The
Eye
of
Longing




I
agree
that
man
is
an
animal
predominately
constructive,
foredoomed

to
conscious
striving
toward
a
goal,
and
applying
himself
to
the
art
of

engineering,
that
is
to
the
everlasting
and
unceasing
construction
of
a

road—no
matter
where
it
leads,
and
that
the
main
point
is
not
where
it

goes,
but
that
it
should
go
somewhere.
.
.
.
Man
loves
construction
and

the
laying
out
of
roads,
that
is
indisputable.
But
how
is
it
that
he
is
so

passionately
disposed
to
destruction
and
chaos?
Tell
me
that!
But
on

this
subject
I
should
want
to
put
in
two
words
of
my
own.
Doesn't
his

passionate
love
for
destruction
and
chaos
(and
nobody
can
deny
that

he
is
sometimes
devoted
to
them,
that
is
a
fact),
arise
from
his

instinctive
fear
of
attaining
his
goal
and
completing
the
building
he
is

erecting?

Fyodor
Dostoievski,
Notes
from
Underground



Our
eyes
move,
wander,
survey;
they
draw
us
into
their
domain,
often
in

spite
of
our
intentions.
They
bring
the
far‐off,
the
remote,
the

inaccessible,
and
the
unknown
into
our
visual
grasp.
They
mock
our
arms

and
legs,
for
eyes
scale
heights
and
plumb
depths
that
we
will
never

feel,
taste,
or
smell.
Eyes
wander
incessantly
.
.
.
and
without
this

restlessness,
the
visible
world
would
literally
fade
away.
The
eye
is
a

vehicle
carrying
us
beyond
our
noses.
Would
me
have
been
explorers
if

we
had
no
eyes?

Robert
Kugelmann,
The
Windows
of
the
Soul




I

That
our
species
learns
of
the
world
predominantly
through
our
eyes
is
a

commonplace.
Etymology
and
semantic
parallels
from
several
languages
confirm
the

eye's
essential
role
in
our
education:
English
"pupil"
(derived
from
Latin
pupilla—
meaning
both
"little
girl"
and
"pupil
of
the
eye"),
Greek
kore
(both
"girl"
and
"pupil

of
the
eye"),
Hebrew
ishyon
("little
man"
and
"pupil
of
the
eye"),
Japanese
ma‐na‐ko

(literally
"child
of
the
eye")—all
reveal
that
in
the
evolution
of
consciousness,
the

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 2

pedagogy
of
the
world
has
been
received
through
the
eyes
(Burnshaw
118).
Mankind

is
childlike
in
its
obedience
to
their
instruction.

But
we
do
more
than
just
learn
through
our
eyes;
we
long
with
them;
we

wander
endlessly,
explore
endlessly,
because
they
wander
and
explore
unceasingly.

Human
longing,
I
want
to
suggest,
is
eye‐born.

In
one
version
of
the
birth
of
Eros
in
Greek
mythology,
that
primal

personification
of
our
longing
is
born
of
the
strange
union
of
Iris
(both
the
rainbow

and
the
Greek
name—as
it
is
too
for
us—of
that
part
of
the
eye
which
regulates
the

dilation
and
contraction
of
the
pupil)
and
Zephyrus
(the
wind,
but—as
with
all
Greek

words
for
"air"—connoting
as
well
the
"spirit";
Larousse
Encyclopedia
137).
Eros,

then,
can
be
thought
of
as
the
progeny
of
the
encounter
between
eye
and
spirit.

This
brief
excursion
into
etymology,
myth,
and
poetry
would
seem
to
prove

the
truth
of
what
psychologist
Robert
Kugelmann
discovered
in
his
study
of
the

"imaginal"
landscape
of
the
human
eye:
that
"once
freed
from
literalism"
we
find

"soul
at
the
very
core
of
the
eye
and
the
visual
world,"
for
"the
eye
is
a
microcosm,
a

little
world
'compressing
into
a
ball'
our
embodied
experience."
"The
ensouled
eye,"

writes
Kugelmann,



is
not
a
passive
instrument
but
an
organ
through
which
we
reach
out
to

things,
through
which
man
walked
on
the
moon
long
before
rocketships
were

available.
The
things
we
see
every
day
incorporate
psychological
life;
our
very

being
flows
like
a
river
of
light
through
the
lantern‐like
cornea,
moistens
the

world,
fertilizes
things,
making
possible
the
transformation
of
nature
into

culture.
(32)




II

He
is
no
fugitive—escaped,
escaping,

No
one
has
seen
him
stumble
looking
back,

His
fear
is
not
behind
him
but
beside
him

On
either
hand
to
make
his
course
perhaps

A
crooked
straightness
yet
no
less
a

straightness.

He
runs
forward.
He
is
a
pursuer,

He
seeks
a
seeker
who
in
his
turn
seeks

Another
still,
lost
far
into
the
distance.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 3

Any
who
seek
him
seek
in
him
the
seeker.

His
life
is
a
pursuit
of
a
pursuit
forever.

It
is
the
future
that
creates
his
present,

He
is
an
interminable
chain
of
longing.

Robert
Frost,
"Escapist—Never"



Because
of
our
evolutionarily
acquired
upright
stance,
man‐as‐spectator
possesses
a

radically
new
perspective
on
the
world.
We
must
have
sensed
early
on
that
our

destiny
was
to
be—in
Goethe's
felicitous
phrase—"born
to
see,
bound
to
behold"

(Strauss
334‐59).
While
the
"other
creatures
look
down
toward
the
Earth,"
Ovid

writes
in
The
Metamorphosis,
with
an
early,
yet
profound
grasp
of
the
forces
at
work

in
human
evolution,
"man
was
given
a
face
so
that
he
might
turn
his
eyes
toward
the

stars
and
his
gaze
upon
the
sky."
The
human
stance
thus
makes
our
kind
the
"first

freedman
of
creation"
(Strauss
334‐35).
But
this
freedom,
it
seems,
has
only
filled
us

with
longing.
Our
new‐found
verticality
has
lessened
the
hold
of
the
earth
on
our

vision
and
imagination.
We
have
become
a
creature
existing
between
earth
and
sky.

(The
English
word
"desire,"
as
Robert
Romanyshyn
has
pointed
out,
may
be
traced

back
to
this
moment
in
the
evolution
of
consciousness,
for
it
derives
from
etymons

meaning
"to
be
with
the
stars"
[46‐53].)

