to the stable, the eternal, the identical, the constant”; the model is “vortical,” not laminar, operating “in an open space throughout which thing-flows are distributed, rather than plotting out a closed space for linear and solid things”; that model models not a “striated” space that “is counted in order to be occupied,” but a “smooth” space that “is occupied without being counted”; and the subtlest & hardest for me to grasp among all these distinctions, it is “problematic,” not “theorematic.”
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The very next passage introduces a concept that is pivotal for D&G, and it’s lovely besides, so I’m going to quote it at some length before circling back to unfold it:
“The nomad knows how to wait, he has infinite patience. Immobility and speed, catatonia and rush, a ‘stationary process,’ station as process — these traits of Kleist’s are eminently those of the nomad. It is thus necessay to make a distinction between *speed* and *movement* [emphasis in original]: a movement may be very fast, but
“that does not give it speed; a movement may be very slow, or even immobile, yet it is still speed. Movement is extensive, speed is intensive.”
Well. Firstly, you either get this immediately, or you don’t, and if you do it hardly requires explication. (I’m put in mind of the ferociously effective instruction producer Martin Hannett apocryphally offered the members of Joy Division in the studio, before they had quite become the band we now recognize: that they play “faster, but slower.”)
But let’s dig in a little, for the benefit of those for whom this sounds like so much pretentious doublespeak.
Firstly, what’s this about Kleist? Heinrich von Kleist was a 19th-century German poet and essayist, and the reference is to his 1810 piece “On the Marionette Theatre,” in which he describes the perfect grace with which marionettes seem to move. Kleist ascribes this grace to the lack of self-awareness on the marionette’s part, which enables them to trace paths through space and time
with perfect economy of movement. (We have a still more graceful model available to us, that neither Kleist nor even D&G would have had access to: the eerie stillness with which anything algorithmically controlled moves, like a drone or a robot arm.) This stillness and grace is where the “stationary process” resides.
And D&G use this paradoxical quality to open up an opposition between speed and the very character of movement that would seem to inhere in it. They insist that speed and movement
belong to two entirely different, indeed opposed registers of being: the intensive and the extensive.
This is a foundational distinction for D&G, so it’s worth spending some time with it. It’s one of the places — so frustrating, I know, if not infuriating, to those who come from the “hard sciences” — where they rely on established concepts from physics to signify and do more than they do in that discipline.
The physical distinction can be made like this: *extensive* quantities are those that
can be subdivided without changing their nature. Lots of familiar measurements are like this: length, area, volume, mass. The numbers add up linearly. *Intensive* quantities, on the other hand — like temperature or pressure — can’t be divided up so neatly. They’re gradients, right? And each position on the gradient is its own thing, its own situation: it’s nonsense to speak of today being half as cold as yesterday.
And importantly, these are differences in potential. *They drive processes*.
So far, this is what any physics textbook would tell you. But D&G (and really, this is more or less straight Deleuze) want us to retrieve something more from the distinction, something primary: extensive space is the space through which the sedentary is compelled to move, and which submits to the operations of reticulation and distinction the sedentary imposes on it. But, as we’ve already seen, for the nomad, space is a field of differential intensities — gradients, tensions, tendencies and the
flows they produce between them. Finally we’re in a position to understand “movement” as a practice of extension in space, and “speed” as something else, an intensive quality that can even inhere in absolute stillness.
That’s a lot to get our heads around, so I think we’ll leave that to marinate overnight. For now, notes!
- Here is Kleist’s essay “On the Marionette Theater” (recall, too, that this same Kleist was the author of “Penthesilea,” invoked some weeks back): https://southerncrossreview.org/9/kleist.htm
- Here’s a scene from “24 Hour Party People” in which Andy Serkis brilliantly inhabits Martin Hannett: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90j6V8EjSuI
- And here’s what the results of that advice sound like, in Joy Division’s “She’s Lost Control” — as good a way of understanding the distinction between extensive movement and intensive speed as any I can imagine:
https://open.spotify.com/track/0rcLhYRihks3t4lFPtHhQV
Enjoy these links and I’ll see you for more “Nomadology” tomorrow!
Good news for everyone who’s been following this unfolding of “Nomadology,” or trying to, who would prefer the convenience of a single long piece: I’ve now published Part I of Notes on “Nomadology” as a free post on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/notes-on-part-i-142961660
Feel free to share the link with friends, or anyone else you think might be interested!
#deleuze #guattari #deleuzeandguattari #nomadology #athousandplateaus #theory #philosophy
And that unfolding continues, with a further elaboration of the relationship between the nomad and space. Of the entire text as we’ve encountered it so far, these lines come the closest to poetry: “The nomad is there, on the land, wherever there forms a smooth space that gnaws, and tends to grow, in all directions. The nomad inhabits these places, he [sic] remains in them, and he himself makes them grow, for it has been established that the nomad makes the desert no less than he is made by it.”
“He is a vector of deterritorialization. He adds desert to desert, steppe to steppe, by a series of local operations the orientation and direction of which endlessly vary.”
What crops up at this point for me is a question that’s been looming beneath the surface of our inquiry across its entire duration, which is that of *implicit identification*. There’s a strong, though never explicitly stated, sense that the reader of the book is supposed to admire these operations, and want to emulate them,
as much as they are assumed to abjure and reject royal science, theorematicity, arborescent order, the striation of space u.s.w. u.s.w. That is: we are supposed to understand deterritorialization not merely as a tactic available to us, but as something to which we might, and ought to, aspire.
This might seem obvious, but I think it’s worth making explicit. Despite the occasional reminder that minor or nomad modes are “not better, but different,” I think we are safe in assuming that a gradient
of value exists for D&G across all the ways in which they make the distinction, and that for them the grandeur will always reside in becoming-nomad.
And therefore, that learning to recognize the qualities of nomad space is something we might want to devote some effort to. Thus: “The sand desert does not only have oases, which are like fixed points, but also rhizomatic vegetation that is temporary and shifts location according to local rains, bringing changes in the direction of the crossings.”
What a gorgeous image this is: the near-monochrome expanse of the desert swept with sheets of rain, whose patterns are only haphazardly predictable, and which raise in their wake a thin scrim of green barely less sere than the sands themselves. And it’s these outcroppings we subsist on, these patches of green we navigate by. (And sometimes, indeed, the rains fail.)
Whether or not this is a condition of being we ought to aspire to, it feels a whole lot like the condition that *is*: this is what
