88/121, and OE 178/59, and Chapter II of VI generally—especially pp. 77–78/108–109—for a critique of Sartre as being restricted to a pensée de survol. 5. In this regard, Whitehead gives little attention to the Cartesian “confusions” of mind and body. He generally passes over what most interests Merleau-Ponty in terms of the mind-body relationship and concentrates instead on the dualism of substances. See also here the discussion of Whitehead’s view of substances in Chapter I.

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thing else, but is that to which attributes are given—“e.g., the individual man or the individual horse” (1963, 5). Also, as Whitehead sees it, the belief that subject-predicate propositions embody “metaphysically ultimate” truths underwrites and reinforces the fallacy of simple location insofar as it stresses “the individual independence of real facts” (PR 137). In contrast, Whitehead’s own “philosophy of organism” seeks to avoid the incoherence of the Cartesian dualism by converging more on Spinoza’s thought, except that he understands Substance as a whole of “dynamic processes” (Ibid., 7). As noted above, these processes do enter into each other’s constitution and thus explain the solidarity of nature. There is no togetherness of things unless in experience, and indeed, “no things are, in any sense of ‘are,’ except as components in experience or as immediacies of process which are occasions in self-creation” (AI 236). What gives rise to the subjectivist principle, for Whitehead, is the clarity of sensory experience that therefore has caused sensation to be construed as the whole of experience. This is the “sensationalist principle” accepted by Descartes, Locke, and Hume, but not by Kant, that states, “the primary datum in the act of experience is the bare subjective entertainment of the datum, devoid of any subjective form of reception” (PR 157)—which Merleau-Ponty would also have rejected because of his reliance on Gestalt psychology. For Whitehead, sensations are what is most vivid, clear, precise, and dominant in consciousness. However, on his view, they are also what is most superficial about experience, and an exclusive reliance on them as forming the “basis of all experiential activity” has resulted in a “warping” of modern philosophy by separating mind from body, as Descartes was the first to do (AI 209–10). This is a separation that has blocked the real connectedness of instances of process (AI 280). Whitehead, like Merleau-Ponty, wants to rescue perceptual experience from its oversimplified and therefore impoverished seventeenth- and eighteenth-century versions (N 118/159). The subjectivist and sensationalist principles, the representational theory of perception, the substance-attribute ontology, and the concept of time as a series of atomistic, isolable instants existing in external relations with each other, all combine to yield an irrefutable scepticism about induction, memory, personal identity, and the existence of the external world. This is the last of Whitehead’s arguments about the incoherence of the modern philosophical views on the bifurcation of nature. The most important premise of the argument concerns the instantial concept of time that runs from Descartes through Locke and Newton to Hume. Since each atomistic instant is self-contained and exists only in external relations with its predecessors, the past is not immediately present to the present. Therefore, memory, personal identity, and inductive inferences all would have to rest on constituting acts of consciousness to establish a putatively veridical connection with the past. As Whitehead observes, either we can derive from

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some occasion of experience itself the grounds of its connection with other occasions or else the only alternative is scepticism about memory, personal identity, and induction (SMW 43–44). In short, if a given occasion of experience has no internal relationships with any others, the only possible result is “complete ignorance as to it” (Ibid., 25). The only kind of (weaker) justification available would consist of verified inductive predictions of consequences, and so verification for any given act of memory would always be postponed, never accomplished. Whitehead believed that Hume showed irrefutably that the subjectivist and sensationalist principles are inconsistent with such proofs. Absent a Cartesian reliance on the veracity of God to underwrite certain of our perceptions, there remains the insoluble problem of verifying the double correspondence between the sensation and the external object, and between the sensation and the idea that copies it. The result is inevitably what Santayana termed “solipsism of the present moment” (1955, 15; cf. PR 81). To escape that solipsism, modern philosophers would have to make the subjectivist principle surreptitiously inconsistent (PR 158). Hence, Whitehead holds that the entirety of modern philosophy turns on the problematic attempt to use the concepts of “subject and predicate, substance and quality, particular and universal” to describe the world and our experience of it (Ibid., 49). Our efforts to do so inevitably distort our “immediate experience which we express in our actions, our hopes, our sympathies, our purposes, and which we enjoy in spite of our lack of phrases for its verbal analysis” (Ibid., 49–50). By contrast, the best that Cartesianism can give us is “solitary substances, each enjoying an illusory experience” (Ibid., 50). Likewise, the abstraction of subject-predicate language, together with the form that the subjectivist principle took with the distinction between primary and secondary qualities in Galileo, Descartes, and Locke, show that the mechanistic theory of nature also commits the “fallacy of misplaced concreteness” because it is likewise an abstraction from the richness of nature and our experience of it (SMW 58). For the mechanistic view generates the highly abstract view that nature is “vacuous reality” (PR 29): “a dull affair, soundless, scentless, colourless; merely the hurrying of material, endlessly, meaninglessly” (SMW 54). Certainly, as Whitehead points out, the mechanistic view of nature has been enormously successful in transforming social and individual life (AI 114), yet it is impossible to believe and can be supported only by substituting abstractions for the concrete reality of daily experience (SMW 54). Given the rigorous distinction between primary and secondary qualities that mechanism asks us to accept, we are asked to believe that the abstraction is the truth and the concrete reality a mental construction. Among the absurd consequences is that “nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves”: we possess the scent, not the rose; we constitute the song, not

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the bird. Therefore, the poets are eluded. They should really praise themselves and turn their verses into “odes of self-congratulation on the excellency of the human mind” (Ibid.).6 The mechanistic view of nature is also, for Whitehead, an example of Bergson’s claim that “the human intellect ‘spatializes the universe’; that it is to say, that it tends to ignore the fluency, and to analyse the world in terms of static categories” (PR 209). However, as we shall see, although Whitehead endorses Bergson’s claim, he declined to follow his contemporary’s belief that this distortion is a necessary consequence of “the intellectual apprehension of nature” (SMW 50). What is needed, rather, is a more adequate “intellectual apprehension” of it. High abstraction is likewise present in modern philosophy to the degree that, relying on the clarity and dominance of sense data, it interprets those sense data as the most important ingredient in experience. Experience gets explained in an upside-down way by trying to explain experiences that are “emotional and purposive” on the basis of something like Humean sensory impressions (PR 162). On Whitehead’s view, sense-perception itself is “the triumph of abstraction in animal experience” (MT 100) and “a neglect of essential connections” (Ibid., 101). This is so because sense-perception is the product of conscious attention that excludes more than it includes, and not merely other sense-data. Modern philosophers, especially Hume, changed the ancient philosophers’ question of “What do we experience” to “What can we experience” (AI 224). This shift produced an attitude of “strained attention” to sense data that obscures the base of experience from which it originates and abstracts (Ibid., 155). For Whitehead, philosophy must criticize such abstractions and, by overcoming the “fallacy of misplaced concreteness,” re-establish our connections with nature and our moral, emotional, and purposive experience (Ibid., 280). It is through this deeper sense of experience that we are rooted in nature because the “individual, real facts of the past lie at the base of our immediate experience in the present” (Ibid.). These “individual, real facts” enter into each new occasion of experience as both its source and, therefore, what contributes forcefully to its emotions, purposes, and that to which it “directs its passions” (AI 280). To sum up, what aligns Merleau-Ponty’s “new” ontology to Whitehead’s critique of scientific materialism consists of the latter’s view that nature is process made up of “brute facts,” its insistence on thinking within nature as against a pensée de survol and the ontology of the object, its defense of 6. In commenting on Descartes, but with no reference to Whitehead’s Science and the Modern World that he unknowingly but very closely duplicates, Hass states, “. . . without the reduction of perceptual experience to ‘subjective appearances before the mind,’ the sparse, colorless world of ‘physical objects’ in mechanistic motion and causality would stand revealed as a total abstraction” (2008, 23).

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a system of internal versus external relations, its conception of life and spirit emerging from nature rather than somehow being added to it, and its rejection of “simple location,” dualisms of mind and body, the bifurcation of primary and secondary qualities, and representational thinking.

THE NECESSITY OF A “NEW” ONTOLOGY Why, though, did Merleau-Ponty not consider his earlier phenomenology of embodied existence adequate to express in effect these Whiteheadian positions and therefore to overcome the modern concept of Nature and its progeny? “We are the compound of soul and body,” he said in Eye and Mind, “and so there must be a way to think it” (177–78/58). What made Merleau-Ponty believe that an adequate way of thinking the Cartesian “confusions” had not been found? Across his various texts, at least three factors appear to have dislodged him from his earlier phenomenology, which he once identified with philosophy itself, and already considered an ontology. The first is the inescapability of unaddressed ontological questions. As illustrated in the previous chapter, within the “confusions” of mind and body, ideas and feelings, and self and others, there is truth to be grasped that has not yet been articulated. In other words, the “confusions” are positive rather than negative. Therefore, what for Descartes constitutes an epistemological failure represents for Merleau-Ponty an opportunity to escape the bounds of Descartes’s (and Brunschvicg’s) idealism. What will emerge from these “confusions” is not a claim about the absolute truth of Nature or history, but on the other hand, philosophy will persist in its perpetual “radicalism, that search for presuppositions and foundations which has produced the great philosophies” (S 157/198). For this reason, he also held that Marx, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche’s “negation of metaphysics does not take the place of philosophy” (RC 102/144). The second reason consists of a final response to the critics of his 1946 address to the Société française de philosophie who viewed Phénoménologie de la perception as simply psychology with no scientific or philosophical significance (Prim.Percp. 18/125). Jean Hyppolite also objected that he saw no “necessary connection” between the first part of Merleau-Ponty’s presentation, a “description of perception that presupposes no ontology,” and the subsequent “philosophical conclusions” that Merleau-Ponty extracts from those descriptions “that presuppose a certain ontology, an ontology of meaning” (Ibid., 39/149). On the other hand, Jean Beaufret worries simply that Merleau-Ponty has remained too close to Husserl and to “the vocabulary of idealism” (Ibid., 42/152). The main problem, Beaufret continues, is to know whether a complete phenomenology does not compel us to follow Heidegger in rejecting “subjectivity and the vocabulary of subjective ideal-

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ism” (Ibid., 41/152). Accordingly, the “new” ontology rejects that vocabulary and the primacy of subjectivity. Hence, in the “Working Notes” for completing what became The Visible and the Invisible, Merleau-Ponty writes, “I must show that what one could consider as ‘psychology’ (Ph. de la Perception) is in reality ontology” (VI 176/230) and “Results of Ph.P.—Necessity of bringing them to ontological explicitation” (Ibid. 183/237).7 The third reason for Merleau-Ponty’s new ontological grounding of phenomenology is his growing appreciation for the importance of Nature,8 in the light of which he came to see the opposition of lived and objective bodies as philosophically inadequate. Still dependent on the (bodily) consciousness-object distinction, the phenomenological description displays its deficiency by its inability to explain the relationship between the two bodies. On the basis of the distinction between consciousness and object, he concludes that we can never comprehend how “a given fact of the ‘objective’ order (a given cerebral lesion) could entail a given disturbance, which seems to prove that the whole ‘consciousness’ is a function of the objective body” (VI 200/253).9

7. “Je dois montrer que ce qu’on pourrait considérer comme ‘psychologie’ (Ph. de la Perception) est en réalité ontologie.” “Résultats de Ph.P.—Nécessité de les amener à explicitation ontologique.” Ted Toadvine argues in effect that more than an “ontological explicitation” is necessary and that it is only “by pushing phenomenology to its limit that we can overcome the bifurcation of mind and nature” (2009, 118). This is actually what Merleau-Ponty’s “explicitation” led to. 8. Preparatory remarks for the “new” ontology appear in Merleau-Ponty’s first Nature course, but its extensive development did not begin until the autumn of 1958. During September and October of that year, he began to write an introduction to ontology based on, among other things, some themes from the first Nature course. His efforts eventually became “one of three dossiers of the project soon titled Être et Monde” (ESA III: 167). These unpublished pages plus others—it was probably in the autumn of 1957 that he began La Nature ou le monde du silence, which was later placed in the volume, Être et Monde (ESA III: 11)—the author took up again in March 1959, and titled the ensemble Introduction à l’ontologie. In turn, certain aspects of this group were developed further and eventually became the first two chapters of Le Visible et l’invisible (Ibid., 168). The unpublished texts from Merleau-Ponty’s last years and the “original pages from the Visible itself” show the seamless continuity of Être et Monde and Le Visible et l’invisible (Ibid.). In fact, Merleau-Ponty placed “Être et Monde” at the top of the manuscript for the latter, and the entire manuscript was placed in a folder titled “Le Visible et l’invisible—I. Être et Monde” (Ibid., 169 n.). (See also the working note, “Être et monde, chap. III” at VI 198/251.) 9. “On ne comprendra jamais, à partir de cette distinction que tel fait de l’ordre ‘objectif’ (telle lésion cérébrale) puisse entraîner tel trouble de la relation avec le monde,—trouble massif, qui semble démontrer que la ‘conscience’ entière est fonction du corps objectif.” Elsewhere in The Visible and the Invisible, the author expresses the inadequacy of consciousness as a foundation for philosophy by referring to its “blindness (punctum caecum).” By analogy with the “blind spot” of the retina where “the fibers that will permit the vision spread out into it,” he writes, “What it [consciousness] does not see is what in it prepares the vision of the rest . . . its tie to Being” (VI 248/301). “Ce qu’elle ne voit pas, c’est ce qui en elle prépare la vision du reste . . . son attache à l’Être.”

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Retaining the philosophy of consciousness, even of a bodily one, unavoidably involves a type of bifurcation between the two conceptions of body and their referents, and therefore opens up a gap of understanding between them. Thus, although Merleau-Ponty had written that the Phenomenology of Perception attempted “to re-establish the implanting [l’enracinement] of the mind in its body and in its world” (UI 3/402), he came to see that a new ontological solution was required to explain “the ties of truth which bind him to the world and history . . . among others” (E 63/72–73). In the “new” ontology, as we shall see, Merleau-Ponty argues that minds and bodies, spirit and nature, life and matter, must all be conceived as reintegrated into a more fundamental unity in order to understand (think) their relationships adequately. As the La Nature et le monde du silence puts it, “what one assuredly lacks in beginning with subjectivity, the cogito, or freedom: that is, primordial being against which all reflection gets instituted and without which there is no more philosophy” (ESA 2005, 29).10 Similarly, the sensible that we perceive, including all of the richness of “secondary” qualities, must also be part of this original, or origin-al oneness rather than existing as “psychic additions.” The ontological problem becomes the most important one, Merleau-Ponty says in his second course on The Concept of Nature (1958), and all other philosophical problems should be “subordinated” to it (N 134/180). The only way that this ontology can progress, he adds the following year in his (untitled) course on “Philosophy Today,” is to think of Nature without referring to traditional categories such as “substance, accident, cause, end, power, act, object, subject, in itself, [and] for itself” (RC 99/141; cf. NC 37).

THINKING THROUGH NATURE This “new” ontology does not hold that the concepts of subject, object, cause—and, for that matter, consciousness—are meaningless. Nor, in fact, are they avoidable. In the case of subjectivity, for example, as the last chapter pointed out, Merleau-Ponty holds that we cannot go back to a philosophical era before the concept emerged because, even if we try to think of such a time, it would always be conditioned by our consciousness of our own subjectivity. Rather, to use one of Merleau-Ponty’s images of how sense is made, those concepts must be decentered and recentered (RC 44/64) as expressions of something more origin-al. Therefore, Merleau-Ponty’s “new” 10. “ce qu’on manque assurément à commencer par la subjectivité, le cogito ou la liberté: à savoir l’être primordial, contre lequel toute réflexion s’institue, et sans lequel il n’y a plus de philosophie.”

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ontology will have to include not only a revised notion of subjectivity, but of objectivity as well. That original source anterior to distinctions between the subjective and the objective (NC 77) is Being that he calls, evidently alluding to Lévi-Strauss, a “brute,” “wild,” (uncivilized, uncultivated) and pre-objective Being (VI 253/307). This “wild” Being, The Visible and the Invisible tells us, is to be recovered before “the reflexive cleavage” (95/130) of subject and object that abstractly separates them, and even before the distinction between perceiving and perceived.11 We become Nature and Nature becomes us (VI 185/239). “Nature in us must have some relationship with Nature outside us, and Nature outside us must be disclosed to us by the Nature that we are” (N 206/267).12 This disclosure occurs in a world that is an open field—in fact, multiple intersecting fields in which “subjectivities are integrated” (VI 227/281)—for example, those that are “imaginary,” “ideological,” “mythical,” and “linguistic” (IP 167).13 Merleau-Ponty expresses this “brute” Being as the fundamental “il y a,” the being that lies at the intersection of the internal and the external and therefore neither one nor the other. Brute Being and Savage Spirit are what is truly fundamental and final; they make possible the constructa of consciousness and their meanings (VI 97/133). Therefore, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, we must dig beneath the sedimentation of meaning that limits us to thinking in terms of the in-itself and for-itself, “natural being” in opposition to “psychic being” (IP 164; italics removed). Brute Being has some similarities to the way that Leibniz describes expressive relationships that monads have with each other and how they differ from each other and the world as “perspectives” (VI 223/276). However, given the ontological primacy of brute Being and the abstractness of the subject-object relationship, Merleau-Ponty interprets those expressive relationships as derivative from the brute Being of which we, Nature, and everything else comprise differential expressions. He also clearly distinguishes his view from Leibniz’s interpretations of monads as substances in a pre-established harmony established by God. Merleau-Ponty’s conception of brute Being is inconsistent with a Leibnizian God furnishing the perspectives of monads 11. The unpublished notes for Merleau-Ponty’s second course on Nature state a desire to substitute “brute or savage being and ‘foundation’ (Stiftung)” for “perceived being and perception” (de Saint Aubert 2005a, 40). 12. “Il faut . . . que la Nature en nous ait quelque rapport avec la Nature hors de nous, il faut même que la Nature hors de nous nous soit dévoilée par la nature que nous sommes.” 13. With regard to opening up these various fields of Being, de Saint Aubert states, “From his first articles, Merleau-Ponty wants to reopen to philosophy all sectors of life, as against Léon Brunschvicg, and under the joint influence of Gabriel Marcel and Max Scheler” (ESA II: 49). It is a question of opening up philosophy to nonphilosophy.

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as thoughts, and indeed, he regards Leibniz’s view of the relationship of God to the world as a paradigm case of the ontology of the object with its accompanying spectator’s pensée de survol. The “new” ontology seeks to avoid both that ontology and high-altitude thinking, to overcome the bifurcation of Nature, to find a way to think Being in the light of, among other things, modern physics and biology, and to pursue this knowledge while maintaining our “astonishment [étonnement] before the world” that expresses the genuine philosophical outlook (NC 78). In seeking the meaning of Being, this search for knowledge on an ontological plane continues both Merleau-Ponty’s conception of the phenomenological reduction14 as well as his early view of metaphysical consciousness as a rediscovery of the basic “strangeness” of the “world, other people, human history, truth, [and] culture” as well as “the miracle of their appearing” (SNS 94/165). In seeking the meaning of Being, Merleau-Ponty often uses “being” (être) and “Being” (Être) interchangeably, and distinguishes both from particular “beings” (étants). On the other hand, “Nature” has two very different meanings. As noted in the previous chapter, he began to capitalize “Nature” at the same time that he was speaking about Schelling in the first Nature course at the Collège de France (January-May 1957). However, “nature” also appears occasionally in his later texts, and both “Nature” and “nature” express both meanings. The first meaning is the ensemble of sensible beings—streams, rocks, trees, clouds, roses, dogs and cats, human beings, and so forth. Nature in the second sense, however, is what makes possible and supports nature in the first sense. This second meaning denotes Nature conceived—imperfectly, he adds later—as “a leaf or layer of total Being,” and in this sense, “the concept of Nature is always expression of an ontology—and privileged expression” (N 204/265). Nature so conceived is “an object from which we have arisen” instead of being a correlate of consciousness “in the tête-à-tête of knowledge” (RC 64/94). Because of this, the “theme of Nature” does not exist apart from other areas of philosophy. Rather, philosophy has only one subject, “the nexus, the vinculum ‘Nature’— ‘Man’—‘God’ ” (Ibid.). Nature in this sense is what Cézanne’s paintings tried to express, “the depth of inhuman nature on which man is installed,” a depth one can feel in Cézanne’s paintings as he magically depicts the seismic upheavals of forests

14. “The best formulation of the reduction is probably that given by Eugen Fink, Husserl’s assistant, when he spoke of ‘astonishment’ in the face of the world” (PhP xiii/viii). “La meilleure formule de la réduction est sans doute celle qu’en donnait Eugen Fink, l’assistant de Husserl, quand il parlait d’un ‘étonnement’ devant le monde.” See also Sartre’s warm remembrance of Merleau-Ponty’s astonishment in the face of “everything,” even as a child (1964, 282).

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and rocks. Only human beings are able to have this vision that extends “right to the roots [of Being], at the basis of constituted humanity” (SNS 16/30).15 Later, in the beginning of his first Nature course at the Collège de France, Merleau-Ponty says more about this second sense. He notes that “Nature” in Greek derives “from the verb, phuo, that alludes to the vegetal; the Latin word comes from nascor, to be born, to live”; it is derivative from phuo, “the more fundamental sense” (N 3/19).16 That is because Nature is “the autoproduction of meaning,” and nature is everywhere there is life that has a meaning, without this meaning being posited by thought. . . . Nature is the primordial, that is to say, the non-constructed, the non-instituted; whence the idea of an eternity of Nature17 . . . of a solidity. Nature is an enigmatic object, an object that is not completely an object; it is not completely before us. It is our ground, that which is before us, but that which bears us. (Ibid., 3–4/19–20)18 This is not Nature in the Marxist or Sartrean in itself, but rather Being that is “primordial” (RC 64/94) because it is anterior to the division of in-itself and for-itself and itself from us, and which therefore “in every respect disconcerts reflection” (Ibid., 65–66/95). However, Nature is not something that exists prior to this subject-object division, for that would make it another object. Nature is neither identical to nor separate from sensible nature because identification would result in materialism, and radical separation would lead back to a Kantian unknowable in-itself.

15. It is instructive to compare Cézanne’s landscapes to those of, say, Pissaro, Renoir, or Sisley’s depictions of the surfaces of placid, bucolic spring days. One of Merleau-Ponty’s criticisms of Sartre is that, for him, Being has no depths. See, for example, VI 68/97, and we should remember M. Roquentin in La Nausée who, mentally plunging to the roots of the tree did react with nausea. By contrast, Merleau-Ponty appreciates and often employs the Bergsonian image of “plunging to the roots of Being.” 16. “En grec, le mot ‘Nature’ vient du verbe phuo, qui fait allusion au végétal; le mot latin vient de nascor, naître, vivre . . . il est prélevé sur le premier sens, plus fondamental.” 17. Merleau-Ponty argues against Auguste Comte’s picture of Nature as eternal and self-identical. Instead, we have “the emergence of a history—or, as Whitehead said, of a ‘process’ of Nature” (RC 66/96).” 18. “Il y a nature partout où il y a une vie qui a un sens, mais où, cependant, il n’y a pas de pensée. . . . Est Nature le primordial, c’est-à-dire le non-construit, le non-institué; d’où l’idée d’une éternité de la Nature . . . d’une solidité. La Nature est un objet énigmatique, un objet qui n’est pas tout à fait objet; elle n’est pas tout à fait devant nous. Elle est notre sol, non pas ce qui est devant, mais ce qui nous porte.” Although these are auditors’s notes, this passage is a good example of others written by Merleau-Ponty in which he uses “nature” and “Nature” interchangeably.

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Merleau-Ponty’s alternative is to conceive of primordial Nature as a power of internal possibility in virtue of which there is “l’être profond” (ESA III: 164, citing the unpublished Être et monde), “carnal being, as being of depths” (VI 136/179). This internal principle of possibility, this “inexhaustible reserve of being” (VI 169/223) is a part of Being, but a “total part” (VI 218/271). This means that it both reflects and, in turn, actively manifests itself throughout the whole of Being. This is a dynamic conception of Nature, the “unmotivated upsurge of brute Being” (VI 211/264), “an original productivity that is not ours” and that persists beneath our own and supports it (N 125/169). This conception of Being/Nature stands to sensible Nature in something very like the Natura naturans—Natura naturata relationship. It is what creates, “simply, and at a single stroke, such a coherent structure of a being” (RC 93/131). In doing so, as we shall see below, it also strongly resembles Whitehead’s notion of creativity. As such, Natura naturans resembles Heidegger’s notion of phusis, by which Merleau-Ponty was so clearly influenced, “self-blossoming emergence . . . opening up, unfolding, that which manifests itself in such unfolding and perseveres and endures in it” (Heidegger 1959, 14). For Heidegger, phusis is visible everywhere in the processes of sensible nature, as in “celestial phenomena (the rising of the sun), in the rolling of the sea, in the growth of plants, in the coming forth of man and animal from the womb” (Ibid.). However, phusis is not identical to sensible nature. Rather, it is “being itself,” “the power of emerging and enduring,” “the process of a-rising [Ent-sterben]” from the hidden (das Verborgene) (Ibid.). Sensible nature for both Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty is, therefore, “the originating presentation of the unpresentable” (VI 203/257). How does Merleau-Ponty’s “new” ontology provide for this “originating presentation” in order to understand the primordial sense of Nature? It first demands that we avoid all explanations because, as he sees it, they cannot account for the mélange of body and soul and therefore they make us incomprehensible to ourselves” (S 241/306). In so saying, it is clear that Merleau-Ponty criticizes a model for explanations that is Cartesian— based on clear and distinct ideas that separate their objects from all else, as in the case of minds and bodies, hence ignoring the real “confusions” of both—or else framed with regard to Husserlian essences (VI 268/321–22). Nevertheless, the statement as it stands does not apply to other types of explanations, such as those that Whitehead’s process metaphysics supplies, which do take account of the mélange of body and soul. Second, for Merleau-Ponty, the “new” ontology must also reject all “isms”—especially naturalism, humanism, and theism. There exists, he states in his second Nature course, an “extraordinary confusion in modern ideas of Nature, of man, and of the idea of God” (RC 90/127–28) such that the

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words naturalism, humanism, and theism have been emptied of all plain meaning because they continually blend with each other (N 135/180–181). The task of contemporary philosophers is, therefore, according to the first dossier of Être et Monde, “to remake philosophical speech touching Nature, man, and God, on condition of being truly radical” (ESA III: 172).19 Third, to achieve this fundamental clarification, we must articulate a concept of Being from within the process of Nature that we inhabit because we cannot possess the visible without being possessed by it. That is, we are “of it” (VI 134–35/177–78). It is a question of a Being in which we are “encompassed [englobé]” (OE 178/59; cf. 182/71–72), and which, therefore, contrary to Descartes, Kant, and Sartre, neither is arrayed before us nor can our experience of it be formed outside it. Hence, Merleau-Ponty rejects explanations as Descartes would conceive them and the ontology of the understanding based on attempts to purify our ideas to rid them of their “confusions.” This philosophy of pure ideas, as Merleau-Ponty points out, is necessarily doubt-ridden and afflicted with a “certain strabism” (N 127/171), a squinting designed to shield the cogito from the “confusions.” Merleau-Ponty’s position on this matter is thus identical to Whitehead’s rejection of matter and “psychic additions.” Since thinking takes place “from the midst of Being” (VI 114/154), ontology becomes “Intra-ontology” (Ibid., 227/280), and “the ontological problem” becomes “the problem of the relationship between object and subject” (N 135/182). There is, in fact, nothing more Whiteheadian than saying, “Even the action of thinking is caught up in the push and shove of being. . . . Time and thought are entangled with each other” (S 14/21).20 As such, it demands “a sort of hyper-reflection (sur-réflexion) that also includes itself and the ways that it influences the perceived. In this inclusiveness, Merleau-Ponty holds, it would continue to keep in view “the brute thing and the brute perception” (VIV 38/61; cf. S 161/204). Since Being is the source of both consciousness and its objects, the world, or Nature, does not produce consciousness or the other way around. Both are “total parts of the same Being” (OE 162/17), and so Nature and consciousness do not stand outside each other in causal relations. Rather, they emerge simultaneously (VI 250/304). To express this simultaneity, Merleau-Ponty again makes use of Claudel’s concept of “co-naissance” in which the concepts of birth (naissance) and knowledge (connaissance) are joined together. However, now he applies the concept more widely to the 19. “. . . refaire une parole philosophique touchant la Nature, l’homme et Dieu à condition d’être vraiment radical.” 20. “Même l’action de penser est prise dans la poussée de l’être. . . . Temps et pensée sont enchevêtrées l’un dans l’autre.”

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relationship of the sentient and the sensible, le sentant and le sensible, as he had earlier employed it to describe the unity of perceptual consciousness and its objects. As de Saint Aubert points out, the project of Être et Monde is to use Claudel’s neologism to develop an ontology of co-belonging and “co-genesis of man and world (ESA III: 31). In that unfinished work, Merleau-Ponty also describes his late thought as an “ontology of birth and of co-birth” [ontologie de la naissance et de la co-naissance]” (ESA I: 210), in order to take up a position “beyond naturalism and idealism” (ESA III: 31). This view, as the previous chapter indicated, is already present in Phenomenology of Perception insofar as the subject of perception is neither totally passive nor completely active, neither completely impotent nor all-powerful, neither wholly creating nor created. The co-genesis of human beings and the world, thinking from within Being, and the rejection of the ontology of the object in favor of the “ontology of the existent,” are all possible because our primary relationship with Being is Offenheit, as Husserl described our relationship to the Earth. Merleau-Ponty also makes use of the closely related Husserlian notion of “Ineinander,” “the Ineinander of human being, human body, and Nature” (N 214–15/278), to stress the inherence of the self in things and the world and vice versa, as well as the mutual inherence of self and others. However, Offenheit has a wider scope in that it expresses the earth as “surrounding world” (Umwelt) (Husserl 1989, 194–95) and as “ground” (Boden),21 which Merleau-Ponty regards as a useful corrective for the false but understandable impression that Husserl’s earlier works had “subjectivized” or “psychologized the perceived world” (Tilliette 1965, 166/226). For Merleau-Ponty, the Offenheit that characterizes the “surrounding world” and “ground” are appreciated by Heidegger, but made impossible in Sartre’s dualism of for-itself and in-itself (VI 88/121–22).22 The “surrounding world” is “a lived world; the ground,” or simply, “Earth,” “includes within 21. Merleau-Ponty’s discussion of Boden relies almost entirely on Husserl’s then-unpublished manuscript, “Umsturz der Kopernikanischen Lehre in der gewöhnlichen weltanschaulichen Interpretation. Die Erde als Ur-Arche bewegt sich nicht” from 1934. He had earlier cited this essay in the Phenomenology of Perception, pp. 71/85 and 429/491. Merleau-Ponty recurs to the essay at S 177/223 and 180/227–28, and at VI 259/312. 22. “For all of us,” Husserl states in Umsturz, “the earth is the basis and not a body in the complete sense.” Following Husserl, Merleau-Ponty argues that what our experience of the earth discloses to us has “a philosophical significance” rather than being a mere psychological curiosity because that experience reveals “a philosophy of the world as Offenheit der Umwelt, as opposed to the ‘represented’ infinite of classical sciences of Nature” (RC 122–23/170). “une philosophie du monde comme Offenheit der Umwelt, par opposition à l’infini ‘représenté’ des sciences classiques de la Nature.” See also VI 185/239 where Merleau-Ponty contrasts Husserl’s notion of Offenheit with a relationship between “an order of ‘human representation” and an “order of the in itself.”

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itself all these different environing worlds with their modifications and their pasts.” It is “the life-world of humanity, the all-embracing community wherein mutual understanding is possible” (Husserl 1973, 163). The Earth in this primordial sense is not the object of science, an object conceived as being at rest or in motion,23 because it has not yet been “converted into a thing and object” (Tilliette, 166/227). It can only be an object from the perspective of some observer (IP 173–74), a relativization that would make us forget our “terrestrial roots that nevertheless nourish everything else” (RC 122/169). And since it is not primordially a relativized planet conceived from the point of view of a pensée de survol, for Husserl (1973, 163), its Offenheit must also differ from the Unendlichkeit attributed to the universe in seventeenth-century science (Tilliette 167/230).24 Earth, Husserl states, is “pre-object” (Ibid.), the world of pre-scientific experience, the pre-Copernican Earth of our “primordial contact, the ground of experience,” “pure fact, the cradle, the basis, and the ground of all experience” (McCormick and Elliston 1982, 230). Offenheit, as Merleau-Ponty sees it, does not amount to a posture or a thetic attitude, as in one sense of the “natural attitude.” Nor is it an ensemble of meanings constituted in consciousness, or the result of any acts. Rather, it follows “analytically,” in Kant’s sense of the term, from the fact that someone is “of” Being—“il en est” (VI 135/178)—and belongs to it.25 Therefore, no action has to take place to establish our openness to Being. To think otherwise would presuppose an original separation between us and Nature, and therefore the return of the objectifying perception of a spectator. Rather, this openness is an ontological condition of carnal being. Offenheit is in fact a bilateral relationship in which we are open to the world because the world is open to us. On the one hand, within Being perception bears within itself its own transcendence inasmuch as the look incorporates the sentient in the sensible and searches for itself in the visible” (VI 131, n. 1/173n.). Yet on the other hand, this can be so only because perceptual objects and their fields are complicit in our experience. Their “can be experienced”—what makes them sensible—makes them available to us, and on Merleau-Ponty’s view, philosophers such as Descartes and Sartre offer us no way to understand this original availability of the world to us and our corresponding openness to it (NC 233).

23. See Husserl’s Umsturz, 230. 24. Tilliette references here Ideen II, 299 and 372, and Erfarhung und Urteil, 156. 25. Cf. VI 254/308: “Thought or Consciousness is Offenheit of a corporeity to . . . World or Being.” “. . . la Pensée ou Conscience est Offenheit d’une corporéité à . . . Monde ou Être.” Equally important as Husserl in terms of the source of Merleau-Ponty’s thinking about our openness to the world is Proust. See NC 192ff.

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Although Merleau-Ponty borrows extensively from Husserl’s writings about Offenheit, he holds that Husserl’s analysis, based as it is on acts of consciousness, is inadequate to express both the “brute thing” and “brute perception.” Therefore, he concludes, it becomes necessary to “take up again and develop the fungierende or latent intentionality which is the intentionality within being” (VI 244/297–98).26 This is also why, for Merleau-Ponty, our ouverture à l’être can be described in terms of the horizonality of open fields of Being, but these horizons can no longer be conceived as structures of consciousness that provide us with potential backgrounds to “fill in.” Rather, horizons must be seen as the openness of what encompasses and includes us. Since Offenheit takes place within the flux of Nature, it is itself process rather than a static relationship, and its process is primarily perceptual, what Merleau-Ponty calls “perceptual faith.” Perceptual faith is the subject of the very first section of The Visible and the Invisible and, like Offenheit itself, it is a given, not a matter of decision. The author’s marginal note opposite the title of this first section states that the faith he has in mind is pre-positional, “animal faith” (VI 3/17).27 It is expressed by “formulae” such as “We see the things themselves, the world is what we see . . . they refer to a deep-seated set of mute ‘opinions’ implicated in our lives” (Ibid.).28 Such formulae also express an inevitable circularity in our experience and in Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of perception, as pointed out in the previous chapter. That is, in seeking his path between realism and idealism, he held that the realists are right to say that the world is “already there” before any experience takes it up, but the truth of idealism is that the only world of which it makes sense to speak or think is that of our experience. The last ontological texts contain statements that apparently make the same claim. For instance, “the Nature of which we have spoken (this can evidently only be Nature perceived by us)” (N 208/270); “no form of being can be posited without reference to subjectivity” (VI 167/220); and “the perceptual life of my body . . . is presupposed in every notion of an object, and it is this life that accomplishes the primary openness to the world” (VI 37/60).29 Therefore, there is no world, Being, or Nature for us to speak of except what we can experience. 26. “Il faut reprendre et développer l’intentionnalité fungierende ou latente qui est l’intentionnalité intérieure à l’être.” 27. It would be interesting to know whether Merleau-Ponty knew George Santayana’s Scepticism and Animal Faith and, if so, whether he borrowed the last two words of its title. 28. “Nous voyons les choses mêmes, le monde est cela que nous voyons . . . elles [ces formules] renvoient à une assise profonde d’‘opinions’ muettes impliquées dans notre vie.” 29. “la Nature dont nous avons parlé (ce ne peut être évidemment que la Nature perçue par nous)”; “nulle forme d’être ne peut être posée sans référence à la subjectivité”; and “la vie perceptive de mon corps . . . est présupposée dans toute notion d’objet et c’est elle qui accomplit l’ouverture première au monde.”

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Perceptual faith furnishes us with certainty about this preexisting world as a whole, but not about any particular being in it. The “difficulties and contradictions” (VI 3/17) of that world remain in the form of illusions, hallucinations, and other misperceptions, but the Cartesian hypothesis of systemic doubt is incoherent. Merleau-Ponty argues in the same vein as J. L. Austin would later do (1962, 118–19), namely, that complete scepticism is incoherent because the possibility of being deceived presupposes some veridical perception with which it can be contrasted and therefore known as error (IP 108; cf. VI 5/19). Moreover, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, even false perceptions are not nothing because they do not break the bonds that hold us close to the world. On the contrary, as Husserl pointed out, they are, “ ‘crossed out’ or ‘cancelled’ by the ‘new’ reality” (Ibid., 41–42/65). Perceptual faith is, therefore, even when confronted with contradictions, ambiguities, and paradoxes, still a positive commitment rather than a negative substitute for knowledge. Nor is perceptual faith intuition, Bergsonian or otherwise, in the sense of a fusion or identification with the immediate, a coincidence with the past or with Being, along with the elimination of any distinction between subject and object. Coincidence is necessarily lost because there cannot be a fusion of rediscovery with a lost “original integrity” (VI 122/162). On Merleau-Ponty’s view, there are both ontological and empirical reasons for this impossibility. The former will be explained below; the latter is that, if we did manage to recover a “lost immediate,” it would be marked internally with the traces of our labors to recover it, and so would not be immediate (Ibid., 122/162–63; cf. Prim.Percp. 19/127). On the other hand, if it retained its pure immediacy, and therefore bore no evidence of our attempts to recapture it, then we would not have gained access to it. Therefore, as Bergson indicates, the only possible experience of coincidence with the past is “a ‘partial coincidence’ ” (Ibid.; cf. VI 124/165). Instead of systemic doubt, intuition, or a Sartrean nihilating consciousness, perceptual faith is essentially questioning, interrogation, and as such, defines the method of the “new” ontology. “Philosophy,” he says, “is perceptual faith interrogating itself about itself” (VI 103/139), and that is another reason why perceptual faith is pre-positional.30 Philosophical questioning asks, “What do I know?” in a very special sense: not as a request for a list of objects of cognition, but about knowing itself. It is a unique manner of

30. “ ‘To perceive is to question,’ writes Merleau-Ponty in the spring of 1959, speaking of an “interrogation that is faith (instead of nihilating the in itself),” and adding, symmetrically, that “faith is interrogation” (ESA III: 56, citing the unpublished Notes pour choses faites [March-April 1959]). However, it should be noted that interrogation is hardly a new theme for Merleau-Ponty. In fact, the last paragraph of the Preface of Phenomenology of Perception states clearly that philosophy must “interrogate itself in the same way that it does all areas of knowledge” (PhP xxi/xvi).

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intending something, “as it were a question-knowing” (Ibid., 129/171). The philosopher, like the painter, finds every day in the world as it presents itself identical questioning and the “call to which he never stops responding” (S 58/73). More specifically, “What do I know?” includes queries about the activity of knowing, “the identity of the knower (“sur-réflexion”),” what exists, and “even: ‘what is the there is [the il y a]?’ ” (VI 129/171). As regards the identity of the knower, Merleau-Ponty states that our bodies, perceptual abilities, comprehension of language, and ability to speak all provide us with “measurants (mesurants) for Being, dimensions to which we can refer it” (Ibid., 103/140). Our relationship to Being is not one of an adequation of ideas to their objective referents or the immanence of Being within us. Because we are continually in question, we are constantly in the process of “taking the bearings of things on our dimensions” (Ibid.). And it is this fundamentally interrogative attitude, made fully visible in philosophy, that mobilizes science from within (Ibid.). The ultimate aim of such questions is the revelation of Being that we do not posit because we do not have to. It lies silently beneath all propositions and questions because philosophy accomplishes a double conversion of silence and speech into each other (Ibid.). Therefore, Merleau-Ponty concludes the chapter on “Interrogation and Intuition” in The Visible and the Invisible by quoting Husserl’s Cartesian Meditations in regard to a “teleology of consciousness”: “It is the experience . . . still mute which we are concerned with leading to the pure expression of its own meaning” (Ibid.; cf. AD 138, n. 85/186, n. 1). For Merleau-Ponty, this interrogation forms the proper way of opening ourselves not only to Nature, but also to history and time in order to realize the perennial objectives of philosophy (RC 165/148). The results toward which perceptual interrogation aims consist of descriptive generalizations of all types of beings and what they tell us about Being itself, beyond the traditional categories of substance, subjects and objects, consciousness and matter, and the like. In carrying out these descriptive generalizations, Merleau-Ponty wants to distinguish them from not only explanations, but also philosophical systems as he understood them. Such systems, he believes, consist of reflection in which all of the paradoxes, enigmas, and incompossibilities are stripped out of the life of perception (OE 169/36). Consistent meanings take the place of the life of perception, which are inconsistent with illusions, hallucinations, and the like (VI 30/51). Perceptual faith takes root in, rather than denies, the “inextricable confusion” (SNS 36/63) of mind and body and ourselves with others and with the world around us. Therefore, the unpublished Être et monde criticizes “la pensée réflective” in holding that “truth is of the order of thought, not of the order of life” (ESA II: 48). Truth is not what abolishes the Cartesian

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“confusions” and breaks through to clear and distinct thought, but what appears in and through those “confusions”—the world that we inhabit. Merleau-Ponty further objects to idealistic systems because they also snuff out philosophical astonishment, and because they smother “metaphysical consciousness” (SNS 94/166). They do this by affirming an absolute that would destroy contingency and negate our own opinions and communications with others, whereas the truth is that it is exactly those opinions and communications that form the basis for diverse beliefs in an absolute to begin with. And finally, he states, regardless of appearances, a metaphysical system has only ever been “a language (and in this respect it has been precious) for translating a Cartesian, Spinozist, or Leibnizian way of situating oneself in relation to being” (S 158/199).31 Standing over against systematic thought, perceptual faith, inextricably rooted in contingency like the Offenheit that it modulates, is pre-positional. Therefore, it also cannot be reflectively constituted by consciousness. This fact raises the issue of the relationship of perception and intellection that appears in Merleau-Ponty’s earlier phenomenology. In particular, what is the connection between perception and concepts in the “new” ontology? A full answer to this crucial question cannot take shape without a detailed examination of his interpretation of the Stoics’ logos endiathetos and logos proforikos, but provisionally the following points can be made. First, references to a conceptless perceptual faith and its Offenheit are not difficult to find. For example, in Eye and Mind, Merleau-Ponty states that since color is not, as Descartes thought, merely an ornament, it provides us with “a deeper opening upon things . . . a conceptless universality and a conceptless opening upon things (OE 172/43). Further, he also tells us that, if “Nature is an all-encompassing something, one cannot think it by starting with concepts” (N 87/122). This does not rule out ending with them, but they cannot be the point of departure for the “new” ontology. In addition, given the rejection of the ontology of the object, Being itself cannot be an object captured in a concept in the way that tables and chairs can be; hence, one value of modern painting is that it gives us a “conceptless presentation of universal Being” (OE 182/71). That said, however, it is still not the case that Merleau-Ponty sought to develop a conceptless ontology. After all, at several places, and not least in his course titles, he speaks of “the concept of Nature.” Rather, the key to understanding his negative remarks about concepts is that his target is almost 31. “. . . un langage (et il était précieux à ce titre) pour traduire une manière cartésienne, spinoziste ou leibnizienne de se situer par rapport à l’être.” This view is quite similar to William James’s argument (1928), that philosophical thinking is a personal expression of the thinker. See especially Chapter I, “The Types of Thinking.”

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always classical rationalism, from Descartes passing through Kant and Hegel, to Brunschvicg. They employ concepts in the attempt at an intellectual possession of Being, which is to say by turning it into an object distinct from the subject as knower—as with Kantian Begriffe, whether a priori or empirical (RC 73/104). Both presuppose an inner-outer distinction and function by being applied to the manifold of sensory intuition in such a way as to produce determinative judgments about objects of sense experience. In other words, this type of concept is in the service of the ontology of the object (N 83/117). This is why Merleau-Ponty writes in the unpublished “Notes de Travail” for what ended up being Le Visible et l’invisible, “Replace the notions of concept, idea, mind, [and] representation by the notions of dimensions, articulation, level, hinges, pivots, [and] configuration” (ESA III: 247, n. 2).32 All of the notions that he sees as replacements stress our chiasmatic unity with the flesh as opposed to separation. In that regard, Merleau-Ponty perceives a convergence between his “new” ontology and contemporary science, and in that context also he rejects Kantian concepts as inapplicable to both relativity theory and quantum mechanics because these theories are inconsistent with a constituting consciousness, the observer, standing apart from and unifying a separate manifold of sensory data (N 96–97/134). We can also note that, at the beginning of his second course on “The Concept of Nature,” Merleau-Ponty writes that he sees his studies of Nature as “an introduction to the definition of being” (RC 88/125), and definitions obviously require concepts. Further, in “Everywhere and Nowhere,” in the course of discussing relationships between philosophy and history, he expresses the need for “a theory of concepts or significations” for interpreting philosophical ideas (S 130/163). And later in the same essay, he observes appreciatively that “Husserl had understood: our philosophical problem is to open up the concept without destroying it. There is something irreplaceable in Western thought. The attempt to conceive and the rigor of the concept remain exemplary, even if they never exhaust what exists” (S 138/174).33 Finally, although perceptual faith might be conceptless, ontology cannot do without concepts because, for Merleau-Ponty, it has to be “indirect, not going straight to being, but to it through beings” (RC 88/125; cf. N 134/180), and the account of beings requires concepts.34 Thus, for 32. “Remplacer les notions de concept, idée, esprit, représentation par les notions de dimensions, articulation, niveau, charnières, pivots, configuration.” 33. “Husserl l’avait compris: notre problème philosophique est d’ouvrir le concept sans le détruire. Il y a quelque chose d’irremplaçable dans la pensée occidentale: l’effort de concevoir, la rigueur du concept restent exemplaires, même s’ils n’épuisent jamais ce qui existe.” 34. In this respect, Luca Van Zago has nicely written, “It has to be an ontology that takes seriously into account the fact that the body ‘is of’ the world, and therefore calls for concepts which, rather than emphasising the distinction between subjectivity and objectivity, try to uncover a more primordial realm in which such a distinction is not (yet) operative” (2003, 66).

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example, he admits that it is difficult to think the unity of mind and body, the sensory life and the perceptible, but he has only managed to formulate his “first concepts” to express that unity (VI 137/180). As we shall see, the utility of Whitehead’s process metaphysics in this context is precisely its ability to open up concepts without destroying them in order to develop an indirect ontology. The phrase “indirect ontology” comes from Maurice Blondel’s L’Être et les êtres. Its subtitle, which could not have failed to attract Merleau-Ponty’s interest, is Essai d’ontologie concrète et intégrale.35 Merleau-Ponty uses Blondel’s distinction between Being and beings to criticize what he characterizes as Heidegger’s “direct” ontology that seeks to go directly to Being, to an undifferentiated phusis before it is particularized in individuals.36 This is a critique that appears at several places in Merleau-Ponty’s published and unpublished writings, and even at the very end of his lectures on Heidegger in the course titled “Philosophy Today” (NC 148). According to his own understanding, “expression must be indirect, i.e., that we must show Being through the Winke de la vie, de la science, etc.” (NC 148).37 Failing to do this, Merleau-Ponty holds, quickly leads to silence (RC 111/156) and, as he states in La Nature et le monde du silence, one “does not write books to teach silence” (ESA III: 116). Merleau-Ponty, by contrast, wants to keep attention focused on the fundamental while “in contact with beings and in the exploration of regions of Being,” science and art included (RC 112/156). His “indirect ontology,” which is “alone conformed with being” (VI 179/233), amounts to “recognition . . . of a being that always flees when one wants to press it: and which gives itself when one does not look for it. . . . [O]ne cannot say anything of it directly, as of an object—It is grasped only indirectly, starting with beings” (ESA III: 114, n. 3, citing Être et monde).38 And it is Nature that includes 35. Both philosophers wanted to “pry out the ontological cipher of each experience” because “the access to ‘Being’ must pass through beings and ceaselessly lead back to them” (ESA III: 122). In addition, Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished preparatory notes for his second Nature course show that both thinkers sought a relationship between Being and beings that neither identified the two nor placed them in external relationships apart from each other (ESA III: 129). 36. Heidegger claims that “[t]he Greeks did not learn what physis is through natural phenomena, but the other way around: it was through a fundamental poetic and intellectual experience of being that they discovered what they had to call physis” (1959, 14). 37. “. . . il [Heidegger] cherche une expression directe de l’être dont il montre par ailleurs qu’il n’est pas susceptible d’expression directe. Il faudrait tenter l’expression indirecte, i.e. faire voir l’Être à travers les Winke de la vie, de la science, etc.” See also his discussion at RC 112/156 about Heidegger’s search for “a direct expression of the fundamental at the very moment that he was in the act of demonstrating that it was impossible” “une expression directe du fondamental, au moment même où il était en train de montrer qu’elle est impossible.” 38. “L’ontologie: reconnaissance . . . d’un être qui fuit toujours quand on veut le presser: et qui se donne quand on ne le cherche pas . . . on ne peut rien dire directement, comme d’un objet—Il n’est saisi qu’indirectement, à partir des étants.”

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the primary ensemble of beings that, as we have seen for Merleau-Ponty, provide a “privileged access to Being.” As Être et monde phrases it, Nature “is more than a preface to ontology . . . [for] it teaches us that that which is beyond beings is not of another order, and is not the negation of it” (ESA III: 115).39 In his retrospective summary of the untitled course, “Possibility of Philosophy,” Merleau-Ponty speaks of the difficulty of retracing “Heidegger’s path, no less than Husserl’s” (RC 109/153). The same can be said for Merleau-Ponty’s criticisms of Heidegger’s ontology and its relation to Nature. It is incontestable that Heidegger’s thought substantially influenced Merleau-Ponty’s approach to Being in his last writings. However, this influence is not so important in Merleau-Ponty’s discussions of Nature. Thus, in La Nature, Merleau-Ponty’s most substantive references to Heidegger occur within a very brief discussion of his version of humanism as opposed to that of Sartre (N 137/183–84). Further, in his 1959 course on “Philosophy Today” at the Collège de France, the long section dedicated to Heidegger (NC 91–148) has very little to do with Nature. Merleau-Ponty himself provides a reason for this lack of influence. In his 1957 course on “The Concept of Nature,” he states that Heidegger’s “radical opposition . . . between ontic science and ontological philosophy is only valid in the case of Cartesian science that posits Nature as an object laid out before us and not in the case of a modern science that places in question its own object and its relation to the object” (N 85/120).40 Given the rejection of the ontology of the object and the consequent necessity of understanding Being from within, the distinction between the ontological and the ontic conceived as Cartesian extension is an artificial distinction (N 220/282–83) from which seventeenth-century science emerged. This is one reason for Heidegger’s lack of influence on Merleau-Ponty’s thinking about Nature, but de Saint Aubert gives us others that provide a much more adequate picture of Merleau-Ponty’s complex and evolving relationship with Heidegger (ESA I: 103–149).41 In rapid summary, what 39. La Nature “est plus qu’une préface à l’ontologie . . . [car] elle nous apprend que ce qui est au-delà des étants n’est pas d’un autre ordre, n’en est pas la négation.” The passage is from the unpublished notes for La Nature, Spring 1957. 40. “Aussi l’opposition radicale, tracée par Heidegger, entre la science ontique et la philosophie ontologique n’est-elle valable que dans le cas de la science cartésienne, qui pose la Nature comme un objet étalé devant nous et non dans le cas d’une science moderne, qui met en question son propre objet, et sa relation à l’objet.” 41. De Saint Aubert shows that, from 1945 to1958, Merleau-Ponty did not read much of Heidegger, toward whose philosophy he displayed a “superficial knowledge” and a “generally favorable but vague appreciation” (ESA III, 103). In 1958, though, a considerable change in attitude occurred. With a reduction of his teaching obligations at the Collège de France, he

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we find in Merleau-Ponty’s late texts with respect to Heidegger’s view of Nature—apart from the remark about the latter’s opposition of “ontic science and ontological philosophy”—is as follows. First, he gives Heidegger credit for criticizing the ontology of the object and being the “initiator of interrogative ontology and of a radical reform of Western thought” (ESA III: 116).42 He also praises Heidegger’s early work that, even from the Preface of Being and Time, sought to use Dasein as a vehicle for understanding Being because “man is the interrogation of Being” (RC 109–10/154). This praise extends to Heidegger’s later efforts to show that we belong to Being through an Offenheit with the world unavailable in Sartre’s philosophy. Further, Merleau-Ponty states his belief that philosophy can only begin once this transcendence has been accomplished “in a ‘there exists’ [an il y a]” and that the “proper theme of philosophy” is the “preobjective Being” revealed there (Ibid.). Given his commitment to total contingency, this “preobjective Being,” like the rose described by Angelus Silesius, has “ ‘no why” . . . it blooms because it blooms’ . . . it has neither external cause nor is causa sui either, it is without foundation, it is on principle the absence of all foundation” (RC 110/154–55).43

was able to face directly the ontological implications of his work on Nature. For this project, he had to read Heidegger seriously. He purchased a copy of Sein und Zeit in 1957 or 1958, and this copy (from his personal library) shows that he read the first fourteen sections and then sections 25–27. His other personal copies of Heidegger’s works show some indications of passages read, but virtually no annotation (ESA III, 108–109). For a list of all those copies, see ESA III, 108 n. 8. In fact, 80 percent of Merleau-Ponty’s references to his thought occur in texts from 1958–1961 (Ibid., 104). However, by this time the main themes of his ontology of Nature were well formulated, and he read Heidegger too late and too hurriedly (Ibid., 108–109). Further, in the 1959 course at the Collège de France, he subjected Heidegger to severe criticism and from 1959 to 1961, he reviewed Heidegger’s writings “with no real analysis of precise texts” (ESA III: 112). The most prominent of very few exceptions of Heideggerean texts read seems to have been Merleau-Ponty’s much-annotated copy of Identität und Differenz, but those notes were not made until the beginning of 1961—after the course on Heidegger (Ibid., 141). For more details, see ESA III: 105ff. 42. The text, written in September or October 1958, is from Introduction à l’ontologie, which became part of Être et monde. 43. The poem, cited by Heidegger in Satz vom Grund (Pfullingen: Verlag Günther Neske, 1957), 68, runs as follows: Die Ros ist ohne warum; sie blühet, weil sie blühet, Sie acht nicht ihrer selbst, fragt nicht, ob man sie siehet. Merleau-Ponty quotes the poem at NC 107 and then adds: “For Heidegger, being is its own possible, i.e. there is a continuous auto-creation of the rose and that is the Rose-sein—the perseverance, the redeployment of the rose” (Ibid., 107–108). “Chez Heidegger, l’être est son propre possible, i.e. il y a une auto-création continuée de la rose et c’est là le Rose-sein—la persévérance, le redéploiement de la rose.”

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In addition, Merleau-Ponty notes appreciatively that Wesen in Heidegger’s Introduction to Metaphysics has a verbal meaning.44 As we have seen, this is a signal aspect of Merleau-Ponty’s view of Nature, and it is also a key reason for the consonance of his thought with that of Whitehead. Like the rose that “roses,” the meaning of a thing generally for Merleau-Ponty is indistinguishable from its operation, which results in Being speaking in us rather than the reverse (RC 111/155). Merleau-Ponty also criticizes Heidegger—correctly, in our view—for not taking more of the details seriously, particularly from science,45 and he is right to say that Heidegger’s criticism of Western metaphysics depends on treating the ontic within an ontology of the object. Merleau-Ponty continues to criticize Heidegger for arguing for a “direct” ontology, a “direct expression” of Being. De Saint Aubert however suggests that Heidegger never made that claim (ESA III: 115), and there is nothing more Heideggerean than saying that, as Merleau-Ponty did, Being “flees” when “pressed” by too direct a search: “[I]f Being is hidden, that itself is a trait of Being” (VI 122/162). De Saint Aubert notes that the criticism of Heidegger’s “direct” ontology first occurred when Merleau-Ponty “tried to justify his choice of beginning [his 1957 course at the Collège de France] with an ontology of Nature” (ESA III: 115). Therefore, we will now plunge into Merleau-Ponty’s own “indirect ontology” of Nature in order to see how he attempted to overcome the diverse forms of the bifurcation of Nature in modern philosophy.

44. Heidegger’s description of returning to his high school building is a clear case cited by Merleau-Ponty (VI 115, n. 2/154, n. 1; cf. 174/228 and NC 105–106). Heidegger records how the building did not appear as an object so much as it did in terms of its odors and touching sensations. “You can, as it were, smell the being of this building in your nostrils” (1959, 33). In other words, the individual style of the building, the unity of the visible and the invisible, expresses its essence. Essences for Merleau-Ponty are verbal; they consist of the styles of things, the manner in which they exist, rather than “the irreducible kernel of everything that we experience” (Robert 2005, 359). Essences are “the Sosein and not the Sein” (VI 109/148). 45. Carnality lacks ontological significance for the early Heidegger, as it is apparently “only a modality of the In-der-Welt-Sein” (ESA III: 198). De Saint Aubert also points out that Merleau-Ponty’s three years of courses at the Collège de France on Nature “confirmed his feeling that Heidegger passed by the specificity of modern science” (Ibid., 96) because of the latter’s equation of science with “calculability and measurability” (Ibid., 97–98).

III

THE WAY OF ALL FLESH*

Merleau-Ponty’s search for what is ontologically prior to consciousness and the subject-object relation attempts to satisfy two fundamental requirements of any metaphysics that have been recognized since the ancient Greeks: to account for the one and the many. He needs a principle of unity to show how “all things are together” (omou en panta), as he quotes Anaxagoras in the La Nature et le monde du silence (ESA I: 120, n. 4), and he also requires a principle of difference to show how the distinctness of individual entities can be understood. Both principles must be held together; hence, he contrasts the Clazomenian to both Cartesian and Sartrean bifurcations of the cogito over against the in-itself (Ibid., 120 n. 4; cf. ESA IV: 49). Such philosophies cannot account for their own origin (Ibid., 121 n.),1 for which we need Nature. Anaxagoras is not the only influence on Merleau-Ponty’s search for principles of unity and diversity. Another was Leibniz’s monadology, yet as against his system of external relations between “windowless” monads, Merleau-Ponty formulates an ontology of flesh in which “all things are together” in internal relations without effacing individuality and particularity. Although both principles must be satisfied, it is also clear that, since he seeks to overcome diverse forms of the bifurcation of Nature and the ontology of the object, he invests much more time and effort on the requirement of unity. Therefore, we will begin with the ways that flesh provides that oneness. *With apologies to Samuel Butler, whose autobiographical novel of the same title eloquently illustrated for the nineteenth century what Merleau-Ponty claimed of the early twentieth, namely that it was an epoch of absolutes, including the “moral gold standard” of “family and marriage [that] were the good, even if they secreted hatred and rebellion” (S 226/287). 1. Elsewhere, Merleau-Ponty speaks of “the pre-existence of natural being, always already there, which is the very problem of the philosophy of Nature” (RC 79/111). “la préexistence de l’être naturel, toujours déjà-là, qui est le problème même de la philosophie de la Nature.” The English translation of “le problème même” is “the proper concern.” We have changed it back to Merleau-Ponty’s own wording.

