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access to The Journal of Speculative Philosophy
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Turning Listening Inside Out:
Brian Eno’s Ambient 1: Music for Airports
John Lysaker
emory university
abstract: Brian Eno’s Ambient 1: Music for Airports is a seminal album in the history of
electronic music. Using Deleuze and Guattari’s notion of the assemblage, I explore the
album’s compositional structure as well as its ambient function, by attending to specific
tracks and locating the album in musical history, particularly relative to the work of John
Cage, La Monte Young, and Steve Reich. In an extended discussion of its ambient func-
tion, I argue that the LP offers music for reverie that is capable of initiating processes of
potential self-transformation.
“As an assemblage, a book has only itself,” say Deleuze and Guattari. It
exists “in connection with other assemblages and in relation to other bod-
ies without organs. We will never ask what a book means, as signified or
signifier; we will not look for anything to understand in it. We will ask what
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156 john lysaker
it functions with, in connection with what other things it does or does not
transmit intensities, in which other multiplicities its own are inserted and
metamorphosed, and with what bodies without organs it makes its own
converge” (Deleuze and Gauttari 1987, 4).
Europe’s nineteenth century drew upon the organism to bring to life
the linear lines of Newtonian mechanics and Galileo’s denuded bodies. In
doing so, and with the aid of an influx of Vedic thought, namely, Brahman’s
pervasive character, it also refound dialectics in the following touchstone
thought: everything is through what it is not. Deleuze and Gauttari flee
the organism as a founding figure and anarchize mechanics by remain-
ing nonteleologically dialectical. “The territory is the first assemblage, the
first thing to constitute an assemblage”—X can be X only through a cer-
tain range of interactions, which it must maintain, perhaps generate, pos-
sibly guard—“the assemblage is fundamentally territorial” (Deleuze and
Gauttari 1987, 323). But if that is true of any X, we are off and running: “But
how could it not already be in the process of passing into something else,
into other assemblages?” (Deleuze and Gauttari 1987, 323).
Unimpressed by the rose as an aspirational category, something com-
mon to Emerson and Rilke, Deleuze and Gauttari, like all ontologists, pur-
sue the roots of the matter, which lie, they hold, at least for the most part,
less among taproots or fibrous root systems than among rhizomatic repro-
ductive strategies, which displace the emergent “whole” (and its singular
telos) into the ongoing promiscuity of “parts”: “A rhizome has no beginning
or end; it is always in the middle, between things, intermezzo” (1987, 25).
According to Deleuze and Gauttari, an assemblage runs along two axes, one
horizontal (content-expression), one vertical (edges of reterritorialization–
edges of deterritorialization). The former involves elements and how they
are enacted; the latter, the stabilization and/or destablization of borders
(which are always bidirectional and thus sites of contact rather than simple
exclusion).
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 157
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158 john lysaker
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Eno recalls:
About the time when I first started making records, I was also start-
ing to become aware of a new sort of organizing principle in music. I
think, like many people, I had assumed that music was produced in or
created in a way that you imagine symphony composers make music,
which is by having a complete idea in their head in every detail and then
somehow writing out ways by which other people could reproduce
that, in the same way as one imagines an architect working. . . .
In the mid-sixties, there started to appear some music that really
wasn’t like that at all. . . . [T]he music I was listening to then in partic-
ular . . . was Terry Riley’s “In C” and Steve Reich’s famous tape pieces
“It’s Gonna Rain” and “Come Out.” . . . What fascinated me about
these kinds of music was that they really completely moved away
from that old idea of how a composer worked. . . . What the com-
poser had was a kind of menu, a packet of seeds, you might say. And
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160 john lysaker
those musical seeds, once planted, turned into the piece. And they
turned into a different version of that piece every time. (2012)
Eno’s theoretical path through the ensuing thickets was quite un-French:
cybernetics. The key phrase regarding composition is: “Instead of trying
to organize it in full detail, you organize it only somewhat, and you then
rely on the dynamics of the system to take you in the direction you want to
go” (Eno 2012). This is from Stafford Beer’s Brain of the Firm, which Eno
encountered in 1974, thanks to a loan from Joan Harvey, then his mother-in-
law. Eno had just left Roxy Music, unhappy with the performance demands
of rock stardom as well as the bounded possibilities of rock songs, from 4:4
time to clear if limited motivic development, and the book wormed its way
into his ambition and future: “But what I think about, I suppose my feeling
about gardening . . . is that what one is doing is working in collaboration
with the complex and unpredictable processes of nature and trying to insert
into that some inputs that will take advantage of those processes and, as
Stafford Beer said, take you in the direction that you wanted to go” (2012).
