Passing by

Turning to page 41 of The Restored Finnegans Wake, where

one is continually firstmeeting with odd sorts of others at all sorts of ages

, we find somebody being asked to tell once again

that fishabed ghoatstory of the haardly creditable edventyres

which form the matter

of the most commonfaced experience

. But who is this somebody now?

it is a slipperish matter, given the wet and low visibility (since in this scherzarade of one’s thousand one nightinesses that sword of certainty which would indentifide the body never falls) to idendifine the individuone

whose turn it is to tell the old ghoatstory.

Packed into those words indentifide and idendifine are intimations of dendritic branching, dividing, defining, ending, teeth, finish and faith, as well as identity. The body it seems is itself a ghost of an old goat who will ever scape the sword of would-be certainty: it would pass right through, as the body passes through time without making a mark on it.

Another Irishman, W. B. Yeats, composed for his own tombstone a remarkable epitaph:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

Since he died in 1938, Yeats could not have known that his epitaph bears a striking resemblance to the shortest saying in the Gospel of Thomas, 42:

Jesus says: ‘Become passers-by.’

(5G)

There is much that can be (and has been) said about this saying and its various translations (see Meyer 2003, 59-75); but let us add a few suggestions. First, the two words of this saying link identity (‘become’) with dynamic itinerancy (‘passers-by’), and thus compress the concept of semiotic closure into an expression the size of a mustard seed. In another context, this same seed could sprout an expression like that of Dogen: ‘Impermanence is the buddha-nature.’ Moreover, the Coptic root of the word translated ‘passersby’ is derived from the Greek parago, which is remarkably similar to the Sanskrit word paragate, which appears in the mantra at the climax of the Prajnaparamita Heart Sutra, a very brief and essential Buddhist scripture. According to Thich Nhat Hanh (1988, 50), paragate ‘means gone all the way to the other shore.’

The whole mantra is Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha. Nhat Hanh translates ‘Gone, gone, gone all the way over, everyone gone to the other shore, enlightenment, svaha!’ (the last word being a ‘cry of joy or excitement’). This is also related to Tathagata (‘thus-gone’) as a title of the Buddha. (Leighton and Okumura (2004, 103) render it as ‘the one who comes and goes in thusness.’) Thomas 42 could then be read as an exhortation to seek enlightenment – especially in the Zen context where practice is enlightenment and enlightenment is practice (rather than a “state” that you aim to arrive at and dwell in eternally). There is also a parallel Islamic saying – ‘This world is a bridge. Pass over it, but do not build your dwelling there’ (Meyer 2003, 70) – which may spring from the same source as Thomas 42.

Life depends eternally on chaotic itinerancy: try to fix it and it founders. The point is not to stand on the other shore, or to be Somebody, but to be thus gone.

The nerve bible

Laurie Anderson (1995) calls the body the Nerve Bible – the most intimate of scriptures.

Elaine Pagels (1979, 62-3) cites gnostic sources for several ‘mystical meanings’ of Biblical images, which interpret them as references to the human body:

  • Paradise = womb
  • Eden = placenta
  • river flowing forth from Eden = navelcord
  • Exodus = passage out of the womb (Red Sea = blood; and what was Paradise has now become the land of bondage!)

She also cites examples of interpretations running in the other direction:

  • ‘pregnant womb of any living creature’ = ‘image of the heavens and the earth’
  • cry of the newborn = ‘spontaneous cry of praise for the glory of the primal being’

Gershom Scholem likewise notes the organic nature of Kabbalistic imagery:

… to the Kabbalist the unity of God is manifested from the first as a living, dynamic unity, rich in content. What to the Jewish theologians were mere attributes of God, are to the Kabbalist potencies, hypostases, stages in an intradivine life-process, and it is not for nothing that the images with which he describes God are first and foremost images pertaining to the organism.

— Scholem (1960, 94)

What the Kabbalist calls ‘the not yet unfolded Torah’ (Scholem 1960,
49) is what Gendlin calls the implicit intricacy. In Kabbalah the sefiroth which constitute the divine life itself and its creative power are symbolized as a language of revelation hidden behind the explicit language of the Torah, yet so precisely implicated with it that ‘if you omit a single letter, or write a letter too many, you will destroy the whole world’ (Scholem 1960, 39).

Arthur Green (2004, 38) says of the first sefirah, Keter:

There is no specific ‘content’ to this sefirah; it is desire or intentionality, an inner movement of the spirit that potentially bears all content but actually bears none.