That
none
of
our
conquests
has
satisfied
us,
that
our
hunting
has
seemed

endless,
appears
not
to
deter
us.
We
have
become
a
predator
of
experience
itself,

craving
always
the
new,
not
merely
for
the
sake
of
experience
(though
our
fear
of

repetition
has
been
well
documented
by
Freud),
but
in
order
to
understand
its
gifts.

In
our
plunge
into
the
distance,
summoned
by
the
visual,
man
has
discovered
the

existence
of
a
world
and
a
universe—of
a
whole
of
which
he
is
a
part
(the
horizon
is

the
seam)—with
which
we
have
sought
reunion.
For
in
our
heart
of
hearts
our

predating
has
made
us
feel—as
one
of
our
major
religions
taught
us—that
we
are
the

world's
prodigal
son
and
that
this
hunting
must
one
day
have
an
end.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 4

When
the
Greeks
felt
wonder
looking
at
the
horizon,
they

spoke
of
the
powers
at
work
there
as
archai.
They
believed
these

powers
to
be
more
elemental,
more
archaic,
than
all
other
truths

about
the
world
(Barrett,
What
Is
Existentialism
33).
Now,
though

man's
nature
is
horizonal
still,
though
we
are
more
"objective"
in
our

hunting,
we
refuse
to
acknowledge
the
hold
of
the
archai
upon
our

consciousness.
The
horizon
of
modern
man—as
Martin
Heidegger
has
explained—has

become
"but
the
side
facing
us
of
an
openness
which
surrounds
us;
an
openness

which
is
filled
with
views
of
the
appearances
of
what
to
our
representing
are

objects."
But
to
this
insight
we
remain
largely
oblivious.
If
we
saw
differently,
if
we

gave
emphasis
to
the
openness
itself,
and
not
merely
to
the
objects,
our
very
world

would,
of
course,
change
radically.
Nor
do
we
seem
to
care
that
"what
lets
the

horizon
he
what
it
is
has
not
yet
been
encountered
at
all"
(Discourse
64).

Man,
Frost
tells
us,
is
an
"interminable
chain
of
longing,"
a
"pursuit
of
a

pursuit
forever,"
a
creature
who
runs
always
forward
into
the
distance.
We
agree,

but
we
must
be
careful
before
we
acquiesce
too
readily
to
the
generality
of
Frost's

portrait
of
man‐the‐the‐hunter.
We
cannot
agree
that
he
is
not
a
fugitive,
for
he
is
in

flight:
does
he
not
flee
the
near,
flee
the
Earth?
Might
it
not
be
true
that
his
longing

is,
in
the
words
of
Ishmael
in
Moby‐Dick,
a
“rushing
from
all
havens
astern"
as
well

as
a
pursuit
of
a
distant
goal?
Might
it
not
be
that
man
fears
the
inducements
of
the

near;
that
he
evades
the
promptings
which
come
from
the
periphery
of

his
vision?
For
if
he
were
to
heed
these
promptings,
might
he
not
then

become
a
peripheral
creature?
Has
not
man
kept
to
the
straight
and

narrow,
donned
blinders
lest
side
issues
spook
him,
in
fear
that
his

dreams
of
progress
(which
is
to
say
his
longing)
might
be
derailed?
We

must
be
careful
to
identify
who
this
seeker
is
of
whom
Frost
speaks.
We

must
pinpoint
his
cultural
origin.
We
must
not
say
he
is
man.
For

longing,
it
would
appear,
is
the
product
of
a
particular
phase
in
the

evolution
of
consciousness
—though
it
now
seems
clear
that
the
whole
world
may

have
to
pass
through
that
phase
to
get
to
the
end
of
longing.




III

Only
the
Western
eye
is
ensorcelled
by
the
twin
enticements
of
the

focal
and
the
distant.
As
Edward
T.
Hall
has
noted
in
The
Hidden

Dimension,
the
major
difference
between
East
and
West
might
well

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 5

be
their
distinctive
emphases
on
the
peripheral
and
focal
respectively.
While

Western
man
tends
to
see
objects
but
not
the
spaces
between
them,
concentrating

on
figures
while
ignoring
the
ground,
the
Eastern
mind
attends
to
the
spaces

between
things
and
reveres
them
(74‐75),
As
a
result,
Hall
shows,
Orientals
tend
to

place
much
more
emphasis
on
the
value
of
the
peripheral,
Japanese,
for
example,

build
gardens
which
may
be
appreciated
from
every
possible
angle,
not
just
from
one

central
perspective,
each
point
of
view
revealing,
in
effect,
a
new
garden
(Hall
51).

Or
consider
Chinese
landscape
painting,
the
greatness
of
which
derives
in
large
part

from
its
underlying
assumption
that
the
world
is
not
man's
possession
and
is
thus

devoid
of
both
perspective
and
purpose.

The
Native
American
writer
Jamake
Highwater
has
shown
that,
whereas
the

Western,
"advanced"
civilized
mind
"think[s]
of
itself
predominately
as
a
perpetual

spectator
of
the
world"
due
to
the
domination
of
reason,
the
"primal
mind"

(Highwater
uses
the
term
as
a
replacement
for
the
pejorative
"primitive"),



knows
space
experientially.
This
affective
relationship

with
space
of
the
primal
person,
however,
does
not
limit

his
experience
to
pragmatic
spatial
actions,
for
he
sees

space
as
the
sacred
theatre
of
his
life
and
the
ritual

umbilical
cord
that
forever
connects
him
to
his
divine

parent,
the
Earth.
(131‐32)



The
"primal
mind,"
Owen
Barfield
would
say,
is
not
detached
but
participatory.

"Early
man,"
Barfield
writes,
"did
not
observe
nature
in
our
detached
way."

Rather,
"He
participated
mentally
and
physically
in
her
inner
and
outer
process."
But

man,
moved
away
from
such
an
involvement
in
things:



The
evolution
of
man
has
signified
not
alone
the
steady
expansion
of

consciousness
(man
getting
to
know
more
and
more
about
more
and

more);
there
has
been
a
parallel
process
of
contraction—which
was
also

a
process
of
awakening—a
gradual
focusing
or
pinpointing
down
from
an

earlier
kind
of
knowledge,
which
could
also
be
called
participation.
It

was
at
once
more
universal
and
less
clear.
We
still
have
something
of

this
older
relation
to
nature
when
we
are
asleep,
and
it
throws
up
the

suprarational
wisdom
which
many
psychoanalysts
detect
in
dreams.
Thus
it
is

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 6

rather
true
to
say
that
we
have
come
to
know
more
and
more
about
less
and

less.
(Rediscovery
17).



