I

HAPPY OBJECTS
Sara Ahmed

I might say, "You make me happy." Or I might be moved by

something, in such a way that when I think of happiness I think
of that thing. Even if happiness is imagined as a feeling state, or
a form of consciousness that evaluates a life situation achieved
over time (Veenhoven 1984, 22-3), happiness also turns us
toward objects. We turn toward objects at the very point of
"making." To be made happy by this or that is to recognize that
happiness starts from somewhere other than the subject who
may use the word to describe a situation.
In this essay, I want to consider happiness as a happening, as
involving affect (to be happy is to be affected by something), intentionality (to be happy is to be happy about something), and
evaluation or judgment (to be happy about something makes
something good). In particular, I will explore how happiness
functions as a promise that directs us toward certain objects,
which then circulate as social goods. Such objects accumulate
positive affective value as they are passed around. My essay will
offer an approach to thinking through affect as "sticky." Affect
is what sticks, or what sustains or preserves the connection
between ideas, values, and objects.

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Happy Objects

Sara Ahmed

My essay contributes to what has been described by Patricia Clough

(2007) as "the affective turn" by turning to the question of how we can
theorize positive affect and the politics of good feeling. If it is true to say that
much recent work in cultural studies has investigated bad feelings (shame,
disgust, hate, fear, and so on), it might be useful to take good feeling as our
starting point, without presuming that the distinction between good and
bad will always hold. Of course, we cannot conflate happiness with good
feeling. As Darrin McMahon (2006) has argued in his monumental history
of happiness, the association of happiness with feeling is a modern one, in
circulation from the eighteenth century onward. If happiness now evokes
good feeling, then we can consider how feelings participate in making things
good. To explore happiness using the language of affect is to consider the
slide between affective and moral economies. In particular, the essay will
explore how the family sustains its place as a "happy object" by identifying
those who do not reproduce its line as the cause of unhappiness. I call such
others "affect aliens": feminist kill-joys, unhappy queers, and melancholic
migrants.

Affect and Intentionality

I do not assume there is something called affect that stands apart or has
autonomy, as if it corresponds to an object in the world, or even that there is
something called affect that can be shared as an object of study. Instead, I
would begin with the messiness of the experiential, the unfolding of bodies
into worlds, and the drama of contingency, how we are touched by what we
are near. It is useful to note that the etymology of "happiness" relates precisely to the question of contingency: it is from the Middle English "hap,"
suggesting chance. The original meaning of happiness preserves the potential of this "hap" to be good or bad. The hap of happiness then gets translated into something good. Happiness relates to the idea of being lucky, or
favored by fortune, or being fortunate. Happiness remains about the contingency of what happens, but this "what" becomes something good. Even
this meaning may now seem archaic: we may be more used to thinking of
happiness as an effect of what you do, as a reward for hard work, rather than
as being "simply" what happens to you. Indeed, Miliary Csikszentmihalyi
argues that "happiness is not something that happens. It is not the result of
good fortune or random choice, it is not something that money can buy or
power command. It does not depend on outside events, but, rather on how

we interpret them. Happiness, in fact is a condition that must be prepared

for, cultivated and defended privately by each person" (1992, 2). Such a way
of understanding happiness could be read as a defense against its contingency. I want to return to the original meaning of happiness as it refocuses
our attention on the "worldly" question of happenings.
What is the relation between the "what" in "what happens" and the
"what" that makes us happy? Empiricism provides us with a useful way of
addressing this question, given its concern with "what's what." Take the work
of the seventeenth-century empiricist philosopher John Locke. He argues
that what is good is what is "apt to cause or increase pleasure, or diminish pain
in us" (Locke 1997,216). We judge something to be good or bad according to
how it affects us, whether it gives us pleasure or pain. Locke uses the example
of the man who loves grapes. He argues that "when a man declares in
autumn, when he is eating them, or in spring, when there are none, that he
loves grapes, it is no more, but that the taste of grapes delights him" (215).
For Locke happiness (as the highest pleasure) is idiosyncratic: we are made
happy by different things, we find different things delightful.
Happiness thus puts us into intimate contact with things. We can be
happily affected in the present of an encounter; you are affected positively by
something, even if that something does not present itself as an object of
consciousness. To be affected in a good way can survive the coming and
going of objects. Locke is after all describing the "seasonal" nature of enjoyment. When grapes are out of season, you might recall that you find them
delightful, you might look forward to when they will be in season, which
means that grapes would sustain their place as a happy object in the event of
their absence. However, this does not mean that the objects one recalls as
being happy always stay in place. As Locke argues, "Let an alteration of
health or constitution destroy the delight of their taste, and he can be said no
longer to love grapes" (216-17). Bodily transformations might also transform what is experienced as delightful. If our bodies change over time, then
the world around us will create different impressions.
To be affected by something is to evaluate that thing. Evaluations are
expressed in how bodies turn toward things. To give value to things is to
shape what is near us. As Edmund Husserl describes in the second volume of
Ideas, "Within the joy we are 'intentionally' (with feeling intensions) turned
toward the joy-Object as such in the mode of affective 'interest'" (1989,14).
Some things you might say capture our attention. Objects we do things with
generate what Husserl might call "our near sphere" or "core sphere" (2002,

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149-50), as a sphere of practical action. This sphere is "a sphere of things that
I can reach with my kinestheses and which I can experience in an optimal
form through seeing, touching etc." (149).
Happiness might play a crucial role in shaping our near sphere, the world
that takes shape around us, as a world of familiar things. Objects that give us
pleasure take up residence within our bodily horizon. We come to have our
likes, which might even establish what we are like. The bodily horizon could
be redescribed as a horizon of likes. To have our likes means certain things
are gathered around us. Of course, we do encounter new things. To be more
and less open to new things is to be more or less open to the incorporation of
things into our near sphere. Incorporation maybe conditional on liking
what we encounter. Those things we do not like we move away from. Awayness might help establish the edges of our horizon; in rejecting the proximity
of certain objects, we define the places that we know we do not wish to go,
the things we do not wish to have, touch, taste, hear, feel, see, those things we
do not want to keep within reach.
To be affected "in a good way" involves an orientation toward something
as being good. Orientations register the proximity of objects, as well as shape
what is proximate to the body. Happiness can thus be described as intentional in the phenomenological sense (directed toward objects), as well as
being affective (contact with objects). To bring these arguments together we
might say that happiness is an orientation toward the objects we come into
contact with. We move toward and away from objects through how we are
affected by them. After all, note the doubling of positive affect in Locke's
example: we love the grapes if they taste delightful. To say we love what tastes
delightful is not to say that delight causes our love, but that the experience of
delight involves a loving orientation toward the object, just as the experience
of love registers what is delightful.
To describe happiness as intentional does not mean there is always any
simple correspondence between objects and feelings. I suspect that Robin
Barrow is right to argue that happiness does not "have an object" the way
that other emotions do (1980,89). Let's stay with Locke's example of the man
who loves grapes. Grapes acquire meaning for us, as something we can
consume, grapes can be tasted and "have" a taste, even though we cannot
know whether my grape taste is the same as yours. The pleasure evoked by
the grapes is the pleasure of eating the grapes. But pleasures are not only
directed toward objects that can be tasted, that come into a sensuous proximity with the flesh of the body, as a meeting of flesh. We can just recall

Happy Objects
pleasure to experience pleasure, even if these pleasures do not involve exactly
the same sensation, even if the impressions of memory are not quite as
lively.1 Pleasure creates an object, even when the object of pleasure appears
before us.
We are moved by things. And in being moved, we make things. An object
can be affective by virtue of its own location (the object might be here, which
is where I experience this or that affect) and the timing of its appearance (the
object might be now, which is when I experience this or that affect). To
experience an object as being affective or sensational is to be directed not
only toward an object, but to "whatever" is around that object, which includes what is behind the object, the conditions of its arrival. What is around
an object can become happy: for instance, if you receive something delightful in a certain place, then the place itself is invested with happiness, as being
"what" good feeling is directed toward. Or if you are given something by
somebody whom you love, then the object itself acquires more affective
value: just seeing something can make you think of another who gave you
that something. If something is close to a happy object then it can become
happy by association.
Happiness can generate objects through proximity. Happiness is not then
simply about objects, or directed toward objects that are given to consciousness. We have probably all experienced what I would call "unattributed
happiness"; you feel happy, not quite knowing why, and the feeling can be
catchy, as a kind of brimming over that exceeds what you encounter. It is not
that the feeling floats freely; in feeling happy, you direct the feeling to what is
close by, smiling for instance, at a person who passes you by. The feeling can
also lift or elevate a proximate object, making it happy, which is not to say
that the feeling will survive an encounter with anything. It has always interested me that when we become conscious of feeling happy (when the feeling
becomes an object of thought), happiness can often recede or become anxious. Happiness can arrive in a moment and be lost by virtue of its recognition. Happiness as a feeling appears very precarious, easily displaced not
only by other feelings, but even by happiness itself, by the how of its arrival.
I would suggest that happiness involves a specific kind of intentionality,
which I would describe as "end orientated." It is not just that we can be
happy about something, as a feeling in the present, but some things become
happy for us, if we imagine they will bring happiness to us. Happiness is
often described as "what" we aim for, as an endpoint, or even an end in itself.
Classically, happiness has been considered as an end rather than as a means.

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Sara Ahmed

whatever happenscan be qualified. It is not that we just find happy objects

anywhere. After all, taste is not simply a matter of chance (whether you or I
might happen to like this or that), but is acquired over time. As Pierre
Bourdieu showed in his monumental Distinction, taste is a very specific
bodily orientation that is shaped by "what" is already decided to be good or a
higher good. Taste or "manifested preferences" are "the practical affirmation
of an inevitable difference" (1984, 56). When people say, "How can you like
that?!" they make their judgment against another by refusing to like what
another likes, by suggesting that the object in which another invests his or
her happiness is unworthy. This affective differentiation is the basis of an
essentially moral economy in which moral distinctions of worth are also
social distinctions of value, as Beverley Skeggs (2004) has shown us. What
"tastes good" can function as a marker of having "good taste."
We can note here the role that habit plays in arguments about happiness.
Returning to Aristotle, his model of happiness relies on habituation, "the
result of the repeated doing of acts which have a similar or common quality"
(1998, vii). The good man will not only have the right habits, but his feelings
will also be directed in the right way: "a man is not a good man at all who
feels no pleasure in noble actions; just as no one would call that man just
who does not feel pleasure in acting justly" (11). Good habits involve work:
we have to work on the body such that the body's immediate reactions, how
we are impressed upon by the world, will take us in the "right" direction. It is
not only that we acquire good taste through habits; rather, the association
between objects and affects is preserved through habit. When history becomes second nature (Bourdieu 1977), the affect becomes literal: we assume
we experience delight because "it" is delightful.
The circulation of objects is thus the circulation of goods. Objects are
sticky because they are already attributed as being good or bad, as being
the cause of happiness or unhappiness. This is why the social bond is always rather sensational. Groups cohere around a shared orientation toward
some things as being good, treating some things and not others as the cause
of delight. If the same objects make us happyor if we invest in the same
objects as being what should make us happythen we would be orientated
or directed in the same way. Consider that the word "promise" comes from
the Latin promissum "to send forth." The promise of happiness is what
sends happiness forth; it is what allows happiness to be out and about.
Happy objects are passed around, accumulating positive affective value as
social goods.
Is happiness what passes? If we were to say that happiness was passed

In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes happiness as the Chief Good, as

"that which all things aim at" (1998,1). Happiness is what we "choose always
for its own sake" (8). Anthony Kenny describes how, for Aristotle, happiness
"is not just an end, but a perfect end" (1993,16). The perfect end is the end of
all ends, the good that is good always for its own sake.
We don't have to agree with the argument that happiness is the perfect
end to understand the implications of what it means for happiness to be
thought in these terms. If happiness is the end of all ends, then all other
things become means to happiness.2 As Aristotle describes, we choose other
things "with a view to happiness, conceiving that through their instrumentality we shall be happy" (1998,8). Aristotle is not talking here about material
or physical objects, but is differentiating between different kinds of goods,
between instrumental goods and independent goods. So honor or intellect
we choose "with a view to happiness," as being instrumental to happiness,
and the realization of the possibility of living a good or virtuous life.
If we think of instrumental goods as objects of happiness then important
consequences follow. Things become good, or acquire their value as goods,
insofar as they point toward happiness. Objects become "happiness means."
Or we could say they become happiness pointers, as if to follow their point
would be to find happiness. If objects provide a means for making us happy,
then in directing ourselves toward this or that object we are aiming somewhere else: toward a happiness that is presumed to follow. The temporality
of this following does matter. Happiness is what would come after. Given
this, happiness is directed toward certain objects, which point toward that
which is not yet present. When we follow things, we aim for happiness, as if
happiness is what we get if we reach certain points.

Sociable Happiness
Certain objects become imbued with positive affect as good objects. After all,
objects not only embody good feeling, but are perceived as necessary for a
good life. How does the good life get imagined through the proximity of
objects? As we know, Locke evokes good feeling through the sensation of
taste: "For as pleasant tastes depend not on the things themselves, but their
agreeability to this or that palate, wherever there is great variety; so the
greatest happiness consists in having those things which produce the greatest
pleasure" (1997, 247). Locke locates difference in the mouth. We have different tastes insofar as we have different palates.
We can see here that the apparent chanciness of happinessthe hap of

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around, we could be suggesting that happiness is contagious. David Hume's

approach to moral emotions in the eighteenth century rested precisely on a
contagious model of happiness. He suggests that "others enter into the same
humour, and catch the sentiment, by a contagion or natural-sympathy" and
that cheerfulness is the most communicative of emotions: "the flame spreads
through the whole circle; and the most sullenly and remorse are often caught
by it" (1975, 250-51; see also Blackman 2008).3 A number of scholars have
recently taken up the idea of affects as contagious, drawing on the work of
the psychologist of affect, Silvan Tomkins, among others (Gibbs 2001, Sedgwick 2003, Brennan 2004, Probyn 2005). As Anna Gibbs describes it, "Bodies
can catch feelings as easily as catch fire: affect leaps from one body to another, evoking tenderness, inciting shame, igniting rage, exciting fearin
short, communicable affect can inflame nerves and muscles in a conflagration of every conceivable kind of passion" (2001,1). Thinking of affects as
contagious does help us to challenge an "inside out" model of affect by
showing how affects pass between bodies, affecting bodily surfaces or even
how bodies surface. However, I think the concept of affective contagion
tends to underestimate the extent to which affects are contingent (involving
the hap of a happening): to be affected by another does not mean that an
affect simply passes or "leaps" from one body to another. The affect becomes
an object only given the contingency of how we are affected, or only as an
effect of how objects are given.
Consider the opening sentence of Teresa Brennan's book, The Transmission ofAffect: "Is there anyone who has not, at least once, walked into a room
and 'felt the atmosphere'?" (2004,1). Brennan writes very beautifully about
the atmosphere "getting into the individual," using what I have called an
"outside in" model, which is also very much part of the intellectual history of
crowd psychology and the sociology of emotion (Ahmed 2004a, 9). However, later in the introduction she makes an observation that involves a quite
different model. Brennan suggests here, "If I feel anxiety when I enter the
room, then that will influence what I perceive or receive by way of an
'impression'" (Brennan 2004,6). I agree. Anxiety is sticky: rather like Velcro,
it tends to pick up whatever comes near. Or we could say that anxiety gives us
a certain kind of angle on what comes near. Anxiety is, of course, one feeling
state among others. If bodies do not arrive in neutral, if we are always in
some way or another moody, then what we will receive as an impression will
depend on our affective situation. This second argument challenges for me
Brennan's first argument about the atmosphere being what is "out there"

