Edward S. Casey

What would the world be like if there were no places? Our lives are so place-oriented that we cannot begin to comprehend the loss of locality. Indeed, the space we occupy has much to do with what and who we are. Yet, despite the pervasiveness of place in our everyday lives, philosophers have neglected it. Since its publication in 1993, Getting Back into Place has been recognized as a pioneering study of the importance of place in people's lives. This edition includes new material that reflects on the development of the field of environmental philosophy and presents Edward S. Casey's current thinking on place and home in our increasingly troubled world

IMAGINING and remembering, two of the most frequent and fundamental acts of mind, have long been unwelcome guests in most of the many mansions of philosophy. When not simply ignored or over-looked, they have been considered only to be dismissed. This is above all true of imagination, as first becomes evident in Plato’s view that the art of making exact images tends to degenerate into the making of mere semblances. Kant, despite the importance he gives to imagination in the first edition of The Critique of Pure Reason, nevertheless considers images to be lowly "monograms" that are unruly and thus untrustworthy. In more recent times, Sartre, who is nearly as ambivalent as Kant on the subject, has stressed imagination’s "essential poverty"—its character as "debased thought"—while Ryle, in covert counterpoint, has attempted to conceive imagining as parody and pretense: as mere make-believe.

"Edges and the In-Between" analyzes the phenomenon of the in-between in terms of the space (or better, place) that is found in the midst of edges. These edges are of two sorts, borders and boundaries, but the latter are favored in the case of the in-between, which is a realm or region of indeterminate extent where things and events are located and where inhabitation occurs. A comparison with Heidegger shows the in-between to be itself situated between "Earth" and "World" as well as among its own boundaried edges. The primary example examined here is art, especially painting; but the application of the model of the in-between is much broader than this, as future writings on this topic by the author will attempt to demonstrate

It is remarkable how much we can understand about an environmental problem at a mere glance. By means of a glance - at once quick and comprehensive - we can detect that something is going wrong in a given environmental circumstance, and we can even begin to suspect what needs to be done to rectify the situation. In this paper I explore the unsuspected power of the glance in environmental thought and practice, drawing special lessons for an ethics of the environment. Specific examples are analyzed, and authors as diverse as John Dewey and Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari are invoked in an effort to develop a coherent vision of how the human glance helps to locate and remedy environmental crises.

The activities of glancing and attending are rarely compared, yet they have significant affinities to the point where we may say that glancing is a mode of attending while the latter, in turn, often proceeds by glances. This paper explores these affinities, showing that each activity is a form of reactive spontaneity (James) and that each engages in a particular version of advertence. Mental as well as ordinary perceptual glances are examined, with examples being taken from laboratory studies, everyday life, meditation, and the psychotherapeutic technique of focusing. In the end, the two acts collaborate closely, enhance each other, and can be considered conterminous in many of their aims and procedures for reaching them.

THE FATES of perceiving and remembering have been inextricably intertwined in Western philosophy and psychology. It has been asserted from Plato’s Theaetetus onwards that there can be no remembering without perceiving and, though much less frequently, no perceiving without remembering of some sort. Just how either of these forms of interdependency occurs, however, has given rise to continual controversy. Little discernible progress has been made since Plato first proposed, in the Theaetetus, a model of the mind as an aviary in which individual memories wait like captive birds to be plucked from the cage of recollection in order to aid in the identification of present perceptions. The elaborate and ingenious character of this memory machine—elaborate and ingenious in comparison with the simpler model of the wax tablet also proposed in the Theaetetus—was to prove prophetic, since later treatments of perception often invoke memory as a deus ex machina brought in to resolve ambiguities and perplexities of perceptual experience.

I BEGIN WITH A PUZZLE of sorts. Time is one; space is two—at least two. Time comes always already unified, one time. Thus we say “What time is it now?” and not “Which time is it now?” We do not ask, “What space is it?” Yet we might ask: “Which space are we in?”. Any supposed symmetry of time and space is skewed from the start. If time is self-consolidating—constantly gathering itself together in coherent units such as years or hours or semesters or seasons— space is self-proliferating. Take, for example, the dimensionality of space. One dimension in space is represented by a point or a line, whose radically reduced format mocks the extensiveness of cosmic space. Two dimensions, as in a plane figure, also falls far short of our sense that space spreads out indefinitely far beyond the perceiving subject. Only with three dimensions do we begin to approach an adequation between the structure and the sense of space. For then the subject is surrounded by something sufficiently roomy in which to live and move. Indeed, as Aristotle, Kant, and Merleau-Ponty all remark, the three-dimensionality of space directly reflects our bodily state, that is, the fact that as upright beings three perpendicular planes implicitly meet and intersect in us. Even here, proliferation abounds: our bilateral symmetry means that each dimension is doubled: one vertical plane bifurcates into “up” and “down,” the other vertical plane into “front” and “back,” and the horizontal plane into “right” and “left.” Thus subject-centered space is triple, only to be redoubled. Further, if we think of spatiality not as body-based but as locatory—as determined by landmarks and other locales in the environment—the proliferation is more striking still. There are the four cardinal directions, which themselves split easily into the thirty two points of a compass. Nor need we be so arithmetically well-rounded. Even apart from fancy mathematical models of n –dimensional space, and recent technological instantiations of virtual space, there is no end to the number or ways in which we can be oriented in space—in accordance with what Deleuze and Guattari call “the variability, the polyvocity of directions” by which we can move in any given spatial scene. Beyond direction, however, is place. Heidegger remarks that “space has been split up into places.” The fact is that we continually find ourselves immersed in a multiplex spatial network whose nodal points are supplied by particular places. If space is infinitely large, place is indefinitely many.