Cybernetics/Deleuze and Gauttari: What separates the two? First is an
appreciation that even ambient works are still constructed, often meticu-
lously, and thus “authored,” if not in expected ways. (At the level of a philo-
sophical proposition, I would say: There is no outside without an inside, nor
an in without an out. Deleuze and Gauttari say: “A book exists only through
the outside and on the outside” [1987, 4].) Second is the phrase “in the
direction you want to go,” which turns on the event of a want, which puzzles
even Aristotle, who insists that one does not deliberate about ends, which
are in fact matters of boulesis, “wishing.” (Why not Muzak?) Ambient 1 is
anything but raw accident, though Eno is quick to acknowledge that discov-
ering where one wants to go is more surrender than self-assertion: “What
we’re not so used to is the idea that another great gift we have [beyond the
ability to control] is the talent to surrender and to cooperate” (2012). But
even in surrender there is the matter of to what, when, how, and for how
long, and there it is: the question of agency, still crazy after all these years.2
Listen Down!
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Listening to Listening
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 163
Musicians emerging in the 1950s and 1960s were flush with John
Cage’s example, a chunk of it recorded at the John Cage Twenty-Five
Year Retrospective at Town Hall, May 15, 1958. But, ironically, it may have
been his writings that drew others to Cage’s insistent effort to undermine
the distinction between music and noise, sound and silence. There are
always sounds, he insists, some intended, others not. Trying to push past
Schönberg’s twelve-tone rows, Cage, already in 1937, rethought music as an
“organization of sound” whose principle relationships were no longer har-
monic, which allowed for greater rhythmic possibilities, though the prin-
cipal task, as he recounted twenty years later, was to maintain “attention to
the activity of sounds” (2011, 3, 10).
La Monte Thorton Young loves the activity of sounds, their com-
ings and goings, their texture and reverberations. (A young Eno not only
knew Young’s work but performed it—“X for Henry Flynt”—in 1967.)
“Composition 1960 #7” contains just two notes, B3 and F#4, scored with
the non-instrument-specific instruction: “To be held for a long Time.”
(“X” is similarly constructed.6) But are we really talking sound, variations
of pressure upon the air resulting from vibrating objects? Or are we blend-
ing physics and psychology—psychoacoustics—without a satisfactory set
of middle terms, unless, like me, you are willing to assemble something
of the spirit and letter (perhaps just the dashes) of fundamental ontology?
Regardless, one does not need a geology degree to plant a garden. The more
local concern is where the music starts. Is there a B3 and F#4 independent
of the instrument that sounds it out, or are there only sounded sounds? I
would like to hear the argument for the former.
Famously (or infamously), Eno presents himself as a “nonmusician.”
Rather than playing an instrument in Roxy Music, he subjected his band-
mates’ performances to “treatments,” whether playing live or in the studio.
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164 john lysaker
(The echoes and sustains at work in “Ladytron” from the band’s eponymous
debut provides a good, though not the only, example. Listen to Manzanera’s
guitar, though the way Ferry’s piano warbles toward the close of the song
also shows Eno’s hand.) The confession is provocative, even playful, par-
ticularly given the occasional snipe from musically trained collaborators.
“He can’t really play anything,” observes Gavin Bryars, “nor can he read
music; he always has other people to do those things for him” (in Sheppard
2008, 5). But Eno’s self-designation takes on conceptual importance given
the evolution of his work and his position as what Bill Martin has termed
“the John Cage of rock” (2002, 104).