Happy Objects

getting "in": it suggests that how we arrive, how we enter this room or that
room, will affect what impressions we receive. After all, to receive is to act. To
receive an impression is to make an impression.
So we may walk into the room and "feel the atmosphere," but what we
may feel depends on the angle of our arrival. Or we might say that the
atmosphere is already angled; it is always felt from a specific point. The
pedagogic encounter is full of angles. Many times have I read students as
interested or bored, such that the atmosphere seemed one of interest or
boredom (and even felt myself to be interesting or boring) only to^find
students recall the event quite differently. Having read the atmosphere, one
can become tense, which in turn affects what happens, how things move
along. The moods we arrive with do affect what happens: which is not to say
we always keep our moods. Sometimes I arrive heavy with anxiety, and
everything that happens makes me feel more anxious, while at other times,
things happen that ease the anxiety, making the space itself seem light and
energetic. We do not know in advance what will happen given this contingency, given the hap of what happens; we do not know "exactly" what
makes things happen in this way and that. Situations are affective given the
gap between the impressions we have of others, and the impressions we
make on others, all of which are lively.
Think too of experiences of alienation. I have suggested that happiness is
attributed to certain objects that circulate as social goods. When we feel
pleasure from such objects, we are aligned; we are facing the right way. We
become alienatedout of line with an affective communitywhen we do
not experience pleasure from proximity to objects that are already attributed
as being good. The gap between the affective value of an object and how we
experience an object can involve a range of affects, which are directed by the
modes of explanation we offer to fill this gap. If we are disappointed by
something that we expected would make us happy, then we generate explanations of why that thing is disappointing. Such explanations can involve an
anxious narrative of self-doubt (why am I not made happy by this, what is
wrong with me?) or a narrative of rage, where the object that is "supposed"
to make us happy is attributed as the cause of disappointment, which can
lead to a rage directed toward those that promised us happiness through the
elevation of this or that object as being good. We become strangers, or affect
aliens, in such moments.
So when happy objects are passed around, it is not necessarily the feeling
that passes. To share such objects (or have a share in such objects) would

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Happy Objects
expose the bad feelings that get hidden, displaced, or negated under public
signs of joy? The feminist is an affect alien: she might even kill joy because
she refuses to share an orientation toward certain things as being good
because she does not find the objects that promise happiness to be quite
so promising.
We can place the figure of the feminist kill-joy alongside the figure of the
angry black woman, explored so well by black feminist writers such as Audre
Lorde (1984) and bell hooks (2000). The angry black woman can be described as a kill-joy; she may even kill feminist joy, for example, by pointing
out forms of racism within feminist politics. As Audre Lorde describes:
"When women of Color speak out of the anger that laces so many of our
contacts with white women, we are often told that we are 'creating a mood of
helplessness,' 'preventing white women from getting past guilt,' or 'standing
in the way of trusting communication and.action'" (1984,131). The exposure
of violence becomes the origin of violence. The black woman must let go of
her anger for the white woman to move on.
Some bodies are presumed to be the origin of bad feeling insofar as they
disturb the promise of happiness, which I would re-describe as the social
pressure to maintain the signs of "getting along." Some bodies become
blockage points, points where smooth communication stops. Consider Ama
Ata Aidoo's wonderful prose poem, Our Sister Killjoy, where the narrator,
Sissie, as a black woman, has to work to sustain the comfort of others. On a
plane, a white hostess invites her to sit at the back with "her friends," two
black people she does not know. She is about to say that she does not know
them, and hesitates. "But to have refused to join them would have created an
awkward situation, wouldn't it? Considering too that apart from the air
hostess's obviously civilized upbringing, she had been trained to see the
comfort of all her passengers" (1977,10).
Power speaks here in this moment of hesitation. Do you go along with it?
What does it mean not to go along with it? To create awkwardness is to be
read as being awkward. Maintaining public comfort requires that certain
bodies "go along with it," to agree to where you are placed. To refuse to be
placed would mean to be seen as trouble, as causing discomfort for others.
There is a political struggle about how we attribute good and bad feelings,
which hesitates around the apparently simple question of who introduces
what feelings to whom. Feelings can get stuck to certain bodies in the very
way we describe spaces, situations, dramas. And bodies can get stuck depending on what feelings they get associated with.

simply mean you would share an orientation toward those objects as being
good. Take for instance the happy family. The family would be happy not
because it causes happiness, and not even because it affects us in a good way,
but because we share an orientation toward the family as_being good, as
being what promises happiness in return for loyalty. Such an orientation
shapes what we do; you have to "make" and "keep" the family, which directs
how you spend your time, energy, and resources.
To be orientated toward the family does not mean inhabiting the same
place. After all, as we know from Locke, pleasures can be idiosyncratic.
Families may give one a sense of having "a place at the table" through the
conversion of idiosyncratic difference into a happy object: loving "happily"
means knowing the peculiarity of a loved other's likes and dislikes. Love
becomes an intimacy with what the other likes and is given on condition that
such likes do not take us outside a shared horizon. The family provides
a shared horizon in which objects circulate, accumulating positive affective value.
What passes through the passing around of happy objects remains an
open question. After all, the word "passing" can mean not only "to send
over" or "to transmit," but also to transform objects by "a sleight of hand."
Like the game Telephone, what passes between proximate bodies might be
affective precisely because it deviates and even perverts what was "sent out."
Affects involve perversion, and what we can describe as conversion points.
Qne of my key questions is how such conversions happen, and "who" or
"what" gets seen as converting bad feeling into good feeling and good into
bad. When I hear people say "the bad feeling is coming from 'this person' or
'that person'" I am never convinced. I am sure a lot of my skepticism is
shaped by childhood experiences of being the feminist daughter in a conventional family home. Say your childhood experiences were like mine. Say you
are seated at the dinner table with your family, having polite conversations,
where only certain things can be brought up. Someone says something you
consider offensive. You respond, carefully, perhaps. You say why you think
what that person has said is problematic. You might be speaking quietly, but
you are beginning to feel "wound up," recognizing with frustration that you
are being wound up by someone who is winding you up. However you speak
in this situation, you, as the person who speaks up or out as a feminist, will
be read as causing the argument, as if you just have a point to pick.
Let us take seriously the figure of the feminist killjoy. Does the feminist
kill other people's joy by pointing out moments of sexism? Or does she

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Promising Directions
I have suggested that when we share happy objects, we are directed in the
right way. But how do we find such objects? Returning to Locke, we might
describe his story of happiness as quite casual. We happen upon the grapes,
and they happen to taste delightful. If others happen upon them in the same
way, then we would share an object of delight. But if happiness involves
an end-orientated intentionality, then happiness is already associated with
some things more than others. We arrive at some things because they point
us toward happiness.
To explain how objects can be affective before they are encountered, we
need to consider the question of affect and causality. In The Will to Power,
Nietzsche argues that the attribution of causality is retrospective (1968, 29495). We might assume that the experience of pain is caused by the nail near
our foot. But we only notice the nail when we experience an affect. We search
for the object: or as Nietzsche describes, "a reason is sought in persons,
experiences, etc. for why one feels this way or that" (354). The very tendency
to attribute an affect to an object depends upon "closeness of association,"
where such forms of closeness are already given. We apprehend an object as
the cause of an affect (the nail becomes known as a pain-cause, which is not
the only way we might apprehend the nail). The proximity of an encounter
can survive an encounter. In other words, the proximity between an affect
and object is preserved through habit.
Nietzsche helps us to loosen the bond between the object and the affect by
recognizing the form of their bond. The object is not what simply causes the
feeling, even if we attribute the object as its cause. The object is understood
retrospectively as the cause of the feeling. I can just apprehend the nail and I
will experience a pain affect, given that the association between the object
and the affect is already given. The object becomes a feeling-cause. Once an
object is a feeling-cause, it can cause feeling, so that when we feel the feeling
we expect to feel we are affirmed. The retrospective causality of affect that
Nietzsche describes quickly converts into what we could call an anticipatory
causality. We can even anticipate an affect without being retrospective inso^
far as objects might acquire the value of proximities that are not derived
from our own experience. For example, with fear-causes, a child might be
told not to go near an object in advance of its arrival. Some things more than
others are encountered as "to be feared" in the event of proximity, which is
exactly how we can understood the anticipatory logic of the discourse t of
stranger danger (see Ahmed 2000).

Happy Objects
So rather than say that what is good is what is apt to cause pleasure, we
could say that what is apt to cause pleasure is already judged to be good. This
argument is different from Locke's account of loving grapes because they
taste delightful: I am suggesting that the judgment about certain objects
as being "happy" is already made. Certain objects are attributed as the
cause of happiness, which means they already circulate as social goods before
we "happen" upon them, which is why we might happen upon them in the
first place.
In other words, we anticipate that happiness will follow proximity to this
or that object. Anticipations of what an object gives us are also expectations
of what we should be given. How is it that we come to expect so much? After
all, expectations can make things seem disappointing. If we arrive at objects
with an expectation of how we will be affected by them, then this affects how
they affect us, even in the moment they fail to live up to our expectations.
Happiness is an expectation of what follows, where the expectation differentiates between things, whether or not they exist as objects in the present.
For example, a child might be asked to imagine happiness by imagining
certain events in the future, such as his or her wedding day, "the happiest
day of your life." This is why happiness provides the emotional setting for
disappointment even if happiness is not given: we just have to expect happiness from "this or that" for "this and that" to be experienceable as objects of
disappointment.
The apparent chanciness of happiness can be qualified: we do not just
find happy objects anywhere. As I argued in Queer Phenomenology (2006),
for a life to count as a good life, it must return the debt of its life by taking on
the direction promised as a social good, which means imagining one's futurity in terms of reaching certain points along a life course. The promise of
happiness thus directs life in some ways rather than others.
Our expectations come from somewhere. To think the genealogy of expectation is to think about promises and how they point us somewhere,
which is "the where" from which we expect so much. We could say that
happiness is promised through proximity to certain objects. Objects would
not refer only to physical or material things, but also to anything that we
imagine might lead us to happiness, including objects in the sense of values,
practice, and styles, as well as aspirations. Doing x as well as having x might
be what promises us happiness. The promise of happiness takes this form:
that if you have this or have that or do this or do that, then happiness is what
follows.
Happiness is not only promised by certain objects, it is also what we

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promise to give to others as an expression of love. I am especially interested

in the speech act, "I just want you to be happy." What does it mean to want
"just" happiness? What does it mean for a parent to say this to a child? In a
way, the desire for the child's happiness seems to offer a certain kind of
freedom, as if to say: "I don't want you to be this, or to do that; I just want
you to be or to do 'whatever' makes you happy." You could say that the
"whatever" seems to release us from the obligation of the "what." The desire
for the child's happiness seems to offer the freedom of a certain indifference
to the content of a future decision.
Take the psychic drama of the queer child. You could say that the queer
child is an unhappy object for many parents. In some parental responses to
the child coming out, this unhappiness is not so much expressed as being
unhappy about the child being queer, but about being unhappy about the
child being unhappy. Queer fiction is full of such moments, as in the following exchange that takes place in the lesbian novel Annie on My Mind (1982)
by Nancy Garden:
"Lisa," my father said, "I told you I'd support you and I will . . . But
honey... well, maybe it's just that I love your mother so much that I have
to say to you I've never thought gay people can be very happyno children for one thing, no real family life. Honey, you are probably going to
be a very good architectbut I want you to be happy in other ways, too,
as your mother is, to have a husband and children. I know you can do
both. . . . " I am happy, I tried to tell him with my eyes. I'm happy with
Annie; she and my work are all I'll ever need; she's happy toowe both
were until this happened. (1982,191)
The father makes an act of identification with an imagined future of
necessary and inevitable unhappiness. Such an identification through grief
about what the child will lose reminds us that the queer life is already
constructed as unhappy, as a life without those "things" that would make
you happy (husband, children). The desire for the child's happiness is far
from indifferent. The speech act "I just want you to be happy" can be
directive at the very point of its imagined indifference.
For the daughter, it is only the eyes that can speak; and they try to tell an
alternative story about happiness and unhappiness. In her response, she
claims happiness, for sure. She is happy " with Annie," which is to say that she
is happy with this relationship and this life that it will commit her to. She says
we were happy "until" this happened, where the "until" marks the moment

Happy Objects
when the father speaks his disapproval. The unhappy queer is here the queer
who is judged to be unhappy. The father's speech act creates the very affective state of unhappiness that is imagined to be the inevitable consequence of
the daughter's decision. When "this" happens, unhappiness does follow.
The social struggle within families involves contradictory attributions of
"what" makes people unhappy. So in situations where feelings are shared or
are in common (we might all be unhappy), antagonism is produced through
the very explanation of that unhappiness, which attributes the causes of bad
feeling differently (which is the point of conversion), which in turn locates
responsibility for the situation in different places. The father is unhappy as
he thinks the daughter will be unhappy if she is queer. The daughter is
unhappy as the father is unhappy with her being queer. The father witnesses
the daughter's unhappiness as a sign of the truth of his position: that she will
be unhappy because she is queer. The happy queer becomes unhappy at this
point. In other words, the unhappy queer is made unhappy by the world that
reads queers as unhappy. And clearly the family can only be maintained as a
happy object, as being what is anticipated to cause happiness, by making the
unhappiness of the queer child the point.
We can turn to another novel, Babyji by Abha Dawesar (2005). Set in
India, this novel is written from the point of view of Anamika Sharma, a fun,
smart, spirited, and sexy teenager who seduces three women: an older divorcee she names India, a servant girl called Rani, and her school friend
Sheela. In this book, we do not notice happiness being used as the reason
why Anamika should give up her desire. Instead, the first use of happiness as
a speech act is of a rather queer nature:" T want to make you happy,' I said as
I was leaving. 'You do make me happy,' India said. 'No, I don't mean that
way. I mean in bed'" (31). Anamika separates her own desire to make her
lover happy from "that way," from the ordinary way, perhaps, that people
desire to make others happy by wanting to give them a good life. Instead she
wants to make India happy "in bed," to be the cause of her pleasure. Anamika refuses to give happiness the power to secure a specific image of what
would count as a good life.
Babyji is certainly about the perverse potential of pleasure. This is not to
say that Anamika does not have to rebel or does not get into trouble. The
trouble centers on the relationship between the father and the queer daughter and again turns to the question of happiness. Anamika says to her father:
"You like tea, I like coffee. I want to be a physicist, and Vidur wants to join
the army. I don't want to get married, and mom did. How can the same