This book is at once the most definitive and the most comprehensive book of its kind ever written. No other study begins to rival this splendid assessment of the many sides and sorts of the imagination, its unending vicissitudes, ramifications, extensions, and applications. Lucidly composed, carefully thought out, and forcefully presented, the eight hundred pages of this treatise are as informative as they are witty, as concise as they are expansive, as precise as they are suggestive. For anyone who wants to know how imagination has been regarded in Western philosophical and psychological, literary, and religious thought, this text is an indispensable resource, a treasure-trove of insight and knowledge.

L’étude entend montrer que, si le temps est finalement unique, l’espace, lui, est originellement (et non du fait de la constitution de l’être-au-monde) multiple. Une analyse d’un passage du Timée où la Chôra est dite tithênê (nourrice) permet d’asseoir une interprétation de la différence foncière entre espace et lieu. Le lieu a progressivement disparu pour s’absorber dans l’espace neutre qui traduit homologiquement l’infinité divine ou pour s’atténuer dans le site. Il est difficile de trouver une analyse adéquate du lieu depuis la mort de Leibniz (1916) jusqu’à la thèse de Bergson en latin sur la notion aristotélicienne de lieu.

The destiny of philosophy is indissociably linked with the destiny of man. Whatever its ultimate aspirations, philosophy remains rooted in man and his self-questioning. It is not merely a reflection on man, but one of his vital activities: an intellectual enterprise which is created and sustained by living philosophers and which is addressed, implicitly or explicitly, to other men. Even if its outer horizons encompass more than the strictly human, its insights remain valid only for humans. Human beings alone can grasp and extend philosophical truth. It is in view of this fundamental fact that Heidegger asks: “What is the meaning of the expression ‘to philosophize’ if the philosophical problematic is such that it finds its abode and its center in the essence of man?” Within the confines of this paper, we shall not attempt to determine what philosophizing is; instead, we shall concentrate on the question of the role of man and self in truth, of which philosophical truth is a paradigm case. We should observe at the outset, however, that it is one thing to hold that philosophical truth is grasped as valid by individual human beings alone and quite another thing to assert that such truth is exclusively the truth of or about such individuals. It may be one of the conditions of philosophical truth that it be true for someone—for the philosopher himself, or for his actual or potential interlocutors—but this does not mean that the scope of philosophy is restricted to explicating man's essence or the sense of a singular human life. Philosophical method itself transcends the particular content of philosophy, as we see clearly in the effort of metaphysics to systematize insight. Yet it remains the case that philosophy finds its primary origin and support in man.

What is bound to mislead us is the dichotomist assumption that keeping in mind must be either an entirely active or an utterly passive affair. This assumption has plagued theories of memory as of other mental activities. On the activist model, keeping in mind would be a creating or recreating in mind of what is either a mere mirage to begin with or a set of stultified sensations. Much as God in the seventeenth century was sometimes thought to operate by continual creation, so the mind was given the same lofty powers in the Romantic thought that represented a reaction to much of what the seventeenth century stood for. But the activist model is by no means limited to the Romantic idealists or Natur-philosophen. It reappears in more than one phase of phenomenology, and it informs the sober theorizing of Bartlett and Piaget on the nature of remembering. On the passivist model, on the other hand, the mind is mute and unconfigurating. It takes in but does not give back other than what it takes in. It is a recording mechanism only. Something like this view is at work in empiricist theories of memory, considered as restricted to the contents of Humean "impressions" and arranged according to their order and position in time; it continues in Kant's notion of "reproductive imagination" as operating by association alone; and it is found flourishing today in psychological accounts of what is revealingly called "human associative memory."

I BEGIN WITH A PUZZLE of sorts. Time is one; space is two—at least two. Time comes always already unified, one time. Thus we say “What time is it now?” and not “Which time is it now?” We do not ask, “What space is it?” Yet we might ask: “Which space are we in?”. Any supposed symmetry of time and space is skewed from the start. If time is self-consolidating—constantly gathering itself together in coherent units such as years or hours or semesters or seasons— space is self-proliferating. Take, for example, the dimensionality of space. One dimension in space is represented by a point or a line, whose radically reduced format mocks the extensiveness of cosmic space. Two dimensions, as in a plane figure, also falls far short of our sense that space spreads out indefinitely far beyond the perceiving subject. Only with three dimensions do we begin to approach an adequation between the structure and the sense of space. For then the subject is surrounded by something sufficiently roomy in which to live and move. Indeed, as Aristotle, Kant, and Merleau-Ponty all remark, the three-dimensionality of space directly reflects our bodily state, that is, the fact that as upright beings three perpendicular planes implicitly meet and intersect in us. Even here, proliferation abounds: our bilateral symmetry means that each dimension is doubled: one vertical plane bifurcates into “up” and “down,” the other vertical plane into “front” and “back,” and the horizontal plane into “right” and “left.” Thus subject-centered space is triple, only to be redoubled. Further, if we think of spatiality not as body-based but as locatory—as determined by landmarks and other locales in the environment—the proliferation is more striking still. There are the four cardinal directions, which themselves split easily into the thirty two points of a compass. Nor need we be so arithmetically well-rounded. Even apart from fancy mathematical models of n –dimensional space, and recent technological instantiations of virtual space, there is no end to the number or ways in which we can be oriented in space—in accordance with what Deleuze and Guattari call “the variability, the polyvocity of directions” by which we can move in any given spatial scene. Beyond direction, however, is place. Heidegger remarks that “space has been split up into places.” The fact is that we continually find ourselves immersed in a multiplex spatial network whose nodal points are supplied by particular places. If space is infinitely large, place is indefinitely many.