“1/1,” the opening track, is nothing short of beguiling. It begins gen-
tly: two quick, mid-bass tones and then a third, which is held and allowed
to diminish. At the second, a synthesizer chime tone sounds alongside a
six-note piano phrase that peaks at the track’s highest tone. (The phrase
is deliberate, its pace slow to the point that it falls short of melody.) As it
climbs, two more bass tones sound, the second again lingering. The piano
returns with a descending line of uneven rhythm, and the sequence closes,
twenty seconds in, with a synthesizer chord that sustains for more than
twelve seconds, with a new cluster beginning, again with bass tones, before
the synthesizer chord disappears. Over the next minute or so, parts of these
patterns repeat, though never in the exact same way. Sometimes the piano
adds a single tone, or a few, and other sounds enter the listening field as
well, such as a background drone. About 1:20 or so, the piano drops a ding-
dang-dong . . . dong, seeming to quote “Frère Jacques” in what is the track’s
first clearly melodic line. Until then, tones and chords were sounded out
and juxtaposed (allowed a certain kind of coincidence), but the overall feel
is that of montage brought to a crawl. But the effect is calming, even boring
if one listens in expectation of developments. If anything unsettles it is the
track’s lack of any recurring rhythm, a feature accentuated by those tones
allowed to sustain beyond any obvious measure. But it only unsettles if one
insists on keeping a beat that is not there. Once one accepts its absence,
the track acquires a different kind of energy, elemental forces in eddies and
currents, neither still nor raging. Track “1/1” lasts for more than seventeen
minutes, and its ear feel is roughly the same throughout. It is expansive,
both in part and in whole—parts sound forth and cluster and then give
way to other blooms and fades. Dynamics are at a minimum, and the ding-
dang-dong (followed, after a slight pause, by another dong) is the track’s
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 165
principal melodic feature, but not in a way somehow developed by the rest
of the track or even harmonically supported by the many tones that come
and go. Not that it is dissonant. All in all, “1/1” pleases; its gentle solici-
tation, polite. But harmonies are not the focus, to the point that it seems
partially misleading to think of the track in terms of traditional musical
notation.
“2/1” is built from four voices: Christa Fast, Christine Gomez,
Inge Zeininger, and Eno’s, which Eno recorded while visiting Harmonia
in 1976. Eno’s splicing and looping (and occasional synthesizer chord)
allows the seven tones to interact differently across the track’s 8:54 dura-
tion. Searching the result for some chord in the root position, Eric Tamm
observes: “Such music suggests a key, keys, or mode, but does not assert one,
unambiguously. The melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic cadences so import-
ant to the establishment of key in tonal music are completely absent here”
(1995, 137). Cage again lurks, although Deleuze and Guattari also think
of Debussy—“Music molecularizes sound matter and so doing becomes
capable of harnessing nonsonorous forces such as Duration and Intensity.
Render duration sonorous” (1987, 343).
During his eleven days in Forst, Eno worked with not only Harmonia
but also Conny Plank, an engineer equal (occasionally integral) to the
compositional goals of those he recorded. Eno also saw Holger Czukay,
the bassist from Can, splicing tape in order to extend multiple and dispa-
rate sequences from numerous sources into a larger composition. Back
in Britain, his turntable spinning, Eno had also been listening to dub reg-
gae, particularly King Tubby and Lee Scratch Perry, who would drop out
recorded parts of a band’s performance in order to accentuate other parts,
which might in turn be subjected to delay in order to further expand the
rhythmic energies of the cut.7
Persons too are elements in Ambient 1. Eno picks his bits, their lengths,
how best to garnish, and so forth. And each election is oriented, in part,
through a certain inheritance, one often tied to other elections by particular
persons. Even in what might seem most elemental, persons persist. “1/1”
works with bits from improvising musicians, most notably, Robert Wyatt at
the piano, who provides the track’s most vital refrain.
