Book Review: The
Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World – by
David Abram (Vantage Books 1997)
This is a
very important book which contemplates key differences between oral
pre-literate cultures and literate cultures that came to use the alphabet. He
shows how oral cultures exhibit a more participatory animistic awareness rooted
and referenced in place and landscape and how literate cultures transferred
that animism into the abstract letters and signs we use for written language.
The book was for me a bit wordy and difficult to read at times but worthwhile
as it is full of interesting insights. I do show some dissatisfaction with a
few of his conclusions. However, some of the insights in this book are quite
profound and he demonstrates thoroughly how our language and our conceptions
and even time itself are rooted in nature and its spatial dimensions. Abram is
a Ph.D. ecologist and philosopher who skillfully weaves these two strands of
knowledge here.
His first
assertion is that we have lost our contact and rapport with the landscape and
the sensuous world that goes with it. We need to re-acquaint, he thinks. He
delves into the 20th century tradition of phenomenology, which he
calls the “study of direct experience.” He says that the study of perception
reveals how much the earthscape is a part of our perception.
He first
recounts a personal perceptive experience living in a hut amidst rice paddies
on the island of Bali, where the blue sky of day and the night stars were both
above and reflected in the water below. He experienced a sense of
weightlessness with vertigo and giddiness and found a trance-like state. He was
traveling in Asia as a sleight-of-hand magician on a grant to study the
relationship of magic and folk medicine, having seen success in applying
sleight-of-hand magic in psychotherapy to get hard to access patients to open
up. He observes that magicians and shamans of every variety work with
perception, as it has a malleable quality. His interest shifted to the relationship
between magic/shamanism and the natural world, the subject of this book.
Magicians and shamans often live on the outskirts of the community, are feared,
and being feared helps them so that they are only sought out in times of need
so as not to be overworked. They are intermediaries between the human world and
the hidden animated world of nature. Metaphorically, he or she keeps these
worlds in balance and by addressing imbalances, heals the people and community.
These magical people deal with non-human forces of nature. They are messengers,
intermediaries between the hidden worlds of nature and the outer world. Thus
they have an ecological dimension. The anthropocentric assertion by the Church
that only humans have intelligent souls while the rest of nature is inanimate
or at least non-intelligent is disputed by indigenous wisdom traditions. In
order to communicate with the non-human world the shaman must transcend human
culture and perceptions.
Abram made
note of his hostess in Bali offering palm fronds daily with piles of rice to
the house spirits outside at the corner of the house. These were carried off by
ants. He then had the realization that the ants could be the spirits and their
placating is like an ecological offering to keep them from overtaking the
house. Such an idea makes sense and I must admit I do similar things as well,
though only occasionally. He sees the offering at the house corner as
establishing a boundary and boundaries have long been important to shamans. He
also notes his own quasi-mystical experience in a cave there of spiders
spinning webs as spirits. He also experienced malaria. He also notes that
hyper-sensory awareness and its development can improve one’s experience of
nature. Local people and shamans told him of special magical places that he
experienced as such. Many of us have done so as well. He notes that modern
Western-style psycho-therapeutic or healing shamanism, though having noble
aims, often misses the detail gathered by long exposure to natural
environments. Thus all indigenous animism is essentially eco-shamanism.
In his next
travel adventure he notes the vertical orientation of the Himalayas. Distant
horizons are a rarity and birds, he says, are the exalted spirits that shamans
utilize. He mentions an experience there of a condor swooping down out of the
sky towards him, apparently intrigued by the coin he was rolling in his hand
that was reflecting the sun. It came close enough to wind him with its
feathers.
He notes his
newfound awareness of nature and animal communication after he returned from
his travels. If one has the time to wander around for hours staring into nature
such abilities can surely be developed. He says he lost his ability after
returning to urban North America. He seems to implicate the necessity of
communicating with humans that caused him to lose his nature awareness. I am
not sure if I buy that. He compares the rich, though not always pleasant
smells, and sounds of Nepal to those of North America – at least he experienced
the former more intently. He seems to suggest that it was the culture that
influenced such a deeper experience. He mentions the commodification of nature
by the West as an influence of our tendency to experience nature less deeply.