The sefirot are implicit all the way down to the Shekhinah – which is still haunted by Plato’s ghost:

While the inner logic of the Kabbalists’ emanational thinking would seem to indicate that all beings, including the physical universe, flow forth from Shekhinah, the medieval abhorrence of associating God with corporeality complicates the picture, leaving Kabbalah with a complex and somewhat divided attitude toward the material world.

— Green (2004, 53)

Subconscious observation

Gombrich shows in Art and Illusion that painters achieve the illusion of “realism” (accurate representation of visual experience) by learning techniques that take advantage of the viewer’s visual instincts, especially his need to make some familiar sense of what he sees; they don’t do it by “painting what they see” with an “innocent eye.” For subtlety of seeing, then, we might look more to a tracker (see Rezendes 1999) than to a painter. In a similar vein, Peirce remarked that the “character sketches” usually found in successful novels are not particularly subtle compared to the observations of a truly skilled reader of people.

But then it is to be remembered that the first and most genuine element of observation,—the subconscious observation,—was not the principal task of those literary artists. What they mainly had to do was to translate observations into words,—and to draw character sketches which the not too fine reader would recognize as agreeing with his own subconscious impressions.

— Peirce (RLT, 184)

The role of the reader, then, is to play along, which she can’t really do if she takes ‘too fine’ an interest in the details of the artist’s work. That would be a reader’s error comparable to the error of premature precision in dialogic. In both cases, these are errors because the ‘subconscious element of observation,’ as Peirce called it, is far ‘finer’ than the crude models consciously made.

That subconscious element of observation is, I am strongly inclined to think, the very most important of all the constituents of practical reasoning. The other part of observation consists in moulding in the upper consciousness a more or less skeletonized idea until it is felt to respond to [the] object of observation. This last element is quite indispensable if one is trying to form a theory of the object in hand, or even to describe it in words; but it goes a long way toward breaking down, denying, and pooh-poohing away, all the fineness of the subconscious observation. It is, therefore, a great art to be able to suppress it and put it into its proper place in cases where it attempts impertinent intermeddling. Do not allow yourself to be imposed upon by the egotism and conceit of the upper consciousness.

— Peirce (RLT, 182-3)

Perhaps ‘the fineness of the subconscious observation’ is the ‘implicit intricacy’ of which Gendlin speaks. This may not be a way out of the ego tunnel, but it can bring some light into it.

Ego Tunnel

The ‘view from within’ is from inside the process of embodiment, not from inside the skull or the skin. There is nobody inside the body reading the information coming in through the sense channels or any other channels. It is the bodymind itself, acting out its own integrity, which does the reading and meaning. To do this consciously, the brain conjures up a phantom for you to think of as your self. Thomas Metzinger calls this the phenomenal Ego, and calls its world the Ego Tunnel:

Whenever our brains successfully pursue the ingenious strategy of creating a unified and dynamic inner portrait of reality, we become conscious. First, our brains generate a world-simulation, so perfect that we do not recognize it as an image in our minds. Then, they generate an inner image of ourselves as a whole. This image includes not only our body and our psychological states but also our relationship to the past and the future, as well as to other conscious beings. The internal image of the person-as-a-whole is the phenomenal Ego, the “I” or “self ” as it appears in conscious experience; therefore, I use the terms “phenomenal Ego” and “phenomenal self ” interchangeably. The phenomenal Ego is not some mysterious thing or little man inside the head but the content of an inner image— namely, the conscious self-model, or PSM. By placing the self-model within the world-model, a center is created. That center is what we experience as ourselves, the Ego. It is the origin of what philosophers often call the first-person perspective. We are not in direct contact with outside reality or with ourselves, but we do have an inner perspective. We can use the word “I.” We live our conscious lives in the Ego Tunnel.

— Metzinger (2009, 6-7)

Metzinger’s ‘Ego Tunnel’ is roughly equivalent to the cognitive bubble in Turning Signs; his proposition that ‘We are not in direct contact with outside reality or with ourselves’ is equivalent to the Peircean proposition that all cognition is mediated, i.e. ‘all thought is in signs.’

Spiritual body

In 1 Corinthians 2 and elsewhere, St. Paul distinguishes between two kinds of people, the psychic (ψυχικός) and pneumatic (πνευματικός) – translated in the King James Bible as the ‘natural man’ and the ‘spiritual man’ respectively (see Chapter 4). At that time ‘natural’ and ‘spiritual’ were felt to be opposites, as ‘natural’ was synonymous with ‘worldly.’