For Eno the studio is a musical instrument, one made possible by
magnetic tape and advances in multitrack recording. Record the tones
and motives, find some that charm, cut, and massage away. “It puts the
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166 john lysaker
c omposer,” Eno says of the studio, “in the identical position of the painter—
he’s working directly with a material, working directly onto a substance,
and he always retains the options to chop and change, to paint a bit out,
add a piece, etc.” (ca. 1979).8 Think back to the cover of Ambient 1: it images
another aspect of the LP’s construction. Slices are made and acquire a
contour within the bounds thereby set. Set beside others, other contours
accrue. (“1/2” purportedly combines twenty-two tape loops.)
Expression
“I should mention that you only have control of your studio composition to
the pressing plant—then the reproduction is completely arbitrary. So when
I mix . . . ,” Eno has said, “I mix on at least two speaker systems—and often
more than two—so I’m not just mixing for optimum conditions. . . . I mix,
really, for what I imagine most people have—medium priced hi-fi—and for
radio a bit as well” (ca. 1979). Eco-psychoacoustics—soundscapes without
taproot fantasies.
More than the studio may also be a musical instrument as far as
Ambient 1 is concerned. How the tracks are mastered and pressed for play-
back adds a variable: vinyl record (Japanese or U.S. pressing, original or
repress), CD (SHM?), MP3, FLAC, and so on. So too the playback system:
earbuds, proper headphones, two-channel systems, surround sound, a
Sonos room system, a mid-fi setup, or an audiophile-disease rig.
The content-expression axis can prove generative. In 1997, Bang on a
Can scored Ambient 1 for acoustic instruments and recorded it, transform-
ing it in the process, as one would expect when an assemblage is reassem-
bled. The album left the world of tape and entered the idealish realm of
notated music, thus reinserting Eno as the kind of composer he thought
he had ditched. Moreover, the LP became a piece open to many instances,
whereas, qua LP, it was only ever the reproduction of those recorded
sounds Eno recorded, spliced, and looped (though such a distinction—
reproduction and performance—is somewhat unstable, as the discussion
of playback indicates). Third, Ambient 1: Music for Airports was replaced by
Music for Airports, which left the realm of peripheral music and asserted
itself, to some extent, as music for focal attention—a fact underscored by
later, live performances. And as those performances also indicated, what
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 167
Attack and decay, duration—tones and chords dissipate. But the music con-
tinues, and only because the content all but exhausts itself in its expression.
Music reterritorializes itself in its unfolding. As an aggregate it requires a
certain consistency, Deleuze and Guattari believe, which Cage eventually
abandoned, to his detriment: “The claim is that one is opening music to
all events, all irruptions, but one ends up reproducing a scrambling that
prevents any event from happening” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 344).
These are matters of intra-assemblage occurrence. “1/1” has its recur-
ring piano phrase, which, if often nonidentical, resonates with something
like a consistency—“the ‘holding together’ of heterogeneous elements.
At first, they constitute no more than a fuzzy set” (Deleuze and Guattari
1987, 323). This is the “refrain” of “1/1” on Deleuze and Guattari’s terms,
buttressed in part by the absence of dynamics. It allows all of the tones
and tone clusters to sound forth without obscuring the variational rein-
corporation of those piano phrases, ding-dang-dong . . . dong. But the
refrain, which brings consistency to the assemblage, only exists in relation
to concurrent, deterritorializing operations, which ensure a kind of vitality.
The boldness of Ambient 1 lies in its deterritorializations. If one tries to
focus on a track from start to finish, most cannot. (I never have.) One’s
mind wanders alongside a refrain that never develops but unfolds without
a discernible rhythm and without the consistent accompaniment of other
instruments. “1/1” holds together no better (and no worse) than a cloud.
Ambient or Ambien?
“But how could it not already be in the process of passing into something
else, into other assemblages?” (Deleuze and Gauttari 1987, 323). This is a
question of interassemblage occurrences, but the same vertical axis applies.
The territory of an assemblage is often nested in the territory of another,
and the currents of one can stabilize or destabilize those of the other.
