But before we get into that, I think it’s worth noting that D&G’s Axiom 2 is careful to make a distinction they’ve so far in this text tended to regard as not needing to be made: that between the nomad war machine and the State military functions, processes and formations which may appear to be its cognates.

I take this as their being just a little nervous about the reader retaining the sense of an argument that’s both clear to them, and central to what they’re trying to say. The Army is *not*

a war machine, remember; nor are any of its officers, NCOs or enlisted personnel; nor are any of its tools, weapons, logistical systems or algorithms. The war machine is something that comes from outside, because it *is* the outside.

And for the first time in the text, D&G describe that outside in some richness. The passage accounting for the nomad’s sojourn in space is, again, lyrical, even beautiful. Of course, D&G tell us, the nomad interacts with all the familiar elements of space, things

like territories and points and paths — they’re still embodied, still inside history and still occupying the space and time of the physical universe. But they *understand* these elements differently than the State does, and their relationship to them as well.

Here they make a distinction between the sedentary, for whom the point is all, and for whom the path is never anything more than a route between points; the migrant, for whom the path is but a necessary, temporary condition; and the nomad,

for whom all points are merely adjuncts to further onward movement. The desert well “is reached only to be left behind”; “every point is a relay and exists only as a relay”; “the life of the nomad is the intermezzo.”

For me, reading this in mid-to-late middle age, this description is already soothing and a solace in a way it could not possibly have been at eighteen. And it has those qualities because it rather elegantly confers dignity on a life that, from other perspectives, may well seem to

elude consistency or the accumulation of worldly merit. What D&G explicitly authorize here is a permanently peripatetic condition — of the body, of thought, of becoming — that rejects or fails to recognize or simply bypasses “place” (in all its qualities of position, turf or territory) in favor of something else, something that they call “deterritorialization.”

I can’t tell you what a gift this is to come across, how welcoming and comforting this passage is for those of us who, willy-nilly,

have never made our homes in any one place, either literally, disciplinarily, intellectually or politically.

But there’s another aspect to the nomad’s relation with the path as well, which is that while they may well “follow trails or customary routes,” their use of these “does not fulfill the function of the sedentary road, which is *to parcel out a closed space to people*” [emphasis in original]. Thinking of the path as being a conduit from A to B, in other words, reifies “A” & “B” as places.

And once reified, they become the buckets of a sorting operation (indeed, I’d go so far to say, the attractor poles of a schismogenetic process): if you are like *this*, you belong *here*, but if you’re like *that*, well then, you’d surely be happier (& will probably be safer) over *there*. The path becomes the means of duality, distinction and the inscription of identity.

And there’s a tangible difference between the kinds of spaces produced by sedentary thought and those generated by nomads:

here again resurfaces the distinction between “striated” and “smooth” space.

For the sedentary, space rapidly becomes reticulated by a grid of property relations, parceled up, striated by “walls, enclosures and roads between enclosures.” For the nomad, though, all of this disappears: space is “marked only by ‘traits’ that are effaced and displaced with the trajectory.” (Recall the Trukese navigator, plying routes between atolls a thousand miles apart, guided only by sign of wind and wave.)

So we left off yesterday having just begun to consider the nomad’s relation with space: how they occupy it, how they move through it, how they produce it.

D&G tell us that, for the sedentary, space rapidly becomes crosshatched with grids of control and distinction of one form or another — chiefly, of course, the one that’s bound up in the distinction between *mine* and *yours*. But for the nomad, space is entirely different: smooth, like the ocean or the desert.

Critically, though, this smoothness is not isotropic, the same in all directions — at least not for those with the eyes to perceive it. For the nomad, smooth space is *marked*, strewn through with subtle “‘traits’ that are effaced and displaced with the trajectory.” And these traits can be read & navigated by: *followed*, in the same way a mason pursuing the imperatives of minor science follows the lines of force already inherent in the matter they work.

Now, “trait” is a somewhat curious word.

Formally, we don’t know that it’s already appeared in “A Thousand Plateaus,” because the terms of our project here compel us to treat “Nomadology” as a standalone essay, just as it appears in the semiotext(e) edition I picked up on St Mark’s in late ‘86. But maybe it’s OK to cheat a little, and bring some of that treatment into the reading before us?