The
advent
of
focused
knowledge
of
the
world,
and
the
consequent
"evolution
by

detachment"
(History
27),
marked
the
true
beginning
of
longing
so
characteristic
of

our
own
time.
For,
as
Alan
Watts
has
observed.



There
is
much
to
suggest
that
when
human
beings
acquired
the
powers
of

conscious
attention
and
rational
thought
they
became
so
fascinated
with

these
new
tools
that
they
forgot
all
else,
like
chickens
hypnotized
with
their

beaks
in
a
chalk
line.
Our
total
sensitivity
became
identified
with
these
partial

functions
so
that
we
lost
the
ability
to
feel
nature
from
the
inside,
to
feel
the

seamless
unity
of
ourselves
and
the
world.
(Nature
7)



Rationality
is
thus
the
true
source
of
longing.
It
is
the
methodology,
born
of

tunnel
vision,
of
an
orientation
to
the
world
oblivious
to
the
peripheral—to
the

surround‐ings—and
thus
disdainful
of
Edward
de
Bono
has
aptly
called
"lateral

thinking."
It
is
a
method
perpetually
on
the
hunt,
always
homeless,
always
anxious

for
new
frontiers,
incapable
of
participation.
From
it,
man
builds
a
philosophy
of

ideas
which,
in
the
words
of
Henri
Bergson,



starts
from
the
form;
it
sees
in
the
form
the
very
essence
of
reality.
It
does

not
take
Form
as
a
snapshot
of
becoming;
it
posits
form
in
the
Eternal;
of
this

motionless
eternity,
then
duration
and
becoming
are
supposed
to
be

only
the
degradation.
.
.
.
From
the
standpoint
of
ancient
philosophy,

space
and
time
can
be
nothing
but
the
field
that
an
incomplete

reality,
or
rather
a
reality
that
has
gone
astray
from
itself,
needs
in

order
to
run
in
quest
of
itself.
Only
it
must
be
admitted
that
the

field
is
created
as
the
hunting
progress,
and
that
the
hunting
in
some

way
deposits
the
field
beneath
it.
(346)



It
is
on
the
bedrock
of
such
a
paradoxical
philosophy
that
the
very
idea
of
history
in

the
West
is
constructed—a
history
which
is
a
hunting:
a
history
of
longing.

All
"knowledge
at
a
distance,"
writes
Hans
Jonas,
"is
tantamount
to

foreknowledge.
The
uncommitted
reach
into
space
[obtained
through
the
powers
of

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 7

vision]
is
gain
of
time
for
adaptive
behavior"
(327).
All
predominately
visual

creatures
are
thus
given
a
distinct
evolutionary
advantage.
But
man's
knowledge
at
a

distance
has
not
been
that
of
an
ordinary
seer;
nor
has
the
gain
of
time
for

adaptation
been
any
normal
duration.
For
man's
foreknowledge
has
given
him,
as
his

reprieve
from
the
natural,
nothing
less
than
history
itself
within
which
to
work
out

the
problems
posed
to
his
discernment
by
the
distance
within
which
he
finds
himself.

It
is
as
if
history
were,
considered
in
this
light,
the
single‐minded,
horizon‐obsessed,

oblivious
to
the
peripheral
plunge
of
the
species
drawn—called—by
the
longing
of
his

open‐ended
but
contracted
vision
into
a
distance
he
feels
sure
welcomes
him
as
its

special
creature—as
the
instrument
of
its
unfolding.
Looking
into
space,
man
was

given
time,
and
it
is
his
sense
that
"time's
arrow"
flies
solely
for
him
and
with
him

that
makes
him
evolution's
greatest
egotist.
History,
he
believes,
is
the
unfolding
of

his
destiny.




Albrecht
Dürer,
“Artist
Drawing
a
Nude
with
Perspective
Device”



And
yet
it
was
not
until
the
Renaissance
that
history‐as‐a‐hunt
(sometimes

known
as
"progress")
began
in
earnest.
Before
it
could
get
under
way,
it
was

necessary
that
man
first
"put
things
in
perspective."
In
the
Renaissance,
as
Barfield

explains
in
Saving
the
Appearances,
space
itself
became
an
idol
and
perspective
took

the
place
of
participation.
As
space
became
synonymous
with
merely
"the
absence
of

phenomena,"
a
mode
of
vision
in
which
"each
pair
of
eyes
is
placed
at
the
centre
of
a

purely
spatial
sphere
and
any
organic
relation
there
may
be
is
purely
incidental"

became
the
order
of
the
day—became
in
fact
the
new
common
sense
(149).
Although

perspectivism
was,
in
a
sense,
implicit
from
the
start
in
Western
rationalism's
focal

obsession,
the
birth
of
perspective
in
the
Renaissance
gave
a
special
boost
to
the

forward
thrust
of
Western
history.
For,
as
Rudolf
Arnheim
has
shown,

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 8



Central
perspective
locates
infinity
in
a
special
direction.
.
.
.

This
makes
space
appear
as
a
pointed
flow.
.
.
.
The
result
is
a

transformation
of
the
simultaneity
of
space
into
a
happening

in
time.
The
traditional
world
of
being
is
redefined
as
a

process
of
happening.
In
this
way
central
perspective

foreshadows
and
initiates
a
fundamental
development
in
the

Western
conception
of
nature.
(240)



It
is
difficult
for
us
now
to
appreciate
how
significant
this
development
really
was,

but
Barfield
has
aided
our
understanding
of
it.

If,
Barfield
has
speculated,
a
man
of
the
Middle
Ages—a
man
who
knows

nothing
of
perspective—could
be
transported
via
a
time
machine
into
the
body
of
a

twentieth
century
man,
he
would,
upon
seeing
things
the
way
they
appear
now,
"feel

like
a
child
who
looks
for
the
first
time
at
a
photograph
through
the
ingenious
magic

of
a
stereoscope.
'Oh!'
he
would
say,
'look
how
[objects]
stand
out!'"
For,
as
Barfield

goes
on
to
explain,



Before
the
scientific
revolution
[a
movement
Barfield
shows
to
have

been
born
out
of
the
same
kind
of
mentality
which
produced

perspectivism]
the
world
was
more
like
a
garment
men
wore
about

them
than
a
stage
on
which
they
moved.
.
.
.
Compared
with
us,
they

felt
themselves
and
the
objects
around
them
and
the
words
that

expressed
those
objects,
immersed
together
in
something
like
a

clear
lake
of—what
shall
we
say?—of
'meaning,'
if
you
choose.
It

seems
the
most
adequate
word.
(Saving
94‐95)



Because
we
are
now
no
longer
so
immersed
in
our
world,
we
feel
the
pain
of
an

alienation
unique
in
history.
But
alienation
is
simply
another
name
for
longing
in
an

advanced,
perhaps
terminal
stage.