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it like Beckham, which requires that she bend the rules about what Indian
girls can do. Her parents want her to be a good Indian girl, especially as their
other daughter, Pinkie, is about to get married. The happy occasion of
marriage requires the family to be imagined in a certain way, as reproducing its inheritance. The generational conflict between parents and daughter
is also represented as a conflict between the demands of cultures: as Jess
says, "Anyone can cook Alo Gobi but who can bend the ball like Beckham?"
This contrast sets up "cooking Alo Gobi" as commonplace and customary,
against an alternative world of celebrity, individualism, and talent.
It is possible to read the film by putting this question of cultural difference
to one side. We could read the story as being about the rebellion of the daughter, and an attempt to give validation to her re-scripting of what it means to
have a good life. We might cheer for Jess as she "scores" and finds happiness
somewhere other than where she is expected to find it. We would be happy
about her freedom and her refusal of the demand to be a happy housewife.
We might applaud this film as showing the happiness that can follow when
you leave your parents' expectations behind and follow less well-trodden
paths. Yet, of course, such a reading would fall short. It would not offer a
reading of "where" the happiness of this image of freedom takes us.
The climactic moment of the film is when the final of the football tournament coincides with Pinkie's wedding. The coincidence matters: Jess cannot
be at both events at once. Unhappiness is used to show how Jess is "out of
place" in the wedding. She is unhappy as she is not where she wants to be;
she wants to be at the football match. We want her to be there too and are
encouraged to identify with the injustice of being held back. At this point,
the point of Jess's depression, her friend Tony intervenes and says she should
go. Jess replies, "I can't. Look how happy they are, Tony. I don't want to ruin
it for them." In this moment, Jess accepts her own unhappiness by identifying with the happiness of her parents: she puts her own desire for happiness
to one side. But her father overhears her, and says, "Pinkie is so happy and
you look like you have come to your father's funeral... if this is the only way
I am going to see you smiling on your sister's wedding day then go now. But
when you come back, I want to see you happy on the video." Jess's father lets
her go because he wants to see her happy, which also means he wants to see
others witness the family as being happy, as being what causes happiness.
Jess's father cannot be indifferent to his daughter's unhappiness: later he
says to his wife, "Maybe you could handle her long face, I could not." At one
level, this desire for the daughter's happiness involves a form of indifference

formula make us all happy?," to which he replies, "What do you mean you
don't want to get married?" (177). Anamika recognizes what I have called
the idiosyncratic nature of happy object choices; different people are made
happy by different things, we have a diversity of likes and dislikes, including
marriage as one happy object choice among others. The inclusion of marriage as something that one might or might not like is picked up by the
father, turning queer desire into a question that interrupts the flow of the
conversation.
The exchange shows us how object choices are not equivalent, how some
choices such as marrying or not marrying are not simply presentable as
idiosyncratic likes or dislikes, as they take us beyond the horizon of intimacy,
in which those likes can gather as a shared form. Although the novel might
seem to articulate a queer liberalism, whereby the queer subject is free to be
happy in her own way, it evokes the limits of that liberalism by showing how
the conflation of marriage with the good life is maintained as the response to
queer deviation. While the queer might happily go beyond marriage, or
refuse to place her hope for happiness in the reproduction of the family,
it does not follow that the queer will be promised happiness in return.
Although we can live without the promise of happiness, and can do so
"happily," we live with the consequences of being a cause of unhappiness
for others.
Happiness, Freedom, Injury
The speech act, "I just want you to be happy" protects the happy family by
locating the causes of unhappiness in the failure to reproduce its line. This is
not to say that happy families only locate happiness in reproduction. I want
to explore how the family can sustain its place as a happy object by creating
the very illusion that we are free to deviate from its line. Let's take the film
Bend It Like Beckham (2002), a happy "feel good" film about a migrant
family. One of the most striking aspects is how the conflict or obstacle of the
film is resolved through this speech act, addressed from father to daughter,
that takes the approximate form: "I just want you to be happy." How does
this speech act direct the narrative?
To answer this question, we need to describe the conflict of the film, or
the obstacle to the happy ending. The film depicts generational conflict
within a migrant Indian Sikh family living in Hounslow, London. Jess, one
of the daughters, is good at football. Her idea of happiness would be to bend

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Jess and Joe at a "conversion point" (video still from Bend / Like Beckham).

to the "where" that she goes. However, from the point of view of the film, the
desire for happiness is far from indifferent: indeed, the film works partly by
"directing" the apparent indifference of this gift of freedom. After all, this
moment is when the father "switches" from a desire that is out of line with
the happy object of the film (not wanting Jess to play) to being in line (letting
her go), which in turn is what allows the film's happy ending. Importantly,
the happy ending is about the coincidence of happy objects. The daughters
are happy (they are living the lives they wish to lead), the parents are happy
(as their daughters are happy), and we are happy (as they are happy). Good
feeling involves these "points" of alignment. We could say positive affect is
what sutures the film, resolving the generational and cultural split: as soon as
Jess is allowed to join the football game, the two worlds "come together" in a
shared moment of enjoyment. While the happy objects are different from
the point of view of the daughters (football, marriage) they allow us to arrive
at the same point.
And yet, the film does not give equal value to the objects in which good
feelings come to reside. Jess's happiness is contrasted to that of her sister,
Pinkie, who is ridiculed throughout the film as not only wanting less, but as
being less in the direction of her want. Pinkie asks Jess why she does not want
"this." Jess does not say that she wants something different; she says it is
because she wants something "more." That word "more" lingers, and frames
the ending of the film, which gives us "flashes" of an imagined future (pregnancy for Pinkie, photos of Jess on her sports team, her love for her football

Happy Objects
coach, Joe, her friendship with Jules). During the sequence of shots as Jess
gets ready to join the football final, the camera pans up to show an airplane.
Airplanes are everywhere in this film, as they often are in diasporic films. In
Bend It Like Beckham, they matter as technologies of flight, signifying what
goes up and away. Happiness in the film is promised by what goes "up and
away." The desire to play football, to join the national game, is read as leaving
a certain world behind. Through the juxtaposition of the daughter's happy
objects, the film suggests that this desire gives a better return.
In reading the "directed" nature of narratives of freedom, we need in part
to consider how the film relates to wider discourses of the public good. The
film locates the "pressure point" in the migrant family that pressures Jess to
live a life she does not want to live. And yet, many migrant individuals and
families are under pressure to integrate, where integration is a key term for
what they now call in the United Kingdom "good race relations." Although
integration is not defined as "leaving your culture behind" (at least not
officially), it is unevenly distributed, as a demand that new or would-be
citizens embrace a common culture that is already given. In this context, the
immigrant daughter who identifies with the national game is a national
ideal; the "happy" daughter who deviates from family convention becomes a
sign of the promise of integration. The unconventional daughter of the migrant family may even provide a conventional form of social hope.
It is the father who is represented as the cause of unhappiness. By identifying with the daughter's happiness, we also identify the cause of unhappiness as his unhappiness. The point of the film is thus to convert the father.
What are the conversion points in the film? We can focus here on two
speeches made by Jess's father: the first takes place early on in the film, and
the second at the end:
When I was a teenager in Nairobi, I was the best fast bowler in our school.
Our team even won the East African cup. But when I came to this country, nothing. And these bloody gora in the club house made fun of my
turban and set me off packing. . . . She will only end up disappointed
like me.
When those bloody English cricket players threw me out of their club like
a dog, I never complained. On the contrary, I vowed that I would never
play again. Who suffered? Me. But I don't want Jess to suffer. I don't want
her to make the same mistakes her father made, accepting life, accepting
situations. I want her to fight. And I want her to win.

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In the first speech, the father says she should not play in order not to suffer
like him. In the second, he says she should play in order not to suffer like him.
The desire implicit in both speech acts is the avoidance of the daughter's
suffering, which is expressed in terms of the desire not to-repeat his own. I
would argue that the father is represented in the first speech as melancholic:
as refusing to let go of his suffering, as incorporating the very object of his
own loss. His refusal to let Jess go is readable as a symptom of melancholia:
as a stubborn attachment to his own injury, or as a form of self-harm (as he
says, "Who suffered? Me"). I would argue that the second speech suggests
that the refusal to play a national game is the "truth" behind the migrant's
suffering: the migrant suffers because he or she does not play the game,
where not playing is read as a form of self-exclusion. For Jess to be happy he
lets her be included, narrated as a form of letting go. By implication, not only
is he letting her go, he is also letting go of his own suffering, the unhappiness
caused by accepting racism, as the "point" of his exclusion.
The figure of the melancholic migrant is a familiar one in contemporary
race politics. The melancholic migrant holds onto the unhappy objects of
differences, such as the turban, or at least the memory of being teased about
the turban, which ties it to a history of racism. Such differences become sore
points or blockage points, where the smooth passage of communication
stops. The melancholic migrant is the one who is not only stubbornly attached to difference, but who insists on speaking about racism, where such
speech is heard as laboring over sore points. The duty of the migrant is to let
go of the pain of racism by letting go of racism as a way of understanding
that pain. The melancholic migrant's fixation with injury is read not only
as an obstacle to his or her own happiness, but also to the happiness of
the generation to come, and to national happiness. This figure may even
quickly convert in the national imaginary to what I have called the "couldbe-terrorist" (Ahmed 2004a). His anger, pain, and misery (all understood as
forms of bad faith insofar as they won't let go of something that is presumed
to be already gone) become "our terror."
To avoid such a terrifying endpoint, the duty of the migrant is to attach
to a different, happier object, one that can bring good fortune, such as
the national game. The film ends with the fortune of this reattachment. Jess
goes to America to take up her dream of becoming a professional football
player, to a land that makes the pursuit of happiness an originary goal. This
reattachment is narrated as moving beyond the unhappy scripts of racism.
We should note here that the father's experience of being excluded from the

Happy Objects
national game is repeated in Jess's own encounter with racism on the football pitch (she is called a "Paki"), which leads to the injustice of her being
sent off. In this case, however, Jess's anger and hurt do not stick. She lets go
of her suffering. How does she let go? When she says to Joe, "You don't
know what it feels like," he replies, "Of course I know how it feels like, I'm
Irish." It is this act of identification with suffering that brings Jess back into
the national game (as if to say, "we all suffer, it is not just you"). The film
suggests that whether racism hurts depends upon individual choice and
capacity: we can let go of racism as "something" that happens, a capacity that
is attributed to skill (if you are good enough, you will get by), as well as the
proximate gift of empathy, where the hurt of racism is reimagined as a
common ground.
The love story between Jess and Joe offers another point of reattachment.
The acceptance of interracial heterosexual love is a conventional narrative of
reconciliation, as if love can overcome past antagonism and create what I
would call "hybrid familiality": white with color, white with another. Such
fantasies of proximity are premised on the following belief: if only we could
be closer, we would be as one. Proximity becomes a promise: the happiness of
the film is the promise of "the one," as if giving love to the white man would
allow us to have a share in this promise.
In the film, we end with the happy family: a hybrid family, where difference is reconciled. The family of the film could be understood as the multicultural nation, reimagined as a space of peace and love, where "fellow
feeling" is translated into a feeling of fellowship. Given this, the father in the
film originally occupies the place of the bad child, the one who must be
taught to overcome bad feeling, by reproducing the family line. Just take the
final scene of the film, which is a cricket scene. As we know, cricket is an
unhappy object in the film, associated with the suffering of racism. Jess's
father is batting. Joe, in the foreground, is bowling. He smiles as he approaches us. He turns around, bowls, and gets the father out. In a playful
scene, Joe then celebrates and his body mimics that of a plane, in a classic
football gesture. As I have suggested, planes are happy objects in the film,
associated with flight, with moving up and away. By mimicking the plane,
Joe becomes the agent that converts bad feeling (unhappy racism) into good
feeling (multicultural happiness). It is the white man who enables the father
to let go of his injury about racism and to play cricket again. It is the white
man who brings the suffering migrant back into the national fold. His body is
our conversion point.

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Happy Objects
Beyond the Affirmative Gesture
I

We need to question what is appealing in the appeal to happiness and good

feeling. And yet, some critics suggest that we have paid too-much attention to
melancholia, suffering, and injury and that we need to be more affirmative.
Rosi Braidotti, for example, suggests that the focus on negativity has become
a problem within feminism, calling for a more affirmative feminism. She
offers a bleak reading of bleakness: "I actively yearn for a more joyful and
empowering concept of desire and for a political economy that foregrounds
positivity, not gloom" (2002,57).
What concerns me is how much this affirmative turn actually depends on
the very distinction between good and bad feelings that presumes that bad
feelings are backward and conservative and good feelings are forward' and
progressive. Bad feelings are seen as orientated toward the past, as a kind of
stubbornness that "stops" the subject from embracing the future. Good
feelings are associated here with moving up and getting out. I would argue
that it is the very assumption that good feelings are open and bad feelings are
closed that allows historical forms of injustice to disappear. The demand that
we be affirmative makes those histories disappear by reading them as a form
of melancholia (as if you hold onto something that is already gone). These
histories have not gone: we would be letting go of that which persists in the
present. To let go would be to keep those histories present.

51

Notes
See David Hume's discussion of the relationship between ideas and impressions in A
Treatise of Human Nature (1985, 49-55). Memory and imagination are described as
the two faculties in which we "repeat our impressions" (56), involving the connection or association between ideas in the form of contiguity and resemblance. Hume
offers a rich reflection on what we might call empirical psychology and the habits of
sense making. See Deleuze's (1991) excellent analysis of Hume's contribution. Also
note how much the Freudian concern with displacement and condensation and the
Lacanian concern with metaphor and metonymy are consistent with Hume's associationism. English empiricism and psychoanalysis could be described as potentially
productive bedfellows.
The way in which a ideological model of happiness makes "all other things" "happiness means" is explicit in John Stuart Mill's utilitarianism. As he puts it, "The
utilitarian doctrine is that happiness is desirable and the only thing desirable, as
an end; all other things being only desirable as means to that end" (1906, 52, emphasis added).
David Hume's model of affective contagion contrasts in interesting ways with Adam
Smith's The Theory ofMoral Sentiments (2000). Both stress the importance of sympathy or compassion, as what Smith calls "fellow-feeling," where you feel with others
and are affected by how others feel. In the case of happiness, to be sympathetic
would be to feel happy when another is happy. Sympathy is expressed by returning
feeling with like feeling. In Smith's model, sympathy is more explicitly conditional:
you enter into another's happiness if you agree with it, in the sense that you think his
or her happiness is appropriate and is expressed appropriately. As he describes quite
dramatically, "it gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another too happy, or
too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are
disobliged even with his joy; and, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity and
folly" (2000, 13, emphasis added). So for Smith, to be affected sympathetically is
dependent on whether emotions "appear to this last, just and proper, and suitable to
their objects" (14). I would also argue that sharing emotion involves conditional
judgment. But rather than saying that we share happiness if we agree with its object
(which makes the agreement secondary), I would say that to share in the happiness
of others is how we come to have a direction toward something, which is already an
agreement that the object is appropriate. To get along, in another words, is to share
a direction.

I am not saying that feminist, anti-racist, and queer politics do not have
anything to say about happiness other than to point to its unhappy effects. I
think it is the very exposure of these unhappy effects that is affirmative, that
gives us an alternative set of imaginings of what might count as a good or
better life. If injustice does have unhappy effects, then the story does not end
there. Unhappiness is not our endpoint. If anything, the experience of being
alienated from the affective promise of happy objects gets us somewhere.
Affect aliens can do things, for sure, by refusing to put bad feelings to one
side in the hope that we can "just get along." A concern with histories that
hurt is not then a backward orientation: to move on, you must make this
return. If anything we might want to reread melancholic subjects, the ones
who refuse to let go of suffering, who are even prepared to kill some forms of
joy, as an alternative model of the social good.

The Future Birth of the Affective Fact

THE FUTURE BIRTH OF THE AFFECTIVE FACT

The Political Ontology of Threat
Brian Massumi

Future Superlative
"The next pandemic," screams a 2005 headline in Quebec's reputedly most sober newspaper, "does not exist yet." Beneath, in
a supersize, full-color portrait, deceptively innocent-looking,
peers a chicken. "The threat, however, could not be more real"
(Soucy2005).
Observation: We live in times when what has not happened
qualifies as front-page news.
Human-adapted avian flu is just one of many nonexistent
entities that has come from the future to fill our present with
menace. We live in times when what is yet to occur not only
climbs to the top of the news but periodically takes blaring
precedence over what has actually happened. Yesterday was
once the mainstay of the journalist's stock-in-trade. Today it
may pale in the glare of tomorrow's news. "I think we agree,"
prophesied a future president on the cusp of a millennium
whose arrival was overshadowed by a nonexistent bug of another color, "the past is over."1
Question: How could the nonexistence of what has not happened be more real than what is now observably over and done
with?