For D&G, a “trait” is something like a minimal inscription of difference. Traits signify, as part of a system that makes something what it is.

But traits also do something else: they *rhyme*. Each one is a line leading to something other, something with which it resonates.

So for the nomad, space is a lot like (in fact, *very much indeed* like) one of those maps of wind speed & direction you have in your weather app: not a cadastral grid, but a vector field. Here traits are lines of possibility and intensity, something to be discovered rather than imposed. And the method of discovery is nothing other than movement. You feel your way.

But movement, even alert, sensitive, attuned, “haptic” movement, carries its own hazards: remember, the traits critical to navigation of space “are effaced and displaced with the trajectory.”

(One thinks here of Tarkovsky’s eponymous Stalker, moving ahead only a single stone’s throw at a time, as the latent traits of the Zone reveal themselves to him, and — all too aware that the path of even a few steps before has gone fatally indistinct — never, ever backtracking.)

The traits we steer by, then, are in constant motion, much like ourselves more of the order of becoming than of being: “Even the lamella of the desert slide over each other, producing an inimitable sound.”

“Lamella”? What a gorgeous word; evidently, in geology it refers to the thin plates of crust that cover the surface of the sand. D&G seem to mean something a little more flexible — something like a thin, continuous, deformable membrane.

We should also consider the possibility that, consciously or otherwise, D&G mean to riff on Lacan, for whom a lamella is something like a mythical bodily organ, representing the pure life force itself — something indestructible, formless and self-replicating.

I’m the furthest thing on Earth from an expert on Lacan, and I *sure* as hell would not have had that reference to hand on my original reading of “Nomadology,” but the word appears in the text only a handful of times...

so I think we’re bound to treat each of these appearances as a trait in and of itself. Shall we hold there for the evening, and resume our inquiry tomorrow?

Notes!
- Somewhat insanely, Tarkovsky’s “Stalker” is available on YouTube, officially and in its entirety: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3hBLv-HLEc

- An entire volume on Lacan’s “Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis,” incl. a contribution from the redoubtable S. Žižek & various reflections on the lamella, can be found here:
https://archive.org/details/readingseminarxi0000unse

Today we continue our investigation of the nomad and their relation with space, and we do so by immediately contending with a paradox D&G offer us: that we cannot think of the nomad in terms of movement.

Rather, they assert, “the nomad distributes himself [sic] in a smooth space, he occupies, inhabits, holds that space; that is his territorial principle. It is therefore false to define the nomad by movement. Toynbee is profoundly right to suggest that the nomad is on the contrary...

*he who does not move*” [emphasis in original]. What on Earth might this mean?

What now strikes me immediately — though, again, there’s no way in which this would have occurred to me on first reading, unequipped as I then was with any of the necessary reading or experience — is that this is a decent rendering of what the practitioner of Zen experiences. In other words, being-nomad is an *inner* orientation: a way of relating to one’s surroundings that starts in the mind, or no-mind.

To arrive without traveling is not a contradiction in terms for the Zen student, but rather a simple description of what happens as they sit still on the cushion. Nomadicity, here, is the ability to make smooth any space whatsoever that one happens to occupy, by seeing it as such.

One becomes a nomad by smoothening the space you’re in: “Whereas the migrant leaves behind a milieu that has become amorphous or hostile, the nomad is one who does not depart, does not want to depart, who clings to...

the smooth space left by the receding forest, where the steppe or the desert advance, and who invents nomadism as a response to this challenge.” Better to say, then, that *the world moves around the nomad*, who only ever occupies a single, implicitly deterritorialized position.

So while D&G mean to evoke the Bedouin style of equestrianism in the next sentence, I can’t help but hear a description of Zen practice: “Of course the nomad moves, but while seated, and he is only seated while moving.”