Howbeit we speak wisdom among them that are perfect [teleiois]: yet not the wisdom of this world, nor of the princes of this world, that come to nought: But we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery, even the hidden wisdom, which God ordained before the world unto our glory:

1 Corinthians 2:6-7 (KJV)

Since it is not ‘temporal’ but mythic wisdom, ‘hidden’ from secondhand (public) sight, we can say it is ‘ordained before the world,’ just as Buddhists say that the Buddha-nature is beginningless, unborn and undying. But Peirce says the same about the continuity of time itself …

Now we have received, not the spirit of the world (to pneuma tou cosmou), but the spirit which is of God (to pneuma to ek tou theou); that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God.…

For who hath known the mind of the Lord, that he may instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ.

1 Corinthians 2:12, 16 (KJV)

The ‘we’ here is ambiguous; gnostics could read this chapter as an indication that Paul taught a ‘secret wisdom … not to everyone, and not publicly, but only to a select few whom he considered to be spiritually mature’ (Pagels 1979, 43; see 2:6 above, and the Gospel of Truth in NHS). Indeed Paul goes on in the next chapter to say that the Corinthians did not qualify as ‘mature,’ and still don’t, ‘For while there is jealousy and strife among you, are you not of the flesh, and behaving like ordinary men?’

Then in 1 Corinthians 15, we come to ‘the end, when he [Christ] delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power’ (15:24, RSV). At this point comes the resurrection of the dead: ‘It is sown a physical body [σῶμα ψυχικόν], it is raised a spiritual body [σῶμα πνευματικόν]’ (15:44). The end of social hierarchy seems to be the beginning of spiritual life: ‘we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye’ (52), and ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’ (54). The law, as embodiment of social convention, authority and power, seems to be swallowed up along with death, for ‘The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law’ (56).

Jesus said, ‘I shall give you what no eye has seen and what no ear has heard and what no hand has touched and what has never occurred to the human mind.’

Thomas 17 (Lambdin); cf. 1 Corinthians 2:9

Valantasis comments on this that ‘Jesus offers the hearer something that transcends human capacity’ (Valantasis 1997, 84). But if you are human, then nothing beyond human capacity can be given to you, since you will not be able to receive it. What is offered here is new experience, unfiltered through old categories and habits, or rather taking them as a point of departure. (It’s not take it or leave it but take it and leave it.) This is not beyond human capacity; in fact it happens all the time, but being alive to it takes some unlearning, takes what John Dewey (1934) called perception as opposed to recognition. The veil of habit hides the Firstness of the phaneron, and generality dissipates the force of discovery. So maybe that’s what Jesus is offering here. Dogen in his essays and talks makes a similar offer, but since he urges you to realize it rather than saying that he will ‘give’ it to you, it sounds more like a challenge than an offer – a challenge to awaken.

To carry the self forward and illuminate myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and illuminate the self is awakening.

— Dogen, ‘Genjokoan’ (Tanahashi 2010, 29)

The Eternal Body

Man has no Body distinct from his Soul, says Blake (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Plate 4); or as Gendlin puts it, ‘There is no body separate from process’ (1998, IV-A.c).

Blake’s Body is Eternal, as everything ‘exists’ in this Body where ‘not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away’ (Jerusalem 13:66-14:1). In this respect they are like qualities (Firsts) in Peirce: ‘a quality is eternal, independent of time and of any realization’ (CP 1.420, c.1896). A process, on the other hand, must involve time and thus Peirce’s Thirdness.

In Blake’s Jerusalem (5:19), he takes it as the ‘great task’ of the artist

To open the Eternal Worlds, to open the immortal Eyes
Of Man inwards into the Worlds of Thought: into Eternity
Ever expanding in the Bosom of God, the Human Imagination.

‘Expanding’ would have to be a process, which takes time, just as meaning does. Imagination is meaning spacetime, and must be ‘ever expanding’ because it contains everything that exists or has existed: it is the Eternal Now. But as the ‘Eternal Body of Man’, of which we are all Members, it must also be a process, a living process (though Blake would not use that term). This recalls the metaphor of the human community as members of the body of Christ, developed at length by Paul in 1 Corinthians 12. Of course, to Paul, this was not ‘merely’ a metaphor: to be a Christian was to live in Christ. To Blake, this meant to live ‘in the Bosom of God, the Human Imagination,’ the Eternal Body.

Lifework

Meaning is the modulation of intent. A semiotic agent’s work is never done – not unless he can stop making sense long enough to be the sense he makes.