Threat is from the future. It is what might come next. Its eventual location and ultimate extent are undefined. Its nature is open-ended. It is not
just that it is not: it is not in a way that is never over. We can never be done
with it. Even if a clear and present danger materializes in the present, it is still
not over. There is always the nagging potential of the next after being even
worse, and of a still worse next again after that. The uncertainty of the
potential next is never consumed in any given event. There is always a
remainder of uncertainty, an unconsummated surplus of danger. The present is shadowed by a remaindered surplus of indeterminate potential for a
next event running forward back to the future, self-renewing.
Self-renewing menace potential is the future reality of threat. It could not
be more real. Its run of futurity contains so much more, potentially, than
anything that has already actually happened. Threat is not real in spite of its
nonexistence. It is superlatively real, because of it.
Observation: The future of threat is forever.

Futures Past
Rewind: It is the summer of 2004. George W. Bush is campaigning for a
second term as president. He is on the defensive about the war in Iraq, as
pressure mounts for him to admit that the reasons his administration set
forth to justify the invasion, in particular the allegation that Saddam Hussein
possessed an arsenal of weapons of mass destruction, had no basis in fact.
For the first time he admits what had been known all along to those who
cared to examine the evidence. He goes on to argue that the lack of factual
basis for the invasion does not mean that he made the wrong decision.
"Although we have not found stockpiles of weapons, I believe we were right
to go into Iraq. America is safer today because we did. We removed a declared enemy of America, who had the capacity of producing weapons of
mass destruction, and could have passed that capability to terrorists bent on
acquiring them" (Schmitt and Stevenson 2004, A9).
The invasion was right because in the past there was a future threat. You
cannot erase a "fact" like that. Just because the menace potential never
became a clear and present danger doesn't mean that it wasn't there, all the
more real for being nonexistent. The superlative futurity of unactualized
threat feeds forward from the past, in a chicken run to the future past every
intervening present. The threat will have been real for all eternity.
It will have been real because it was felt to be real. Whether the danger was

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Brian Massumi
existent or not, the menace was felt in the form of fear. What is not actually
real can be felt into being. Threat does have an actual mode of existence: fear,
as foreshadowing. Threat has an impending reality in the present. This
actual reality is affective.
_ .
Fear is the anticipatory reality in the present of a threatening future. It is
the felt reality of the nonexistent, loomingly present as the affective fact of
the matter.
Once a nonexistent reality, always a nonexistent reality. A past anticipation is still an anticipation, and it will remain having been an anticipation
for all of time. A threat that does not materialize is not false. It has all the
affective reality of a past future, truly felt. The future of the threat is not
falsified. It is deferred. The case remains forever open. The futurity doesn't
stay in the past where its feeling emerged. It feeds forward through time. It
runs an endless loop forward from its point of emergence in the past present,
whose future it remains. Threat passes through linear time, but does not
belong to it. It belongs to the nonlinear circuit of the always will have been.
Proposition: If we feel a threat, there was a threat. Threat is affectively selfcausing.
Corollary: If we feel a threat, such that there was a threat, then there
always will have been a threat. Threat is once and for all, in the nonlinear
time of its own causing.

Double Conditional
The felt reality of threat legitimates preemptive action, once and for all. Any
action taken to preempt a threat from emerging into a clear and present
danger is legitimated by the affective fact of fear, actual facts aside.2 Preemptive action will always have been right. This circularity is not a failure of
logic. It is a different logic, operating on the same affective register as threat's
self-causing.
The logic of affectively legitimated fact is in the conditional: Bush did
what he did because Saddam could have done what he didn't do. Bush's
argument doesn't really do justice to the logic of preemption. Saddam didn't
actually even have the "capacity," and that poses no problem for preemptive
logic, which is based on a double conditional. "The Pentagon neocons argued
that the ci A overemphasized what Saddam could do instead of stressing what
he would do if he could" (Dorrien 2004,186).
Bush was being modest in a CIA kind of way. From the prevailing neocon-

servative perspective, he was understating why he was right. He was right

even though Saddam did not have the capacity, because Saddam "would have
if he could have." The case remains open. At any moment in the future, he
could have acquired the means, and as soon as he could, he would. Would
have, could have: double conditional.
Present threat is logically recessive, in a step-by-step regress from the
certainty of actual fact. The actual fact would have been: Saddam Hussein
has WMD. The first step back from that is: he had the capacity to have WMD.
The next step is: he didn't have the capacity, but he still would have if he
could have. The recessive assertion that he "would have" is based on an
assumption about character and intent that cannot be empirically grounded
with any certainty. But it is proffered with certainty. It carries a certainty,
underivable from actual fact, which it owes to the affective fact of the matter.
The felt reality of the threat is so superlatively real that it translates into a felt
certainty about the world, even in the absence of other grounding for it in
the observable world. The assertion has the felt certainty of a "gut feeling."
Gut feeling was proudly and publicly embraced by Bush as his peak decisionmaking process in the lead-up to the war in Iraq and beyond.3
Preemption's logical regress from actual fact makes for a disjointedness
between its legitimating discourse and the objective content of the present
context, which its affirmations ostensibly reference. Its receding from actual
fact produces a logical disjunction between the threat and the observable
present. A logical gap opens in the present through which the reality of
threat slips to rejoin its deferral to the future. Through the logical hatch of
the double conditional, threat makes a runaround through the present back
toward its self-causing futurity.
The affect-driven logic of the would-have/could-have is what discursively
ensures that the actual facts will always remain an open case, for all preemptive intents and purposes. It is what saves threat from having to materialize as a clear and present dangeror even an emergent dangerin order to
command action. The object of preemptive power, according to the explicit
doctrine, is "not yet fully emergent threat." The doctrine doesn't say emergent dangerlet alone clear and present danger.4 And again (and again),
when threat strikes it is once and for all.
Problem: How can preemptive politics maintain its political legitimacy
given that it grounds itself in the actual ungroundedness of affective fact?
Would not pointing out the actual facts be enough to make it crumble?
Observation: Bush won his reelection.

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Right Again
Fast forward: It is one year later, the summer of 2005. For the first time in the
polls, more than two years after the invasion, a majority of Americans
oppose the war in Iraq. The legitimation of preemptive actionor that
particular action at any rateis faltering. The downturn had begun long
after the lack of actual facts behind the decision to invade had become
common knowledge. It began with the counteraffective strike that came
with the release and widespread circulation of shocking images of torture at
Abu Ghraib.5 It was only then that the lack of actual-factual basis for the
invasion began to resonate with a voting public rendered less receptive, for
the moment, to the logic of preemption by the affective countercoup of
torture graphically revealed. Bush makes a valiant attempt to kick-start the
logic of preemption again. He delivers a major radio address to the nation
explaining his refusal to withdraw. He deploys an argument that he will
continue to use for at least the next two years.6
"Some may agree," he says, "with my decision to remove Saddam Hussein
from power, but all of us can agree that the world's terrorists have now made
Iraq a central front in the war on terror" (Bush 2005). The presence of
terrorist links between Al Qaeda and Saddam Hussein had been the second
major argument, behind WMD, originally used to justify the invasion. The
Bush administration had already been obliged to withdraw the assertion
long before this speech. The fact that Al Qaeda had not been in Iraq at the
time of the invasion now becomes the reason it was right to invade. The fact
that they are there now just goes to prove that if they could have been there
then, they would have.
The could-have/would-have logic works both ways. If the threat does not
materialize, it still always would have if it could have. If the threat does
materialize, then it just goes to show that the future potential for what
happened had really been there in the past. In this case, the preemptive
action is retroactively legitimated by future actual facts.
Bush does not point out that the reason Al Qaeda is now in Iraq is because
of the invasion that was mounted to keep it out of Iraq, that the preemptive
action actually brought about the result it was meant to fight.
Observation: Preemptive action can produce the object toward which its
power is applied, and it can do so without contradicting its own logic, and
without necessarily undermining its legitimation.
Proposition: Because it operates on an affective register and inhabits a

nonlinear time operating recursively between the present and the future,
preemptive logic is not subject to the same rules of noncontradiction as
normative logic, which privileges a linear causality from the past to the
present and is reluctant to attribute an effective reality to futurity.

Flour Attack
Pause: Around the same time, a state of emergency is called at the Montreal
airport. There has been a "toxic substance alert." White powder has been
seen leaking from a suitcase. The actual facts of the case are still two weeks in
the future after the necessary lab work will have been done. Action, however,
cannot wait. It could be anthrax. That potential threat must be acted upon.
The airport is closed. Highways to the airport are closed. Men in white
decontamination suits descend, SWAT teams and police personnel pour in.
Terrified passengers are sequestered in the terminal. News helicopters hover
overhead. Live coverage takes over the local airwaves. All of the actions that
would be taken if the powder were anthrax are taken preemptively. The
dramatic rapid response of the public security apparatus causes a major
disruption of commerce and circulation. The site is quickly decontaminated,
and life returns to normal.
Observations: Preemptive power washes back from the battlefield onto
the domestic front (even in countries not militarily involved). On the domestic front, its would-have/could-have logic takes a specific form associated with public security procedures involving the signaling of alert. The
alert, set off at the slightest sign of potential threat, triggers immediate action. The actions set in motion in response to the threat are of the same kind
and bring on many of the same effects as would have accompanied an actual
danger. The preemptive measures cause the disruption to the economy and
everyday life that terrorist attacks are designed to produce beyond their
immediate impact.
Proposition: Defensive preemptive action in its own way is as capable as
offensive preemptive action of producing what it fights. Together with the
increasing speed and vigor of defensive action, this blurs the boundaries
between defense and offense, between domestic security and military action.
Two weeks later, the powder is identified. It is flour. News articles following up on the story after the discovery of no toxic substance continue to refer
to the incident as a "toxic substance alert."7 No one refers to the incident as a
"flour alert." The incident is left carrying an affective dusting of white-

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powdered terror. Flour has been implicated. It is tainted with the fear of
anthrax, guilty by association for displaying the threatening qualities of
whiteness and powderiness. In preemptively logical terms, the incident was a
toxic substance alertnot because the substance was toxic, but because the
alert was for a potential toxic substance.
Observations: An alarm may determine the generic identity of a potential
threat, without specifically determining the actual identity of the objects
involved. This declares what will later prove actually to have been innocent
objects (or in other circumstances, persons) as officially threatening for the
duration of the alert, based on their displaying material qualities answering
to the generic description. Afterward, they remain tainted by their affective
involvement in the incident, for they really always will have been associated
with the fear produced by the alert, and fear feeds threat forward.
Proposition: The affective reality of threat is contagious.
Proposition: Threat is capable of overlaying its own conditional determination upon an objective situation through the mechanism of alarm. The
two determinations, threatening and objective, coexist. However, the threatdetermined would-be and could-be takes public precedence due to its operating in the more compelling, future-oriented, and affective register. This
gives it superior political presence and potential.8
The incident comes to a close with follow-up articles about improvements in government safety procedure as a result of the toxic substance alert.
The false alert is presented in the news media as having palpably increased
the security of airplane passengers ("ADM" 2005).
Proposition: The security that preemption is explicitly meant to produce
is predicated on its tacitly producing what it is meant to avoid: preemptive
security is predicated on a production of insecurity to which it itself contributes. Preemption thus positively contributes to producing the conditions for
its own exercise. It does this by capturing for its own operation the selfcausative power native to the threat-potential that it takes as its object.

Specifically Imprecise
Rewind: New York City, October 2005. Mayor Michael Bloomberg puts the
city on alert, citing a chillingly specific threat to bomb the metropolitan subway and bus system simultaneously at "as many as nineteen" different locations. "This is the first time we have had a threat with this level of specificity,"
he says at a televised news conference (Bajaj 2005). The FBI announces that

arrests related to the plot have already been made in Iraq, based on "reliable"
information. "Classified operations have already partially disrupted this
threat." Although offensive preemptive action has already been taken, there is
still felt to be a menacing remainder of threat. Preemptive action is retaken,
this time defensively. Transit passengers on the home front are briefed on
security procedures and asked to contribute to the city's surveillance by
keeping an eye out for suspicious persons and objects. A suspicious bottle,
which could have been filled with hazardous material, is sighted at Penn
Station. It is isolated and destroyed (if it could have, it would have...).
The next day, the Homeland Security Department weighs in to say that
"the intelligence community has been able to determine that there are very
serious doubts about the credibility of this specific threat." The threat had
been "very, very specific. It had specific time, specific object and modality,"
the city police commissioner assured. "So, you know, we had to do what we
did.... I believe in the short term we'll have a much better sense of whether
or not this has, you know, real substance to it" (Weissenstein 2005).
A threat can have specificity and lead to decisive preemptive actions with
a corresponding level of specificity without having "real substance" or objective "credibility." The preemptive actions taken in response to the threat are
still logically and politically correct if they were commensurate with the
urgency of the threat, if not with the urgency of the actual situation. They
will still have been justified even if the information proves objectively imprecise and there was no actual danger.9
Proposition: An alert is not a referential statement under obligation to
correspond with precision to an objective state of affairs. The measure of its
correctness is the immediacy and specificity of the preemptive actions it
automatically triggers. The value of the alert is measured by its performance.
Rather than referential truth-value, it has performative threat-value. More
than any correspondence between its semantic content and an objective
referent, it is the performed commensurability of the threat and the triggered actions that qualifies the alert as correct. Its correctness, felt as a
question of collective security, is directly political. The threat-alert, as sign of
danger, is subject to different criteria of reliability and effectiveness than
referential language about danger.
Proposition: Threat has no actual referent.
Corollary: Preemption is a mode of power that takes threat, which has no
actual referent, as its object. When the politics of preemption captures threat's
potential for its own operation, it forgoes having an actual object of power.