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168 john lysaker
In refusing to distinguish noise from music, Cage abandons the latter,
preferring to erect a temporary stage on which the cosmos might sound
in its passing (creaking chair, violin, lights humming, siren, wind in high
trees, etc.) and in which something like an image of nonviolent comport-
ment might shimmer:
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 169
for anticipation, for awe and for suppressed dread. In ‘Music for Airports,’
the slowly circling patterns seek calm while alluding to other times and
places” (1998). This is on point, and not just because some remarks from
Eno more or less concur while adding specificity. What reterritorializes
Ambient 1 as a musical assemblage also allows the airport to reterritorialize
through the currents of each track. Again, regarding “1/1,” (a) no significant
dynamics disrupt or agitate; (b) a simple, slightly shifting refrain pleases—
it neither sets one’s foot tapping nor, thanks to incessant if subtle variation,
becomes monotonous; (c) unlike Muzak, it does not recall originals against
which it disappoints; and (d) its beatlessness allows each tone to linger and
spread, which keeps it atmospheric. One chills. (Of course, if one is amped,
say, on a dance floor, or coming down [or heading up and up], a simple 4:4
may have similar effects and prove even more lulling. Ambient functions
are relative to the functionary.)
Alongside Beer, Eno is a “student” of Morse Peckham, who considers
art from the standpoint of biological adaptation thought in terms of drives.
Peckham holds that phenomena such as selective emphasis indicate a drive
for order that, because it trades in generalities, ignores large swaths of expe-
rience and risks monotony—“the drive to order is also a drive to get stuck
in the mud” (1965, xi). Art, he argues, indicates that something contrary (if
less grand than the death drive) is operative: “There must, it seems to me,
be some human activity which serves to break up orientations, to weaken
and frustrate the tyrannous drive to order, to prepare the individual to
observe what the orientation tells him is irrelevant, but what very well may
be highly relevant” (1965, xi). Art creates a space—a safe space, Peckham
thinks—in which marginal and ephemeral facets of the world can appear,
and with enough intensity that we find ourselves between our normal ori-
entations and an emergent sensibility. Like all views, Peckham’s quotes and
reforms named and unnamed others. (It is hard not to think of Schiller
in this context.) But I do not recall Peckham in order to set him or Eno or
Ambient 1 into the history of philosophy but, rather, to follow Peckham back
into Ambient 1 in order to hear it outside the context of airports.
In writing about Another Green World, Geeta Dayal (2009) pays a great
deal of attention to Eno’s “Oblique Strategies,” a stack of cards, to be picked
at random, that carry phrases designed to reorient creative activity. Here
are three, chosen at random: “Slow preparation . . . fast execution”; “Honor
thy error as a hidden intention”; “Allow an easement. (An easement is the
abandonment of a stricture.)” Such cards, as well as the use of such cards,
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170 john lysaker
tells us a great deal about Eno’s approach to composition and production (if
there is a distinction). To my mind, ambient music is also an oblique strat-
egy, and along Peckham’s lines. It arrives as an easement into the current
order of our Befindlichkeit, which I translate (freely) as finding-oneself-in,
as when we ask: How did you find the movie? And it eases us in at least two
ways. It carries with it a certain Stimmung (or mood, a kind of attunement),
and it tweaks how we find ourselves according to the intensities of its own
occurrences. In his liner note, Eno says: “Ambient Music must be able to
accommodate many levels of listening attention without enforcing one in
particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting.” With more space,
I would love to unpack this final, oft-cited line, focusing in part upon the
as and relating it to an intriguing account of mood music from the 1950s:
“It is very difficult to define. . . . I imagine it’s meant to entertain without
being obtrusive, to put you in an easy frame of mind. In other words,” and
here Norrie Paramor, who is being quoted, sounds like Milhaud recounting
Satie, “perhaps it is music be heard, but not necessarily listened to” (in
Lanza 1994, 69). For now, however, I want to rephrase the claim to capture
one of the ways in which Ambient 1 works, one different from though not
discontinuous with its Ambien function. Ambient 1 is too interesting to be
ignored and too diffuse to be followed. There just isn’t any compositional
structure into which we might be forced. And if we submit to what does
unfold, if we surrender, we submit to a kind of general easement in a site
of relative safety. Our attention is drawn away from the habits and orders
of the day, and we find ourselves before the horizon of that suspension
but amid relatively pleasant, even calming musical successions. Ambient 1
resounds in airports and leaves them airports. It deterritorializes us, how-
ever, and precisely through its more deterritorializing moments: (a) tones
sustained without measure, (b) asynchronous and looping base tracks, (c)
occasional unrepeated tones that we would call ornaments if there were a
motivic development to ornament, (d) no underlying rhythm, and, essen-
tially, (e) that sneaky, captivating piano phrase, recurring like a thought,
continuous if nonidentical.