As a long-time rural resident of North America I don’t think that is the case,
at least not for me.
The next
subject is phenomenology. Beginning with Descartes and Galileo, the mechanistic
view of nature began – seeing and studying observed phenomena as object and
sifting out the subjective components of reality. Of course, emotions are
indeed out of place in science although they can affect the way science goes.
With the discovery of the quantum world we were introduced or re-introduced to
the idea that what is real is different than what we normally see as real. He
calls it the ambiguity of experience. It was this that propelled Edmund Husserl
to found the philosophical discipline of phenomenology, a science of experience
which is inclusive of the subjective aspects of experience. His initial
assumption was to see subjective experience as confined to a mental,
non-material realm. French phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty, whose ideas
are articulated much here, noted that the quality of subjective experience
could be developed by astute observation. Husserl answered criticisms that his
ideas were solipsistic (confined to a singular consciousness) by noting that
subjective experience of phenomena takes place in a field of appearances
accompanied by one’s body and other bodies so that phenomena is imbued by
multiple subjectivities that could be studied collectively – ie. we have many
shared experiences. Thus, phenomena can be “intersubjective.” He pointed out
that objective reality was inadequate to explain our experience and in fact was
more of a construction than subjective reality. He also noted that modern man
(in the early 1900’s) had become disconnected from the intersubjective world of
life, the “life-world.” Much of Abrams book here comes to a similar conclusion.
He
extensively covers Merleau-Ponty’s “Participatory Nature of Perception.” Abram
says that Merleau-Ponty radicalized Husserl’s ideas and enhanced them utilizing
a phenomenological language style in order to draw one into the realm of the
sensuous. He noted that mindfulness and the body are closely related. He said
the experiencing self cannot be separated from the body. He called it the
“body-subject.” I think what Merleau-Ponty was saying is that much of
consciousness is sensory consciousness and senses are provided by the body. Of
course, they are interpreted by our mental faculties. Abram considers how
humans are different from animals and other non-humans and concludes that the
divisions provided by Western rationalism are inadequate.
Perception
is how we orient towards the world around us, says Abram. We can only perceive
a part of an object at any one time. Perception, he intimates, is the
interplay, or sympathetic relation between this subject-body and an object so
that the sensory world becomes animated and things perceived can be considered
“entities.” Thus, I think he is saying, that perception is as a participation
with an animated sensory world. I am not sure I follow him here or if I agree.
While I can understand how an animistic worldview is developed from sensually
experiencing the universe, it still seems that assumptions about what is
non-evident must be made and those assumptions are bound to differ between
individuals. While animistic cultural mythologies can unite such subjective
experiences into coherent world-views that does not make them universal. While
I do think that there is an intuitive component to animism that does not
vindicate specific versions of animism. Many people seem to insist that
spirits, gods, and the like are definitely externally existent entities but it
seems more likely to me that they are highly subjective, internal, symbolic,
and mentally imbued. The ideas of “thought-forms” and “egregore” come to mind.
Their existence is dependent on the mind of the perceiver. I refute their
external independent existence as does science, although I do concede that
thought-forms may produce effects which may well be unexplainable. Related
ideas like panpsychism consider that there is some degree of mind in all matter
so that the universe is imbued with consciousness. That may well be but it is
the specifics that I have a problem with – the notion that one’s dream, vision,
or hallucination definitely involved a real entity with the exact attributes
and qualities that the experiencer experienced. I would rather see it as
something that arose from one’s mind. What I am saying is that I think is OK to
say that perception is animistic but not that it adheres to a particular
mythological worldview. Abram does not say that it does but that is what I see
as a potential problem with this idea – it can be abused by religionists and
hard-core polytheists.