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"The 9-11 Generation"

Fast forward on rewind: It is now the lead-up to the U.S. presidential elections of 2008. Ex-mayor Rudolph Giuliani of New York-is revving up his
campaign by looping back to 9-11, toward future preemptive action. He
writes an article in Foreign Affairs taking a hardline neoconservative position
in continuity with Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld's first-term Bush
administration policies. The article argues that the attacks of 9-11 inaugurated a new world^historical era. The fall of the Twin Towers was an originating moment of what he calls, following Rumsfeld, the "Long War" against
terrorism, in much the same way that the building of the Berlin Wall inaugurated the cold war, according to Giuliani. "We are all members of the 9-11
generation," he declares (Giuliani 2007).
September 11 was an actual event that killed thousands and put more thousands of lives in immediate danger. People Were agape in shock at the enormity
of it. The immediate shock gave way to lingering fear, relaying the danger into a
remainder of surplus threat. September 11 was an excess-threat-generating
actual event that has perhaps done more than any other threat-o-genic source
to legitimate preemptive politics. It was continually cited by the Bush administration to reinvoke potential threat for use in legitimating policy. Candidates
of both parties in the race to succeed Bush also invoked it regularly in order to
establish their own national security credentials.10 And yet...
Question: Can the threat-potential fueling preemptive politics have an
identifiable origin?
There were precursors to 9-11. The "war on terror" was declared by President Richard Nixon in the early 1970s. Between that time and September 2001,
there were any number of attacks characterized as terrorist, including the
earlier, less successful, bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993. Since 9-11
there have been further attacks. If the historical and geographical parameters
are enlarged, attacks that could be qualified as "terrorist" stretch indefinitely.
Observation: 9-11 belongs to an iterative series of allied events whose
boundaries are indefinite.
An event where threat materializes as a clear and present danger extrudes
a surplus-remainder of threat-potential that can contaminate new objects,
persons, and contexts through the joint mechanisms of the double conditional and the objective imprecision of the specificity of threat. Threat's selfcausing proliferates. Threat alerts, performatively signed threat-events, are
quick to form their own iterative series. These series tend to proliferate
robustly thanks to the suppleness and compellingness of the affective logic

generating them. As an indication, according to the Homeland Security

Department, in the United States alone in 2003 there were 118 airport evacuations. In 2004, there were 276. None was linked to a terrorist attempt, let
alone an actual bombing.11
As the series proliferate, the distinction between the series of actual attacks and the series of threat-events blurs. At the same time, the range of
generic identities under which the threat and its corresponding performance
may fall also expands. The terrorist series includes torpedoing buildings
with airplanes, air missile attacks, subway bombs, suicide car attacks, roadside bombings, liquid explosives disguised as toiletries, tennis-shoe bombs,
"dirty" bombs (never actually observed), anthrax in the mail, other unnamed bioterrorist weapons, booby-trapped mailboxes, Coke cans rigged to
explode, bottles in public places . . . The list is long and ever-extending. The
mass affective production of felt threat-potential engulfs the (f )actuality of
the comparatively small, number of incidents where danger materialized.
They blend together in a shared atmosphere of fear.
In that atmosphere, the terrorist threat series blends into series featuring
other generic identities. There is the generic viral series, including threats,
real and nonexistent, as heterogeneous as human-adapted avian flu, SARS,
West Nile virus, and the Millennium Bug, just to mention a few from the first
years of this century. There is no apparent limit to the generic diversification
of threat, which can cross normative logical boundaries with impunity, like
that between biological and computer viruses. Or consider food and pathogens: "Comparing junk food to a possible avian flu epidemic, provincial
Health Minister Philippe Couillard said yesterday that the province is preparing a crackdown to get sugar-laden soft drinks and junk food out of
schools" (Dougherty 2007). The series combine and intertwine, and together they tend to the infinite, preemptive action in tow.
The atmosphere of fear includes this tendential infinity of threat series on
the same performative basis as an actually occurring terrorist attack. The
generic identity of threat overall stretches to the limit to accommodate the
endless proliferation of specific variations. The object of threat tends toward
an ultimate limit at which it becomes purely indeterminate, while retaining a
certain qualitymenaceand the capacity to make that quality felt. The
portrait of a chicken can embody this quality and make it felt as reliably as a
terrorist's mug shot.
At the limit, threat is a felt quality, independent of any particular instance
of itself, in much the way the color red is a quality independent of any
particular tint of red, as well as of any actually occurring patch of any

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The Future Birth of the Affective Fact 63

variety of constituted fact. The forms of determination it brings into being as
fact have an inborn tendency toward proliferation by virtue of the selfcausative powers of their formative process. An operative logic is a process of
becoming formative of its own species of being.
Question: What does an operative logic want?

particular tint of red. It becomes an abstract quality. When threat self-causes,

its abstract quality is affectively presented, in startle, shock, and fear. As
presented affectively, its quality suffuses the atmosphere. Threat is ultimately
ambient. Its logic is purely qualitative.
Proposition: Threat's ultimately ambient nature makes preemptive power
an environmental power.12 Rather than empirically manipulate an object
(of which actually it has none), it modulates felt qualities infusing a lifeenvironment.
Question: If 9-11 is not an origin, what is it? How does it figure in the
tendentially infinite series to which it belongs? Is it possible to periodize
preemptive power?

Itself. Its own continuance. It is autopoietic. An operative logic's selfcausative powers drive it automatically to extend itself. Its autopoietic mode
of operation is one with a drive to universalize itself. Depending on the logic,
that drive will take fundamentally heterogeneous forms (from the ecumenical to the imperialist, from the pastoral to the warlike).
Proposition: An operative logic is a will-to-power.

Rather than assigning it as an origin, 9-11 may be thought of as marking a threshold. It can be considered a turning point at which the threatenvironment took on an ambient thickness, achieved a consistency, which
gave the preemptive power mechanisms dedicated to its modulation an
advantage over other regimes of power.
Proposition: To understand the political power of threat and the preemptive politics availing itself of threat-potential, it is necessary to situate preemptive power in a field of interaction with other regimes of power, and to
analyze their modes of coexistence as well as their evolutionary divergences
and convergences.13 In a word, it is necessary to adopt an ecological approach
to threat's environmental power.
Corollary: Each regime of power in the ecology of powers will have its
own operative logic implicating unique modes of causality and having a
singular time-signature. The causal and temporal processes involved will
endow the objects of each regime of power with an ontological status different from those of any other regime. Correlative to its ontology, each
regime will have a dedicated epistemology guiding the constitution of its
political "facts" and guaranteeing their legitimation. The political analysis of
regimes of power must extend to these metaphysical dimensions.

This will-to-power is impersonal because it necessarily operates in a field

of exteriority in perpetual interaction with other operative logics, with which
it is always in a dynamic state of reciprocal presupposition. It is a field
phenomenon. The interaction actualizes in a diversity of regimes of power
cohabiting the same field in reciprocal exteriority and potential interlinkage.
An operative logic's actualization may be, to varying degrees, in more than
one regime. An operative logic not fully actualized in any regime of power
interacts with the others virtually (anticipatorily, as a present force of futurity, or, as "negatively prehended").14
Question: In the case of threat as an operative logic, how can an effective
analysis of it be carried out, given that the kind of fact it constitutes is
affective and largely independent of actual fact, not to mention that its object
is superlatively, futurely nonexistent?
There is a common category of entities, known to all, that specializes in
making what is not actually present really present nonetheless, in and as its
own effect: signs. The sign is the vehicle for making presently felt the potential force of the objectively absent.
Proposition: To understand preemptive power as an operative logic it is
necessary to be able to express its productive process of becoming as a
semiosis. Since preemption's production of being in becoming pivots on
affect as felt quality, the pertinent theory of signs would have to be grounded
first and foremost in a metaphysics of feeling.

Stop
Question: What is an operative logic?
Call an operative logic one that combines an ontology with an epistemology in such a way as to endow itself with powers of self-causation. An
operative logic is a productive process that inhabits a shared environment, or
field of exteriority, with other processes and logics. It figures in that field as a
formative movement: a tendency toward the iterative production of its own

Smoke of Future Fires

Imagine a dreamer who suddenly hears a loud and prolonged fire alarm.
"At the instant it begins he is startled. He instinctively tries to get away; his
hands go to his ears. It is not so much that it is unpleasing, but it forces itself

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alarm, is nothing other than the dynamic form of the body at this instant of
reawakening to its world on alert, imperatively altering. It is nothing else
than the activation event launching the body into a transition to a next
experience in which its waking world will have undergone a change. Everything takes place between the activated body and the sign of its becoming.
Fire or no fire, transition to and through alert is made.

so upon him. The instinctive resistance is a necessary part of it

This sense
of acting and being acted upon, which is the sense of the reality of things
both of outward things and ourselvesmay be called the sense of Reaction.
It does not reside in any one Feeling; it comes upon- the breaking of one
feeling by another feeling" (Peirce i998d, 4-5).
A fire alarm is the kind of sign C. S. Peirce calls indications or indexes.
Indexes "act on the nerves of the person and force his attention." They are
nervously compelling because they "show something about things, on account of their being physically connected to them" (i998d, 5) in the way
smoke is connected to fire. Yet they "assert nothing." Rather, they are in the
mood of the "imperative, or exclamatory, as 'See there!' or 'Look out!'"
(1998c, 16). The instant they "show" we are startled: they are immediately
performative.
A performative always strikes as a self-executing command. The indexical
sign effecting the command may assert nothing, but it still conveys a form.
"The form conveyed is always a determination of a dynamical object of the
command. The dynamical object... means something forced upon the mind
in perception, but including more than perception reveals. It is an object of
actual Experience" (Peirce 1998b, 478).
Now what happens when there is no fire and the alarm sounds nonetheless? The sign of alarm has asserted more nothing. It is still just as imperative,
still as automatically executing a command. It still startles us awake to a sense
of a reality of things, outwardly and selfward at once. It still forces attention,
breaking into the feeling before with a transition to a next. Something still
happens. A sign-event has transpired. This is an actual Experience, including
all the more more-than-perception reveals.
It is not just that the putative object of experience, the fire, is nonexistent.
It is that it is absent from perception essentially, not just circumstantially.
There is no fire. The alarm was in error. How can a falsity have a superlatively
real hold on experience?
How could it not? For Peirce, the "dynamical object" is not the fire. The
dynamical object is the innervated flesh to which the sign performatively
correlates "fire," existent or nonexistent. It is the nervous body astartle that is
"the object of the.command" to alertness. That performance takes place
wholly between the sign and the "instinctively" activated body whose feeling
is "broken" by the sign's command to transition to a new feeling. At that
instant, nothing but this transitional break exists. Its feeling, the sudden
bustle, fills the still dreamily reawakening world of experience.
,
The form "conveyed," the dynamical object exclaimed by the sign of

What happens when the fire is not falsely nonexistent, but nonexistent in
a future tense? What happens if the smoke is that of fires yet to come? What
happens if the sign-event is triggered by a future cause?
That is the semiotic question of threat.
Semiosis is sign-induced becoming. It is the question of how a sign as
such dynamically determines a body to become, in actual experience. It is the
question of how an abstract force can be materially determining. The question is the same for a nonexistent present fire signed in error, and for the
futurity of a fire yet to come. There is one difference, however. For the
future-causal fire, there can be no error. It will always have been preemptively right.
That one difference makes all the difference. The question becomes, what
are the experiential political implications of the a priori Tightness of smokes
of future fires? What are the existential effects of the body having to assume,
at the level of its activated flesh, one with its becoming, the Tightness of alert
never having to be in error? Of the body in a perpetual innervated reawakening to a world where signs of danger forever loom? Of a world where once
a threat, always a threat? A world of infinitely seriating menace-potential
made actual experience, with a surplus of becoming, all in the instant?
Imagine a waker hearing a sudden and loud alarm and therewith falling
forward back into a world where the present is a foreshadow cast retrospectively by the future, where the present's becoming is the backcast dream of a
future's will have been.

A Bustle of It All
Peirce insists that the sign's forcing itself upon the body, and the "resistance"
the body instinctively feels "in reaction," cannot be "distinguished as agent
and patient" (1998a, 171). The bodily activation event occurs at a threshold of
reawakening where there is as yet no distinction between activity and passivity. This means that the body cannot distinguish its own "instincts" from
the reawakening force conveyed by the sign's formative performance.
The zone of indistinction between the body reactivating and the action of

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the sign extends to the shared environment that encompasses and ensures
their correlation. Is not the waking distinction between the body and its
environment one of activity in a surrounding passivity, or of activity coming

3
4

from the surrounding to passively impress itself on the body? Prior to the
distinction between agent and patient, in the bustle of the reawakening,
there is no boundary yet between the body and its environment, or between
the two of them and the correlated sign. Or between the dream and the
event. These distinctions will reemerge from the bustle, after a transition, in
the settling into a next determinate feeling. The form conveyed is a felt
dynamic form of unbounded activation germinal of determinate feeling-

pure affect, in a redawning universe. This is what the sign "shows."

Understanding the political ontology of threat requires returning thought
to this affective twilight zone of indexical experience. In that bustling zone of
indistinction, the world becomingly includes so much more than perception
reveals. For that reason, thought's approach cannot be phenomenological. It
must be unabashedly metaphysical. It must extend to that which conditions
what is appearing next, itself never appearing: what Whitehead terms the
reality of appearance (1933).
The reality of appearance is the ontogenetic effectiveness of the nonexistent. It is the surplus of reality of what has not happened, paradoxically as an
event, and in the event happens to be productive of a startling transition
toward more determinate being.
Look out!
"The occasion has gathered the creativity of the Universe into its own
completeness, abstracted from the real objective content which is the source
of its own derivation" (Whitehead 1933. m) This "results from the fusion of
the ideal with the actual" (211) in a mutual immanence of contemporary
occasions "allied to the immanence of the future in the present" (217).
See there!
"The light that was never was, on sea or land" (Whitehead 1933, 211).
Last question: Does it shine beyond preemption?
Notes
1
2

George W. Bush, Dallas Morning News, May io, 2000, cited in Miller 2002, 251.
By "actual fact" I mean the situation as denned (by rule, convention, or consensus)
by a normative system for the establishment of publicly recognized fact under whose
jurisdiction the question normally falls, when that system's operation is not preempted (for example, a judicial system, an administrative review process, a peerreview process, and so forth).

6
7
8

On Bush and gut feeling as decision-making principle, see Woodward 2002,16,13637,145,168.

The classical doctrine of war allows preemptive action in cases where there is a "clear
and present danger" of attack. Preemption is only allowed defensively, in the face of
actual danger. The contemporary neoconservative doctrine of preemption justifies
offensive action against threats that are not fully emergent, or, more radically, that
have not even begun to emerge. President Bush spelled this out in the address to the
nation in which he formally enunciated the new doctrine for the first time in the
lead-up to the war in Iraq: "If we wait for threats to fully materialize, we will have
waited too long. We must take the battle to the enemy, disrupt his plans and confront
the worst threats before they emerge" (Bush 2007).
The images from Abu Ghraib first came to light in April 2004. For a compendium of
the Bush administration's documents justifying the use of torture, see Greenberg
and Dratel 2005.
See, for example, Knowlton 2007.
See, for example, "ADM" 2005 (in particular the photo and caption).
The affective tainting of objects or bodies implicated in a threat-event can go so far
as to functionally substitute the affective fact of the matter for what is accepted as
actual fact (as defined above in note 2). The actual fact is neither directly contested
nor forgotten, yet is disabled. It slips behind the affective fact, which comes to the
fore to take over as the operative reality. To cite an example of this affective-factual
eclipse, in August 2007 President Bush retracted earlier statements expressing an
intent to close the extraterritorial prison camp at Guantdnamo Bay. Guantanamo
Bay had become a political liability after the torture scandal at Abu Ghraib, revelations of shady "black site" prisons into which "enemy combatants" disappeared
without a trace, and criticism of CIA kidnapping of suspects on foreign soil for
delivery to third nations known systematically to use torture (known euphemistically as "rendition"). What placed Guantanamo Bay in the same category as these
other extraterritorial practices is that they all aim to preempt regulated governmental treatment of suspects according to standard juridical procedures. The strategy is
to surge in, in order to rush the production of the results of normal juridical
procedures before they have had a chance to operate. Imprisonment and punishment come suddenly, before any actual crime is proven. The grabbed bodies are
treated, a priori, as guilty. This is done purely on the basis of signs of threat that
happened to actualize in their vicinity. Some of the inhabitants of Guantanamo
who were subsequently released after years of imprisonment were swooped up in
Afghanistan during the U.S. invasion and turned out simply to have been in the
wrong place at the wrong time. The treatment of the detainees as a priori guilty
attaches this quality to them for life, regardless of their actual actions and the actual
danger they posed. They are stained, as if they had been guilty all along. The felt
quality of guilt has its own affective ambience, which can transmute into a number
of specific emotions: hatred, resentment, disgust, distrust. The detainee becomes an
affective pariah. According to the Bush administration, certain prisoners scheduled
for release will not be taken in by any country, even their own countries of origin.
These are detainees whom the U.S. military has not been able to bring to trial,