I
do
not
mean
to
imply
here
that
Western
man's
discovery
of
the
focal
and
the

distant
was
a
mistake,
nor
that
it
was
at
all
avoidable.
The
obsession
I
have
sought
to

describe
here
was,
indeed
is,
the
destiny
of
the
West.
But
Western
man
has

nevertheless
paid
a
price
for
his
obsession.
For
a
being
who
longs
to
see
with
total

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 9

clarity
and
to
see
as
far
as
he
can
see
can
never
simply
be.
As
Alan
Watts
has

observed,



If
I
must
cross
every
skyline
to
find
out
what
is
beyond,
I
shall
never

appreciate
the
true
depth
of
sky
seen
between
trees
upon
the
ridge
of
a

hill.
If
I
must
map
the
canyons
and
count
the
trees,
I
shall
never
enter

into
the
sound
of
a
hidden
waterfall.
If
I
must
explore
and
investigate

every
trail,
that
path
which
vanishes
into
the
forest
far
up
on
the

mountainside
will
be
found
at
last
to
lead
merely
back
to
the
suburbs.
To
the

mind
which
pursues
every
road
to
its
end,
every
road
leads
nowhere.
To

abstain
is
not
to
postpone
the
cold
disillusionment
of
the
true
facts
but
to
see

that
one
arrives
by
staying
rather
than
going,
that
to
be
forever
looking

beyond
is
to
remain
blind
to
what
is
here.
(Nature
84)




IV




Polanyi
|
Merleau‐Ponty
Definite
signs
exist
that
Western
man's
visual
obsession
is
beginning
to

undergo
a
radical
metamorphosis,
a
mutation
if
you
will.
This
is
not
just
the
result
of

the
"meeting
of
East
and
West,"
or
the
union
of
civilized
and
primal
(though
both

certainly
constitute
important
influences
in
the
intellectual
life
of
our
century)
but

as
the
result
of
changes
from
within—a
mutation
in
the
most
basic
paradigms

through
which
we
understand
the
world.
One
of
the
chief
spokesmen
for
this

revolution/evolution,
the
late
chemist
and
philosopher
Michael
Polanyi,
even
went

so
far
as
to
predict
that
its
impact
might
be
for
the
modern
age
as
great
as
that
of

the
Copernican
Revolution
(Psychology
Today
20‐25,
65‐67).

Much
of
Polanyi's
thought—his
conception
of
the
"tacit
dimension,"
his

insistence
that
the
focal
is
but
one
pole
in
our
comprehension
of
our
world,
his

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 10

contention
that
(contrary
to
Cartesian
thought)
man
would
have
no
basis
for
his

knowledge
at
all
if
it
were
not
for
our
body's
ability
to
"indwell"
with
the
things

outside
it,
and
his
faith
that
we
always
"know
more
than
we
can
tell"—should
be

understood
as
a
rejection
of
perspectivism's
hegemony
over
the
Western
mind.

Polanyi's
thinking
affirms
the
need
for
an
awareness
of
our
world—a
"post‐critical

philosophy"—which
stresses
the
subsidiary,
the
tacit,
and
the
peripheral
as
the
true

ground
of
our
world‐making.
We
must
come
to
realize,
Polanyi
tells
us,
that
what
we

call
"perception
.
.
.
now
appears
as
the
most
impoverished
form
of
tacit
knowing,"

and
that
it
is
not
everything—as
the
mind
of
man‐the‐hunter
believes—but
only
"the

bridge
between
the
higher
creative
powers
of
man
and
the
bodily
processes
which

are
prominent
in
the
operations
of
perception
(Tacit
7).
The
paradigmatic
revolution

which
Polanyi
championed
would
give
to
these
latter
"bodily
processes"
a
new

emphasis
that
would
reclaim
for
Western
man
a
sense
of
his
dwelling
on
the
Earth

and
his
participation
in
its
reality.
It
would
restore
the
awareness
he
abandoned
in

the
course
of
the
evolution
of
consciousness
as
his
desire
lead
him
to
dwell
with
the

stars.

Another
20th
century
thinker
of
seminal
importance
in
this
changing
paradigm

is
the
French
philosopher
of
perception
Maurice
Merleau‐Ponty.
In
Merleau‐Ponty's

articulation
of
our
"phenomenological
consciousness"
(as
opposed
to
our
analytical

consciousness)
resides,
in
the
words
of
Thomas
Hanna,
"an
effort
to
vindicate
and

explore"
another,
neglected
form
of
perception,
"namely,
the
surrendering
of
effort

and
allowing
the
environing
world
to
perceive
you"
(my
italics).
Like
the
genetic

epistemologist
Piaget,
Merleau‐Ponty
sees
human
perception
as
a
biological

"accommodation"
to
the
"potent
ordering
of
the
environment."
It
is
a
process
by

means
of
which
the
"organism
adapts
to
the
environment
by
letting
the
environment

mold
it"
(Hanna
204‐205).
Like
Polanyi,
Merleau‐Ponty
has
thus
attempted
a

transvaluation,
a
Copernican
Revolution
in
our
perception,
one
which
he
hopes
will

make
man
less
of
a
disembodied
perceiver
and
intellect.

"We
have
to
reject
the
age‐old
assumption
that
put
the
body
in
the
world
and

the
seer
in
the
body,"
Merleau‐Ponty
writes.
"For
where
are
we
to
put
the
limit

between
the
body
and
the
world
.
.
.
?
Where
in
the
body
are
we
to
put
the
seer,

since
evidently
there
is
in
the
body
only
'shadows
stuffed
with
organs,'
that
is,
more

of
the
visible?"
(Visible
140).
As
in
Rilke's
Sonnets
to
Orpheus,
the
visible
world
to

Merleau‐Ponty
encircles
us:
it
is
like
a
"breath
that
takes
no
heed
of
us,"
which
after

our
passing
through
it,
becomes
"united
again"
behind
us.
For
there
is,
Merleau‐
 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 11

Ponty
insists,
a
"relation
of
the
visible
with
itself
that
traverses
me
and
constitutes

me
as
a
seer,"
a
"circle
which
I
do
not
form,
which
forms
me,"
a
"coiling
over
of
the

visible
upon
the
visible"
which
can
"traverse,
animate
other
bodies
as
well
as
my

own"
(Visible
140).