He goes on
to describe synaesthesia, a fusion of the senses, like the hallucinogenic ideas
of hearing color or seeing sounds, etc. Peoples that utilize hallucinogenic
substances as part of their traditions may be more in tune with such
experiences in everyday life particularly in their experience of nature. I
experienced many hallucinogenic “trips” with varying substances beginning in my
early teens and that did seem to open me up to a more open-ended world-view. It
shows one I think that our experience of the sensory world is not fixed but may
become dynamic and “animated.” Abram then goes on to suggest that our
technologies and “gadgets” take us away from deeper experience of the natural
world, kind of a tired argument by now. While I think there is some truth to
this I think the effect is more minor than usually depicted. He goes on to
depict the division between the natural and the artificial: nature-made vs. man-made,
and again I think that depiction is overblown. We are part of nature as is what
we make though we may experience it somewhat differently and come to depend on
the artificial too much. He says the artificiality takes us away from being
embedded in the natural landscape as we have been throughout our evolutionary
time. Yes this is true but that does not make it bad even though we may change
because of it. He mentions Merleau-Ponty’s idea of the reciprocity of the
sensuous: that we experience the world but the world also experiences itself
through us, an idea that seems also like panpsychism to me. Attention to the
perceptual dimension, he says, could inform a new environmental ethics where
nature is more respected. I say maybe but I can sense the potential for abuse
there too as in any development being considered the defilement of the sacred
landscape. For me it would depend how radically such an idea was approached.
Treading lightly may be more pragmatic than not treading at all.
Abram
considers the term “flesh” to signify the nexus of the animate and the
inanimate. Language too may be flesh, he considers, as it is only a way of
approximating experience and describing it rather inadequately. Speech is
bodily. It has a sensuous component. We learn it by learning how to position
our mouth to form the words and tones. Language is thought to have been derived
from gestures through grunts and imitating natural sounds. It is thus connected
to nature. It is also a representative agreed-upon code. Abram suggests that
the use of language has been considered historically to be how humans are seen
to be different than the rest of the animate world. He thinks this idea was
used as a justification of our domination of nature, particularly during the
mechanistic scientific revolution. I am not so sure. He thinks our language
does not set us apart from nature but embeds us into it. Perhaps it does both.
We can tune into nature and understand the meanings around us. It’s quite easy
for me to hear the raccoons fighting under the house as I often have to tell
them to knock it off. Silence, the spaces between words, is also part of
language and enhances understanding, he notes. Gestural language may be implied
in the silence – I think he is saying – he is hard to understand at times, for
me anyway. He calls language a web of language or an ecology of language. Indigenous
cultures tend to see language in cahoots with the animate landscape, he says.
Talking animals, plants, rocks, etc. occur in many myths and stories. Understanding
the secret language of nature is a magical ability in many tales.
He
summarizes Merleau-Ponty’s ideas: 1) perception is interactive and
participatory; 2) what is perceived is considered animate; 3) there is
linguistic reciprocity with animate nature; and 4) the human body and the
non-human animate landscape as well as the human community inform language.
There are language habits among communities that predispose us toward certain
interpretations of phenomena, say some linguists. He asks why we no longer
experience the world and language as animate. His answer is the next section:
Animism and the Alphabet.
The
practical advantages of written, particularly alphabetic, language began the
decline of oral cultures and, he says, the coincident decline of the veneration
and awe of nature. Honed senses for reading the signs of nature to hunt, track
animals, forage for food, etc. were transferred into reading the alphabetic
signs. He explores signs in nature – markings that look like writing – and the
beginnings of human writing – pictographs, ideograms, hieroglyphics, etc.
Sensory perception, he says, was shifted from the natural landscape to
pictographs – in order to remember and tell stories. But the scribes that knew
the picture languages were often elite. When phonetic writing emerged, when
letters and signs began to represent sounds, it was adopted by more and more
people due to its practicality and ability to be universally understood by
those who spoke different languages and dialects. Around 1500 B.C. Semitic
tribes came up with the alphabet, the aleph-beth.