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meaning that their cases are not strong enough to transfer into the domestic criminal systemor even bring before the newly established military commissions where
the bar of the burden of proof is set extravagantly low and the possibilities of defense
for those accused are sorely limited. Bush explained, without displaying a hint of
irony or in any way acknowledging the paradox, that it is because of cases such as
these that Guantanamo Bay must be kept open. The prison doors must remain
locked in order to detain those who are technically innocent. "This is not as easy a
subject as some may think on the surface," the explanation went. "A lot of people
don't want killers in their midst, and a lot of these people are killers." "These people"
should be released because they are innocent, but they can't be released because they
are "killers." Bush's reasoning is not as illogical as it might be supposed as judged by
the standards of normative logic. The apparent inconsistency corresponds to a
change in factual level occurring between the recognition of innocence and the
assertion of guilt. A shift has occurred mid-logic from actual to affective fact. The
affective fact is that these innocents are as good as killers. Nothing will change the
fact that those preemptively treated as guilty are now, as a result of affective tainting,
permanently guilty in effect. They are effectively guilty (presumably, they would have
if they could have). Indefinite internment is now the hard, life-wasting affective fact
of their situation. Affective facts stand only on their own preemptive occurrence. Yet
they may come effectively to stand in for actual facts. See "President Bush Holds a
News Conference" 2007.
After this incident, there was no questioning in the press about who had been
preemptively attacked based on the now incredible information, or what their present circumstances might be. Had they been killed? Had they been "renditioned" to a
third country? Disappeared into a "black site" prison? Sent to Guantdnamo for
indefinite detention? Would their cases ever be heard? The question, it seemed,
occurred to no one. The event was not taking place at that actual-factual level,
but rather on the affective level where threat plays itself out through fear. See note 8
above.
10 The invocation of 9-11 makes good populist political sense given that, according to a

Zogby International Poll, a full six years after the event 81 percent of Americans
listed it as the most important historical event of their lives. The percentage rises to
90 percent on the East Coast. See "Attacks Were Most Important Historical Events in
Our Lives" 2007, A17.
"Plus de panique!" 2005 (report on comments by then Homeland Security "Czar"
Tom Ridge). The French headline captures the ambivalence of preemption: taken in
isolation it can be read either as "more panic" or "no more panic" (the latter
interpretation being the one suggested in the body of the article).
12 Michel Foucault characterized American neoliberalism, the economic politics that
created the conditions for the neoconservative move toward preemption and away
from normative governmental logic, as a governmentality becoming "environmentality? Environmentally, he writes, represents a "massive pull-back as regards the
normative-disciplinary system... [which had] as its correlate a technology of human
behavior, an individualizing 'governmentality' comprising: disciplinary gridding
(quadrillage), ongoing regulation, subordination-classification, the norm." Neo-

The Future Birth of the Affective Fact

liberalism and neoconservatism remain closely imbricated operative logics, with
many positive feedbacks coupling them. They overlap in their mutual embrace of
"environmentality." They ply the same far-from-equilibrium global threat environment, in different but strongly reciprocally presupposing ways. Foucault 2008,260.
13 Gilles Deleuze and Flix Guattari (1987) analyze the relations between modes of
power in terms of "a threshold or degree" beyond which what is already active as a
tendency "takes on consistency."
14 What is being called operative logics here corresponds to what Deleuze's and Guattari (1987) call "machinic processes" or "abstract machines." "We define social formations by machinic processes and not by modes of production (these on the contrary depend on the processes)
Precisely because these processes are variables of
coexistence that are the object of a social topology, the various corresponding formations are coexistent" (435). "There is not only an external coexistence of formations but also an intrinsic coexistence of machinic processes. Each process can also
function at a 'power' other than its own; it can be taken up by a power corresponding to another process" (437). "Everything coexists, in perpetual interaction" (430).
Machinic processes operate according to "reverse causalities that are without finality
but testify nonetheless to an action of the future on the present," which implies "an
inversion of time
These reverse causalities shatter evolution.... It is necessary to
demonstrate that what does not yet exist is already in action, in a different form than
that of its existence" (431). The machinic processes of most concern to Deleuze and
Guattari in this chapter form "apparatuses of capture." "As a general rule, there is a
primitive accumulation whenever an apparatus of capture is mounted, with that
very particular kind of violence that creates or contributes to the creation of that
which it is directed against, and thus presupposes itself" (447). Violence creative of
that which it is directed against employs "anticipation-prevention mechanisms"
(439)in other words, it acts productively by acting preemptively. "Anticipationprevention mechanisms have a high power of transference" or of contagion between processes and their corresponding formations (437). In Deleuze's and Guattari's terms, the preemptive power analyzed here is an emergent species of highly
virulent apparatus of capture effecting a "primitive accumulation" of threat-value
and spreading its operative logic through affective contagion.
One of the modes in which there is effective interaction between operative logics
"in a different form than that of their existence" is termed negative prehension by
Alfred North Whitehead (1979). "A negative prehension is the definite exclusion of
[an] item from positive contribution to the subject's [the process's] real internal
constitution. . . . The negative prehension expresses a bond. . . . Each negative
prehension has its own subjective form, however trivial and faint... it adds to the
emotional complex [the affective atmosphere], if not to the objective data. . . .
[Negative prehensions] are required to express how any one item is felt . . . the
negative prehension of an entity [a process] is a positive fact with its emotional
subjective form [it is an affective fact]; there is a mutual sensitivity of the subjective
forms of prehensions [there is an ecology of reciprocal presupposition effectively
extending to what is negatively prehended]" (41-42).
In Deleuze's and Guattari's vocabulary, the "bond" constituted by a negative

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Brian Massumi
prehension is an example of the "non-localizable liaisons" characteristic of capture
(1987, 446). Threat, at the limit where it is "trivially and faintly" felt only as an
atmospheric quality independent of any actual instance of itself, constitutes such a
non-localized bond, even when it is not specifically expressed in a sign of alarm. It
still contributes in a real but abstract way to the "how" of the mutual sensitivity of
subjective forms, even when it is not positively felt. It still adds to the shared
"emotional complex" that is the affective environment conditioning how forms
feelingly pursue their individuation. This is particularly the case once the "primitive
accumulation" of threat-value has reached a certain level and extension throughout
the environment due to the "high transference power" of its processual mechanisms.
Threat operating in this way, at the limit where it is not actually signed but still
negatively prehended, felt vaguely and purely qualitatively, constitutes what in earlier work I described as "low-level" background fear capable of insinuating itself into
the constitution of subjectivities. It is affective fact at its most abstract. See Massumi
i993> 3-38.

3 WRITING SHAME
Elspeth Probyn

Ifirstbegan to have sympathy for Charles Darwin when I read

about the terrible toll his research and writing seem to have
taken on his body. Apparently he went through long bouts of
illness during which he continually threw up, had diarrhea,
and wasforcedto take to his bed. He believed in what we now
call alternative therapies, especially hydrotherapy, which sometimes worked for him.
I thought about Darwin when, between waking and thinking, I felt the presence of something dreadfully pressing. Ah
yes, the book. And then I retched. This kept happening as I
pondered my case. There was no great stress in my life. I was
on research leave far away from the pressures of my job, and
all I had to do was to write, rewrite, and rewrite a book. I tried
to ignore this little routine my body had set up. That didn't
work; my body insisted I pay attention. I reviewed what was
happening. I would go to bed and sleep soundly in a seemingly
dreamless state. On waking I would notice that my hands and
feet hurt. It became clear that during the night my body contorted itself: my fists tightened, my feet tensed, and I ground
my teeth.

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Elspeth Probyn

I lectured my body sternly, but it wouldn't listen to reason. To my mind, it

was just the pressure of a deadline that was making me ill. All I had to do was
get the manuscript done before it finished me. A friend, worried about my
deteriorating state of health, was unconvinced by my-expedient logic. She
has been researching violence, shame, and honor among young men.1 She
quickly pointed out what I should have known: shame is a painful thing to
write about. It gets into your body. It gets to you.
Of course shame is a painful thing to write about: an exposure of the
intimacies of selves in public. But it wasn't quite the shame of exposure I was
feeling. Something else was agitating me. It's possible that reading too much
about affect leads to hypochondria. It certainly makes you more aware of the
operation of different affects in the body. I decided from the outward signs
that it wasn't exactly shame my body was exhibiting. What my doctor had
termed fight or flight was closer to what Silvan Tomkins would call fearterror (Sedgwick and Frank 1995b, 35). Yes, that was what I felt: the clenching
of fists and jaw, the twisting and tensing of feet. It dawned on me that I was
experiencing the terror of not being equal to the interest of my subject. The
idea that I would not interest readers triggered what seemed to be a mixture
of fear and shame.
There is a shame in being highly interested in something and unable to
convey it to others, to evoke the same degree of interest in them and to
convince them that it is warranted. The risk of writing is always that you will
fail to interest or engage readers. Disappointment in yourself looms large
when you can't quite get the words right or get the argument across. Simply
put, it's the challenge of making the writing equal to the subject being
written about. The gulf between the two may bring on the feeling of being a
sham or, as I'll argue here, a deeper shame. Lynn Barber, a journalist who has
interviewed some of the great writers of our time, describes the former.
Reflecting on her interview with the prolific essayist Christopher Hitchens,
Barber finds an undertow: "Perhaps his sense of imposture is the one all
writers havethat they care more about writing than they do about their
subject" (2002,10).
By calling it imposture, Barber paints the problem in terms that threaten
to slip from the fairly minor to the major. Imposture implies making it up,
hiding behind a mask of competence. Etymologically shame comes from the
Goth word Scham, which refers to covering the face. The crucial element
that turns sham into shame is the level of interest and desire involved. There
is no shame in being a sham if you don't care what others think or if you

Writing Shame
don't care what you think. But if you do, shame threatens. To care intensely
about what you are writing places the body within the ambit of the shameful:
sheer disappointment in the self amplifies to a painful level.
My argument here is about writing shame, a phrase I use to capture both
the affective, bodily feeling of betraying interest, and also about how we
might envision writing shame as part of an ethical practice. Shame forces us
to reflect continually on the implications of our writing. The insights provided by different kinds of writers will show that writing shame is a visceral
reminder to be true to interest, to be honest about why or how certain things
are of interest. The writers I focus on are from quite different realms. They
are a novelist, a witness and victim of atrocities, and a philosopher. There is,
of course, a difference between the objectives of a fiction writer and those of
an academic one. Crudely put, if you make things up, does it matter that you
care more about your writing than your subject matter? Conversely, if you
are an academic writer, why should you even care about writing rather than
"ideas"? The insights of writers as different as Stephen King, Primo Levi,
and Gilles Deleuze make these distinctions disappear. Exemplary in writing
about shame, they discuss the need for modesty, what we can learn about
writing from the body in shame, and above all they provide lessons about
writing without affectation. None of them escapes the toll writing takes on
the body. In the most extreme case, Levi speaks of having to write the story
of Auschwitz as a "violent impulse to the point of competing with . . .
elementary needs" (cited in Ginzburg 1992,96). If the inclusion of Levi in the
company of a popular American writer and a French philosopher is shocking, it needs to be remembered and celebrated that Levi's great passion was
writing, a love he turned to as something separate from testifying. Levi was
an example to all who aspire to write.

Academic Anxieties
Sometimes it seems that academics do not aspire to be writers. In fact the
aspiration may be ridiculed in a society with a prevailing belief that academics cannot write. Even within the humanities, the notion of the researcher as writer is still, or is once again, considered dubious. Of course,
whole disciplines have had their "literary turns," and "poetics" is appended
to everything from ethnography to history. But the question of writing per se
has tended to be brushed aside in the guise of "writing up research." While
the pretense of academic writing as purely objective might be fading, there's

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Writing Shame

little thought about what will replace the dominant mode of "writing up."
The gulf between research and writing is becoming especially fraught with
the increase in academic studies about emotions and affects.2 As Sedgwick
and Frank point out, current treatises on affect tend to lack feeling. "Affect is
treated as a unitary category, with a unitary history and unitary politics.
There is no theoretical room for any difference between, say, being amused,
being disgusted, being ashamed, and being enraged.... Genres are differentiated not in relation to the kind of affect they may evoke or generate but, far
more simply, by the presence or absence of some rarified substance called
Affect" (1995a, 17).
An abstract way of approaching affect and emotion places the writing
itself in an uninterested relation to affect. This is a contradiction in t e r m s affects are inherently interested. For Sedgwick and Frank, a distanced and
general use of affect represents "a theoretical decision: as if what is presented
could not finally be 'theory' if it made any definitional room at all for
qualitative differences among affects" (1995a, 17). How can you represent a
sense of emotional and affective intensity if the feeling in question is generalized in the amorphous category of Affect?
An epistemological point hovers in the background: a precise emotion
demands precise description. In other words, affects have specific effects; it
makes no sense to talk about them outside this understanding. Precise descriptions of the affectivein my case, shamecan also affect other concepts: ideas such as the body and its relation to writing or rethinking an
ethics of writing. A general gesture to Affect won't do the trick. If we want to
invigorate our concepts, we need to follow through on what different affects
do, at different levels. The point needs to be stressed: different affects make
us feel, write, think, and act in different ways. Shame, for example, works
over the body in certain ways. It does this experientiallythe body feels very
different in shame than in enjoymentbut it also reworks how we understand the body and its relation to other bodies or, for want of a better word,
to the social. This matters at the level of theory. It matters in terms of what
we want writing to do.

Words and Things

Like many, I became an. academic mainly because the relation between words
and things fascinates me. Words and things: many will recall Les mots et les
choses, the French title for Michel Foucault's book The Order of Things (1973).

It traces how "things," produced in relationship to different orders of knowledge, have been arranged over the centuries. It is also charged with an insistence that things don't have to be the way they are. Working as a waitress in
Montreal, I read Foucault's book in a bar between shifts. To say that it opened
new vistas is not overly dramatic. As I read I would look up, listen, and
observe people's interactions. Sometimes you can catch a whole worldview
from a snippet of bar talk. The relation between words and things is not just
cerebral; it is, I think, at the very heart of what makes humans interesting.
It's a strange segue from Foucault, one of the great philosophers of the
twentieth century, to Stephen King, one of the most popular novelists. But
they are both entranced by the relationship between words and things. King
is, of course, most noted for his horror stories. He is prolific, with some
thirty-nine novels to date, many of which have been made into films. Something like three million people have read each of his novels. His wide appeal
may be why King's writing is disdained by many. It's that old bugbear of
commercial success: how could someone that popular be any good? King's
meditation On Writing (2000) responds to this prejudice. In the genre of
memoir but also marked with the precision of an instruction manual, it's a
set of instructions for writing with a gripping narrative.
King's depiction of writing and shame is instructive. In King's memory, it
was a high school teacher who first made him aware that there might be
something shameful about his writing. The teacher asked him why he wrote
such junk: "I had no answer to give. I was ashamed. I have spent a good many
years sincetoo many, I thinkbeing ashamed about what I write" (46).
King finally got over the shame she induced. But he remains very clear
about writing he sees as shameful: writing that lacks honesty. Honesty for
him includes the precise relationship between words and things; he is also
concerned with the structural aspects of writing such as grammar and dialogue. His rant about words makes poststructuralism seem pragmatic: "The
word is only a representation of meaning; even at its best, writing almost
always falls short of full meaning. Given that, why in God's name would you
want to make things worse by choosing a word which is only cousin to the
one you really wanted to use?" (130).
If King is not above shaming his readers into being good writers"it's
writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner" (117)it is
because he is passionate about honest writing. Being honest about writing
also means becoming an honest reader. King is scathing about "people who
read very little (or not at all in some cases) [and then] presume to write and

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Writing Shame

In this model, the body is denned by kinetic and dynamic relations. It

helps to picture the body as composed of thousands of bits all whizzing
around. At the level of kinesis, "it is the relations of motion and rest, of
speeds and slownesses between particles that define a body, the individuality
of a body" (Deleuze 1992, 625). This recalls Brian Massumi's point about the
ways in which feelings are in motion with other feelings. Massumi finds
evidence of this in scientific ideas about proprioceptionthe sensors that
register the body's movements in relation to its own movement: "It moves as
it feels and it finds itself moving" (2002,1, emphasis added).

expect people to like what they have written" (167). While academics read a
lot, I sometimes wonder whether we read only for ideas, with a focus on
what we're trying to write rather than on the writing that we're reading. King
is very good at describing the effects of being read:-waiting as his Ideal
Reader (his wife) reads a draft, he says, "I try to watch her when she gets to a
particular scene, hoping for at least a smile orjackpot, baby!that big,
belly laugh with the hands up, waving in the air" (262).
This framing of his nervous expectation explains what King means by
honesty. Has he interested the reader in what he cares about so passionately?
King is also up-front about the toll such interest takes: "You can approach
the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair." He concludes, "Come to it any way but lightly." He repeats in italics:
" You must not come lightly to the blank page" (118).
King's lessons have stayed with me. His arguments are challenging. For
King, the goal of writing is a telepathic connection between reader and writer,
whereby the reader "catches" the writer's interest. It's what you're trying to
say to the reader, not how good you sound to yourself. It's about recognizing
what you're trying to do to the reader (although, strangely enough, King
doesn't talk about the effects of horror on the reader) and what writing does
to the writer. Simply put, writing affects bodies. Writing takes its toll on the
body that writes and the bodies that read or listen.