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THE SOURCES AND TWO MEANINGS OF “FLESH” “Flesh” first appears in Merleau-Ponty’s 1951 essay, “Man and Adversity,” where he defines it as “the animate body” (le corps animé) (S 227/287) that has erased the boundary between mind and body. Flesh is not only their “formative milieu” (VI 147/193), but also that of lived body and objective body, perception and idea, consciousness and object, and self and others. Flesh fulfills what Husserl’s Ideen II showed: that we do not have to think about our situation in the world “in terms of the bifurcation of Nature and mind” (S 162/205) and that reflection can disclose “a third dimension” that calls this distinction into question (Ibid.). Merleau-Ponty first expresses the unifying function of flesh in language tinged by a biblical heritage. He writes of “the flesh of my flesh, alone being able to respond to my flesh and to know it” (ESA I: 171; cf. VI 127/169 and S 15/22), and “flesh taken from the side of another” (OE 168/34).2 However, flesh is not the ontological equivalent of body, even the lived body. The latter is now a thing alongside others with the cohesion of a thing (OE 163/19) because they are made of the “same stuff” (la même étoffe) as the body and vice versa (Ibid., 163/21; cf. NC 211). Therefore, body and world cannot be defined apart from each other. Yet at the same time, the body, as in the early writings, is still not only a thing because it also sees and is self-moving. It also follows from this changed view of the body that our fundamental situation can no longer be understood adequately as “être au monde” in the sense that the earlier phenomenology gave to that formula. Rather, what is now most important is that the body is a part of the world, that it belongs to it—the “j’en suis.” As Être et monde indicates, we understand the world through our own bodies and vice versa (ESA III: 30) in the simultaneity of the co-naissance (VI 250/304). The flesh of the world, sometimes called “universal flesh” (VI 137/181), is what Marcel Gauchet nicely describes as its “continuous living tissue” (1997, 202).3 There is one Being of which “the visible world and that of my motor projects are total parts” (OE 162/17), which replaces the earlier characterization of perceiver and perceived as 2. See ESA I: 172, n. 3 for many references to unpublished writings, and also his “Préface” to A. Hesnard, L’oeuvre et l’esprit de Freud (Paris: Payot, 1960), reprinted and cited in PC II: 280: “[T]he other, who is born by taking from me or by expansion of me, as Eve is born from the side of Adam.” “[A]utrui, qui naît par prélèvement sur moi ou par expansion de moi, comme Ève naquit d’une côte d’Adam.” After discussing Merleau-Ponty’s references to the “glorious” and “eternal” body, de Saint Aubert remarks, “Merleau-Ponty’s preference seems to go toward the Johannite flesh, that of remaining one in the other, of transubstantial consumption [manducation]” (ESA I: 172). 3. We owe this reference to Jocelyn Dunphy-Blomfield. At VI 131, n.1/173n, Merleau-Ponty states that the body and things are both models for each other, and at 255/309 he describes the flesh of the world as “indivision of this sensible Being that I am.”

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dialectical poles of a perceptual, behavioral circuit. Flesh for Merleau-Ponty is an equivocal notion, one with at least three intertwined meanings.4 This section takes up the first two meanings, and the third meaning makes up the subject of the following section. The first meaning, as illustrated above, is that of carnality. This meaning embraces my own flesh, the flesh of others, and the flesh of the world, and also stresses the inescapable “confusion” between them while not denying differences between individuals. Examples abound of my indivisible relationships with others, the Ineinander of flesh to flesh. In speaking situations, for instance, we are caught up in our linguistic exchanges such that speaking and being spoken to reverse themselves as the other gets taken up in my speech and vice versa. In very animated, intimate discussions, it sometimes becomes impossible to establish clear boundaries between interlocutors, the speaking and being spoken to. This Ineinander relation is even clearer in the two other regions of the “inextricable confusion,” feelings and desires. In the sharing of feelings such as anger, joy, fear, sorrow, and love, we become so closely implicated in each other that it is not possible to say where we stop and the other begins. This indivisibility is even deeper in the case of desire, the ultimate expression of which for Merleau-Ponty is “coupling” and especially that of lovers in sexual union, who incorporate themselves as one flesh.5 In all of these cases, between my flesh and the flesh of others there exists an “implication inextricable” (ESA III: 213), which Merleau-Ponty, appropriating another term from Blondel, labels “promiscuity” (NC 204). By this he means the original sense of the word, that is, the confused or indiscriminate mixing of elements,6 from which the current sexual meaning 4. Hass provides a rapid summary and word counts of these three meanings in an appendix titled “The Multiple Meanings of Flesh in Merleau-Ponty’s Late Writings” (2008, 201–202). On his reading, they are “carnality,” “reversibility,” and “an element of Being.” As explained below, we construe the second meaning a bit differently and, in considerably greater detail because our main interest, unlike his, is Nature. 5. “Relation to the other = coupling of a body to a body . . . = projection-introjection,” says the unpublished Notes de lecture pour Le visible et l’invisible (Autumn 1960) (ESA I: 249n.). Elsewhere, Merleau-Ponty argues for the necessity of “a theory of the libidinal body” (RC 129/178). See also N 210/272–73 where he states, “the corporeal schema, the esthesiological body, the flesh” shows us that “the body as the power of Einfühlung is already desire, libido, projection-introjection.” Although Merleau-Ponty holds that sexuality is “relationship with the other, and not only with another body” (230/292), it is a serious deficiency in his account that he does not make any conceptual distinction between desire and love. See, for example, PhP 154/180, 166/194, and IP 216–22. He sees sexuality as “a dimension outside of which nothing remains” (N 282/350–51). For further discussion of this point, see ESA I: 180 and Hass (2008, 197–98). 6. The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, On Historical Principles, 1684. Cf. VI 253/307: the “integration” of the in-itself and the for-itself “takes place not in absolute consciousness, but in Being in promiscuity.” See also N 279/346–47.

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of easy availability is derived. “Sensorality” is therefore an “investment in the promiscuity of powers, of powers and of others” (N279/347). There is also an “implication inextricable” between my flesh and the flesh of the world. For Merleau-Ponty, there is no way to establish an exact boundary between my body and the world (VI 138/182). As Whitehead points out in Modes of Thought, the human body is “that region of the world which is the primary field of human expression” (30). On Merleau-Ponty’s view, since we belong to Nature, our bodies function in the same way as do all natural events (N 118/159; cf. OE 162/17). Further, the relations between parts of Nature are identical to those that exist between my body and Nature (Ibid.). Both the body and other natural entities, perceivers and perceived, are particularizations or differentiations of the same ontological tissue, or natural self-production. The Ineinander of my flesh and that of the world, “the indivision of feeling and felt” (OE 163/20), comes about through the mute Einfühlung that implicates things just as much as others in my flesh through perception, feelings, and desires. This fundamental implication is why the account of perception that rests on the “sensationalist principle” is so impoverished. As Merleau-Ponty notes in L’Œil et l’esprit, the eyes do not merely receive “lights, colors, and lines”; rather, they are “computers of the world, which have the gift of the visible as one says that the inspired man has the gift of tongues” (OE 165/25).7 Elsewhere in the same text he adds, after citing Cézanne’s statement that “nature is on the inside,” that “quality, light, color, [and] depth” present themselves to us only “because they awaken an echo in our body, [and] because it welcomes them” (Ibid., 164/22). As a result, we find ourselves invested in things and they in us, and their essences consist more in the way that they speak to us than in what we can observe of them (C 48/28). Underlying the visible and the tangible, but not apart from them, flesh is more fundamentally an “ ‘element’ of Being” as such (VI 139/184), and this is its second meaning.8 This is “l’être brut,” according to Être et monde, which is “primordial being against which all reflection institutes itself” (ESA III: 40), and, as “a prehuman in man” (Ibid.), Merleau-Ponty specifically opposes it to Sartre’s dichotomy of for-itself and in-itself. As such, it has its own indivisibility in the sense that it is logically prior to divisions of culture and nature, subjects and objects, and minds and bodies. To sepa7. “des computeurs du monde, qui ont le don du visible comme on dit que l’homme inspiré a le don des langues.” 8. Merleau-Ponty finds his inspiration for this second meaning in Bachelard’s psychoanalysis of elements. See VI 267/320 and, for a full explication of this connection, ESA I: 255–70. The unpublished papers written a bit before and during the writing of the last chapter of The Visible and the Invisible expressly acknowledge Bachelard as the source (ESA I: 258).

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rate them—say, culture and nature—consists of an abstraction because, as in Merleau-Ponty’s earlier phenomenology, everything about us is equally cultural and natural because the cultural itself “rests on the polymorphism of the wild Being” (VI 253/306–307). The task of Merleau-Ponty’s “new” ontology is, therefore, to find a way to think “wild Being” and our place within it even though such an enterprise must always be carried out within a culture and its language. The locus classicus in Merleau-Ponty’s texts for the second meaning of flesh lies in what became the fourth and last chapter of The Visible and the Invisible, “The Intertwining—The Chiasm.” Referring to our openness to the world and the reciprocity between “the seer and the visible,” he describes the flesh as “this Visibility, this generality of the Sensible in itself, this anonymity innate to Myself,” for which “there is no name in traditional philosophy” (VI 139/183).9 He then provides a number of negative descriptions of flesh because, since it is not a “what,” it is easier to say what it is not than to provide its positive description. Thus, we are told that it is not “matter,” not “some ‘psychic’ material,” not a physical or mental fact or collection of them, a mental representation, substance or mind (Ibid., 139/184). Rather, its proper descriptor is the old term “element,” in the sense it was used to speak of water, air, earth, and fire, that is, in the sense of a general thing, midway between the spatio-temporal individual and the idea, a sort of incarnate principle that brings a style of being wherever there is a fragment of being. (Ibid.)10 Flesh as an element of Being corresponds to Nature conceived as ontological matrix or source of minds and bodies, subjects and objects. It is not a unity of separate minds and bodies externally linked to each other, but rather the “formative milieu of the object and subject” (VI 147/193). It does not occupy a unique time and place—the “fallacy of simple location”—but rather consists of a “concrete emblem of a manner of general being” (VI 147/194). And since flesh as an element of Being is that from which both bodies as well as things emerge as differential naturata of the process of Nature/Being, or natural Being, flesh in this sense becomes the 9. “C’est cette Visibilité, cette généralité du Sensible en soi, cet anonymat inné de Moi-même . . . il n’y a pas de nom en philosophie traditionelle pour designer cela.” See also IP 164. 10. “. . . le vieux terme d’ «élément», au sens où on l’employait pour parler de l’eau, de l’air, de la terre et du feu, c’est-à-dire au sens d’une chose générale, à mi-chemin de l’individu spatio-temporel et de l’idée, sorte de principe incarné qui importe un style d’être partout où il s’en trouve une parcelle.”

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new “irrelative” instead of a Kantian or Husserlian consciousness knowing the world. It is that to which we belong as “one sole and massive adhesion to Being” (VI 270/324). Therefore, Merleau-Ponty’s account of the cohesion of experience is the reverse of a Kantian analysis that begins with disconnected sense data and explains the cohesion of experience by means of the synthesizing imposition of pure categories of the understanding and the a priori forms of sensibility. For Merleau-Ponty, cohesion is guaranteed from the outside in, so to speak, by elemental flesh outside us, but which already envelops us. This is what it means to say that we are already implicated in this flesh, an implication that makes possible our Ineinander relationships with others, things and, as an ontological generality, Anaxagoras’s togetherness of all things. It is, Merleau-Ponty says, “what makes the facts have meaning” (VI 140/184). For instance, in perceiving a cube, we are aware that the hidden sides show forth someplace else as well as in our own field of vision. We are also aware that because we, as percipients, equally belong to what is visible, we are also visible from other places. Therefore, since both the cube and we are taken up in the same elemental flesh, the cohesion of the experience outlasts any temporary incoherence (Ibid.). Hence also, as against Cartesian systemic doubt, flesh as elemental source provides the foundation for our “co-belonging” to the world, and our perceptual faith in it, to which, as described above, even non-veridical perceptions testify. The discordances are, in Husserl’s language, “lined out” (biffées) (VI 131, n. 1/173 n.). As a result, flesh as element grounds a transcendental aesthetic, the bodily esthesiology mentioned earlier, which for Merleau-Ponty means taking seriously the unity of body and soul (N 224/287). Part of what this serious attention shows is that bodily animation is not the result of a mind or soul planted in a body, but is “a metamorphosis of life” and that the body is “the ‘body of the spirit’ (Valéry)” (RC 128/176). This bodily esthesiology links indissolubly (“l’implication inextricable”) my flesh with that of others and the world. It is why for Merleau-Ponty the human body replaces consciousness as the percipient (le sentant) of the “nature which it also inhabits” (Ibid., 128/176). It is also why, as noted in Chapter I, “the schema of the lived body” is open to all others as a “lexicon of corporeity in general” (Ibid., 129/178). Hence, the late unpublished papers speak of the “Ineinander des schémas corporels” (ESA II: 99). This esthesiology is likewise the means whereby my flesh is joined to Nature, to “brute being.” This is because the relationship is reenacted in every perception that takes up an immemorial, primordial past. Citing Lucien Herr’s commentary on Hegel, Merleau-Ponty says that “Nature . . . ‘is there from the first day’ ” (RC 65/94; cf. PhP 43/54). It presents itself as already there, yet always new, because it is a question of “brute being” before the

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intervention of reflection, a primordial reality anterior to consciousness. In effect, this aesthetic comprises Merleau-Ponty’s final answer to Kant’s critical philosophy. For this line of thought runs deeper than a critique of his representational view of perception, impoverished account of experience, and the fact that he pays no attention to the “lower degrees of constitution”11 as the unity of a perceptual object unfolds in passive conscious syntheses. Here, rather, consciousness itself is not in play because it is a question of a fundamental relationship with a non-constituted Nature that makes the constituting activities of consciousness possible—even the “lower” ones—and not the other way around. Merleau-Ponty describes the visibility in which our bodily esthesiology implicates us in terms of two principal, intertwined characteristics: depth and verticality. As with most of Merleau-Ponty’s later vocabulary, these words also have multiple meanings. Depth is both a perceptual phenomenon and a dimension of experience with much deeper ontological import. With respect to perception, depth indicates what we do not perceive of things, both in terms of their hidden sides that are necessarily turned away from us when we see them from any given perspective, and with regard to the way that the voluminosity of things wholly or partly conceals others in our field of vision. Nonetheless, any side of a visible thing can only manifest itself by concealing others. Therefore, the hidden is still given to us in experience— present-as-absent, an “operative, implicit presence,” as Merleau-Ponty nicely phrases it (ESA III: 161)—and visibility consists of “this very transcendence” (S 20/29). The “latent existence” that is thus always reached in experience means that “the invisible is the outline and the depth of the visible,” and neither one evidences any “pure positivity” (Ibid., 20–21/29). These latent horizons comprise one form of a “fecund,” natural negativity, what is present as absent, the pregnancy of the invisible in the visible—“the in-visible” (VI 257/311),12 and in fact it is this notion of pregnancy that is behind Merleau-Ponty’s choice of the phrase, “flesh of the world.” Even though the latter is not self-sensing, he still calls it “flesh”

11. These “lower degrees of constitution” are what precede and form a basis for idealizing acts that, for Merleau-Ponty, are all that Kant is really interested in, particularly those “idealizations that are science and philosophy” (N 71/103; cf. IP 209). Husserl does pay attention to these “lower degrees of constitution.” See, among other places, Formal and Transcendental Logic, 316–17). For the substantial differences between Kant and Husserl on synthesis and constitution, see Gurwitsch (1966, 154f.). 12. Merleau-Ponty distinguishes four different senses of the invisible: (1) what is not now seen, but could be “hidden things” or hidden “aspects of the thing”; (2) that “relative to the visible” that does not itself appear as a thing—“the existentials of the visible, its dimensions, its non-figurative inner framework”; (3) “what exists only as tactile or kinesthetically, etc.”; and (4) “the lekta, the Cogito” (VI 257/311).

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in order to designate it as “a pregnancy of possibles, Weltmöglichkeit” (VI 250/304). The noncontradictory duality of visibility and invisibility replaces the Sartrean contradictories of being and nothingness (S 21/30), and it is our response to this inviting in-visible latency that breaks up the plenum of Being characteristic of the ontology of the object (as well as of the Sartrean in-itself). Breaking up the plenum entails that contact with things and the flesh of the world is always conjugated with distance, indivisibility with differentiation, and presence with absence. Depth has a perceptual primacy for Merleau-Ponty first because of its originality as the source of all other dimensions and the one by virtue of which “things or elements of things envelop each other” (PhP 264–65/306). Furthermore, given its correlation with envelopment, height and width serve as measures of the ways that things are juxtaposed to each other (Ibid.). Depth therefore cannot be a dimension that stems from the others, as Descartes said in the Dioptrics (OE 172/44). Rather, depth stands for a fundamental voluminosity in which we are already implicated. By contrast, the space of the Dioptrics is what a geometer would reconstruct as an object of a pensée de survol. On Merleau-Ponty’s view, recovering the world as we live it overturns the methods of “classical art” that are founded on the flat projection of perspectival space and that encourage adherence to the ontology of the object by suggesting the viewer’s separation from the spectacle in front of him. The painter thus trained would not paint what he sees, but “a compromise,” “the common denominator” (C 40/20) of perspectives adjusted for each item included in the painting according to distances established from the viewer. The sizes become what would be presented to a look oriented toward the line of a horizon. The landscapes of such paintings would be disengaged from the viewer, distant from the uninvolved spectator, as opposed to the way that the world really gives itself to us in perceptual experience. From Cézanne onward, for Merleau-Ponty, many painters have defied “the law of geometrical perspective” because they wanted “to render the very birth of the landscape before our eyes” as well as its “vibration and life” (Ibid., 41/21). Rather than being what is available for inspection to a detached spectator, modern painting presents space as “organically linked to us” (Ibid., 41/22), a space in which we are inextricably involved in its latent as well as overt meanings. For Merleau-Ponty, our openness to such meanings is also an openness to “dimensionality” (VI 217/271) in a sense more profound than perceptual depth. Each “part” of the world can open “unlimited dimensions,” each “part” also becomes a “total part” of the world (VI 218/271). Extending his reliance on Cassirer’s notion of the “symbolic pregnance” of perception, Merleau-Ponty refers to this dimensionality as the “fecundity” or “preg-

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nancy” of Being to emphasize its role as ultimate ground for the possibilities of things. Such language transcends the perceptual meaning of depth and invokes its ontological meaning. It is what he means when he states that the painter seeks the internal animation of the visible “under the name of depth, of space, of color” (OE 182/71), and when he endorses Giacometti’s claim that “Cézanne looked for depth all his life” (OE 179/64; SNS 16/28). This is a search for far more than an accurate pictorial representation of depth perception. It is a search for “l’être brut” or, as noted above, “the depth of inhuman nature on which man is installed.” In other words, “the ontological rehabilitation of the sensible” (S 167/211) amounts to restoring the depths of Being concealed by the “horizontal world” (Être et monde), the flat projection of geometrical space in Renaissance art (ESA I: 222). In L’Œil et l’esprit, he goes on to add that, even at this distance from Renaissance art and Descartes, “depth is always new,” and it is something for which we, like Cézanne, must search all our lives (179/64). And certainly, in the phrase “always new,” we can hear an echo of Lucien Herr’s description of nature’s being there “from the first day”—“brute” or “wild” Nature before distinctions of subject and object, culture and nature. Merleau-Ponty finds his greatest inspiration for this search with certain writers and modern painters, and it is easy to see why he quotes approvingly Paul Klee’s remark from his 1924 Conférence de Iéna, “. . . our heart throbs to bring us closer to the depths” (OE 187/85).13 Likewise, in his 1961 lecture course on “Cartesian Ontology and Ontology Today,” in the section on “Fundamental Thought in Art,” he cites Cézanne’s statement, “What I am trying to translate for you is more mysterious, and is entangled with the very roots of being, with the impalpable source of sensations” (NC 167).14 Perceptual overlapping, depth, and envelopment make up the principal contours of visibility and tangibility in and through which our flesh is self-configuring in all of its activities and projects.

13. “Quant à nous, notre coeur bat pour nous amener vers les profondeurs.” A slightly fuller citation occurs at NC 57 n.: “Quant à nous, notre coeur bat pour nous emmener vers les profondeurs, les insondables profondeurs du Souffle primordial” (“to the depths, the unfathomable depths of the primordial Breath”). Here, Klee sounds remarkably like Schelling, as we shall see below, and Merleau-Ponty refers to the latter on the same page. 14. “Ce que j’essaie de vous traduire est plus mystérieux, s’enchevêtre aux racines mêmes de l’être, à la source impalpable des sensations.” The sentence appears in J. Gasquet’s Cézanne. This notion of entanglement is also called “overlapping,” of which we will see much more in terms of the third definition of flesh. Merleau-Ponty takes the English word overlapping from two sources. The first is p. 59 of Whitehead’s The Concept of Nature (cited at N 115/157). The second source is Rudolf Arnheim’s Art and Visual Perception, A Psychology of the Creative Eye. Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished papers show that he took “almost 120 pages of notes” on this text as he prepared to write L’Œil et l’esprit (ESA III: 146).

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Another way to say this is to recur to the concept of the Gestalt, the ontological importance of which is that it replaces the Sartrean dichotomy of Being and nothingness. In an ontology of flesh, they become “its two abstract properties.” The ontological Gestalt of flesh implies that we form part of “humanity as a horizon of Being, a surrounding horizon just as things surround us” (VI 237/290–91). The ontological meaning of a Gestalt therefore transcends the way that it describes the perceptual constitution of a visual, behavioral field and is anterior to consciousness and cognition (VI 206/259). To put it another way, Being is the invisible background of the visible, like a Gestalt of a figure perceived against “a ground that is not visible in the sense the figure is” (VI 246/300), but which nonetheless encompasses and permeates the visible. This ground, as we have seen, is depth and latency of meaning, a “lining of invisibility” that pertains to every visible thing (OE 187/85) and results in there being, as noted in Chapter I, “no other meaning than carnal, figure and ground” (VI 265/319). In addition to art, imagination and desire are also dimensions of experience in which Merleau-Ponty discusses the ontological significance of depth. Much of his thought in this regard derives from Bachelard (see ESA I: 259ff.), as when he speaks of the “imaginary texture of the real” (OE 165/24). Or, as he states it in Être et monde, “The imaginary = the unfelt stuff of the senses, the ontological milieu that conditions them (Bachelard)” (ESA I: 258).15 Desire is also, like the imaginary, an important dimension of latency in experience, and an example of the invisible. Since desire, like perception and feeling generally, is one of the “confusions” through which our flesh is implicated in that of others, it also possesses depths well known and much discussed ever since Nietzsche and Freud. Dreams, desire, and Eros are closely interwoven, and they have an obvious close connection with the imaginary. This is a connection elaborated through much literature, especially by Proust, who had such a profound impact on Merleau-Ponty, in painting that displays “its oneiric universe of carnal essences” (OE 169/35), and perhaps especially in psychoanalysis. For example, and one that ties together the preceding paragraph with earlier remarks on dimensionality, Freud’s case of the Wolf Man concerns the triple signification of yellow present in “the memory screen of a yellow-striped butterfly,” “yellow-streaked pears,” and which, in turn, bring to mind a young maid because “Grusha” is both her name and the Russian name for “pear” (VI 240/293–94). For Merleau-Ponty, this connection shows that psychoanalytic “associations” are in reality “ ‘rays’ of time and of the 15. “L’imaginaire = l’étoffe insensible des sens, le milieu ontologique qui les conditionne (Bachelard).”

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world” (VI 240/293). That is, ostensibly three memories—of a butterfly, the pears, and the maid—are actually one memory of “a certain play of the butterfly in the colored field, a certain (verbal) Wesen of the butterfly and of the pear—which communicate with the language Wesen Grusha (in virtue of the force of incarnation of language)” (VI 240/294).16 All three Wesen are bound together at their center by the single ray of being of yellow, which is therefore not a mere sense datum, but rather surges up as a defining dimension of the events at issue.17 It is “a quality pregnant with a texture, the surface of a depth” (VI 136/180). Thus, with “sensorality,” a color such as yellow transcends itself in virtue of its ontological capacity to represent everything (Ibid., 217/271). Similarly, we can recognize the blue of the sea that we perceive as the same blue that the other sees. Because of this fact, the blue, just as the yellow in the case of the Wolf Man, becomes “a dimension and a universal” (Ibid., 142/187–88). It belongs to the visible as the “surface of an inexhaustible depth” that is open to the incorporation of the gaze of others as well as our own (Ibid.). On the side of the percipient, for Merleau-Ponty, Goethe was right to emphasize the affective meaning of all colors in and through which they correspond to the meanings of our other senses (C 46/25–26) through synesthesia, as one can see clearly in cases in which a particular sense does not function. For example, the color-blind brother of a colleague who viewed the long desert scene in the film, Lawrence of Arabia, did not get thirsty, whereas those who could perceive the color of the sand and sky left the theatre at intermission feeling parched. The theme of psychoanalysis approached through the experience of colors continues in Merleau-Ponty’s emergent ontology by expressing his desire to plunge to the roots of being through a “psychoanalysis of Nature” as “the flesh, the mother” (VI 268/321). On his view, “an ontological psychoanalysis” should replace “an existential psychoanalysis” (VI 270/323) in order to achieve that objective and to discover the secret of the primordial functioning of flesh as “an element” of that Being. It should also be recognized that characterizing Nature as “the flesh, the mother” has led to speculations on and off, begun by Sartre himself, about the relevance of Merleau-Ponty’s 16. “un certain jeu du papillon dans le champ coloré, un certain Wesen (verbal) du papillon et de la poire,—qui communique avec le Wesen langagier Grouscha (en vertu de la force d’incarnation du langage).” 17. “The analysis shows in addition that the maid spread open her legs like the butterfly its wings. Hence there is an overdetermination of the association” (VI 240/294). “L’analyse montre en outre que la bonne a ouvert ses jambes comme le papillon ses ailes. Donc il y a surdétermination de l’association.”

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relationship with his own mother for understanding this text. However, the subject is more complicated than that, as de Saint Aubert shows.18 Just after defining flesh as an element, Merleau-Ponty adds that it is not “a fact or a sum of facts [simple location], and yet adherent to location and to the now” (Ibid., 139–40/184). This statement is both an echo of Claudel’s influence and an index to the fact that depth has a temporal as well as spatial meaning. In Art poétique, the latter states, “From time to time, a man lifts his head, sniffs, listens, considers, recognizes his position: he thinks, he sighs, and, drawing his watch from the pocket lodged against his chest, looks at the time. Where am I? and What time is it?—such is the inexhaustible question from us to the world” (cited at VI 121/161; translation altered).19 Claude Lefort, editor of Le Visible et l’invisible, observes that this passage appears earlier (VI 103/140), and states that this is “evidence of the unfinished state of the manuscript” (VI 121, n. 5/161, n. 1). It is obvious that the manuscript is unfinished; however, the explanation of the repetition is more complicated and ontologically important than that. The Claudel text is reproduced in the Passivity lectures (IP 256) and many times throughout various unpublished writings—including at least thirteen in the preparation of The Visible and the Invisible (ESA III: 54, n. 5). Clearly the text is significant for Merleau-Ponty, and it invites us to pursue further the theme of temporal depth, which is connected with the meaning of verticality. Verticality, like depth, is an equivocal term. One meaning is the literal physical sense. Here Merleau-Ponty stresses the importance of the upright body for perception, as when he says, in reference to Paul Klee, that vision brings us not only what is face to face, directly in front of us, but also what is below and above us—(OE 187/85–86; cf. VI 138/182 and S 20/28–29). It also brings us others, and the upright body is therefore crucial for intercorporeity. The other is implicated in the same flesh, revealed in “the fungierende body, flesh, esthesiology” (ESA II: 153, n. 1), as Être et monde puts it. The experience of the vertical body is “the experience of the other,” and this

18. Sartre’s memorial article for Merleau-Ponty makes two well known and frequently cited claims: “Merleau told me one day, in 1947, that he was never cured of an incomparable childhood” (1964, 190) and that “he suffered from his relationships with others: everything had been too beautiful too soon; the Nature that first enveloped him was the Goddess Mother, his mother, whose eyes gave him to see what he saw; she was the alter ego” (Ibid., 197). However, despite this incontestable influence, Claudel’s Cinq grandes Odes is equally important here: “Your sources are not sources at all. The same element!/Primary matter! It is the mother, I say, that I have to have!” (ESA I: 263). 19. “De moment à autre, un homme redresse la tête, renifle, écoute, considère, reconnaît sa position: il pense, il soupire, et, tirant sa montre de la poche logée contre sa côte, regarde l’heure. Où suis-je? et Quelle heure est-il? telle est de nous au monde la question inépuisable.” The English translation for the last part of this citation runs, “such is the inexhaustible question turning from us to the world.” “Turning” (tournant) does not appear in the French.

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is inconsistent with the “bifurcation of the I think and the body considered as mechanical” (Ibid.). The second meaning of verticality is a contrast with “horizontal” being, interpreted in the ontology of the object as the flat projection of perspectives by a consciousness as spectator. Vertical being is that which we inhabit, and this sense is equivalent to flesh understood as an element of Being. Therefore, Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished lecture notes on Descartes, found on his desk the evening of the day he died, refer to Descartes’s “philosophy of objective, horizontal being, the contrary of our philosophy of vertical Being” (ESA II: 23). The third meaning of verticality is temporal depth that has, for Merleau-Ponty, both an experiential significance as well as deeper ontological import. Experientially, much of Merleau-Ponty’s inspiration comes from Proust who, he thinks, demonstrates that “[t]ime is always lost” (NC 197), that time cannot be mere succession because it is “simultaneously absence, dispossession, and by the same token, possession, each man seated on his own pyramid of time” (Ibid., 49).20 Any given upsurge of time in the present contributes to the temporal depth of this pyramid, but not by pushing off into the past “the whole preceding series” conceived as passive. Rather, time is self-constituting—always to be construed from the perspective of someone who belongs to it. The present encompasses us. It cannot be grasped “in the forceps of attention” (VI 195/249),21 and Merleau-Ponty asserts the same paradox with respect to time as he did with Being: it is “already there,” without us, but cannot be understood apart from our experience of it. If time were completely objective, something external always present to us, it would not account for the experience of time passing. On the other hand, if time were purely subjective, it would cut off the percipient from the world to which he is open and in which he is implicated. Since time encompasses us, the “intentional threads” of a retentive and protentive consciousness diagrammed by Husserl (1964, 49) are now seen as the “emanations and idealizations of one fabric, differentiations of the fabric” of flesh (VI 231/284). Moreover, as noted in the previous chapter, since they are differentiations, the present consists not of an absolute, but only partial, coincidence with Being, as Merleau-Ponty likes to cite Bergson. The deeper ontological import of temporal depth consists of its connection with brute being. The latter is termed “the vertical world” (VI

20. “à la fois absence, dépossession, et par là même, possession, chaque homme assis sur une pyramide de temps qui est à lui.” The same thought appears at PhP 393/450 and S 14/21. 21. This text, written a little over a year before L’Œil et l’esprit, contains an echo of that later text’s reference to Paul Klee’s journal entry, later written on his tombstone: “I am ungraspable in immanence” (OE 188/87).

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200/254), and this verticality is described as “extended into the past, existential eternity, savage mind [esprit sauvage]” (Ibid., 175/229). An ontology of flesh, as against that of the object, articulates that vertical world in terms of “horizons, dimensionality, Inscription, [and] epochal Memory” (NC 392).

THE CHIASM So far, we have been examining two of the three meanings (at least) of flesh in Merleau-Ponty’s “new” ontology. The first was carnality—my flesh and the flesh of the world—and the second was flesh as an element of Being— which he understands principally through the overlapping notions of depth and verticality, both spatially and temporally. The third meaning is flesh as chiasm, and it is under this broad and complex notion that Merleau-Ponty attempts to explain the functionings of flesh—that is, how all that has been discussed thus far actually occurs. The original meanings of chiasm are two and well known: the rhetorical figure according to which the word order in the first part of some coupling is reversed in the second part, and the physiological meaning of bodily structures that intersect and cross over. For the literary meaning, Merleau-Ponty is indebted principally to Paul Valéry, and it is in the course of discussing the latter, in “L’homme et l’adversité” (1951) (S 231/294),22 that he first uses the word chiasm (ESA II: 169). However, Valéry himself extends the chiasm to the perceptual life and intercorporeity as the crossing over of self and other, as Merleau-Ponty will later.23 The most obvious example of the physiological meaning of the chiasm is the optic chiasm—the brain structure in which the two optic nerves intersect and at which half of the fibers of each nerve cross over to the other hemisphere. Merleau-Ponty was much taken by this structure, and used it as an analogue for feeling-felt (sentant-sensible) relationships. Perhaps it is also reflected in the title of the last chapter of The Visible and the Invisible, “Intertwining—the Chiasm” (“L’entrelacs—le chiasme”).24 22. The term also appears in the unpublished notes for his 1953 course on “L’usage littéraire du langage” and again at RC 14/25, where there is only a brief reference to the passage cited from Valéry cited in full at S 231–32/293–94. 23. Valéry’s text appears in his Choses tues, VI, Tel Quel, I, in Œuvres, II, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (Paris: Gallimard, 1960), 490–91 (ESA II: 170, n. 1). In Être et monde, Merleau-Ponty refers again to Valéry as follows: “Thought = ‘to mix oneself up with some object’ and to be astonished at this confusion (Mon Faust).” “La pensée = ‘se confondre à quelque objet’ et s’étonner de cette confusion (Mon Faust).” 24. Another chiasmatic example of human physiology that Merleau-Ponty does not discuss concerns the transmission of life. There is a chiasmatic structure where pairs of chromosomes stay connected during the second stage of meiosis—cell division that produces two cells each of which has half the number of chromosomes of the parent cell (e.g., the production of gametes). At this contact “point,” genetic material crosses over and gets exchanged between the strands of chromosomes.

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Merleau-Ponty’s later published as well as unpublished texts show that he began to think of the chiasm in terms of the human body and then generalized the structure as an omnipresent and crucial feature of Being. In so doing, he brought to light various kinds of chiasmatic relationships and their philosophical consequences. In general, the chiasm, at the intersection, is the figure that explains our Offenheit and the Ineinander relationships with the flesh of others, of things, and of the world/Nature—Nature conceived as the “presence behind, around, and before us at the limits of our historical field” (S 110/138). Since, as we shall see, the chiasm expresses all of the Cartesian “confusions,” it becomes the preeminent symbol of Merleau-Ponty’s last ontology. Since thinking takes place within the process of Nature, ontology for Merleau-Ponty is the articulation of the visible (with its invisible) in which it is formulated, inextricably implicated in time and history (S 21/30). Moreover, in all of the relationships of flesh, given the verbal nature of Wesen and Merleau-Ponty’s appropriation of co-naissance to express the relationships of the sentant and the sensible, it follows that one must stress the relational character of the chiasm and that the relating is a process. This means that the relation of my flesh to the flesh of others and of the world cannot be, as with a Husserlian consciousness, one of founding to founded. Rather, the relation is simultaneous, dynamic rather than static, a unity of the active and the passive. And since Merleau-Ponty begins with the self-sensing flesh of the body and then proceeds to make an ontological generalization about the presence of the chiasm in all other relations of flesh, it follows that they also are to be conceived as active processes. Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of the multiple senses of the chiasm have different sources. One is Husserl’s notion of Ineinander and the previously discussed descriptions in §36 of Ideas II of the “sensuous reflection” of touching-touched relationships that we have with our own bodies (see Chapter I). On the other hand, in keeping with his desire to maintain the Cartesian “confusions” as the locus of doing philosophy, he positions the chiasm against the objective of Ideas II to “ ‘disentangle’ ‘unravel’ what is entangled” (VI 268/321). Disentangling makes things “unintelligible”; what is required is a kind of intelligibility in and through the world in which we exist (Ibid., 268/322). Another source is psychoanalysis. In “Man and Adversity,” for example, the author gives credit to psychoanalysis for illuminating the chiasm as it applies to mind and body (S 229/290) and the desire for the flesh of the other as described above. He also praises Freud for understanding better than philosophers the spirituality of the body and the carnal nature of mind (S 229/291), and states that Freud makes an “essential contribution”

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to understanding the corporeal schema because the libidinal is a “dimension” of the schema (N 218/281).25 A third important source of the chiasm consists of Gabriel Marcel’s notion of “the mystery of being,” from which Merleau-Ponty takes an important descriptor of the chiasm, namely, “overlapping” (empiétement). It is, as Être et monde puts it, “the ontological mystery that is enclosed in the flesh of the sensible” (ESA II: 99). For Marcel, a mystery is a problem that has no rational solution, one in which we are involved, and one that therefore overlaps (empiète) its own data (empiète sur ses propres données). De Saint Aubert characterizes this sense of chiasm as “epistemological” (ESA I: 215), and in a sense it is an answer to the Cartesian epistemological confusion of ideas and feelings, though it is not primarily about ideas. However, Marcel would not have thought of his own examples of love, creative fidelity, and hope, as epistemologically important. In addition, as de Saint Aubert points out (ESA II: 99), Merleau-Ponty uses the overlapping, enveloping relationship in his last unpublished writings to describe both perceptual life and libidinal corporeity as well. However, no matter what the source or type of chiasm, Merleau-Ponty describes the nature of the crossing-over relationship in a number of closely related terms. They are “reversibility,” “dehiscence,” “coiling over” (enroulement), “feeling-felt” (sentant-sensible), “the fold” (le pli)—“the application of the inside and the outside to one another, the turning point” (VI 264/317)— and “intertwining” (l’entrelacs). Besides Husserl’s notion of Ineinander and Marcel’s empiétement, he makes use of several other descriptors as well. Some main ones are “envelopment,” “confusion” or “entanglement” (enchevêtrement), “encroachment” (enjambement), and “metamorphosis.”26 The descriptors in this second set are very close in meaning to those of the first set and are often used interchangeably with them. The only significant difference

25. Merleau-Ponty links these first two sources by intertwining the Husserlian concept of Ineinander with sexual desire. De Saint Aubert points out (III: 218–19) that Merleau-Ponty’s last manuscripts articulate the notion of Ineinander and that of implication in Being according to “a topology of enveloping and enveloped” as expressed in the figures of pregnancy and coupling. He goes on to observe (219) that these figures and sexuality in general, though central to “being-with” (Mitsein), are ontic rather than ontological, and thus not included in Heidegger’s Dasein analytics. 26. The English translator of Le Visible et l’invisible renders “enjambement” as “overlapping” and “empiétement” as “encroachment.” However, “empiétement” in Marcel’s sense is usually rendered as “overlapping,” and Stéphanie Ménasé, the editor of Merleau-Ponty’s Notes de cours 1959–1961, translates Rudolf Arnheim’s “overlapping” as “empiétement.” We will follow Ménasé, though enjambement and empiétement are used synonymously in several published and unpublished texts (ESA I: 43, n. 1). “Empiéter” appears for the first time in “Autour du Marxisme” written in August 1945 (SNS 103/180) (ESA I: 37).

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between the two sets is that Merleau-Ponty treats the second set as derivative from the first in the sense that because, say, touching and being touched are reversible, they can overlap or metamorphose into each other. In any event, all of these words describe how the unity present in flesh as carnality and as “an element of Being” comes about, and for which Merleau-Ponty’s last ontology has to account. However, there are two other terms of signal importance, “dehiscence” and the “écart,” which will provide much of the complementary principle of difference. Merleau-Ponty begins to articulate the chiasmatic nature of the human body in terms of its self-sensing abilities before taking up its relationships with the flesh of others and of the world. The point of departure is the Husserlian Art von Reflexion, the reversible relations of sentant and sensible that paradoxically make the body both object and non-object. What makes this reversibility possible is the process of the body’s divisions into sentant and sensible. Merleau-Ponty calls this process “dehiscence” (VI 123/165), a biological term for separating into divergent parts, such as a seed pod opening, and he also refers to it as “a fission of Being from the inside” (OE 186/81). This “dehiscence of the seeing into the visible and of the visible into the seeing” (VI 153/201), the touching into the touched and of the touched into the touching, and so on, is, as noted above, one of his two main principles of differentiation that avert a fusion or coincidence with the flesh of others, things, the world/Nature, and the immediate present or past (Ibid., 123/164–65). Between fusion and disconnection, there is unity conjugated with difference, indivisibility but not identity. Perception institutes an exchange of the sentant and the sensible that overlap and envelop each other (VI 123/165). Moreover, overlapping and enveloping relationships between the senses (VI 134/177) appear to be Merleau-Ponty’s late ontological equivalent of the earlier descriptions of synesthesia. For example, both seeing and touching are inscribed in each other, although touch is primary. That is why Merleau-Ponty often describes perception as “a palpation with the look” (Ibid., 134/177). There is also a chiasm in speaking and being heard that Merleau-Ponty describes in the unpublished preparatory notes for The Visible and the Invisible as a “carnal structure of speech” (ESA II: 162). This “carnal structure” is only a late reference to a predominant theme throughout Merleau-Ponty’s work, at least since Phenomenology of Perception, particularly the chapter, “The Body as Expression and Speech.” Thus, it is not difficult to understand why he conjoins the linguistic and physiological meanings of the chiasm. Even so, references to the physiological meaning of the chiasm are a comparatively late addition to both his unpublished and published

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writings.27 In one of the latter passages, he observes that in the chiasmatic relation of speaking and being heard, there is a “new reversibility” and “the emergence of flesh as expression” where thought and speech emerge from “the world of silence” (VI 144–45/190). Once again taking issue with Sartre, Merleau-Ponty holds that the process of dehiscence into sentant and sensible creates “the for itself itself as an incontestable, but derived characteristic” of flesh (VI 191/245). Not only does this argue against dualistic accounts of for itself and in itself, but also against Merleau-Ponty’s own earlier account of the phenomenal and the objective bodies. It even argues against his descriptions of mind and body as “sides,” or “leaves” of my flesh (VI 137/181), which he himself subsequently criticizes as the product of high-altitude thinking (Ibid., 137/182). Rather, both mind and body as well as what were termed the phenomenal and objective bodies consist of inseparable aspects of flesh, “the body as sensible and the body as sentient” (Ibid., 136/180). In this process of dehiscence, ideas, thought, and mind emerge from flesh as their primordial matrix (VI 145/190–91), and as Merleau-Ponty sees it, “the most difficult point” to explain is “the bond between the flesh and the idea” (VI 149/195). Because of the complexity of the topic, we will take it up separately in the following chapter. Here, though, we can note that, for the philosopher, as against the pure intuitus mentis of idealist philosophies, thought consists of a tripartite relationship between self, world, and other (Ibid., 146/191). In this relationship, each should be seen as “the other side of the other”; their mutual implication amounts to “projection-introjection” (Ibid., 263/317). Further, in terms of self-reflective thought, Merleau-Ponty seeks a conception of it that will provide intrapersonal coherence. He finds it in a “central vision” that gathers all feelings “dispersed in my body,” the fleshly “I think that must be able to accompany all our experiences” (Ibid., 145/191).28

27. De Saint Aubert’s computer scans of both published and unpublished texts show no references to the physiological meaning until 1959 (ESA II: 165). He also discovered that, in VI alone, “chiasm” occurs almost 180 times, with approximately 70 percent of those in November 1960—precisely when “L’entrelacs et le chiasme” was written (ESA II: 160). In addition, “strictly speaking, the corrected version of the last chapter of The Visible and the Invisible makes no mention of the chiasm beyond its title, as against 87 mentions in the preparatory manuscripts for the same chapter (dated in November [1960]), and 30 mentions in the whole of the working notes (including those that are unpublished) from the same month” (ESA II: 161, n. 1). 28. An interesting literary example of this same problem, with which Merleau-Ponty was surely familiar, is Diderot’s Le rêve de d’Alembert (1965). The central question is how to account for bodily unity, that the body is “one system, possessing a consciousness of its own unity” (69) when all of the parts of the body have their own “private sensations” (71)? How is it possible that there be “one consciousness in an animal [when] here is an infinity of wills; each organ to its own” (132)? In short, “we [are] very complicated, but one” (157).

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The “synergic body” organizes these dispersed feelings such that each individual sensing activity and its particular visible, touchable, or audible, becomes joined to the others to create “the experience of one sole body before one sole world” (Ibid., 142/186). This is but another way to describe the unity, or “confusion,” of body and soul that Merleau-Ponty insists we must be able to think and, as we shall see, Whitehead’s process metaphysics provides an explanation of this unity while maintaining the “confusions.” The process of dehiscence is analogous to Spinozistic attributes particularizing themselves in the modes of individual minds and bodies. And just as Spinoza does not offer an explanation of why attributes of the one substance must take the form of modes, so also does Merleau-Ponty not offer us an explanation of why dehiscence takes place. Rather, it is a question of “brute” or “wild Being,” the basic fact that there is something—the “il y a.” Nevertheless, there is one crucial difference between Merleau-Ponty and Spinoza on this point. For the latter, mind and body, qua modes of different attributes of substance, can be thought correctly only as distinct, even though they cannot exist without each other. By contrast, for Merleau-Ponty, the dehiscence and chiasm of flesh mean that mind and body cannot even be thought rightly as distinct. In this regard, as we shall see, he was influenced by Schelling’s critique of Spinoza. Similarly, Merleau-Ponty’s conception of mind and body is at variance with the Sartrean dualism of a for-itself in the face of an external in-itself because the for-itself exists in an internal unity with an otherness that is part of its definition. This is a much stronger claim than Sartre’s contention that consciousness always exists in relation to the in-itself. Since mind and body are both expressions of flesh, the mind is defined as a new reversibility: the body is “the natural face of mind” (S 229/290), and the mind “overflows” the body in which it is “anchored” (VI 259/313). Therefore, “the ‘modes of consciousness’ are inscribed as structurations of Being” and vice versa (Ibid., 253/307). What Merleau-Ponty expresses in such terms, and what he thinks Sartre always sought, is a way to think the unity of mind and body from “within Being” (Ibid., 215/268; cf. 193/246). The chiasmatic structure of flesh provides the principle for not only our intrapersonal coherence, but also intercorporeal cohesion. For these relationships also involve, first, the same reversibilities of seeing and being seen, touching and being touched, speaking and listening, and these reversibilities open to us intercorporeity beyond the range of my present vision and touch. Using language in an almost identical way as does Valéry, Merleau-Ponty writes in his unpublished papers for the 1953 course on “L’usage littéraire du langage,” “my relationship with my own body passes through the other: what I do not see of my body, he sees, [and] what he does not see of his, I see. It is in me that the other completes himself and in him that I

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complete myself” (ESA II: 171).29 The other thus has an “inherence” in our existence and vice versa (OE 163/18). Moreover, because the way that we experience our own bodies and the manner in which we experience the bodies of others “are themselves the two sides of the same Being” (VI 225/278), there can be “co-functioning” with the other in which mutual antagonism is neither the whole story of intercorporeity nor what is essential to it. This “co-functioning” stems from the fact that our corporeal schemas “all end up at one sole Einfühlung” (N 225/287–88), a position that aligns Merleau-Ponty, as we have seen, more with Heidegger than with Sartre. Sartre might respond that an “abyss” still intervenes between the in-itself and the for-itself, the sensible and the sentient body, and Merleau-Ponty does admit that how to think “the sensible sentient” is a problem. However, he also points out that he is forming his “first concepts so as to avoid classical impasses,” to get beyond “the bifurcation of subject and object” (Ibid., 137/180), and to be able to think the body as both a thing and not a thing, belonging simultaneously to both objective and subjective reality, each of which is an aspect of flesh. These reversibilities in self-other relationships also characterize the Cartesian “confusions” of feeling and desire. With feelings such as love and hate, joy and sorrow, we cross over into the other as object of those feelings, and the other similarly becomes part of us as the object of our feelings. In that way, the feelings we express to the other return to us through, say, the beloved, and vice versa. With regard to the dynamics of desiring and desired studied in psychoanalysis, there are multiple reversibilities of flesh in the ballet of the erotic exchange of seeing and being seen, touching and being touched (the caress), activity and passivity, the inside and the outside. For Merleau-Ponty, whatever the mode of intercorporeity, the reversibility of the chiasm is essentially the idea that experience is always circular because “every perception is doubled with a counter-perception. . . . Activity = passivity” (VI 264–265/318). This circularity of activity and passivity applies to all possible perceptions: of other people, our own bodies, and perceptual objects. In every case, experience consists of a dehiscence into le sentant and le sensible. With respect to perceptual objects, we have already seen that they are implicated in our flesh, that we are invested in them and vice versa in the co-naissance that characterizes our and their ontogenesis. They prolong our bodies, and vice versa, because they call for(th) certain behaviors (C 48/28). This mutual investment Merleau-Ponty often refers to in terms of 29. “. . . mon rapport à mon corps passe par autrui: ce que je ne vois pas de mon corps, il le voit, ce qu’il ne voit pas du sien, je le vois. C’est en moi qu’autrui se complète et en lui que je me complète.”

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the “metamorphosis” mentioned earlier in his comments on Valéry, and in direct contrast to the metamorphosis feared so much by Sartre, as we saw in Chapter I. The philosophical importance of metamorphosis in the body’s ontogenesis is twofold. It stands over against the ontology of the object and the detached perspective of the spectator, and it consists of Merleau-Ponty’s final alternative to the epistemological primacy of the synthesis of a constituting consciousness of whatever type. A corollary of this contrast is that the only models of synthesis with which Merleau-Ponty was familiar were from philosophies of consciousness. As we shall see below, one great benefit that a Whiteheadian metaphysics can lend his emerging ontology is an alternative model of synthesis that is consonant with his own philosophy. The reversibility of our flesh makes us belong to “the world’s universal flesh” (VI 137/181), which, as including Nature, is more than things, but not apart from them. There is, Merleau-Ponty adds, “an extraordinary overlapping” between the world that we see and our bodies—a mutual overlapping that is one of “transgression or encroachment” (enjambement) (VI 248/302) that undercuts representational theories of perception and prevents the experienced world from being one of “immanence and of ideality” (OE 162/17). In this regard, painting is again of particular interest to Merleau-Ponty, and forms the final major source of influence for the concept of the chiasm, just as it did for depth, for at least two reasons. The first one is that it provides a solution to the problem of how to reach “wild Being” given the inseparability of nature and culture, and for this reason Merleau-Ponty holds that “any theory of painting is a metaphysics” (OE 171/42). Painting offers us a privileged access to the “prehuman” world (OE 168/32), the “monde sauvage” or “l’être brut,” because of its ability to express the mystery of visibility (reversibility, overlapping, metamorphosis) before any cleavage between reflection and the pre-reflective. This is why Merleau-Ponty appreciates that, for Cézanne, “Nature is on the inside” (NC 174), and that we even see the odor of things (SNS 15/26). The second reason that Merleau-Ponty is particularly drawn to painting is that he sees the activity of the painter as a prototype of the access to Being insofar as his acts of painting exemplify the chiasm. Borrowing Valéry’s statement that the painter “takes his body with him,” Merleau-Ponty adds, “It is by lending his body to the world that the artist changes the world into paintings” (OE 162/16),30 and he even characterizes the artist’s work as “transubstantiations” realized in “an intertwining of vision and movement” (Ibid.). This is to say that the painter, during the act of painting, “practices

30. “C’est en prêtant son corps au monde que le peintre change le monde en peinture.”

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a magical theory of vision” (OE 166/27–28) because the painter effects the reversal of his or her flesh and that of the world by turning the latter into painting and the painting into world. This reversibility is such that artists such as Klee report that things look at them (OE 167/31). Hence, Merleau-Ponty concludes, there is literally inspiration: “inspiration and expiration of Being, respiration in Being, action and passion so little discernible that one no longer knows who sees and who is seen” (Ibid., 167/31–32).31 Therefore, Sartre comments accurately on this text that, for its author, “The painter is the privileged artisan, the best witness of this mediated reciprocity” (1964, 272). This is also why, for Merleau-Ponty, painters are so taken with mirrors: they illustrate the reversibility of the flesh in their enactment of “the metamorphosis of the seeing and of the visible” (OE 168/34), and which characterizes both our flesh and their vocation (Ibid.). This reversibility between the painter’s vision and the visible also serves as a model of co-naissance. The painter’s vision is a “continued birth” (Ibid., 167/32), but the importance of this fact sweeps wider than a claim about artists. The essential point is that the painter’s vision is simply a more dramatic case of what is true for everyone. All share in the same structures of visibility and ontogenesis. Thus, the difference between painters and non-painters is one of degree rather than of kind.

REVERSIBILITY AND TOPOLOGICAL SPACE AND TIME Painting is likewise closely connected to Merleau-Ponty’s discussions of space and time. On his view, the notion of space is an example of an idea that contemporary thought seeks to revise in order to be more experientially accurate (C 38/17), an accuracy that requires replacing the intertwined ideas of space as something in itself and its representation in Renaissance perspective. The former is placed in doubt by the fact that there is no “experience of pure physics or geometry,” and that, contrary to Euclid, the “same physico-geometrical ensemble is capable of covering flat and curved space” (N 103/141). Moreover, to think of space as something in itself is to recur to the ontology of the object by positioning it as a thing laid out simultaneously as partes extra partes (OE 173/47) for a Kosmotheoros, not as the space of our living situations (N 103/141). Space as an object would imply that our living spatiality would merely derive from something more ontologically primary instead of being “organically bound up with us” (C 41/22). 31. “. . . inspiration et expiration de l’Être, respiration dans l’Être, action et passion si peu discernables qu’on ne sait plus qui voit et qui est vu.” As we shall see, this passage evidences a palpable influence of Schelling’s notion of Konspiration.

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It also follows from the fact that space is not a thing in itself that, if we hold that space is not Euclidean, this does not imply that it is Riemannian or anything else. The reason is that “Being is polymorphic” (OE 174/48), and thus “different geometries are metrics, and metrics are neither true nor false and, therefore, the results of these different metrics are not alternatives” (N 103/141).32 As Merleau-Ponty sees it, “Renaissance perspective,” rather than revealing an infallible truth about Nature,33 is only a momentary revelation of the world, a “particular case” of “poetic information of the world” that persists long after it (OE 175/48). On the other hand, Merleau-Ponty does not leave it at that, as if we should choose whatever metric we find most appropriate in a particular situation. For it is also clear that he favors an account of curved space, which soon becomes synonymous, or at least closely linked, with “topological space,” and this for three reasons. First, its employment in relativity theory demonstrates, pace Euclid, the impossibility of making any strict separation between space and spatial objects (C 41–42/18–19), to say nothing of the observer. Second, space as curved answers better to our experience of space. “Primordial space” is topological because it best describes the “total voluminosity which surrounds me, in which I am” (VI 213/267). The third reason is that his ontology is more hospitable to topological space because of the enveloping activity of flesh. Almost all of the words used to express the chiasm are topological: enveloping, overlapping, encroaching, coiling over, the fold, and intertwining. It is entirely understandable, therefore, why Merleau-Ponty writes, “Take topological space as a model of being”34 (VI 210/264). In addition, his unpublished writings make plain that he

32. “Les différentes géométries sont des métriques, et les métriques ne sont ni vraies ni fausses et, par conséqent, les résultats de ces différentes métriques ne sont pas des alternatives.” Whitehead reaches the same conclusion (PANW 669–70). 33. Renaissance perspective is not infallible for another reason. In the lectures on Institution (IP 80) as well as in Eye and Mind (174/49–50), Merleau-Ponty points out that “the men of the Renaissance” dishonestly stuck to artificial perspectives required by Euclidean geometry instead of the natural perspectives that painters knew. But their adherence to Euclid “was not without bad faith” (OE 174/49) because they disregarded Euclid’s Eighth Theorem. That theorem disproves the commonly held belief that an object will appear twice as small at twice the distance. This is true only on a very small scale, as Euclid knew, but the “men of the Renaissance” discarded that inconvenient fact in order to maintain the “myth” of an “exact [proportional] construction” (Ibid.). 34. “Prendre pour modèle de l’être l’espace topologique.” In all of Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished writings from October 1959 to September 1960, there are almost eighty references to “la topologie” or to “la topologique.” They refer to “first, the body,” to the corporeal schema or corporeity, then to the world, to beings and to being (or Being) (ESA III: 231). In addition, Merleau-Ponty’s reflections on topological space, that of the chiasmatic reversibility of flesh, have their roots in his early descriptions of the lived body’s spatiality, body image, and the corporeal schema.

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interpreted topological mathematics35 as a paradigm case of how modern science had begun to transcend the ontology of the object and its accompanying pensée de survol (ESA III: 232). As Merleau-Ponty puts in Être et monde, “Topological being” discloses that Euclidean geometry “has roots in the structural universe” (Ibid.). Indeed, Merleau-Ponty goes so far as to say that topological space is “the relationship of our flesh and the flesh of the world” (NC 209). La Nature ou le monde du silence phrases this succinctly again in terms of mystery in Marcel’s sense of empiétement: “I pose a mystery of the extended as [the] extended of overlapping, without simple location” (in Whitehead’s sense of the phrase) (ESA II: 37).36 Unlike the flat projections of Euclidean space, he argues, topological space, joined with a correlative notion of time, is necessary to account for the depth of Being. For Merleau-Ponty, painters such as Cézanne, Klee, and Matisse provide the best evidence for a topological space, and he notes a peculiar consonance between their works and contemporary physics in terms of the inability to distinguish spatial change and the content of what changes (C 39/19; cf. OE 180/66). Cézanne uses color to create “the contour and form of objects as nature generates them before our eyes” (C 39/19). Moreover, his late water colors display an enveloping, dynamic space that “radiates” around planes that have no spatial location (OE 181/68). Thus, the unpublished manuscript preparing Eye and Mind states, “Example of Cézanne as total research, of everything at once. To study space in his work is to study everything. The outcome: a topological space” (ESA III: 232, n. 4).37 It is not a question of abolishing the line in lieu of color, but rather, like the post-Impressionists, a matter of “freeing the line, of revivifying its constituting power” (OE 183/74) as it shows itself in the works of, say, Klee and Matisse. And perhaps while thinking of Cézanne’s water colors, Merleau-Ponty adds in the unpublished version of Eye and Mind, “Like an operative or latent line, painting presents us with a shifting that moves by radiance or vibration and that does not change place” (ESA III: 232, n. 4).38 Merleau-Ponty does not say so, but he could also have discussed how Matisse’s cutouts comprised his final attempt to allow form to emerge from color. 35. Mathematicians mark the emergence of topology as an identifiable field of mathematics by the publication of Henri Poincaré’s Analysis Situs in Journal de l’École Polytechnique, Series 2, 1 (1895), 1–123. 36. “Je pose un mystère de l’étendu comme étendu d’empiétement, sans emplacement unique” (ESA II: 37). 37. “Exemple de Cézanne comme recherche totale, de tout à la fois. Aboutissement: un espace topologique.” 38. “Comme une ligne opérante ou latente, la peinture nous présente un mouvant qui bouge par rayonnement ou vibration et qui ne change pas de lieu.”