This further distanced the written word from nature as letters came to
reference sounds rather than the stuff of nature, even if the letter names originally
did refer to things: ox, camel, door, house, etc. When the alphabet travelled
to Greece, those references were less useful as the environment and climate
were different. The references were clouded further into abstraction. He notes
Socrates’ assertion that the trees have nothing to teach as a founding moment
of the abstraction where the written (and spoken) word replaced nature as the
medium for learning in contrast to Homer’s hymns where nature was still
teacher. Before writing, the hymns were remembered through meter, through
rhythm, and as “rhapsodies” – which he equates to “rapping.” There were other
mnemonic devices of the bards too: alliteration, kennings, puns, repeated
phrases, etc. Recordings of Slavic oral tales in the Balkans in the 1930’s
revealed strong similarities in style to the Homeric hymns. The power of the
bard was lessened and the power of the scribe grew. Socrates was mostly
non-literate but his student Plato was a strong writer and his Ideas may well
have emerged with that writing – qualitative “terms” as “ideas” came about, he
says. I doubt that though writing may have enhanced the effect. The Egyptians
had “ideals” thousands of years before the Greeks. It is true I think that
Plato did go deeper into the abstract seeing a new “world” where unchanging
ideas dwelled – and this world was separate from the world of external nature.
Nature and story, once used to preserve knowledge (about plants, animals) could
now be transferred to writing. Writing could separate knowledge from the
animism of nature and explore it in new ways. Alphabet made it anthropocentric
and we lost the nature-centric.
Phonetic
reading utilizes seeing but also hearing (inner hearing of the sounds of the
words). These are the two senses most developed in humans. Thus the
synaesthesia of reading is similar to that of exploring nature – sight and
hearing are coupled. Though the coupling is of a different degree the magical
effect is similar – we are encountering an “other,” and external power.
However, in nature such encounters are much more likely to be accompanied by
emotions, adrenalin, deeper listening, deeper looking, and so are far more
intense. Writing became the new animism, he says, as we focus intently on the
words and derive emotion from the meaning of what we read. The words on a page
talk to us like nature does, or once did. Indigenous cultures encountering
writing for the first time see it as magic. The Hebrew scribes kept the
sacredness of writing intact to some extent and reinforced it through the
doctrines like the Kabbalah.
Oral
language developed mostly from the sounds of nature: birds, thunder, animals,
wind, rain, waterfalls, waves, fire, etc. Indigenous people are more attuned to
nature for that is their matrix of meaning, the source of learning and
understanding. Several indigenous cultures assert that animals and humans once
spoke the same language. Such universal understanding usually harkens back to
the mystical “distant time” or “dreamtime”, or “creation time” or “mythic time”
as others have called it. Utilizing bird and animal calls in language was one
way that language could be shared by tribes with different languages and
dialects. Distant Time stories abound among Native Americans as do Dreamtime
stories among Australian tribal natives. Such stories are universally rooted in
place, in the local landscape. They tell the origins of hills, rocks, ponds,
rivers, etc. These are often associated with tribal ancestors. Through such
associations they teach tribal lore and ethical behavior. He gives examples
from the Koyukon of Alaska, the Apache, and the Australians. The practice is
well-developed among the Australians with the walking trails themselves known
as “dream tracks,” so that a detailed “song line” accompanies travel from place
to place. Apparently, the melodies are the same among the different tribes,
even though their languages are different – so that the melodies are
recognizable. Such songs are inherited at birth simply by where one lives. Thus
travel itself can be a ritual endeavor of song learning, remembrance, and
utterance to keep the connection and bring harmony. The land is sung and place
is entwined with memory. The songs also have a practical aspect of remembrance
of routes. Writing and reading, Abram notes, is participatory as we need honed
senses to engage in it, but it is not rooted in the landscape at all and the
quality of the sensory engagement is much different.