Interest in the body's feelings and movements goes back to William James's
theory of emotions (1884), which also emphasizes the different feelings of different emotions.3 James's theory of how we feel goes like this: (a) I perceive a
lion; (b) my body trembles; (c) I am afraid. In other words, the body perceives
itself perceiving the trigger of emotion, which sets off movement (trembling),
and then gets named as a cognitive state (fear). Or there is Deleuze's description of this sequence: (a) the perception of a situation; (b) the modification of
the body; (c) the emotion of consciousness or the mind (1997,123).
The other way Deleuze defines the movement of bodies is through their
dynamic interactions with other bodies: "A body affects other bodies, or is
affected by other bodies; it is this capacity for affecting and being affected
that also defines a body in its individuality" (1992, 625). Thinking, writing,
and reading are integral to our capacities to affect and to be affected. In
Deleuze's terms this "is a complex relation of speed and slowness, in the
body but also in thought, and it is a capacity for affecting and being affected,
pertaining to the body or thought" (1992, 626). In everyday life we experience this abstract thought in practice. William Connolly describes the relationship between thinking, bodies, and sensibilities as "everyday techniques,
both gross and subtle, by which thinking is altered in its direction, speed,
intensity, or sensibility" (2002,100). He asks us to ponder how, say, listening
to Mozart or "going dancing to music that inspires and energizes" will
change "the relays that connect word, gesture, memory, sound, rhythm,
mobility, image, and thinking" (100-102).

Body-Affects
Writing is a corporeal activity. We work ideas through our bodies; we write
through our bodies, hoping to get into the bodies of our readers. We study
and write about society not as an abstraction but as composed of actual
bodies in proximity to other bodies. This point is elaborated by Gilles Deleuze. His ideas about bodies shake up assumptions about their boundedness
what we take to be our own and how one body relates to others. Influenced
by Spinoza, he argues that the body is not a unified entity but is composed of
many moving elements. As Moira Gatens has argued, affect leads us to "question commonsense notions of the privacy or 'integrity' of bodies through
exposing the breaches in the borders between self and other evidenced by the
contagiousness of 'collective' affects" (2004,115). Affect in this model does
not impinge on the body from the outside, nor does it.erupt from the inside.
Deleuze's model makes such distinctions incomprehensible. Gatens sums it
up as the body is "always already wholly implicated in its milieu" (2004,115).

Shame and Glory

Deleuze's ideas about the capacity of bodies to affect and to be affected are
forcefully conveyed in his discussion of T. E. Lawrence's depictions of shame
and glory. Lawrence of Arabia was the heroic Englishman in the desert. He

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Elspeth Probyn

was also the writer of the Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1926) and The Mint (1955),
which recounted in part his misadventures and traumas, which included
being raped. The man and his writing were steeped in shame and honor.
Deleuze is particularly interested in what he calls "the.subjective disposition" of Lawrence's writing. We could more simply say that Lawrence's
writing was heavily autobiographical and psychological, but Deleuze shifts
the meanings of those terms. He starts with an appreciation of Lawrence's
skill as a portraitist, citing these descriptions: " 'Though usually merry, he
had a quick vein of suffering in him'; 'his mind, like a pastoral landscape, had
four corners to its view: cared-for, friendly, limited, displayed'; 'upon his
coarse eyelashes the eyelids sagged down in tired folds, through which, from
the overhead sun, a red light glittered into his eye sockets and made them
look like fiery pits in which the man was slowly burning'" (1997,116).
The deftness with which Lawrence paints characters is remarkable. As
Deleuze puts it, "The finest writers have singular conditions of perception
that allow them to draw on or shape aesthetic percepts like veritable visions"
(116). Deleuze elaborates this claim through the notion of a subjective character or disposition. This is something quite beyond a personal identity. If
we remember that for Deleuze there is no unified person as such, then the
idea of an autobiographical or personal style of writing becomes impossible.
Rather, the subjective for Deleuze is the affective assemblage of bodies of
different orders and elements. "Lawrence's writing, his style, makes use of
t h i s . . . the subjective disposition, that is to say, the force through which the
images are projected is inseparably political, erotic, and artistic" (118).
In an echo of King's admonition about honesty, Deleuze also notes how
true Lawrence's images are. "The images Lawrence projects into the real are
not inflated images that would sin by false extension, but are valid solely
through the pure intensity, whether dramatic or comic, that the writer is able
to give to the event" (119). Lawrence doesn't portray just people in this way;
he applies the same intensity to abstractions and ideaswhat Deleuze calls
"entities." As part and parcel of Lawrence's subjective disposition, and indeed perhaps of his honesty as a writer, he has "a gift for making entities
live passionately in the desert, alongside people and things, in the jerking
rhythm of a camel's gait" (119).
This gift becomes pronounced in Lawrence's depiction of shame. In Deleuze's words: "Never before has shame been sung like this, in so proud and
haughty a manner" (120). It's here that the writer, the writing, an idea, and
bodies all meld. Lawrence's shame is not the result of a simple psychological

Writing Shame
quality that is to be explained by some aspect of his person, such as his
putative homosexuality. Deleuze makes such characterizations of Lawrence's
shame beside the point. Shame is a product of the machine of subjective
disposition, which produces shame as both idea and affect. The subjective, in
Lawrence's case, is deeply connected to the context in which he lives and
writes. Deleuze describes some of the prompts to Lawrence's shame. He was
an Englishman in the desert masquerading as an Arab. "Shame is first of all
the shame of betraying the Arabs, since Lawrence never stops guaranteeing
English promises that he knows perfectly well will not be kept" (120).
In T. E. Lawrence: An Arab View (1966), Suleiman Mousa gives a historical
account of Lawrence's shame. Mousa quickly sketches early conditions that
may have produced Lawrence as prone to shame. Lawrence's father had four
daughters with his first wife before eloping with the governess, Lawrence's
mother. He not only left behind his first family, he also cut any links by
changing his name from Chapman to Lawrence. T. E. Lawrence therefore
grew up with the stigma that his mother, was from another class, his father
masqueraded under another name, and their offspring were illegitimate.
Lawrence obtained a scholarship to Oxford by reason of his Welshness,
another shameful little detail. He was born in Wales, where the family stayed
only briefly, because his father needed somewhere cheap to live after he had
run away with his mistress.
After Lawrence attended the university, his interest in archaeology took
him in 1910 to the Middle East, where he learned Arabic. Mousa's sources say
he didn't speak Arabic terribly well, although he portrays himself as capable
of passing as an Arab. Soon after his arrival he began to dress in Arab
clothing. Mousa writes of that period: "One of the secrets of his later success
was his ability to penetrate the inner self of the Arab individual" (1966, 5).
When the First World War broke out, Lawrence found himself unhappily
employed in the British Intelligence Service. When his request to transfer to
the Arab Bureau was turned down, Lawrence resorted to intriguing tactics.
Mousa reports that he approached his goal by "capitalizing on his superiors'
mistakes, exposing their ignorance and inefficiency and even revealing their
grammatical errors and ridiculing the style of their reports" (28). This grammatical humiliation worked, and Lawrence was to be involved in the Arab
Revolt, which was, of course, his stepping stone to fame.
Mousa's summation of Lawrence's character was that he had two natures. "His "first" nature led him to brave the elements and to take troubles
and difficulties in his stride, without fully satisfying his excessive ambition"

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Elspeth Probyn

(278). This nature led to "his supplementary bragging, falsification and

fabrication
At the same time, his 'second' nature aroused the conscience
of the educated man in him, who would act as auditor and judge" (278). As
Mousa puts it, this combination makes for an uncomfortable feeling: "Deep
within himself, Lawrence knew that the greater part of his fame was based on
fraud." He was driven "in the hope of atoning for earlier mistakes, which
haunted him in secret" (278). In this we hear clearly the passage from sham
to shame.
While Deleuze's account of Lawrence's character concurs with much of
what Mousa wrote some thirty years earlier, his interests led him to consider
what Lawrence's shame means for a philosophy of the body. Lawrence,
writes Deleuze, "has shame because he thinks the mind, though distinct, is
inseparable from the body." This has a particular meaning and implication.
"The body is not even a means or a vehicle for the mind, but rather a
'molecular sludge' that adheres to all the mind's actions" (1997,123). In this
we can't forget how proud Lawrence was of his physical strength, nor can we
forget that he was tortured and belatedly admitted to having been raped by
the bey in 1917. Deleuze sees in Lawrence's account a particular form of
shame: "The mind depends on the body; shame would be nothing without
this dependency, this attraction for the abject, this voyeurism of the body.
Which means that the mind is ashamed of the body in a very special manner;
in fact, it is ashamed for the body. It is as if it were saying to the body: You
make me ashamed, You ought to be ashamed . . . 'A bodily weakness which
made my animal self crawl away and hide until the shame was passed'" (123).

no longer important. In regard to writing, this is of crucial importance: the

affects "are not only the eyes of the mind, but its Powers and its Words." In
Deleuze's reading, Lawrence's depiction of shame is expressed at the limit of
the body and of language, and it makes language work differently. It is a
shame that, as Deleuze says, is "consubstantial with being" and reveals "an
insolent beauty that shows... at what point 'the coming out of shame was
easy,' at least for a moment" (125).
This is an immensely powerful description of the challenge of writing
shame: shame is produced out of the clashing of mind and body, resulting in
new acts of subjectivity consubstantial with the words in which they are
expressed. Deleuze's idea of the subjective disposition allows us to understand something of the relationship between the writer, experience, expression, affect, and its effects. Shame cannot be conceived of as an external
object that could be dispassionately described, nor is it a purely personal
feeling. Shame is subjective in the strong sense of bringing into being an
entity or an idea through the specific explosion of mind, body, place, and
history.
Shame is the product of many forces. It is "a singular composition, an
idiosyncrasy . . . marking the unique chance that these entities had been
retained and willed, that this combination had been thrown and not another" (Deleuze 1997,120). As Deleuze says, one particular combination "is
named Lawrence" (121). Lawrence as a subjective disposition that produced
such a powerful expression of shame is, in Deleuze's words, a "dice throw."
Deleuze remarks that "Lawrence can say with Kafka: 'It was as if the shame of
it must outlive him.' Shame enlarges the man" (121). In making the man
larger, shame does not necessarily make him easier to understand or more
likable. From Mousa's account of Lawrence, the man was complex and
probably hard to be around.
If writing shame doesn't necessarily make you a good person, why have I
insisted that it may have an ethical implication in how we write? Deleuze sees
in Lawrence's writing a shame that reconfigures how we think about it and
about the body. In this sense, shame enlarges the man by opening up possibilities of how we conceive of the relationship between ideas and affects, or
between thinking and feeling. It also provides an argument against considering expressions of shame as merely a personal affliction. While many have
argued that shame is about self-evaluation or, more precisely, the evaluation
of the self by the self, Deleuze's argument breaks with a tendency to conceptualize shame in banal psychological terms as an interior quality. Shame in

This feeling of shame and its relation to the body may not be as unusual as
Deleuze seems to think. In many accounts of rape or torture, the splitting off
from the body is one way in which victims say they were able to endure the
experience. Deleuze goes on to describe what may be happening in this
splitting: "The mind begins by coldly and curiously regarding what the body
does, it is first of all a witness; then it is affected, it becomes an impassioned
witness, that is, it experiences for itself affects that are not simply effects
of the body, but veritable critical entities that hover over the body and judge
it" (124).
It's a lovely description, but what are these ghostly hovering critical entities? Deleuze's argument is that emotions and affects are ideas. But they are
not solely of the mind. They arise out of a violent collision of mind and
body. As such they are not, properly speaking, of either; they are a particular
combination of thought and body in which a distinction between the two is

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Writing Shame

Deleuze's description comes from a complex disposition: it combines the

inherent and the lived experience of social structuresthe biology and biography of a person. However, Deleuze goes further in radically depersonalizing shame. Shame is an affect that crosses many different orders of bodies. In
this way, Lawrence is not a mere cipher for the shame of what the English
were doing to the Arabs, nor is he a personification of a shameful history.
Rather, Deleuze seems to be arguing that a new idea of shame was produced
out of the dice throw that is Lawrence. It is a shame that is intimately
connected with the character of empire at the time: haughty and proud, and
deeply filled with shame.

Shame, Proximity, and Distance

Recall the phrase from Kafka that Deleuze uses to describe Lawrence: "It was
as if the shame of it must outlive him." Deleuze concludes: "Shame enlarges
the man" (1997,121). As we've seen, shame arises from a collision of bodies,
ideas, history, and place. But Lawrence as a writer is more than just a vehicle
for a shameful moment in history: his writing of shame reworks its meaning
and remakes the experience of shame into "an insolent beauty" (125).
I now want to turn to Primo Levi, the writer who ensured that the shame
of the Holocaust would outlive him. Kafka appears in one of Levi's remarks
about writing contained in a recent collection of Levi's interviews. Having
translated The Trial, Levi describes Kafka as possessing "an almost animalesque sensitivity, like snakes that know when earthquakes are coming" (2001,
159). This description captures how the affects of writing can penetrate the
body of the writer and the reader. Levi's perspicacity is not surprising: he is
the writer most associated with making us feel that shame is intrinsic to both
humanity and inhumanity.
Levi the writer, like Lawrence before him, was a dice throw of history. An
Italian Jew from Piedmont, he was arrested in 1943 for being involved in a
partisan faction against the Fascists. He told the police that he was Jewish
because he feared he would otherwise be executed as a partisan. His admission led to his deportation in 1944 to Auschwitz-Monowitz. He managed to
survive the Lager because of what he describes as a combination of chance
circumstances. Having graduated in chemistry before the war, he happened
to end up in the Buna plant, which was part of Auschwitz and owned by the
large chemical company I. G. Farben. "And this was one of my great strokes
of luck," he said later, "because I said I was a chemist, without knowingjfhat

we were labourers in a chemical factory" (Levi 2001,212). Levi also attributes

his survival to having learned some German while reading chemistry. One of
the major themes that emerges in interviews with Levi is the necessity of
being able to communicate. Most of the Italians who were deported with
Levi died soon after their arrival at Auschwitz because they could not understand the German or Polish orders.
Levi comes to us, in his own words, as a chemist who was made into a
writer by Auschwitz. Levi is often read as a witness or as a documentalist,
which, of course, correctly describes his two first books, If This Is a Man
(1958) and The Truce (1963). But he was also an extremely skilled writer who
was proud of his craft and talked of it in precise ways. I want to consider first
how his writing and testifying use shame to give us a map of humanity and
inhumanity. Then I'll discuss his insights about writing, which constitute, I
think, an undervalued resource.
In the spring of 1982, Primo Levi returned to Auschwitz as a tourist (his
own term). His presence among a group of Italian students and professors as
well as other camp survivors must have made it a remarkable tour. As Levi
later recounts, an Italian interviewer points out the incongruity of the signs
of normality in the town of Auschwitz. He says to Levi, "It seems today we'll
eat in a restaurant at Auschwitz." Levi responds in that unique mixture of
common sense and exquisite clarity that marks his writing: "Yes, this is
almost comical that there would be a restaurant at Auschwitz. I don't know
what I'll eat. It seems to me almost profane, something absurd. On the other
hand we must remember that Auschwitz was, is, a city where there are
restaurants, theatres, even a nightclub probably. They have some in Poland
too. There are children, schools, back then as now, alongside Auschwitza
concept by now; Auschwitz is the Lagerthis other Auschwitz of the living
exists" (Sorgente di vita 2001).4