And
yet,
Merleau‐Ponty
does
not
mean
to
suggest
that
man
should
seek
to

become
merely
a
"peripheral"
creature,
one
of
no
central
importance.
"If,
like

certain
animals,"
Merleau‐Ponty
reminds
us,
"we
had
lateral
eyes
with
no
crossing
of

visual
fields
.
.
.
such
a
body
would
not
reflect
itself;
it
would
be
an
almost

adamantine
body,
not
really
flesh,
not
really
the
body
of
a
human
being.
There
would

be
no
humanity"
(Phenomenology
163;
my
italics).
Mankind's
very
sense
of
his

collective,
historical
project
as
a
species
appears
to
depend
upon
its
discovery
of
the

enticements
of
the
horizonal
and
the
focal.
We
are
creatures
destined
to
struggle
for

integration
of
the
focal
and
the
peripheral;
in
a
sense,
we
are
this
struggle,
and
this

struggle
is
the
evolution
of
consciousness.

Because
this
struggle
constitutes
the
very
plot
of
Robert
M.
Pirsig's
Zen
and

the
Art
of
Motorcycle
Maintenance,
it
is
to
that
strange,
unclassifiable
book
which
I

now
turn
in
search
of
a
fuller
understanding
of
the
possibility
of
an
integrated

human
eye.
For
Zen,
as
I
will
show,
narrates
the
story
of
the
accomplishment
of
that

integration
in
a
single
individual—its
ontogenesis,
if
you
will.




V

In
Zen's
narrator's
search
for
the
meaning
of
"Quality,"
in
the

philosophical
"chautauquas"
presented
against
the
backdrop
of
a

motorcycle
journey
undertaken
by
him
and
his
son
Chris
from
St.

Paul,
Minnesota
to
the
Pacific,
it
is
apparent
that
Pirsig/Phaedrus

(Phaedrus
is
the
name
that
Pirsig
gives
to
his
former
self,
prior
to

his
hospitalization
for
insanity)
long
ago
reached
a
state
of

disillusionment
with
rationality.
Although
he
considers
himself
to

be
a
master
of
rational
discourse—an
expert
wielder,
he
would

say,
of
rationality's
knife
—Pirsig/Phaedrus
knows
that
his

obsession
with
it
stems
from
insecurity:
"His
lack
of
faith
in

reason
was
why
he
was
so
fanatically
dedicated
to
it."
He

understands
that
"You
are
never
dedicated
to
something
you
have
complete

confidence
in.
No
one
is
fanatically
shouting
that
the
sun
is
going
to
rise
tomorrow."

And
so
he
finds
himself,
in
his
pursuit
of
rationality,
to
be
a
"pre‐Reformation

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 12

Loyola.
A
militant
reassuring
everyone
the
sun
would
rise
tomorrow,
when
no
one

was
worried"
(153).

Pirsig/Phaedrus
cannot,
therefore,
maintain
his
commitment
to
rationality

with
any
ease.
He
announces
early
in
the
book
that
he
has
embarked
upon
an

alternative
course
of
"lateral
thought"—seeking
"knowledge
that's
from
a
wholly

different
unexpected
direction,
from
a
direction
that's
not
even
understood
as
a

direction
until
the
knowledge
forces
itself
upon
one.
Lateral
truths
point
to
the

falseness
of
axioms
and
postulates
underlying
one's
existing
system
of
getting
at

truth"
(121‐22).
And
although
he
seems
to
himself
and
to
others
to
be
merely

"drifting,"
he
believes
he
has
no
other
choice
if
he
is
to
avoid
the
focal
and
logical

biases
of
what
he
calls
"the
Church
of
Reason"
(the
institutionalized,
dogmatic

acceptance
of
rational
methodology).
Throughout
his
search
for
"Quality"—a
word

Pirsig/Phaedrus
uses
in
much
the
same
way
as
Lao
Tzu
used
"Tao"—he
insists
that

the
word
be
left
undefined
so
that
he
may
come
upon
its
meaning
in
a
new
way.

For
Pirsig/Phaedrus,
"Reality
is
always
the
moment
of

vision
before
the
intellectualization
takes
place.
There
is
no

other
reality.
This
pre‐intellectual
reality
is
what
Phaedrus

felt
he
had
properly
identified
as
Quality"
(147).
"Normal,"

historically‐bound
thought
is,
however,
like
a
railroad
train,

as
Pirsig
explains:
the
entire
train
constitutes
the
"mythos"—a

building
of
"analogues
upon
analogues"
which
make
up
the

collective
consciousness
of
mankind.
And
each
new
addition

to
the
mythos,
from
whatever
source—science,
art,
religion—
is
stored
away
in
the
box
cars
of
the
train
(which
thus
comes

to
constitute
what
Karl
Popper
might
call
"World
Three"
(Magee
51‐59).

But
the
tracks
upon
which
the
train
itself
moves,
which
determine,

consequently,
its
progress
and
direction,
are
Quality
itself:
"for
Quality

is
the
generator
of
the
mythos
.
.
.
the
continuing
stimulus
which
causes

us
to
create
the
world
in
which
we
live."
And
outside
those
tracks
lies

the
"terra
incognita,"
a
terrain,
a
topology
of
being,
that
only
the
mad

enter
and
explore
(350‐51).

But
certain
individuals
do
escape
a
life
spent
in
the
essentially
static
but
safe

boxcars,
choosing
instead
to
ride
on
the
"leading
edge"
of
the
train.
From
that

vantage
point,
one
can
see
"no
subject,
no
objects,
only
the
track
ahead,"
and
yet

that
leading
edge
is
"where
absolutely
all
the
action
occurs";
for
it
contains
"all
the

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 13

infinite
possibilities
of
the
future
.
.
.
all
the
history
of
the
past"
(282‐83).
Zen
is
the

story
of
Pirsig/Phaedrus'
advance
to
this
leading
edge,
but
it
is
discovery
as
well
that

mankind's
forward
thrust
into
the
distance
moves
along
a
path
already
prepared
for

him
in
advance
by
tacit
sources.
Like
Polanyi
and
Merleau‐Ponty,
Pirsig
discovers

that
our
interaction
with
the
world
creates
us
and
that
we,
in
turn,
create
the
world.