Life is inherently restless, far from equilibrium, yet yearning for it; the tension between its twin tendencies drives the cycle of birth-and-death. This is another dimension hidden in the pun of Heraclitus:

τῷ τόξῳ ὄνομα βίος, ἔργον δὲ θάνατος.

The name of the bow is life, but its work is death.

Kahn LXXIX, D. 48

Bios is the older, poetic word for “bow” (toxon), and except for an accent mark not written in Heraclitus’ time, is identical to bios, the word for “life.”

… for in the byways of high improvidence that’s what makes lifework leaving …

Intentionality

Gibbs (1999) offers a detailed study of the many and varied usages of ‘intention.’ Some other variations on the theme:

Descartes had seen the mind as a subjective consciousness that contained ideas that corresponded (or sometimes failed to correspond) to what was in the world. This view of the mind as representing the world reached its culmination in Franz Brentano’s notion of intentionality. According to Brentano, all mental states (perception, memory, etc.) are of or about something; in his words, mental states necessarily have ‘reference to a content’ or ‘direction toward an object’ (which is not necessarily a thing in the world). This directedness or intentionality, Brentano claimed, was the defining characteristic of the mind. (This use of intentional should not be confused with its use to mean ‘doing something on purpose.’)

— Varela et al. (1991, 15-16)

Edelman (2004, 125) defines Brentano’s ‘intentionality’ as ‘the property by which consciousness is directed at, or is about, objects and states of affairs that are initially in the world’ (italics mine) – which implies a developmental process involving internalization.

Gendlin’s Process Model (VII.A) derives ‘aboutness’ from interrupted behavior sequences: the interruption begets reiterated gestures, and eventually ‘the aboutness level radically remakes the world’ (by begetting habits, as Peirce would say).

Walter Freeman (1999a and b) rejects both ‘aboutness’ and ‘doing something on purpose’ as the root meaning of ‘intent.’ His intent is related to the definition of living beings as autonomous agents (Kauffman 2001), and refers to the biological ground from which consciously intended meanings, and indeed consciousness itself, emerge. Freeman himself adopted his usage from Aquinas:

The concept – ‘intentionality’ – was first described by Thomas Aquinas in 1272 to denote the process by which humans and other animals act in accordance with their own growth and maturation. An ‘intent’ is the directing of an action towards some future goal that is defined and chosen by the actor.

— Freeman (1999a, 10)

This kind of ‘intentionality’ is essentially what Peirce ascribes to the ‘perfect sign’ which ‘never ceases to undergo changes of the kind we rather drolly call spontaneous’ (EP2:545). The actor or agent does not need to imagine a ‘future goal,’ or consciously define or choose it; even among humans, conscious intention (sometimes called volition or will) is only the tip of the intentional iceberg. Spinoza’s concept of conatus, as interpreted by Damasio, seems to be essentially the same:

It is apparent that the continuous attempt at achieving a state of positively regulated life is a deep and defining part of our existence – the first reality of our existence as Spinoza intuited when he described the relentless endeavor (conatus) of each being to preserve itself. … In Spinoza’s own words: ‘Each thing, as far as it can by its own power, strives to persevere in its being’ and ‘The striving by which each thing strives to persevere in its being is nothing but the actual essence of the thing.’ Interpreted with the advantages of current hindsight, Spinoza’s notion implies that the living organism is constructed so as to maintain the coherence of its structures and functions against numerous life-threatening odds.

Damasio (2003, 36)

Autopoiesis theory is very similar, except that it prefers to describe the organism as constructing or making itself rather than being ‘constructed.’ But the Spinoza/Damasio theory amounts to the same concept:

The conatus subsumes both the impetus for self-preservation in the face of danger and opportunities and the myriad actions of self-preservation that hold the parts of a body together. In spite of the transformations the body must undergo as it develops, renews its constituent parts, and ages, the conatus continues to form the same individual and respect the same structural design.

What is Spinoza’s conatus in current biological terms? It is the aggregate of dispositions laid down in brain circuitry that, once engaged by internal or environmental conditions, seeks both survival and well-being.

— Damasio (2003, 36)

Damasio’s view is that what we experience as feelings arises from that same brain circuitry; and feelings in turn are the essential components of what i have called guidance systems. As Peirce expressed it in 1868, a feeling is ‘the material quality of a mental sign’ (EP1:43). The engagement to which Damasio refers (called ‘structural coupling’ in autopoiesis theory) has its highest expression in ethics, the collaboration of reason and feeling:

It is not a simple issue of trusting feelings as the necessary arbiter of good and evil. It is a matter of discovering the circumstances in which feelings can indeed be an arbiter, and using the reasoned coupling of circumstances and feelings as a guide to human behavior.