Is there a name for this result? Reverie, perhaps, from resver, rever,
“to wander,” “to be delirious,” with connotations of daydreaming, even
woolgathering, as in wasting the time that we all know is money. I do not
mean this in a technical, psychoanalytic sense, which, from Bion, names a
mother’s loving openness that safely enables the fluctuating condition and
demands of the infant, although the connotations of a safe, enabling scene
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brian eno’s ambient 1– music for airpor ts 171
are on point. Nor I am thinking with Bachelard, who ties reverie, more
or less, to originary image generation, even mythic consciousness, though
also to artistic activity (poetic reverie).
The ambient context is much less determinate at its inception and
with regard to its end than these two senses of reverie, which also distin-
guishes Eno’s venture from the deep listening practices of composers such
as La Monte Young, Pauline Oliveros, and Stuart Dempster. Deep listen-
ing effects a cosmic integration into a field of vibrations. “Music can be a
model for universal structure,” Young intones, “because we perceive sound
as vibration and if you believe, as I do, that vibration is the key to universal
structure you can understand why I make this statement” (in Toop 1995,
178). Ambient 1 proceeds without any such metaphysics. Instead, it accepts
the terrain of its delivery: bedroom, airport, earbuds on a walk around the
block. But by retuning us, it frees us to that scene as we find it on our
way. And once dislocated from an everyday absorption, several possibilities
emerge. One might return with a fresh take on the task (or time) at hand.
One might drop the matter altogether, struck by the tedium of what for-
merly held (more or less) one’s attention. The options multiply, and no one
is keeping score.9
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notes
For Kevin Karnes, with gratitude for his generous listening with and to me.
1. A Thousand Plateaus first appeared in 1980. Music is a recurring concern.
I would thus caution against any simple explanans/explanandum assessment of
the relations hereby established. At the turn of the twentieth century, Debussy
already sought a “music . . . entirely free from motifs,” while the midcentury
found Edgard Varèse struggling to “capture emergence in complex phenomena”
(Toop 1995, 19, 82). It is no surprise, therefore, that Deleuze and Guattari (1987,
343) invoke both with approbation.
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also attempts to make vocal music that begins with the voice rather than some
marriage between music and text that the voice must navigate. Instead, Reich
loops and edits Brother Walter’s voice, allowing it to fall out of phase with itself,
thus releasing its music. (Listen to the interplay of the front end of “rain” and
the severed phrase “it’s gon—” from about 0:45 to 1:05.) And part II has clear
(and powerful) expressive goals—“the piece is expressive of an extremely dark
mood.” Reich elaborates: “It goes further and further and further out of phase
until it is reduced to noise. The emotional feeling is that you’re going through
the cataclysm, you’re experiencing what it is like to dissolve.” Even Brother
Walter’s text is apropos: the desperate knocking of those shut out of Noah’s Ark,
which rung true to Reich’s sense in 1964 that “we might be going up in so much
radioactive smoke” (2002, 21). I note this because these often aligned composers
sound very different when their artistic goals are kept in view.
10. The first general presentation of the view is “Being Interrupted” (Lysaker and
Lysaker 2005), with an expanded view occurring as chapter 3 in Schizophrenia and
the Fate of the Self (Lysaker and Lysaker 2008). A reformulation and revision of
the view will appear as chapter 4 in my forthcoming Where Do We Find Ourselves:
Essays After Emerson (in press).
11. In a 2016 meeting of the American Philosophies Forum, Cory Wimberly
observed that this sense of being between resonates with Anzaldúa’s notion of
nepantla, the subject of the essay by Charles Scott and Nancy Tuana published in
this issue.
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