The mind expands before the enormity of the scene. Levi, the man who
wrote so carefully of his experiences in the camp, is back in its grip. But
there, surrounded by a past that his writing makes part of our present, he
calmly remarks that Auschwitz is a place where people live, and they must
have restaurants, nightclubs, schools. The mundane fact of Auschwitz as a
place where people live, eat, shop, and dance is still hard to countenance.
Levi's Auschwitz, the place of horror, has grown into "our" Auschwitz, the
source of shame that haunts our consciousness.
Levi's writing challenges any departmentalization or ownership of shame.
It is not a personal capacity that is possessed by only some individuals. We

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must clearly acknowledge that the trauma of the camps and of the Holocaust
belongs more closely to some: to the survivors and their relations, to Jewish
people in general, to Gypsies, homosexuals, Communists, and intellectuals.
How close we can get to Auschwitz is dependent on writers like .Levi, but we
do not all have equal rights to that proximity. Levi's writing makes one
viscerally aware of distinctions in proximityand getting too close can be a
source of shame. Satoshi Ukai (2001) argues that there is a distinction between the shame of being human and shame as human. The former refers to
an abstract idea about the shameful nature of humanity; the latter positions
shame as inherent to us as human beings. Levi doesn't seem to subscribe to
such hard and fast distinctions. He speaks about the gray zone, or the
plurality and shades of shame. Deleuze describes this as "the shame of there
being men who became Nazis; the shame of being unable, not seeing how to
stop it; the shame of having compromised with it" (cited in Ukai 2001, 23).
Levi's writing continually avoids grandiose ideas. His desire for precision
is played out in his descriptions of the everyday activities and aspirations of
humankind. The honesty of his writing shames any attempt to make abstract
remarks about shame. His modest voice warns against turning shame, the
experience of the Holocaust, or any aspect of human behavior into an
abstract point of theory. Levi is a figure that cannot be appropriated; at the
same time he doesn't license us to stand in awe before him. The pragmatic
and practical tone of his comments on writing clearly demonstrates his
purpose: to put descriptions of shamebut equally of joy and hopeto
work in furthering an appreciation of what humans can do, for bad or
for good.
The first memoir of Levi's experiences in Auschwitz, If This Is a Man, was
written soon after he returned to Turin after the war and was originally
published in 1958; the second, The Truce, was published in 1963. At the end of
The Truce Levi recalls a dream that he continued to have following his
release. It is a nightmare of the darkest hues, which rips the reader's breath.
It is a dream within a dream, varied in detail, one in substance. I am
sitting at a table with my family, or with friends, or at work, or in the
green countryside; in short, in a peaceful relaxed environment, apparently without tension or affliction; yet I feel a deep and subtle anguish, the
definite sensation of an impending threat. And in fact, as the dream
proceeds, slowly or brutally, each time in a different way, everything
collapses and disintegrates around me, the scenery, the walls, the people,
while the anguish becomes more intense and more precise. Now every-

Writing Shame
thing has changed to chaos; I am alone in the centre of a grey and turbid
nothing, and now I know what this thing means, and I also know that I
have always known it; I am in the Lager once more, and nothing is true
outside the Lager. All the rest was a brief pause, a deception of the senses,
a dream; my family, nature in flower, my home. Now this inner dream,
this dream of peace, is over, and in the outer dream, which continues,
gelid, a well-known voice resounds: a single word, not imperious, but
brief and subdued. It is the dawn command of Auschwitz, a foreign word,
feared and expected: get up, "Wstawach" (1979,380)
The geography of affect that Levi creates in his description moves from
out to in, and the freedom of the outside is always enfolded in the terror of
the camp. Contrary to Levi's description of the ways in which Auschwitz
coexists with realityit is a place where people ate and drank and worked
and continue to do sohere in his dream reality is always pushed away and
torn apart by the outer dream, the reality of the Lager. The dream of the
"present" fails before the dream of the past.
Years later, after Levi's reported suicide in April 1987, debate raged about
why, or indeed whether, Levi had killed himself. The question was fueled by
the circumstances of his death. He fell from his apartment staircase and to all
knowledge did not leave a note. The desire to find Levi's death accidental is
understandable. But it may also stem from a need to assuage our collective
shame and guilt. Jorge Semprun, a survivor of Buchenwald, attests to the
high cost of writing about the experience of the camps, arguing that the
writing is not cathartic for the writer but instead reconnects him or her with
the horror of the camps (1984).
It's a strange and uncomfortable debate that seems to turn on whether it
was the original experiences or the representation of them that resulted, or
not, in Levi's suicide. But if writers commit suicide because of their writing,
surely we, the bystanders of history, are more fully implicated in their anguish and death. This understanding would charge our reading of their
work. The shame in reading about the atrocities committed by humans on
humans would be amplified by and combined with guilt and even disgust;
readers might have to turn away. Would we turn away from Levi if this were
the case? I hope not.
Marco Belpoliti, the editor who collected Levi's interviews, argues that in
Levi's writing "there is a distance between the narrator and the listener; the
narrator, of course, counsels his interlocutor, but there is always a certain
distance between them" (2001, xix). This observation connects with the

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Elspeth Probyn

more theoretical points made by Dominick LaCapra about the necessity of

not getting too close to, or overidentifying with, the writings of survivors.
Was Levi helping us, his readers, in this exigency? For LaCapra, being too
close leads to "acting out," an "unchecked identification," a confusion of self
and other, whereby the experience of the other becomes incorporated in the
self. Against this he advocates "the goal of a critically controlled dialogic
exchange with the past" (2000,67).
The dialogic exchange is guided by the questions: "What is the other
saying or doing? How do I ^ o r werespond to it?" (LaCapra 2000, 67).
These reminders are important even if the metaphor of dialogue can be
mindlessly abstractI may "dialogue" with the past, but how can it "dialogue" with me? Strictly speaking, of course, it can't. Yet shame and other
affects can seem to get into our bodies, altering our understanding of our
selves and our relation to the past. In Deleuze's description of Lawrence's
writing of shame, the body and mind react so as to reorder the subjective. Or
in LaCapra's terms, "empathy should be understood in terms of an affective
relation, rapport, or bond with the other recognized as other" (212). The
unifying point seems to be that strong affect radically disturbs different
relations of proximity: to our selves, bodies, pasts.

Listening to Levi Write

Levi himself made a distinction between what he called his autobiographical
writings about the camp and his later "real" writing. Of the first, he talked
about the absolute necessity to bear witness: "I came back from the camp
with a narrative impulse that was pathological" (2001,129). The rawness and
indeed the embodiment of trauma, "the unhealing wound, in life and in
memory, is what produces the need for the word, for clear communication"
(Levi cited in Belpoliti 2001, xx).
Levi repeats again and again the need for communication and the high
price of not being understood. "A book," he says, "has to be a telephone that
works" (cited in Belpoliti 2001, xix). This is, as we've seen, a pragmatic
consideration painfully learned from his experience in the camp, where not
being understood meant a quick death. It also became part of Levi's philosophy of writing as a craft. Writing is a tool or a technology that, like the
telephone, has to work. When asked whether he suffered because of "what
[he was] writing about or for the writing itself," Levi replies, "No, not for
what I'm writing about. I sometimes feel the inadequacy of the medium.

Ineffability, it's called, and it's a beautiful word. Our language is human,
born to describe things at a human level" (2001,173).
Levi continually emphasizes the difference between the type of writing he
did as a witness and his writing when, as he put it, he became a writer. But as
in his other "paranoiac split" (being a chemist and being a writer), the two
sides fed each other. In response to whether he would have become a writer if
not for Auschwitz, Levi replies, "Without knowing 'what to say,' without 'the
content,' there is no story" (cited in Belpoliti 2001, xxi). Having become a
writer rather than remaining a witness, he also speaks of the shame of
writing. He calls himself a "counterfeiter" in reference to stories that were
not based in his experiences of the camp. But he also defends this choice:
"Was I supposed to be a survivor for my entire life? Let's be clear, I am a
survivor, but I don't want to write only about Auschwitz" (Levi 2001,94).
However, the worries remained: of "feeling false," of writing "not to
record facts but for pleasure or edification" (133). In another interview he is
explicit about "abstaining from embellishment, from extras added in just to
make the writing look good." More emphatically, he states, "I don't write for
myself, or if I do, I tear it up, destroy what I've written. I think it's wrong to
write for oneself" (172). After more questions he returns to say, "There is
only one risk, of writing badly," which he qualifies as writing that is useless.
Evoking his technical job, he describes how writing is close to manual labor:
"You make a plan, at least mentally, an outline, a design, and then you try to
make a product as close as possible to the plan" (172).
Whether in writing or in providing testimony, Levi's passion for his
metier as a chemist continually informed his experience of being a writer. He
was a great believer in biology as a science and also as a force in life. Of his
stories and the hope they carried, he says, "I am built that way: I like to
tell people stories." Of his optimism: "This attitude of mine comes from
my roots and isn't thought out or deliberated: it's a constitutional optimism." Such an attitude is also "a duty": it is a "disservice to the reader or
humanity... to inject doses of pessimism" (130).
Driven by biology, reworked through biography, and fueled by his love of
chemistry, Levi's writing is marked with precision; as he puts it, writing is "a
high precision work" (168). Precision manifests itself in the "almost juridical
form" of his testimony in the first books, and it is always there in his
arguments and his descriptions about the singularity of existence, displayed
perhaps most obviously in his novel The Periodic Table (1975). Levi's description of his own survival and that of others is anchored in his sense of the

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singular and extraordinary throw of the dice: "All of us survivors are, by

definition, exceptions, because in the Lager you were destined to die. If you
did not die it was through some miraculous stroke of luck; you were an
exception, a singularity not generic, totally specific" (2001-, 122).
In Levi's account of surviving the Holocaust, we see that one of the
striking aspects is the seeming lack of affect with which he takes us through
the experiences of the camp. The scarce mention of affect or emotion suggests that being captured within the closed space of camp did not allow for
that degree of reflexivity. Levi shows the suppression of emotion in a realm
where people are stripped of their humanity. For instance, no mention of
shame is made in his account of being inside. This becomes all the more
shocking when at the beginning of The Truce and at the moment of their
liberation, Levi writes of the shame that filled the survivors when the Russians soldiers entered the camp. "They did not greet us, nor did they smile;
they seemed oppressed not only by compassion but by a confused restraint,
which sealed their lips and bound their eyes to the funereal scene" (1979,188).
Levi goes on to describe the awareness in hindsight of the shame the
inmates had felt at each turn of the camp's outrages. From the shame these
inmates of the Lager felt at their own bodies exposed in the gaze of the other,
Levi describes the different aspects of shame: what "the just man experiences
at another man's crime; the feeling of guilt that such a crime should exist,
that it should have been introduced irrevocably into the world of things that
exist, and that his will for good should have proved too weak or null, and
should not have availed in defense" (188).
Listen again to how Levi describes those eyes that will induce shame in
individuals who thought they had nothing left to be ashamed of, men and
women who thought they were no longer human. The soldiers bow their
heads in shame, sowing the seeds of shame in the inmates. Levi shows how
shame is contagious. As he recounts the near farce of his long and constantly
backtracked route home to Turin, he comes upon many who are described
in shame. The Ukrainian women who, through a mixture of Nazi propaganda and hardship, had nonetheless "assented" of their own "free will" to
leave their homeland and work for the Germans: "In Germany they had
found bread, barbed wire, hard work, German order, servitude and shame;
now under the weight of their shame they were being repatriated, without
joy, without hope" (293). For Levi, shame in its shades of gray is plural. The
experiences of shame are also what remind him of his humanity.
Levi speaks frequently about how the camps turned him into a writer. He

Writing Shame
also is clear about how they turned him into a Jew. As he puts it, "Before
Hitler I was a middle-class Italian boy" (2001, 262). His experiences of the
Holocaust made that identity impossible to maintain. After the war he integrated parts of his identity as Piedmontese with parts of Jewish tradition.
One of the aspects of Jewish culture he came to value most was "the Talmudic tradition of impassioned but precise argument" (1979, 262). Of the
many aspects of Levi that inspire, his way of combining passion and precision stands as a model of what we might hope for in writing. The passion
that animates Levi's writing is like a slow burn. The lack of affect in his
examples is also, at times, very precisea lacuna of feeling that structures the
text. He makes us feel the emptiness of that affectless state, how inhuman it
is. When he turns to describing the slow return of humanity following the
liberation, we see the different emotions that emerge as from a deep freeze.
Levi's passion combined with precision powerfully challenges the current
practice of writing about affects and emotion in a generalized and abstract
way. This tendency uncouples writing from the real effects that affects such
as shame produce in the world and for the world. Writing is interested; it
is deeply embedded in contexts, politics, and bodies. Of course, the ways
in which shame is written need to be carefully handled by the writer and
the reader.
So what might a shame-induced ethics of writing entail? The specter of
not interesting readers and the constant worry about adequately conveying
the interest of our chosen topics should send a shiver down the spines of all
writers. The blush of having failed to connect with readers should compel
any writer to return to the page with renewed desire to do betterto get
betterat this task of communicating that some of us take on. As Levi puts
it, writing is like a telephone that works.
In Deleuze's description of writing shame, the stakes are high. The writer
is more than a cipher conveying shameful moments. The body of the writer
becomes the battleground where ideas and experiences collide, sometimes to
produce new visions of life. This somewhat heroic description is tempered
by King's prosaic argument about writing honestly. Finding the words to
pitch ideas to your reader seems a long way from philosophy. But his insistence that writing is a serious activity that makes ideas and stories matter is
not so different from Deleuze's insistence that ideas have to be generative.
Ideas and writing about shame seek to generate new ways of thinking about
how we are related to history and how we wish to live in the present. This is
the legacy that Levi has bequeathed to us: the gift of shame. It is an uneasy

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task, this writing shame. How could it be otherwise when it involves a body
grappling with interests, hoping to engage others?
PART TWO
Notes
My thanks go -to Jeannie Martin for her encouragement and ideas. Martin has
presented fascinating research on how young men, mainly of Lebanese background,
negotiate notions of honor and shame in Australia. See Martin 2000.1 also want to
thank Jane Simon and Clifton Evers for their help in this project.
Kathleen Woodward addresses the problems academics face when dealing with the
affective: "the stringent rules of emotionless rationality, especially in regards to
research and writing" (1996,760).
For an extended discussion of James's theory of emotion, see Redding 1999, and
Barbalet 1998.
c
This quotation comes from a television interview conducted by Daniel Toaff and
Emanuele Ascarelli, which was carried out on the journey to Auschwitz in 1982 and
later broadcast on Italian TV (25 January 2001). A different translation of the same
interview is published in Levi's The Voice of Memory, under the title "Return to
Auschwitz." The only real difference between the two is that in the book Levi is
translated as saying, "I don't know if I will eat" (2001, 213), which is rather different
from "I don't know what I'll eat."

AESTHETICS AND THE EVERYDAY