— Damasio (2003, 179)

But all of this is rooted in what Spinoza (in his Ethics) called conatus, and this is what Aquinas called intent. Walter Freeman elaborates on the concept:

Aquinas further proposed that each animal is a unified being enclosed within a boundary that distinguishes ‘self’ from ‘other,’ and that the self uses the body to push its boundary outwards into the world. Etymologically the word ‘intend’ comes from the Latin intendere, which means not only to stretch forth, but equally importantly to change the self by experiencing action and learning from the consequences of acting.

— Freeman (1999a, 36)

Freeman labels his model pragmatism (as opposed to ‘materialism’ and ‘cognitivism’), defining it as the idea ‘that minds are dynamic structures that result from actions into the world’ (1999a, 35). Intent is what drives these ‘actions into the world,’ thus constituting the upper limb of the meaning cycle.

The root of all human ‘intention’ is the inner life which not only generates subjective experience but drives every act of the organism, physical and mental, conscious and unconscious. As Freeman explains,

… we perform most daily activities that are clearly intentional and meaningful without being explicitly aware of them. Consider the activities of athletes and dancers … As the training of the brain and body proceeds, … conscious reflection on the manipulation of the body falls away, and they can take the plunge through having what we commonly call a strong ‘feel’ for the game or dance. Performance becomes ‘second nature.’ For many people, the greatest fulfillment and enjoyment comes with total immersion into the activity, so that self-awareness is scattered to the winds, and they become wholly what they desire in body and spirit, without reservation. The brain and body anticipate inputs, perceive, and make movements without need for reflection. It is precisely this kind of unconscious, but directed, skill in the exercise of perception that the concept of intentionality must include.

— Freeman (1999a, 23)

This is the kind of intentionality inherent in what Csikszentmihalyi (1990) calls flow or optimal experience. It is when the circuits of intent are fully closed, leaving no gaps between mind and body and no space for the busybody conscious ‘self’ to interfere, that the current of experience flows most freely. Self-consciousness disrupts this flow by lifting the ‘self’ out of its context. Shaun Gallagher and Anthony J. Marcel ‘suggest that disruption of the intended behaviour in such cases is due to the behaviour being the explicit focus of consciousness rather than an implicit aspect of the intention’ (Gallagher and Shear 1999, 279, italics in original).

The deep connection, then, between intentionality and ‘aboutness’ is the movement of the subject or agent, or rather its motility, the potential for movement that creates a space in which it can move and thus furnishes its Umwelt with significant objects. It was noted long ago by the precursors of both phenomenology and psychology that activity of the subject was indispensable to perception (see Pachoud 1999). Merleau-Ponty (1945, 158) urges us ‘to understand motility as basic intentionality. Consciousness is in the first place not a matter of “I think” but of “I can”.’ (See also Sheets-Johnstone 1999.)

Motility is always implicit in experience; and, not coincidentally, it is implicit in life as we know it on this planet. According to Margulis and Sagan (1995, Chapter 5), spirochetes which had developed the power of movement as free-living bacteria later bestowed movement on cells to which they became attached, including the internal movement that made sexual reproduction and genetic replication possible. Intracellular motility made possible the development of species. And according to Llinás (2001, 59), ‘the organization and function of our brains is based on the embedding of motricity over evolution.’

The Brentano sense of intentionality, then, can be derived from the biological and psychological by observing that the perception of objects always involves movement (or at least motility) of the subject as body. The infant exploring her environment, for instance by putting things into her mouth, is learning to correlate sense experience with inner intent. Eventually the correlations become habitual and there is no need for gross physical movement in order to see things – yet visual experience is continually fine-tuned by tiny rapid eye movements called saccades. We do not consciously control these movements, yet they are ‘directed’ (Koch 2004, 63ff., 344; see also McCrone 2004).

Behaviors reveal a sort of prospective activity in the organism as if it were oriented toward the meaning of certain elementary situations, as if it entertained familiar relations with them, as if there were an ‘a priori of the organism,’ privileged conducts and laws of internal equilibrium which predisposed the organism to certain relations with its milieu. At this level there is no question yet of a real self-awareness or of intentional activity.