Next he
examines space and time and this part is fascinating. The circular time common
in indigenous and ancient cultures was eclipsed by the idea of history and history
was certainly aided most by writing. Mircea Eliade noted the Hebrews as the
first main discoverers and advocates of historical time as one-time events
became non-circular, non-repeatable. This was prompted by alphabetic language,
he thinks. Abram says that circular, or cyclical time cannot be separated from
space – a circle encloses a spatial field as our own spatial field is enclosed
by the “horizon.” The contour of the horizon, the extent of our visual field,
is dependent on the local geography and topography.
“Thus
cyclical time, the experiential time of an oral culture, has the same shape as
perceivable space. And the two circles are, in truth, one.”
Such is the
medicine wheel concept of Native America and he points out that it is not
separate from the cyclical nature of the calendars and the solar, lunar, and
stellar cycles.
He notes the
Hebrew historical time as being a result of writing – of the founding idea of
the commandments being brought down by Moses as phonetic writing on stone
tablets. With writing events became fixed in time. He notes that “the written
text became a kind of portable homeland for the Hebrew people.” This is true
especially since at the time they had lost their homeland and were
wandering/migrating. Exile is indeed a deeply present theme among Hebrew
peoples. The Greeks seemed to develop ideas of absolute time and space. He
mentions Euclid (300 B.C.) and his geometry as an example. He also notes that
Euclid’s idea that two parallel lines would never cross would not be true if
their parallel-ness were measured in reference to the spherical earth as they
would cross near the poles. Newton, he says, sealed the idea of absolute space
and absolute time that were separate. However, Einstein, challenged that, at
least conceptually, with his curved space, relativity, and space-time continuum
ideas. Phenomenologists Husserl and his student Martin Heidegger as well as
Merleau-Ponty studied time as a perceptual phenomenon and suggested that time
perception could not really be separated from space perception. Both space and
time as ideas can be paradoxical the more we delve into their meanings. In fact
ideas like ‘before the beginning,’ ‘after the end,’ the size of the universe,
and the smallest possible division of matter are by nature paradoxical. The
subjectivity of time is hard to ignore as the present becomes “presence.” Abram notes:
“.… we
notice an obvious correspondence between the conceptual structure of time, as
described by Hiedegger, and the perceptual structure of the enveloping
landscape. The horizon itself! Hiedegger uses the term “horizon” as a
structural metaphor, a way of expressing the ecstatic nature of time. Just as
the power of time seems to ensure that the perceivable present is always open,
always already unfolding beyond itself, so the distant horizon seems to hold
open the perceivable landscape, binding it always to that which lies beyond
it.”
Thus there
is that within the visible horizon and that hidden beyond it. The horizon
itself is the border between known and unknown, between present and past, and
between present and future. Past and future are implied. The past is informed
by memory and the future by analyzing the past to predict the future. As both
past and future share the same hiddenness beyond the horizon they tend to seem
alike in that irretrievable hiddenness. He wonders whether the future is beyond
the horizon he is facing and the past beyond the horizon behind him – but
merely turning around does not swap the past and the future. Hiedegger noted that
the future withholds its presence
while the past refuses its presence.
The horizon is the boundary and yet it is an open boundary – the sun, moon,
stars, and anyone who goes may cross it. It is hidden further at night. Past
and future are absent as beyond-the-horizon is absent. Absent means not “here”
so linguistically we see as in many instances time is described by the metaphor
of space. He equates the hidden aspect of beyond-the-horizon
with inside of my body and under the ground. The ground and one’s body
are also boundaries, horizons. Abram sees a reciprocity:
“The beyond-the horizon, by
withholding its presence, holds open the perceived landscape, while the
under-the ground, by refusing its presence, supports the perceived landscape.”