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Just as the Phenomenology of Perception asserted the unity of Nature and culture, so also in the later writings topological space and time have a cultural dimension. For example, Merleau-Ponty asks what it means to be a country. Referring to L’Œil écoute, a 1946 collection of essays by Claudel, he thinks of it as a certain manner of organizing space and time that involves history and geography, but also “a formula of inside-outside relationships” (NC 200). For illustration, he refers to Claudel’s discussion of Dutch painting (Ibid.; cf. OE 168/32). Personal and national identities take shape in, and therefore reflect, the enveloping space and time of our lives. As a dimension or “total part” of our belonging to the world, time is closely linked with topological space because it also has the chiasmatic structure of overlapping-overlapped, enveloping-enveloped, a cohesion due to the fact that “past and present are Ineinander . . . and that itself is the flesh” (VI 268/321).39 For Merleau-Ponty, painting likewise exhibits this overlapping and envelopment, “the ‘metamorphosis’ [Rodin] of time”—as, for example, Gericault’s depiction of horses running in Derby d’Epsom (OE 186/80), that, unlike photographs, does not freeze instants. There is another crucial ontological dimension of time because it is central to dehiscence as a metaphysical principle of difference. On the one hand, for Merleau-Ponty, the percipere does not precede the percipi. On the contrary, he first tells us, they are simultaneous (co-naissance), and then he adds that there is a necessary temporal delay between them. The percipi precedes the percipere in the sense that “the weight of the natural world is already a weight of the past” (Ibid., 123/164). It is a question of a “a visibility older than my operations or my acts” (Ibid., 123/164–65). It is this temporal gap, however minute, that prevents the dehiscence of my flesh into both sentant and sensible from becoming a fusion with the flesh of the world in an undifferentiated identity. Merleau-Ponty terms this difference the “écart,” a word difficult to translate into English that he sometimes uses as a synonym for “dehiscence” and sometimes for its result. The word is variously rendered as a “difference,” “divergence,” “separation,” “shift,” “spread,” “gap,” and “slippage.” It expresses the fact that co-naissance is not quite “co” (simultaneity). As noted above, the coincidence of sentant and sensible is only partial (Bergson); therefore, there can be no fusion of sentant and sensible in one sole experience. Such a perfect coincidence always lies on the horizon of pastness, as “transcended,” or futurity (VI 122/163). As we have seen in Chapter I, this is what Husserl’s descriptions of touching-touched relationships shows, but it equally applies to other senses as well. For example, when we look into a mirror, it is impossible to see our eyes 39. The unpublished notes for Merleau-Ponty’s course on “L’ontologie cartésienne” state, “Overlapping = belonging to the same being, to the same time, cohesion” (ESA II: 52, n. 1).

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seeing. When we make the attempt, we can almost do so, but there is always a “divergence” (écart) that turns the eyes into the seen rather than seeing. Seeing and the seen are never exactly the same (VI 254/307; cf. 9/24 and 147/194). The écart produced by dehiscence thus consists of another dimension of “the fecund negative that is instituted by the flesh” (VI 263/316) that breaks up the plenum of Being as envisaged in modern philosophy. What, then, Merleau-Ponty asks, does “this strange adhesion of the seer and the visible” (VI 139/183) teach us? Since total coincidence in relationships of touching and touched, seeing and being seen, and so on, is impossible, the reversibility of the chiasm is “always imminent and never realized in fact” (Ibid., 147/194). Therefore, this bedrock metaphysical principle (chiasm, reversibility) is never fully instantiated and remains always on the horizon of fulfillment. We might then be tempted to think that the écart shipwrecks Merleau-Ponty’s emergent ontology, or at least a considerable part of it. However, he asserts the contrary (VI 148/194), and correctly, because divergence does not mean disconnection, or—his own particular concern—a relapse into a Sartrean relationship of nothingness and a plenum of Being. There is no disconnection because, even though there is a gap between the sentant and the sensible that prevents perfect reversibility between them, we can experience “the transition and the metamorphosis of the one experience into the other” whenever we wish (VI 148/195). This means that the écart does not constitute “an ontological void, a non-being” (Ibid.); rather, the inclusive totality of body and world includes it as part of their hidden structure. This is yet another way of expressing unity that is not identity, and difference that is not disconnection. Therefore, the negativity instantiated by the écart establishes a fecund natural negativity that contrasts with Sartre’s contradictory negativity. The écart that separates the sentant and the sensible is therefore not a nothingness, but instead an essential feature of the duality of activity and passivity that makes up the cohesive process of Nature. For Merleau-Ponty, it is an essential feature of the duality of activity and passivity that, since perceivers are implicated in the perceived, in some sense they see themselves seeing. Therefore, “there is a fundamental narcissism of all vision” (VI 139/183). Likewise, the vision that seers direct toward things returns to themselves as the seers. This is why, as painters such as Klee have remarked, they feel things looking at themselves, their activity is in counterpoise to passivity, and this reciprocity between seer and seen forms “the second and more profound sense of the narcissism” (Ibid.; cf. OE 167/31). For the most part, Merleau-Ponty describes dehiscence in terms of the body’s reaching out to particular things and other people. However, he also refers to a dehiscence that makes possible a reciprocity with a generalized

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sensibility, at the limits of which he makes a descriptive generalization about the chiasmatic nature of Being itself. The chiasm is a way of saying that Being, as flesh, has the property of reversibility that assures our belonging to it. Hence, the human body is a “prototype of Being” (VI 136/179), and from this basic structure of Being all of the descriptions of the chiasms present in self-sensing flesh follow. As Renaud Barbaras nicely phrases it, for Merleau-Ponty “my flesh becomes the ontological witness of an originary dimension that exceeds it and of which it is no more than a privileged modality” (2008, 19). In turn, this descriptive generalization about the chiasmatic nature of Being itself gives rise to a kind of transcendental ontology not founded on consciousness, but rather on the flesh as “the new irrelative.” In a sense, both Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead develop non-Kantian transcendental philosophies. Merleau-Ponty is concerned to articulate the necessary conditions for our indivision from, but lack of fusion with, the flesh of others, things, and the world/Nature. Whitehead, as we shall see, develops a speculative metaphysical scheme to explain the possibility and actual existence of experience in a way that avoids the Kantian cleft between understanding and sense experience, noumena and phenomena, knowledge and feeling. The last several pages have attempted to explicate Merleau-Ponty’s third meaning of flesh, the chiasm. Two final clarifications are now in order. The first one concerns the need to demythologize, so to speak, his references to experiences in which things are looking at us. Such language may be acceptable for a poet, as well as alarming in a mental patient, but as a description of normal, everyday perceptual life, what could it mean? De Saint Aubert argues that it is an example of a convenient fiction that Merleau-Ponty often uses under the guise of “as if,” and this “comme si” is especially disconcerting when it comes to the notion of empiétement that normally would not call for reciprocity. He then goes to say that Merleau-Ponty uses this fiction to illustrate the reversibility of the passive and the active in the flesh. . . . By means of this animistic fiction, which will attain its summit in L’Œil et l’esprit, Merleau-Ponty willingly cultivates one of the traits of childlike thought distinguished by Piaget40 and attempts to restore

40. See especially La représentation de l’espace chez l’enfant (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1948). For the importance of this work in Merleau-Ponty’s thinking about topological space and empiétement, see ESA III: 231–35. In Être et monde, Merleau-Ponty refers to Piaget “not less than one hundred times” (ESA III: 231). Cf. Rudolf Arnheim: “As Piaget and Inhelder put it, early shapes are topological rather than geometrical, i.e., they aim at such general, nonmetric properties as roundness, closedness, straightness, not at specific, ideal embodiments” (1974, 175).

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Certainly, Piaget influenced Merleau-Ponty’s thinking, though not uncritically, but there is more to say about describing the reversibility of empiétement as things looking at us and eliminating the “comme si.” Such a manner of speaking need signify no more, and no less, than the general structure of visibility and tangibility according to which my body is adapted to the flesh of things and of the world in general because the reverse is equally true. That is, I can lend my body to things and Nature so that they can “give me their resemblance” (VI 146/192) precisely because they are adapted to this inscription. Visibility and tangibility mean that things appear as suited for our bodies in such a way that they solicit our gaze and touch. Franck Robert states this well when he observes that the tangible presents itself to us as “no longer only what is touched, but what can be touched” (2005, 351). This structure of visibility also explains the otherwise puzzling claim that things are “an annex or prolongation” of the visible, mobile body, “incrusted in its flesh . . . because the world is made of the same stuff as the body” (OE 163/19). How can we understand such a claim in a non-poetic, mentally stable fashion? One plausible interpretation would be to take his claim as an analogy with our skin—our “croûte”—and then use the same argument as in the previous paragraph. Things can be “in-crusted” in us in the sense that they are “made of the same stuff” and hence adapted to our touch, vision, and our other senses, and vice versa. Another way to say this is to redraw the map of “inner” and “outer” in terms of seeing the unity of the sentant and the sensible in our own flesh, as well as inscription in it of the flesh of others, things, and the world/Nature. As already noted, this is a new concept of the unity of activity and passivity. “Activity = passivity” because, in each metamorphosis of flesh, the “outer” is already the limit of the “inner,” part of its definition, and vice versa. It is a question of internal rather than external relations between them. Therefore, activity and passivity are, like mind and body, two “sides” of the same flesh. This new conception of activity and passivity is key to Merleau-Ponty’s rejection of all of the forms of bifurcation in modern philosophy and their heritage, and forms an unexplored way of conceptualizing his differences from them. On an experiential level, Descartes comes closest to Merleau-Ponty’s view of this relationship when pointing to the “confusions” in the Sixth Meditation, though this profundity is shipwrecked by an inconsistent and untenable ontology. As regards the unity of mind and body, Merleau-Ponty would agree with Malebranche that interaction between the two, as the latter understood them, is an illusion, but for a very different reason: he rejects that understanding which is predicated on external relationships.

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Spinoza’s Natura naturans and Natura naturata are much closer to Merleau-Ponty’s view of Being and sensible things, respectively. Both Natura naturans and Being as Merleau-Ponty understands it are “ungraspable in immanence,” the background from which sensible things and we ourselves stand out. However, there are three key differences between the two ontologies. For Spinoza, there is no reversibility between the naturans and the naturata. As noted above, the substantial attributes of thought and extension can be thought without referring to each other—no overlapping or metamorphosis—and contingency and freedom are eliminated. Still, Spinoza interprets activity and passivity as related internally rather than externally and here, as in everything else, he stands out as an exception to the other main figures of modern philosophy. Leibniz’s critical response to Spinoza shows this. The former’s treatment of activity and passivity conflicts with the flesh in at least three important ways. First, apart from the divine arrangement of the preestablished harmony, activity is internal and restricted to self-changing, “windowless” monads. Second, relationships with other monads are external only, and they are passive rather than active. Further, third, this passivity is one of mirroring in a way that is very different from the mirroring experiences that Merleau-Ponty describes. Leibniz’s version is indirect rather than direct, nonreciprocal instead of reversible, the preservation of insularity instead of empiétement and metamorphosis. Merleau-Ponty’s view of passivity existing within activity and vice versa also stands over against representational theories of perception, whether governed by what Whitehead terms “the sensationalist principle” and/or “the subjectivist principle.” As noted above, Hume holds both principles, and Kant only the latter. In the case of Hume, the combinatory and interpretive mental activities applied to the passively received data are separate and distinct from those data. In Kant’s case, the imposition of the pure forms of sensory intuition—space and time—as well as the pure categories of the understanding, are still separate and distinct from the manifold of sensory intuition. There can be no crossing over between them, no empiétement or metamorphosis as Merleau-Ponty understands it. Finally, Merleau-Ponty’s unity of activity and passivity stands in strong contrast to Sartre’s account of the pour soi and en soi, respectively. It is a question of activity-passivity of the flesh as opposed to the interminable attraction and repulsion of nothingness and Being between which no overlapping is possible. Moreover, consciousness for Sartre is the exclusive source of meaning, and therefore its acts impose a sense on the world. It amounts to a “centrifugal Sinngebung” (VI 181/235), “a centrifugal movement without opacity or inertia” (AD 198/267), as opposed to a perceptual opening to the flesh of others, things, and the world/Nature in which it is impossible to strictly separate the sentant from the sensible (VI 181/235).

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In the end, Merleau-Ponty’s notion of flesh is both explicans—of the unity of the spiritual and the material, mind and body, mentality and the “brute facts” (Whitehead) of Nature, subjects and objects—and explicandum, in terms of carnality, as an element of Being, and its dynamic chiasmatic structure. Connaissance is made possible by co-naissance in the reversible relationships of le sentant and le sensible. The same reasoning that resolves these forms of the bifurcation of Nature applies as well to that between things in themselves—whether knowable (Galileo, Descartes) or unknowable (Kant)—as against things as they appear to us. As regards the Kantian position, because thinking takes place within the flux of Nature and emerges from it, there can be no isolated realm of unknowable objects across an unbridgeable abyss between them and the relation of sentant to sensible. In terms of the Galilean-Cartesian position, Merleau-Ponty’s view also avoids a dichotomy of things in themselves as opposed to mental phenomena construed as accurate representations of them. The reversibility and envelopment of my flesh and the flesh of the world, and the consequent indivision of sentant and sensible, exclude an isolated realm of mentality and thus the necessity of re-presentation. This relation of perception and thought, “the flesh and the idea,” is, as we have seen, what Merleau-Ponty considers most difficult to understand about the chiasm. His answer, although unfortunately never completed, involves several references to the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos, and to those subjects we now turn.

IV

LOGOS ENDIATHETOS AND LOGOS PROFORIKOS

To speak of a bond between the idea and the flesh is to imply that meaning, although invisible, cannot be its contradictory; rather it is its “invisible inner framework (membrure)” (VI 215/269). Ideas, for Merleau-Ponty, as Proust showed us, make up the “lining and depth” of the visible (Ibid., 149/195). This implies also that every speech act becomes an incarnation, words made flesh,1 and by the same token, in the expression of the ideas, flesh is made words. In slightly different terms, “life becomes ideas and the ideas return to life” (Ibid., 119/159). We have already seen in Chapter II that, in Merleau-Ponty’s late ontology, Nature is inherently intelligible anterior to the contributions of consciousness (N 3/19), and it is intelligible in a stronger way than a meaning sketched in outline (en pointillé) that can be solicited and actualized through a motor-intentional body. In the later writings, beginning with his first Nature course, Merleau-Ponty begins to refer to this stronger sense of natural meaningfulness in terms of the Stoics’ concepts of the logos endiathetos and its articulations in the logos proforikos (RC 74/105–106). Nothing apparently prepares for this adoption of the Stoics’ conceptuality, either in his published texts or in the unpublished writings cited in de Saint Aubert’s four volumes. Nonetheless, he does refer to the logos endiathetos in his own summary of the first Nature course, and to the twofold logos in the Nature lectures as well as in the “Working Notes” for completing what would become The Visible and the Invisible. Notwithstanding the important epistemological consequences that Merleau-Ponty draws from the two logoi, there has been virtually no discus1. For Whitehead, “Expression is the one fundamental sacrament. It is the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace” (RM 127).

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sion of them by Merleau-Ponty scholars.2 In this chapter, we begin to fill that lacuna and show how the twofold logos allows Merleau-Ponty to overcome the bifurcation of not only ideas and Nature, but also those between the realm of values and the realm of facts, and God and the world. To that end, it will be useful to begin by forming a contrast with his earlier view of the origin and expression of meaning.

THE LOGOI AND THE EARLIER PHENOMENOLOGY Merleau-Ponty’s earlier view can best be explained with one of his own examples. In Phenomenology of Perception, the philosopher states that, when I construct a triangle, that act of construction makes clear the possibilities of the figure while guided not by “its definition and as idea,” but rather by “its configuration” as the latter becomes the objective “pole of my movements” (386/442). However, these are not simple mechanical movements. They are guided by a certain “intention”: as I regard the triangle, it is for my body “a system of oriented lines” that give sense to “words such as ‘angle” or ‘direction’ ” (Ibid.). Further, those words and others in the geometrical lexicon, such as hypotenuse and secant, take on meaning to the degree that I have a concrete spatial situation and can orient myself to move from one point to another. In that way, “the system of spatial positions is for me a field of possible movements” (Ibid.). It is in this fashion that “I grasp the concrete essence of the triangle, which is not an ensemble of objective ‘characters,’ but the formula of an attitude, a certain modality of my hold on the world, a structure” (Ibid.).3 It is not otherwise with geometers themselves. They study relationships between points, lines, curves, and angles, which they can only know by a motor intentionality. Since the geometer’s thought does not disengage itself from perceptual consciousness, it follows for Merleau-Ponty that the essence of triangles or any other object of consciousness is derived from the perceptual world (Ibid., 388/444). Moreover, since essences do emerge from

2. Toadvine (2009) does not mention them, and two typical examples of those who do are Martin Dillon (1997) and Douglas Low (2000). Dillon discusses “the logos” at some length, but always in relation to language, in effect the logos proforikos. He does briefly refer to the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos (240–41), but without inquiring into the meaning or significance of the former. Low devotes an entire chapter to “The Invisible and Logos,” but never mentions the logos endiathetos or the logos proforikos. The chapter is largely given over to a discussion of language, and when he describes “the logos,” he states, “broadly speaking, what Merleau-Ponty means by . . . logos is expression, at first as mute perception, then as spoken gesture, then as abstract literature” (72). This is not wrong, but submerges and ignores the logos endiathetos. 3. “. . . je saisis l’essence concrète du triangle, qui n’est pas un ensemble de ‘caractères’ objectifs, mais la formule d’une attitude, une certaine modalité de ma prise sur le monde, une structure.”

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the world of perception, they manifest themselves to us in the same way that perceptual objects appear. Both are “the presumption of a complete synthesis” (Ibid., 388/445), as we saw in Chapter II, of which our motor intentionality is a necessary condition.4 From this claim it follows that the meaning of a triangle or anything else “is necessarily tied to an act of expression and owes it its appearance of autonomy. It is a cultural object, like the church, the street, the pencil, or the Ninth Symphony” (Ibid., 390/447).5 Ideas such as triangles, therefore, require the constituting activities of a body consciousness, not as their source (idealism), but as it is complicit with things that appear to us so that their sense (essences) might emerge. In the late ontology, however, although the idea of a certain geometrical shape, for instance, is still arrived at through motor intentionality, its intelligibility no longer depends on consciousness because the meaningfulness of Nature is antecedent to the products of thought. Thus, Merleau-Ponty writes, “the pregnancy of geometric forms is intrinsically founded (not culturally) in that they permit better than others an ontogenesis (they stabilize being)” (VI 213/266).6 Therefore, the “intrinsic meaning” of a triangle is not a cultural artifact, although the triangle itself obviously is. That is why Merleau-Ponty says that to understand means “to translate into available significations meaning first held captive in the thing and in the world itself” (Ibid., 36/58). He refers to the articulation of this intrinsic sense of the world before consciousness as its logos endiathetos, and it stands to its cultural articulation, the logos proforikos, in a fondant-fondé relationship analogous to that between perception and language in the earlier phenomenology. The logos endiathetos is described in a variety of ways across several texts. It discloses what is revealed to our “perceptual openness to the world” (VI 212/266), “meaning before logic” (Ibid., 169/222), the logos of “brute or wild Being (= perceived world)” (Ibid., 170/223), which is “more than all painting, all speech, all ‘attitude’ ”—perhaps referring to the passage from Phenomenology of Perception noted above (Ibid., 170/224). It is the “logos that pronounces itself silently in each sensible thing” (Ibid., 208/261); it is “reticent” and “speaks in us rather than that we speak it” (N 212/274). For this reason, he writes in a Heideggerean vein, it is “being that speaks in us and not we who speak of being” (VI 194/247). Tightly related to this, Merleau-Ponty states in the last of the “Working Notes” for The Visible and the Invisible that, while human beings realize the logos, it is not our

4. See also here Hass (2008), Chapter 6, “Expression and the Origin of Geometry.” 5. “Ce qu’on appelle idée est nécessairement lié à un acte d’expression et lui doit son apparence d’autonomie. C’est un objet culturel, comme l’église, la rue, le crayon ou la IXe Symphonie.” 6. “. . . la prégnance des formes géométriques est intrinsèquement fondée (non pas culturellement) en ce qu’elles permettent mieux que d’autres une ontogénèse (elles stabilisent l’être).”

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possession (Ibid., 274/328). Hence the last line of the “Working Notes” for completing The Visible and the Invisible: “Worked-over-matter-men = chiasm” (Matière-ouvrée-hommes = chiasm) (Ibid., 275/328). It suggests the Heraclitean “hidden principle of harmony within the universe and the active principle of its development, accounting thus not only for unity and stability of Being, but for multiplicity, diversity, and change as well” (Burke 1999, 188–89). These sentences also strongly suggest the Natura naturans that, as noted above, is consonant with Whiteheadian creativity. The experience of the logos endiathetos is that of a “dialectic without synthesis” (VI 94–95/129; cf. IP 163) of activity and passivity: emergence from the flesh of sound, color, the texture of the tactile (VI 114/152) by means of “a sort of coiling up or redoubling,” a feeling that one is “fundamentally homogeneous with them,” a perception of being “the sensible itself coming to itself” and, inversely, a feeling that derives from the perception of the “j’en suis” that the sensible is a “double or extension” of one’s own flesh (VI 114/153). The logos endiathetos is silent because it is the “Logos of the natural, aesthetic world, on which the Logos of language [the logos proforikos] rests” (Ibid.).7 Parallel to this, Merleau-Ponty says of Giraudoux’s “caryatid of nothingness” that, whereas the playwright stresses the nothingness, he will emphasize the caryatid (Ibid., 227/290–91)—the logos endiathetos that grounds perceptual faith. It is that structure to which Merleau-Ponty appeals in his first Nature lectures for preferring, as against Kant, the Stoics’s conception of “a brute unity by means of which the universe ‘holds’ and of which the human understanding is the expression rather than the interior condition” (RC 74/105–106).8 It is also a “caryatid” that stands over against Sartre’s in-itself in which there could not possibly be a logos endiathetos. This logos is buried in things, close to passivity and institution, because perception is the sharing of my flesh in the world’s flesh. As noted above, it is the intelligibility of “primordial being that is not yet subject-being nor object-being” (RC 65/95). What is the meaning of this “world of silence” (VI 179/233), and what is its content? To the latter question, Merleau-Ponty does not give a direct answer, but since it is a question of a logos of l’être sauvage, a logos of the natural, aesthetic world, its content must be nothing other than all that has been elaborated so far about the structures of flesh: its visibility and tangibility, carnality, elemental nature conjugated in terms of depth 7. Merleau-Ponty’s terminology here owes much to Husserl’s phrases, “logic of the aesthetic world” and “analytic logos” (1969a, 292). See also Tilliette (1992, 167/229–30). 8. “. . . une unité brute par laquelle l’univers ‘tient’ et dont celle de l’entendement humain est l’expression encore plutôt que la condition intérieure.”

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and verticality, and its character as chiasmatic reversibility—which in turn includes all that Merleau-Ponty discusses under the headings of Einfühlung, Ineinander, and bodily symbolism. As for the question of how the “world of silence” is meaningful, Merleau-Ponty says that he wants to describe a bodily “pre-knowing; a pre-meaning, a silent knowing” (VI 178/232). He also states that “the description of the perceptual logos is a usage of the logos proforikos” (Ibid., 179/233). Hence, the pre-knowing—which is itself a type of knowing that, as we have seen, he thinks painters are especially able to exemplify—is directed to the silent perceptual world (La Nature ou le monde du silence). The latter, in turn, is “an order where there are non-language significations . . . but they are not accordingly positive. . . . [T]here are fields and a field of fields, with a style and a typicality” (Ibid., 171/225).9 As we have seen in Chapter I, style consists of the particular way that something or someone exists in the world. It consists of the unity of form and content, both the content of what manifests itself and how it does so—a concrete universal. Style along with dehiscence and the écart make up Merleau-Ponty’s three principles of difference, whereas typicality is a principle of unity. Since the silent world of Nature is process and Wesen should be interpreted in a verbal sense, it is not surprising that Heidegger’s example of the rose in Silesius’s poem is what Merleau-Ponty would give as an example of the “style” and “typicality” of these nonlinguistic meanings, or pre-[intellectually formulated] meanings. Of the rose enacting itself as a rose—“the rose roses”—he writes that it is the “first expression” of pre-objective, pre-subjective being that is anterior to the distinction between essence and existence, “fact and essence” (VI 174/228). Moreover, we derive from such experiences a “general idea” of roseness, the idea of “a species rose” that emerges from considering the “natural generativity” of the particular rose (Ibid.). What, then, does this conception of intelligibility imply for the meaning of geometrical shapes, such as a triangle, with which we began this discussion? First, a geometrical form would be an articulation, an explicitation (the logos proforikos) of “meaning first held captive in the thing and in the world itself”—meaning inherent in the intelligible, silent world of nature, and which is central to that brute order by means of which the universe “holds.” Because of those forms of order, with their “sens intrinsèque,” the triangle has a natural foundation that contributes to ontogenesis by stabilizing being. At the same time, as we have seen above, because of “the polymorphism of wild Being” (VI 253/307), the fact that one geometry—or, 9. “. . . un ordre où il y a des significations non langagières . . . mais elles ne sont pas pour autant positives. . . . [I]l y a des champs et un champ des champs, avec un style et une typique.”

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more generally, one form of intellectual order—can be creatively expressed in our interactions with Nature does not imply that it is the only true form of order. There is no bifurcation between Nature and the (cultural) idea because the “pre-knowing” that generates a “birth . . . of meaning” in Nature is doubled by “its re-birth in knowing (sa re-naissance dans un savoir) (IP 178). That is, the idea emerges from the interplay of the “je peux” of the corporeal schema with the flesh of the world as figures are drawn and connected, shapes created give rise to the apprehension of angles, lines, and relationships between them. Thus, geometrical ideas and their objective forms, as correlates of bodily activity, have a history and intelligible roots in Nature. From all that appears, this natural foundation entails that the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos are the ontological radicalization or descriptive generalization of Merleau-Ponty’s earlier view that “perception is a nascent logos” (“un logos à l’état naissant”) (Prim. Percp. 25/133). If this is true, the two logoi together form his final alternative to all philosophies of consciousness constituting or imposing meaning on Nature (l’idéalisme de la signification). Further, as with the example of the rose, it is not just the idea that emerges from the interplay of flesh, but also its “typicality.” That is, analogous to the way that the idea of the species “rose” is produced, multiple interactions with the materials of the world eventually brought forth the sense of, say, “triangle” by itself—distinct but not apart from its multiple illustrations. Somewhere, sometime, some ancient Greek realized that the concept of triangularity could be articulated without having to draw figures. Abstraction was born, but as against Plato, it did not signify accession to a heaven of Ideas. Rather, it served as a stunning example of one way that the logos proforikos could clarify the logos endiathetos that, as noted above, “calls for it” (VI 170/224). It was a movement from the pre-conceptual, silent world of styles of things to the conceptual precision of this natural inheritance and foundation. The relationship between the two logoi also has consequences for understanding that between the universal and the particular. As the example of the rose and the species “rose” demonstrates, for Merleau-Ponty, universality can be reached only in and through particularity. Rather, we make of the latter a means of reaching the former “in virtue of that mysterious affinity which makes situations mutually understandable” (SNS 92/162). This is an affinity that makes metaphysical consciousness possible (Ibid., 94/165) because it is that through which our lives are grounded in Nature. Furthermore, the ontology of the flesh has shown that the very concepts of universal and particular need to be revised. For if it is true that

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the universal can only be known through the particular, it is also the case that the particular takes on universal significance. This is why in Freud’s case of the Wolf Man, the color yellow can become a dimension of Being, which is “universal dimensionality” (VI 236/289). As Merleau-Ponty states in Signs, “each thing exists beyond itself, when each fact can be a dimension. . . . Colors, sounds, and things—like Van Gogh’s stars—are the focal points and radiance of being” (15/22).10 Therefore, the same relationship of invisible meaning and its visible expression exists in nonhuman flesh as well. To cite the well-known example from The Visible and the Invisible: As the vein bears the leaf from within, from the depths of its flesh, ideas are the texture of experience, its style, first mute [the logos endiathetos] and then uttered [the logos proforikos]. Like every style, they are elaborated within the thickness of being. (VI 119/159–60)11 This is also the case, as Proust showed, for musical and literary ideas, for they likewise present themselves according to a certain style before they are clarified conceptually (NC 193). For example, when we hear the beginning notes of a Mozart concerto, we are suddenly transported into the world of Mozart without being able to conceptualize this style. We cannot define what makes the music that of Mozart, but our bodies resonate to that invisible latency pregnant in that particular musical “flesh.” In such cases, comprehension becomes apprehension, which is why Merleau-Ponty states that perception and understanding are such that comprehension is not constitution “in intellectual immanence,” but instead apprehension by “coexistence, laterally, by the style” (VI 188/242). Since meanings are carnal and organic, bound to flesh, it follows that there is no pure ideality. Pure ideality would be a product of the pensée de survol and the forgetfulness of thinking in the flesh (VI 97/132). The use of language, Merleau-Ponty says, is an activity that is always “the other side of passivity” and a recovery of it (RC 119/165). Ideality is bound to history, though he also repudiates historicism (RC 116–17/163). That is, meanings, truths, and values are always of local origin, but are not circumscribed by a certain time and place.

10. “. . . chaque chose est plus loin qu’elle-même, quand chaque fait peut être dimension. . . . Les couleurs, les sons, les choses comme les étoiles de Van Gogh, sont des foyers, des rayonnements d’être.” 11. “Comme la nervure porte la feuille du dedans, du fond de sa chair, les idées sont la texture de l’expérience; son style, muet d’abord, proféré ensuite. Comme tout style, elles s’élaborent dans l’épaisseur de l’être.”

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So far, we have focused exclusively on the role of the logos proforikos in clarifying the logos endiathetos. Now we need to examine how Merleau-Ponty describes the logos proforikos itself as all possible cultural forms of expression. On his view, “All perception, all action which presupposes it, and in short every human use of the body, is already primordial expression” (S 67/84),12 and Lawrence Hass rightly stresses that Merleau-Ponty’s entire philosophy is one of expression (2008, 146ff.). These multiple forms of expression possess a substantial richness and complexity, which Merleau-Ponty describes at an equally great length.13 Most of Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of the logos proforikos focus on language, painting, literature, science, politics, and history. As he sees it, there is a mutual intimacy between all forms of expression because they belong “to one sole order” and, as a result, they bring about “the junction of the individual and the universal” (S 73/91). Further, it is part of this belongingness that all of these forms of expression and their creative development mobilize a bodily esthesiology and, contrary to Descartes, they consist of a perceptual interrogation of the flesh in which execution precedes conception. For example, when we write, we teach ourselves what we want to say. The words chosen and their order are not the mechanical transcription of fully formed thoughts. Likewise for the painter, as becomes clear in the case of the slow-motion film of Matisse painting. The camera revealed the artist’s brush hesitating over the canvas and attempting “ten possible movements” before “crash[ing] down finally like a lightning stroke upon the one line necessary” (S 45/57).14 Because they belong to “one sole order,” all of these forms of expression also exemplify one or more of five ways that Merleau-Ponty describes making sense, the ways that ideas are brought into being. The first is institution, which not only embodies the essential historicity of knowledge through the sedimentation of meanings, but also opens up fields of operations and, as with a painting, “contains, better than ideas, matrices of ideas . . . symbols whose meaning we never stop developing” (S 77/96–97; cf. RC 42/63). This process of development is, of course, temporal, and Merleau-Ponty 12. “Toute perception, toute action qui la suppose, bref tout usage humain du corps est déjà expression primordiale.” 13. It is beyond the scope of this work to explore more than the major outcroppings of those descriptions. For much greater detail, see Hamrick (1987, 40–61). 14. Merleau-Ponty’s view that execution precedes conception is best taken as an empirical generalization that allows for exceptions. For instance, Michelangelo purportedly claimed that he simply eliminated from the marble what was not David. However, if generalized, such an account would raise serious difficulties for accounting for novelty and creativity, for the work would be created before it is created.

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takes time itself to be “the very model of institution: passivity-activity, it continues because it has been instituted” (IP 36).15 The second way that sense is made is that of the Gestalt, the crystallization of clarity against background horizons of indeterminacy. Just as a figure cannot be torn from its context without changing its identity, so also, ideas cannot be stripped of their historical and natural contexts without similar dis-figurement. This fact is particularly visible in the case of values, and it explains why there cannot be pure ideality. Freedom, equality, forms of social order such as marriage, the inheritance of property, and the like, take on different meanings in different contexts such that they can both reinforce bourgeois power and, in a different matrix of social meanings, defend the poor against exploitative power. Merleau-Ponty’s own example of the dependence on context to understand the value at its focal point concerns marriage and the family, just as Samuel Butler in effect did in The Way of All Flesh. In discussing the ways that materialism and idealism competed for an account of human beings and values at the beginning of the twentieth century, Merleau-Ponty underscores the way that idealists construed values as pure ideals revealed either through a supernatural source or through human nature. In contrast to that “moral gold standard” (S 226/287), Ingmar Bergman’s films, such as Scenes from a Marriage and Fanny and Alexander, have considerable revelatory power and precisely in terms of flesh and blood relationships between men and women that assure proper historical and natural context. They vividly demonstrate that our relationships with others are always historically freighted with meanings—some explicitly acknowledged and many not—which are nuanced, ambiguous, and open to interrogation. The third way of bringing meanings into being is a convergence of perspectives that, in the “Preface” of Phenomenology of Perception, is identified with rationality itself: “Rationality is precisely measured by the experiences in which it is disclosed. To say that there exists rationality is to say that perspectives blend, perceptions confirm each other, a meaning emerges” (PhP xix/xv).16 This image of sense making is found in both perceptual and

15. “Le temps est le modèle même de l’institution: passivité-activité, il continue, parce qu’il a été institué.” Cf. IP 37: “Constitution . . . is almost the contrary of institution: the instituted has meaning without me, the constituted has meaning only for me and for the me of this instant. . . . The instituted encroaches on its future, has its future, its temporality, [but] the constituted has everything to do with me.” “Constituer . . . est presque le contraire d’instituer: l’institué a sens sans moi, le constitué n’a sens que pour moi et pour le moi de cet instant. . . . L’institué enjambe son avenir, a son avenir, sa temporalité, le constitué tient tout de moi qui constitue.” 16. “Il y a rationalité, c’est-à-dire: les perspectives se recoupent, les perceptions se confirment, un sens apparaît.”

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cultural phenomena as perspectival content is “filled in” (Erfüllung) in the apprehension of perceptual objects and for social phenomena such as unregulated financial markets, terrorism, 9/11, the Iraq war, and so on. The process may take a very short time in the case of confirming a veridical perception, and a very long time in the case of more complex social phenomena. Another way in which sense is made consists of “coherent deformation,” a phrase borrowed from André Malraux. For Merleau-Ponty, the phrase denotes the capacity of a certain form of expression such as painting or writing, to take up the history and sedimented meanings incarnated in its traditions, and make them say something new. It rearranges “available significations . . . in a new sense and takes not only the hearers [in the case of speech] but the speaking subject as well through a decisive step” (S 91/114–15).17 The fifth means of making sense, which Merleau-Ponty sometimes treats as synonymous with coherent deformation (Ibid.), consists of what he terms “decentering and recentering,” mentioned briefly in Chapter II. Particularly evident in the advance of mathematics and the sciences, this process creates meaning by taking up existing views and doctrines—such as Euclid’s geometry, Newton’s physics, or Marx’s social theories—and, instead of falsifying them, reintegrating them into a more comprehensive whole in which they retain partial truth.18 They become “classics,” or “secondary truth”: “no one takes them literally, and yet new facts are never absolutely outside their province, but [rather] call forth new echoes from them and reveal new lustres in them” (S 11/16–17).19 Whether it is a question of discovering unsuspected dimensions of meaning from the past, or opening up new fields of investigation in the future, Merleau-Ponty provides an insightful description of at least one experience of the achievement of clarity in what he later called the logos

17. “. . . des significations disponibles qui les ordonne à un sens nouveau et fait franchir aux auditeurs, mais aussi au sujet parlant, un pas décisif.” 18. “Non-Euclidean geometries contain Euclid’s geometry as a particular case but not the inverse. What is essential to mathematical thought, therefore, lies in the moment where a structure is decentered, opens up to questioning, and reorganizes itself according to a new meaning which is nevertheless the meaning of this same structure” (PM 127/178). “Les géométries non euclidiennes contiennent celle d’Euclide comme cas particulier, mais non l’inverse. L’essentiel de la pensée mathématique est donc à ce moment où une structure se décentre, s’ouvre à une interrogation, et se réorganise selon un sens neuf qui pourtant est le sens de cette même structure.” See also RC 44/64–65. 19. “On les reconnaît à ceci que personne ne les prend à la lettre, et que pourtant les faits nouveaux ne sont jamais absolument hors de leur compétence, qu’ils tirent d’eux de nouveaux échos, qu’ils révèlent en eux de nouveaux reliefs.”

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proforikos. This description is an appropriate portrayal of the emergence of sense by whatever means it is attained: This experience of an event that suddenly becomes hollow, loses its opacity, reveals a transparency and makes itself meaning forever, this is constant in culture and in speech, and if one wanted to contest it, one would no longer even know what one seeks. (PM 121/170)20 This is the experience of meaning liberated in ideality, no longer held captive in the thing and Nature. If the activity of the logos proforikos presents us ever anew with “symbols that we never stop developing” in our openness to the world, is there a measure of intellectual progress? The last paragraph of Eye and Mind states bluntly that “we cannot establish a hierarchy of civilizations or speak of progress—neither in painting nor in anything else that matters . . . no painting comes to be the painting . . . no work is ever absolutely completed and done with” (OE 190/92).21 Yet, “each creation changes, alters, enlightens, deepens, confirms, exalts, [and] recreates or creates in advance all the others” (Ibid.).22 The impossibility of progress is the wrong answer even on Merleau-Ponty’s own grounds because it is not the only concept of progress or even the most defensible one. Merleau-Ponty is truer to his intuitions at the end of his “Preface” to Signs. After surveying the contemporary political situation, he concludes: “There circulates more truth than there did twenty years ago in world capitalism and in world communism and between them. History never confesses, not even its lost illusions, but it does not resume them” (S 35/47).23 The concept of progress operative here is not one of secure acquisition. Rather, it is negative in the sense of excluding answers that do not work or are less open to a rich and diverse future than others. This concept of progress has some similarities with Sir Karl Popper’s view

20. “Cette expérience d’un événement qui soudain se creuse, perd son opacité, révèle une transparence et se fait sens pour toujours, elle est constante dans la culture et dans la parole, et, si l’on voulait la contester, on ne saurait plus même ce que l’on cherche.” 21. “. . . ni en peinture, ni même ailleurs, nous ne pouvons établir une hiérarchie des civilisations ni parler de progrès . . . nulle peinture n’achève la peinture . . . nulle œuvre ne s’achève absolument.” 22. “. . . chaque création change, altère, éclaire, approfondit, confirme, exalte, recrée ou crée d’avance toutes les autres.” 23. “Il circule plus de vérité qu’il y a vingt ans dans le capitalisme mondial et dans le communisme mondial et entre eux. L’histoire n’avoue jamais, et pas même ses illusions perdues, mais elle ne les recommence pas.”

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of the process of scientific discovery as one of “falsification” rather than “verification,”24 and also characterizes the life of philosophy itself.

AMBIGUITIES To conclude, there are two puzzles about Merleau-Ponty’s view of the twofold logos that should be brought to light. The first one concerns achieving more clarity about how for Merleau-Ponty the logos proforikos takes up and creatively elaborates the logos endiathetos. For example, in the Nature lectures, he asks whether the symbolism of language can shed light on the natural symbolism of the body, since they appear to be of two different orders. His answer is yes, because perception is a “language before language,” and the “silent language of perception” is also interrogation and response. He does not put it this way, but he could have phrased the same view as one of chiasmatic reversibility: spoken language can take up and modulate the “silent language of perception” because the latter’s structure of interrogation and response lends itself to that articulation. What he does go on to say is that “[i]t is in this sense and with these reservations that we can speak of a logos of the natural world,” of which language is “a resumption . . . in another architectonic. And all of historicity also” (N 219/282).25 However, if language is indeed simply a resumption of the “silent language of perception” because they have similar structures of interrogation and response, how can they belong to two separate orders? More clarity is needed about their organic connection through their differences. The author himself recognized this need. For instance, the penultimate sentence of his retrospective summary of the third Nature course asks the question, “What could indeed be the relationship of this tacit symbolism or that of indivision, and the artificial or conventional symbolism that appears to have the privilege of opening us to ideality, to truth?” To this question he adds the final sentence, “The relationships of the explicit logos and the logos of the sensible world will be the object of another series of courses” (RC 131/180; translation altered).26 24. Karl Popper, The Logic of Scientific Discovery (London: Hutchinson: 1959). See, for example, N 86/120: “Certainly we do not ask science for a new, ready-made conception of Nature, but we find in it what [we need] to eliminate false conceptions of Nature.” “Certes, il n’y a pas à demander à la science une nouvelle conception de la Nature, toute faite, mais nous trouvons en elle de quoi éliminer de fausses conceptions de la Nature.” 25. “C’est en ce sens et sous ces réserves qu’on peut parler d’un logos du monde naturel. . . . Le langage comme reprise de ce logos du monde sensible dans une architectonique autre. Et toute l’historicité aussi.” 26. “Quel peut bien être le rapport de ce symbolisme tacite ou d’indivision, et du symbolisme artificiel ou conventionnel qui paraît avoir le privilège de nous ouvrir à l’idéalité, à la vérité? Les rapports du logos explicite et du logos du monde sensible feront l’objet d’une autre série de cours.” The English translation of the last sentence mangles it as follows: “The relation between the explicit logos of the sensible world will form the topic of another series of courses.”

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From all that appears, Merleau-Ponty was approaching a tentative formulation of L’Origine de la vérité, announced as early as Sense and Non Sense and the original title for what became The Visible and the Invisible, namely, the task of “describing precisely the passage from perceptual faith to the explicit truth that one encounters at the level of language, the concept, and the cultural world” (SNS 94, n.13/165, n.1).27 Most unfortunately, death prevented those courses from being given. Therefore, what may we deduce from his course notes about what he could have added to a more precise description of the linkage of the two logoi? We believe that Merleau-Ponty’s texts permit us at least three precisions. First, since the logos proforikos emerges out of the logos endiathetos, the passage is not from relata existing in external relations with each other. Rather, there is an internal relation of overlapping between the two. For the same reason, the “passage” from the one to the other cannot consist of the logos proforikos imposing meaning on a world without a logos endiathetos. Inversely, second, since there is a real intelligibility about Nature that we do not create, the “logos of the sensible world” that expresses it consists of a “pre-knowing” whose object consists of a set of possibilities for the actualization of cultural expression. What is actualized in creative expression does not exist fully before it is brought into existence. Therefore, the twofold logos consists of the ontological radicalization of the two-way relationship that phenomenology has called Fundierung: the founding term,—time, the unreflected, the fact, language, perception—is first in this sense that the founded presents itself as a determination or an explicitation of the founding, that which forbids it to ever reabsorb it, and yet the founding is not first in the empiricist sense, and the founded is not simply derived from it, because it is across the founded that the founding manifests itself.’ ” (PhP 394/451; translation altered)28 Therefore, a given geometrical object, its “intrinsic meaning,” does not exist in Nature before its idealization. The triangle or the Pythagorean Theorem, say, was not somehow fully formed and articulated, and waiting 27. “. . . de décrire précisément le passage de la foi perceptive à la vérité explicite telle qu’on la rencontre au niveau du langage, du concept et du monde culturel.” 28. “. . . ce rapport à double sens que la phénoménologie a appelé Fundierung: le terme fondant,—le temps, l’irréfléchi, le fait, le langage, la perception—est premier en ce sens que le fondé se donne comme une détermination ou une explicitation du fondant, ce qui lui interdit de le résorber jamais, et cependant le fondant n’est pas premier au sens empiriste et le fondé n’en est pas simplement dérivé, puisque c’est à travers le fondé que le fondant se manifeste.” The English translation inserts words not in the original text. E.g., “Fundierung: the founding term, or originator.” The translation also never employs “founded” for “le fondé,” substituting “the originated,” and uses “originator” for the “le fondant.”

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to be disclosed through mathematical reasoning. Thinking that “the mathematical being had these properties before one even discovered them, [the] passage to the world of essences, is retrospective illusion” (IP 96–97).29 To the objection that, say, trees had trunks of equal radii before geometry existed, Merleau-Ponty responds that such a claim would be meaningless. In the perceived world, before geometry existed, there were no equal radii. A radius is an idealization, and “there are no equal radii before idealization” (Ibid., 97). The logos proforikos stands to the world of the sensible “as Gebilde, with the ‘Logic’ that we produce” (VI 170/223). At the same time, third, because the logos endiathetos calls for the logos proforikos, “language realizes, by breaking the silence, what the silence wished and did not obtain” (VI 176/230).30 The meaning, apparently, is that there is something in the Natura naturans that pushes toward cultural expression, that there is an empiétement that is also chiasmatic reversibility, a “dialectic without synthesis” between Nature and culture, each transforming the other (S 123/154). One urges the other toward fulfillment, and under its insistent influence, the other brings it clarity and creative elaboration. Therefore, even though the fully articulated triangle and its individual properties do not exist in Nature apart from the logos proforikos of geometry, Nature still has a basic meaning-in-outline that can be, and pushes to be, so expressed. As noted above, “the pregnancy of geometric forms is intrinsically founded (not culturally)” (VI 213/266). Not every expression is possible or equally valuable, yet “the expression of what exists is an infinite task” (SNS 15/26). The second puzzle, far more difficult to address, is the fate of the logos endiathetos if human beings did not exist or else disappeared. Would Nature still be meaningful? The fact that we do not impose sense on Nature somehow suggests that our conscious activities are not a sufficient condition of Nature being inherently meaningful, but is our existence a necessary condition of such meaning? Merleau-Ponty did not address this question directly, yet there are some significant hints in Phenomenology of Perception. “In a certain manner,” he writes, “all the triangles that will ever exist through encounters with physical causality will have a sum of angles equal to two right angles, even if men have unlearned geometry and if no one would remain who knew it” (391/448).31 And we do know that he held that there could be 29. “L’idée [que] l’être mathématique avait ces propriétés avant même qu’on les découvrît, [le] passage au monde des essences, c’est l’illusion rétrospective” (bracketed words in the original). The reference here is to Bergson’s notion of “the retrograde movement of the true,” which we will take up in Chapter VI, and which Bergson rejected. 30. “. . . le langage réalise en brisant le silence ce que le silence voulait et n’obtenait pas.” 31. “D’une certaine manière tous les triangles qui existeront jamais par les rencontres de la causalité physique auront une somme d’angles égale à deux droits, même si les hommes ont désappris la géométrie et s’il n’en reste pas un qui sache.”

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and could have been a world without us, “a primordial being that is not yet subject-being nor object-being” (RC 65–66/95; cf. IP172–73). There is, on his view, a “primordial being” and, “as Schelling said, something in Nature that makes it impose itself on God himself as an independent condition of his operation. Such is our problem” (RC 65–66/95–96).32 The flesh of the world produces us, and not the other way around. The preceding discussion has also shown that, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, meanings are objectively grounded—they are articulated culturally, but they emerge from Nature. Therefore, the intelligibility of Nature is not a “psychic addition” in Whitehead’s sense, and Nature pushes us to recognize its intelligibility and to develop it creatively. These facts point to the conclusion that, in the absence of human beings as we know them, Nature for Merleau-Ponty would retain its inherent intelligibility. Further, the likelihood that this would be his considered view increases by way of a contrast with his earlier phenomenology. From the perspective of a philosophy of consciousness, a “world without consciousness” would be either a world-with-subject-removed—that is, an abstraction—or else a world as intentional correlate of consciousness without a consciousness to sustain it, which is to say, a self-contradiction. However, this line of reasoning does not settle the question of a logos endiathetos without human beings because support for the opposite position can also be mustered. It revolves around the facts that Merleau-Ponty frequently says that the only Being of which it makes sense to speak is the Being that we experience (l’Être perçu), and that he consistently seeks a path between realism and idealism. Therefore, to say that an logos endiathetos could exist without any subject for whom it is there, seems to be a too-realistic interpretation of meaning for him to endorse. Attacking the problem indirectly can provide us at least with a possible solution, and supports the conclusion that, for Merleau-Ponty, the logos endiathetos could exist “without us.” The solution turns on reinterpreting the “us” from his earlier view of a transcendental, constituting consciousness, to that of beings rooted in a long cosmological and biological history which brought us about. For the question of the objective existence of Nature’s intelligibility, the changed meaning of “us” emphasizes the interrelatedness of everything in Nature, including ourselves. In turn, that interrelatedness implies that this universe, this Nature, could not exist in its present form without us as woven into it. Indeed, the capacity of Nature to generate human life is one crucial part of the logos endiathetos that pushes for fulfillment. On the other hand, this argument does not reach to possible universes 32. “Comme disait Schelling, il y a dans la Nature quelque chose qui fait qu’elle s’imposerait à Dieu même comme condition indépendante de son opération. Tel est notre problème.” The English translation does not capitalize “Nature.”

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without sapient life forms. Whether Merleau-Ponty would hold that they are also informed by a logos endiathetos is an open question. However, we do know that Merleau-Ponty rejects one way of accounting for the objective intelligibility of Nature. This view consists of a God as external spectator, “un penseur absolu du monde” (SNS 96/168), imposing meaning on the world, including the finalism of a pre-formed teleology. It is true that Merleau-Ponty, like Descartes or, very differently, Pascal, “finds himself with the idea of God” (Bannon 1967, 169), but even though it is “proper” for human beings to “think of God,” this “is not the same thing as to say that God exists” (Prim. Percp. 41/151). Moreover, Merleau-Ponty does not have the idea of God because of a lumen naturale, but because of his academic context and personal history of growing up in Catholicism. His personal history, including his reasons for breaking with the church, are not relevant here. What is pertinent are his philosophical reasons for rejecting the God of traditional (Christian) theism and what, if anything, he wished to substitute for it. (His arguments do not extend to non-Western religions.) Across Merleau-Ponty’s frequent references to God in both published and unpublished writings, he gives three main reasons for rejecting the traditional concept of God as ens realissimum. First, as mentioned in passing in Chapter II, the view of God as the absolute, eternal Spectator of the universe is the ultimate form of the ontology of the object. To say that the invisible is in the visible as its “lining and depth” is to reject an invisible that would be wholly transcendent. Here, Merleau-Ponty sides more with the view of the Logos as immanent, as in Stoic philosophy, than with the traditional understanding of God as transcendent Creator of the Universe. So his usage of the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos does not per se involve a theistic interpretation, though the distinction between the two logoi was important in early Christian theology.33 As we have seen, on his view Leibniz’s philosophy is on the one hand the most extreme example of the ontology of the object, and an unpublished note written a few weeks before his death criticized Leibniz for being trapped in an ontology of the object that prevented him from understanding the lived world, “the carnal world,” “the chiasm and the Ineinander” (ESA II: 192). Yet, Merleau-Ponty does admit that something changes with Leibniz when God is linked to the system of monads and is bound to choose the best possible world. However, 33. “Logos” for the Stoics “designates as much the faculty of thought, interior to a man (endiathetos), as the exterior expression (proforikos) of this thought through words and reasoning. Christian thinkers, such as Irenaeus or Tertullien, had perfectly grasped the Greek idea” (Spanneut 1957, 310–11). Spanneut then cites scholarly disagreement about whether for the Stoics there was “a religious resonance of this distinction between the interior logos and the manifested logos.” Regardless, “the Fathers of the Church” made use of “these two steps of the human logos and applied them, more or less easily, to the divine logos in order to explain the generation of the Verb to pagan philosophy” (Ibid., 311). Theophilus was “the first to appeal explicitly to the Stoic terms in his trinitarian theory” (Ibid., 314).

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as opposed to the latter’s conception of how God is linked to the world, Merleau-Ponty states in his essay, “Foi et bonne foi,” “The Incarnation changes everything” (SNS 174/310). The second reason is that the deity of traditional Christian theism is inconsistent with the radical contingency of what exists. For Merleau-Ponty, as we have seen, metaphysical knowledge reveals Nature as total contingency, which is inconsistent with “the manifest content of religion and with the positing of an absolute thinker of the world” (SNS 96/168).34 The third reason, closely linked to the previous one, is that God as the “absolute thinker of the world” is inconsistent with moral consciousness. Merleau-Ponty rejects externally imposed teleology—Leibniz’s pre-established harmony is his standard example—partly because of his commitment to total contingency, partly because of his view that life, consciousness, intelligence, and so on, emerge from Nature, and perhaps especially because of its intolerable moral consequences. (Merleau-Ponty’s own “truth of the pre-established harmony” is the chiasm [VI 262/315].) More precisely, Merleau-Ponty regards Leibniz’s theodicy as the most complete example of “explicative theology,” the enterprise of explaining God’s relationship with the world by substituting a system of explanations that “makes all the aspects of experience immediately compatible and compossible” (SNS 94/166). The cost of this compatibility and lack of contradiction is the elimination of all paradoxes, dilemmas, irresolvable but legitimate conflicts of interest, tragedies, and anguish in the moral life. In this regard, Merleau-Ponty points out in his inaugural lecture to the Collège de France that Jacques Maritain also rejects the idea of God as the author of cosmic order and “who would consecrate not only all the world’s goodness but all the world’s evil as well, who would justify slavery, injustice, the tears of children, the agony of the innocent by sacred necessities, who would finally sacrifice man to the cosmos as ‘the absurd Emperor of the world’ ”(E 47/64).35 He then states that, for Maritain, the God of Christian believers is “the active negation of all this” (Ibid., 64–65). Nonetheless, for Merleau-Ponty, the philosopher has to keep pushing for an answer to the question of whether “the natural and rational concept of God as necessary being is not inevitably that of the Emperor of the world, whether without it the Christian God would not cease to be the author of the world” (Ibid., 65).36 34. “Une telle métaphysique n’est pas conciliable avec le contenu manifeste de la religion et avec la position d’un penseur absolu du monde.” 35. “. . . qui consacrerait tout le mal comme tout le bien du monde, qui justifierait l’esclavage, l’iniquité, les larmes des enfants, l’agonie des innocents par des nécessités sacrées, qui, enfin, sacrifierait l’homme au cosmos, et serait ‘l’absurde Empereur du monde.’ ” 36. “On doit se demander si le concept naturel et rationnel de Dieu comme Être nécessaire n’est pas inévitablement celui de l’Empereur du monde, si sans lui le Dieu chrétien ne cesserait pas d’être l’auteur du monde.”

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Merleau-Ponty holds that both contingency and the concept of the “best of all possible worlds” create problems for a theodicy, which “has not advanced a step since Leibniz” (Ibid., 96/268).37 Therefore, in his unpublished notes for his course on “Cartesian Ontology and Ontology Today,” he concludes, “The God of Aristotle thinks itself. The God of Leibniz thinks the world . . . in order to come to know Being; we must cease to think starting from the ens realissimum . . . show the whole weakness of Theodicies” (ESA II: 226).38 What is to be emphasized is “the existence of this world as an unsurpassable fact which from the first solicits creative actualization and therefore . . . [disallows] the point of view of a worldless God” (SNS 96/168).39 What instead of the worldless God? Is Merleau-Ponty’s position one of a simple atheism? The answer is no, but at the same time, his reply is not simple. In the discussion following his presentation of “Man and Adversity,” Merleau-Ponty tells his interlocutors that he does not go around telling people that he is an atheist because “that would transform into negation an effort of [a] completely positive philosophical consciousness” (PC II: 369). However, he adds, if people force him to declare whether he is an atheist, he says “yes” (Ibid.). On the other hand, a bit later in the discussion, in response to an opinion that the meanings of “atheist” and “atheism” are context-dependent, Merleau-Ponty replies, “I only use it [“atheist”] when I am provoked” (Ibid.). He then continues, “I have never written in black and white: ‘I am an atheist.’ But the epoch is such that one is considered as a believer until proof to the contrary. . . . The notion of [being an] atheist has many historical connotations that it drags along with it, [and] that is why I don’t speak of it” (Ibid., 370).40 In the end, it is more difficult to say what he holds than what he rejects because he was always searching for novel ways to overcome the 37. As regards the “best of all possible worlds,” Merleau-Ponty argues in the unpublished preparatory pages for his second Nature course that Descartes, unlike Leibniz, initially thought this world to be the most perfect but changed his mind in the face of error. Descartes’ God “is not the monarch of the best possible world” (ESA II: 222, n. 4). 38. “Le Dieu d’Aristote se pense. Le Dieu de Leibniz pense le monde . . . pour faire connaissance avec l’Être, il faut cesser de penser à partir de l’ens realissimum . . . montrer toute la faiblesse des Théodicées.” 39. “. . . l’existence de ce monde-ci comme un fait insurpassable qui attire dès l’origine le devenir créateur,—et donc . . . [récuse] le point de vue d’un Dieu sans monde.” 40. “Je n’ai jamais écrit noir sur blanc: ‘Je suis athée.’ Mais l’époque est telle que l’on est considéré comme croyant jusqu’à preuve du contraire. . . . La notion d’athée a quantité de connotations historiques, qu’elle entraîne avec elle, c’est pourquoi je n’en parle pas.” Later in the discussion, Merleau-Ponty adds, “For me, philosophy consists in giving another name to that which has long been crystallized under this name of God” (PC II: 371). “Pour moi, la philosophie consiste à donner un autre nom à ce qui a été longtemps cristallisé sous ce nom de Dieu.”

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bifurcation of God and the world. For example, Être et monde states explicitly that he prefers Pascal’s “hidden God” to that of Leibniz (ESA II: 225, nn. 4–5), and it is equally clear that, for Merleau-Ponty, this must be a “God” hidden in the world, the Invisible dimension of the visible. It is also true that Christianity continued to attract him to some degree because it was uniquely about the Word made flesh and His death. This deity who assumed the human condition stands over against the God of the philosophers as a God who is on our side—the God for whom Bergson was searching, “the God who is hidden in the suffering of the persecuted” (E 31/45), such that “transcendence no longer hangs over man: he becomes, strangely, its privileged bearer” (S 71/88).41 In his 1958 interview with Madeleine Chapsal, Merleau-Ponty also stated his belief that, although Catholicism is “closely tied to the ontology of the object” and that he could not see how any other ontology would be “compatible with the traditional forms of theology,” it remained true that their best students in those days knew to reject traditional theology along with other forms of absolute thought guided by ontologies of the object: they recognized that “neither the philosophy of the Enlightenment, nor Marxism, nor the philosophy of the ens realissimum is the truth” (TD 11/PC II: 298).42 However, he also believed that in practice, Catholicism, for example, is a compromise between these traditional forms and a recognition of contingency and facticity. Thus, he writes in La Nature, ou le monde du silence, “The debate here is not between theology and non-theology . . . there are theologians who see facticity [and] non-theologians who do not see it” (ESA III: 157, n. 2).43 From all of this we can conclude that Merleau-Ponty rejected the traditional God—Emperor of the World, Cosmic Spectator—but also that he was not totally closed off to a new conception of God.44 In other words, our Offenheit extends even to the notion of God as a subject for interrogation. As Sartre reports in his memorial article, Merleau-Ponty “dreams of this All-Powerful [Being] who would need men, who would be in question in the depths of each of them and would remain total Being, the one that intersubjectivity does not cease to institute infinitely, the only one that we would lead to the end of his being and who would share with us all the insecurity of the human adventure” (1964, 274–75). That sounds very 41. “La transcendance ne surplombe plus l’homme: il en devient étrangement le porteur privilégié.” 42. “. . . ni la philosophie des lumières, ni le marxisme, ni la philosophie de l’ens realissimum n’est la vérité.” 43. “Le débat n’est pas entre théologie et non-théologie . . . il y a théologiens qui voient la facticité [et] des non-théologiens qui ne la voient pas.” 44. For more on this subject, see Van der Veken (1989, 205 ff.).