Several
factors
have
been
at
work
within
the
narrative
to
bring
Pirsig
to
this

paradigm‐altering
realization.
Most
important
of
all
perhaps
is
the
motorcycle
on

which
he
and
his
son
ride.
Traveling
in
a
car,
Pirsig
comments,
the
world
outside
is

"just
more
TV.
You're
a
passive
observer
and
it
is
all
moving
by
you
boringly
in
a

frame.
But
on
a
motorcycle
the
Claude
glass
[pictured]
effect
disappears,
and
the

"sense
of
presence
is
overwhelming"
as
the
rider
finds
himself
in
the
scene
(12)—as

he
moves
again
in
an
environ‐ment.
Moreover,
the
noise
of
the
engine
short‐circuits

ordinary
conversation,
and
the
rider
begins
to

meditate
in
non‐ordinary,
non‐calculative
ways
on
the

surroundings.
The
fixed
world
of
reason,
administered

to
us
all,
Pirsig
suggests,
via
the
hypnotic
eye‐
contact

of
teachers
in
the
Church
of
Reason
(41),
begins
to

break
up,
and
the
eye
roams
freely,
laterally,
in
non‐
prescriptive
directions,
returning
to
the
"things
themselves"
(like
the
red‐winged

blackbirds
which
so
fascinate
Pirsig).

In
addition
to
the
motorcycle
itself,
the
landscape
across
which
they
travel
in

the
first
half
of
the
book
also
produces
its
effect.
As
Pirsig
informs
us,
the
American

West,
particularly
the
flat
lands
of
the
Dakotas
and
much
of
Montana,
is
difficult
to

enframe.
The
landscape
of
Zen,
in
fact,
is,
like
the
Sunyata
of
the
Buddhists,
a
sort
of

empty‐fullness,
a
positive
void
which
seduces
the
attention
of
the
travelers
away

from
frontal
and
focal
preoccupation
a
new
peripheral
awareness.
As
the
journey

progresses,
these
factors
engender
within
Pirsig
the
integration
of
vision.

Although
he
repeatedly
refuses
to
define
Quality,
even
in
his
academic
pursuit

of
it
at
the
University
of
Chicago,
Pirsig
does
at
one
point
proffer
at
least
a
tentative

explanation.
At
Crater
Lake
National
Park,
he
and
Chris
stop
to
"see
the
sights."
The

experience
is
disappointing;
the
scene
seems
somehow
impoverished
and
unreal,
and

the
"quality
of
the
lake
is
smothered
by
the
fact
that's
its
so
pointed
to."
("Is
looking

like
sucking,"
Walker
Percy
has
asked,
"the
more
lookers,
the
less
there
is
to
see?"

[49].)
Because
it
seems
that
when
"You
point
to
something
as
having
Quality
.
.
.
the

Quality
tends
to
go
away,"
Pirsig
concludes
that
"Quality
is
what
you
see
out
of
the

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 14

corner
of
your
eye"
(342;
my
italics).
Quality,
then,
is
not
focal,
and
it
is
not
focal,

but
lies
rather
in
the
periphery
of
vision.
It
is
not
obtainable
through
rationality
and

perspectivism.

Pirsig/Phaedrus
growing
antipathy
for
reason
stems
from
this
realization.
His

investigation
into
the
invention
of
rationality
by
the
Greeks
and
his
pondering
of
the

subsequent
historical
effects
of
its
dissemination
as
a
world‐
historical
force
lead

him
to
recognize
and
lament



the
unbelievable
magnitude
of
what
man,
when
he
gained
the
power
to

withstand
and
rule
the
world
in
terms
of
dialectic
truths
had
lost.
He
had

built
empires
of
scientific
capability
to
manipulate
the
phenomena
of
nature

into
enormous
manifestations
of
his
own
dreams
of
power
and
wealth
—but

for
this
he
had
exchanged
an
empire
of
equal
magnitude:
an
understanding
of

what
it
is
to
be
a
part
of
the
world
and
not
an
enemy
of
it.
(377‐78)



Reason,
then,
is
not
just
the
destroyer
of
Quality;
it
is,
Pirsig/Phaedrus
concludes,

the
methodical
establishment
within
culture
of
an
adversarial
relationship
to
the

world.

Intellectually,
Pirsig/Phaedrus
understands
this,
but
he
does
not
behave
in

accord
with
his
understanding.
While
mountain
climbing
with
Chris
he
remembers

back
to
an
earlier
time
when
his
attempt
to
climb
a
mountain
(Mount
Kailas
in
India)

had
been
frustrated
by
his
lack
of
real
insight
into
the
hold
of
rationality
on
his

being.
Although
he
surpassed
in
physical
power
all
of
his
fellow
climbers
on
that

occasion,
he
failed
to
complete
the
climb
and
was
left
behind
after
the
third
day
of

his
journey.
It
was
only
afterward,
however,
that
he
began
to
understand
the
cause

of
his
failure.



He
was
trying
to
use
the
mountain
for
his
own
purposes
and
the
pilgrimage

too.
He
regarded
himself
as
the
fixed
entity,
not
the
pilgrimage
or
the

mountain,
and
thus
wasn't
ready
for
it.
He
speculated
that
the
other
pilgrims,

the
ones
who
reached
the
mountain,
probably
sensed
the
holiness
of
the

mountain
so
intensely
that
each
footstep
was
an
act
of
devotion,
an
act
of

submission
to
this
holiness.
The
holiness
of
the
mountain
infused
into
their

own
spirits
enabled
them
to
endure
far
more
than
anything
he,
with
his

greater
physical
strength,
could
take.
(211)

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 15



He
had
failed,
he
realized,
because
he
was
an
"ego‐climber."



The
ego‐climber
is
like
an
instrument
that's
out
of
adjustment.
He
puts
his

foot
down
an
instant
too
soon
or
too
late.
He's
likely
to
miss
a
beautiful

passage
of
sunlight
through
the
trees.
He
goes
on
when
the
sloppiness
of
his

steps
shows
he's
tired.
He
rests
at
odd
times.
He
looks
up
the
trail
trying
to

see
what's
ahead
even
when
he
knows
what's
ahead
because
he
just
looked
a

second
before.
He
goes
too
fast
or
too
slow
for
the
conditions
and
when
he

talks
his
talk
is
forever
about
somewhere
else,
something
else.
He's
here
but

he's
not
here.
He
rejects
the
here,
is
unhappy
with
it,
wants
to
be
farther
up

the
trail
but
when
he
gets
there
will
be
just
as
unhappy
because
then
it
will

be
"here."
What's
he's
looking
for,
what
he
wants,
is
all
around
him,
but
he

doesn't
want
that
because
it
is
all
around
him.
Every
step's
an
effort,
both

physically
and
spiritually,
because
he
imagines
his
goal
to
be
external
and

distant.