It is an
interesting parallel to Hiedegger’s idea of how past and future relate to the
present. I think one might also say the past is within and the future is
beyond. We hold the past within as memories but the future at least seems “out
there.” Abram says the same but uses the term ‘behind’ instead of ‘beyond.’ He
notes that it is the earth itself that grants us past and future by its ground
and horizon, the inside and the other side. Thus it is the earth which
defines time for us through its space. Thus the earth is the ground and horizon
of our knowing. Linear time and featureless space as separate absolutes can
turn off this way of knowing from us as we communicate through written
language, he suggests. He notes the idea of emergence from the ground as origin
myths of southwestern North American tribes. An analogy of that is our own
origins from the darkness of womb of our mother, from inside her body. We all
emerge from the past through the ground, the womb of the mother. At death we
may go to the sky, the beyond-the-horizon, through the smoke of our cremation
but we also go back into the ground either our body or our ashes (in one way or
another) unless we get shot into space or something. We go to the future and
back to the past – I wonder if one can equate that to different soul components
going to upper worlds, lower worlds, and returning to this one – all
simultaneously in shamanist and many indigenous cultures. Rituals in wombs,
inside mounds, caves or other cracks in the earth are common and are often
associated with death and rebirth. The clouds carrying life-giving rain come
and go from the horizon. The sun rises and falls from the two horizons – it
enters and exits the underworld there – so in that aspect beyond-the-horizon
and under-the-ground are the same place. The past and the future are the same
“place.” Abram calls it a “strange ambiguity.” The Milky Way itself, the path
of souls to the beyond after death (the upper world?) leads to beyond-the-horizon.
If we see the path of the sun, moon, and stars as traveling under the earth and
returning (as many cultures did/do) then the idea of circular time seems more
intuitive and less “primitive.” He notes that there is concealment within the
present itself, perhaps in terms of the insides of things, and wonders about
it. He falls into the pit of paradox, says “fuck it,” and enjoys the present
moment. The concept of omniscience, all-knowing and perhaps all-seeing, is an
idea which presumes knowing the secrets of the paradoxes of time and space as
well as the idea of knowing beyond the limits of concepts themselves –
non-conceptual knowing. We seem to intuit that the path to such knowledge is
not through words and ideas but somehow might be possible through deepening our
ability to be aware in the present.
Air is also
hidden from us yet is there all about us. It can only be seen, heard, felt, and
smelled through its effects. It is invisible by its very nature and yet it is
all around us and within us. We don’t and can’t see air (unless it is imbued
with solid matter such as is smoke). And yet this unseen, unsee-able air is
what imbues things with life. We need to breathe air to live but a more subtle
“air” as “spirit” is implied by many cultures as the very principle of life. He
explores wind myths. Wind moves, travels, carries prayers (often in the form of
smoke), and arises from different directions. He focuses much on Navajo and
Dine’ wind myths which are detailed. They say that when a newborn child is born
he/she begins to breathe so that the surrounding wind enters them at birth. Before
that the winds of father and mother combine to sustain them in the womb. This
seems intuitively true on a scientific level as well. They say it is only by
means of wind, or breathe that we can talk – true again. The four winds are
also called the four words. Thus it is said that Wind holds the power of
language. We are immersed in the atmosphere, enveloped by air, by wind. The
Navajo identify awareness itself with air. Many cultures do as well but perhaps
more indirectly. The Greek word “psyche” usually translated as ‘soul’ is also
sometimes translated as “breath” or “gust of wind” and the Greek word “pneuma”
– air, wind, breath – is also considered the vital principle which we tend to
call “spirit.” “Anima” is a similar word and is that which distinguishes us as
the living from the non-living. The Hebrew word “ruach” means both ‘wind’ and
‘spirit.’ When God created the first man Adam he blew breath into his nostrils
to animate him. Another word, “neshamah” is used to signify the personal
breath, the wind within. Hebrew religious renunciation of animistic belief can
be seen, he says, as a result of the rising power of written language. Animism
came to be associated with idolatry. Yet the Hebrews kept much of animistic
belief. One way they kept it was in the animism of the alphabet. Vowels were
not written. Vowels are the open-mouth expressions of air and movement. Vowels
were inferred and spoken. They are sounded breath. Writing out vowels might be
seen as making visible representations of the invisible (air, breath) which
would be considered idolatry, since air-breath-spirit (ruach) was divine. The
lack of vowels also made it necessary for writers to be hyper-conscious when
writing so that implied meanings could be conveyed. Thus it was more “participatory”
than say later Greek writing which utilized vowels. When read, Hebrew texts
were “imbued” by the reader’s breath, the vowels had to be carefully chosen by
the reader. The so-called Oral Torah was said to be imbued with the breath of
the speakers (the Hebrew bard-priests as it were). The notion of a requirement
of imbuement by breath gives it a sense of a living tradition that requires
input from the now and thus gives it an animistic quality, he seems to say. The
Kabbalah can be seen as a revival of Jewish mysticism and animism as each
letter is said to be alive and derives from the idea that God spoke the
universe into existence. (ie. Let there be light and there was light).