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much like what attracts Merleau-Ponty to Bergson, but then Sartre adds, “It is only a question, evidently, of a metaphorical indication” (Ibid., 275). This addendum raises more questions than it answers. Does it mean that the “Tout-Puissant” is a metaphor? That a God of any kind can be on our side? That intersubjectivity—or, in the language of the later texts, intercorporeity—can “institute infinitely” this God? And whatever “metaphorical” does denote here, is it true? There are no ready answers, but there is one tantalizing clue. In the “Annexe” to The Visible and the Invisible, Merleau-Ponty indicates that he examines human experience in order to determine how “it opens us to what is not ourselves” (VI 159/211). Then he says, “this does not even exclude the possibility that we find in our experience a movement toward what could not in any event be present to us in the original and whose irremediable absence would thus count among our originating experiences” (Ibid.; italics in the original),45 although we should first “fix our vision on what is apparently given to us” (Ibid.). Perhaps in the end we can get no farther in understanding his openness to religious meanings than his remarks in Eye and Mind, “the being of God is for us [the] abyss” (OE 177/56) and “unfathomable God” (Dieu insondable) (Ibid., 177/57). Whitehead does try to fathom the nature of God, but we will not enter into that discussion here because it requires an explanation of his process metaphysics. Instead, we now turn to two thinkers who have already entered our reflections, substantially influenced both Merleau-Ponty’s and Whitehead’s views of Nature, and form a bridge between them: F. W. J. Schelling and Henri Bergson.

45. “Il n’est pas même exclu par là que nous trouvions en elle un mouvement vers ce qui ne saurait en aucun cas nous être présent en original et dont l’absence irrémédiable compterait ainsi au nombre de nos expériences originaires.”

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The previous chapter has shown that Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh derives as much from literary figures and favored painters as it does from specific philosophers. Yet, Schelling and Bergson served as especially important formative influences for Merleau-Ponty’s views of Nature, the various forms of its bifurcation, and the ways that he argued against the ontology of the object and high-altitude thinking.

SCHELLING Almost all of Merleau-Ponty’s discussions of Schelling occur in his retrospective summary of the Collège de France course on “The Concept of Nature” (January–May 1957) and in its much longer exposition in Chapter IV of La Nature, “The Romantic Conception of Nature.” How much he was able to consult Schelling’s original texts (1856–1861) is not clear, but he does make frequent use of Karl Jaspers’s Schelling, which appeared two years before the course, and Karl Löwith’s Nietzsche, Philosophy of the Eternal Recurrence of the Same, which links the title figure’s thought to Kant, Hegel, and Schelling, and which appeared the year before the course. Merleau-Ponty also had at his disposal S. Jankélévitch’s Schelling. Essais (Paris: Aubier, 1946). This collection comprised the sole French translations of Schelling’s writings that he could access, and contained excerpts from several works from different periods of Schelling’s life.1 1. These works include: “The System of Transcendental Idealism . . . Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature . . . Von der Weltseele . . . Darstellung des Philosophischen Empirismus . . . and Philosophical Investigations Concerning the Essence of Human Freedom. . . . In addition, Jankélévitch prepared a partial translation of the 1811 version of Schelling’s Die Weltalter. These translations are generally acknowledged to be inadequate” (N 290, n. 5 [translator]). This listing is mostly correct. Von der Weltseele appeared in 1798 and was later combined with an 1806 essay titled “On the Relation of the Real and the Ideal in Nature.” Of the two works, only the latter article is included in Jankélévitch’s book (Marquet 1992, 2087a).

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These bibliographical details are important because those diverse works embodied different philosophical projects with their own logics.2 Although there are links between them, they cannot be harmonized. Merleau-Ponty’s commentary on Schelling does not recognize this fact, and instead takes from different texts what he finds valuable for his own ontology. In what follows, we will trace the principal themes of the discussions of Schelling in La Nature and the Résumés de cours. We shall see that Merleau-Ponty is primarily interested in the earlier Naturphilosophie (1797–1800) of this “prince of romanticists” (Royce 1892, 151), but there are also references to the subsequent transcendental idealism. In addition, later texts such as the Freedom essay of 1809 contain passages that express themes central to Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh. In La Nature, Merleau-Ponty’s analysis of Schelling begins with his point of departure in Kant’s critical philosophy, especially in the Critique of Judgment. Merleau-Ponty observes that, as noted in Chapter II, Kant did not manage to extricate himself entirely from the Cartesian concept of nature (N 36/59). Nature remains a constructum, but by consciousness (the subject) rather than by God. By contrast, Kant argues against God as Natura naturans through his criticisms of the cosmological argument. For Kant, as the First Critique expresses it, “[u]nconditioned necessity, which we so indispensably require as the last bearer of all things, is for human reason the veritable abyss [Abgrund]” (A 613/B641). Speculative philosophy, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, is unable to know or even to conceive God except negatively. Yet Kant does not resort to a negative theology any more than he does to a negative knowledge of things in themselves. Since, on his view, (conceptual) knowledge is limited to the data of sensory intuition, another unbridgeable abyss opens up between the phenomenal object, or consciousness, and the realm of noumena. This abyss is what lies between the realm of truth—that is, what can be known via the application of the categories of the understanding and the pure forms of sensibility to the manifold of sensory intuition—and the noumenal realm of goodness, or value. As he indicates at the end of Part II of his Introduction

2. Roughly speaking, Schelling’s Naturphilosophie spanned the years 1797–1800, which then led to his system of transcendental idealism (1801–1809), which then developed into his “identity philosophy” (1809–), and ended with The Ages of the World of 1811, 1813, and 1815, which then turned into his late philosophy. One key example of the differences is that, in the early texts, the transcendental Fichtean perspective is combined with the Naturphilosophie as two sides of the same project. The productive force of the I reflects the productive activity of Natura naturans. Yet, in the Ages of the World, within the period of the Identity philosophy, transcendental and natural philosophies are combined in one single perspective. (We are indebted to Antoon Braeckman for this information.) The Identity philosophy was developed to provide a foundation for the earlier Naturphilosophie.

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to the Third Critique, no “transition from the sensible to the supersensible” is possible (14–15). However, he immediately adds that the noumenal realm of the Good, as the seat of moral imperatives, should contribute to our knowledge of what is true and bring the True under the influence of the Good—“i.e., the concept of freedom is to actualize in the world of sense the purpose enjoined by its laws.” Therefore, he concludes, there must be a principle of unity for “the supersensible [things in themselves] that underlies nature and the supersensible that the concept of freedom contains practically” (Ibid., 15). Hence, the fact that we are free offers us a living symbol of the possibility of knowing things in themselves, including God. “In the end,” Merleau-Ponty observes, “by way of morality, Kant lets the old ontology subsist” (N 37/60).3 For Schelling by contrast, Merleau-Ponty goes on to say, what Kant termed the “abyss” is God. Or rather, God is not simply an abyss, but he is “what exists without reason [grundlos Existierende],” as Jaspers puts it (1955, 129). As with Spinoza’s concept of Substance as causa sui, Schelling’s God “is a sort of pure, unmotivated surging-forth,” the motive of which cannot be explained by any appeal to essence” (N 37/60). Correlatively, for Schelling, speculative reason could no longer be satisfied with the Kantian idea of an ens realissimum. Speculative reason opens itself to an infinite of existence in which the finite has a dignity that comes from being produced within the infinite—as Merleau-Ponty phrases it, “by an internal scission, the result of a fecund contradiction” (N 37/60). Because for Schelling the finite is not a negation of the infinite— Omnis determinatio est negatio—the former cannot be deduced logically from the latter. This means that, as Merleau-Ponty points out, the relationship of Natura naturans to Natura naturata cannot be an intransitive, “one-way” relation (“n’est plus à sens unique”) (N 37/61). Second, because the infinite is the abyss, the Natura naturans-Natura naturata relationship needs the world as its contradiction to which it will give rise. “The naturata is not a dead effect, and Nature is not a product” (N 38/61).4 Therefore, Nature is both active productivity and passive product, never-ending productivity of life expressed in its individual products that, however, it always overflows. This it does by an internal division against itself; there is a “double movement of expansion and contraction,” and Merleau-Ponty cites with approval Karl Löwith’s description (1997, 148) of this double movement as “respiration”

3. “Finalement, par le biais de la morale, Kant laisse subsister la vieille ontologie.” “Way” is too nondescript a translation of “biais.” “Expedient” or “device” would have been much closer to Merleau-Ponty’s meaning. 4. “Par sa définition, comme Abgrund, il appelle le terme contradictoire qu’il va produire. Le naturé n’est pas un effet mort, et la Nature n’est pas un produit.”

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(N 38/61),5 which finally ends only with death. Here, then, we have a rich source for Merleau-Ponty’s concepts of l’être brut,6 reversibility, activity = passivity, and the inspiration and expiration of Being. Much after the period of the Naturphilosophie, in the 1809 Freedom essay, Schelling’s own word for this movement of inspiration and expiration is “Konspiration.” He describes it as a “unity and conspiracy.” He compares the feeling of being “out of accord with the whole” to being “inflamed by inner heat of sickness” (2006, 70). Drawing on its etymological root, “spiritus”—“spirit” or “breath”—or Geist, is the “breathing out of the dark abyss of nature into form and the simultaneous inhaling of this ground, the retraction of things away from themselves. The conspiracy is a simultaneous expiration and inspiration, and each thing of nature is both inspired yet expiring” (Wirth 2003, 2). The third reason why Schelling rejects Spinoza’s interpretation of the Natura naturans-Natura naturata relationship is also resumed in Merleau-Ponty’s late ontology. Whereas for Spinoza all particular modes of substance are manifestations of the distinct attributes of either matter or spirit, for Schelling, any given phenomenon of Nature contains both “reality” and “ideality”: “The circulation between the corporeal and the spiritual . . . is one and the same substance. . . . An image or inner spirit of life constantly emerges out of the corporeal and it always again becomes embodied through a reverse process” (2000, 62).7 In this light, the detachment from Nature that is characteristic of the “pensée de survol” and the resulting ontology of the object is unhealthy for both ourselves and for the Nature that gets degraded into mere objectivity. Hence, the title of the present work is meant to reflect both the subjectivity of Nature as well as caring for it in order to avoid that unhealthy detach5. Merleau Ponty refers to the French translation of Löwith’s text. Compare also Merleau Ponty’s description of falling asleep: “I am breathing deeply and slowly in order to summon sleep, and suddenly it is as if my mouth were connected to some great lung outside myself which alternately calls forth and forces back my breath. A certain rhythm of respiration, which a moment ago I voluntarily maintained, now becomes my very being” (PhP 211–12/245). “Je respirais lentement et profondément pour appeler le sommeil et soudain on dirait que ma bouche communique avec quelque immense poumon extérieur qui appelle et refoule mon souffle, un certain rythme respiratoire, tout à l’heure voulu par moi, devient mon être même.” 6. Schelling’s recognition of “l’être brut,” that “primordial being” in which we are enveloped antecedent to distinctions between subject and object, is one of many subjects on which Merleau-Ponty felt a strong affinity with his predecessor. This theme, discussed early in the first Nature course, reflects Merleau-Ponty’s belief that Nature is a necessary and privileged access to ontology. 7. An extremely important consequence of Schelling’s reinterpretation of Spinoza consists of “the revelation of deep ecology, of the absolute subjectivity of nature. Schelling sought to replace ‘dead, blind substance’ with ‘living substance’ ” (Wirth 2003, 93). Elsewhere, he adds that “Nature, the infinite complication of bodies,” consists of “an endlessly creative expression” (Ibid., p. 151).

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ment. From that perspective, there is something wonderfully symbolic about Antoine Roquentin in La Nausée who does get nauseated as he confronts Nature (the dark roots of the chestnut tree) as pure en soi. Schelling and, we believe, Merleau-Ponty as well, would agree with Heidegger that a new Gestell is necessary for Nature to replace the current paradigm of a “standing reserve” (Bestand) of usable resources, which so clearly depends on the ontology of the object (1977b, 17). It is not certain what Merleau-Ponty would say on this score, but the Schellingian view is certainly consistent with his ontology of Nature. This rift in the unitary fabric of matter and spirit also leads to the sterility of philosophy itself. Schelling writes, “The entire new European philosophy since its beginning (with Descartes) has the common defect that nature is not available for it and that it lacks a living ground” (2006, 26). Both “Spinoza’s realism” and Leibniz’s “idealism” are equally abstract. For Schelling, idealism “is the soul of philosophy; realism is the body; only both together can constitute a living whole” (Ibid.). In the earlier Naturphilosophie, which provides Merleau-Ponty with much inspiration for his concept of l’être brut and the depths of Being, God is the ground of life, and this life within God is termed erste Natur. Merleau-Ponty describes it as “beyond the World and on this side of God” (N 38/61). Erste Natur is the “basic material of all life and existence, according to Schelling and Nietzsche alike [that] is the terrible: a blind power and force, a barbaric principle that can be overcome but can never be eliminated” (Löwith 1997, 149).8 Because it can never be eliminated, this dark, barbaric Nature “cannot remain outside phenomenology” (S 178/225), and in The Visible and the Invisible, Merleau-Ponty attempts to include it by portraying “flesh,” that “element” and “basic ‘stuff’ of all Being” (VI 139/184), in very similar terms. For example, in a working note from November 1960, he describes Nature (the title of the note) as “Existential eternity. The indestructible, the barbaric Principle” (VI 267/321). This “barbaric Principle” is very close to Whiteheadian creativity that has no form of its own. Much after the early Naturphilosophie, Schelling would add that Nature “comes out of what is blind, dark, and unspeakable in God. . . . Nature is not God. For nature only belongs to what is necessary in God and, strictly speaking, God is called God only in accordance with its freedom” (2000, 31). On his view, this “barbaric principle . . . when overcome but not annihilated, is the foundation of all greatness and beauty” (Ibid., 106). The internal scission through which the ceaseless productivity of erste Natur expresses itself in its passively resisting products that it overflows is inherently conflictual. That is, it inserts an inevitable destruction and chaos into creation. 8. Merleau-Ponty paraphrases this text, the correct version of which, cited above, is provided in the English translation of La Nature at p. 290, n. 8.

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Erste Natur stands opposed to philosophies of reflection; it is the Being that precedes all reflection on it, and here also, it is not difficult to grasp its impact on Merleau-Ponty. As the oldest element, it makes up “an abyss of the past” 9 that persists in us and in all other entities. It is thus the key for comprehending what Schelling later referred to as his earlier “negative philosophy” in which he led every rational enterprise to its dark, unintelligible source in an attempt to show that the first principle of any discourse cannot itself be founded or constituted by reason. As the Freedom essay phrases it, the erste Natur “is the incomprehensible basis of reality in things, the irreducible remainder which cannot be resolved into reason by the greatest exertion but always remains in the depths” (2006, 34). Erste Natur therefore raises questions of both knowledge and value. For Schelling, it is at the basis of a unity of the True and the Good, fact and value, unavailable to Kant’s critical philosophy, and Merleau-Ponty is concerned with both halves of this unity. On the one hand, he tells us that Schelling seeks the explanation of this “pre-being,” which, as soon as we appear, is always “already there.” This “pre-being,” what exceeds our “consciousness of Being,” is for Merleau-Ponty what Schelling wants to make the object of rigorous thought (N 38/61–62)—though it is not clear what “think” means here. We shall return to this problem below. On the other hand, in terms of value, Merleau-Ponty follows Schelling in noting that goodness is entirely consistent with the terrifying character of erste Natur. Schelling holds that erste Natur is “in God as a preliminary condition,” and its terrifying character can take the form of divine anger and “destructive fire.”10 Schelling therefore reproaches eighteenth-century thinkers for having forgotten the terrifying, barbaric character of erste Natur, a judgment with which Merleau-Ponty concurs by characterizing the eighteenth century as “the epoch when we lost sight of the principle of anger and selfishness” (N 38/62), and he cites with approval Schelling’s opinion that the eighteenth-century drive toward knowledge and enlightenment made people into mere images.11

9. Merleau-Ponty cites Löwith (1997,146) for this description. However, Schelling himself writes, “Nature is an abyss of the past. This is what is oldest in nature, the deepest of what remains if everything accidental and everything that has become is removed” (2000, 31). 10. Jaspers (1955, 380), cited at N 38/62 (but the reference is missing in the English translation). Schelling himself discusses God’s “devouring fire” (e.g., at Exodus 24:17 and Deuteronomy 4: 24) in The Ages of the World (2000, 21). 11. It is remarkable that neither thinker qualifies his claim with any discussion of, or even reference to, the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 or the terror following the French Revolution— and this in spite of the fact that, as seminary students in Tübingen, Schelling, Hegel, and Hölderlin had a keen interest in the French Revolution and its repercussions. See Schelling, Sämmtliche Werke (1856) I: 243.

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How does this intuition of erste Natur apply to the Natura naturata that we find before us? Schelling uses §76 of the Critique of Judgment as the point of departure for his answer. In that text Kant argues that the phenomenon of life could not be explained mechanistically because the whole organism has a priority over its parts. What can be explained, natural (mechanical) causality, applies only to relationships between the parts and cannot be added from the exterior to the interior of the organism to make its development intelligible. For Kant, such knowledge would be but a “dream,” as Schelling notes. Schelling, by contrast, “wants to think this blind production, the result of which has the air of being built with concepts [that is, as if it were externally designed]” (N 39/63).12 Merleau-Ponty then notes that, for Schelling, although this natural production may seem teleological, it is actually a “blind mechanism” (Ibid.).13 Likewise, Merleau-Ponty adds, Bergson holds the same idea in Creative Evolution when he rejects “both mechanism and finalism equally” (Ibid.). Merleau-Ponty does not spend much time discussing this aspect of Schelling’s thought, but we should note that the kind of teleology that Schelling and Merleau-Ponty reject—and Bergson as well—consists of what Merleau-Ponty usually refers to as “finalism.” That view holds that the end of the whole of Nature is already contained in the beginning and/or that particular fixed ends already exist before the observable stages of the natural processes that lead up to them. It is the view that “the concept of this purposiveness must have preceded [natural] production itself” (Schelling 1978, 216).14 Refusing to accept this doctrine is not inconsistent with holding that there is purpose operating in Nature—for instance, that certain animals would develop hands or a certain color of skin or feathers because of their survival use value. Moreover, Schelling’s portrayal of the “deduction of the dynamic series of stages” of Nature shows it to be far more tentative and open, so to say, than finalist explanations would allow:

12. “Schelling, au contraire, veut penser cette production aveugle dont le résultat a pourtant l’air d’être bâti avec des concepts.” 13. Schelling’s own text runs as follows: “For the peculiarity of nature rests upon this, that in its mechanism, and although itself nothing but a blind mechanism, it is nonetheless purposive” (1978, 215). The earlier Naturphilosophie puts it this way: “[Y]ou destroy all idea of Nature from the very bottom, as soon as you allow the purposiveness to enter her from without, through a transfer from the intelligence of any being whatever . . . the unity of things . . . can have become teleological in your own understanding” (1988, 34). 14. For Merleau-Ponty, the conception of teleology as finalism “shares the fate of mechanism: these are two artificial ideas [that is, by purpose or by chance]. Natural production remains to be understood otherwise” (RC 83/117). “partage le sort du mécanisme: ce sont deux idées artificialistes. La production naturelle reste à comprendre autrement.”

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It is true that Schelling tries to show how an earlier stage of life is a preliminary one for the stages following, and he interprets natural forces as ultimately leading to organic life, but this is quite different from, and does not imply, finalism. Second, in a parallel way, Schelling rejects mechanism as a complete account of Nature, yet he also holds that Nature is a “blind mechanism.” That is, mechanism as a doctrine is not entirely false, but since all of Nature is both real and ideal, material and spiritual, mechanism is an abstraction from the whole. For Schelling, as Jason Wirth states, “mechanical movement is a special case of life itself. . . . [I]f one begins with the Organism, with the idea of nature as a Whole, then the illusion of mechanical life is just a special case of the conspiracy of life” (2003, 95).15 As a result, Schelling reversed the eighteenth-century view that, if one begins with some type of mechanical motion, life can be best understood as a supplemental animating principle added on. Merleau-Ponty also rejects this view because adding life to matter is inconsistent with his conception of mind and body as dual expressions of flesh.16 Schelling then states that, in a passage that sounds very like Merleau-Ponty’s concept of empiétement, it would be equally difficult to comprehend how we could ever realize our purposes freely and consciously in the external world, “unless a susceptibility to such action were already established in the world, even before it becomes the object of a conscious act, by virtue of that original identity of the unconscious [necessity] with the conscious activity [freedom]” (Ibid., 214).

15. Compare Merleau-Ponty’s comment that “Mechanism affirms a natural artificial, and finalism affirms an artificial natural” (N 85/119). “Le mécanisme affirme un artificiel naturel, et le finalisme affirme un naturel artificiel.” 16. There is a echo of Schelling’s view in some contemporary attempts to avoid “additive” theories of mind, as well as in Henri Bergson’s protest against privileging “inert” matter to which “life” would be added. For the former, see, for example, John McDowell (1998). Schelling also rejects mechanism on a divine scale as well. He adds that “God is not a god of the dead but of the living. It is not comprehensible how the most perfect being could find pleasure even in [producing] the most perfect machine possible. . . . The procession [Folge] of things from God is a self-revelation of God” (2006, 18). Bergson also argued against the primacy of inert matter to which life would be added. See, for example, La pensée et le mouvant (2005, 101).

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For Schelling—and Merleau-Ponty—if all of consciousness is purposive, then the unity of consciousness and unconsciousness can appear “only in a product that is purposive, without being purposively brought about” (2003, 215). Nature is just this kind of product, and this is, in fact, the basis of teleology itself. On Schelling’s view, it is only in Nature that we can learn how to understand the original unity of freedom and necessity. Nature, although not produced freely or according to a purpose, manifests itself as purposeful production. On Schelling’s view, only transcendental idealism can explain the contradiction “whereby one and the same product [of Nature] is at once a blind product, and yet is purposive.” These can be joined only in a kind of natural production “in which conscious and unconscious activity are united” (Ibid., 216, 217). Consciousness and unconsciousness, freedom and necessity, mechanism and purpose unite in what he calls an “intellectual intuition” (Ibid., 214), a phrase he took over from Fichte but which he applied to all of Nature, in contrast to a Kantian sensible intuition. Therefore, Schelling holds, “Nature, in its blind and mechanical purposiveness” presents “an original identity of the conscious and unconscious activities,” and the objective of his entire science was precisely to explain “how the ultimate ground of the harmony between subjective and objective becomes an object to the self itself” (Ibid., 217).17 It is in an intuition that is “exhibitable in the intelligence itself” that this occurs, and it is by means of such an intuition that the entire problem of transcendental philosophy can be resolved, that is, “that of explaining the congruence between subjective and objective. . . . Every organism is a monogram of that original identity, but in order to recognize itself in that reflected image, the self must already have recognized itself directly in the identity in question” (Ibid., 218). We cannot investigate Schelling’s transcendental idealism in detail because that would diverge too far from Merleau-Ponty. Instead, we will restrict ourselves to the question of knowledge involved in Schelling’s project of thinking the “pre-being” of erste Natur. First, he holds that such thinking cannot proceed by means of explanations. As he sees it, explanations inevitably fail because they are based on concepts, which are constructs of the intellect. On his view, eighteenth-century thinkers mistakenly identified understanding with explanation and Reason with intellect, such that Nature was transformed into a detached Object for investigation and manipulation. In other words, the reduction of understanding to explanation and Reason

17. J.-F. Marquet points out that Schelling copies “rather clumsily [gauchement] the dialectic of ‘observed self’ and ‘observing self’ so characteristic of the Wissenschaftslehre [of Fichte], and which, here, badly recovers the dynamic schema of ‘powers’ (Potenzen) where the philosopher recognizes more and more the nerve of his own method” (1992, 2087a).

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to intellect lay at the origin of the ontology of the object. By itself, for Schelling, the intellect cannot penetrate the external shell of reality to its terrible core; to do so requires a bit of madness to experience. A gap opens up between explanation and understanding (2003, 103).18 Therefore, Merleau-Ponty concludes that, despite his claim that Schelling sought a way to think our connection with erste Natur, Schelling’s alternative to explaining the erste Natur was to “live and feel” this Being—“Il faut la vivre et l’éprouver” (N 39/63). Commenting on this passage, Robert Vallier asks, “How can a reflexive philosophy of consciousness ever secure a purchase on it [Nature]?” Does not such an enterprise transmute living Nature into a “dead product” of thought? He then praises Schelling “as a true phenomenologist” because “for him, the question is not to think this activity . . . but rather ‘to live [leben] and to experience [erleben] it’ ” (2000, 92). There are two basic problems with this way of conceiving the relationship of reflection and Nature. First, to ask how reflection can “secure a purchase” on Nature already implies a fundamental separation, establishing external relations between them. The second problem is that living and experiencing Nature may be the first thing a phenomenologist does, but it is certainly not the last, because the phenomenologist is a philosopher. As Merleau-Ponty himself puts it, philosophy “is the invitation to re-see the visible, to re-speak speech, to re-think thought.” Adhering “simply to each visible, to each namable, to each thinkable,—that would not be to philosophize, but to live”19 (NC 376). It is true that, anterior to all reflection and conceptual explication, Schelling wants to reach “ ‘the non-known,’ the Ungewusste, not a science of Nature, but a phenomenology of prereflexive Being” (N 41/66).20 He also does not wish to take refuge in some “mystical faculty” because we have already seen that he wanted to preserve rather than emasculate reason. He holds that, as Merleau-Ponty phrases it, we “rediscover” Nature in our

18. In The Visible and the Invisible, there is an echo of Schelling’s belief when Merleau-Ponty states that reflection is no longer perception, but the thought of perception. As noted earlier, reflection converts our “perceptual faith” that we reach the things themselves into thought about this connection, thought that eliminates all perceptual incompossibilities, enigmas, paradoxes, and obscurities (30/51). Nonetheless, for the reasons given above, Merleau-Ponty takes a more generous view of concepts than Schelling does. His considered view here would be that Schelling has at least the merit of pointing out the dangers of reflection abstracted from the constructions of experience. 19. “C’est l’invitation a re-voir le visible, a re-parler la parole, a re-penser le penser”; “simplement à chaque visible, à chaque nommable, à chaque pensable,—ce qui ne serait pas philosopher, mais vivre.” 20. “. . . le ‘non-su,’ l’ ‘Ungewusste,’ non pas une science de la Nature, mais une phénoménologie de l’Etre pré-réflexif.”

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pre-reflective perceptual life” (N 39/63). Therefore, we must “retrieve the prereflexive” (N 51/78). However, as Merleau-Ponty himself elaborated in great detail, perception is not an exclusively natural activity. Thus, Schelling’s problem is also that of Merleau-Ponty: the unreflected immediacy of experience to which we return is not, and cannot be, an unreflected prior to reflection. Instead, it is the unreflected as the object of reflection: we have no “pure and absolutely unexpressed life.” On the contrary, “the unreflected only begins to exist for us through reflection” (Prim. Percp. 30/138). Since coincidence is only partial, to think that we can reach a pure immediacy of experience is to succumb to “the myth of original indivision and coincidence as return” (VI 267/320). Furthermore, philosophy itself requires reflection. Far from being a “useless repetition of life,” philosophy saves life from sliding into “ignorance of itself” (Prim. Percp. 19/127). For Merleau-Ponty, Schelling’s project of rediscovering the immediacy of our contact with Nature is also problematic because he translates indivisibility as identity: “Because I am identical to Nature, I understand it just as well as my own life” (N 40/63).21 And since for Schelling perception reflected upon gives us only the external envelope of things instead of allowing us to enter into them, recovering that originary meaningfulness of external Nature requires us to attempt to recover “our own nature” as undivided when we perceive (Ibid.).22 There is an inherent difficulty in self-understanding that parallels that of understanding our original unity with Nature. The problem is that, just as the ceaseless productivity of Nature expresses itself in passively resistant products that it always transcends, so, too, does our understanding differentiate itself in self-knowledge into subject and object. The original identity has been lost, and “the history of self-consciousness [is] the attempt of the self to lay hold of itself again in its unity” (Vallier 2000, 95). Consciousness mediates itself through its own self-objectifications. There is thus a primitive and necessary unconsciousness in our self-identity, its own “punctum caecum” that consists of the “originary unity” from which consciousness emerges—“its own unconscious past” (Ibid., 95–96). In addition, analogous to the way that a 21. “Tant que je suis identique à la Nature, je la comprends aussi bien que ma propre vie.” Merleau-Ponty cites Schelling’s Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature. In the English translation, the passage is on p. 36. 22. Cf. N 46/72: “The philosophy of Schelling seeks to restore a sort of indivision between us and Nature considered as an organism, indivision conditioned by [the] indivision of subject-object. But it admits that this indivision is inevitably broken by reflection, and that it is a question of ‘re-establishing’ this unity.” “La philosophie de Schelling cherche à restituer une sorte d’indivision entre nous et la Nature considérée comme un organisme, indivision conditionnée par indivision subjet-objet. Mais elle [la philosophy de Schelling] admet que cette indivision est inévitablement rompue par la réflexion, et qu’il s’agit de ‘rétablir’ cette unité.”

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product of natural productivity cannot grasp that productive activity, neither can a product of thought represent fully the self’s activity that produced it. Merleau-Ponty’s entire ontology is an attempt to recover that primary indivision in Being and find an adequate philosophy, beyond the limits of phenomenology, to think that indivision. It is indisputable that reflection comes after and disrupts the pre-reflective spontaneity of life in which it intervenes. It disengages us “from the effective unfolding of our perceptions and from our perception of the world . . . we cease being one with the concrete flux of our life” (VI 45/70).23 This is a fact that, as Hume liked to say, is “pretty obvious of itself.” Therefore, either consciousness is blind to its origins or, if it attempts to recover them, “it can only project itself into them” (S 153/193). As Toadvine says nicely, reflection does not “break with nature,” in the sense of being a Kantian antiphysis, but rather is “nature’s recapitulation at the level of consciousness” (2009, 119). Nonetheless, reflection is incapable of grasping the “excess of Being” beyond its own objectifying activity and cannot transcend the subject-object structure of experience to reach the “excess of Being” (Ibid.). Merleau-Ponty draws two lessons from this relationship of reflection to the flux of experience and to Nature. The first one is the necessity of the “hyper-reflection” (sur-réflexion) described in Chapter II that would take into account both the immediacy of experience and our reflections on it. Second, the claim that our indivision from Nature is broken because reflection disrupts the immediate flux of experience follows only if what we mean by indivision is identity, which is what Schelling holds, or the undifferentiated immediacy of experience. What is so important about the écart in this context is that it demonstrates simultaneously indivision without identity. As Merleau-Ponty expresses it in another context, there is a “silent knowing” that “obliges [us] to say that man is the becoming conscious of natural productivity, and becomes Nature in distancing [himself] from Nature in order to know it” (RC 76/107; translation altered).24 And although Merleau-Ponty thinks of the écart in the relationship of the sentant and the sensible, perhaps he would also recognize a similar relationship between reflection and the sentant itself as it becomes that which is given in self-awareness. If so, because coincidence would still be only partial, the immediacy of experience would still be present in a second sense, as an affective, meaningful component of experience. 23. “. . . du déroulement effectif de nos perceptions et de notre perception du monde . . . que nous cessions de nous confondre avec le flux concret de notre vie.” (In the ellipsis, the phrase “que nous nous contentions de leur essence” was left out of the English translation.) 24. “. . . oblige à dire que l’homme est le devenir conscient de la productivité naturelle, et devient Nature en éloignant la Nature pour connaître.” The English translation runs, “obliging us to say that man is the conscious development of the natural production, he who becomes nature is distancing himself from nature in order to learn about it.”

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If this is right, the “recovery” of immediacy turns out to be ambiguous. Immediacy cannot be recovered in the first sense, and it does not need to be recovered in the second sense by acts of consciousness except, perhaps, in resurrecting repressed memories in psychiatric contexts.25 For Merleau-Ponty, the task of reflection is “to revive, possess, internalize, or make immanent” (S 161/204) the immediacy that remains effective in the experience. As we shall see, Whitehead provides us with an explanation of how this is possible and for preserving our unity, but not undifferentiated identity, with Nature. In Merleau-Pontian terms, this means preserving the “massive adhesion” to, but not total absorption in, Being. Likewise, to say that thought is not life, and never will replace it or express completely what life is, does not imply that thought must necessarily be cut loose from its moorings in the immediate experience. Correlatively, even if it were true that concepts were (mere) products that cannot adequately express natural productivity and the sense of life anterior to them, as Schelling believes, it would still not follow that conceptual knowledge ruptures our unity with Nature. Such a claim would confuse epistemological adequacy with ontological connectedness. Merleau-Ponty states that the idealism that emerged from his predecessor’s search for the immediate, identical relation to Nature positioned him to repudiate Fichte’s “subjective” idealism in favor of one that is more “objective.” For Fichte, the I is everything, and all things are constituted by the I. Schelling criticizes Fichte for seeking in consciousness the only model of subjectivity and for holding that every manifestation of subjectivity is derived from consciousness (N 40/64). For Fichte, consciousness is the sole interiority. In Schelling’s view, by contrast, “everything is I,” and the key significance of the perceived world is that it is the primary field of “participation of my own life in everything, and vice-versa” (N 40/64). The unity of all life drives toward the fulfillment of the I. This is why, as Merleau-Ponty points out, Schelling does not distinguish organic from inorganic Nature. The organic and the inorganic are only two different “potencies or powers of the same Nature” (N 41/65), and the difference between them must therefore be one of degree rather than kind.26 It is usual, following Hegel, to refer to Schelling’s “objective” idealism in contrast to Fichte’s “subjective” idealism (N 42/67); we have seen,

25. This is another dimension of Merleau-Ponty’s critique of Husserl’s analyses of time consciousness. The “Working Notes” for The Visible and the Invisible state, “The problem of forgetting: lies essentially in the fact that it is discontinuous” (VI 194/248). “Problème de l’oubli: tient essentiellement à ce qu’il est discontinu.” 26. Much later, in the Freedom essay of 1809, Schelling will argue that we cannot pass from the non-living to the living because, as noted above, all of Nature is alive. Both the organic and the inorganic are dual aspects of the same Konspiration of life.

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however, that Schelling’s philosophy seeks a unity of idealism and realism. Yet, how can we deduce an idealism from a realism? Schelling’s explanation hinges on the image of light, which is much more than a medium of perception, as it was for Fichte. Rather, as Merleau-Ponty points out, it is an ancient symbol of primordial knowledge (Urwissen) of the Good, as with Plato. Air and light for Schelling are “arrangements of materials” of Nature that sketch a certain meaning, but which cannot be completely itself in the absence of the consciousness that reaches that meaning (Ibid.). This arrangement of materials does not itself bear the idea, but rather “prepares the sense that human beings give it” (Ibid.).27 Along the same lines, in Von der Weltseele, Schelling holds, as J.-F. Marquet expresses it, that just as “the self is fundamentally liberty, that is to say infinite auto-affirmation, in the same way there will exist a ‘first force of nature,’ a naturally expansive and centrifugal fluid, the ether, of which light will be the phenomenal manifestation (it is this fluid that is properly the soul of the world)” (1992, 2086b). And it is this “soul” for Schelling that argues against a model of consciousness as centrifugal meaning-giver to the world. As such, there are strong similarities between this view and what Heidegger refers to as the “the medieval . . . origin” of “the ordinary concept of truth”—that is, adaequatio rei ad intellectum (1977, 118). On this view there can be a veridical correspondence between the human intellect and the object of experience (res creata) only because the divine intellect is creating (sustaining in being) and illumining the object on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the human intellect. As Heidegger puts it, “Veritas as adaequatio rei (creandae) ad intellectum (divinum) guarantees veritas as adaequatio intellectus (humani) ad rem (creatam)” (Ibid.). For Merleau-Ponty, Schelling’s Urwissen symbolized by light also resembles the Kantian notion of productive imagination (Einbildung), the faculty that actively organizes our experience in such a way that a meaning is delineated in outline in the manifold of sensory intuition (N 42/66–67). Now, it is true that light, for Schelling, as imagination for Kant in the First Critique, is something “of which we are scarcely ever conscious” (A78/B103). It may also be true that delineating a meaning “in outline in the manifold of sensory intuition” means the same thing as the productive imagination as “transcendental” because, as the necessary mediator between the “extremes” of sensibility and understanding, it is required for the transcendental unity of apperception and the unity of (meaningful) experience itself (A124). 27. This statement shows from another angle Schelling’s claim, discussed above, that we can freely, consciously, realize our purposes in the external world only because “a susceptibility to such action were already established in the world, even before it becomes an object of a conscious act” (1978, 214).

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However, the analogy between Schelling’s more profound knowledge symbolized by light and Kant’s productive imagination should not be pressed too far. For Kant, imagination is a “blind, but indispensable function of the soul” (A78/B103), not of Nature. Also, delineating a meaning “in outline in the manifold of sensory intuition” would encompass, rather, the “reproductive imagination,” which, as the ground for the reproducibility of images, makes association of particular images possible (and meaningful) (A 102). As such, the reproductive imagination is “entirely subject to empirical laws, the laws, namely, of association” and falls under psychology rather than transcendental philosophy (B152). Beyond Kant, though, Merleau-Ponty states that light is also the key for understanding how, for Schelling, living and feeling Nature points toward a way to think Nature. As Merleau-Ponty phrases it, Schelling sees Nature as a “primitive unity of conscious and unconscious activities,” and, as in medieval thought, this primitive unity does not present itself to us in such a way that we find its “ultimate reason” is located within us (N 42/67). Contrary to Kant, and especially § 76 of the Third Critique, Schelling speaks of a knowing that is not separate and distinct from its object because the former is simultaneously the production of the latter. In turn, this “knowing,” or intellectual intuition, requires for its effective functioning that the I must already be in some sense in this basic unity. There must already be in things a preparatory outline of what intellectual intuition will set free, rather in the way that, as described in Chapter I, the finished form of a photograph is latent in the print being developed. Merleau-Ponty thus defines Schelling’s intellectual intuition as different from “an occult faculty” and equivalent to “perception itself before it has been reduced to ideas; it is perception . . . in which all things are me because I am not yet the subject of reflection” (RC 75/107).28 Hence the significance of light: it is not only matter, but also enters the perceptual field and prepares it to be read. Light has an objective reality in the way that it exercises its penetrating power.29 As such, both light and air are for Merleau-Ponty symbolic of a knowledge “inscribed in Nature,” a “natural productivity” (Ibid.). For Schelling, Merleau-Ponty continues, there are three types of beings: objects such as tables or chairs, light, and 28. “. . . la perception même avant qu’elle ait été réduite en idées; la perception . . . où toutes choses sont moi parce que je ne suis pas encore le sujet de la réflexion.” The English translation renders “la perception même” as simply “perception” instead of “perception itself.” 29. Compare Heidegger’s claim that the “essence of truth reveals itself as freedom. The latter is ek-sistent, disclosive letting beings be” (1977, 128). This disclosure means “to bring the clearing of the truth of Being before thinking” (1977a, 251). And in turn, the “name of this clearing [Lichtung] is aletheia” (1977, 138). Merleau-Ponty makes similar comments about “natural Light and cry of light” in connection with the “Ontology of painting” and “communication with Being through vision” (NC 180).

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the I. Without the light, we would revert to a Kantian arrangement in which nothing would mediate the unknown being of the thing in itself and the Kantian subject that provides all the resources necessary for knowing. For Merleau-Ponty, Schelling knows that, from the perspective of a philosophy of reflection based on concepts, when consciousness asks questions of Nature we are aware that an answer has already been prepared. Meaning comes into being through the human subject, but only because, through light, “the real itself is found integrated in the ideal world” (N 43/68). The motions at issue are changed into intuitions within us. Everything begins with us, though we are not its source. In this reversible relationship, “Nature is borrowed from our perception (cf. pure intuition in Bergson). We are the parents of a Nature of which we are also the children” (N 43/68).30 For Merleau-Ponty, Schelling’s view traces a middle path between the subjective interpretation of Nature as only being “through us” (Fichte) and the objectivistic dogma of holding that “Nature is only outside us” (Ibid.). Nature is the process of the ego’s becoming itself: “Nature leads by a series of disequilibria, toward the realization of human being, which in turn becomes the dialectical term of it” (Ibid.).31 Through this process of realization, human being becomes “coknowledge,” what Jaspers called Mitwissenschaft (1955, 82; cited at N 44/68) of creation. Human being is both its contemporary as well as the ongoing summation of its depths; therefore, the human being “carries traces of all that Nature has been” (N 44/69), as Whitehead will say of every actual occasion of experience. For Merleau-Ponty, this makes Schelling’s philosophy much more like those of Renaissance thinkers such as Bruno who held that a human being is “a microcosm” rather than, as with Kant, “an antiphysis” (Ibid.). For Schelling, all that reflection can reveal of Nature is the relationship of subject to object and not the fundamental identity of subject and object. By contrast, intuition properly sees its objects as part of everything “incorporated into Nature, as incorporated into all that is the Absolute” (N 44/69). Intuition is a bit like the feeling that we know what we will see behind us. It is “sleep,” “ek-stasis,” and for Schelling it is difficult to distinguish intuition from unconscious awareness. In this state, the soul would see “all things in themselves” anterior to concepts and judgments, “so much so that the soul and the body seem to be asleep at the same time” (Ibid., 45/70). 30. “la Nature est empruntée à notre perception (cf. l’intuition pure chez Bergson). Nous sommes les parents d’une Nature dont nous sommes les enfants.” 31. “La Nature chemine, par une série de déséquilibres, vers la réalisation de l’homme qui en devient le terme dialectique.”

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This intuition “is the descent into the dark night of the soul, the abyss of freedom. . . . Schelling therefore called the intuition ein nicht denkendes Denken, a thinking that does not think. . . . The intellectual intuition does not produce a concept although it intuits the dark ground of any possible concept” (Wirth 2003, 110, 111). However, Merleau-Ponty states, if intuition is sleep, then it is “reflection’s appreciation of intuition” (N 45/70) that serves as the organ of philosophy. In that case, intuition would not just be empty but also blind, and it would be left to reflection to explain this blind contact with Nature. Reflection would become a “necessary evil” and Schelling’s philosophy would consist of “reflection on what is not reflection” (Jaspers 1955, 83; cited at N 45/71). As a result, Schelling, like Merleau-Ponty, needs a language for the philosophy of Nature that can engage Nature “in its least human aspects” (N 45/71), and for this, also like Merleau-Ponty, he turns to art. Just as philosophy finds an arrangement of things with an open meaning, art is the “objective realization of a contact with the world, which cannot be objectivated” (Ibid.). Given this fact, Schelling claims that art is the true “document” and “organ” of philosophy (1978, 219). For both Merleau-Ponty and Schelling, albeit for different reasons, neither art and philosophy nor the experiences of philosophers and artists are identical. For Merleau-Ponty, philosophy32 begins with what cannot be known and comes to a conscious conclusion. By contrast, art begins with conscious thought processes and ends in something that can always be resumed. Art reaches the Absolute “because at that moment consciousness attains the unconscious” (N 45–46/71). For Schelling, art can assist the reconciliation of understanding and imagination. The presence of the Absolute in art is our experience of a “higher Nature,” and thinking appears to be something “natural.” Art provides the experience of “the identity of subject and object,” a mélange of idea and fact, and in this experience, as Merleau-Ponty expresses it in Bergsonian imagery, “things arrange themselves as if it were said in advance that the locks should open. Art is this experience of the identity of subject and object” (N 46/71).33 Nevertheless, Schelling distinguishes between philosophy and art in that the philosopher wants to express the dark, hidden pre-being of erste Natur anterior to the intervention of knowing, whereas the artist wants to re-create the world. Philosophy does not vanish into art. Rather, they are 32. The student notes say “Nature” instead of “philosophy,” but this makes no sense for the following contrast. Therefore, we have substituted “Philosophy” for “Nature.” 33. “Les choses s’arrangent comme s’il était dit d’avance que les serrures devaient s’ouvrir. L’art est cette expérience de l’identité du sujet et de l’objet.”

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only related in the mutual openness to the world embodied in the experiences of the philosopher and the artist. Both philosophy and art can reach the Absolute, though in different ways. Philosophy can learn from art without losing its independence. As Patrick Burke indicates for painting, though Schelling’s preferred artistic medium was poetry, it is a question of “the visible and the invisible dimensions of presence which the hand of the painter practices and which the philosopher wants to bring to word” (1999, 187). For Schelling, poetry is the origin of philosophy. Poetic consciousness acknowledges that it is not in complete possession of its object, and that the only way that it can really comprehend it is to create it. Artistic exertion is the best “document” that testifies to the encounter of “passivity and spontaneity” through which Schelling searches for, in Merleau-Ponty’s idiom, “a Reason that is not prose and a poetry that is not irrational” (N 50/77). Poets, therefore, just as painters for Merleau-Ponty, are uniquely placed to understand the creativity of Nature in and through their own creativity that exemplifies and mirrors it. Perhaps Merleau-Ponty was thinking of this when writing, “Being is what requires creation of us for us to experience it. Make an analysis of literature in this sense: as inscription of Being” (VI 197/251).34 As part of our life within Nature to which poetry testifies, Schelling holds that, as Merleau-Ponty observes, with the creation of humanity Nature becomes re-created as vision. Conversely, human beings become Nature through their vision (N 47/73). Further, their reversible relationship amounts to the transcendence of the dichotomy of subject and object. Similarly, just as the intuition is the medium of our attempts to place ourselves within the Absolute, the Absolute itself becomes world and a relationship with us. As Merleau-Ponty expresses Schelling’s view, “God is an empirical fact” and, in Whitehead’s view as well, “at the base of every experience” (Ibid.). We do not know God except through experience, and we only grasp God in the finite: the movement from finite to infinite and vice versa is part of “the very fabric of things” (Ibid.). Moreover, for Schelling, as part of this dialectic God’s freedom is made known in us, and it is in us that God’s powers are exercised. What makes this reciprocity possible is that Schelling’s philosophy is not a philosophy of Being that separates the Absolute from the finite, but a “philosophy of time” according to which “nothing exists merely, but rather everything becomes” (N 48/74). For Merleau-Ponty, this turning to temporality is, on the other hand, but another way of reinforcing the notion that “there is no separated Absolute” (Ibid.). As Merleau-Ponty sees it, Fichte had a certain “hatred of Nature” (N 48/74), but Schelling, in a way analogous to Husserl’s notion of “affective 34. “Faire analyse de la littérature dans ce sens: comme inscription de l’Être.”

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force,” perceives in Nature a weight that conditions and penetrates our liberty, and yet allows us to fly. It is “contingency” without blocking human freedom, and it is responsible for the fact that, unlike Sartre, Schelling cannot construe liberty to be a “negation, pure and simple” (Ibid.). On the contrary, “Spirit is higher Nature.”35 Merleau-Ponty’s discussion of Schelling in the Nature lectures concludes with a reprise of the relationship of intuition and concepts in the light of Hegel’s well-known criticisms in the “Preface” of the Phenomenology of Spirit. There, Schelling’s Absolute is said to be one of indeterminate darkness and obscurity. It is simple and undifferentiated, without a thinkable content. In the absence of conceptual explication it is the famous “night in which, as we say, all cows are black—that is the very naïveté of knowledge” (1964, 79). For Hegel, Schelling, instead of proposing a mediation of conceptual opposites in order to reach an understanding of the Absolute, substitutes an identity of subject and object—an identity that reaches to the point of inarticulateness. The result is a “monochrome formalism,” a “monotonousness and abstract universality [that] are maintained to be the Absolute” (Ibid., 78). On Hegel’s view, as Merleau-Ponty expresses it, Schelling does not really understand “the internal movement of what exists,” but he thinks that he does through his “analogy of subject-object or of expansion-contraction” (N 48/75).36 Schelling, for his part, makes similar criticisms of Hegel. Hegel’s mistake is to believe that a concept can be productive and that philosophy can be reduced to pure logic. As Schelling sees it, an abstract concept is the end result of Hegel’s philosophy, a philosophy that, as Hegel’s Logic states, gives a motor power to spirit to enter into Nature, in which movement the Idea, transcending itself and, as Merleau-Ponty puts it, “filled with reality, will lead back to the Absolute” (N 49/76). Yet how, Schelling asks, can the Idea exhibit any agency? Only existing beings can exhibit such agency (Ibid.). For Schelling, Hegel sacrifices Nature to the profit of absolute Spirit, and Merleau-Ponty strongly contrasts the comparative impotence of Nature in Hegel’s philosophy with the “stubborn and obstinate character” that it has for Schelling (Ibid.). On the other hand, Merleau-Ponty holds that Hegel was correct to criticize Schelling’s “speculative constructions” (N 49/76) that construe Nature to be knowable only by a means different from a science of Nature—and this without even referring to Schelling’s substantial writings on the sciences, especially chemistry. However, Merleau-Ponty believes these “speculative constructions” represent less Schelling’s considered position than the dangers to which his philosophy is vulnerable. Schelling is still 35. The French editor of La Nature notes (74, n. 3) that this expression is “Without doubt an allusion to Schelling’s expression, ‘Nature is unconscious Spirit,’ cited by Jaspers’ ” (1955, 297). 36. Schelling, however, did not think of “Konspiration” as an analogy, but as an exact description.

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correct, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, to claim that “the rationality of the Concept, the abstraction of consciousness” (Ibid.), is neither more objective nor more rational than Nature, and that there is a certain “arbitrariness” behind the “practice of Reason” (Ibid.) that stems from Hegel’s refusal to grant Nature any productivity of its own.37 It is clear from Merleau-Ponty’s remarks in the Nature lectures and his retrospective summaries of them that he is much more sympathetic to Schelling’s conception of Nature than he is to that of any thinker in modern philosophy. His debt to Schelling is also evident in Signs where he writes that “What resists phenomenology within us—natural being, “the ’barbarous’ source Schelling spoke of—cannot remain outside phenomenology and should have its place within it” (S 178/225).38 For Merleau-Ponty, the “barbarous source” is the “il y a,” the stubborn, irreducible fact that things are, the fundamental element of Being, or flesh. Thus, Paul Ricoeur was correct to observe that it is more nearly to Schelling “and to the philosophies of an absolute genesis of the finite, that one would have to relate Merleau-Ponty rather than to Heidegger and Husserl” (Madison 1981, xix). Moreover, as we have seen, both Schelling and Merleau-Ponty sought a way to think our fundamental indivision from Nature, the life that is “already there” before the advent of reflection, and for both philosophers, Being is not an object. Both thinkers sought to overcome bifurcations of Nature and classical philosophical antinomies of the one and the many, Nature and freedom, Nature and consciousness, and the infinite and the finite. That said, it is also clear that Merleau-Ponty is dissatisfied with Schelling’s solution for thinking Nature. Although it is difficult to gauge what he thought of Schelling’s notion of intellectual intuition, Merleau-Ponty still remained worried about the fate of the concept. As we have seen, the experience of feeling identical to, or at least unified with, Nature is different in kind from philosophical explication that requires concepts. Certainly, Schelling did not wish to ignore concepts altogether, but it seems clear that he valued them less than did Merleau-Ponty. For the latter, the starting point for philosophy is not “a massive and opaque world, or a universe of adequate thought; it is a reflection which turns back over the density of the world in order to clarify it, but which, coming second, refers back to it only its own light” (VI 35/57).39 37. For a spirited defense of Schelling against Hegel, see Wirth (2003, 11–24, 106–107, and 202–206). 38. “Ce qui résiste en nous à la phénoménologie,—l’être naturel, le principe ‘barbare’ dont parlait Schelling,—ne peut pas demeurer hors de la phénoménologie et doit avoir sa place en elle.” 39. “Ce qui est donné ce n’est pas un monde massif et opaque, ou un univers de pensée adéquate, c’est une réflexion qui se retourne sur l’épaisseur du monde pour l’éclairer, mais qui ne lui renvoie après coup que sa propre lumière.”

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Finally, there is another reason that Merleau-Ponty could have given, but did not, in defense of conceptual knowledge, and it is curious that he did not do so since he was certainly familiar with it. It is that concepts are necessary to explain contingency—and the possibility that things could not be or could have been different is something on which he strongly insists. The argument at issue appears in the much-discussed §76 of Kant’s Critique of Judgment (as well as in the Critique of Pure Reason [A 218–26/B 265–74]): “If understanding were intuitive [rather than discursive, i.e., conceptual], it would have no objects except actual [ones].” But we do understand “merely possible” objects beyond our experience such as, say, a million-sided figure. Therefore, our understanding must be more than intuitive. It must involve concepts because our entire distinction between the merely possible and the actual rests on this: in saying that a thing is possible we are positing only the presentation of it with respect to our concept and to our thinking ability in general; but in saying that a thing is actual we are positing the thing itself [an sich selbst] (apart from that concept). (1987, 284, 285; brackets and parentheses in the original) On Merleau-Ponty’s view, as noted in Chapter II, contingency is an essential aspect of Being itself. As Ricoeur says of Merleau-Ponty’s last writings, “existential contingency is now taken up by a movement of coming to light of Being itself which is no longer in any way an ‘accident’ ” (Madison 1981, xix). For Schelling, there is contingency in Nature, but there is also, as we have seen, necessity, and his discussions of both contingency and necessity range over the order of phenomena, what phenomena there are, the causal structure of the whole of what appears to us, and the qualities of what we perceive. For example, in Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature, he asserts that we are justified in demanding that Hume explain the source of what he took to be the illusion of necessary connections among phenomena: “For that we do actually think of a sequence of causes and effects as necessary—that thereon rest all our empirical sciences, theory of Nature and history (in which he was himself so great a master), he cannot deny” (1988, 26). He also states that it is necessary that matter have some quality, but what quality it has is contingent.40 The science that treats of the particular qualities of matter is chemistry, and so “to general dynamics, as a science that is intrinsically

40. This claim sounds very Whiteheadian. Science and the Modern World employs almost identical language.

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necessary, there stands contrasted, under the name of chemistry, the special dynamics, which in its principles is utterly contingent” (Ibid., 200, 201). It is not clear whether, for Schelling, conceptual knowledge is limited to the contingent or whether, particularly within the natural sciences, it can also embrace necessity. In any event, for him it cannot substitute for, or displace, the epistemological and even ontological primacy of intuition. Nor could it for Bergson, influenced as he was by Schelling through Ravaisson.41 However, for Merleau-Ponty, as we have seen, the knowledge expressed in the logos proforikos is conceptual in a way that Schelling’s notion of intuitive understanding is not.

BERGSON Intuition and its relation to concepts forms only a small part of Bergson’s substantial and complex influence on Merleau-Ponty. From his earliest to his last works, he refers often to his predecessor’s writings, in which he finds much to praise and also much to criticize. In “The Philosophy of Existence,”42 written two years before his death, Merleau-Ponty regrets that his student curriculum had been dominated by Léon Brunschvicg’s idealism. Had this not been the case, he writes, and if he and his fellow students had read Bergson carefully during the 1930s, they would have discovered much that they later learned through philosophies of existence—i.e., through thinkers such as Husserl, Heidegger, Jaspers, and Marcel. He then goes on to say that what they could have learned included the importance of perception, temporality, consciousness, and the reality of the body as mine as opposed to an object constructed by science. In short, they had to wait to read those authors to understand the meaning of the idea of incarnation that they might have obtained from Bergson. Merleau-Ponty also states in “Bergson in the Making” that his predecessor was the first to have established the perceptual circuit between the body and things to which the Phenomenology of Perception gives so much attention. Not mentioned, however, is Bergson’s reliance on the traditional causal model of perception and behavior that Merleau-Ponty rejects in the light of Gestalt psychology. Merleau-Ponty also states that Bergson was the first to reveal the “brute being of the perceived world” as “duration a-borning,” and in so 41. However, Bergson himself attempted to downplay Schelling’s influence on Ravaisson, though not on himself. He attributes what influence there was on Ravaisson to a “natural affinity, community of inspiration and, if one may say so, pre-established harmony between two minds” (1999, 228). 42. Dialogue, Vol. V, No. 3, 1966, 307–22. Reproduced and cited at TD 129–39/PC II: 247–66.

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doing, he “regains at the heart of man a pre-historic and ‘prehuman’ meaning of the world” (S 185/223).43 In addition, both Bergson and Merleau-Ponty interpret Nature as active and dynamic as opposed to a passive Cartesian substance, and they both conceive of ontology in terms of becoming. Also, both view subjectivity as interwoven with, and dependent on, a certain set of biological facts. Therefore, consciousness and life do not stand in opposition to each other and both reject the ontology of the object. Bergson, in fact, stated the “J’en suis” before Merleau-Ponty: “ ‘Whatever be the intimate essence of what is and what creates itself, Bergson said again, we are of it’ ” (E16/25–26).44 Correlatively, neither philosopher disdained biological sciences. Other prominent themes in Merleau-Ponty’s writings on perception and the body also derive at least in part from Bergson. These include the body as a “real center of action,” a “center of perspectives” and an organizational center around which a horizon forms. Because of this, for both thinkers, to perceive is not merely to inspect things, but rather a bodily anticipation. Hence, scientific accounts of perception are parasitic upon and presuppose the world of perception. Thus also, self-contained scientific knowledge is “mythical” (UAC 79, 80). Throughout Merleau-Ponty’s various texts,45 all of these Bergsonian influences can be grouped under four overarching themes: the defense of intuition as opposed to conceptual thinking in establishing our indivision from Being, duration in the undifferentiated immediacy of time consciousness and its implications for a philosophy of nature, Bergson’s account of perception, and his view of life and the body within Nature, as discussed in Creative Evolution. These large and complex topics can easily enough fill a separate volume. Therefore, in the limited space available here, we will confine ourselves to what is most central to Merleau-Ponty’s view of Nature. Leaving aside the subject of perception, we will take in turn the topics of intuition and duration in this chapter, and reserve for the following 43. “Bergson retrouve au coeur de l’homme un sens préhistorique et ‘préhumain’ du monde.” 44. “ ‘Quelle que soit l’essence intime de ce qui est et de ce qui se fait, disait encore Bergson, nous en sommes.’ ” The citation is from Bergson’s address to the First Oxford Conference (E 16/25). Further on, Merleau-Ponty also praises his predecessor for eschewing high-altitude thinking by thinking within “life, the world, [and] history” (Ibid., 30/44). 45. Merleau-Ponty provides a sustained analysis of Bergson’s philosophy in five places. These are his lectures collected in UAC, his 1953 inaugural address to the Collège de France (E 9–33/17–47), his first course on “The Concept of Nature” (January-May 1957), in the lectures dealing with “The Romantic Conception of Nature,” and in his essay, “Bergson se faisant” (May 1959). The second of these sources is currently Chapter IV of La Nature, and there the discussion of Bergson follows that of Schelling, to which it is closely related. The section on Bergson in the inaugural lecture deals almost exclusively with intuition and duration, whereas the Nature lectures analyze those themes as well as perception (a running commentary on the first chapter of Matter and Memory) and life and Nature—focusing exclusively on Creative Evolution.