It
was
the
hunter
within
him
which
had
caused
the
failure,
and
its
hold
on
his
mind

and
body
was
not
to
be
overthrown
easily.

In
that
period
of
his
life
in
which
he
had
pursued
his
search
for
Quality
in
a

predatory
way
("Phaedrus"
means
"wolf"),
the
hunter
within
him,
in
fact,
drove
him

insane.
He
believed
himself
to
be
an
intellectual
pioneer,
to
be
exploring
the
"terra

incognita"
itself,
but
explorers,
he
realizes,
causes
as
many
problems
as
they
solve:



One
thing
about
explorers
that
you
don't
hear
mentioned
is
that
they
are

invariably,
by
their
nature,
mess‐makers.
They
go
forging
ahead,
seeing
only

their
noble,
distant
goal,
and
never
notice
any
of
the
crud
and
debris
they

leave
behind
them.
Someone
else
gets
to
clean
that
up
and
it's
not
a
very

glamorous
or
interesting
job.
(256;
my
italics)



The
mess
which
Pirsig's
alter
ego
Phaedrus
left
behind
was
his
madness;
Zen
is

Pirsig's
cleanup
operation.
But
Phaedrus'
madness
was,
as
he
described
it,
really
a

complete
return
to
an
acceptance
of
Quality.
It
was
a
return
on
which
he
embarked,

not
in
flight
from
the
double‐bind
of
a
personal
situation,
as
the
insane
commonly

do,
but
as
the
direct
consequence
of
his
growing
trust
in
the
world
and
the

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 16

abandonment
of
his
rational
ego.
He
accepts
within
the
terra
incognita
of
his
insanity

responsibility
for
reality
and
for
his
part
in
its
creation
and
"maintenance."
Like
the

dying
Saint
Francis,
he
even
embraces
fire
as
a
natural
and
yet
divine
gift,
as
his

cigarette
burns
blisters
into
his
fingers
without
his
interference.
And
for
the
first

time
he
feels
himself
united
with
his
world,
with
the
surrounding
universe.
He
no

longer
looks
ahead
up
the
trail,
no
longer
hunts,
no
longer
lives
in
and
for
the

distance.



Phaedrus
stares
at
the
wall
of
the
bedroom,
his
thoughts
moving
neither

forward
nor
backward,
staying
only
at
the
instant.
.
.
.
Not
only
are
his

thoughts
slowing
down,
but
his
desires
too.
And
they
slow
and
slow,
as
if

gaining
an
imponderable
mass.
So
heavy,
so
tired,
but
no
sleep
comes.
He

feels
like
a
giant,
a
million
miles
tall.
He
feels
himself
extending
into
the

universe
with
no
limit.
.
.
.
And
the
Quality,
the
arete
he
has
fought
so
hard

for,
has
sacrificed
for,
has
never
betrayed,
but
in
all
that
time
has
never
once

understood,
now
makes
itself
clear
to
him
and
his
soul
is
at
rest.
(395‐96)



Quality,
it
seems,
had
been
hunting
him;
his
madness
is
its
total
revelation
to
his

narrow,
incapable‐of‐containing‐it
intellect.

Commitment
to
a
mental
hospital
and
electric‐shock
treatments
follow,
and

all
conscious
traces
of
the
insights
he
had
won
in
intellectual
combat
with
Quality

are
seemingly
obliterated.
But
hiding
within
"the
corner
of
the
eye,"
in
the
tacit

routes
of
its
orientation
to
the
world,
Quality
phenomenally
remains,
and
he
feels
its

prompting,
its
beckoning
to
his
consciousness
like
a
ghost
within
him,
until
at
the

end
of
their
journey
Pirsig
and
Chris
find
themselves
at
the
end
of
the
continent
on
a

fog‐shrouded
cliff,
from
which
Pirsig
intends
to
leap
to
his
death.

But
then,
as
the
fog
around
them
momentarily
disperses
and
Pirsig
begins
to

feel
within
himself
a
"sense
of
inevitability
about
his
life,"
he
realizes
that
he
is

"being
pushed
toward
something"
by
an
unconscious
force
within
him.
And
for
the

first
time
he
notices
that
"the
objects
in
the
corner
of
the
eye
and
the
objects
in
the

center
of
the
vision
are
all
of
equal
intensity
now,
all
together
in
one
.
.
."
(405;
my

italics),
and
he
begins
to
openly
discuss
his
past
as
he
now
remembers
it
for
the
first

time
with
his
son.
The
focal
and
the
peripheral,
the
analytical
and
the

phenomenological,
the
detached
and
the
participatory—all
become
one
in
the
eyes

of
Robert
Pirsig.

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 17

Pirsig
and
son
achieve
then
a
reconciliation
(the
immediate
result
of
Pirsig's

denial
that
he
was
ever
insane
in
the
first
place,
to
which
Chris
replies
simply,
"I

knew
it").
But
one
major
misunderstanding
has
yet
to
be
resolved.
Chris
finally

makes
his
father
understand
that
during
the
whole
of
their
two
thousand
mile

journey
he
had
been
unable
to
see
properly
riding
behind
his
father
on
the

motorcycle,
his
head
and
eyes
buried
in
his
father's
back.
And
so,
as
they
travel

down
the
California
coast,
Chris,
mounting
the
foot
pedals,
is
able
for
the
first
time

to
see
over
and
around
his
father.
"What
do
you
see?"
Pirsig
asks
him,
and
he
replies

that
"It's
all
different"
(411).
And
so
it
must
be,
for
he
is,
in
effect,
Pirsig's
new
eyes,

and
in
him
lies
the
potential
serenity
of
a
new
integration
of
the
powers
of
human

vision.