— Merleau-Ponty (1964, 4)

The ‘as if’ here anticipates Dennett’s concept of ‘the intentional stance’ – that is, we attribute intentionality to the organism, or infer it, rather than observing it directly; but the attribution itself is often not voluntary but automatic. ‘Intentional’ in Merleau-Ponty’s final sentence above refers of course to conscious intention or to the ‘illusion of conscious will’ (Wegner 2002). Walter Freeman on the other hand uses ‘intentional’ in reference to what Merleau-Ponty calls ‘prospective activity.’ Both emphasize the intersubjective nature of the intentional space inhabited by humans:

Evolution has given us the capacity to detect intentionality in others without having to define it.… Intentional action is directed by internally generated goals and takes place in the time and space of the world shared with other intentional beings.

— Freeman (1999a, 41-2)

… we are typically conscious of the results of mental processes but not of the processes themselves.

— Baars (1997, 177)

The idea we’ve been pursuing throughout this book is that the experience of conscious will is not a direct indicator of a causal relation between thought and behavior.

— Wegner (2002, 288)

Consciousness holds itself responsible for everything, and takes everything upon itself, but it has nothing of its own and makes its life in the world.

— Merleau-Ponty (1945, 526)

It is as though people aspire to be ideal agents who know all their actions in advance.

— Wegner (2002, 145)

People are surely not conscious of faking, at least after the first little while, when they play the roles of everyday life. A lack of consciousness of the processes whereby one has achieved a mental state, however, suggests a kind of genuineness …

— Wegner (2002, 304 fn.)

Wegner (2002, Chapter 5) shows that ‘ideal agency’ is an illusion which we protect by confabulating our own motives when necessary. Merleau-Ponty had already anticipated this:

… my temperament exists only for the second order knowledge that I gain about myself when I see myself as others see me, and in so far as I recognize it, confer value upon it, and in that sense, choose it. What misleads us on this, is that we often look for freedom in the voluntary deliberation which examines one motive after another and seems to opt for the weightiest or most convincing. In reality the deliberation follows the decision, and it is my secret decision which brings the motives to light, for it would be difficult to conceive what the force of a motive might be in the absence of a decision which it confirms or to which it runs counter.

— Merleau-Ponty (1945, 506)

Peirce (CP 1.623 and elsewhere) uses the terms logica utens (logic-in-use) for implicit logic, and logica docens (logic-in-teaching) for explicit logic, observer’s logic, ‘the result of scientific evaluation of the logica utens’ (Ochs 1998, 76). The distinction is like that between use and mention, or perhaps between body and mind. But

Our century has wiped out the dividing line between ‘body’ and ‘mind,’ and sees human life as through and through mental and corporeal.

— Merleau-Ponty (1960, 226)

A Turn-up for the Books

While i was writing the bit about flukes in Chapter 2 of Turning Signs, i was thinking it would be fun to write a whole book about these wonderful flukes of etymological fun. I recently discovered that this has in fact been done, by a chap named Mark Forsyth, who called it The Etymologicon. He also has a blog called The Inky Fool, which i highly recommend to those who love laughing at the quirks and “hidden connections” of words.

The Etymologicon also turned out to have a hidden, fluky connection with my book. The title of its first chapter is the title i’ve given to this blog post, and it turns out (or up?) that a “turn-up” means (or used to mean) something very like a “fluke”: “an unexpected slice of luck” (Forsyth, Mark. The Etymologicon: A Circular Stroll Through the Hidden Connections of the English Language (p. 2). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.). It has absolutely no connection with turnips.

And not only that, but the Etymologicon, like Turning Signs, has a circular structure. All purely coincidental, of course (except for the title of this blog post).

What remains?

When we select some part of the system to symbolize the life of the whole, we always choose something that flows, such as blood or breath, rather than the rigid parts. Indeed the skeleton, essential as it is for a living body’s movement, usually stands for death. Can flow itself be imagined apart from any fluid substance? If it can, it seems to be nothing other than time. Time is the essence of life because life is essentially a process, or rather a network of processes.

If your real life is a process, a kind of flow, then the fixed identity you call your self is an illusion – or at least its continuity is inseparable from its being always in transition from one “state” to another. Its life is its impermanence. The idea of a substantial, permanent selfhood is a species of what Trungpa (1973) called ‘spiritual materialism.’ A fixed “creed” or formulated belief is more of the same. But the practice of whole-body reading, grounded in the spirit of inquiry, can resurrect a dead dogma into a living, breathing belief.

The true remains of the Buddha’s body are found in the sutras.

— Dogen (Cook 1978, 47)