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chapter the theme of life in Nature as discussed in Creative Evolution and Merleau-Ponty’s own view of life in Nature as a response to both Schelling and Bergson. In that same context, we will also articulate Whitehead’s critical response to Bergson. In “The Romantic Conception of Nature” Merleau-Ponty’s discussion of Bergson’s view of intuition and concepts continues his reflections on Schelling. At first sight, he says, their philosophies seem to have little in common. Bergson, unlike Schelling, is a “positivist” because he wants to reject all ideas of negativity in the form of “the possible, nothingness, and disorder” (N 51/78). In particular, he rejects as nonsensical the Leibnizian question “Why is there something rather than nothing?” Yet, while he rejects as meaningless the question, Why is there anything at all?46 he does want to know why particular things exist as they do. By contrast, Schelling’s aim is to discover how the whole activity of Nature comes about, and how Being is productive enough to produce beings. In addition, Bergson is not at all concerned with the Schellingian tension between intuition and dialectic. Given the primacy he accords to intuition, dialectic on Bergson’s view is only a vacuous conceptual game. Concepts, he tells us, “ordinarily go by pairs and represent the two opposites. There is scarcely any concrete reality upon which one cannot take two opposing views at the same time and which is consequently not subsumed under the two antagonistic concepts.” Therefore, “never, with concepts or points of view, will you make a thing.” What is really important for philosophy is “to know what unity, what multiplicity, [and] what reality” (1999, 176–77).47 In addition, Bergson’s belief that concepts can yield no more than relative knowledge, never absolute knowledge of the inner being of things, is why, in Creative Evolution, he uses his analysis of the famous élan vital to rethink organic nature in terms established by Kant’s Critique of Judgment. As with both Kant and Schelling, Bergson’s objective is to describe a process of “natural production” proceeding from “the whole to parts,” but which avoids “the premeditation of the concept and admits no teleological interpretation” (RC 78/85). That is, all three philosophers reject finalism. 46. For Bergson, this question rests on the mistake of assuming the priority of non-being over being and then trying to account for why anything at all came to be (1937, 327). The problem is thus dissolved rather than solved. Deleuze points out that, for Bergson, assuming the priority of non-being over being amounts to mistaking “the more for the less,” “as though being came to fill in a void” (1991, 18). Merleau-Ponty appears to agree: “[T]here is not something rather than nothing, the nothing could not take the place of something or of being” (VI 64/92). “[I]l n’y a pas quelque choses plutôt que rien, le rien ne saurait prendre la place du quelque chose ou de l’être.” 47. Deleuze puts it this way: “The concrete will never be attained by combining the inadequacy of one concept with the inadequacy of its opposite. The singular will never be attained by correcting a generality with another generality” (1991, 44).

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However, as against Kant, but with Schelling, Bergson holds that all concepts ultimately falsify reality by breaking up its continuity. So, for example, he held that Hegel was correct to seek the unity of Being, but the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis always divides our intuition instead of unifying it. He expresses this contrast clearly in the opening paragraphs of An Introduction to Metaphysics, in which he describes “two profoundly different ways of knowing a thing”: The first [conceptual knowledge] implies that we move round the object; the second that we enter into it. The first depends on the point of view at which we are placed and on the symbols by which we express ourselves. The second [intuition] neither depends on a point of view nor relies on any symbol. The first kind of knowledge may be said to stop at the relative; the second, in those cases where it is possible, to attain the absolute. (1980, 21)48 Merleau-Ponty does not say so, but he could also have added that Bergson’s metaphysics, like that of Schelling, is typical of the “Romantic Reaction” that perhaps finds its best expression in Wordsworth’s famous dictum, “We murder to dissect.” For Merleau-Ponty, Bergson’s philosophy is also close to that of Schelling in terms of negativity. This is a complex topic that we will revisit in the following chapter. Here, though, the essential point as regards Schelling is that, in also rejecting the Spinozistic account of Nature, Bergson avows its contingency. For Merleau-Ponty, this is enough to show that his predecessor, despite contradictory claims, incorporates negativity “in the idea of Being” (N 52/79) after all. This is because what is contingent may have been different or not have been at all. Moreover, Bergson states that one question philosophers hardly ever trouble themselves to ask concerns the idea of nothingness, which is, nonetheless, “the hidden spring, the invisible motor of philosophical thought” (1937, 275). Merleau-Ponty would likely agree because of the importance of natural negativity—from the concealed horizons of sensible things to the negativity instituted by dehiscence and the écart, to the hidden depths of Being. Moreover, negativity is his most important vehicle for comparing and contrasting Bergson and Sartre and for contrasting his own ontology with both. 48. For Bergson’s rejection of Hegelian dialectic, see 38 ff. Creative Evolution also speaks of symbolic knowledge as “an artificial imitation of the internal life, a static equivalent which will lend itself better to the requirements of logic and language, just because we have eliminated from it the element of real time” (1937, 4). Hegel’s response to this distinction was already fashioned in his criticisms of Schellingian intuition, namely, that Kant was correct that percepts without concepts are blind—“the night in which all cows are black.”

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His incorporation of negativity within Being is his answer to Bergson’s and Sartre’s attempted exclusion of it, though they do so in different ways and for different purposes.49 Despite these differences, however, Merleau-Ponty goes on to say, Bergson’s entire philosophy, like that of Schelling, is guided by the idea of a total, self-evident, and primal unity (N 53/80). Both of them believe that Nature is “a primordial and lost indivision” denied and expressed by “the developed universe” (RC 78/110). For Bergson, this unity manifests itself not only through a study of intuition but also, in Creative Evolution, through an original unity of animal and vegetal life. Both thinkers also believe that intuition places us in the presence of an Absolute. Thus, after the passage cited above from An Introduction to Metaphysics about the two different modes of knowledge, Bergson illustrates this point with the perception of an external object in motion. My perception changes with the point of view, whether stationary or in motion, that I take up on it. How I express the movements “will vary with the system of axes, or points of reference, to which I relate it; that is, with the symbols by which I translate it.” Such movement is “relative.” On the other hand, when I speak of an absolute movement, I am attributing to the moving object an interior and, so to speak, states of mind; I also imply that I am in sympathy with those states, and that I insert myself in them by an effort of imagination. . . . [I grasp] the movement . . . from within, as it is in itself. I shall possess an absolute. (1980, 21–22) This is why Merleau-Ponty says that Bergson often terms this “true thought” of Being “fusion” or an “inscription” of things in our consciousness: Bergsonian intuition amounts to “a massive grip on being, without exploration, without interior movement of meaning” (E 12/21).50 These last words conclusively distinguish the “massive grip on being” that Merleau-Ponty ascribes to Bergsonian intuition from his own “massive adhesion” to Being as flesh. The latter notion, as we have seen, is anything but an intuitive grasp “without interior movement of meaning.” As we have

49. Thus The Visible and the Invisible: “All that is partial is to be reintegrated, every negation is in reality a determination, the being-self and the being-other and the being in itself are fragments of one sole being” (64/92). “Tout ce qui est partiel est a réintégrer, toute négation est en réalité détermination, et l’être-soi, et l’être-autre, et l’être en soi sont fragments d’un seul être.” 50. “ ‘Acte simple,’ ‘vue sans point de vue,’ accès direct et sans symboles interposés à l’intérieur des choses, toutes ces formules célèbres de l’intuition en font une prise massive sur l’être, sans exploration, sans mouvement intérieur du sens.”

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seen, his discussion of Schelling demonstrates that he rejects attempts to recover the pre-linguistic immediacy of experience with which we should silently coincide (NC 372–75, VI 125–26/166–67), and the same arguments apply to Bergson. That said, however, Merleau-Ponty does point out that Creative Evolution speaks positively about the link between language and intelligence.51 As we have seen of his view of concepts, for Merleau-Ponty language is not necessarily deceptive, and truth is neither coincidence nor mute. Once again, to understand means “to translate into available significations meaning first held captive in the thing and in the world itself” (VI 36/58). The intuition through which we belong to Being is therefore not an eternal, contemplative state. On the contrary, it is temporal through and through. When we look within ourselves, on Bergson’s view, we perceive an unbroken flux of duration that simultaneously appears to us as ours, but also connects us with the passage of Nature. For instance, while we watch sugar melting in a glass of water, we must wait for the melting to occur. Our duration and that of the sugar melting are thus one and the same, a “little fact [that] is highly instructive” (1937, 9; translation altered).52 On Bergson’s view, one of the lessons that this kind of experience imparts is that it forms the most convincing reason for believing in the existence of the external world because we experience ourselves as transcended by the things themselves.53 Therefore, rather than having to seek beyond ourselves to reach these things, we are, in Merleau-Ponty’s words, “solicited and haunted by them from within” (E14–15/24). Or, as Matter and Memory puts it, cited by Merleau-Ponty in the Nature lectures (N 57/85), “we grasp, in perception, at one and the same time, a state of our consciousness and a reality independent of ourselves” (1988, 203–204).54 For Bergson, this simultaneity is indicative of the fact that time is the main vehicle for thinking Being. As Merleau-Ponty notes, duration for Bergson is much more than “change, becoming, mobility; it is being in the 51. Cf. E 28/41: the internal development of Bergson’s thought proceeds “from a philosophy of impression to a philosophy of expression. What Bergson said against language has caused us to forget what he said in its favor.” “d’une philosophie de l’impression à une philosophie de l’expression. Ce que Bergson a dit contre le langage fait oublier ce qu’il a dit en sa faveur.” 52. The English translation renders “Ce petit fait est gros d’enseignements” as “This little fact is big with meaning.” 53. Merleau-Ponty expresses this theme nicely when he writes, “When we are at the source of the durée, we are also at the heart of things” because we do not confront Being as a spectator, but rather by “a kind of complicity, an oblique and clandestine relationship” (E 15/24–25). “Quand nous sommes à la source de la durée, nous sommes aussi au cœur des choses . . . c’est comme une complicité, un rapport oblique et clandestin.” 54. It would be interesting to know to what degree, if any, Bergson influenced Claudel’s formulation of his neologism, “co-naissance.”

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vital, active sense of the term” (S 184/232).55 Duration is the way that the passing moment “maintains itself, conserves itself, undivided in the present, and grows” (E 10/18); it is “a kind of flowing thing which remains while it melts away” (Ibid.). Time does not substitute for Being; rather, it is the coming into being of Being itself, such that all of Being “must be approached from the side of time” (S 184/232). Duration is, as Edward S. Casey has noted, a “nonlinear dissolving time” that stands opposed to Cartesian duration because, as in the above example, it is neither purely on the “side” of consciousness nor on that of external things. Rather, “its very existence deconstructs the Cartesian bifurcation” (1993, 11).56 For Bergson, therefore, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, “duration is the milieu in which soul and body find their articulation because the present and the body, the past and the mind, although different in nature, nevertheless pass into one another” (S 185/232).57 In addition, Casey’s statement is true as far as it goes, but there is another, equally important reason why Bergson opposes his notion of duration to that of Descartes. The Cartesian notion cannot account for evolution, “the very essence of life” (1937, 22). Since Cartesian duration is about discrete, mathematically measured temporal quanta, it is “a world that dies and is reborn at every instant—the world Descartes was thinking of when he spoke of continued creation” (Ibid., italics in the original). Evolution, on the contrary, requires “a real persistence of the past in the present, a duration which is, as it were, a hyphen, a connecting link” (Ibid.). As we have seen, Merleau-Ponty’s own description of duration in perceptual experience rejects the Cartesian analysis of temporal instants, but it also rebuffs Bergson’s alternative of an unbroken continuity of duration. The latter, he says, was right to stress temporal continuity, but he was wrong to employ continuity as the explanation of temporal unity (PhP 420/481). Unbroken continuity is really inconsistent with time because, if the past and present already belong to each other, then the difference between past and present is effaced. An adequate phenomenology of temporality must account for both continuity and differentiation. Therefore, “if consciousness 55. “La durée n’est pas seulement changement, devenir, mobilité, elle est l’être au sens vif et actif du mot.” 56. In The Creative Mind, Bergson himself describes the duration that makes up this “nonlinear dissolving time” as a “succession which is not juxtaposition, a growth from within, the uninterrupted prolongation of the past into a present which is already blending into the future” (1999, 35). 57. “. . . la durée est le milieu où l’âme et le corps trouvent leur articulation parce que le présent et le corps, le passé et l’esprit, différents en nature, passent pourtant l’un dans l’autre.”

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snowballs upon itself, it is, like the snowball and everything else, wholly in the present” (PhP 276n./319n1).58 As noted above, temporal continuity is also important for Bergson in order to account for the evolution of life. Accordingly, we will continue our discussion of duration and intuition in the context of Bergson’s influence on Merleau-Ponty’s view of life in Nature.

58. “. . . si la conscience fait boule de neige avec elle-même, elle est, comme la boule de neige et comme toutes les choses, tout entière dans le présent.” Merleau-Ponty is referring to the following passage in Creative Evolution: “My mental state, as it advanced on the road of time, is continually swelling with the duration which it accumulates: it goes on increasing—rolling upon itself, as a snowball on the snow” (1937, 2).

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Merleau-Ponty is attracted to Bergson’s discussions of life in Nature not so much for the intricate details themselves, but rather because of what they reveal about various forms of the bifurcation of Nature in modern philosophy. As David Morris has noted, “The Visible and the Invisible . . . is not just a turn to the philosophy of being of Heidegger, but to the philosophy of nature of Schelling . . . that Bergson was trying to pursue in Creative Evolution. One cannot develop a philosophy of perception that overcomes traditional dualisms without also rethinking life and nature” (2004, 98). Not surprisingly, therefore, Merleau-Ponty organizes his critique around the subjects of mechanism and teleology, consciousness and Nature, God and the world, activity and passivity, and above all, negativity and positivity. It is this last theme that is most crucial for him because, as noted above, it serves as the fulcrum for his own view of natural negativity in counterpoise to both Bergson and Sartre.

MECHANISM AND TELEOLOGY The aim of Creative Evolution, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, is to employ the intuition “of the duration that we are” (N 58/87) in order to recover the natural functioning of life as opposed to all distinctly human activities and all teleology (finalism). He points out how Bergson rejects both mechanism and finalism as inadequate accounts of natural processes—assemblages of natural processes for the former and, for the latter, those same assemblages infused with an external and preestablished end. Life is both above finalism—because “life does not create by proposing the idea of an end” (Ibid.)— and below it, because sometimes there are aberrations and horrible mistakes. Bergson tells us that in fact mechanism and finalism both make the same mistake: since everything is already given in both explanations of Nature, there is no place for unpredictable behavior that evolution displays. 153

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For this reason, finalism is “only inverted mechanism” (1937, 39). Bergson also holds that the principal error of mechanism and finalism is to overextend the use of certain concepts that are “natural to our intellect” (Ibid., 44). Since our intellect, like perception, is shaped by and for the necessity for action, it is conceptual thinking that functions by means of instrumental rationality—forming and testing plans and fitting means to ends. In such planning, no matter whether we think of Nature as a giant machine governed by scientific laws or as the unfolding of a preestablished plan, both ways of conceptualizing Nature have their roots in the same critical requirements of preparation for action. Rejecting an externally imposed end to the creative process, Bergson substitutes “internal finality,” which he thinks recovers Kantian thinking from the Third Critique. But, Merleau-Ponty holds, he misunderstands Kant, for whom there is “an immanence between the end and the means”—e.g., in the resemblance between a mother and her daughter—but not a finality “internal to the organism” for which there can be, on Kant’s grounds, no conceptual knowledge (N 59/87). For Merleau-Ponty, what Bergson adds to Kant is an understanding of life as history: “the living organism is ‘a unique series of acts constituting the true history’  ”1 (Ibid., 59/88). In the absence of such finality, organisms and life itself are to be understood—as in Matter and Memory—in terms of a temporality in which an organism continues its past while differentiating itself from it. In other words, its internal unity is duration. Thus, Bergson says, “every cell, considered separately, evolves in a specific way. Wherever anything lives, there is, open somewhere, a register in which time is being inscribed” (1937, 16).2 For Merleau-Ponty, this “register” is neither human consciousness nor our “notation of time” (N 59/88), but rather “an institution, a Stiftung,” to use the Husserlian term, an act that launches “a becoming without being exterior to this becoming” (Ibid.). This notion of the institution of life draws together several strands of thought in Creative Evolution, particularly where, as Merleau-Ponty points out, Bergson supposes an original unity of life at the beginning and then its differentiation among “animals, vegetables, [and] microbes,” the balancing functions inherent in life “in the state of reciprocal implication” (N 59/88). “Complex mechanisms on divergent lines of evolution” (Ibid.) led Bergson

1. This is a misreading of the text. Bergson does not describe the organism this way. Rather, he says, as against those who want to produce a living organism chemically, “histologists and embryogenists on the one hand, and naturalists on the other” who are concerned with the “minute structure of living tissues” see what happens in the chemical retort as a “unique series of acts that really constitute a history” rather than just a series of physico-chemical reactions (1937, 36). 2. Bergson italicizes this entire sentence, but neither Merleau-Ponty nor the English translation of La Nature does so.

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to consider the famous élan vital—the original impulse of life, indetermination, freedom, creativity—as the generative, unifying force of natural development. For example, the same élan that produced sexual reproduction in animals also produced an analogue in plants, because it would be necessary later for animals, and the same can be said of “the tendency of the vegetable toward a growing complexity” (1937, 119). The same force that leads via one line of evolutionary development to development of some material form, such as an eye, can lead to the same result realized in a different concrete realization through an entirely different line of development. For instance, the “eye of a vertebrate and that of a mollusc such as the common Pecten” possess identical basic parts: “The eye of the Pecten presents a retina, a cornea, a lens of cellular structure like our own” (Ibid., 62). Such phenomena, therefore, produce the impression of perceiving “one single gesture . . . behind the convergent details,” such that my perceptions and what appears through the process of evolutionary development “intermingle with, transgress upon, or tie up with one another” (S 186/234). As Merleau-Ponty sees it, the first two chapters of Creative Evolution carefully describe life as a “blind and finite principle” (N 60/89). As against finalism, the blindness of life stems from its not having pre-formed ends, as a result of which present and future states of humanity are neither “pre-figured in the evolutionary movement” (Bergson 1937, 266) nor purposively prepared. Therefore, the vital impulse can lead to unpredictable divergences and failure. It cannot overcome all obstacles (Ibid., 254), and what success it achieves is therefore always contingent (Ibid., 255). The vital impulse is “finite” because, although the élan “has been given once for all” (Ibid., 254), it quickly exhausts itself in its work of producing various natural forms. Life thus exists in tension with matter, “which is necessity itself” (Ibid., 251), the same view expressed in the last sentences of Matter and Memory (1991, 249). Life is creative “mobility,” but it requires effort. Thus, Bergson adds, “the act by which life goes forward to the creation of a new form, and the act by which this form is shaped, are two different and often antagonistic movements. The first is continuous with the second, but cannot continue in it without being drawn aside from its direction” (Ibid., 129). As a result, Merleau-Ponty concludes, Bergson views Nature as undividedly “producer and product” (N 60/89), and never a pure naturans.3 3. Bergson’s interest in evolution was never in Tennyson’s perception of “Nature red in tooth and claw,” but rather (like Schelling) in the creative productivity of Nature, the profusion of a stupendous number of different life forms. Duration, he says, “means invention, the creation of forms, the continual elaboration of the absolutely new” (1937, 11). Feeling a part of this “single impulsion” of life (Ibid., 271) has the ecologically important consequence that “we feel ourselves no longer isolated in humanity, humanity no longer seems isolated in the Nature that it dominates” (Ibid., 270).

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For Merleau-Ponty, all of the particular data of the evolutionary process that Bergson analyzes in the first two chapters of Creative Evolution— “The Evolution of Life—Mechanism and Teleology” and “The Divergent Directions of the Evolution of Life—Torpor, Intelligence, Instinct”— present a concrete picture of life not as “rest” or “coincidence in itself,” but as “a labor of itself on itself” (N 62/91) through which it achieves self-actualization. However, in Chapter 3, “On the Meaning of Life—The Order of Nature and the Form of Intelligence”—Merleau-Ponty states that Bergson’s “intuition degenerates” (N 60/89). In this “metaphysical elaboration” (Ibid., 62/91), life is now “pure creation, undivided act that does not leave itself” (Ibid.). It is an “undivided principle . . . and accessible to a mystical intuition” (Ibid., 60/89). Bergson passes from a conception of life as “an equivocal and dialectical principle to life as a univocal and intuitive principle” (Ibid., 62/92). However, even if life actualizes itself through the development of particular material forms, the latter delimit and hinder it. For example, the nervous system serves as a limitation to the complete self-realization of consciousness, and the eye does not so much make vision possible as it does pose a necessary material obstacle to the life that courses through it. On Bergson’s view, “it is a vision that is canalized, and the visual apparatus simply symbolizes the work of canalizing” (1937, 93). There is a “principle of unity” by means of which activities of life transcend their “contingent manifestations” (Ibid., 62/92), and all the forms of natural order are only the coefficients of adversity of life activities. From this point on, Merleau-Ponty says, life and its realizations for Bergson are opposed to each other, and the élan vital turns into a type of “reservoir” instead of an “operation,” a metamorphosis that Merleau-Ponty attributes to Bergson’s “positivism” (N 63/93).4 This is puzzling because Bergson does not describe the vital impetus in this fashion. He always speaks of it in terms of an active force, a unifying push of Nature—in other words, very much an “operation.” As Merleau-Ponty sees it, Chapter 3 of Creative Evolution changes the vital impetus from a principle that is “indissolubly means and end” into one divided into “two terms: the physical and the psychical” (N 63/93), with the former derived from the latter. That is, for Bergson, the “relaxation” of life’s 4. It is also a rather mystical “reservoir”—Merleau-Ponty’s word—that raises the specter of animism. Thus, Merleau-Ponty cites from Creative Evolution the author’s claims that “[w]hile, in its contact with matter, life is comparable to an impulsion or an impetus, regarded in itself it is an immensity of potentiality, a mutual encroachment of thousands and thousands of tendencies,” and, “Thus souls are continually being created, which, nevertheless, in a certain sense pre-existed” (1937, 258, 269–70). Bergson’s next sentence, not cited by Merleau-Ponty, explains that souls “are nothing else than the little rills into which the great river of life divides itself, flowing through the body of humanity” (Ibid., 270). Consciousness “is distinct from the organism it animates, although it must undergo its vicissitudes” (Ibid.).

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creative activity generates matter: speaking of “materiality” and “spirituality,” Bergson writes, “we pass from the first to the second by way of inversion, or perhaps even by simple interruption” (1937, 201). What he means by this is one half of a process of contraction and expansion. On the one hand, each present contracts the past into itself. “What, in fact, is a sensation?” Deleuze asks. “It is the operation of contracting trillions of vibrations onto a receptive surface. Quality emerges from this, quality that is nothing other than contracted quantity” (1991,74).5 Thus also, the notion of contraction enables us to transcend the dualism of “homogeneous quantity and heterogeneous quality, and to pass from one to the other in a continuous movement” (Ibid.). Yet, if a present instant is “the most contracted degree of our past” through which we install ourselves in matter, “matter itself will be like an infinitely dilated or relaxed [détendu] past (so relaxed that the preceding moment has disappeared when the following appears)” (Ibid.).6 This is also the way in which this “détente” can transcend the Cartesian dualism of what is unextended and what is extended. “For perception itself is extensity, sensation is extensive insofar as what it contracts is precisely the extended, the expanded (détendu). . . . Movement is no less outside me than in me; and the Self itself in turn is only one case among others in duration” (Ibid., 75). Since for Bergson “physics is simply psychics inverted” (1937, 202), Merleau-Ponty draws the following conclusion. Whereas in the first two chapters of Creative Evolution Bergson embraced a monism and, as we have seen, a dialectical view of the relationships between life and matter—life could not be analyzed into two separate and distinct elements—in Chapter 3, by contrast, Bergson presents “both a dualism and an emanatism, which is the negation of the dualism: matter is issued from the first element by the slackening of the latter; it is drawn from it by inversion” (N 63/93).7 Merleau-Ponty next claims that this move from monism to dualism is unavoidable because, since consciousness is duration of a multiplicity of mental states, the unity that Bergson’s positivism requires ultimately demands a unity “beyond duration, a ‘supraconsciousness,’ a maximum of symmetrical interiority for the maximum of total exteriority that is matter. The concept of Nature must burst and yield its place to God” (Ibid.).8 However, 5. Cf. 87–88: “And qualities belong to matter as much as to ourselves: They belong to matter, they are in matter, by virtue of the vibrations and numbers that punctuated them internally.” 6. Deleuze also notes that, for Bergson, “The present is only the most contracted degree of the past, matter the most relaxed (détendu) degree of the present (mens momentanea)” (1991, 75). 7. “Maintenant, Bergson admet, à la fois, un dualisme et un émanatisme qui en est la négation: la matière est issue du premier élément, par détente de celui-ci, elle en est tirée par inversion.” 8. “. . . il faut donc poser une unité au-delà de la durée, une ‘supraconscience,’ un maximum d’intériorité symétrique au maximum d’exteriorité totale qu’est la matière. Le concept de Nature doit éclater et céder la place à Dieu.”

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Merleau-Ponty continues, Bergson does not identify evolution with God. The creative energy of life attempts to regain itself after its encounter with matter, and “God is the same energy but drawn to its source” (N 63/93). For Merleau-Ponty, Bergson projects his dualism between life and matter into the very Nature of God when he admits in La Pensée et le mouvant that “God creates non-Being, the void, at his expense” (N 64/94).9 In addition, although Bergson is unwilling to make his philosophy into a theology, he occasionally intuits the union of monism and its manifestations, “the feeling of contact with an Absolute” residing in us, a caring, “absolute naturans” (N 64/94).10 In this regard, one of the most curious omissions in Merleau-Ponty’s extremely sketchy summary11 of Chapter 3 of Creative Evolution is Bergson’s statement, “In the absolute we live and move and have our being” (1937, 199). Merleau-Ponty’s interpretation of Chapter 3 of Creative Evolution is open to criticism for the way that he interprets the relationship of life and matter in Creative Evolution. It is not very helpful to say, as he does, that Bergson’s position on this subject in Chapters 1 and 2 is a monism and his view in Chapter 3 is a dualism brought about by matter emanating from life. It is just as accurate to say that Bergson moved from a dualism to a monism, depending on what one means by these terms. What is the case is that, in the first two chapters, matter is portrayed as an obstacle against which the vital impulse must struggle. Matter does not derive from life; rather, it constitutes its limitation. To take only one of a plethora of examples, he says of the evolution of life, “Even in its most perfect works, though it seems to have triumphed over external resistances and also over its own, it is at the mercy of the materiality which it has had to assume” (1937, 127). However, in the third chapter, we find the view to which Merleau-Ponty

9. The editor of La Nature notes that this citation is from “a passage dedicated to the Report on French Philosophy” written by Ravaisson and discussed by Bergson in the last chapter of La Pensée et le mouvant, “The Life and Work of Ravaisson” (N 94, n. 1). However, the only sentence in that chapter that even faintly resembles what Merleau-Ponty says is the following passage in which Bergson quotes Ravaisson: “Infinite thought ‘has annulled something of the plenitude of its being, in order to draw from it, by a kind of awakening and resurrection, all that exists’ ” (1999, 239). 10. Cf. E 25–26/38 where Merleau-Ponty discusses Bergson’s God “as the principle of the good.” “Everything happens, according to Bergson, as if man encountered at the roots of his constituted being a generosity which is not a compromise with the adversity of the world and which is on his side against it.” “Tout se passe, à lire Bergson, comme si l’homme rencontrait, à la racine de son être constitué, une générosité qui n’est pas compromise avec l’adversité du monde et qui est d’accord avec lui contre elle.” This is as close as Merleau-Ponty comes to expressing his own sense of God. It is also very close to William James’s view in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1904a, 517). 11. Nor are Merleau-Ponty’s own retrospective summaries of his courses, Résumés de Cours, Collège de France 1952–1960, of any help. The total amount of space dedicated to Bergson in dealing with the Romantic conception of Nature is only three pages (109–11).

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referred: matter is derived by “détente”—“relaxation,” “distension,” “inversion,” or “interruption”—of the action of the vital impulse. The descriptions of life and matter from the earlier chapters still show up in Chapter 3; however, the predominant view in this chapter is that matter is “a simple arrest of the action that generates form [in the creative process]” (1937, 239). Further, “the two opposite directions of the work of consciousness” (Ibid., 267) are divided between intuition, or instinct, and intellect, also referred to as “intelligence.”12 Bergson rejects the Kantian alternatives that the “mind is determined by things,” that “things are determined by the mind,” and that, “between mind and things we must suppose a mysterious [transcendental] agreement” (Ibid., 205). Rather, convinced that Kant was correct to assert that “extension is not a material attribute of the same kind as others” (Ibid., 204), but without accepting Kant’s reasons for this assertion, Bergson defends a fourth alternative that Kant could not consider because “he did not think that the mind overflowed the intellect” (Ibid., 206). It is that “intellect and matter have progressively adapted themselves one to the other in order to attain at last a common form” (Ibid.). This happens “naturally” because in this double creation, “the same movement by which the mind is brought to form itself into intellect, that is to say, into distinct concepts, brings matter to break itself up into objects excluding one another. The more consciousness is intellectualized, the more is matter spatialized” (Ibid., 189), and the more matter is spatialized, the more time is spatialized.13 To explain how this natural inversion or relaxation takes place, Bergson appeals to the following analogy. Suppose I am listening to a poetry reading. I follow the reading with an undivided consciousness. I “interest myself” in the poet, place myself in his or her feelings, relive “the simple state” that has been “broken into phrases and words,” and “sympathize” with the poet’s “inspiration” (1937, 209). “Now,” says Bergson, “I need only relax my attention, let go the tension that there is in me, for the sounds, hitherto swallowed up in the sense, to appear to me distinctly, one by one, in their materiality” (Ibid.). This is not something that I do; it adds no content to the experience, but rather subtracts something. Hence, it is “negative,”

12. In Creative Evolution, intuition is a type of instinct, and instinct is “sympathy.” Intuition is “instinct that has become disinterested, self-conscious, capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging it indefinitely” (1937, 176). 13. Merleau-Ponty holds that criticism of the conceptual spatialization of time is neither necessary nor sufficient for recovering “authentic time” (PhP 415n./474–75 n. 1). It is not necessary because time is disengaged from space only on condition that space is something “objectified in advance,” and if we disregard “primordial [bodily] spatiality” (Ibid.). And protests against spatialization are insufficient because, when the conceptually static terms used to describe time have been fully criticized, it is still possible to misdescribe “an authentic intuition of time” (Ibid.).

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and the more I “pursue this quite negative direction of relaxation, the more extension and complexity I shall create” (Ibid.). Bergson then states that this comparison will at least help us to comprehend “how the same suppression of positive reality, the same inversion of a certain original movement, can create at once extension in space and the admirable order which mathematics finds there” (1937, 210). This is to say that the flux of life, for Bergson, is purely positive, while Negativity is the product of intellect. There is no natural negativity, except in the weak sense of contingency. The same reasoning also applies to space, which “arises automatically, as the remainder of a subtraction arises once the two numbers are posited” (Ibid.).14 Thus, as the sounds of the poet’s voice materialize for me when I “relax my attention” to its meaning, in a comparable fashion spatial extension materializes when the efforts of the vital impulse are interrupted. As noted above, matter and spatial extension simply are that interruption to which intellect corresponds. Intellect and matter are both cut out of the flux of life in the same movement, just as intellect cuts out bodies from matter. “Yet,” Bergson he still maintains, “it is undeniable that matter lends itself to this sub-division” (Ibid., 203). It is very difficult to make Bergson’s two views of the relationship of life/consciousness and matter consistent with each other, a conclusion that Merleau-Ponty reaches at the end of his analysis of Creative Evolution in the Nature lectures. What intervenes is his all-important critique of negativity and positivity in that work.

NEGATIVITY AND POSITIVITY Throughout Merleau-Ponty’s entire discussion of Bergson in La Nature and elsewhere, he portrays his predecessor as engaging in a sort of running and ultimately losing battle with negativity and the idea of nothingness. Since Bergson could not totally exorcize nothingness from Being, he writes, philosophical anguish was more nearly repressed than eliminated (N 52/79). As a case in point, he states that the shift from Chapter 2 to Chapter 3 of Creative Evolution exhibits the author’s habitual movement to a “defined 14. Another reason that Merleau-Ponty might have described Bergson’s view in Chapter III of Creative Evolution as “emanatism” is a note appended to this statement about space. Bergson writes, “Our comparison does no more than develop the content of the term logos, as Plotinus understands it. . . . More generally, the relation that we establish in the present chapter between ‘extension’ and ‘detension’ resembles in some aspects that which Plotinus supposes . . . when he makes extension not indeed an inversion of original Being, but an enfeeblement of its essence, one of the last states of the procession” (1937, 210, n. 1). In terms of Bergson’s conception of space, Deleuze notes helpfully, “Space, in effect, is not matter or extension, but the ‘schema’ of matter, that is, the representation of the limit where the movement of expansion (détente) would come to an end as the external envelope of all possible extensions” (1991, 87).

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positive reality,” to “perceive a negation in this positive reality,” and therefore to translate “this negation into positive terms (here the physical and the psychic).” The final result, he goes on to say, is to preserve “despite everything the positive unity, the incorporation of this new negation in the concepts of being and of the positive” (N 64/94).15 In this way, as Merleau-Ponty sees it, Bergson can preserve his positivism only at the price of repressing the negative. However, this criticism is unconvincing because the only sense of negativity present here is the inaction of life or consciousness—its “relaxation” or “detension.” Second, Merleau-Ponty observes that when we focus on the process of natural production, we find that Bergson’s desire to banish negativity commits him to the view that there can be no pure disorder. There can be relative disorder, but the “idea of [total] chaos is contradictory” (N 65/95).16 This conclusion follows from Bergson’s discussion of two forms of order: the “vital” (1937, 224), and the “geometrical” or, more generally, “the mathematical order” (1937, 219), which La Nature terms “the physicomathematical order” (N 65/95). The latter, for Bergson, is negative, but only in the sense of not being “a positive thing” (1937, 219). Its negativity stems from the fact that “the particular laws of the physical world” that express this form of order are “the work of an investigator who has regarded things from a certain bias, isolated certain variables, [and] applied certain conventional units of measurement” (Ibid., 218), and because the mathematical order, like matter, “produces itself automatically by the interruption of the inverse order . . . it is this very interruption” (Ibid., 220). On the other hand, it is no less true that Bergson states, in language that closely resembles Merleau-Ponty’s notion of reversibility, that matter “already possess[es] everything necessary to adapt itself to our [mathematical] formulae” (Ibid., 219).17 Further, the physico-mathematical order expresses

15. “. . . de s’apercevoir que, dans cette réalité, il y a une négation, d’où la traduction de cette négation en termes positifs (ici le physique et le psychique) et d’où, finalement, afin de conserver malgré tout l’unité positive, l’incorporation de cette nouvelle négation dans les concepts d’être et de positif.” 16. Merleau-Ponty does not say so, but this argument derives from Kant. A phenomenal appearance of total chaos would be self-contradictory because of the implicit ordering activities of consciousness through which the manifold of sensory intuition would achieve intelligibility as chaos. 17. On its face, this sentence appears to contradict Bergson’s rejection of one of the Kantian alternatives mentioned earlier, that “between mind and things we must suppose a mysterious agreement.” Bergson does not seem to recognize a tension between the two sentences, and perhaps he would reply that the key difference is the word mysterious. Kant was referring to the problem of how the categories of the understanding can “connect” with those data—in his technical language, be “schematized.” Bergson’s second sentence is about the intellectual measurement of matter, not how mind and matter come together in the first place.

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and presupposes the regularities of cause and effect: given the same conditions, the same results will obtain. The vital order, however, yields the same results under different circumstances, as we have seen with the example of the same structures of matter appearing in diverging lines of evolution. The two forms of order also differ in terms of temporal emphasis. Permanence in the vital order comes from the success of future results, whereas permanence for nonliving entities is explained by past-looking considerations. Merleau-Ponty claims that, for Bergson, these two forms of order are “not only contrary, but contradictory” (N 65/95). Bergson clearly sees them as contrary in that the first type of order, “the vital,” is that in which creativity is unforeseeable (Ibid., 224), while the second type of order, “the mathematical,” is “automatic and . . . foreseeable” (Ibid.). Yet, Bergson never claims that these two types of order are contradictory, and for him both are in fact true. This is because the mathematical order of Nature is simply the way that intellect conceptualizes matter. Merleau-Ponty also finds it difficult to believe in the positivity of the “physico-mathematical order” in Bergson’s philosophy, particularly in light of the latter’s claim that the capacity to disintegrate is an essential characteristic of matter. Yet, even though Bergson does not hold that the “physico-mathematical order” is positive, this is still an odd claim to make. For, the disintegration of material configurations would ipso facto amount to the disintegration of the “physico-mathematical order” as concerns the matter affected. However, Merleau-Ponty does not consider that objection. Instead, he pursues the subject of negativity in terms of the conflicting views of matter in Creative Evolution. He concludes that Bergson’s positivism makes the double demand on us that we believe that “life is a positive reality from which matter derives, by a simple arrest [par simple arrêt]” (N 66/96) of the vital impulse and that, given the supposed contradictions sketched above, life and matter are “two positive orders” (Ibid.). The first belief stresses continuity from one order to another. The second, he says, if taken literally, would destroy Bergson’s idea of Nature, which teaches us that life amounts to “the resumption of the arrested creative movement, and from which the arrest produces matter, the latter being a reality that makes itself in a world which undoes itself” (N 66/96, 97).18 This “bipolar” movement “interior to Nature” must be presupposed: the “negation operating in Nature” (Ibid.) in the continual interplay of life and matter is essential to prevent Bergson’s concept of Nature from breaking up. 18. “. . . la vie est la reprise du mouvement créateur arrêté, et dont l’arrêt donne la matière, celle-ci étant une réalité qui se fait dans un monde que se défait.” There is no explanation of “un monde que se défait,” without which it is difficult to determine what Merleau-Ponty means here.

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Thus, Merleau-Ponty concludes yet again—in this case, because he conflates the concepts of negation and nothingness—that “the true meaning of Bergson’s philosophy” is that, despite his protests to the contrary, it “incorporates” the idea of nothingness in Being rather than abolishing the idea (N 67/97). Yet, he says, returning to negation, given Bergson’s positivism, “it is the same thing to say that something is not and to say that something is. All negation is only denegation, Verneinung, as Freud would say” (N 67/97),19 and it was left to Freud to sound the “psychological depth” of negation insofar as it has no direct connection with things, but rather “to the repression of erroneous judgments” (Ibid.). In this way, for Bergson, “negation is only an affirmation of an affirmation” (Ibid.).20 From this claim Merleau-Ponty argues that Bergson defends the total positivity of mind, illustrated with the following example. Suppose that there were no functioning languages or societies, and that every human “intellectual initiative, every faculty of self-reflection and of self-judgment atrophied” (1937, 292). Even so, there would remain “the dampness of the ground” that would be taken up in sensations and that would be capable of transmitting “a vague idea to the deadened intellect. The intellect would still affirm, in implicit terms” the presence of the humid soil independently of higher cognitive functioning, and so the latter is not necessary for affirmation (Ibid.). It is clear, Bergson tells us, that “this passive intelligence, mechanically keeping step with experience, neither anticipating nor following the course of the real” (Ibid.), would feel no need for any negative judgment. Merleau-Ponty claims that this is a weak argument for an “esprit positif” (N 67/98). On his view, its most obvious deficiency is to leave out history.

19. “Pour lui [Bergson], c’est la même chose de dire que quelque chose n’est pas et de dire que quelque chose est. Toute négation est dénégation, Verneinung, comme dirait Freud.” It would be an accurate portrayal of Bergson’s view if the end of the first sentence were “que quelque chose d’autre est” (“that something else is”). 20. Bergson’s own explanation is much clearer than Merleau-Ponty’s commentary. Negation is “affirmation of the second degree” (1937, 288) because it affirms something of an affirmation that itself affirms something of an object. For example (Bergson’s), I say that a table is black. This is an affirmative proposition about something that I’ve seen. But “The table is not white” is not an affirmation of what I have seen, so it is not a judgment about the table. Rather, it is a judgment about the (implied) “judgment that would declare the table white. I judge a judgment and not the table” (Ibid., 287–88). Whenever we say, “This is not X,” it expresses the perceptual appearance “in the language of my expectation and attention” (Ibid.). This, therefore, is another case of relative disorder, “the disappointment of a mind that finds before it an order different from what it wants” (Ibid., 222). Bergson could well have responded to Merleau-Ponty’s criticism of implied negativity as he did in terms of negative judgments directed at unexpected (positive) forms of order. Deleuze is right to say that the core of Bergson’s philosophy is “to think differences in kind independently of all forms of negation: There are differences in being and yet nothing negative” (1991, 46). These dualisms include those of duration and space, memory and matter, perception and recollection, and perception and affectivity.

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Thus, in “Bergson in the Making” Merleau-Ponty writes, “It is hard to understand why Bergson did not think about history from within as he had thought about life from within. Why did he not also set about investigating in history the simple and undivided acts which arrange fragmentary facts for each period or event” (S 187/235–36)?21 Hence, for Merleau-Ponty, this primitive and passive affirmative mind seems ill suited for Bergson’s own “ontology of the past, the present, and the future” (N 67/98). Moreover, Merleau-Ponty asserts, in Creative Evolution, there is “a movement between the positive and the negative” (Ibid., 52/79) because we need intelligence to ask questions that instinct alone would not pose (see Bergson 1937, 151), and the former works on the latter (N 52/79). This creates, for Merleau-Ponty, “a ‘tension’ between the question and the answer” (Ibid., 52/79–80) within intuition itself and, he goes on to say, Creative Evolution maintains the “positive value” (Ibid., 1937, 52/80) of intelligence because it is the source of the mobility of consciousness. “Consciousness,” Bergson tells us, “is the light that plays around the zone of possible actions or potential activity which surrounds the action really performed by the living being” (Ibid., 144), and it is this active function of consciousness that, as Merleau-Ponty sees it, leads Bergson to say that coincidence with Being is, as we have seen above, “only partial” (Ibid., 52/80). Nevertheless, for Bergson, there is no evidence that this relationship between consciousness and intuition introduces any “tension” between them, and still less any negativity beyond the absence of total coincidence. In addition, Merleau-Ponty’s argument for the weakness of Bergson’s argument for the positivity of mind is itself weak. The first problem is that it tries to make the argument prove something that its author did not intend. Bergson never claimed that the primitive mind in his thought-experiment could encompass all our reflections on Being or that it was adequate to express his “ontology of the past, the present, and the future.” Rather, he was concerned to show that, well beneath conceptual thinking, for a mind that followed “purely and simply the thread of experience, there would be no void, no nothingness, even relative or partial, no possible negation. Such a mind would see facts succeed facts, states succeed states, things succeed things” (1937, 294). That is because, at that very primitive level, “the intellect will still affirm, in implicit terms” (Ibid., 292). Yet, it cannot “receive an imprint of negation; for, once again, that which exists may come 21. “C’est vraiment une question de savoir pourquoi il n’a pas pensé l’histoire du dedans comme il avait pensé la vie du dedans, pourquoi il ne s’est pas mis, là aussi, à la recherche des actes simples et indivis qui, pour chaque période ou chaque événement, font l’agencement des faits parcellaires.” The answer to Merleau-Ponty’s question is that Bergson, at least in Creative Evolution, considered history in terms of the evolutionary development of life. See, for example, 65–66 and 264–69.

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to be recorded, but the non-existence of the non-existing cannot” (Ibid.). Consequently, the second problem with Merleau-Ponty’s response is that he does not acknowledge that what is at issue here for Bergson is simply a variant of his previous point that negative judgments do not literally report perceptual impressions, but rather constitute meta-judgments, that is, judgments about judgments. Bergson states that confusion about affirmation and negation stems from the fact that such judgments are expressed in propositions and, from the perspective of formal logic, both affirmation and negation consist of “mutually symmetrical acts” (1937, 292). However, this “symmetry is altogether external and the likeness superficial” (Ibid.) because the two types of judgments function very differently. Affirmative judgments simply state that X is Y, whereas negative judgments, although they have the deceptively simple form of X is not Y, really conceal an implicit contrast between what is the case and what is not. As a result, the proposition, “The ground is not damp” means both “(1) that one might believe that the ground is damp, [and] (2) that the dampness is replaced in fact by a certain quality x” (Ibid., 293). At this basic pre-reflective level, for Bergson, the present looks forward to future possibilities not consciously foreseen, but in some ways sensed through instinct. Now, at the end of “Bergson in the Making,” Merleau-Ponty criticized his predecessor for not believing in “interrogative thought” (S 191/240), though for Bergson, interrogative activity is anterior to thought and is present even in the most elemental forms of awareness of the environment. As he pointed out in Matter and Memory, because of the way that the nervous system is constructed, it is perceptions that pose questions to our motor responses. This is only one example of the fact that Merleau-Ponty could have found even more support in Bergson’s “phenomenology of perception” for his ontology of flesh. For both thinkers, our perceptual and bodily links to nature repudiate completely a Cartesian dualism and a bifurcation between appearance and reality.

A WHITEHEADIAN RESPONSE Whitehead’s assessment of Bergson is very much in keeping with that of Merleau-Ponty, but also much more concise. He likewise cites Bergson often and was substantially influenced by his thought, even while finding many shortcomings in it. For example, Whitehead uses the expression, “the passage of nature,” for what Bergson calls “time,” and he agrees with Bergson about its being the fundamental character of reality (CN 54). On the other hand, Whitehead does not agree with Bergson’s repudiation of teleology and suspicion of concepts, and he is willing to accommodate disorder and negativity in nature in a way that Bergson would not.

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Whitehead also makes appreciative use of some of Bergson’s terminology. For instance, he explicitly uses Bergson’s word canalization to express the presence of “mental originality” in an animal’s body. “It expresses the control and intensification of mental life, without which limits, disaster would befall the body” (PR 107). Also, in developing his own account of feelings, Whitehead appropriates Bergson’s notion of intuition, but “with some significant changes” (PR 280). In addition, Whitehead, like Merleau-Ponty, was deeply influenced by Bergson’s view of the penetration of the past in the present: we “trail behind us, unawares, the whole of our past; but our memory pours into the present only the odd recollection or two that in some way complete our present situation” (Bergson 1937, 284). Too, Whitehead likewise holds that Bergson was partially correct in his protest against the intellectual spatialization of things through which process is ignored and the world interpreted “in terms of static categories” (PR 209). He was correct insofar as such spatialization abstracts from the fluency of process. “The difficulties of Cartesianism with its three clear-cut substances, and with its ‘duration’ and ‘measured time’ well in the background, illustrate the result of the subordination of fluency” (Ibid.). However, for Whitehead, Bergson was wrong to rule out spatialization completely as a valid descriptive device: “The more primitive types of experience are concerned with sense-reception, and not with sense-perception . . . sense-reception is ‘unspatialized,’ and sense-perception is ‘spatialized.’ In sense-reception the sensa are the definiteness of emotion: they are emotional forms transmitted from occasion to occasion” (PR 113, 114). Moreover, although Whitehead thinks that the history of philosophy generally supports Bergson’s contention that the intellect does tend to spatialize nature, Whitehead rejects Bergson’s more sweeping conclusion that this tendency is “an inherent necessity of the intellect” (PR 209). He criticizes the “anti-intellectualism” of both Bergson and Nietzsche who hold, he believes, that all intellectual analysis is based on some “discarded dogmatic method, and thence . . . deduce that intellect is intrinsically tied to erroneous fictions” (AI 223). As Victor Lowe points out, Whitehead’s explanation of nature as composed of “existences as teleological processes” supports Bergson’s rejection of materialism, but at the same time teaches “by example that it is possible for theoretical concepts to express the inner growth of things” (1966, 50). Whitehead was not unaware of the difficulties of using concepts (universals) to express the particularity of things, but he also understood that dependence on traditional Aristotelian logic was an insuperable obstacle. “Here again,” Lowe says correctly, “Whitehead is the innovator, Bergson the conservative to whom logic is forever Aristotelian and the intellect forever excluded from metaphysical penetration” (Ibid., 259). Whitehead’s conceptual innovations in his mature process metaphysics

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are also something that Merleau-Ponty would have appreciated as he himself struggled to find new ways to formulate his ontology of flesh. Whitehead’s “philosophy of organism” found other shortcomings as well in Bergson’s process philosophy. For reasons that we will investigate later, Whitehead’s work, unlike that of Bergson, distinguishes becoming from change and is based on the former. Like Merleau-Ponty, Whitehead also rejects a conception of process as unbroken continuity and a conception of discontinuities as mere static states created by our intellectual intervention. For Whitehead, on the contrary, as we shall see in the following chapter, process is discontinuous because it is made up of individual acts of concrescence. Also, whereas Whitehead’s notion of creativity applies to all existents, Bergson’s “creative evolution” is only concerned with living beings. Therefore, despite multiple claims to the contrary, creativity for Whitehead is not the same as Bergson’s élan vital because it has a much wider scope. Whitehead’s notion of creativity in fact is a descriptive generalization of organic life, and this is the reason why he calls his metaphysics “the philosophy of organism.”

THE LIFE OF FLESH We have seen that Schelling holds that, in some way, all of Nature is alive, and Bergson explains the presence of life in Nature through his famous élan vital. Merleau-Ponty offers a different explanation through his studies of biology. The last “Working Note” for the completion of his “new” ontology, written two months before his death, specifies that Part I of the entire project would deal with “The visible,” and what came to be The Visible and the Invisible formed an unfinished beginning of it. Part II, which included Eye and Mind, would treat the subject of Nature, and Part III, unwritten, would deal with the Logos (VI 274/328). About “Nature,” the philosopher writes that he does not intend to interpret it as “Nature in itself” as Scholastics might have conceived it, but rather as the “intertwining” of animality and human beings. It would be “Nature as the other side of man (as flesh—nowise as ‘matter’)” (Ibid.). There is an Ineinander between human beings and “animality and Nature,” just as there is “an Ineinander of life and physicochemistry” (N 208/269). Merleau-Ponty’s three Nature courses articulate this “intertwining” in great detail in order to argue against Cartesian dualism and other forms of the bifurcation of Nature. The first course focuses on the phusis, the second on animality, and the third on the human body and the Logos. We have also seen that, for Merleau-Ponty, our flesh explains the flesh of the world and vice versa, and we have followed his generalization of the body’s reversible, chiasmatic structure to all flesh. In the three Nature lectures, he wants to show through the evolutionary process, embryology, phylogenesis,

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an analysis of animal behavior, and the relationships of human beings and (other) animals, that life, the subject, or consciousness, does not descend into matter, but rather emerges from it. Correlatively, he also tries to steer a middle path between vitalism and mechanism while rejecting finalism, but allowing for purposeful behavior. Rather than delving into all of Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of the complex details of animal behavior and their implications for understanding human behavior and the body, we will restrict ourselves to the philosophical relevance of some of the biologists studied in his courses. For example, typical of the kinds of discussions that reject finalism in these chapters is that which focuses on George E. Coghill’s study of the axolotl lizard (1929). Beginning as a tadpole, the lizard eventually develops four legs and then emerges on land. Coghill studied its development as an embryo and then its motility, especially its learning to swim. He identified five phases in this learning process (N 140–41/189), which are not important here, but what is significant is Merleau-Ponty’s non-finalist interpretation of Coghill’s research. Writing in a Bergsonian vein, he says that if we see the achievement of swimming in the tadpole’s first movements, we would then be guilty of the finalistic, “retrospective illusion” of projecting the future into the past, or else copying the “sensible world” with an intellectual double without understanding the former (Ibid., 152/203). Along the same lines, Merleau-Ponty rejects preformation as an explanation of embryology—the notion that an embryo develops from an already complete miniature—and notes that “modern embryology defends the thesis of epigenesis”—the theory that embryonic development begins with an undifferentiated egg cell (N 152/203). He repeats this claim later in the context of rejecting Hans Driesch’s vitalistic analysis (1929) of ontogenesis (Ibid., 230/239).22 And for organisms generally, he rejects the finalistic notion that they already have their futures “folded back in potential in the beginning of its organic life, as in a nutshell in its beginning” (Ibid., 155/206).23 There is, however, clearly present a sketch of its future, in the sense that development is not random, but this sketch is more nearly in the sense of an outline than something predetermined. The sketch guides development, but does not guarantee it. Thus, Merleau-Ponty states, there 22. But see RC 126/173: “Embryology since Driesch seems to us to have been moving in this direction in refusing to opt either for preformation or epigenesis, rather taking both notions as ‘complementary’ and describing embryogenesis as a ‘flux of determination.” “l’embryologie depuis Driesch, quand elle refuse d’opter entre préformation et épigenèse, prend ces notions comme ‘complémentaires’ et décrit l’embryogenèse comme un ‘flux de détermination.’ ” Whatever the evidence for this statement in the spring of 1960, biologists now generally accept that epigenesis is the correct theory. 23. “L’avenir de l’organisme n’est pas replié en puissance dans le début de sa vie organique, comme en raccourci dans son début.”

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is another instance of natural negativity in the organism, an absence of something “difficult to know” that the future will fill (Ibid.). “Life,” he writes, “is not a sort of quasi-interiority, it is . . . the reality of a process, as Whitehead would say, unobservable up close, which assuredly is made, and which is a reality” (Ibid., 156/208).24 A more important influence on Merleau-Ponty’s views of life and Nature was the German biologist, Jakob von Uexküll. In his 1958 course on “Animality, the Human Body, and the Passage to Culture,” the philosopher appropriates Uexküll’s descriptions of the Umwelten of both lower and higher animals (1909, 1932). For Uexküll, an Umwelt is a subjectivized world—for example, a field that would be experienced very differently by a cow, a tick, or a human being. On his view, a given organism and its world are related internally such that, as Tristan Moyle puts it, there is “an adaptation of the environment into the organism” (2007, 168). Uexküll’s studies of the “ways” or “manners” in which animals behave reveal that those “manners” can be “read as the meaning of behavior.” Since this behavior directed toward an Umwelt “begins well before the invention of consciousness” (N 167/220)—it “includes elementary organization (embryology), and physiological, instinctive organization, or behavior properly called”25 (Ibid., 167/220)—Uexküll strongly rejects the Cartesian notion that consciousness is a subject joined to a machine. For Merleau-Ponty, similarly, animality becomes an incarnate “logos of the sensible world” (Ibid., 166/219). Uexküll holds that both lower and higher animals have Umwelten. However, some lower animals, such as a certain species of medusa, the marine worm, the urchin, and the starfish, approach the condition of being mere machines. They have no proper unity that opens up to the outside and no motor projects—“no unity of the living being which unfurls itself toward the outside” (N 169/222)—because their entire existence amounts to reflex responses to their environments. The urchin, for example, is a “reflex republic” (1932, 47; cited at N 169/222). For much the same reason, Whitehead says that “a tree is a democracy” (AI 206). By contrast, Merleau-Ponty will add in his third Nature course that higher animals have a “regulation,” that is, a behavioral circuit between the outside and world and the animal’s central nervous system. As a result, “they are their Bauplan, they recreate it” (N 221/283). A Bauplan, or a building plan, amounts to “a kind of a priori spatial and temporal field unique to each animal species”

24. “La vie n’est pas une sorte de quasi-intériorité . . . la réalité d’un passage, comme dirait Whitehead, inobservable de près mais qui assurément se fait, et qui est une réalité.” 25. “Le comportement embrasse l’organisation élémentaire (embryologie), l’organisation physiologique, instinctive ou de comportement proprement dit.”

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(Moyle 2007, 168). The plan has a dimensionality according to which the various stages of the organism’s temporal and spatial growth get organized. In addition, our bodies, unlike those of lower and most higher animals, can actually project a world (Ibid., 222/284). Even lower animals, then, have a Bauplan, but only in a “descriptive sense” (Ibid.)—that is, as a heuristic device to conceptualize a unity. Uexküll considers them “incomplete organisms” (N 222/284). On the other hand, as Whitehead also held, there are degrees of organization and life in nature, and thus there are other lower animals that are more complex and are fully organisms. For example, the sea anemone has “three separate neural networks, but . . . only one behavior” (Ibid., 170/224). The Umwelt of a higher animal is marked by another novelty: the construction of “a Gegenwelt” (“monde opposé”) (N 170/224).26 Lower life forms have unified functioning, but no ability to reply to their world. The Umwelt has them closed off and insulated from most external influences. Such animals “constitute a sort of cohesion with their world, a closed unity” (Ibid, 170–71/224). For example, the urchin, Uexküll tells us, adapts itself so thoroughly to its world that is full of dangers, but with which it does not have to struggle for existence, that it lives as though it were alone in the world (Ibid., 171/224). Therefore, Uexküll rejects, as will Merleau-Ponty, the Darwinian explanation of natural selection based on life “endlessly menaced by death.” The urchin, for instance, lives in tolerance of other animals and shows that, pace Darwin, not all animals exhibit “more and more perfect solutions to the same problem” (Ibid.). Uexküll substitutes for Darwin’s threatened-by-death explanation the view that the external world has the ability to determine a unique solution in any given situation (N 178/233). This is a recurring theme throughout Merleau-Ponty’s Nature lectures, and it is central to his alternative to the bifurcation of Nature in terms of bodies and the emergence of mentality. This theme is particularly visible in his third Nature course when he discusses the problems of phylogenesis that “put the very fabric of being in question” (N 243/309). Merleau-Ponty points out that morphology was Darwin’s chief concern, and the “theory of descendance” from an identified origin became key to understanding the exceptional “identity . . . between the hand, the clawed animal foot, the horse’s hoof, the turtle’s flipper, [and] the bat’s wing” (Ibid.). For Darwin, 26. Uexküll adds further specifics to his concept of a Gegenwelt. “He distinguishes the Welt (the objective world), the Umwelt (the milieu tailored to the animal), and the Gegenwelt, which is the Umwelt of higher animals; the interiorized Umwelt is in its turn made up of two systems: the Merkwelt and the Wirkwelt”—the worlds of perception and action, respectively (N 172/226). “Il distingue le Welt: c’est le monde objectif, l’Umwelt: c’est le milieu que se taille l’animal, et le Gegenwelt, qui est l’Umwelt des animaux supérieurs, l’Umwelt intériorisé est, à son tour, fait de deux systèmes: le Merkwelt et le Wirkwelt.”

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organisms get modified by the combination of chance and “the pressure of selection,” and something exists because something else did not survive—“a factor of life replaced by a factor of death. Elimination of the inept” (Ibid., 244/309). For Merleau-Ponty, Darwin is correct that the problem of evolution does not consist in explaining why some organism exists, as Leibniz would, and that what has to be shown is that all competitors in a particular situation have been got rid of (N 251/317). Yet, like Uexküll, Merleau-Ponty does not think that the eliminative solution is empirically adequate. Animals, particularly higher animals, have other possible survival strategies beyond what the theory of descendance would predict. Therefore, for Merleau-Ponty, evolution, which is history, must be distinguished “absolutely” from filiation (Ibid., 258/325). For Uexküll, these strategies require what Merleau-Ponty, following Husserl, has referred to as Offenheit to an Umwelt—something that begins with higher animals because their nervous systems function as a reply to the exterior world [Gegenwelt] to which, therefore, they must already have been open (N 171/225). For lower animals, such replies are determined in advance by their structure. For higher organisms with a greater degree of life, stimuli are elaborated by the nervous system and the latter functions as “a mirror of the world” (Ibid.). For example, in higher organisms, the organization of sense organs permits an animal to acquire environmental information, especially “if the sense organs are mobile, like an antenna, which is a sort of exploratory vision” (Ibid., 178/233). Higher organisms develop themselves in and through building up creative ways of dealing with the challenges of their Gegenwelten to which they are open. Hence, the organism cannot be an effect of its external world or cause of it. For the lower animal, by contrast, there is only a “ ‘wave of excitation’ ” (Ibid., 171/225). The organization is complete only if the animal is aware of “the position of its body and its members, only if it possesses a proprioceptivity”—something that invertebrates, such the octopus, lack (Ibid., 172/226). Merleau-Ponty also follows Uexküll in rejecting both the Kantian perception of unknowable life in the organism and the Schellingian identification with Nature because neither can produce an Umwelt (N177/232). The “open field” of the human Umwelt cannot be the correlate of a Kantian freedom—that is, manifested only in an internal decision. Rather, it is “a structural freedom” (Ibid., 178/233). It is not that of a “suprasensible thing,” but equally not that of a Schellingian “nature-subject” (Ibid.). Finally, Merleau-Ponty states, Uexküll’s notion of the Umwelt teaches us the continuity of life that links the behaviors of lower and higher animals and therefore the impossibility of drawing a sharp line between

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“where behavior begins and where mind ends” (N 178/234). Therefore, Merleau-Ponty finds in Uexküll’s work support for his oft-repeated rejection of a hierarchy of species and the related claim that ours differs from all others in kind instead of by degrees—“qualitatively” (Ibid., 214/276; cf. RC 96/135). Our relations with other species are “lateral,” not hierarchical, “an overcoming that does not abolish kinship (Ibid. 268/335). This is why he says, toward the end of the Nature lectures, that the rationale for his long, complex treatment of evolution is “to give this depth to the human body, this archeology, this natal past, this phylogenetic reference, to restore it in a fabric of preobjective, enveloping being, from which it emerges and which recalls to us its identity as sensing and sensible at every moment” (N 273/341).27 For additional evidence for this archeology, Merleau-Ponty turns to Edward S. Russell’s discussion (1946) of “the ‘oriented character’ of organic activities” (N 178/234). Russell uses behavior as a model for understanding relationships between cells and, in return, he views behavior as an extension of the animal’s motions outside its body. For Russell, behavior and physiological activity are reciprocally involved with each other, as in the case of “the physiological activity of tissue repair and the behavioral activity of an animal that repairs its dwelling” (Ibid., 179/234). In addition, Russell, analyzing such diverse creatures as hydras, dogs, lizards, insects, and crustaceans, compares “the activity of behavior and regulation within an organism” (Ibid., 180/235–36). In the adult state, behavioral activity is already marked in “morphogenesis,” as is clear in the case of insect metamorphosis, “in which behavioral processes and organic processes are linked in the same chain” (Ibid., 181/237). Likewise, sometimes crustaceans secrete their shells and at other times build them out of materials in their environments. In these activities, “the organism and the exterior milieu are substituted for one another” (Ibid.). However, it is Russell’s observations of flatworms that bring to light what Merleau-Ponty takes to be the two most important results of his research. The first is goal-oriented behavior in those creatures, “even for the most elementary activity, as for example the regeneration of tissue” (N 181/237). This capacity means that it can produce possible structural forms “beyond its actual structure. It is a sort of experimental verification of Aristotelianism: there is a formal cause beyond mechanism, a victorious 27. “C’est pour donner cette profondeur au corps humain, cette archéologie, ce passé natal, cette référence phylogénétique, c’est pour le restituer dans un tissu d’être pré-objectif, enveloppant, d’où il émerge et que nous rappelle à chaque instant son identité comme sentant et sensible, que nous avons donné une si grande place à la théorie de l’évolution.”