Aeneas,
fleeing
the
ruins
of
Troy,
was
forced
to
carry
with
him
the
dead

weight
of
his
father—a
motif
often
repeated
in
the
world's
myths.
But
in
Zen
it
is
the

father
who
carries
the
son
in
the
end,
although
throughout
the
book
Chris
has,
in
a

sense,
been
carrying
his
father;
for
he
never
lost
faith
in
his
father's
former
self;

never
doubted
his
sanity.
Chris'
attainment
of
a
new
perspective
on
the
world
is,
like

William
Blake's
frontispiece
to
"Songs
of
Experience,"
an
image
of
new
life
and
new

hope,
of
the
new
escaping
the
mistakes
of
the
old.

For
Merleau‐Ponty,
the
visible,
although
it
always
seems
to
lie
"further
on,"

becomes
present
and
intimate
to
us
precisely
when
we
understand
it
instead
as
an

"encompassing,
lateral
investment"
of
our
being‐in‐the‐world
(Visible
217).
Zen
and

the
Art
of
Motorcycle
Maintenance
would
seem
to
be
such
an
investment.
As
such

this
unusual
book
must
be
understood
as
a
new
kind
of
work:
it
is
a
document
in
the

evolution
of
consciousness
which
tells
of
the
progress
of
man‐the‐hunter's

adaptation
to
his
world
and
points
the
way
toward
an
end
of
longing.




VI



Correct
my
view

That
the
far
mountain
is
much
diminished,

That
the
fovea
is
prime
composer

That
the
lid's
closure
frees
me.



Let
me
be
touched

By
the
alien
hands
of
love
forever

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 18

That
this
eye
not
be
folly's
loophole

But
giver
of
due
regard.

Richard
Wilbur,
"The
Eye"



 

In
N.
Scott
Momaday's
House
Made
of
Dawn,
a
novel
by
a
full‐blooded
Kiowa
about
a

contemporary
Indian's
search
for
and
discovery
of
his
own
identity
amidst
the
clash

of
cultures
in
Los
Angeles,
we
find
the
follow
passage,
a
description
of
a
ritual
Native

American
dance
as
seen
through
the
eyes
of
an
observing
white
woman.



The
dancers
had
looked
straight
ahead,
to
the
exclusion
of
everything.
.
.
.

And
they
had
not
smiled.
They
were
grave,
so
unspeakably
grave.
They
were

not
merely
sad
or
formal
or
devout;
it
was
nothing
like
that.
It
was
simply

that
they
were
grave,
distant,
intent
upon
something
that
she
could
not
see.

Their
eyes
were
held
upon
some
vision
out
of
range,
something
away
in
the

end
of
distance,
some
reality
that
she
did
not
know,
or
even
suspect.
What

was
it
that
they
saw?
Probably
they
saw
nothing
after
all,
nothing
at
all.
But

then
that
was
the
trick
wasn't
it?
To
see
nothing
at
all,
nothing
in
the

absolute.
To
see
beyond
the
landscape,
beyond
every
shape
and
shadow
and

color,
that
was
to
see
nothing.
That
was
to
be
free
and
finished,
complete,

spiritual.
To
see
nothing
slowly
and
by
degrees,
at
last,
to
see
first
the
pure,

bright
color
of
near
things,
then
all
pollutions
of
color,
all
things
blended
and

vague
and
dim
in
the
distance,
to
see
finally
beyond
the
clouds
and
the
pale

wash
of
the
sky—the
none
and
nothing
beyond
that.
To
say
"beyond
the

mountain,"
and
mean
it,
to
mean,
simply,
beyond
everything
for
which
the

mountain
stands,
of
which
it
signifies
the
being.
Somewhere,
if
only
she
could

see
it,
there
was
neither
nothing
nor
anything.
And
there,
just
there,
that
was

the
last
reality.
(37‐38)



 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 19

Is
not
this
quality
of
perception—the
ready
power
of
the
dancers
but
only
a
dream
to

the
white
woman—very
like
the
"last
reality"
to
be
expected
from
the
final

integration
of
the
eye?
Is
this
not
the
same
integration
in
which
the
"objects
in
the

corner
of
the
eye
and
the
objects
in
the
center
of
the
vision
are
all
of
equal
intensity

.
.
.
all
together
in
one
.
.
."?
That
such
wise
seeing
should
announce
itself
from
out

of
the
primal
mind
should
not
surprise
us.
To
the
primal
mind,
such
a
non‐linear

perspective
of
space,
beyond
subject/
object
distinctions,
is
common;
it
amounts
to

an
accomplished
fact.
For
as
Benjamin
Whorf
has
explained,
writing
of
the
world

view
of
the
Hopi,



There
comes
a
point
where
extension
in
detail
ceases
to

be
knowable
and
is
lost
in
the
vast
distance,
and
where

the
subjective,
creeping
behind
the
scenes
as
it
were,

merges
into
the
objective,
so
that
at
this
inconceivable

distance
from
the
observer—from
all
observers—there
is

an
all‐encircling
end
and
beginning
of
things
where
it

might
be
said
that
existence
itself
swallows
up
the

objective
and
the
subjective.
(63)



Such
an
understanding
of
the
place
of
man
in
the
distance
must
lie
at
the
heart
of

any
participatory
metaphysics.

Let
us,
in
anticipation,
of
this
end,
give
a
name
to
the
way
of
being‐in‐the‐
world
attained
through
the
integration
of
the
eye
and
the
end
of
longing.
Let
us
call

it,
not
knowledge—for
it
is
not
grounded
in
subject/object
dichotomies;
nor
under‐
standing—for
it
is
not
driven
by
horizontal/vertical
"desires."
Since
it
indwells
with

its
surroundings
and
circumspects
them,
it
finds
itself
at
home
with
them.
Let
us

therefore
call
it
instead
with‐standing.

Having
attained
it,
might
not
Western
man
become—for
was
not
this
the

destiny
of
his
becoming?—not
the
"great
deserter
of
being"
(E.M.
Cioran's
label
for

him
(Fall
41),
but
a
creature
who
withstands
it?
Would
he
not
then
become
not
just
a

hunter
but,
if
you
will,
a
gatherer?
Not
just
a
becoming,
not
an
"interminable
chain

of
longing,"
but
a
become?
"It
is
proper
to
every
gathering,"
writes
Heidegger
in
his

essay
on
"Logos,"
"that
the
gatherers
assemble
to
coordinate
their
efforts
to
the

sheltering;
only
when
they
have
gathered
together
with
that
end
in
view
do
they

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 20

begin
to
gather"
(Basic
Writings
ix).
History
is
such
a
gathering.
At
the
end
of
longing

we
will
find
the
"sheltering."