Kabbalists and magicians (medieval and modern) work with the presumed magic
power of the Hebrew letters. The numbers assigned to the letters lead to the
study of the hidden meanings of words and ideas through “gematria.” Indeed the
whole range of Hebrew letters, Qabalistic spheres, paths, worlds, and the
aspects of Self, have been formulated into a detailed system of correspondences
which includes the Tarot (Taro-Tora-Rota-Orat as picture-law-wheel-speech).
Magic words are spoken with one’s Magical Voice in order to imbue phenomena
with the power of one’s Will. YHVH, Yahweh is mostly a vowel-word it seems. So
the Hebrews, the first People of the Book, seemed to maintain a reverence for
the Air and an animistic way of relating to their alphabet of consonants by
imbuing them with the sacred through providing the vowels.
The Greeks
added vowels as letters. They did not acknowledge the pictographs of the Hebrew
letters they adopted. They made the invisible air visible by making vowels
letters thus taking away the sacredness of the air, he says. I am not sure if
that would be accurate to say and he even gives a quote by Milesian philosopher
Anaximenes in the 6th century B.C. about air, the psyche, holing the
universe together and imbuing it with life. He thinks it happened a few hundred
years later with Plato. The later Christians adopted the Greek view of the
power of air/psyche as abstract and internal rather than the Hebrew view as
imbuing life, he thinks. Later, he notes, the spread of Christianity to pagan
Europe was dependent on the spread of the alphabet. The new faith depended on
the technology of letters. Abram thinks that whatever language we speak guides
our perception of nature with its ideas and thus unites common speakers of a
language to a certain way of experiencing nature. The shamans and magicians of
each culture dwell on the boundaries of their language and the interpretation
of nature that it informs. The written characters have become progressively
removed from their origins relating to “things” experienced like the
pictographs. Phonetic writing then the addition of vowels sealed the
boundary/membrane, making it less porous. Subjectivity became progressively separated
from objectivity as this “linguistic-perceptual” boundary solidified.
In summary
he notes:
“Language
was disclosed as a profoundly bodily phenomenon, sustained by the gestures and
sounds of the animate landscape. The rational intellect so prized in the West
was shown to rely upon the external, visible letters of the alphabet. The
presumably interior, mental awareness of the “past” and the “future” was shown
to be dependent upon our sensory experience of that which is hidden beneath the
ground and concealed beyond the horizon. Finally, the experience of awareness
itself was related to mysteries of the breath and the air, to the tangible but
invisible atmosphere in which we find ourselves immersed.”
Language, he
says, is a gift of the land, that it evolved in the context of an animistic
worldview where nature was sentient. It was communication not only between
humans but also between humans and non-humans. Finally he does admit that phonetic
writing was likely not the only culprit in our progressive disconnecting from
the animate landscape. The development of agriculture, numbers, and other new
ways of controlling nature also helped. One of his goals for the book is to
help us explore non-literate thought and ways of being and viewing the world.
We are no longer localized people as we travel the world and explore it with our
technologies through our “alphabetized intellect.” Of course, that new
intellect gained us many advantages that makes us safe, healthy, civil, and
successful today but in the process we lost another type of awareness that is
perhaps well worth revisiting, especially in light of our degradation of the
landscape these days through over-development. He notes the process called “reinhabitation,”
becoming re-established with local-level relationships. He sees it as writing language
back into the land.