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planification in each morsel of the flatworm” (Ibid., 181/238).28 Russell also points out that if the opening of a cut flatworm faces toward the head of the animal, the opening will grow one or multiple heads, and if the opening faces toward the rear, it will grow a tail (Ibid., 182/238). Therefore, the flatworm exhibits “a limited and specialized teleology” that functions in tandem with local conditions—in accord with what Uexküll says about the organism’s Umwelt—and “within the limits imposed by physicochemical conditions” (Ibid.). Human teleology, Merleau-Ponty writes, “constructs by assembly of machines, whereas the organism does it by auto-differentiation” (Ibid.), a process of tissue regeneration in which the animal evades the Parmenidean disjuncts of Being and non-Being (Ibid., 183/240). Merleau-Ponty extends his reflections on the Umwelt and connections between animal behavior and the developmental process to the subject of mimicry as studied by Adolf Portmann (1960). Merleau-Ponty has in mind both animals that take on the appearance of their environment and those that imitate other animals, even of other species. For example, there are butterflies that mimic the color of wasps as well as their “rapid, low, irregular flying” (N 185/242). This fact gives him another reason to question “Darwinian ideology” (Ibid., 186/243), even though there are cases of adaptation to environments that are not true mimicry. As Merleau-Ponty sees it, life is richer than a mere “organization for survival” because the life of an organism can manifest an extraordinary profusion of forms, the usefulness of most of which is untried and are “occasionally even dangerous for the animal” (Ibid.). On the one hand, there is a push for freedom, and on the other, “an economy of life” (Ibid., 186/244). Portmann’s studies of animal appearances and mimicry (1960) lead Merleau-Ponty to the emergence of the expressive body in higher animals.29 Their bodily appearances are “more sober” than those of some lower animals, yet there is a larger potentiality for expression. Their bodies are “entirely a manner of expression” (N 187/244). For example, the ornamentation of animals such as frogs present “a ‘semantic ensemble’ . . . a ‘critical ensemble’ that allows the animal to be 28. “C’est une sorte de vérification expérimentale de l’aristotélisme: il y a une cause formelle par-delà le mécanisme, une planification victorieuse dans chaque morceau de planaire.” 29. For example, with regard to human beings, Merleau-Ponty writes that the fact that the libidinal body illustrates a “natural rooting of the for-other” can be compared to Portmann’s demonstration that “mimicry is understood as identification, and that the species is already inscribed in generativity and is also inscribed in this intercorporeity” (N 210/272). “il faudrait une étude du corps libidinal, et montrer qu’il y a un enracinement naturel du pour autrui (nous avons vu Portmann: le corps animal comme organe du pour autrui, le mimétisme comme identification, l’espèce, déjà inscrite dans la générativité, inscrite aussi dans cette intercorporéité).”

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recognized by its fellow creatures” (Ibid., 187/245).30 For Merleau-Ponty, there are two ways to consider the markings on animals, just as we might consider writing on “an old stone”: we can speculate about how the inscription came to be there, but we can also try to understand its meaning (Ibid.). A mollusk’s shell, he continues, does not mean much because the shell does not express the animal within it. By contrast, “the pattern on the skin of a zebra has a meaning because it resulted from an “ensemble of convergent processes” (N 187–88/245). We should be interested in these animal appearances, on his view, because they consist of a language, and one of the most significant domains of experience in which this is the case is sexuality. In higher animals, there is a transformation of sexuality in that it “takes on an expressive value, a ‘value of form’ ” (Ibid., 188/246). For example, lower vertebrates might have muscles to close the eye to protect it, but the same muscular movement in a higher animal can play an expressive role in sexual presentations. For Merleau-Ponty, the existence of mimicry and his reading of what Portmann shows about the expressive function of animal appearances imply that an organism’s milieu and morphology are related internally via resemblance. Their interaction happens “as if there were an indivision, a perceptual relation between the two” (N 188/247). Mimicry appears to establish that we can define behavior “only by a perceptual relation,” and consequently, Being cannot be defined outside of perceived being” (Ibid., 189/247). To say that animal behavior is expressive, and proportionally more so the higher the order of organism involved, is to say that at a certain level behavior becomes symbolic. That is why Merleau-Ponty takes up studies of instinct and then symbolism by one of Uexküll’s students, Konrad Lorenz.31 Lorenz considers that instinctive behaviors are not goal-oriented because instinct “is a primordial activity ‘without an object,’ objektlos” (N 190/249). Mechanistic explanations are not applicable to instinct because they can only be linked to a certain object without being oriented toward it (Ibid., 191/249). Lorenz offers an example of a heron that had not yet engaged in nest building and will only do so the next year. “The heron one day perceives 30. “. . . un ‘ensemble sémantique’ . . . un ‘ensemble critique qui permet à l’animal d’être reconnu par son congénère.” The editor of Le Visible et l’invisible, Claude Lefort, points out that Merleau-Ponty relies on texts from Portmann’s Tiergestalt such as the following about “the body patterns of certain animals.” Such patterns “must be appraised as a special organ of reference in relationship to a beholding eye and to the central nervous systems. The eye and what is to be looked at form together a functional unit which is fitted together according to rules as strict as those obtaining between food and digestive organs” (1960, 113; cited at VI 244, n. 78/298, n. **). 31. Merleau-Ponty remarks that Lorenz’s works are “very difficult to find,” and he relied mostly on his articles in the Journal für Örnithologie and Die Zeitung für Tierpsychologie.

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leaves, falls in front of them in a sort of ecstasy, then executes the behavioral stratagem of accumulation of leaves for the nest, and then falls back into calm” (Ibid., 191/250).32 The instinct is not yet fully realized, but is only there as sketched in outline. “Then it is as if this behavior is erased” (Ibid.). In the pre-nest-building activities, the heron also uses non-instinctive bodily abilities such as motility and perception. Unlike objektlos instinct, these activities are “oriented toward ends, which Lorenz calls ‘taxes’ ” (Ibid.). “A taxis is an oriented and finalized movement of the body” (Ibid.).33 Instinct, therefore, manifests another kind of natural negativity because it contains “a sort of reference to the non-actual, an oneiric life” (Ibid., 192/251). One interesting example of this natural negativity in instinctive behavior is how it gets filled with what Lorenz terms a “Prägung,” an “imprinting” that targets the animal’s “innate stimulus triggers” (N 193/252) and “fills it with a being not foreseen by Nature” (Ibid., 194/253–54). There are many examples of such imprinting, as when the young of one species take as their mother an adult of another species that they first see, even of species normally hostile to it. Instinct is therefore not purely internal, but rather incarnates an intertwining of the internal and the external (Ibid., 195/254). When there are weak external stimuli, the organism’s activity can seem to be empty. In that case, instinct can be disrupted or become “symbolic activity” that functions for animals as a way to communicate with each other, and the behavior traced in outline “easily becomes signification” (N 195/254, 255). Instinct and symbolism are closely linked, for Merleau-Ponty—for example, by the transformation of instinctive behavior into mimicry. Symbolic behavior, on his view, emerges whenever “behavior establishes a resonance” (Ibid., 195/255). Furthermore, when symbolism develops and institutes certain behaviors, those behaviors take on “a new value as social evocation” (Ibid., 197/256–57). For example, sexuality is not about mere acts of copulation, but also a ceremony of “monstration” (Ibid., 196/256) in which instincts can assume the form of rituals. For this reason, Merleau-Ponty holds that “we can speak in a valid way of an animal culture” (Ibid., 198/259). Merleau-Ponty’s second Nature course ends with his dissatisfaction with all of the biologists mentioned above on the relationship of body and consciousness. He says of Lorenz, for example, that he declines to express any opinion about whether animals have a consciousness, though he virtually states that no one with any experience with animals “would deny

32. “Le héron aperçoit un jour des feuilles, tombe devant elles en une sorte d’exstase, puis exécute le manège comportemental d’accumulation des feuilles pour le nid, et, retombe ensuite dans le calme.” 33. “Ce qui est taxie c’est un mouvement du corps, orienté et finalisé.”

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them consciousness” (N 199/259). The third Nature course—“Nature and Logos: The Human Body” (January–May 1960)—addresses that question and examines “the human body as the root of symbolism,34 as the junction of phusis and logos, because our goal is the series phusis—logos—History” (Ibid.). In that third course, Merleau-Ponty answers the question of the relation of consciousness and animality, including humanity, in his habitual terms of sensuous reflection, the reversibility of the sentant with the sensible. Therefore, he does not seek to gain a scientific knowledge of Nature alone, though scientific investigations of Nature “have their truth and their place” (Ibid.). In other words, they are not false, but abstract—an instance of Whitehead’s “fallacy of misplaced concreteness,” as noted in Chapter I. Scientific operations treat Nature as a problem, as in Bridgman’s operationalism (1927).35 Biology construed in this manner as a “technical science” considers a “living being as an artifact, as physiochemical composite” (NC 90), and Merleau-Ponty contrasts this view of an organism as a “bloße Sache” with that of a living being that exists in Einfühlung relationships with others (Ibid.). These relations are not a “residue of pre-science in science” (Ibid.). Rather, they reveal “a reference to the Umwelt and to the world that cannot be reconstituted starting from bloße Sachen: it is the universe of physics that is enveloped in that of life and not the inverse” (Ibid., 90–91).36 As the first sentence of Eye and Mind puts it succinctly, “Science manipulates things and gives up living in them” (OE 159/9).37 This envelopment is also why Merleau-Ponty, following Husserl, states that “all of zoology supposes on our

34. The sense of “root” (la racine) here is unclear. It cannot mean “source” or “first appearance.” It would also be too finalist and conflict with Merleau-Ponty’s rejection of a hierarchy of species to say that “root” means that toward which other animal symbolisms aim for their fulfillment. It might also designate the first fully explicit, elaborated symbolism, or the primary means of knowing about symbolic behavior in (other) animals. 35. “ ‘Operationalism’ of Bridgman: ‘The true definition of a concept is not made in terms of properties, but in terms of effective operations’ ” (N 203/263). “ ‘Opérationalisme’ de Bridgman: ‘La vraie définition d’un concept ne se fait pas en termes de propriétés, mais en termes d’opérations effectives.’ ” Merleau-Ponty cites here Percy W. Bridgman, The Logic of Modern Physics (New York: Macmillan, 1927), 6. 36. “. . . une référence à l’Umwelt et au Welt qui ne peut être reconstitué à partir des bloße Sachen: c’est l’univers de la physique qui est enveloppé dans celui de la vie et non l’inverse.” 37. “La science manipule les choses et renonce à les habiter.” Eye and Mind, which Merleau-Ponty wrote in the summer of 1960, begins by continuing the third Nature course that he had just completed. The influence of the latter on the former is considerable and explains references in the first few pages of Eye and Mind to embryology, biological gradients (measures of the speed with which an organism or cell changes in its physiological activity, metabolism, and growth), operational thinking, and cybernetics. This is why his organizational scheme for completing what came to be The Visible and the Invisible specifies that Part II, which includes Eye and Mind, will deal with Nature.

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part a methodical Einfühlung with animal behavior, with participation by the animal in our perceptual life and participation of our perceptual life in animality” (RC 97/136).38 At the same time, far from denying the truth of biological explanations, Merleau-Ponty adds that an organism is, in a sense, only physico-chemistry (N 206/267), and no non-natural causality or “entelechy” could intervene in natural processes. The organism cannot be reduced to “a sum of instantaneous and punctual microscopic events; it is an enveloping phenomenon, with the macroscopic style of an ensemble in movement. In between the microscopic facts, global reality is delineated like a watermark” (Ibid., 207/268).39 In Merleau-Ponty’s third series of Nature lectures, he takes up the subjects of “genesis, embryology, and the theory of evolution” (N 207/269). He is particularly interested in the subjects of ontogenesis and embryology because he wants “to make contact with indubitably organic facts” (RC 97–98/137). He also wants to argue against Driesch’s vitalism. For example, in the process of genesis, we can analyze organic functioning in “microscopic terms,” but only when we already have the enveloping structures of the organism (N 207/268). Yet, those structures are not determined by causal relations at a microscopic level. Embryonic development is through and through physico-chemical, but physico-chemistry does not necessitate “an organism of a typical form when the plan of the whole is restored from a part (regeneration of flatworms)” (Ibid.).40 For 38. “Il est apparu que toute zoölogie suppose de notre part une Einfühlung méthodique du comportement animal, avec participation de l’animal à notre vie perceptive et participation de notre vie perceptive à l’animalité.” Merleau-Ponty translates and comments on Husserl’s Beilage XXIII of the Krisis, which concerns biology (NC 383–92). He agrees with Husserl that biology is just as universally true as is physics (NC 386), and that “the Ineinander of intersubjectivity extends to our relationship with our body, with animals, [and] plants—[a] universal Ontology” (Ibid., 89). “L’Ineinander de l’intersubjectivité s’étend à notre rapport avec notre corps, avec animaux, plantes—[une] Ontologie universelle.” Biology approximates philosophy because the “animal variant of Einfühlung opens up an ontology to us” (NC 387). 39. “. . . une somme d’événements microscopiques instantanés et ponctuels; il est phénomène-enveloppe, il a une allure d’ensemble, macroscopique. Entre les faits microscopiques se dessine la réalité globale en filigrane.” 40. This sentence as well as the one immediately preceding it display clearly Merleau-Ponty’s habitual equation of causation and mechanistic determinism. Similarly, he writes, “In ontogenesis, in evolution, everything is physicochemistry in conformity with thermodynamics, but it is neither physicochemistry nor thermodynamics that demands the constitution of these ‘singular points’ that are organisms, these structures, this architectonic in which physicochemical events will play” (N 213/276). “Dans l’ontogenèse, dans l’évolution, tout est physicochimie en conformité à la thermodynamique, mais ce n’est pas la physicochimie ou le thermodynamique qui exige la constitution de ces ‘points singuliers’ qui sont les organismes, de ces structures, de cette architectonique où joueront les événements physicochimiques.” For the same conception of causality in the very different context of the relationship of puberty and adult life, see RC 41/61.

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Merleau-Ponty, the physico-chemical differs from life as “the event-based” differs from “the structural,” “the ontic” from “the ontological,” and a “series of individual spatiotemporal facts at a unique locale” does from “the architectonic” structure (Ibid.). The main focus of the third Nature course is the human body rather than animality. “Evolution,” he says, “marks the transition since the human issues from it” (N 208/269), and he wants to consider human beings where they emerge in Nature. Parallel to the “Ineinander of life and physicochemistry,” so also is the human “to be taken in the Ineinander with animality and Nature” (N 208/269). Correlatively, as Uexküll saw, human beings are not animals in a Cartesian sense—that is, as machines—into which reason gets inserted. Because it is the human body with which “evolution makes the transition to human being,” “the human cannot appear in its qualitative difference by the mere addition of reason to the animal (body)” (Ibid., 214/276).41 Humans comprise “another corporeity” (Ibid.) shared with animals with various degrees of mental creativity, and humans “co-exist with animality instead of rashly refusing it any kind of interiority” (C 39)—additional evidence for which he finds in Wolfgang Köhler’s attempts to “retrace the structure of the universe of chimpanzees” (Ibid.; cf. SNS 84–85/147).42 For Merleau-Ponty, our Ineinander with animals is further attested in ethnology and animal psychology, which reveal that animality does not constitute “the origin of humanity, but rough sketches, partial prefigurations, and something like anticipatory caricatures of it” (S 124–25/157; cf. N 214/277).43 To show that is, in effect, the aim of the entire second set of the Nature lectures. Humanity emerges not through the imposition of a for-itself on a bodily in-itself, and not as “another substance,” but rather “as interbeing” (N 208/269–70). In other words, the interworld (l’entremonde) extends beyond human intercorporeity to include that of animals as well. For, among other things, the human body, just as those of other higher ani41. “. . . l’homme ne peut apparaître dans sa différence par l’addition de la raison à l’animal (corps).” The aim of the last part of the third Nature course is “to describe the animation of the human body, not as descent into it of a pure consciousness or pure reflection, but as metamorphosis of life, and the body as ‘body of mind’ (Valéry)” (RC 128/177). “Décrire l’animation du corps humain, non comme descente en lui d’une conscience ou d’une réflexion pures, mais comme métamorphose de la vie, et le corps comme ‘corps de l’esprit’ (Valéry).” See also the same discussion at VI 233–34/287. 42. Wolfgang Köhler, Intelligenzprüfungen An Menschenaffen (Berlin: Julius Springer, 1921); L’Intelligence des singes supérieurs (Paris: Alcan, 1927). 43. The interweaving of humanity and animality, which evidences “a strange kinship” between them, is also attested in mythic presentations such as Eskimo masks studied by Evelyne Lot-Falck. Both the animal and its “human double . . . are inscribed on the same face” (N 214/277). For Merleau-Ponty, the lesson for human corporeity of “our ‘strange kinship’ with the animals (and thus the theory of evolution)” is “our projection-introjection, our Ineinander with Sensible Being and with other corporeities” (Ibid., 271/339).

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mals, exhibits a “ready-made or natural symbolism” (Ibid., 211/274) because it is “interrogation (movement) and a response (perception as Erfüllung) of a project, speaking and understanding” (Ibid., 211/273).44 As regards the evolutionary process that leads to this entremonde, Merleau-Ponty endorses Teilhard de Chardin’s description of the emergence of humanity in Nature when the latter says that “Man came silently into the world,”45 and he interprets this statement to mean four things. In the context of the “preliminary types” of animals that led up to us, we do not see where the fully conscious human being emerges. “We do not see him any more than we see the moment when consciousness appears in ontogenesis” (N 267/334).46 Second, “like all transitional forms, the human is offered at first in few exemplary forms” (Ibid.). Third, this silent entry is due to the fact that individual bodily organization is less conspicuous “than that of the species—the morphological variety is miniscule” (Ibid.). And fourth, there is “no rupture” with the rest of animality (Ibid., 267/335). “There is,” Merleau-Ponty concludes, “a ‘metamorphosis,’ not a beginning from zero” (Ibid.). The theme of life in Nature and our place within it brings to a close the discussion of Merleau-Ponty’s early and late conceptions of ontology and of Nature. It also concludes our reflections on the ways in which he sought to position his views against the heritage of modern philosophy that still prevailed at mid-twentieth-century. However, in the end, how philosophically adequate is his late, unfinished ontology of flesh? It has not escaped serious criticism, and to one of the most recent examples we now turn.

44. “. . . interrogation (mouvement) et une réponse (perception comme Erfüllung d’un projet), parler et comprendre.” 45. Teilhard de Chardin, Le phénomène humain in Oeuvres (Paris: Editions de Seuil, 1955), I: 203. “L’homme est entré sans bruit.” Translated into English as The Phenomenon of Man (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), 184. 46. “On ne le voit pas plus qu’on ne voit le moment où elle [la conscience] apparaît dans l’ontogenèse.”

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VII

BEYOND THE LIMITS OF PHENOMENOLOGY The Fate of the Subject

Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh has not gone without criticism as well as creative elaboration, both in print and in papers read each year at meetings of the International Merleau-Ponty Circle and the Society for Phenomenology and Existential Philosophy, in addition to other venues throughout the world. In a recent paper in the principal journal dedicated to studies of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, Chiasmi International, Renaud Barbaras has advanced a significant critique of Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh as internally inconsistent. That is to say, the very conditions that make it possible, on Barbaras’s view, make it impossible. His main concern, as we shall see, is the fate of the subject from which the ontology develops. Barbaras’s criticisms are not unobjectionable, and there are cogent responses that Merleau-Ponty himself can offer. However, beyond that fact, for the present work his arguments are not only timely but also opportune because, in showing how Whitehead’s process philosophy can help Merleau-Ponty answer them, we can demonstrate by the same stroke how Whitehead’s work might provide Merleau-Ponty a firm metaphysical foundation for overcoming various forms of the bifurcation of Nature, the ontology of the object, and its accompanying pensée de survol.

THE IMPASSE IN MERLEAU-PONTY’S ONTOLOGY Barbaras first summarizes some central themes from Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh, beginning with Merleau-Ponty’s own point of departure, as discussed earlier, Husserl’s discussion of touching-touched, reversible relationships in 181

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§36 of Ideas II. When things are given to us leibhaft, “in the flesh” (en chair), the sensibility required for this reversibility is not added to the body conceived as a physical object. Rather, it is “constitutive of corporeity” (Barbaras 2008, 20). As Husserl himself pointed out, we reach the conception of the body as physical object only through abstraction (Ibid., 21). Therefore, the meaning of “ontic” flesh, revealed in phenomenology, is reversibility. Husserl, though, is concerned only with the ontic sense of flesh rather than a Merleau-Pontian ontological generalization about “the flesh,” and Barbaras argues that Merleau-Ponty’s “passage” or “transcendence” (dépassement) from my own ontic flesh to flesh as its ontological “foundation” cannot be as simple or direct as he thinks it is. As we have seen, the ontological generalization begins with the fact that the subject-object distinction is “blurred” (brouillée) both in the lived body as well as in the perceptual object that, for Husserl as well as for Merleau-Ponty, forms “the pole of my body’s operations . . . the terminus in which its exploration ends” (S 167/211). Sensibility, as in the preeminent touching-touched relationship, is thus characterized by “a sort of fundamental iteration: sensibility only makes the world appear because it is already on the side of the world” (Barbaras 2008, 21). As a result, it only seems to be a paradox to say that “sensibility already belongs to that which it nonetheless constitutes” (Ibid.). As a result, the lived body cannot be solely a body in the sense of a material object (the touched), nor can any experience of touching be conceived apart from a philosophy of incarnation (Ibid.). In arriving at this conclusion, Barbaras interprets Merleau-Ponty as holding that “we have to renounce the very usage of the categories of subject and object” (2008, 21). It is true, as we have seen in Chapter III, that the latter’s ontology of flesh seeks a “brute Being” anterior to the subject-object distinction. However, Barbaras’s claim does not follow from the fact that the subject-object distinction is “blurred” in my flesh. All that follows is that certain conceptions of the subject—e.g., that of Descartes—must be given up. What really follows is that the problem of the subject must be reconfigured to arrive at a non-Cartesian concept because “we must admit that what appears appears to . . . [the subject, which] is, so to say, engaged in what it sees” (Ibid.). Further, we should remember Merleau-Ponty’s comment that we cannot go back before subjectivity even in moving beyond it (S 154/194) and that he gives us a great many descriptions of the subjective and objective aspects of flesh that are, after all, presupposed in the notion of co-naissance. Barbaras then notes, correctly, that, on the traditional—that is, Cartesian—view, reversibility is only a “psychological curiosity” (Ibid., 22), and therefore we must choose between taking reversibility seriously or not. If we do, we must follow Merleau-Ponty in concluding that, if the sub-

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ject-object distinction is “blurred” in my body, it must be “blurred” beyond it as well. My flesh is an “ontological witness,” and “the ontic meaning of flesh is thus destined to be transcended towards a more originary meaning” (Ibid.). As we have seen in Chapter III, this “passage” from the ontic to the ontological, by way of ontological generalization, is based on the fact that, through the structures of visi-bility, my flesh belongs to the world and vice versa. This fundamental belongingness extends our mode of incarnation, the reversibility of sensing and sensed, to the world as such. Therefore, just as my flesh can be awakened and become a sensing and a sensible, so also “being is always already on the side of phenomenality and a being that would rest silently in itself is emptied of meaning” (Ibid.). It is in this manner that Visi-bility takes on an ontological meaning (Ibid.). Barbaras then points out that, contrary to transcendental philosophies that accord a primacy to a constituting subject and derive the meaning of the world from it, for Merleau-Ponty it is the other way around. Visibility is such that the subject itself derives from the reversible structure of ontological flesh—that is, the flesh whose being is defined by the reversibility of sentant and sensible. It is this structure of visibility that accounts for vision, and not the reverse: there is “a relation that the visible has with itself that traverses and constitutes me as a seer” (VI 140/185).1 There is a “fundamental passivity” in this relationship because “sense experience discovers itself as dependent on a phenomenality, of a Perceptible in itself, that is the real actor of appearing and of which sense experience is only a mode of crystallization or of achievement” (Barbaras 2008, 23). Further, as Barbaras notes, to grasp correctly the way that le sentant and le sensible are “blurred” in my own flesh implies understanding how the trajectory from the former to the latter “inverts itself in my body,” and how it is the path from the sensed to the sensing that creates the truth of the opposite path (Ibid., 23). In other words, as we have seen in Chapters II and III, although Merleau-Ponty begins with a description of our own flesh and then generalizes to the flesh of the world, in reality what is discovered is that it is actually because of the nature of the flesh to which I belong that there can be a duet of sensing and sensed to correspond to it. Once again, “[H]e who sees cannot possess the visible unless he is possessed by it, unless he is of it” (VI 134–35/177–78). However appealing this ontology might seem, Barbaras notes, he is left with a sense of “malaise” because of a lack of certainty about whether “this inversion of the circuit of phenomenality gives us a point of arrival that coincides with the point of departure” (2008, 23). That is, if we make the subject to whom appearances occur one that is flesh, which belongs to and 1. “. . . un rapport à lui-même du visible qui me traverse et me constitue en voyant.”

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is dependent on visibility, do we retain the means to acknowledge properly the subject that forms our starting point? On the one hand, for Barbaras, “the subject is dissolved2 in a world that becomes thus Visible and it is in this sense that one can speak of the flesh of the world” (Ibid.). Yet, on the other hand, if inversely we begin with the Visible, the flesh of the world, and seek to understand seeing according to it, can we reach “the flesh as mine,” myself as a seer (Ibid.)? Or, more simply, does my ontic flesh follow from the flesh? If we accept the ontological generalization and characterize not only appearances in the flesh (leibhaft) in terms of reversibility, but also extend reversibility to all of flesh, can we maintain our original point of departure in the inverse direction? Barbaras thinks not. He notes that the ontological generalization and the resulting belief that the lived body belongs to the flesh of the world are underwritten by “a presupposition as massive as it is unquestioned, according to which the body forms part of the world, is situated at its heart and in continuity with it—in brief, is a particle or fragment of the world” (2008, 23). Actually, there are two presuppositions here, as Barbaras goes on to state, namely, that “the world is an objective reality, extended in space and [that] the body is a fragment of this reality, a bit of extension, extract of the latter because it [the body] is completely a part of it” (Ibid., 24). This second presupposition is necessary because [even] spatial extension has to be assumed to speak of the continuity of body and world and the “indiscernible . . . frontier” between them (Ibid.). For Barbaras, the problem that these presuppositions pose is that the continuity of body and world directly clashes with the subject that provides its phenomenological description. Everything occurs “as if Merleau-Ponty had forgotten phenomenology for a moment in order to make possible its ontological radicalization” (2008, 24). In actual fact, for Barbaras, there is a double forgetting. In the first instance, the reversibility of sensing and sensed and the “blurring” of subject and object in my flesh demonstrate that my flesh “could not in any way be conceived as . . . [a purely] objective body” (Ibid.). Therefore, valorizing the continuity of my flesh with that of the world so as to transmit to it the body’s own sensibility leads to a “contradiction” with what reversibility teaches us: my own flesh while touching shares no properties with the world of material things, and in such experiences my flesh “possesses no spatial continuity with it” (Ibid.).

2. “Dissolved” (dissous) is either an infelicitous word choice or supported by the suppressed premise that “subject” means something like the Cartesian version. Merleau-Ponty never argues that the incarnate subject should be “dissolved.” That is why he says repeatedly that there is a unity of body and soul and it requires that we find a (non-Cartesian) way to think that unity—something that, among other things, Whitehead’s process philosophy will provide.

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Barbaras then concludes, “The conditions of extension [the ontological generalization, not spatial extension] thus destroy the very possibility of it: if my flesh is a [purely objective] body, sense experience [le sentir] is exterior to it anew, as a soul is to a body, and it cannot in any case be attributed to the world, which remains an extension without soul and without flesh” (2008, 24). On the other hand, reversibility and the fact that our flesh belongs to the world do show us that our own flesh is not “foreign to the world, as a consciousness would be” (Ibid.). We must find a way to think this belongingness beyond the usual categories of “spatial or material inclusion” (Ibid.), and thus the central and “most difficult” question is how, exactly, our flesh can be “situated in the world,” and he thinks that Merleau-Ponty’s ontological generalization begs the question instead of answering it (Ibid.). We have no need of thinking the world as pure extension, Barbaras states, except to justify “passing directly from the body to the world” (Ibid., 25). In rethinking the way that we belong to the world, the fact that the subject-object distinction is blurred in our flesh invites us also to question “the meaning of being of that to which it belongs, in brief, of this world which it [our flesh] engages in order to make it appear” (Ibid.). For Barbaras, the way that our flesh is related to the flesh of the world is reducible neither to “simple continuity nor, to be sure, of belonging in the sense of a spatial inclusion—another figure of this continuity” (Ibid.). He also offers an explanation for Merleau-Ponty’s continuity hypothesis, namely that the latter “remained dependent on that objectivist philosophy that he did not cease to contest” because the continuity hypothesis was the only way that he could defend the “incarnation of consciousness” against both “reflexive philosophy, by understanding it first as immersion in an objective world,” and transcendental philosophy by decentering the “power of sensing” from a constituting consciousness to the world itself (Ibid., 25). Merleau-Ponty’s solution, as Barbaras sees it, is “a simple monism in which the very frontier of my flesh and that of the world is erased” (Ibid.). Barbaras then states that Merleau-Ponty himself was aware of the difficulties that he has raised, for which he offers as evidence the continuation of Merleau-Ponty’s assertion that the subject-object distinction is “blurred” in my flesh. He notes that the latter extends the same assertion to the perceptual object as well, “the pole of my body’s operations” (S 167/211). In that passage from “The Philosopher and His Shadow,” the author goes on to say that we must take literally statements that a perceptual object “is grasped ‘in person’ or ‘in the flesh’ (leibhaft)” (Ibid.). For Barbaras, this passage shows that for Merleau-Ponty, “the carnal extension” is founded “no longer on an objective continuity but on that of the intentional tissue” (Ibid., 25). The reference to both the ontic and ontological senses of flesh,

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as Barbaras sees it, attempts to replace, within the intentional distance of incarnate consciousness and things, “a continuity permitting the ontological extension of the flesh” (Ibid.). However, he continues, Merleau-Ponty’s attempt reveals both “a naïveté and a forcing” (Ibid., 26). This is because, he says quite surprisingly, the latter’s gambit depends on ignoring the fact that, “in the expression leibhaft, the flesh has a metaphorical significance: it signifies the most intimate, that is to say, what is most one’s own [le plus propre], and that is why the term is used profitably in order to state a givenness of the thing itself, in person, in order to describe its live presence” (Ibid.). Barbaras goes on to claim that Merleau-Ponty proceeds as though the only meaning of the flesh is one’s own, “as if, consequently, leibhaft referred back to the mode of being of the body” (2008, 26), and as though “presence in the flesh signified the presence of a flesh”—in other words, the ontological generalization (Ibid.). As a result, it is simple for Merleau-Ponty to ascribe to material things “the sense of being of one’s own flesh,” the reversibility of sensing and sensed (Ibid.). But this easy transition returns Barbaras to his malaise, which he says is due principally to the fact that Merleau-Ponty proposes a “univocal concept of flesh, to which the very distinction of perceiving and perceived [sentant et senti], that is to say finally the intentional distance, must be able to be brought back” (Ibid.). And in this process, “the ontological transposition” from the ontic to the ontological submerges the “subject of sense experience or of the appearing” (Ibid.). In other words, to the movement of the subjective experience of the lived body toward the flesh of the world corresponds the inverse movement of the world “towards phenomenality,” “but never towards subjectivity” (Ibid.). These two opposite developments of meaning never reach coincidence because the starting point of the first one, “the subject of sense experience,” cannot be terminus ad quem of the other “because we simply cannot understand how an appearing immanent in the world can give rise to its own subject, how visibility can give [27] birth to vision” (Ibid., 26–27).3 Barbaras states that he “absolutely cannot see” how Merleau-Ponty can arrive at a subject out of this Visibility because what most opposes the notion that a subject could emerge from an appearing “is the evidence from which philosophies of consciousness nourish themselves, evidence according to which the appearing only has meaning as appearing to a subject” (Ibid., 27). The subject, he continues, “is not a moment or a degree of concentration of visibility but very simply its condition” (Ibid.). 3. What is left out here is the whole problem of emergence. Merleau-Ponty points to the moment that an organism starts to see—“un organisme se met à voir.” When language occurs, the Spirit moves to a more subtle body—“une nouvelle forme de réversibilité.”

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In addition, after citing the passage from The Visible and the Invisible about the flesh of the world not being self-sensing (VI /304), Barbaras states that it seems that Merleau-Ponty is giving up at one fell swoop his “univocal sense of flesh” all that he had tried to acquire thereby. His concept of flesh becomes “inconsistent” because “The flesh is suddenly doubled—there is the flesh of the world and there is the sensing flesh” (Ibid., 27). Barbaras concludes that it seems as though Merleau-Ponty is “trapped by what he wanted to flee and that because he wanted to flee it too fast” (Ibid.). He thinks that the latter is too hasty in ascribing to the flesh of the world the reversibility of touching-touched relationships in order to escape from “the philosophy of consciousness” (Ibid.). However, in that way, Barbaras argues, Merleau-Ponty prevents himself from acknowledging “the sensing, active pole in its difference, and ends by affirming anew the specificity of my flesh in relation to that of the world,” and once again, “Merleau-Ponty oscillates between a certain form of realism and a certain form of idealism” (Ibid.). For Barbaras, rather than follow Merleau-Ponty’s “confused phenomenological monism” that flows from the attempt to “ontologize one’s own flesh” (Ibid., 27), the most helpful way to appreciate the nature of flesh and “to transcend the philosophy of consciousness” is, first, to distinguish what is basic about consciousness, “in what ultimate phenomenological truth it is rooted” (Ibid.). Merleau-Ponty, Barbaras thinks, expresses that clearly— namely, that we cannot completely eliminate “the distinction between sensing and sensed in my flesh and, in a more general way, the distinction of subject and world . . . without resolutely ignoring that there is only appearing as appear to” (Ibid.). Hence, we do not have to transcend “the polarity of sensing and sensed for the sake of a third genus of being,” but rather question “the meaning of being of sense experience and the sensed world (of which my body forms a part) in the light of their original intertwining, such as it attests itself in the experience of one’s own flesh” (Ibid., 27–28).

A MERLEAU-PONTIAN REPLY Barbaras essentially challenges Merleau-Ponty with two closely related criticisms. The first one is methodological and consists of the dilemma sketched earlier: if the (ontological) flesh of the world possesses the same capacity for the reversibility of sensing and sensed as my own (ontic) flesh, then it makes no sense to speak as Merleau-Ponty does of extending to ontological flesh the originary structure of ontic flesh and to say that the former is continuous with the latter. And if extension and continuity do make sense, since the flesh of the world is not sensing, but only spatially extended, the only continuity possible is effected by the objective, spatially extended body.

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The second criticism is substantive and follows immediately. Given the continuity hypothesis, beginning inversely with ontological flesh can never allow us to arrive at the sense of subjectivity required for the sensing—touching correlated with the touched, seeing with the seen, and so on. Therefore, Merleau-Ponty is said to have “forgotten phenomenology for a moment in order to make possible its ontological radicalization” (Barbaras 2008, 24). One way in which Merleau-Ponty might reply to the methodological criticism consists of questioning the meaning Barbaras attributes to “extension.” The “extension” involved in Merleau-Ponty’s ascription of the reversibility of one’s own flesh to the flesh of the world is not something that he does in the sense of, say, a logical inference or by making some type of discovery. Instead, as described in Chapter III, he finds himself in the presence of others, material things, and the world around us that present this fundamental structure of reversibility. It is not that this pen in my hand senses me in the way that I sense it, just as it is not the case that the tree “looks at” the painter as the painter looks at it. Rather, as discussed in Chapter III, the reversibility at issue in our mutual belonging to the world is one of a mutual “fit.” I can grasp the pen because, from my side of the experience, my hand can easily and comfortably hold the pen. From the side of the pen, its shape and balance easily unite with the curve of my hand to enable me to write: in this sense, it is itself graspable. It “senses” me in joining the intentional texture of my motor-project of writing. (See the discussion in Chapter III about “demythologizing” the language of sentient things.) In other words, the ontological generalization is made possible and intelligible through this fundamental belongingness. Does such a reply yield a “confused phenomenological monism” (Barbaras 2008, 27)? And would it not actually produce a dualism of sensing and non-sensing flesh? Certainly Merleau-Ponty intends a monism; the late ontology seamlessly continues the rest of his œuvre in militating against dualisms of all kinds. As for the confusion, it is itself misleading to say that “Merleau-Ponty acts as if there were no other sense of the flesh except one’s own, as if, consequently, leibhaft referred back to the mode of being of the body” (Ibid., 28). If “sense of the flesh” and “mode of being” refer simply to reversibility, it is not confusing and, as we have seen, Merleau-Ponty does in fact hold that to be true. On the other hand, if these phrases refer to our own capacity for sentience, that would be both confusing and in some cases false. The example of the pen, the experiences of painters, and Merleau-Ponty’s own statement, cited by Barbaras, that the flesh of the world is not, like our own, self-sensing (VI 250/304), all support Merleau-Ponty’s contention that there are differences of degree in the reversibility through which belonging to the structures of visibility is enacted.

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It is true that Barbaras points out Merleau-Ponty’s differences of degree “at the very heart of the flesh” (Ibid., 27) and, as noted earlier, he concludes that this distinction compels Merleau-Ponty to abandon his “univocal sense of flesh” in favor of “the flesh of the world” and “sensing flesh” (Ibid.). Yet, if we maintain belonging to the world of flesh through chiasmatic reversibility as the prime interpretive principle, then it is not inconsistent to hold that there are various degrees and modalities of reversibility depending on the degree of sentience possible. A “univocal sense of flesh” would mean one kind of flesh with many modalities. Furthermore, monisms as different as those of Spinoza and Leibniz—and that of Whitehead, as we shall see—show that this claim is not at all self-contradictory. Hence, with regard to Merleau-Ponty’s monism, some entities, such as the pen, are clearly not sentient in the ways that we are. Others—such as the experiences of higher life forms—are very like our fleshly reversibilities. And there is a vast array of lower life forms with various degrees of sentience and, therefore, reversibilities. In this context, it is unfortunate that Barbaras does not refer to any of Merleau-Ponty’s biological studies in the Nature lectures. Since those studies focus on the emergence of subjectivity from Nature, they are highly pertinent to the former’s criticisms of the fate of the subject in Merleau-Ponty’s ontology. Barbaras himself does not want to endorse a “philosophy of consciousness” (2008, 27) any more than Merleau-Ponty does, but insists that “an appearing only has meaning as appearing to a subject” (Ibid.), and that therefore the subject is not the product of visibility, but “its condition” (Ibid.). That said, however, it is not clear how Barbaras positively characterizes the subject and why Merleau-Ponty’s account of it, as described in Chapter III, is unsatisfactory. That is, if we conceive of the subject as expressive processes of thought, perception, behavior such as painting, and language—in general, the mental “side” of our flesh, the spiritual “side” in the widest possible sense, that is inextricably “confused” with the body—why is such a conception not enough to provide that to which an appearing could occur? Barbaras could reply that such a conception cannot suffice to give us a subject that serves as a “condition” of the appearing. Without any specificity about what kind of condition he has in mind, no subject for Merleau-Ponty can function as a constituting consciousness. The subject can in no way be conceived as the antecedent condition producing either the appearing or its meaning. This is one lesson of Claudel’s notion of “co-naissance” according to which the sentant does not precede the sensible or vice versa. If we think of the “subjective” side of our flesh as the sentant in conjunction with the sensible, then we fail to see why this understanding of the sentant could not satisfy Barbaras’s two criteria for being a subject.

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On the other hand, Barbaras is quite right to say that “the subject of sense experience or of the appearing . . . disappears” (2008, 26), if by “subject” we are to understand a reference to Kantian, Husserlian or other similar conceptions of it, or even Merleau-Ponty’s earlier defense of the “tacit cogito.” However, it does not follow that Merleau-Ponty “forgets phenomenology” (Ibid., 24, 25). We think that it is more accurate to say that, as discussed in Chapter II, his method of descriptive generalization takes up his earlier phenomenology and drives it beyond its limits. This transcendence is why, as we pointed out there, Merleau-Ponty sought a way to escape from a philosophy of consciousness and why he jettisoned all the bric-à-brac of modern philosophy and its heritage. Barbaras is also indisputably correct to say that the “blurring of the dualities in the flesh invites [us] also to interrogate the meaning of being of that to which it belongs” (2008, 25). And it is precisely in responding to this invitation that Whitehead’s process philosophy provides both another way of responding to Barbaras’s criticisms of Merleau-Ponty as well as a firm metaphysical foundation for the latter’s late ontology.

A WHITEHEADIAN RESPONSE There is much that is central to Merleau-Ponty’s late ontology that Whitehead had attempted to fathom, and he provides deeper explanations for the cohesion and differentiation (the one and the many) of the flesh and how we are situated within it. Conversely, we have already seen how Merleau-Ponty found certain concepts and discussions behind them in Whitehead’s rejection of the bifurcation of Nature to be consonant with his own ontology. In rapid summary, they include the view that Nature is process (passage) made up of “brute facts,” the insistence on thinking within Nature as against the ontology of the object, the body as a “system of systems dedicated to the inspection of a world” (S 67/83), internal versus external relations, the emergence of life and spirit from Nature, the “fallacy of simple location,” the emotional causal influence of the past in the present, and the rejection of dualisms, scientific materialism, process as unbroken continuity, the bifurcation of primary and secondary qualities, the subjectivist and sensationalist principles, and representational thinking. Merleau-Ponty would also have agreed with Whitehead’s statement, had he known it, that “philosophy is limited in its sources to the world as disclosed in human experience” (MT 97), or l’être perçu. He likewise appreciates Whitehead’s view of Nature as an “operative presence” (N 163, citing CN 73) precisely because of the inseparability of creator and creature—that is, Nature is not created, directed, and/or created by a conscious spectator disengaged from it. By the same token, he adds that Whitehead is correct

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that the course of Nature cannot be “ ‘the history of matter’ . . . like ‘the fortunes of matter in the adventure of nature’ ” (N 116/157, citing CN 16).4 Parallel to the way that Chapter II explicated Merleau-Ponty’s conceptions of ontology and philosophical method before turning to the discussion of flesh, here we must also discuss briefly Whitehead’s view of philosophical method. This is necessary because any claim that his process metaphysics could have furnished additional insight and precision for Merleau-Ponty’s last ontology will inevitably meet with a certain amount of scepticism. Indeed, readers familiar with Merleau-Ponty’s writings who come to Process and Reality for the first time can easily believe that these claims are highly implausible. Doubts begin to emerge in the very first two paragraphs of the book insofar as they describe the “essay” to follow as one of “speculative philosophy” that aims “to frame a coherent, logical, necessary system of general ideas in terms of which every element of our experience can be interpreted” (PR 3). Seemingly worse, two pages later Whitehead claims that “true method of [philosophical] discovery is like the flight of an aeroplane. It starts from the ground of particular observation; it makes a flight in the thin air of imaginative generalization; and it again lands for renewed observation rendered acute by rational interpretation” (Ibid., 5). Systems and a pensée de survol after all? Despite the fact that all of Whitehead’s other texts are much less systematic than Process and Reality—including those that follow it, Adventures of Ideas and Modes of Thought—it is true that these two thinkers had very different conceptions of philosophy. As a result, as noted in the Introduction, it would be simply wrong to claim that Merleau-Ponty is a speculative metaphysician malgré lui or that Whitehead is a phenomenological ontologist manqué. However, despite these differences, or even because of them, Franck Robert is correct to say that Merleau-Ponty would have found Process and Reality valuable because Whitehead’s “thought leads us to the very limits of phenomenology, and perhaps beyond its limits, there where phenomenology stands while it seeks to think radically the things themselves, the concreteness of experience, appearing” (2007, 342). And Robert is also correct that the “very possibility of phenomenology within its limits is . . . the major stake in the dialogue between Whitehead and phenomenology” (Ibid., 343). On the other hand, the search for an adequate philosophical method aside, comparing and contrasting Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty is some4. The editor of La Nature notes here that this quotation is “doubtless a paraphrase of [CN] p. 20: [In scientific materialism,] ‘The course of nature is conceived as being merely the fortunes of matter in its adventure through space’ ” (N 157, n. 5).

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times needlessly complicated by misleading linguistic differences that generate only surface contradictions. Consider first the meaning of a system in the previous discussion. Whitehead’s concept is very different from that which Merleau-Ponty rejected. It is not an attempt to eliminate contingency and all of the ambiguities, paradoxes, tragedies, and aporias of life, still less to explain away the sources of moral anguish. In this regard, Whitehead agrees perfectly with Bergson, Maritain, and Merleau-Ponty in rejecting traditional theodicies that attempt to justify evil as a partial good. As Religion in the Making expresses it, “No religion which faces facts can minimize the evil in the world, not merely the moral evil, but the pain and the suffering. The book of Job is the revolt against the facile solution, so esteemed by fortunate people, that the sufferer is the evil person” (49).5 Rather than trying to explain away any of this, Whitehead only wishes to understand it. His concept of a system answers to Wilfred Sellars’s later statement, cited in the Introduction, that “The aim of philosophy, abstractly formulated, is to understand how things in the broadest sense of the term hang together in the broadest possible sense of the term” (1963, 1). Therefore, Whitehead’s system is also designed to avoid “the fallacy of simple location” embedded in scientific materialism, as discussed in Chapter II, as well as in a doctrine diametrically opposed to it, Leibniz’s monadology. In addition, “things in the broadest sense” implies, as both Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead would insist, all the evidence. “The chief danger to philosophy,” the first sentence of Part V of Process and Reality tells us, “is narrowness in the selection of evidence” (337). Nothing can be excluded because of bias, special pleading, idiosyncrasy, diffidence, or arbitrariness. Whitehead’s concept of a system also differs from those that Merleau-Ponty criticizes in terms of the claims it makes. It is an exceptionally humble rationalism. Three times in the first twenty pages alone of Process and Reality he warns his readers about expecting too much from speculative philosophy. For example, the penultimate paragraph of his “Preface” tells us that there “remains the final reflection, how shallow, puny, and imperfect are efforts to sound the depths in the nature of things. In philosophical discussion, the merest hint of dogmatic certainty as to finality of statement is an exhibition of folly” (xiv). To this caution he adds, “Philosophers can never hope finally to formulate these metaphysical first principles” (PR 4) and that, in point of fact, “there are no precisely stated axiomatic certainties from which to start. There is not even the language in which to frame them” (PR 13). 5. Cf. SMW 179: “He [God] has been conceived as the foundation of the metaphysical situation with its ultimate activity. If this conception be adhered to, there can be no alternative except to discern in Him the origin of all evil as well as of all good. He is then the supreme author of the play, and to Him must therefore be ascribed its shortcomings as well as its successes.”

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However, although Merleau-Ponty would have agreed with these passages, is it plausible that he would have endorsed any type of rationalism? True, the only models familiar to him exhibited the dogmatic certainty that he associated with high-altitude thinking, and it was perfectly consistent for him to reject them while pointing out in his early work that he did not reject the absolute or rationality per se, but only “the absolute and rationality separated from experience” (Prim.Percp. 27/135). Yet, if we think of rationalism as holding minimally that Nature has an inherently intelligible structure, at least part of which can be disclosed to human reason, could Merleau-Ponty accept such a view of Nature? There is not much in his early work to support such a belief, but his fascination with the Stoics’ concept of the logos endiathetos make his final view less clear. Insofar as that logos holds the universe together, and that order is substantially coherent, it follows that the logos is not only a principle of order but also one of intelligibility to which our reasoning powers are open. More than this bare logical possibility, however, for Merleau-Ponty all cultural life, qua the logos proforikos, comprises an expression of the logos endiathetos. Since science is one form of that cultural life, science constitutes a form of practical reasoning about Nature considered as at least generally rational, puzzles about “black holes” and quantum theory paradoxes aside. That is why Merleau-Ponty accepts and defends it, but critically. Therefore, it appears to follow that Merleau-Ponty could endorse at least a minimal rationalism or, in Whitehead’s words, a “humble” one. What, then, might Merleau-Ponty say about Whitehead’s flight of the aeroplane into “the thin air of imaginative generalization?” As regards Whitehead’s concept of philosophical method, the metaphor of the airplane, if taken by itself, is also misleading. This image of speculative thought has to be balanced by Whitehead’s previously noted claim that thinking always takes place within the process of Nature that necessarily remains attached to intellectual activity. In Merleau-Ponty’s language, the best way to think of the “flight of the aeroplane” is to consider it an instance of reflective thought that intervenes in the flux of existence without breaking our indivision from it. The aeroplane, after all, must maintain contact with the ground and return to earth one way or another. In Whitehead’s system, what results from such descriptive generalization is an attempt to express how everything “hangs together” in such a way that both unity and difference, sameness and distinctness, the one and the many, are preserved and explained, and yet with a type of explanation that differs considerably from those that Merleau-Ponty rejects. Just as Merleau-Ponty generalized the structure of chiasmatic reversibility resident in our own flesh to the flesh of the world, Whitehead likewise takes our bodily experience to be a model of being and extends its structure univer-

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sally. Therefore, his system attempts to explain what makes “the givenness in the flesh” intelligible in a way that does not depend on the lived body, and which, on the contrary, provides “the meaning of its [the lived body’s] belonging” to the flesh of the world (Barbaras 2008, 28). In this context, Whitehead would certainly have appreciated Merleau-Ponty’s remarks in the last paragraph of his essay, “The Idea of Nature for Whitehead”: The task of a philosophy of Nature would be to describe all the modes of process, without grouping them under certain titles borrowed from substantialist thought. Man is a mode just as much as are animal cells. There is no limit to the proliferation of categories, but there are types of “concrescence” that pass by shading off from one to the other. (N 121–22/165)6 In addition, both philosophers would certainly advance such thinking in support of the point raised earlier that monism is consistent with different modes of being. For Whitehead, the modes of process are modes of becoming, and what becomes are termed “actual entities.” More specifically, “actual entity”—used synonymously with “actual occasion of experience,” except in the case of God—is more or less confined to Process and Reality. Before that work, chiefly in Science and the Modern World and afterward in Adventures of Ideas and Modes of Thought, Whitehead usually speaks of “actual occasion,” “actual occasion of experience,” and “unit of process.” For the most part, in what follows we will use either “actual occasion” or “actual occasion of experience.” Actual occasions are “the final real things of which the world is made up” (PR 18). They consist of Whitehead’s version of Leibniz’s monads, but they are open rather than closed, interdependent rather than independent, and are acts of becoming rather than substances that endure through change. Because actual occasions are acts of process, it is they that are instances of the “internal activity” (CN 54) in Nature cited by Merleau-Ponty, to which Whitehead also refers as “substantial activity” (SMW 177). Moreover, because an actual occasion is an act of becoming, the completion of its becoming is also its transition to the past—that is, its perishing. Therefore, “its birth is its end” (PR 80), and that is why Whitehead likes to appeal to Locke’s notion of time as “perpetual perishing” (Ibid., 29). (There is a paper to be written on the relationship of Locke and Proust on this subject.) 6. “La tâche d’une philosophie de la Nature serait de décrire tous les modes de passage, sans les grouper sous certains titres empruntés à la pensée substantialiste. L’homme est mode aussi bien que les cellules animales. Il n’y a pas de limite au foisonnement des catégories, mais il y a des types de ‘concrescence’ qui passent par dégradation de l’un à l’autre.”

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The becoming of an actual occasion is an act of “concrescence” (Ibid., 21), a process of “growing together,” which is made up of “prehensions” (SMW 69). Prehensions are “Concrete Facts of Relatedness” (PR 22), and “the theory of ‘prehensions’ embodies a protest against the ‘bifurcation’ of nature. It embodies even more than that: its protest is against the bifurcation of actualities” (PR 289). It is through its prehensions that every occasion of experience emerges from its past actual world, reaches satisfaction, and passes away. In this sense, it is incorporated into the disjunctive diversity of actual occasions that make up that past actual world. All that we as subjects experience must be in our past, even if it is in our immediate past, exactly for the reasons that Merleau-Ponty saw in describing the écart. There is always a temporal slippage, a lack of coincidence between the sentant and the sensible, the subject and that which is subjected to it—what George Kline aptly calls the “concretum,” that which has been growing together (1983, 104). Of particular relevance to Barbaras’s objections to Merleau-Ponty is the fact that, on Whitehead’s view, every occasion of experience, not only those that are human, is both sentant and sensible, and therefore a subject. Each prehends in some way all of its past actual world, though some occasions and sets of occasions are grasped as more relevant than others to its own becoming. Through this process of “prehensive unification” (SMW 69), “the [past] many become one and are increased by one” (PR 21). Therefore, a “concrescence is an individualization of the whole universe” (Ibid., 165), a relationship that Religion in the Making expresses nicely as follows: “The whole world conspires to produce a new creation. It presents to the creative process its opportunities and its limitations” (112–13). For Whitehead, this “ ‘production of novel togetherness’ is embodied in the term ‘concrescence’ ” (PR 21). It is “ultimate” because the concrescence instantiates creativity, which is the “universal of universals, characterizing ultimate matter of fact” (Ibid.). Creativity is a general activity, “the principle of novelty.” The basis of the “ ‘creative advance’ [of Nature] is the application of this ultimate principle of creativity to each novel situation which it originates” (Ibid.). In other words, creativity is implicated in both the novel “ongoingness” and “solidarity”—a term borrowed from Wildon Carr—of the universe (Ibid., 40). Merleau-Ponty, of course, has an equal interest in the solidarity of Nature, which he found expressed in the Stoics’ notion of the logos endiathetos. For Whitehead, every instance of process consists of “the whole universe in the process of attainment of a particular satisfaction” (Ibid., 200) in the new concrescence, and it is creativity that drives this process. In effect, then, his account of prehensive unification constitutes an explanation of the “workings” of the logos endiathetos.

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It follows from the fact that every actual occasion begins by taking up all past occasions, that their successors will also incorporate them into their own concrescences. Since, as we saw in Chapter I, the “historic character of the universe” belongs to the essence of every actual occasion (MT 123), the “completed fact is only to be understood as taking its place among the active data [present concrescences] forming the future” (Ibid.). More technically, the “principle of relativity” states that “the potentiality for being an element in a real concrescence of many entities into one actuality is the one general metaphysical character attaching to all entities. . . . In other words, it belongs to the nature of a ‘being’ that it is a potential for every ‘becoming’ ” (PR 22). Further, since actual occasions are intertwined rather than independent, they overlap each other in internal rather than external relationships. Whitehead, influenced here by William James, describes them as “drops of experience, complex and interdependent” (Ibid., 18). Therefore, in its concrescence, any given actual entity implicates others “among its components” (Ibid., 7). That is to say, the initial phase of an actual occasion incorporates its past actual world into its own becoming in a chiasmatic relation of sentant and sensible. The sensible is integral to the sentant and vice versa. As a result, there are “no brute, self-contained matters of fact” (Ibid., 14). As opposed to scientific materialism, “the notion of a mere fact is the triumph of the abstractive intellect” (MT 12). Instead of “simple location,” there is a chiasmatic empiétement in which the solidarity and coherence of Nature are preserved. Our entire existence, Whitehead holds, is made up of both past relationships and “the formation of new relationships constitutive of things to come” (Ibid., 43). Interdependent actual occasions thus provide a metaphysical foundation for what Merleau-Ponty means by the structure of visibility and tangibility through which we belong to the flesh of the world, and therefore the “perceptual faith” “in a system of natural facts rigorously bound together and continuous” (VI 26/46–47).7 Whitehead, like Merleau-Ponty, rejects representative theories of perception. Past actual occasions really are present to the presently concrescing occasion by forming the content of its own birth. Correlatively, Whitehead also rejects Kant’s distinction between phenomena and noumena. There are no actual entities behind those that appear to us, and our appearances are not re-presentations of “brute facts” standing somehow behind them. Rather, they are the brute facts themselves. In addition, because an occasion ends by transmitting itself as a datum to future occasions, the concrescence must involve a decision about how to relate both to its past and future. These decisions are guided by the 7. “en un système de faits naturels rigoureusement lié et continu.”

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occasion’s “subjective aim” (PR 224), and when the decisions are made, the occasion reaches satisfaction and perishes. Whitehead’s view is that each actual occasion is self-determining, for which reason he ascribes to it the Spinozistic definition of substance, “causa sui” (PR 7). However, not too much should be read into this attribution. For it is obvious that Whitehead does not use the phrase in Spinoza’s sense.8 No actual entity can be self-sufficient—even God, as we shall see in the following chapter—and actual occasions come into being and perish. Therefore, no actual entity is the analogue of Spinoza’s Substance. Yet, the very expressive phrase, “substantial activity,” clearly points to such a Substance, conceived dynamically. Further, unlike Spinoza, Whitehead defends indeterminism. On his view, the “subjective aim” embodies purpose, or final causation, and “one task of a sound metaphysics is to exhibit final and efficient causes in their proper relation to each other” (Ibid., 84). The “proper relation” is that, in whatever way an actual occasion responds to its past, all that is necessary is that it react in some fashion or other. The “brute facts” of the past actual world entail that, as Merleau-Ponty and Schelling both held, “the weight of the natural world is already a weight of the past” (VI 123/164),9 but it is a weight that conditions rather than determines the occasion’s becoming. The “proper relation” of efficient and final causes also leads Whitehead to distinguish their respective processes as “two species” (PR 214). There is only one process, but there is a rhythmic, overlapping reversibility between them. One species, also termed a “kind of fluency” (Ibid., 210), is “concrescence,” which is internal to the act of becoming (Ibid.). The other aspect of process is “transition,” that whereby a past actual occasion is an element of the conformal phase of a new concrescence (Ibid.). Transition is “the vehicle of the efficient cause, which is the immortal past” (Ibid). Prehensions that have as their objects past actual occasions are termed “physical prehensions” (PR 23), which is what is most prominent in the first phase of the becoming occasion. Yet, not the whole past is positively prehended by the new occasion. Whitehead’s commitment to indeterminism leads him to describe these prehensions as both negative as well as positive. Negative prehensions are those that exclude data, and positive prehensions, termed “feelings,” are those that include data. Because of the necessity to respond to the past actual world, Whitehead also calls these physical prehensions “conformal feelings” (Ibid., 165). These feelings also imply that the “initial situation with its creativity can be termed the initial phase of the new occasion. It can equally well be termed the actual world relative 8. For further discussion of this point see Cloots (2001, 37f.). 9. “. . . le poids du monde naturel est déjà un poids du passé.” See also Merleau-Ponty’s statement that a human being “carries traces of all that Nature has been” (N 44/69).

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to that occasion” (AI 230). Therefore, at the initiation of an occasion of experience, the new concrescence is constrained to conform to the past that is given to it, but it does so selectively. Negative prehensions allow for indeterminism in the sense that the consequent occasion is not merely the result of the preceding occasion. The prevalence of physical feelings at the origin of an actual occasion, also termed “feelings of causal efficacy” (PR 58), means that, as noted in Chapter II, “the basis of experience is emotional.” The “creativity of the world,” on Whitehead’s view, “is the throbbing emotion of the past hurling itself into a new transcendent fact” (AI 177; cf. PR 116).10 And it is this foundation of experience that provides the explanation for the weakness of modern epistemology. For its exclusive focus on sense data fails to account for “the mass of our moral, emotional, and purposive experience [that] is rendered trivial and accidental” (MT 148), and it is in and through that “emotional, and purposive experience” that we are rooted in Nature. The essence of this purposiveness consists of “the rise of an affective tone originating from things whose relevance is given” (AI 176). In particular, he finds in the Quaker word concern, when disassociated from any cognitive content, an apt description of the “fundamental structure” of subject and object (Ibid.). This “concern” is doubled and mirrored by the aim of past actual occasions to transmit themselves into future acts of becoming. In this chiasmatic reversibility, “the creativity of the world from both “directions,” so to speak, “concernedness is of the essence of perception” (Ibid., 180). In arguing against scientific abstraction from “the throbbing emotion of the past,” Whitehead was decisively influenced by Wordsworth. In the latter’s “full concrete experience,” what he found in Nature that science could not express was “the “brooding” and “mysterious” presence of the hills that surrounded and haunted him (SMW 83). His poetry expresses the natural Gestalt of “surrounding things, which imposes itself on any separate element that we set up as an individual for its own sake. He always grasps the whole of nature as involved in the tonality of the particular instance” (Ibid.). In Whitehead’s technical language, Wordsworth’s feeling for nature exhibits “entwined prehensive unities, each suffused with modal presences of others” (Ibid., 84). 10. With regard to Merleau-Ponty, it is worth noting that Whitehead also takes science to be an abstraction from experience. A case in point for the discussion above is his statement, “The notion of physical energy, which is at the base of physics, must then be conceived as an abstraction from the complex energy, emotional and purposeful, inherent in the subjective form of the final synthesis in which each occasion completes itself” (AI 186). He then goes on to say that philosophy should “describe the more concrete fact from which that abstraction [“physical science”] is derivable” (Ibid.).

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This line of thought is most congenial to Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh, yet at first glance the reference to the “fundamental structure” of subject and object may sound like the very philosophy of consciousness and constitution of meaning that Merleau-Ponty rejects. Whitehead states explicitly that “the subject-object relation is the fundamental structural pattern of experience” (AI 175), and he advances a much bolder descriptive generalization than did Merleau-Ponty when he imputes subjectivity and agency to every occasion—an invisible in every visible. In the section of Process and Reality titled “Organisms and Environment,” he writes that we should apply to living bodies what we know of “other sections of the physical universe,” but the converse is also true: “[O]ther sections of the universe are to be interpreted in accordance with what we know of the human body” (119). This is not to say that Whitehead advocates some type of pan-psychism, as he has sometimes been accused of doing. This is because he does not believe that the subjectivity inherent in each actual occasion is capable of high-grade mental activity. It is more accurate, therefore, to think of his generalization as expressing a pan-experientialism in contrast to the inert matter of scientific materialism. Every actual occasion, no matter how rudimentary its organization, has the capacity to respond in some way to its environment. Therefore, when Whitehead writes that he takes, “with Locke . . . human experience as an example upon which to found the generalized description required for metaphysics” (PR 112), this does not mean that he takes all actual entities to incarnate the same high-gain intensity of mental experience of which human beings are capable. With the more extended sense of “subject,” what is essential is that, according to “the reformed subjectivist principle,” “apart from the experiences of subjects there is nothing, nothing, nothing, bare nothingness” (Ibid., 167). This is the exact inverse of Sartre who holds that apart from nothingness, there are no experiences of a subject. How, then, is Whitehead’s view consistent with an ontology that seeks “l’Être sauvage” anterior to distinctions of subject and object? Here again, when we clear away linguistic confusion, we find a contradiction that is more apparent than real. For there are at least two reasons why Whitehead’s sense of subjects and objects has no connection with what Merleau-Ponty objected to or tried to undermine. In the first place, the Whiteheadian subject-object relation is not identical to that of the knower and the known. In fact, he states that he chose the word prehension precisely to indicate “uncognitive apprehension” as opposed to the cognition that we usually associate with “perceive” and “apprehension,” and he substitutes for the notion of “mind” that of “prehensive unification” (SMW 69). He also maintains that “the notion of mere knowledge is a high abstraction, and that conscious discrimination itself is a variable factor only present in the

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more elaborate examples of occasions of experience” (AI 175–76). As a result, the “subject” in the subject-object relationship cannot be a constituting consciousness or Cartesian res cogitans, any more than can the object be a mental construction or cogitatum. The subject is, rather, much more like what Merleau-Ponty refers to as the “sentant” that corresponds to the sensible that, because of the écart, must lie in the immediate past of the “sentant.” And for Whitehead also, there can be no sentant without a sensible, and vice versa. They are two “sides,” or “leaves,” of the same concrete act of process. Therefore, it follows that Whitehead cannot hold a view of the subject that is located outside of Nature, imposing meaning on it via “psychic additions.” Merleau-Ponty, as we have seen, progressively de-emphasizes the notion of a constituting consciousness in favor of institution and, because of the prominence of synthesis in constitution—say, in the cases of Kant and Husserl—abandoned synthesis for metamorphosis. As The Visible and the Invisible puts it, beginning with “the visible and vision, from the sensible and feeling,” yields a radically new conception of “subjectivity”: syntheses are replaced by “a contact with being across its modulations or its reliefs” (VI 269/322). What Whitehead’s concept of concrescence offers Merleau-Ponty is a way to disentangle the concept of synthesis from that of constitution, and to keep the idea of synthesis at the same time as the reversibility of the flesh. This is possible because the synthesis of an actual occasion, the formation of its prehensive unity, is the sentant-half of the reversibility relationship, but which already includes the sensible within it (“activity = passivity”). And it is not just a question of philosophical explanations, either. Concrescence is an accurate description of ordinary experiences in which we feel a number of previously disparate strands of influences come together at nodal points of our lives and coalesce in a decisional unity, of which Merleau-Ponty himself provided an excellent example (see Chapter IV) when he described the “experience of an event” that “loses its opacity, reveals a transparency and makes itself meaning forever” (PM 121/170). The second reason for distinguishing Whitehead’s concept of subjects and objects is that an actual occasion of experience is not one of a persisting subject directing or constituting its own concrescence. From this point of view, the becoming of an actual occasion resembles closely Merleau-Ponty’s description of dehiscence between the feeling and the felt. It is the process that is primary, and in the novel concrescence the structure of both subject and object emerges. This natural production of subjectivity (and objectivity) is what Merleau-Ponty was looking for in his constant dialogue with his Cartesian and Sartrean sparring partners. Therefore, Whitehead would agree with Merleau-Ponty that the subject, consciousness, and life emerge from Nature rather than being inserted into it or being a transcendental condition of it. In this respect,

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both Merleau-Ponty’s Nature lectures as well as Whitehead’s diverse works effectively agree with Nietzsche that “[c]onsciousness is the last and latest development of the organic” (1974, I: §11, 84). In the same vein, Whitehead says of Kant that “the process whereby there is experience is a process from subjectivity to apparent objectivity,” whereas on his own view, it is just the opposite: the process proceeds “from objectivity to subjectivity, namely, from the objectivity whereby the external world is a datum, to the subjectivity, whereby there is one individual experience” (PR 156). Whitehead’s insistence on the complete distribution of subjectivity throughout Nature is also consonant with Merleau-Ponty’s perception of the universe as overflowing with meaning and his subsequent reliance on the Stoics. “Value,” Whitehead states plainly, “is inherent in actuality itself” (RM 100; cf. SMW 93–94). Therefore, as Chapter II pointed out, he rejects the meaninglessness of Nature, or “vacuous actuality,” characteristic of scientific materialism. “The term ‘vacuous actuality,’ ” he writes in Process and Reality, “here means the notion of a res vera devoid of subjective immediacy” (29). There is value in everything and no actual occasion is valueless. In connection with this subjective immediacy, there is another important fact to note about positive and negative physical prehensions. It is that they are intentional, without the consciousness usually presupposed for such a relationship with the world. Whitehead expresses the intentional character of feelings (positive physical prehensions) as “vectors” because “they feel what is there and transform it into what is here” (PR 87). In Merleau-Ponty’s writings, as de Saint Aubert notes, “progressively and ineluctably, the notion of intentionality disappears” the more they emphasize the flesh (ESA II: 148; italics in the original text), and he asks, “What then could remain of intentionality without consciousness, and what could ‘corporal intentionality’ . . . or again an ‘intentionality interior to being’ [VI 244/ 298] mean” (Ibid., 148–49)? Whitehead’s answer consists of the prehensive facts of relatedness that hold together the structure of visibility and tangibility in which we are inextricably intertwined. For Nature is “a complex of prehensive unifications,” and space and time “exhibit the general scheme of interlocked relations of these prehensions” (SMW 72). None can be shorn of its context and yet, because of the Gestalt structure of Nature, “each one of them within its context has all the reality that attaches to the whole complex” (SMW 72) (perhaps thinking again of Wordsworth). Space and time, on Whitehead’s view, are not external things in themselves any more than they are for Merleau-Ponty. It is not, therefore, that actual occasions are located in space and time in a container-contained relationship. Rather, it is the other way around: space and time themselves emerge from the interaction of occasions of experience. In other words, the latter are spatializing, temporalizing entities.

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In the following chapter, we shall articulate the details of prehensions and their unity in experience, and we shall see more clearly how, for Whitehead, every actual occasion is indissolubly subject and object. Yet by this time, we have sketched enough of Whitehead’s view of Nature to begin to speak to Barbaras’s criticisms of Merleau-Ponty. Whitehead’s concept of interdependent actual entities that overlap through feelings of causal efficacy clearly underwrites Merleau-Ponty’s belief that “sensibility only makes the world appear because it is already on the side of the world” (Barbaras 2008, 21). Every actual occasion becomes on the basis of its sensibility to its past actual world that it incorporates within it. Therefore, in the reversibility of sensing and sensed from one occasion of experience to another, the subject that emerges in a new concrescence does derive “from the reversible structure of ontological flesh . . . [the] structure that accounts for vision, and not the reverse” (Ibid., 22). In turn, that occasion becomes a datum in future concrescences. The way that the “relation that the visible has with itself that traverses and constitutes me as a seer” (VI 140/185) is qua past actual world that pours its inheritance into each present actual occasion and makes its creative response possible. In other words, there is a fundamental belongingness of each actual occasion to the world from which it springs and which it continues to create: “[T]he many become one and are increased by one.” Every occasion of experience possesses the visible because it is possessed by it—each one “is of it,” to use Merleau-Ponty’s expression. For the same reason, Whitehead’s metaphysics supports what we have seen Barbaras term Merleau-Ponty’s “presupposition as massive as it is unquestioned, according to which the body forms part of the world, is situated at its heart and in continuity with it—in brief, is a particle or fragment of the world” (2008, 23). Whitehead’s work also underwrites the accompanying presupposition that “the world is an objective reality, extended in space and the body is a fragment of this reality, a bit of extension, extract of the latter because it [the body] is completely a part of it” (Ibid., 24). Since actual occasions arise from their past actual worlds and creatively continue it through their own concrescences, the body must form part of the world and effect a continuity with it. Were this not the case, the solidarity of Nature would break down. Furthermore, the body is a fragment of spatial extension, but it cannot be that only. This is partly because actual occasions that compose it are spatializing existences as are all others, and partly because, as a result, “a fragment of spatial extension” cannot mean the container-contained relationship devoid of value and self-determination characteristic of modern philosophy and science. The continuity of spatial extension does not imply the absence of subjectivity and value in any actual entities throughout

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Nature. Therefore, for Whitehead, it cannot be that the continuity of body and world directly clashes with the subject that provides its “phenomenological description” (Barbaras 2008, 24). Because of Whitehead’s conception of subject and object, he would also argue against Barbaras’s claim that “the descent of subjectivity in the world through the body corresponds to a rising up of the world towards phenomenality, but never towards subjectivity” (2008, 26). For Whitehead, since every actual occasion is indissolubly subject and object, it is the world’s “rising up . . . towards phenomenality,” and any actual occasion is new prehensive unification, or concrescence. In this sense, Whitehead’s understanding of human subjectivity arises out of a broader context in which subjectivity and objectivity are always intertwined. Whitehead is also just as much concerned as is Barbaras with the necessity to find a way to think our belongingness to the world beyond the usual categories of “spatial or material inclusion” (Barbaras 2008, 24). Yet, whereas the latter believes that Merleau-Ponty’s ontological generalization begs the “most difficult” question of how, exactly, our flesh can be “situated in the world” (Ibid.), Whitehead offers a detailed, systematic answer. As we shall see in more detail in the following chapter, his monism not only explains in effect how reversibility is possible, but likewise allows for various degrees of subjectivity. It is an answer also to the question of “the meaning of being to which it [our flesh] belongs, in brief, of this world which it engages in order to make it appear” (Ibid., 25). Lastly, it is a response that fulfills Barbaras’s desire for “an ontological sense of the flesh that would owe nothing to the lived body, of which the latter would, on the contrary, depend, in the sense where this ontological flesh would deliver the meaning of its belonging” (Ibid., 28). To that answer we now proceed.

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In speaking to Barbaras’s criticisms of Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh, the previous chapter introduced a Whiteheadian reading of the great themes of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy of Nature: the openness of our flesh to flesh in general, our reversibility with it, the inherent intelligibility of Nature, the emergence of the subject in the process of concrescence, and a justification for perceptual faith. Correlatively, as we have also seen, Whitehead likewise rejects dualisms of mind and body, the ontology of the object, its accompanying pensée de survol, and the primacy of consciousness that constitutes the meaning of Nature. Yet, the previous chapter sketched Whitehead’s explanation in broad strokes without stopping to fill in the concrete details of how the actual functioning of Nature takes place. That is the task of the present chapter, and for Whitehead, the operative concept to analyze is that of prehensions. What Merleau-Ponty says about perception in Phenomenology of Perception and afterward has a strong parallel with the prehensive structure of actual entities. In both cases, givenness in experience is to be given to a subject and givenness occurs through intentional perceptions and feelings. Both take up concrete situations and respond creatively to them. Both are instances of expression in which meaning is not imposed on the world, but rather is found somehow already prefigured in it. In both cases, therefore, a theory of meaning emerges between extreme realism and idealism: we find the world as “already there” conditioning our perceptions of it, but the only world of which it is meaningful to speak is the world that we perceive.1

THE DATA OF PHYSICAL PREHENSIONS AND SENSORY LIFE The discussion of prehensions thus far has focused on physical feelings in the first phase of concrescence—“feelings of causal efficacy”—through which 1. For a more extensive discussion of these parallels, see Van der Veken (2000).

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the occasion takes up its past actual world into its own becoming. The first matter to clarify consists of what it is, exactly, that gets taken up. That is, in the process of transition from a past occasion to a present concrescence, what is inherited from the past and, in turn, transmitted to the future? It cannot be the active processes themselves of concrescence because those processes have perished. This means that “the throbbing emotion of the past hurling itself into a new transcendent fact” refers both to past actual occasions when they were in the act of concrescing and to the transition to new occurrences. It cannot be objective form alone that is transmitted because that would entail a representative theory of perception and render Whitehead’s account of experience vulnerable to all of Hume’s sceptical arguments. Rather, what is transmitted is form as embedded in past actual occasions that are no longer active. It is this complex relational role of form that creates and maintains the solidarity of Nature and accounts for the structure of visibility and tangibility (PR 62). Each presently concrescing actual occasion becomes both a “subject” of the active concrescence and a “superject” (Ibid., 29)—the objective form that remains when the concrescence is complete, and in turn, that actual occasion in its superjective aspect becomes a real part of a new concrescence. The objective record of past processes, their remaining form, is what Whitehead calls the actual occasion’s “objective immortality” (Ibid., 347). The unity of “subject” and “superject” in a single concrescence is also how Whitehead would interpret Merleau-Ponty’s notion of the unity of the inside and the outside, activity and passivity, but in a double sense. The first sense is the unity of the nascent subject and the superjective aspects of past actual occasions that comprise the data of its own first phase of concrescence. And the second sense is the subject’s own superjective record of what it became. In both cases, the superjective aspect of the concrescence is not something added from the outside to the subject that emerges from prehensive unification. Rather, it is an “outside” that is already the “envelope,” so to speak, of the inside, and cannot be defined apart from it. The initial phase of concrescence, insofar as it is receptive to its past, suggests passivity, but “the word ‘recipient’ suggests a passivity that is erroneous” (AI 176). Since the prehensions that make up the first phase are both positive (feelings) and negative (those that exclude data), a natural negativity exists that puts some rudimentary interpretation in play. To some degree, it is not unlike the Gestalt-structuring of perceptual fields. Therefore, “active receptivity” or, more simply, what Merleau-Ponty, following Husserl, terms “Offenheit,” is a better description. The next subject that requires clarification is the nature of the objective forms embedded in past actual occasions that are transmitted over a historic

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route of future concrescences. Whitehead calls the possible forms of order in Nature “eternal objects” (PR 23; cf. SMW, Chapter 10, “Abstraction”). Eternal objects form a complex topic to which we will return. Here, though, it suffices to say that Whitehead defines them as “pure potentials for the specific determination of fact, or forms of definiteness” (PR 22), and their importance in the present discussion is their role in understanding occasions of experience. In feelings of causal efficacy, for Whitehead, the most basic and primitive mode of experience, although there is form embedded in such feelings because of their real connection with the past actual world, such form is latent, vague, and inchoate. However, in higher organisms, there is also what Whitehead calls perception in the “mode of presentational immediacy” (Ibid., 169). In this mode, clear, sharp sensa corresponding to eternal objects are pried out of feelings of causal efficacy and become objects in their own right. Human experience is a mixture of the two modes, which Whitehead terms “symbolic reference” (PR 168). Both modes are by themselves abstractions. Feelings of causal efficacy alone would provide us only William James’s “great blooming, buzzing confusion,” and no one has better expressed the abstractness of the data of presentational immediacy than did Heidegger with reference to the audial sensations discussed in Chapter I. That is why he writes, “It requires a very artificial and complicated frame of mind to ‘hear’ a ‘pure noise’ ” (1967, 207).2 It is precisely these sense data, divested of their source in feelings of causal efficacy, that constitute the “impoverished” notion of experience that Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead both criticize in modern philosophy. It is impoverished precisely for the reason that Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead would both give: in Whitehead’s language, the data of presentational immediacy, notwithstanding their “prominence in consciousness,” are part of the “superficialities of experience” (AI 280). Sense data present no depth of the past; they are like the sparkling colors and patterns of lights playing on the surface of water on a sunlit morning, but which reveal nothing of the hidden depths below. Or, as Whitehead phrases it, they conceal the “real facts of the past” that are the foundation for the immediacy of experience, “the reality from which the occasion springs, the reality from which it derives its source of emotion, from which it inherits its purposes, to which it directs its passions” (Ibid.). This is why the empiricists in the

2. Whitehead describes phenomena such as these as follows: “[T]he evidence on which these interpretations are based is entirely drawn from the vast background and foreground of non-sensuous perception [the mode of causal efficacy] with which sense-perception is fused, and without which it can never be. We can discern no clean-cut sense-perception wholly concerned with present fact” (AI 181).

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seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in the absence of any other support, always had to rely on the vivacity and force of impressions to ground their arguments for the existence of the external world—proofs that were always vulnerable to counterexamples of equally vivacious dreams, hallucinations, illusions, and the like. The superficiality of the data of presentational immediacy is also the reason that Merleau-Ponty grounds our perceptual faith in a deeper structure of tangibility and visibility, and stresses our belonging to the flesh of the world. This is to say that his manner of describing, say, color and its ontological import in Cézanne’s paintings, differs fundamentally from clear awareness, or from what Whitehead would term presentational immediacy. What Merleau-Ponty is describing is the intertwining of both Whiteheadian modes of perception, and there is one passage in the Phenomenology that could have been written by Whitehead himself. The author is walking across the Place de la Concorde, completely absorbed in the city of Paris, even though he knows that he never lives entirely “in varieties of human space,” but instead is “always rooted in a natural and non-human space.” He then states, I can rest my eyes on one stone of the Tuileries wall, the Square disappears and there is then nothing but this stone entirely without history: I can, furthermore, allow my gaze to be absorbed by this yellowish, gritty surface, and then there is no longer even a stone there, but merely the play of light upon an indefinite substance. (293/339) The interconnectedness of occasions of experience through feelings of causal efficacy provides a conceptual foundation for perceptual faith and its anchorage in the structure of visibility and tangibility, and Whitehead is surely correct that our “sense of reality can never be adequately sustained amidst mere sensa, either of sound or sight” (MT 45–46). This is not just because of the superficiality of “mere sensa,” but also because of perceptual errors and other types of inconsistencies to which Merleau-Ponty devotes considerable attention. The feelings of causal efficacy provide our ground in Nature in a way that sense data cannot. On the other hand, and even Whitehead insists on it, the clear, sharp data of presentational immediacy are compelling enough to convince us that at least most of our perceptual experiences are veridical. More than that, their interaction leads Whitehead to say something that sounds very like what Merleau-Ponty describes as the reversibility of our flesh and that of things: “There is a certain correlation between the ingressions of sense-objects of touch and sense-objects of sight into nature.” In this way, there is a “ ‘conveyance’ of one sense-object by another. When you see the

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blue flannel coat you subconsciously feel yourself wearing it or otherwise touching it” (CN 154). As a result, the empiricists’ reliance on the force and vivacity of sensory impressions was not entirely misguided. It is possible for perceptual faith to live successfully but naively on the surface of life, but only until it is called upon to justify itself. In other words, naive realism lasts only as long as the naïveté. Feelings of causal efficacy are also central to the experience of the logos endiathetos. There is at least a rough parallel between the way that the data of presentational immediacy bring clarity and sharpness to the inchoate data of primary causal feelings and the way in which the logos proforikos brings clarity to the silent logos of the perceptual world. As we have seen, any expression or articulation of the latter is already an instance of the logos proforikos, just as the extraction of clarity from powerful, emotional feelings of causal inheritance involves different types of feelings than those of causal efficacy. Their relationship consists of another case of the double relation of le fondant and le fondé in Fundierung.

CONCEPTUAL FEELINGS, ETERNAL OBJECTS, AND THE QUESTION OF GOD Different types of prehensions also form the basis for the way that Whitehead shapes his views of life, consciousness, and mind, and how they emerge from Nature instead of being inserted into it. Life, like feelings of causal efficacy, has something to do with form taken up from previous acts of concrescence, but at the same time it is also about novelty. “Life,” for Whitehead, “is a bid for freedom. The doctrine of the enduring soul with its permanent characteristics is exactly the irrelevant answer to the problem which life presents, [which is] How can there be originality” (PR 104)? Subsequent to the phase of conformal feelings, in which eternal objects are immanent but vague and inchoate, other (positive) prehensions, called “conceptual feelings,” pry out the forms (eternal objects) of conformal feelings and refer to the previous occasions in which they were ingredient, or had achieved “ingression” (Ibid., 243). These conceptual feelings merely reiterate the pattern of eternal objects immanent in the data of conformal feelings, and such “conceptual reproduction” (Ibid., 249) occurs in all acts of concrescence. Such conceptual feelings are “hybrid” prehensions because their data consist of both past actual occasions and eternal objects, and for Whitehead, most conceptual prehensions are “hybrid.” “Hybrid” prehensions combine in a way le sensible and le sentant. By contrast, “pure” conceptual feelings are those whose objects are eternal objects alone. However, there are other conceptual feelings in some occasions of experience among higher organisms that introduce novelty into the occa-

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sion. (Occasions that cannot achieve any type of novelty belong to inorganic entities.) One type of such feelings is called “feelings of conceptual reversion” (Ibid., 249). These feelings consist of “the positive conceptual prehension of relevant alternatives” (Ibid.). This is to say that the eternal objects that are prehended in such feelings are relevant to the set of actual entities prehended in conformal feelings. Hume’s famous example of the missing shade of blue3 is a classic case. More advanced novelties emerge in more complex feelings among higher organisms, which increases the richness and depth of their mentality. Whitehead calls these “propositional feelings” (PR 214). Their objects are “propositions,” which is to say a “contrast” (by which Whitehead means a comparison) between the physical feeling of the set of actual entities that are the source of the occasion’s conformal feelings—the “logical subjects” of the proposition (Ibid., 257)—and a “predicative pattern” (Ibid.) of eternal objects that could apply to the logical subjects. For example, hundreds of people daily may pass an abandoned building on a certain street and think nothing of it (literally). However, one day an entrepreneur might get the idea of converting the space to lofts. In this case, the proposition would be “apartments in that building,” and the “logical subjects” would be all of the actual occasions that make up the complex network of the structure and its spatiotemporal location. Whitehead insists that “the primary function of a proposition is to be relevant as a lure for feeling” (PR 25) and that its truth value is secondary. (Before the apartments are built, the proposition “These are lofts” is false, and if they are built, it will be true.) However, it should be pointed out that propositional feelings may or may not rise to the level of consciousness. In the above instance, perhaps because of sleepiness, jet lag, or too much drink, the entrepreneur will only half-recognize the lure. In this case, the idea does not rise above a vague recognition. “Consciousness,” on the other hand, “is how we feel the affirmation-negation contrast” (PR 241), which Whitehead explains as follows. The object of feelings always possesses “a unity as felt.” When the datum at issue is complex, “this unity is a ‘contrast’ of entities.” The “affirmation-negation” contrast, the most significant of such contrasts, is that in which “a proposition and a nexus [of actual occasions] obtain synthesis in one datum, the members of the nexus being the ‘logical subjects’ of the proposition” (Ibid.). A number of important consequences follow. As with Merleau-Ponty, mentality and ideation emerge from a natural process rather than being imposed on it. Further, the ideas here, conceptual feelings, are likewise 3. David Hume (1967) [1739], Book I, Part I, Section I, 6.

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“the lining and depth” of the visible (VI 149/195), the in-visible of the visible. In addition, the formation of feelings of conceptual reversion and propositional feelings also institute potentiality and a natural negativity in the process of Nature, what Merleau-Ponty refers to as a latency of meaning in the flesh. As noted in the previous chapter, consciousness is the highest development of mentality, and hence comes last in experience rather than first. It emerges from the awareness of contrasts of contrasts. In human experience, consciousness often involves multiple levels of contrasts. Therefore, it is “the crown of experience, only occasionally attained, not its necessary base” (PR 267). Recurring to what Merleau-Ponty refers to as the depth and latency of meaning, Whitehead goes on to say that this view of consciousness is underwritten by “the plain facts of our conscious experience” (Ibid.). The transient flickering of consciousness at best reveals in Gestalt-like fashion something that Merleau-Ponty appreciated in Freud’s work, namely “a small focal region of clear illumination, and a large penumbral region of experience which tells of intense experience in dim apprehension” (Ibid.; cf. IP 214–23 and 279–94). And finally, this process of originating mentality shows why, on Whitehead’s view, reflective acts can interfere with the flux of our experience, but they cannot threaten our indivisibility from it. However, on Merleau-Ponty’s view, the latency or pregnancy of meaning in the flesh is always a matter of ideation as the “lining and depth” of that flesh, and this raises serious questions about the nature of the eternal objects that are the data for conceptual feelings—either by themselves or as held in a contrast (comparison) with a set of past actual entities that most relevantly fund the new concrescence. So far, we have stated merely that eternal objects are possible forms of order and definiteness in Nature, but much more clarity is needed to see whether a consonance with Merleau-Ponty’s notion of ideation is possible. What, then, are eternal objects? Whitehead chooses the phrase as a substitute for “universals” that, on his view, is burdened with too many interpretations and distortions in the history of philosophy (SMW 159). The ideal aspect of reality needs to be completely reinterpreted. That is because each eternal object is only real when ingressed as a particular of some sort: only in this way does it become universally available to all its successors (PR 48). This is why he holds that, as noted in Chapter II, it is problematic to use the concepts of “particular and universal,” along with those of “subject and predicate” and “substance and quality,” to describe the world and our experience of it (Ibid., 49). Whitehead’s view that the concepts of universal and particular need to be revised coheres well with Merleau-Ponty’s analyses of how the universal can only be known through the particular and how, reciprocally, a particular color can take on universal significance. Chapter III discussed this

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relationship in the example of yellow in Freud’s case of the Wolf Man in which yellow became a dimension of Being, or “universal dimensionality” (VI 236/289). More generally, as we saw in Chapter IV, Merleau-Ponty adds that “each thing exists beyond itself, when each fact can be a dimension. . . . Colors, sounds, and things—like Van Gogh’s stars—are the focal points and radiance of being” (S 15/22). Whitehead also offers a negative definition of “eternal object” as “abstract,” which means that “what an eternal object is in itself—that is to say, its essence—is comprehensible without reference to some one particular occasion of experience” (SMW 159). An eternal object transcends all occasions, but achieves a connection with them through “ingression.” In short, an eternal object is anything that can be subject to “conceptual recognition” without also referring to “any definite actual entities of the temporal world” (PR 44). Even so, Whitehead goes on to say, the operation of “conceptual recognition” takes place in connection with some actual occasions in the past actual world of our experience, as in the case of Hume’s missing shade of blue. As possible “forms of definiteness,” eternal objects fall into either an objective or a subjective species. The former include mathematical forms, but also any other way of describing reality without reference to activities of feeling. A member of the “subjective species” is “an element in the definiteness of the subjective form of a feeling. It is a determinate way in which a feeling can feel. It is an emotion, or an intensity, or an adversion, or an aversion, or a pleasure, or a pain” (Ibid.). An eternal object is, therefore, any potential way in which something can be described. For Whitehead, eternal objects are inextricably intertwined with the agency of God in two fundamental ways. First, the “ontological principle” states, “actual entities are the only reasons; so that to search for a reason is to search for one or more actual entities” (PR 24). Consequently, “everything must be somewhere; and here ‘somewhere means ‘some actual entity’ ” (Ibid., 46). Whitehead’s view is that God is an actual entity, and eternal objects are the objects of God’s (eternal) conceptual vision. This eternal process of envisagement constitutes God’s “primordial nature” (Ibid., 87). Within that “primordial nature,” the “metaphysical status” of an eternal object “is that of a possibility for an actuality” (SMW 159), yet in itself as the datum of a conceptual prehension—whether by us or by God—it is self-contained and carries within it no reference to the possibility of “physical ingression in any particular entity of the temporal world” (PR 44). The absence of physical references in an eternal object, maintaining its “metaphysical status” as a possibility, also preserves the contingency of Nature, and Whitehead’s argument to that effect is remarkably like that of Kant, recounted in Chapter V, for claiming that our knowledge is conceptual rather than intuitive. According to Process and Reality, “ ‘Potentiality’

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is the correlative of ‘givenness.’ The meaning of ‘givenness’ is that what is ‘given’ might not have been ‘given’; and that what is not ‘given’ might have been ‘given’ ” (44). The second way that Whitehead links eternal objects to the necessity of divine agency concerns the relation of God and the world. Despite what the above description of God’s primordial nature may suggest, Whitehead does not construe God as a penseur absolu cut off from the world. On the contrary, he (for so Whitehead designates the deity) exercises care for nascent occasions of experience by suggesting a relevant array of eternal objects to include in the concrescence to express the occasion’s “subjective aim” (PR 88). One could well argue that even Leibniz’s God does that much through the establishment and maintenance of the universe’s preestablished harmony. However, Whitehead criticizes Leibniz’s conception of God for its metaphysical inconsistency. For example, while created monads have no windows toward each other, God, as the supreme monad, has windows toward them and vice versa. For Leibniz, God is an exception to the metaphysical system, whereas for Whitehead, the “ideal of cosmological theory to which the philosophy of organism endeavours to conform” is that “there is only one genus of actual entities” (PR 110). On Whitehead’s view, the actual entity that is God is the necessary complement to actual entities that make up the temporal universe. God’s primordial nature is eternal, but temporal actual entities are acts of becoming and perishing. His vision of eternal objects is complete—he knows all possibilities—whereas the vision of any temporal actual occasion is necessarily perspectival and limited by its concrete historical situation. Further, whereas other actual occasions begin with physical, conformal feelings that root them in spatiotemporal existence and then advance to some degree of conceptual feelings, for God it is the exact opposite. His conceptual vision and valuation come first, but they must be followed by physical prehensions of the universe constituting his “consequent nature” (PR 345). For, as in the case of Schelling’s God that needs the world, as noted in Chapter V, for Whitehead God’s primordial nature by itself would leave him lacking in reality both because no actuality has yet entered his experience and because, without some contact with physical reality, God would have no consciousness as the subjective form of his propositional feelings. And nothing is more Whiteheadian than Merleau-Ponty’s claim, cited in Chapter IV, about “the existence of this world as an unsurpassable fact which from the first solicits creative actualization and therefore . . . [disallows] the point of view of a worldless God” (SNS 96/168). Through the physical prehensions that make up God’s consequent nature, he gathers up and preserves past actual occasions as superjects, which

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then become objectively immortal in him.4 They constitute “the ‘many’ absorbed everlastingly in the final unity” (PR 347). This means that, with respect to both his primordial and consequent natures, God for Whitehead is intimately involved with the world—both guiding it through suggested subjective aims and saving it as the ultimate depository of history. In this sense, perishing, or death in general, is the ultimate chiasm—passing out of and into history simultaneously. Moreover, God’s consequent nature is dynamic rather than static. The lengthier the duration of the universe, the greater the growth of his consequent nature, and God’s concrescence is never-ending because it consists of a ceaseless integration of the conceptual prehensions of eternal objects with the physical prehensions of the universe. God’s relation to the world, therefore, is one of intertwining and encroachment. There is a mutual enhancement as the flesh of the world becomes God’s flesh and God, through his primordial nature, prompts and motivates the becomings of other actual entities. As a result, contrary to Bergson’s claim in Creative Evolution that God “has nothing of the already made; he is unceasing life, action, freedom” (248), for Whitehead God is both. The primordial nature of God is compatible with any universe whatsoever, and in this sense transcends this concrete universe. The consequent nature of God means that God in his connectedness is somehow qualified by this universe, so that we can say that this universe is somehow within him. Therefore, God’s processive being would in Merleau-Ponty’s terms institute an écart and dehiscence with this universe. On the other hand, he would accept a “massive adhesion” of the universe to the driven force of Creativity. The subjective forms (originating in God’s conceptual feelings—they are “lures for feeling” in Whitehead, or a logos endiathetos in Merleau-Ponty) can only be suggestions because each actual entity remains causa sui. For Merleau-Ponty, expression is always creative, and that which is expressed can never be severed from it. This movement of expression cannot have a fixed end as long as there is a being whose essence is to be open to Being and to show what is there to be seen. Therefore, Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty both reject finalism and the external imposition of a telos on Nature. Whitehead phrases this suggestion as follows: “The wisdom of subjective aim prehends every actuality for what it can be in such a perfected system—its sufferings, its sorrows, its failures, its triumphs, its immediacies of joy—woven by rightness of feeling into the harmony of the universal feeling” (PR 346). As this list shows, the best options available are not always good ones, either for the occasions of experience at issue or for God, and Whitehead would certainly agree with Merleau-Ponty that goodness is 4. Toward the end of his life, Paul Ricoeur (2007) endorsed just such a view of human immortality—i.e., preservation in the divine memory.

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contingent. The best possible aim can be bad, yet, “if the best be bad, then the ruthlessness of God can be personified as Atè, the goddess of mischief. The chaff is burnt” (PR 244). As a result, two important implications follow. First, “the best possible world” for Whitehead does not mean a perfect world, but only that all others are worse. And second, the possibility of a less than perfect world affecting God’s consequent nature is a dark consequence first noted by Schelling, and also accepted by Whitehead: “He does not create the world, he saves it: or more accurately, he is the poet of the world, with tender patience leading it by his vision of truth, beauty, and goodness” (PR 346). Or, as he had expressed it in Religion in the Making, “He is the ideal companion who transmutes what has been lost into a living fact within his own nature. He is the mirror which discloses to every creature its own greatness” (154–55). This description makes one think of Bergson’s conception of God, “hidden in the sufferings of the persecuted” (E 31/45) and Merleau-Ponty’s description of Bergson’s view, cited in Chapter VI, of “a generosity which is not a compromise with the adversity of the world and which is on his side against it” (E 25–26/38).5 In addition, although Merleau-Ponty thinks that pure ideality presupposes a pensée de survol, as we have seen, Whitehead’s conception of God offers an alternative view. God’s conceptual vision of eternal possibilities is always and necessarily tied to his physical relationship with the universe. To adapt Merleau-Ponty’s statement cited earlier from “Faith and Good Faith,” incarnation “changes everything.” In the reversible mirror relation that God has with the world, it would also follow that “the sufferings of the persecuted” would be hidden in God. That is, since God does not control the physical universe, the latter can and does contain evil. And since evil is embedded within it, not only can God not escape it, but rather he must bear it. This makes God “the great companion—the fellow sufferer who understands” (PR 351), as the penultimate paragraph of Process and Reality phrases it. Whitehead has three additional arguments for the metaphysical necessity of God that concern his primordial rather than consequent nature. George Allan nicely summarizes them as follows: “(1) God as a receptacle for the ordered system of all possibilities, on which cosmic order depends; 5. Merleau-Ponty joins Bergson in rejecting classical theodicies that make evil into partial good. Even if the philosopher can believe this “in the silence of his office,” Bergson holds, how could he maintain such a belief “before a mother who has just seen her child die?” (E 25/38). In Whitehead’s elaboration of the relation of such a God who is “on our side” and the world with its “adversité” and evil, we see in which direction Merleau-Ponty could have developed his own view about God, humanity, and the world. It certainly would be a theology that would have taken an impressive step “after Leibniz.”

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(2) God as the source of novelty in the initial aims of actual occasions; and (3) God as a constraint on that novelty needed for the stability that undergirds the creative advance” (2008, 329). It is worth noting in passing that (3) does have an unexplored relevance to Merleau-Ponty. As Allan points out, the order and stability of nature previously construed in the rigorous determinism of Newtonian theory “is loosened in a quantum universe to statistical probabilities” (Ibid., 329), something that Merleau-Ponty also discusses in the Nature lectures. For Whitehead, the range of possibilities in quantum theory is too vast to explain the actual stability of the universe. Therefore, such order requires an orderer (Ibid., 330, 332–33). On the other hand, as Allan immediately adds, Whitehead does not argue for the existence of an orderer merely on statistical grounds. We have, Process and Reality states, “an intuition of an intrinsic suitability of some definite outcome from a presupposed situation” (207), a result beyond the explanatory power of statistical explanations (Allan, 2008, 330). This suitability, which Merleau-Ponty would interpret in terms of the ontological structures of visibility and tangibility, transcends statistics. As Allan notes (Ibid.), Process and Reality claims that the suitability “depends upon the fundamental graduation of appetitions which lies at the base of things, and which solves all indeterminations of transition” (207). And it is God’s conceptual vision and valuation of eternal objects provided partially and according to relevance to temporal acts of concrescence that makes up the necessary source of these “appetitions.” God is the necessary source because of Whitehead’s commitment to both the “ontological principle” and his insistence that an eternal object is a self-contained, timeless, “unchanging relationless entity” (Allan 2008, 332), unlike temporal actual occasions that are composed entirely of relationships. Therefore, for an eternal object to serve as “a possibility for an actuality,” God as mediator between the eternal and the temporal is necessary in order to propose it as relevant to a presently concrescing actual occasion. Whitehead scholars are divided among themselves about whether his notion of God as a nontemporal actual entity makes sense. Whitehead’s aim, as noted above, is to understand God in terms of the same metaphysical categories applicable to all actual entities in order to achieve a coherent system with greater explanatory power. And yet, the effect has been a substantial amount of confusion for his commentators. As Allan phrases it, “Actual entities are events, but God in its primordial nature does not come to be and in its consequent nature does not perish—God is an event, but one that does not actually occur” (2008, 334). Whitehead scholars also disagree whether God is really necessary for emergence of the subjective aim of an actual occasion, or whether the latter possesses within itself the capacity to envisage its own possibilities in such

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a way that the creative advance of the universe is maintained. In other words, why must possibilities be eternal, abstract, self-contained, in themselves related to nothing but the divine vision that conceptually prehends them? This question is central to the current work because it goes to the heart of Merleau-Ponty’s notions of the invisible in the flesh as its Proustian “lining and depth” and, as we have seen in Chapter III, what he terms the “most difficult” question of all, the relationship of the idea and the flesh. And this question returns us to the nature of eternal objects. Whitehead’s concept of eternal objects has attracted criticism for a considerable period of time.6 Here, we will consider two of the most recent ones that are pertinent to Merleau-Ponty’s concerns for ideas in the flesh. The first one is advanced by Allan himself, re-arguing John Dewey’s criticisms. The second one consists of Franck Robert’s attempts to argue that Merleau-Ponty’s view is inconsistent with that of Whitehead. Although these two critiques stem from very different contexts, we shall see that they converge and that this is no accident. Many commentators, including us, have remarked on the close similarity of Dewey’s and Merleau-Ponty’s philosophies.7 In the course of a 1936 American Philosophical Association symposium on Whitehead’s philosophy, Dewey attempted to persuade Whitehead to give up the notion of eternal objects in favor of a “genetic-functional” interpretation (Allan 2008, 327). Whitehead’s metaphysics was, he argued, an incoherent combination of the “morphological” and “genetic-functional” (Ibid.). The former amounts to eternal objects, and even the word ingression, he thought, implies some form of prior existence before becoming actualized in occasions of experience, and that actualization requires God as intermediary. Hence, as Dewey saw it, Whitehead in effect faced the same metaphysical difficulty as did Descartes: the necessity of relating two radically different types of existence to each other by appealing to the divine as a third term (Ibid.). Dewey argued that “eternal” objects, no longer timeless, but rather bound to history, would emerge within the flux of experience in response to the resourcefulness of occasions of experience. “Experimental intelligence would replace God as the agency needed to relate actual existences and eternal objects” (Allan 2008, 328). In Merleau-Pontian terms, “eternal” objects would amount to the complex existence of the twofold logos: the 6. See, for example, in PANW, the essays by Victor Lowe, Charles Hartshorne, Bertram Morris, and Wilbur Marshall Urban. 7. During a 1953 interview with Merleau-Ponty, one of these commentators, Herbert Spiegelberg, asked whether he had read Dewey. Merleau-Ponty replied that he had not (personal communication, to Hamrick).

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logos endiathetos that accounts for the hidden intelligibility of the universe and the logos proforikos that brings it to the fore. This expressive activity requires no external, divine agent. Whitehead declined Dewey’s invitation because he considered that the “genetic-functional” interpretation was incapable of expressing “insight into those ultimate principles of existence which express the necessary connections within the flux” (Ibid.).8 Nonetheless, Allan—correctly, in our view— declines to follow Whitehead’s insistence on possibilities being timeless. He states that “the past that determines the fundamental conditions, the shape and content, of the world we inhabit, is also a source of possibilities that allow us to alter these conditions in novel and incrementally fundamental ways” (2008, 346). And if this is true, qualified creativity embodied in present acts of concrescence that exist in internal relations with both past and future actual occasions of experience suffices “for articulating a coherent and adequate philosophy of organism” (Ibid.). Therefore, there is no “ontological need” for God’s primordial nature to serve as the “eternal repository” of such possibilities (Ibid.). In this respect, it is significant that, as Victor Lowe points out, the chapter of Adventures of Ideas titled “Objects and Subjects,” Whitehead’s 1931 Presidential Address to the Eastern Division of the American Philosophical Association, and which forms “the locus classicus for Whitehead’s conception of experience . . . manages to summarize Whitehead’s metaphysical position quite well, without once mentioning either these entities [eternal objects] or God” (“Whitehead’s Philosophical Development,” in PANW 119). Whitehead would have done better to accept Dewey’s invitation. In actual fact, it is difficult to see how eternal objects can be eternal or objects. They are not eternal because, even if resident in the divine vision in some fashion or other, they are not objects or entities of any kind. The reason that they are not objects is not because they are abstract—numbers form the classic example of why “abstract entities” is not self-contradictory—but because they are “pure potentials.” Therefore, eternal objects are at most potential objects with a potential existence. Hence, it is also difficult to see why Whitehead lists eternal objects as one of “The Categories of Existence” (PR 22). If this interpretation is adopted,9 it is clear that it would move Merleau-Ponty’s position on the logos endiathetos very much in the direction of that of Whitehead, understood in this way. 8. Whitehead’s reply appeared originally as “Remarks,” Philosophical Review 46, no. 2 (March 1937): 179; reprinted as “Analysis of Meaning” in ESP 94 (cited by Allan 2008, 328, n. 6). 9. Even Allan states without comment, “Eternal objects are existences” (2008, 332). It is not clear whether he is simply repeating Whitehead’s interpretation of them or is himself untroubled by ascribing existence to pure potentialities.

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Robert takes his stand within Merleau-Ponty’s last ontology to argue that Whitehead’s eternal objects are intellectual abstractions from the more fundamental sense embedded in our experience and the world around us (2007, 359). He begins by acknowledging that eternal objects are “pure potentials that can achieve ingression in actual entities in the process of concrescence so as to structure the meaning of it” (Ibid., 356). Robert then correctly calls our attention to Merleau-Ponty’s desire to express the meaning of Being before the reflective split between fact and essence (Ibid., 358), and that, for the latter, an essence is not a static, self-contained eternal object of reflection, but rather Wesen in the verbal sense—the concrete style, or manner of being, of someone or something. As we have seen in Chapter II in regard to Heidegger’s experience of his high school building, essences are “the Sosein and not the Sein” (VI 109/148). The essence is the in-visible, the “lining and depth” of the visible. It involves both the visible and the invisible, the flesh of Nature as well as the idea. It is “the sensible Proustian idea, that which gives the narrator access to the essence of Combray when he eats a madeleine soaked in tea” (Robert 2007, 359). “In short,” Merleau-Ponty states, “there is no essence, no idea, that does not adhere to a domain of history and of geography” (VI 115/154). Robert goes on to say that, for Merleau-Ponty, the more profound intelligibility of Being conveyed through such styles, or sensible ideas, underwrites the possibility of what Whitehead calls eternal objects and conceptual prehensions of them. More precisely, he states: The essentiality of the essence is thus to never be pure, that is to say, fully positive. . . . One must therefore renounce the non-temporal essence, the very idea of [the] eternal object, even if this object cannot be thought beyond its ingressions in actual entities. The failure of a thought of the non-temporal essence points out for Merleau-Ponty the permanent flaw in a reflexive thought, of which the speculative philosophy of Whitehead could indeed be a form. (Ibid., 360) On Robert’s view, Whitehead’s metaphysics amounts to a “new dualism” (Ibid., 360), a renewed separation of “fact and essence, existence and essence, which an attention to the concrete world would demand be abandoned” (Ibid., 367). Robert’s text clearly gives the appearance that Whitehead’s view of eternal objects is diametrically opposed to Merleau-Ponty’s account of sensible ideas, the relationship of the idea to the flesh. However, it is not that simple. First, thinking of pure potentials that are forever intelligible but never incarnated in the world does not create a dualism of existential fact versus

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essence. For example, there is no reason why Merleau-Ponty or anyone else who understands the words could not think of and about a million-sided figure, even if none ever existed and we stipulate that none ever will exist. Such thoughts are not in the least inconsistent with seeing ideas as the “lining and depth” of the flesh. All that such hypotheticals show us is that much more precision is required to understand Merleau-Ponty’s claim that “there is no essence, no idea, that does not adhere to a domain of history and of geography.” The key word is “adhere.” Not only would it would be a very cramped reading of this sentence to insist that it means “actually instantiated,” but it would also fail to cohere with the ontological importance that Merleau-Ponty ascribes to the imagination. Rather, it would mean that we can think of nonexistent million-sided figures on the basis of our experience of different figures and shapes of various numbers of sides and that we could not think of a million-sided figure if we had had no experience of any figure or object that had sides. Or, as Whitehead might put it, the case of God apart, all conceptual prehensions take place in a perceptual, historical context. Second, it is clear that what Merleau-Ponty means by the verbal sense of Wesen is very close to what Whitehead means by creativity, qualified by eternal objects ingressing in actual occasions of experience. For, in both their objective and subjective species, pure potentialities amount simply to the way that anything can be characterized. Both thinkers are describing the process of actualizing potentialities in the phenomenon of expression. Finally, Whitehead’s notion of the prehension of new possibilities, such as Hume’s missing shade of blue, coheres well with certain of Merleau-Ponty’s images of sense making, especially coherent deformation and decentering and recentering, which are prominent in the logic of discovery. In other words, feelings of unrealized possibilities make up an important factor in the development of the logos proforikos.10 Therefore, we believe that it is more coherent to adopt Dewey’s interpretation of eternal objects and think of them as emergent from the process of Nature and as all the ways that reality can be characterized in both its particularity and generality. This is to say that, as Allan has argued, the past has the capacity to provide us with potentialities, and a rich enough array of possibilities to underwrite the Kantian and Whiteheadian argument that potentiality is necessary for contingency. This way of conceiving form in Nature is clearly consonant with Merleau-Ponty’s descriptions of “universals” and “particulars” and our cognizance of them. Ideas would remain the “lining and depth” of the flesh. Hence, Merleau-Ponty could agree with Whitehead that a quality “varies from one occasion to another in respect to the differences of its 10. For copious examples, we recommend highly Richard Holmes (2008).

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modes of ingression” (SMW 159). This conception of possibilities strongly resembles the view of the Phenomenology of Perception when the author writes, borrowing an example from Sartre’s L’Imaginaire: “this red would literally not be the same if it were not the ‘woolly red’ of a carpet” (PhP 4–5/10).11 There is only the concrete universal for Merleau-Ponty—or, in Whitehead’s language, a structure of ingredient eternal objects. Conceiving the intelligibility (or logos-character of Nature) as the ingression of eternal objects in the creative advance of novelty is consonant with Merleau-Ponty’s conception of ideas in the flesh as the invisible of the visible.

FORMS OF NATURAL ORDER; MIND AND PERSONAL IDENTITY Further consonances with Merleau-Ponty’s ontology appear when we consider the forms of order in Nature that eternal objects make possible. Whitehead calls the most general form of natural order a “nexus” (plural: “nexu¯s”). A nexus is “any particular fact of togetherness among actual entities. . . . The ultimate facts of immediate actual experience are actual entities, prehensions, and nexu¯s” (PR 20). A nexus signifies the togetherness of actual occasions that create the solidarity of the universe—the ultimate structure of visibility and tangibility. Accordingly, nexu¯s generally have both spatial width and temporal depth and are capable of achieving very complex forms of togetherness. For example, some nexu¯s are what Whitehead calls “societies,” and a society is “a nexus with social order” (Ibid. 34). That is, (i) there is a common element of form illustrated in the definiteness of each of its included actual entities, and (ii) this common element of form arises in each member of the nexus by reason of the conditions imposed upon it by its prehensions of some other members of the nexus, and (iii) these prehensions impose that condition of reproduction by reason of their inclusion of positive feelings of that common form. (Ibid.) Further, “the common form is the ‘defining characteristic’ of the society” (Ibid.). In other words, there is both common form and a genetic inheritance of that form among all the actual occasions making up the nexus (Ibid.). A purely non-social nexus, Whitehead states, “is what answers to the notion of ‘chaos’ ” (Ibid., 72).

11. “Enfin, ce rouge ne serait à la lettre pas le même s’il n’était le ‘rouge laineux’ d’un tapis.”

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In addition, some nexu¯s have a “personal order,” which comes about when a nexus “is a ‘society’ ’’ and “when the genetic relatedness of its members orders these members ‘serially’ ” (PR 34). When this “serial ordering” derives from the “genetic relatedness,” the nexus is termed “an ‘enduring object’ ” (Ibid.). Whitehead indicates that “person” could be an appropriate synonym except that it suggests consciousness, which is not necessarily the case. Enduring objects “sustain a character,” and “most ordinary physical objects,” which are enduring objects, can be further analyzed into “strands of enduring objects” (Ibid., 35). These are “the permanent entities which enjoy adventures of change throughout time and space.” These entities, which have social order and “strands of enduring objects,” are called “corpuscular” societies (Ibid.). However, much greater complexity than this exists in Nature. Some societies are called “structured” because they contain “subordinate societies and nexu¯s” (PR 99). In turn, these subordinate societies and nexu¯s develop and function according to the demands of the context provided by the structured society. Just as every particular occasion takes on the character of the society of which it is a member, so, too, do subordinate societies and nexu¯s with regard to their structured environment. In other words, the structured society functions as a Gestalt whole that conditions and is internally present to all of its parts. Finally, there are structured societies of structured societies that, as the name suggests, are composed of subordinate structured societies (and nexu¯s). The human body is an enormously complex structured society of structured societies and nexu¯s—as Merleau-Ponty phrased it, “a system of systems dedicated to the inspection of a world.” These complex forms of social order are part of Whitehead’s explanation of the bodily unity for which, as recounted in Chapter III, Monsieur d’Alembert was searching. Given this framework of structured societies of structured societies, mind or soul becomes a temporally thick route of dominant occasions rather than a transitory act of becoming, for such an act by itself could not account for anything like personal identity. How, then, can we explain the existence of mind or logos in nature so that we avoid a Cartesian bifurcation of mind and body? Whitehead provides a helpful hint in Science and the Modern World when he states that his analysis of “the concept of the order of nature” is “more concrete than that of the scientific scheme of thought” because he begins with “our own psychological field,” which is the “the self-knowledge of our bodily event. I mean the total event, and not the inspection of the details of the body” (73). He generalizes from the “principle” that his “bodily event” is the same as “all other events, except for an unusual complexity and stability of inherent pattern” (Ibid.). He then proceeds to say that, if

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you start from “the immediate facts of our psychological experience, as surely an empiricist should begin, you are at once led to the organic conception of nature” (Ibid.). How we conceive of the order of nature is tied to a view of nature as the “the locus of organisms in process of development.” (Ibid). Earlier on, Whitehead titled this conception “organic mechanism” (SMW 80) and in Process and Reality, he terms it “the philosophy of organism” (18). Regardless of the label, what Whitehead recognizes here is Merleau-Ponty’s conception of chiasmatic reversibility between body and soul, and between the body and the world. This comes out very clearly in Modes of Thought when he states that “the world is in the soul” and “the soul itself . . . [is] one of the components within the world” (224). Thus, our conception of the world has to be framed with reference to “the bodily society,” and, conversely, we must construe the “bodily society” in the same way that we do the “general functionings of the world” (225). By contrast, the essential flaw in dualisms of mind and body is that, as we saw in Chapter II, “in between there lie the concepts of life, organism . . . interaction, [and] order of nature” (SMW 57). There is a “bodily life of the incarnate mind” (CN 107), as Descartes’s “confusions” in the Sixth Meditation demonstrate. Whitehead perceives that any adequate account of mind or soul must explain personal identity over time and the pervasive feelings of personal unity that we have at any moment of self-awareness. Personal identity amounts to a continuity of an identifiable pattern in “a genetic relation between occasions of human experience” (AI 186). Our awareness of “the self-identity pervading our life-thread of occasions, is nothing other than knowledge of a special strand of unity within the general unity of nature” (Ibid., 187), and the “general principle” that guides it is the same causal efficacy that binds together all of Nature. It is “the doctrine of the immanence of the past energizing in the present” (Ibid.). The “vector relation of particular to particular” creates “an analogy” between the way that energy is transferred from one occasion to another throughout Nature and “the transference of affective tone, with its emotional energy, from one occasion to another in any human personality” (Ibid.). As Merleau-Ponty notes in a different language, the flesh of the body coheres with the flesh of the world and vice versa. However, the enormously complex structure and functioning of the human body prevent personal identity from being a temporally thin, direct line of inherited patterns. Whitehead takes note of this fact in language highly congenial to Merleau-Ponty’s pensée fondamentale: The peculiar status of the human body at once presents itself as negating this notion of strict personal order for human inheritance. Our dominant inheritance from our immediately past occasion is

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NATURE AND LOGOS broken into by innumerable inheritances through other avenues. Sensitive nerves, the functionings of our viscera, disturbances in the composition of our blood, break in upon the dominant line of inheritance. In this way, emotions, hopes, fears, inhibitions, sense-perceptions arise, which physiologists confidently ascribe to the bodily functionings. So intimately obvious is this bodily inheritance that common speech does not discriminate the human body from the human person. Soul and body are fused together. (AI 189)

All of this shows, as Whitehead points out, that no society of occasions exists isolated from all others (PR 90). All societies and nexu¯s in the body have to be thought of within the wider background of structured societies that include them. In this Gestalt structure, any given society has a background social context and forms a part of it (Ibid.). Also, the above passage testifies to the fact that “the Human Body is that region of the world which is the primary field of human expression” (MT 30), and because any “region of nature” that happens to be the principal “field of expression” that is produced by its parts, “that region is alive” (Ibid., 31). And not only the human body: other organisms “beyond human beings, and beyond the higher animals,” are capable of achieving this unity of expression and life (Ibid., 31).12 Moreover, as we have seen clearly with Merleau-Ponty and Schelling, thought is carnal: “The notion of pure thought in abstraction from all expression is a figment of the learned world. A thought is a tremendous mode of excitement” (MT 50).13 All of this bodily complexity achieves a unified “field of expression” because the body is a “miraculously coördinated” (AI 189) ensemble of occasions of experience that pours its inheritance via many indirect paths into diverse parts of the brain, which, by a reverse influence, provides unity and direction. However, personal order (identity, the soul), is not a matter 12. In Modes of Thought, Whitehead refers to different modes of being that we discussed in connection with Barbaras’s arguments, and to which Merleau-Ponty refers at the end of his essay on Whitehead: “There is, however, every gradation of transition between animals and men. In animals we can see emotional feeling, dominantly derived from bodily functions, and yet tinged with purposes, hopes, and expression derived from conceptual functioning. . . . And yet the life of a human being receives its worth, its importance, from the way in which unrealized ideals shape its purposes and tinge its actions. The distinction between men and animals is in one sense only a difference in degree. But the extent of the degree makes all the difference. The Rubicon has been crossed” (37–38). 13. In Religion in the Making, Whitehead connects this thought with what became the later notion of propositions being lures for feeling. He writes, “It is not true, however, that we observe best when we are entirely devoid of emotion. Unless there is a direction of interest, we do not observe at all” (124). One important moral and legal implication of this claim is that the ideal of the objective observer is at least sometimes wrongly cast in terms of disinterest and disengagement.

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of all or nothing. It can exist by degrees, such that it is not a matter of whether an organism has a soul or does not have one. “The question is, How much, if any” (Ibid., 208)? For example, multiple personalities and other pathological conditions indicate the breakdown of personal order despite the continuity of subordinate nexu¯s and societies that make up the rest of bodily parts, organs, and systems. Process and Reality ventures a more detailed explanation of how personal identity and unity come about. The author calls it “psychological physiology,” which is a “conjectural theory” (103) consistent with his ontology. First, he reminds us that life is characterized by novelty via conceptual reversion; a society can be called “living” only derivatively. A “living society” is that which contains at least some “living occasions,” and such a society may be “living” by degrees, more or less depending on the number of its member living occasions (102). This living nexus—that is, the connection of all the occasions of experiences that keep us alive, is capable of supporting “a thread of personal order along some historical route of its members. Such an enduring entity is a ‘living person’ ” (PR 107). Through the transmission of feelings from the regnant nexus to the rest of the body, “the mental originality of the living occasions receives a character and a depth. In this way originality is both ‘canalized’—to use Bergson’s word—and intensified. . . . Thus life turns back into society: it binds originality within bounds, and gains the massiveness due to reiterated character” (Ibid.). The regnant nexus is also the second half of Whitehead’s explanation of bodily unity. It answers to the intrapersonal coherence that Merleau-Ponty sought in regard to the relationship of thought to oneself. As we saw in Chapter III, Merleau-Ponty describes it as a “central vision” that gathers all feelings “dispersed in my body,” the fleshly “I think that must be able to accompany all our experiences” (VI 145/191). The result is the “synergic body” that organizes these dispersed feelings to create “the experience of one sole body before one sole world” (Ibid., 142/186). In Merleau-Pontian terms, Whitehead’s notion of the regnant society and subordinate structured societies throughout the body provide an explanation for the fleshly “I think” and bodily unity. To sum up, personal identity, or soul, can be explained in Whiteheadian terms as a route of occasions or a nexus in the brain, which inherits data indirectly from the whole body and generates the body’s main source of originality and creativity. This entirely living nexus supports the regnant society that, through its “presiding occasion” (PR 109) at any given moment provides bodily unity for all of the subservient bodily nexu¯s and societies. And it is unity that must be explained because “the life in the body is the life of the individual cells. There are thus millions upon millions of

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centres of life in each animal body” (Ibid.). Therefore, we need to reach an explanation of both “unified behaviour, which can be observed by others, but also consciousness of a unified experience” (Ibid.). The “defining characteristic” of this “regnant society” is “that complex character in virtue of which a man is considered to be the same enduring person from birth to death” (Ibid., 90). It is the “enduring object formed by the inheritance from presiding occasion to presiding occasion. This endurance of the mind is only one more example of the general principle on which the body is constructed” (Ibid., 109). How, then, could Whitehead’s metaphysics explain the reversible structure of flesh? Whether it is a question of the sentant-sensible relationship in my own flesh or in that between my flesh and the flesh of the world, there is first the original pre-reflective unity of, say, touching and touched, activity and passivity. As we have seen, the passivity of the touched is not added to the activity of touching, but rather is part of, so to say, its interior horizon. Therefore, to touch is already to be touched, and every concrescence enacts this chiasmatic structure. In the case of this reversible relationship in my own flesh—when, for example, my left hand touches my right—the actual occasions of experience that make up the societies and structured societies that comprise the affected areas of flesh on my left hand take up in their initial phases of concrescence the objectified data of the actual occasions of the area of the right hand that is touched. This appropriation is possible because of the vector quality of the conformal feelings in their initial phases that take what is “there” in the right hand and integrate the objectified data of the touched hand into the processes of the left hand. This incorporation of the touched in the touching requires a temporally thick process of transition in addition to the processes of concrescence themselves for the reasons given by Merleau-Ponty in terms of the écart. The actual occasions of the right hand as thus objectified are not contemporaneous with those that are actively prehending, but must instead lie in their pasts—here, in their immediate pasts. As already noted, there is always a temporal slippage between touching and touched, seeing and seen, and so on, however minute. This reversibility of touching and touched need not involve any reflective acts, but it can, as when we try to prehend the touching hand as touching. In the above case, we would then discover the impossibility of the right hand feeling the left as touching, just as the effort to see our eyes seeing in a mirror always aborts at the last instant. However, that experience is a more complicated bodily phenomenon, and hence requires a more complex explanation. For it involves much more of the body than does the simple touching-touched relationship. It entails a bodily self-reflection—as noted

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above, what Merleau-Ponty describes as a “central vision” that gathers all feelings “dispersed in my body,” the fleshly “I think that must be able to accompany all our experiences” (VI 145/191). This reflective intervention involves the complicity of the whole body in the act of attention. In Whiteheadian language, actual occasions in the regnant society receive disparate data from the immediately antecedent states of the body in their own concrescences and pass them along to subsequent dominant occasions of the society. The pattern of data received from subordinate societies of actual occasions, principally in the hands, presents a problem to be solved such that the subjective aims of each dominant occasion in the regnant society would consist of combining into one coherent datum the experiences of touching and touched. However, because of the natural negativity of the écart, the dominant occasion cannot combine in itself, and transmit to its successors, a coherent unity of feelings. That is, the dominant occasion can not “canalize” the objective data received in such a way that the attempt to grasp the sensing as sensing is successful. Furthermore, this reflective intervention in the flux of experience rises to the level of consciousness—as we have seen, “how we feel the affirmation-negation contrast” (PR 241)—in which a proposition, the possibility of unifying feeling and felt, and the societies of actual occasions involved in the feeling and felt hands—“obtain synthesis in one datum” (Ibid.). However, in this case it turns out that the data cannot be successfully synthesized because of the self-contradiction of preserving the process of subjective concrescence while objectifying it as the superjective data of physical feelings. As regards the explanation of reversibility with non-self-sensing flesh, on the pre-reflective level the same analysis applies. The pre-reflective unity of the active sentant and the passive sensible obtains through feelings of causal efficacy regardless of whether it is my own flesh or that of a wider Nature. On the other hand, since, as Eye and Mind points out, our bodies are made of “the same stuff” as physical things, and since, for Whitehead there is only one genus of actual entities, the reciprocal sensing on the part of the flesh of the world is more complicated and more profound than in Merleau-Ponty’s writings. There really is a reciprocal sensing but, because of the écart, always subsequent to the original human sensing. Following the enormously complex concrescences throughout the human body that are involved in the perception of, say, a tree, there is a returned influence via the powerful feelings of causal efficacy from the occasions of the tree to subsequent actual occasions in the body. On the “side” of the tree, as on that of the body, actual occasions are instances of process that become and then perish, and in perishing, transmit their objective record to subsequent occasions. The actual occasions in the tree differ from those that make up the human body only in terms of degree of mental originality.

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Finally, this fundamental unity with and belongingness to Nature as a whole has an important ecological consequence. It is that, even if we are unaware of that unity and belongingness, the connection with the deeper currents of Nature underlying seventeenth- and eighteenth-century accounts of experience is still open. Even if we are inclined to dualistic thinking and mentally separate our being and our welfare from that of the environment, we rest on an illusion. Through our Offenheit, as Merleau-Ponty has articulated it, we still belong to the flesh of the world through its structures of visibility and tangibility, our fate is inseparable from it, and for this essential fact about our being, Whitehead provides a metaphysical foundation and therefore deeper understanding. In this instance it is clear how Whitehead’s conceptuality can clarify the suggestive, yet rather vague, nontechnical vocabulary of the later Merleau-Ponty

SCHELLING AS COMMON ANCESTOR OF WHITEHEAD AND MERLEAU-PONTY Whitehead’s thinking about our fundamental unity with Nature is as much influenced by Schelling as is Merleau-Ponty’s, although the historical path of that influence is much more indirect. It also reveals both remarkable similarities as well as critical differences between Whitehead’s “philosophy of organism” and Schelling’s Naturphilosophie, although, unlike Merleau-Ponty, Whitehead does not explicitly discuss Schelling. On the other hand, again unlike Merleau-Ponty, Whitehead incorporated important Schellingian insights into a fully developed metaphysics and philosophy of Nature. Antoon Braeckman (1985, 265) has shown how the historical route of occasions of experience from Whitehead to Schelling passed first through Wordsworth—for Whitehead, the most influential figure in the “Romantic Reaction” (SMW, 75ff.)—to the eighteenth-century mechanistic view of nature, and back to Coleridge. Wordsworth’s poetry, which was very significant in Whitehead’s philosophical development, was heavily influenced by Coleridge and embodied perfectly the spirit of German Idealism via Coleridge’s appropriation of Kant and Schelling—as well as, to some degree, Fichte.14 Although Coleridge correctly understood and substantially agreed with Kant’s aesthetics, Coleridge almost completely misunderstood transcendental philosophy, and ended by transmuting it into psychological description.15 14. Coleridge considered that Fichte’s philosophy of the act instead of Substance undermined Spinoza, but apart from this “dynamic philosophy,” Coleridge rejected all other aspects of Fichte’s thinking (Braeckman 1985, 267). 15. See Gabriel Marcel (1971, 39), for the discussion of Kant’s and Schelling’s aesthetics, and p. 70 for the misunderstanding of transcendental philosophy. Cited in Braeckman (1985, 267).

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He took it as a description of what actually exists rather than one about the necessary conditions for the possibility of knowing what there is. The same is true of Coleridge’s reading of Schelling. He did not understand that the key intuitions of Schelling’s philosophy of Nature and aesthetics derived from the latter’s own transcendental philosophy, which Coleridge mistook for a description of what actually exists as opposed to propositions about the necessary conditions for the possibility of natural productivity, including that of human existence itself. Thus, it was much more a realist than an idealist interpretation of Schelling (and Kant) that Coleridge bequeathed to Wordsworth and, through him, to Whitehead. This realism found expression in Coleridge’s appreciation of Schelling’s “completion of the Kantian philosophy in respect to the philosophy of nature,” as well as his writings on aesthetics, on the relationship of art and nature, and on the reformulated relationship of subject and object that transcended dualism (Braeckman, 269, 271). Through Coleridge, Wordsworth took from Kant the seminal importance of life and the organism, the prominence of free will and the imagination—but also cross-fertilized by Coleridge’s study of Schelling’s view of the imagination as the basis of the autonomy of the subject and of nature. As we have seen previously, the creative activity of the artist for Schelling is the paradigm case of overcoming the subject-object dualisms in modern philosophy and of imitating as closely as possible Nature as Natura naturans. The concept of the imagination also permitted Wordsworth to conceive of nature as organic—“to think of the one as many and the many as one” (Ibid., 271)—which made its obvious mark on Whitehead. Also crucially influential in the latter’s metaphysics, Coleridge and Wordsworth both derived from Schelling the views that God is immanent in the world and that, as described above, Nature is a fundamentally creative process that develops toward the human mind. Schelling’s view of Nature as creative process closely resembles Whitehead’s “Category of the Ultimate,” Creativity, which was likewise developed from Schelling and Wordsworth’s organic conception of nature as an “ever-acting ground which is involved in and finds expression through all particular instances of nature” (Ibid., 275), as well as the inseparability of fact and value in experience. As Whitehead phases it in “Immortality,” “Value refers to Fact, and Fact refers to Value” (PANW, 684). A reference to either one necessarily implicates the other because they are both “abstractions from the Universe,” and any abstraction implies a reference to the whole from which it is an abstraction (Ibid., 685). Since for Schelling and Wordsworth, our experience of nature is one of value, especially aesthetic value, there is a tight link between that experience and Whitehead’s rejection of “vacuous actuality” and his radical descriptive generalization that subjectivity is distributed throughout

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all of Nature.16 Moreover, as we have seen in Merleau-Ponty’s analysis of Schelling, the latter, in contrast to Kant, did not conceive of art or the imagination generally as just the end result of consciousness. More fundamentally, consciousness is the result of the creative power of Nature. However, of all the aspects of what was supposedly Schelling’s conception of Nature in Wordsworth’s poetry, it was the creative dimension of the imagination that made the greatest impact on Whitehead. Both Whitehead and Schelling thought of the visible as an abstraction from its dynamic foundation, explained in terms of “atomic processes of becoming”—actual entities and Aktionen, respectively, and Schelling thought of Nature as a “dynamic atomism” (Braeckman, 1985, 276). Moreover, both held that any given act of becoming has both a foundation in and is simultaneously an expression of a more basic activity of Nature. For Whitehead, this is Creativity; Schelling writes in terms of “ ‘Absolute Nature,’ ‘Natura Naturans,’ ‘The Bond,’ ‘The Copula,’ ‘The Soul (of the World),’ etc.” (Ibid., 278). Following this interpretation, what Whitehead says about Creativity is quite close in terms of imagination to what Schelling means by Nature. For Whitehead, following Locke and Hume, imagination is epistemologically a model of Creativity, which serves as an analogue for the ontological role of creativity in Nature. However, the point of departure for Schelling’s view of the imaginative character of creativity begins with Kant. According to the first Critique, there must be a pure, that is, transcendental, imagination (“productive imagination”) that synthesizes the manifold of sensory data, and thereby mediates the sensory manifold and the pure categories of the understanding (A 118-A 123). “Otherwise,” says Kant, sensibility would yield only “appearances, would supply no objects of empirical knowledge, and consequently no experience” (A 124). Schelling, by contrast, goes far beyond the unification of objective sensory data and the subjective categories of the understanding directed toward knowledge of the phenomena. He maintains that, since these objective and subjective factors are really “functions of what should be defined as (subjective) activities in themselves, (productive) imagination can generally be described as the active unification of two different activities issuing in a finite product” (Braeckman 1985, 278). Further, because Nature is inseparably material and spiritual, the “two different activities” are both mutually opposed and inherently intertwined. In this way the unifying activity of (productive) imagination is best seen as a process in and through which, in Whiteheadian language, the many

16. See Wordsworth’s autobiographical poem, The Prelude, for its emphasis on creativity in nature and the poetic process through which the poet’s mind grows. “This growth of the poet’s mind ends with the ‘Imagination’ as its last and most fundamental creative power” (Braeckman 1985, 276).

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become one, a synthesis from which “finite products” emerge, and every finite product is a “concretum.”17 Since the active process of creative imagination is the most basic activity of Nature, it grounds all physical/mental activity, even to its highest levels in artistic production. Furthermore, since this basic creative activity does not exist in abstraction from its concrete instantiations, Nature can be conceived as a “relational whole.” It is a synthesis from which finite products emerge because it unites “subject and object, the mental and the physical, the organic and the inorganic. This is the ultimate reason why Schelling defines this activity as the ‘Copula,’ ‘the Bond’ ” (Braeckman 1985, 278). For the most part, Schelling’s view of the productive power of Nature is very close to Whitehead’s notion of Creativity. Both are principles of individuation, processes that do not exist apart from the concrete instances that incarnate it, and that guarantee the solidarity of Nature through an organic synthesis in every concretum of physical and mental feelings, those of the actual world and of conceptual possibilities. However, there is one significant difference in the way that these two thinkers conceive of the active unity of the mental and the physical as the fundamental essence of Nature. For Schelling, the most basic example of this unity is to be found in “the self-conscious Ego, whereas Whitehead’s paradigm is an unconscious experience” (Ibid.)—although for Whitehead, unconscious experience does not mean without subjectivity. Schelling’s view is that, when we understand ourselves as self-conscious examples of creative imagination, then we achieve an awareness of “the (dynamic) unity of subjectivity and objectivity that can generally be ascribed to reality as a whole and to its constituent parts” (Ibid.).18 On this basis, Braeckman concludes insightfully that Schelling and Whitehead share three concepts implied in the general nature of imagination. In Whitehead’s language they are the “Reformed Subjectivist Principle,” the “creative advance” of Nature, and a “philosophy of organism.” Because of their allegiance to the first of these concepts, both thinkers take Nature to be “the visible Mind and Mind, the invisible Nature,” and, as we have seen, both reject a mechanistic worldview (Ibid., 280).19 Whitehead’s notion of “the creative advance” of Nature, as described above, concerns a natural progression toward the production of actual occasions of experience that are increasingly complex unities of physical and 17. For the notion of “concretum,” see George L. Kline (1983, 104–46) and (1986, 144ff.). 18. Ibid. Much of Native American thought exemplifies the same view of Nature. See, for example, John G. Neihardt (1961, 20–48). 19. Interestingly, Braeckman states that both Schelling and Whitehead advance the “Revised Subjectivist Principle” as an alternative to the “so-called ‘bifurcation of nature,’ ” a qualifier that he does not explain. Perhaps, however, he means to express only the fact that, for Schelling, Nature never really is bifurcated.

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conceptual feelings, at the apex of which we find consciousness. Schelling holds the same view: he describes “the history of consciousness, which can either be described as regressive, starting with the Ego (this is the aim of his [Schelling’s] transcendental philosophy), or as progressive, starting with the ultimate natural processes (this is the aim of the philosophy of nature)” (Ibid.). As regards the final common concept, “the philosophy of organism,” we have seen that on Whitehead’s view, the “ontological principle” requires that creativity does not exist outside of actual entities. Yet it is equally true that no actual entity or set of actual entities could exhaust the creativity of Nature. Schelling’s Naturphilosophie has already shown us how the inexhaustible productivity of Nature gets expressed in finite products that it inevitably transcends, and he also holds the same view of the internal causation of organisms as does Whitehead. In terms of the organicity of Nature, therefore, each organism is equally its own cause and effect, is self-productive and self-constitutive. Kant and Schelling rightly saw that mechanical causation cannot explain living organisms. Since Schelling holds that mechanism is derivative from organism, rather than the other way around, this logical and ontological priority implies that, for him as for Whitehead, Nature is an organic unity. Correlatively, Schelling describes imagination, and Whitehead depicts concrescence and transition, as organic processes. Although Schelling repeatedly stresses the significance of the notion of organism for understanding Nature and clearly joined together the organic view of Nature with the creative, productive imagination, Braeckman argues that there are two basic differences between Schelling and Whitehead that demonstrate that Whitehead is not the transcendental philosopher that Schelling is. One of these differences, not germane to the present discussion, concerns their different conceptions of God. The second difference is that Schelling understands the Imagination primarily as a necessary condition of the possibility of the actual world which has to be thought of in order to understand Nature as a whole. It is the same line of thought in Schelling which is responsible for his analysis of nature in ultimate processes of becoming (“Aktionen”), on the one hand, and his explicit remark in a footnote that those “Aktionen” should not be interpreted as existing but only as ideal grounds (categories) of explanation. (Braeckman 1985, 282) However, even if “Aktionen” were only ideal while Nature as Organism is real, the previously noted parallels with Whitehead and with his view of creativity as the “Category of the Ultimate” and “universal of universals”

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would hold. For Creativity is also a metaphysical category, and only achieves realization through its instantiations in actual entities. Perhaps because Whitehead was mostly unknowingly influenced by Schelling, unlike Merleau-Ponty, he never offers direct criticisms of his “ancestor,” again unlike Merleau-Ponty. Nonetheless, despite common concerns and congruent views of the organicity of Nature, the unity of the mental and the physical, and imaginative creativity, Whitehead almost certainly would have advanced the same criticisms as did Merleau-Ponty in regard to conceptual understanding. Furthermore, Whitehead clearly agreed with Kant, although he does not cite him in doing so, that concepts are just as necessary for understanding what is given in intuition. Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty in their own ways had the merit of demonstrating the necessity of broader yet empirically adequate concepts for the enterprise of overcoming the various forms of the bifurcation of Nature embedded in modern philosophy, for escaping its heritage of dualisms, deterministic causality, the valueless matter of scientific materialism, and superficial accounts of experience, and for disclosing our inextricable involvement with Nature and our deepest connections with Being.

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CONCLUSION

The preceding chapters have attempted to articulate at least an outline of an ontology of nature by means of the deep and mutually enlightening relationship between Whitehead’s process philosophy and Merleau-Ponty’s final ontology. We have seen that Merleau-Ponty found in the few Whiteheadian texts that he knew a number of concepts that were consonant with his own intuitions guiding the emergence of that ontology. These concepts consist of the view that Nature is process (passage) made up of “brute facts,” the insistence on thinking within Nature as against the ontology of the object, the body as a “system of systems dedicated to the inspection of a world” (S 67/83), internal versus external relations, the emergence of life and spirit from Nature rather than being imposed on it from outside, and the rejection of an externally imposed teleology in favor of finding purposive, symbolically rich behavior within Nature itself. There are also the “fallacy of simple location,” the emotional causal influence of the past in the present, and the rejection of dualisms, scientific materialism, process as unbroken continuity, what Whitehead calls the “subjectivist” and “sensationalist” principles, and representational thinking. Because Merleau-Ponty reacted strongly against much of modern philosophy for the same reasons as did Whitehead, he also endorsed the repudiation of various forms of the bifurcation of Nature in modern philosophy. The first version, originating with Galileo, is that between Nature as apparent and Nature as it really exists. In that form, what exists in the external world is not what we see, and what we see is not there. What we perceive according to that view would be, rather, what Whitehead terms a “psychic addition” to Nature (CN 29). This form of the bifurcation persisted with Descartes and Malebranche, and to which both added a bifurcation between minds/souls and bodies. Other forms of the bifurcation persisted throughout modern philosophy and well into the twentieth century, namely that between the self (mens sive anima) and others, reason and feeling, facts and values, the realm of (mechanistic) efficient causes (Nature) and that of final causes (the mind and, in some versions, God). We began with Merleau-Ponty’s early phenomenological ontology in order to show both how it was meant to overcome these bifurcations and how its phenomenological descriptions prepared for the eventual ontology 235

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of Nature. Those descriptions focused on the lived body and its incarnate freedom, expression and language, the body’s relationship with nature and culture, and the body’s perceptual/behavioral circuit with things, other people, the circumambient world (Umwelt), and Earth as our primordial Boden. We also explicated the ways in which Merleau-Ponty mobilized his phenomenology of the lived body to continue his long struggle against Cartesianism that, for him, also included Sartre’s early writings. This struggle persisted throughout Merleau-Ponty’s life and informed a substantial part of his late writings, both published and unpublished. Accordingly, we have followed his criticisms of his estranged friend in the course of gaining some understanding of the objectives and principal concepts of his final ontology of Nature. We have shown why Merleau-Ponty thought it necessary to develop a “new” ontology, and why he thought that it would eventually have more explanatory power than the earlier phenomenology. This led in turn to detailed consideration of the chiasmatic reversibility of the to-feel and to-be-felt, which is realized in “the flesh,” his primordial ontological concept. Neither Merleau-Ponty nor Whitehead formulated their criticisms of the bifurcations of Nature out of a whole cloth. Both were significantly influenced by the thought of Schelling and Bergson, though not uncritically. As a result, we have given a great deal of attention to that influence. In the case of Schelling, this is particularly important because this relationship is hardly mentioned by other commentators, such as Dillon (1997) and Hass (2008); others—for example, Toadvine (2009)—do discuss it briefly, but without making contact with Schelling’s texts. The reference to Schelling’s work is important because it forms a bridge between Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead since both of their reactions against the bifurcation of Nature were influenced by Schelling’s Naturphilosophie. As regards Bergson, we have also shown that both Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty took seriously his views of duration, temporality, the process of Nature, its intellectual spatialization, evolution, and perception. On the other hand, they rejected his contentions that concepts were necessarily inadequate to express the interior life of organisms and that the intellect must always in some sense falsify the life of Nature. Merleau-Ponty’s and Whitehead’s views of life in Nature contrast with both those of Schelling and Bergson, and this in turn opened the way to considering some criticisms of Merleau-Ponty’s ontology, how Merleau-Ponty might have responded to them, and finally how Whitehead’s process philosophy—even with just the few texts that Merleau-Ponty knew—could have supported and supplemented his likely response. That discussion in turn led to an articulation of the major concepts of Whitehead’s mature process metaphysics in order to demonstrate how the texts that Merleau-Ponty did

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not know—especially Process and Reality and Adventures of Ideas—could have provided the latter with a firm metaphysical foundation for his last ontology as well as much needed conceptual precision. Seeking a metaphysical foundation required for an adequate ontology of “l’Être brut” anterior to reflexive consciousness coincides in some ways with Whitehead’s project of recurring to pre-Kantian modes of thought. In effect, both thinkers were open to what Merleau-Ponty praises about the seventeenth century, namely that it was that privileged moment when natural science and metaphysics believed they had discovered a common foundation. . . . In different ways Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, and Malebranche recognize, beneath the chain of causal relations, another type of being which sustains that chain without breaking it. Being is not completely reduced to or flattened out upon the level of external Being. There is also the being of the subject or the soul, the being of its ideas, and the interrelations of these ideas, the inner relation of truth. (S 148/186, 187)1 As we have shown, both Whitehead and Merleau-Ponty recognize that the universe overflows with meaning, an intelligibility that is neither fully formed waiting to be represented in consciousness nor a product of consciousness to be imposed on senseless matter. Between these extremes of realism and idealism, meaning is sketched in outline in Nature with which the percipient, speaker, and thinker are complicit in expressing it fully. Yet, as regards the source of this meaningfulness (l’origine de la vérité), Merleau-Ponty’s view changed significantly from his earlier to his later writings. It is still true that he adhered to a middle path between realism and idealism, such that the only Being of which it makes sense to speak is “l’Êtrepour-nous” that is, however, somehow “already there (in outline)” before our experience of it. As we have seen, the earlier writings approached intelligibility in terms of the twofold, Husserlian structure of meaning of the founding and founded (le fondant and le fondé). In this relationship of Fundierung, le fondant includes perception and facts, and the perceptual-behavioral circuit between them. Le fondé comprises language, expression, rationality, and in general, all cultural phenomena, including the sciences and mathematics. 1. “. . . ce moment privilégié où la connaissance de la nature et la métaphysique ont cru trouver un fondement commun. . . . De différentes façons, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Malebranche, sous la chaîne des relations causales, reconnaissent un autre type d’être, qui la sous-tend sans la rompre. L’Être n’est pas rabattu en entier ou aplati sur le plan de l’Être extérieur. Il y a aussi l’être du sujet ou de l’âme, et l’être de ses idées, et les relations des idées entre elles, le rapport interne de vérité.”

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Yet, in the later work, as Nature became increasingly important ontologically, Merleau-Ponty broadened the structure of le fondant and le fondé. Human perception itself, as we have shown, became rooted in something deeper: the reversibility of feeling and being felt, which belongs to the flesh of the world and which makes perception possible to begin with. Le fondé became the whole sphere of ideality, language, painting—in general, all cultural forms of expression. Meaning—as, for example, in geometry—became more than cultural. It was prefigured in Nature itself, which Merleau-Ponty expressed through the Stoics’ notion of the logos endiathetos—the logos in-built in creation, which permeates Nature, through which the universe “holds together,” and which achieves expression through the logos proforikos. Whitehead’s process metaphysics accounts for this twofold logos in terms of creativity (“the universal of universals”) qualified by forms (eternal objects and values). Through the method of descriptive generalization he is able to understand how all actual occasions of experience throughout Nature incarnate some value because each is a unity of subject and object. We have demonstrated that his more daring descriptive generalization makes sense of Merleau-Ponty’s descriptive generalization of the flesh. Whitehead’s account of occasions of experience as instances of prehensive unification also replaces the conceptuality of reflective consciousness in which subjects stand over against objects, and Whitehead would agree completely with Merleau-Ponty that Being always exceeds the grasp of reflective consciousness. In other words, the relationship of le sentant and le sensible exists at all levels of Nature, albeit with various degrees of mental originality. Therefore, for Whitehead as well, all cultural expressions have a common ground of possibility in Nature, and the closest that Merleau-Ponty comes to expressing Whitehead’s all-encompassing creativity qualified by the forms at all levels of existence is when he refers to “a total movement of Speech, which goes unto Being as a whole [un mouvement total de Parole qui va vers l’Être entier]” (VI 211/265). It could be considered as Merleau-Ponty’s category of the ultimate: Being in its entirety—inherently permeated by the silent logos of perception that is dynamically expressed by the logos proforikos. Each actual entity is Janus-faced. It looks backward to the “the throbbing emotion of the past hurling itself” into its own becoming and it looks forward to the future that its own becoming prepares. Unhappily enough, we do not know where Merleau-Ponty’s turn to “fundamental thought” would have led him. It is tempting to ask whether, had Merleau-Ponty lived to complete his ontology of Nature, he would have incorporated more of Whitehead’s thought into his ontology. There are at least two reasons why this question is not purely speculative. The first one is that there are several passages in The Visible and the Invisible that remain obscure if not

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read from a dynamic, process perspective. This is particularly true of the verbal conception of Wesen, the reversibility of the chiasm, dehiscence, and the écart. The second reason is that Merleau-Ponty had already discarded conceiving Nature in terms of substances and attributes, as the object of a constituting consciousness, whether in Cartesian, Marxist, or Sartrean modes. Moreover, despite his criticisms of Schelling and Bergson, they still exercised a substantial influence on his ontology. Process thought would have presented itself to Merleau-Ponty as a viable source of thinking about Nature that solicited and nourished his intuitions. In this work, by conjoining Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead in an enriching concrescence, we have in effect shown how Merleau-Ponty might have advanced toward the completion of his ontology of Nature. The final synthesis of Merleau-Ponty’s later thought and Whitehead’s conceptuality would be a logically consistent, empirically adequate metaphysics, sufficiently enriched by phenomenological evidences and Merleau-Ponty’s ontological account of the ultimate unity of mind and body, spirit and Nature. It would be a philosophically adequate way to think the fundamental unity (wholeness, integrity) of Nature and ourselves within it. Yet, even short of that goal, the interfusion of Whitehead’s process metaphysics and Merleau-Ponty’s ontology of flesh would make a significant advance toward the way that Merleau-Ponty conceived “the future of philosophy.” He really saw before him the task of taking up again the whole of philosophy in “fundamental thought” (“reprendre toute la démarche philosophique en pensée fondamentale”) (VI 183/237). He puts it as follows: although philosophy “will never regain the conviction of holding the keys to nature or history in its concepts,” it cannot “renounce its radicalism, that search for presuppositions and foundations which has produced the great philosophies” (S 157/198). Searching for those “presuppositions and foundations” in order to ontologically rehabilitate the sensible (S 166–67/210) and its manifold cultural expressions would entail a much fuller articulation of the logos proforikos than what we have begun here. That would be another chapter in the quest for “L’origine de la vérité.”

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INDEX

Abram, David: 34 activity and passivity: 4, 92, 98, 99, 100, 101, 106, 109, 125, 153, 200, 206, 226; and Leibnizian monads, 192, 194; and subjective aim, 197, 214. See also chiasm actual entities: 194, 233; as actual occasions of experience, 194, 195, 199, 200, 202 Allan, George: 215–217, 220 animality: 167ff.; and Bauplans, 169–170; and embryology, 167; and Ineinander relationships, 178; and intertwining with humanity, 167, 178; as logos of the sensible world, 168; and phylogenesis, 167, 170–171; as reinforced in mythic presentations, 178; and Umwelts, 169–170 Anaxagoras: 73, 78 Arnheim, Rudolf: 81, n. 14; 88, n. 26; 99, n. 40 Aristotle: 50, 120, 172 art: and the Absolute, 138–140; and the identity of subject and object, 139; and philosophy, 139–140 Bachelard, Gaston: 42, 76, n. 8; 82, n. 15 Barbaras, Renaud: 99, 181–190, 202–203, 205, 224, n. 12; and the dissolution of the subject, 184, 186; and phenomenology and ontology, 184; and reversibility of human and worldly flesh, 182–184, 185 Being: as “brute,” “wild,” 57, 77, 81, 93, 144; and erste Natur, 127; and the il y a, 57, 71, 91, 142; and the

logos endiathetos, 105, 106; meanings of, 58; as polymorphic, 95 Bergson, Henri: 8, 38, 39, 40, 144–151; on affirmation and negation, 163, n. 20; 165; and the bifurcation of Nature, 153; and consciousness as duration, 157; and duration, 38, 144, 145, 150; on élan vital and Kant, 146; and God, 121, 122, 157–158; and Hegel, 147; on instinct and intelligence, 164; on intellectualized consciousness and spatialization, 159; and intuition, 65, 164; on intuition and the Absolute, 148; on intuition and concepts, 144, 145, 146, 147; on intuition and duration, 149; on intuition and intellect, 159; and life and matter, 155, 156, 157, 158; and mechanism and finalism, 153–160; and monism and dualism, 157; on negativity and forms of order, 161–163; on nothingness, 147, 160; and positivity, 160–165; and as product of intellect, 160; on organisms and Kant, 154; and partial coincidence with Being, 85, 97, 130, n. 16, 164; and perception and conceptual thought, 154; and rejection of theodicies, 192, 215, n.5; Sartre’s criticism of, 38; and sensations, 157; and spatialization of nature, 53; on time and thinking Being, 149–150; and Whitehead’s criticisms of, 165–167 Berkeley, George: 3, 33, n. 41 Bernet, Rudolf: 12, 13, 28, n. 34; 29 biology: 58, 145, 167 ff.

253

254

INDEX

Blondel, Maurice: 69, 75; and indirect ontology, 69–70 bodily esthesiology: 78, 79, 84, 110 body: as bearer of symbolic systems, 28, 107, 114, 176, 179; and bodily symbolism in higher animals, 174, 175; and the corporeal schema, 19– 21, 75, n.5; 78, 88, 92, 108; and fungierende intentionality, 64; human body as emergent from evolution, 178; as “lexicon of corporeity,” 26, 78; as libidinal, 75, n. 5; 88, 92, 173, n. 29; as lived, 12–29, 203, 224, 236; and motor-intentionality, 17–29, 103; and pathological motility, 21–24; as phenomenal and objective, 90. See also space and time Braeckman, Antoon: 124, n. 2; 228, 229, 230, 231, 232 Bridgman, Percy W: 176; contrasted with Einfühlung, 176–177 Brunschvicg, Léon: 26, n. 28; 30, n. 35; 54, 57, n. 13; 67, 144 brute facts: 4, 53, 102, 190, 196, 235; and Schelling, 197 Burtt, E.A.: 34 Cassirer, Paul: and symbolic pregnance, 27–28, 80 causality: 3, 17, 21, 22, 26, 34, 36, 37, 42, 48, 49, 56, 71, 116, 143, 144, 162, 171; and efficient and final causes, 3, 33, 197–198, 223, 235; and embryonic development, 177 Cézanne, Paul: 80, 93; and the depths of inhuman nature, 58, 59, n. 15; 76, 81; and topological space, 96 Chardin, Teilhard de: 179 chiasm: 86–94; and dehiscence, 88, 98; and the écart, 89, 97, 98, 107, 134, 147, 195, 214, 226, 227, 239; as the fold, 88, 95; and Ineinander relationships, 87; and intercorporeity, 90–91, 173, n. 29; as intertwining, 88, 95; and Offenheit, 87, and overlapping, envelopment,

81, 88, 89, 93, 95, 101, 130; and metamorphosis, 88; as pre-established harmony, 119; as process, 87; and reversibility, 88, 90, 93, 98, 99, 102, 182, 193, 223, 236 Claudel, Paul: 26, 84; and “co-naissance,” 26, 61, 87, 92; 94, 97, 102, 149, n. 54; 182, 189 Cloots, André: 9, 197, n. 8 Coghill, George E.: and studies of the axolotl lizard, 168 cogito: 12, 23, 32, 35, 56, 61, 73, 79, n. 12; as silent, 14, 190 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor: 228; and appropriation of Kant and Schelling, 228–229 Compton, John: 5 concepts: 7, 8, 20, n. 16; 26, 27, 46, 47, 48, 52, 108, 109, 129, 132, 142, 176, 182; and Husserlian Offenheit, 68; as necessary for contingency, 143; in the “new” ontology, 56, 61, 67–69, 92, 100, 115, 119; and the ontology of the object, 68; as required for understanding data of intuition, 234. See also Bergson and Schelling concrescence: 8, 194, 167, 195–199, 200, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 211, 213, 214, 216, 218, 219, 226, 227, 232, 239 consciousness: 13, 16, 23, 31, n. 37; 66, 79, 104, 117, 131, 136, 200; and the affirmation-negation contrast, 210; as the highest development of mentality, 211; the history of, 232; and life, 132, 145, 200–201; and motility, 17ff.; as perceptual, 7, 12, 14; and the philosophy of, 2, 117, 156, 187, 189; and presentational immediacy, 207; and its punctum caecum, 55, n. 9; 133; as result of the creative power of nature, 61, 73, 230; and Sartre, 36–46, 65, 91, 101. See also body and constitution

INDEX constitution: 17, 25, 38, 43, 51, 57, 79, 82, 93, 109, 111, n. 15; 177, n. 40; 189, 199, 200 contingency: 40, 67, 71, 101, 119, 120, 141, 143, 147, 160, 192, 212, 220; and goodness, 214–215. See also concepts creativity: 49, 60 106, 220; and the advance of nature, 49, 231; as Category of the Ultimate, 232; and expression in animal life, 168–179; and freedom in Bergson’s élan vital, 155; and human cultural expression, 14, 24, 26, 27, 50, n. 4, 56, 57, 66, 69, 76, 90, 103, 104, 105, 109, 110, 112, 115, 116, 193, 205, 209, 214, 224, 239; and imagination, 230–231; as inexhaustible in nature, 232; as metaphysical category, 233; and propositional feelings, 210, 224; and Schelling’s “barbaric principle,” 127; and Schelling’s influence on Whitehead, 229–230; and sense making, 220; as Universal of Universals, 195, 198, 238. See also meaning Deleuze, Gilles: 146, nn. 46, 47; 157, 160, n. 14; 163, n. 20 depth: 79–84, 211; and art, 80, 81; and dimensionality, 80; and geometrical perspectives, 80, 95, n. 33; and imagination and desire, 82–88; and the ontology of the object, 80; as temporal and spatial, 84 Descartes, René: 3, 7, 29–36, 46, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, n. 6; 61, 67, 217; and activity and passivity, 100; and Cartesian mind-body “confusions,” 31–32, 41, 45, 50, n. 5; 54, 60, 61, 66, 67, 87, 90, 92, 182, 223; and horizontal being, 85; and idea of God, 118; and mind/body interaction, 34–36, 49, 157; and the Dioptrics, 80

255

descriptive generalization: 2, 4, 66, 99, 108, 167, 182, 185, 190, 193, 199, 203, 229, 238 De Waelhens, Alphonse: 45, 46 Dewey, John: 217–218, 220 Diderot, Denis: 90, n. 28 Driesch, Hans: 168, 177 Dunphy-Blomfield, Jocelyn: 9, 74, n. 3 écart: See chiasm Einfühlung: 75, n. 5, 76, 92, 107 emotions: 24–25, 224; and form/matter analysis of experience, 25–26 eternal objects: 207, 209, 220; and divine agency, 212, 216; and feelings of conceptual reversion, 210; and ingression, 209, 212, 217, 221; as necessary for contingency, 212; and universals and particulars, 211 Euclid: 94–95, 112 evolution: 150, 153, 154, 155, n. 3; 156; and Darwin’s eliminative explanation of, 170–171 finalism: 118, 129–130, 146 flesh: 2, 4, 7; as carnality, 74–76; chiasmatic unity with, 68, 86–94; as element of Being, 76–79; and depth, 79–84; as human and worldly, 187; as the new irrelative, 78, 99; as ontic and ontological, 187–188, 203; and reversibility, 28–29, 187–188; and topological space and time, 94–100; and verticality, 84–86. See also chiasm freedom: 20, 37, 38, 39, 42–43, 56, 111, 127, 130, 131, 136; and expressive animal behavior, 173; and intuition in Schelling, 138. See also creativity, Kant, and Sartre Freud, Sigmund: 82, 87, 211; and case of the Wolfman, 82–83, 109; 163, 212 Galilei, Galileo: 3, 29, 33, 34, 49, n. 3; 52, 102, 235

256

INDEX

Gestalt psychology: 14–17, 27, 51, 144; and Gestalt structures, 15, 16, 18, 24, 82, 111, 198, 201, 206, 211, 222, 224 God: 3, 52, 57, 58, 60–61, 104, 117, 118, 119; as abyss, 124–125; as actual entity, 212; as empirical fact, 140; and erste Natur, 128; and evil, 119–121, 122, 192, n. 5; 215; as fellow sufferer, 215; as Kosmotheoros, 4, 6, 94; as metaphysically necessary, 215–217; as origin of subjective aims, 216–217; primordial and consequent nature of, 212–213; and processive nature as écart and dehiscence of universe, 214; as source of novelty, 216 Hass, Lawrence: 12, 14, n. 8; 18, n. 12; 24, n. 22; 29, 33, n. 42; 53, n. 6; 75, n. 4; 105, n. 4; 110 Hegel, G.W.F.: 22, 25, 26, n. 26; 67, 78, 123, 128, n. 11; 135, 147; and Schelling on intuition and concepts, 141–142 Heidegger, Martin: 14, 15, n. 11; 19, n. 14; 38, 39, 42, 43, 44, 45, 54, 60, 70, 92, 107, 142, 207; and Being speaking in us, 105; and direct ontology and Merleau-Ponty’s critique of, 69–72; and medieval concept of truth, 136; on Nature as Bestand, 127; and Offenheit, 62, 71; on pure sensations, 15, n. 11; 207; on truth and freedom, 137, n. 29; and verbal meaning of Wesen, 72; 88, n. 25; 219 Herr, Lucien: 78, 81 history: 13, 36, 44, 45, 48, 54, 56, 58, 59, n. 16; 66, 68, 87, 97, 108, 109, 110, 111–112, 113, 114, 117, 145, 191, 214, 239; of consciousness, 232; and eternal objects, 217; and ideas, 219–220; and life, 154, 163–164, 171, 176

Hume, David: 24, 48, n. 2; 51, 52, 53, 101, 143, 206, 210, 212, 220, 230 Husserl, Edmund: 12, 20, n. 16; 28, 38, 42, 43, 54, 60, 62, 65, 66, 74; and aesthetic logos, 28, 106, n. 7; and affective force, 28, 39, 140–141; and consciousness, 66, 78, 87, 140; and the Earth, 62–63, 70; and Einfühlung as underlying zoology, 176–177; and intentionality, 17, 42; and Offenheit, 62, 64; and time-consciousness, 85, 135, n. 25; and touching-touched relationships, 27, 43, 87, 89, 97, 181–182; and transcendental subjectivity, 2, 12, 39, 43. See also Ineinander ideas: and bond with flesh, 8, 90, 103; and conceptual feelings, 210–211; as lining and depth of the visible, 103, 210–211, 217; as musical and literary, 109; and no pure ideality, 109, 111 Ineinander: 62, 74, 76, 78, 87, 88, 97, 107, 118, 167, 177, n. 38. See also animality and body inspiration and expiration of Being: 94, 126 institution: 20, 43, 106, 110–111, 154, 200 intentionality: 42, 46, 201; and without consciousness, 201. See also body and consciousness intersubjectivity: 121, 122, 177, n. 38; and contrast of Heidegger and Sartre, 43–44 James, William: 22, 40, 68, n. 31; 158, n. 10; 196, 207 Kant, Immanuel: 29, 61, 63, 201; and bifurcation of nature, 3, 102; and Bergson’s critique of, 146–147, 154, 159; and concepts, 67–68; and consciousness, 38, 78; and

INDEX constitution, 79, 200; and eternal objects as possibilities, 212–213, 220; and the form/matter analysis of experience, 29; and freedom as antiphysis, 20, 42, 134, 138, 171; and God, 124–125; and knowledge as conceptual, 143, 154, 273; and imagination, 136–137, 230, 233; and knowledge of organisms, 232; and no pure disorder, 161, n. 16; and phenomena and noumena, 33, n. 40; 59, 99, 102, 196; and the sensationalist principle, 51, 101; and Schelling’s critique of, 124, 125, 128, 129, 131, 137; and the Stoics, 106; and transcendental subjectivity, 12, 34, 190 Kierkegaard, Søren: 54 Klee, Paul: 81, 84, 85, n. 21; 94, 98; and topological space, 96 Köhler, Wolfgang: 178 Lefort, Claude: 30, 84, 174, n. 30 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm: 3, 27, 67, 73, 127, 146, 171, 189, 192, 194, 213, 215, n. 5; 237; and activity and passivity, 101; and explicative theology, 119, 120, 121; and preestablished harmony, 57, 101, 119; and the nature of God, 213; and the ontology of the object, 58, 118 life: 151, 153–179; and animals, 13, 28, n. 32; 167–179; and Bergson’s account of, 148, 153–162; as cognitive, 21, 24, 25, 33, n. 40; 118, 133, 135; and conceptual feelings, 209; as emergent from nature, 54, 117, 119, 126, 168, 200, 235; of flesh, 167ff.; as freedom and mental originality, 166, 209, 214, 225; and God as ground of, 127; and ideas, 103; and immediate flux of, 134–135, 160; and Ineinander relationships with physico-chemistry, 167, 177; as institution, 154; and meaning,

257

27, 45, 59, 80; and mechanism and organisms, 130, 229, 236; and mechanism and vitalism, 168; and metamorphosis, 78; and the natural world, 6, n. 6; 13, 56, 125, 140, 145–146; and openness to the world, 18, 64; as perceptual, 18, 26, 64, 66, 69, 86, 88, 99, 132, 177; as personal, 11, n. 1; 14; and the physicochemical, 130, 167, 177, 178; as prepersonal, 14; as pre-reflective, 142. See also evolution and nature Locke, John: 33, 48, n. 2; 51, 52, 199, 230; and time as perpetual perishing, 194 Lorenz, Konrad: 174–176; and animal consciousness, 175–176; and instinct and mechanistic explanations, 174–175 Malebranche, Nicolas: 3, 100, 235 Marcel, Gabriel: 57, n. 13; 88, 96, 144, 228, n. 15 Maritain, Jacques: 119, 192 Marx, Karl: 13, 44, 54, 59, 112, 239 mathematics: 3, 33, 34, 36, 47, 94, 112, 116, 150, 237; and natural order, 160–162; and topology, 96 Matisse, Henri: 96, 110 meaning: 16, 13, 15–16, 66; and ambiguity, 16; as anterior to consciousness, 103; and bodily motility, 23–26; and essences, 104; and the form/matter analysis of, 23–24, 29; and geometry, 104–105, 107, 115, 116; as ideals expressed in language, 45; as the in-[the]visible, 7, 79, 109, 219, 220; and nature, 58–59, 105; and openness, 45; and sedimentation, 20, 57, 110, 111, 112; and sense making, 110–113; as sketched in outline, 23, 103, 116; and the verbal meaning of Wesen, 72, 83, 87, 107, 219, 220. See also creativity, ideas, institution, and the logos endiathetos and logos proforikos

258

INDEX

mechanism: 5, 15, 22, 26, 29, 30, 33, n. 40; 48, 49–50, 52, 53, 129, 130; and organism, 231–232. See also Bergson and Schelling metamorphosis: 41, 78, 88, 93, 94, 97, 98, 100, 101, 156, 172, 179, 200 metaphysics: 4, 54, 73; and Bergson, 147; as generalization from human experience, 199; and rapprochement with science, 237; and Sartre, 45; and systems, 67, 191, 192, 193–194; and theories of causation, 197; and theories of painting, 93; and Whitehead’s philosophy of organism, 167, 191, 226, 228, 229. See also descriptive generalization mind-body relationships: 49–50, 54, 69, 90, 91, 235; and Whitehead’s theory of mind, 222–226; and personal identity, 225–226 misplaced concreteness, fallacy of: 48, 52, 53, 176 Moyle, Tristan: 169, 170 natural order, forms of: 194, 221–224; as enduring objects, 222; as nexu¯s, 221; as persons, 222; as societies, 221–222; as structured societies, 222 nature: 1–9; as autoproduction of meaning, 59, 60; as basis for Merleau-Ponty’s “new” ontology, 54–72; bifurcation of, 2–3, 29, 31, 40, 43, 47–54, 58, 73, 74, 100, 104, 142, 165, 167, 170; and GalileanCartesian concept and MerleauPonty’s criticisms, 2, 29–36, 47–54, 102; indivision from, 39, 74, n. 3; 80, 90, 133, 134, 142, 148; and Marx, 13, 59; meanings of, 58–60; and Merleau-Ponty’s fundamental thought, 2, 239; and Natura naturans and Natura naturata, 60, 101, 106, 116, 124, 125, 126, 229, 230; as phenomenon, 11–29; as privileged access to Being, 70; and Sartre, 36–45, 59; and scientific materialism,

47–54; as process, 48, 53, 59, n. 17; 60, 61, 77, 87, 98, 107, 146, 153, 161, 190, 193, 194, 210, 229, 231, 232; solidarity of, 49, 51, 195, 196, 202, 206, 221, 231. See also Bergson and Schelling negativity: in instinctive behavior, 175; as instituted by dehiscence and the écart, 98, 147; and Bergson, 147–148, 153, 160–165; in nature, 79, 98, 147, 206, 211; in organisms, 169; and Sartre, 30, 39, 44, 46, 147, 148, 153 Nietzsche, Friedrich: 40, 54, 82, 123, 127, 166, 201 objects and subjects: 3, 5, 18, 27, 38, 46, 56, 57, 59, 61, 65, 66, 67, 73, 76, 77, 81, 92, 102, 182, 184, 185, 198–203, 218; and concern, 198; and Schelling, 126, n. 6; 131, 133, 134, 138, 139, 140, 141 Offenheit: 44, 62–64, 67, 71, 87, 121, 171, 206, 228 ontology: 54, 58; and Bergson, 145, 164, 165; and biology, 176–177; and indivision from nature, 133; of meaning, 54; and Merleau-Ponty’s “new,” 1, 2, 7, 11, 47, 53, 54–56, 58, 60, 67, 77; of the object, 3, 29, 30, 49, 50, n. 4; 53, 67, 68, 69, 71, 73, 79, 85, 93, 94, 126, 132; and ontological rehabilitation, 2; and relativity and quantum theories, 68; and Sartre, 37; of substances and attributes, 51; and Whitehead’s conceptual innovations, 167. See also flesh and nature organisms: 2, 17, 19, 50, 129, 130, 131, 133, n. 22; 154, 156, n. 4; 168–177, 186, n. 3; 223, 224, 225, 229, 232, 236; and higher, 207, 209, 210 organism, philosophy of: 51, 167, 213, 218, 228, 231, 232 Pascal, Blaise: 40, 118, 121 pensée de survol: 50, n. 4; 53, 58, 63, 80, 96, 109, 126, 181, 191, 205, 215

INDEX perception: 14–17; as nascent logos, 27, 108; and modes of causal efficacy and presentational immediacy, 207, 208; realist theory of, 50; representational theory of, 22, 29, 36, 50, 51, 79, 93, 101, 196; as symbolic reference, 207. See also Gestalts and Gestalt psychology perceptual faith: 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 78, 115, 205; and actual entities, 196; and Husserl, 65; and the logos endiathetos, 106; and presentational immediacy, 208–209; and Sartre, 65; and tangibility and visibility, 208 phenomenology: 2, 4, 7, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 23, 24, n. 22; 27, 29, 31, n. 37; 45, 67, 105, 117, 132, 165, and Bachelard, 42; and Barbaras’s critique of Merleau-Ponty, 182, 184, 188, 190, 191; and Bergson, 50, 165; and flesh, 74, 77; and ontology, 35, 54, 64, 134; and Sartre, 36, 37, 45–46; and Schelling’s “barbaric” Nature, 127, 142; and the twofold logoi, 105, 115, 117 Piaget, Jean: 99–100; and reversibility, 100 Plato: 27, n. 30; 108, 136 Portmann, Adolf: and studies of mimicry and expressive animal behavior, 173–174 prehensions: 195, 205ff.; and conformal feelings, 197; and feelings of causal efficacy, 205–206; as hybrid, 209; as negative and positive, 197, 198, 206; and past emotions, 206; as unconscious, 199 primary and secondary qualities: 2, 3, 6, n. 8; 33, 34, 49, n. 3; 50, 52, 54, 56, 190 process: 4, 6, 15, 17, 18, 40, 66; and actual occasions of experience, 194–195, 200, 201; and animal development and genesis, 173, 177–178; continuity/discontinuity of, 167, 190, 230, 235; and dehiscence, 89–91, 200; and evolution, 155, 167,

259

179; and finalism and mechanism, 129–130, 153–154; and genesis of mentality, 210–211; and imagination, 230–231; and intellectual spatialization, 166; and prehensive unification, 205–206; and transition, 206; and temporalization, 38, 110; and two species, 197. See also chiasm and concrescence Proust, Marcel: 20, 63, n. 25; 82, 85, 103, 109, 217, 219; and Locke, 194 psychoanalysis: 82, 87, 92; and Bachelard, 76, n. 8; ontological vs. existential, 83 rationalism: 67, 192–193 rationality: 4, n. 3; 23, 111–112, 142, 154, 193, 237 realism and idealism: 64, 117, 127, 135–136; 187, 205, 229, 237 reformed subjectivist principle: 231 Ricoeur, Paul: 142, 143, 214, n. 4 Robert, Franck: 4, n. 4; 72, n. 44; 100, 191, 217, 219 Russell, Edward S.: and purposive behavior in flatworms, 172–173 Santayana, George: 52, 64, n. 27 Sartre, Jean-Paul: 7, 13, 32, 50, n. 4; 58, n. 14; 59, 61, 65, 71, 79, 84, n. 18; 91, 122; and concrete universals, 221; and consciousness as source of meaning, 101; and dehiscence, 90; and Kant, 38; and logos endiathetos, 106; and metamorphosis, 93, 101; and natural production of subjectivity, 200; and nausea, 40–43, 127; nothingness, 82, 199; and Offenheit, 62; and the painter, 94. See also negativity and phenomenology Scheler, Max: 57, n. 13 Schelling, F.W.J.: 8, 13, n. 6; 22, 43, 58, 91, 117, 123–144; and concepts and explanations, 131–132, 135, 141; and concepts and intuition, 138, 139, 144; and concepts and

260

INDEX

Schelling, F.W.J. (continued) perceptual faith, 132, n. 18; and Descartes, 127; and l’être brut, 127; and God’s consequent nature, 215; and ideas as carnal, 224; and identity with Nature, 133; and imagination, 232; and; influence on Whitehead, 228–233; and intellectual intuition, 131, 137, 142; and Kant’s critical philosophy, 128–129; and Konspiration, 126, 135, n. 26; 141, n. 36; and Leibniz, 126; and mechanism derivative from organism, 232; and Merleau-Ponty’s critical analysis, 123–144; and nature as active unity of the mental and the physical, 231; and Sartrean view of freedom, 141; and Spinoza, 125–127; and Whiteheadian criticisms, 233. See also Bergson and Nature scientific materialism: 47–54, 190, 192, 196, 199, 201, 233, 235 sensationalist principle: 51, 76, 101, 191, 235 sentant and sensible: 28, 62, 78, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 92, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 134, 176, 183, 186, 189; and ecological consequences, 228; and prehensions, 195, 196, 200, 209; and a Whiteheadian explanation of, 226, 227, 228, 238 Silesius, Angelus: 71, 107 simple location, fallacy of: 4, 48, 49, 51, 54, 77, 84, 96, 190, 192, 196, 235 space: 16, 202; and depth in modern painting, 80–81; and enduring objects, 222; and the flat projection of perspectives, 80, 81; as inhabited spatiality, 18–19, 20, 208; and Kant, 101; and Pascal, 40; as objective, 17, 18, 19, 20, 30, 34, 80, 184, 202; and prehensive unification, 201; and simple location, 48–49; and time for Bergson, 159–160, 163, n. 20; topological, 94–100

Spinoza, Benedict de: 3, 51, 91, 125, 126, 127, 189, 197, 228, n.14; 237; and Natura naturans and Natura naturata, 101, 126 Stoics’ logos endiathetos and logos proforikos: 8, 67, 103–122, 144, 193, 195, 217–218, 220, 238; and feelings of causal efficacy, 209 subjectivist principle: 50, 51, 52, 101, 190, 235 subjectivity: 54, 55; and descriptive generalization, 201–202, 229; and emergence from nature, 168–179, 189; as fundamental structure of experience, 199, 203; and metamorphosis, 200; and philosophy of, 28, 29; and primordial Being, 56, 64, 68, n. 34; as sedimented meaning, 56–57, 182; and subjects and superjects, 206; as transcendental, 2, 12, 39, 43; and unconscious experience, 231 substance: 6, n. 7, 77, 178, 208, 211, 228, n. 14; 239; and actual entities, 194; and Aristotle, 50; as causa sui, 125, 197; and Leibnizian monads, 57; in modern philosophy, 3, 31, 34, 35, n. 43; 48, 49, 50, n. 5; 51, 52, 56, 66, 145; and Schelling, 126; and Spinozistic attributes and modes, 91, 126 systems: See metaphysics time: 61, 66, 87; and actual occasions of experience as temporalizing processes, 201; as basic nature of reality, 165; and Bergsonian time consciousness, 145; and Claudel, 84, 97; and dehiscence, 97; and depth, 84, 85–86; and duration, 150; and the écart, 97; and enduring objects, 222; and Fundierung, 115; and Husserlian time consciousness, 85, 135 n. 25; as inhabited temporality, 18–19, 140; and institution, 111; and intellectual spatialization, 159, 166;

INDEX and Kant, 101; and life, 154; and Locke and Proust, 194; as objective, 18–19, 30, 201; and personal identity, 223; and prehensive unification, 201; as sedimented in the corporeal schema, 20; and thinking Being, 149–150 Toadvine, Ted: 12, n. 3; 55, n. 7; 104, n. 2; 134, 236 Uexküll, Jakob von: 169–170; and animals’ Umwelt, 173; as critic of Descartes, 178; and criticisms of Kant and Schelling, 171–172; and Husserlian Offenheit, 171

261

universals and particulars: 50, 52, 110, 166, 195, 211, 220, 232, 238; and concrete universals, 107, 108–109, 220, 221; universals as dimensions, 83, 212 vacuous actuality, fallacy of: 4, 52, 201, 229 Valéry, Paul: 78, 86, 91, 93, 178, n. 4 Van Zago, Luca: 68, n. 34 Wahl, Jean: 3, 4, 30, n. 35 Wordsworth, William: vi, 147, 198, 201, 228, 229, 230

nature and logos This is the first book-length account of how Maurice MerleauPonty used certain texts by Alfred North Whitehead to develop an ontology based on nature, and how he could have used other Whitehead texts that he did not know in order to complete his last ontology. This account is enriched by several of Merleau-Ponty’s unpublished writings not previously available in English, by the first detailed treatment of certain works by F. W. J. Schelling in

Hamrick / Van der Veken

PHILOSOPHY

William S. Hamrick

the course of showing how they exerted a substantial influence discussion of Merleau-Ponty’s interest in the Stoics’s notion of the twofold logos—the logos endiathetos and the logos proforikos. This book provides a thorough exploration of the consonance between these two philosophers in their mutual desire to overcome various bifurcations of nature, and of nature from spirit, that haunted philosophy and science since the seventeenth century. William S. Hamrick is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville and has written and edited several books, including (with coeditor Suzanne L. Cataldi) MerleauPonty and Environmental Philosophy: Dwelling on the Landscapes of Thought, also published by SUNY Press. Jan Van der Veken is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the Catholic University of Leuven and has written and edited several books, including (with coeditor Patrick Burke) Merleau-Ponty in Contemporary Perspectives.

S tat e U n i v e r s i t y o f N e w Y o r k P r e ss w w w. s u n y p r e s s . e d u

nature and logos

on both Merleau-Ponty and Whitehead, and by the first extensive

nature and logos Jan Van der Veken

A Whiteheadian Key to Merleau-Pont y ’s Fundamental Thought