The very next passage introduces a concept that is pivotal for D&G, and it’s lovely besides, so I’m going to quote it at some length before circling back to unfold it:

“The nomad knows how to wait, he has infinite patience. Immobility and speed, catatonia and rush, a ‘stationary process,’ station as process — these traits of Kleist’s are eminently those of the nomad. It is thus necessay to make a distinction between *speed* and *movement* [emphasis in original]: a movement may be very fast, but

“that does not give it speed; a movement may be very slow, or even immobile, yet it is still speed. Movement is extensive, speed is intensive.”

Well. Firstly, you either get this immediately, or you don’t, and if you do it hardly requires explication. (I’m put in mind of the ferociously effective instruction producer Martin Hannett apocryphally offered the members of Joy Division in the studio, before they had quite become the band we now recognize: that they play “faster, but slower.”)

But let’s dig in a little, for the benefit of those for whom this sounds like so much pretentious doublespeak.

Firstly, what’s this about Kleist? Heinrich von Kleist was a 19th-century German poet and essayist, and the reference is to his 1810 piece “On the Marionette Theatre,” in which he describes the perfect grace with which marionettes seem to move. Kleist ascribes this grace to the lack of self-awareness on the marionette’s part, which enables them to trace paths through space and time

with perfect economy of movement. (We have a still more graceful model available to us, that neither Kleist nor even D&G would have had access to: the eerie stillness with which anything algorithmically controlled moves, like a drone or a robot arm.) This stillness and grace is where the “stationary process” resides.

And D&G use this paradoxical quality to open up an opposition between speed and the very character of movement that would seem to inhere in it. They insist that speed and movement

belong to two entirely different, indeed opposed registers of being: the intensive and the extensive.

This is a foundational distinction for D&G, so it’s worth spending some time with it. It’s one of the places — so frustrating, I know, if not infuriating, to those who come from the “hard sciences” — where they rely on established concepts from physics to signify and do more than they do in that discipline.

The physical distinction can be made like this: *extensive* quantities are those that

can be subdivided without changing their nature. Lots of familiar measurements are like this: length, area, volume, mass. The numbers add up linearly. *Intensive* quantities, on the other hand — like temperature or pressure — can’t be divided up so neatly. They’re gradients, right? And each position on the gradient is its own thing, its own situation: it’s nonsense to speak of today being half as cold as yesterday.

And importantly, these are differences in potential. *They drive processes*.

flows they produce between them. Finally we’re in a position to understand “movement” as a practice of extension in space, and “speed” as something else, an intensive quality that can even inhere in absolute stillness.

That’s a lot to get our heads around, so I think we’ll leave that to marinate overnight. For now, notes!

- Here is Kleist’s essay “On the Marionette Theater” (recall, too, that this same Kleist was the author of “Penthesilea,” invoked some weeks back): https://southerncrossreview.org/9/kleist.htm

- Here’s a scene from “24 Hour Party People” in which Andy Serkis brilliantly inhabits Martin Hannett: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90j6V8EjSuI

- And here’s what the results of that advice sound like, in Joy Division’s “She’s Lost Control” — as good a way of understanding the distinction between extensive movement and intensive speed as any I can imagine:
https://open.spotify.com/track/0rcLhYRihks3t4lFPtHhQV

Enjoy these links and I’ll see you for more “Nomadology” tomorrow!

Good news for everyone who’s been following this unfolding of “Nomadology,” or trying to, who would prefer the convenience of a single long piece: I’ve now published Part I of Notes on “Nomadology” as a free post on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/notes-on-part-i-142961660

Feel free to share the link with friends, or anyone else you think might be interested!

#deleuze #guattari #deleuzeandguattari #nomadology #athousandplateaus #theory #philosophy

“He is a vector of deterritorialization. He adds desert to desert, steppe to steppe, by a series of local operations the orientation and direction of which endlessly vary.”

What crops up at this point for me is a question that’s been looming beneath the surface of our inquiry across its entire duration, which is that of *implicit identification*. There’s a strong, though never explicitly stated, sense that the reader of the book is supposed to admire these operations, and want to emulate them,

as much as they are assumed to abjure and reject royal science, theorematicity, arborescent order, the striation of space u.s.w. u.s.w. That is: we are supposed to understand deterritorialization not merely as a tactic available to us, but as something to which we might, and ought to, aspire.

This might seem obvious, but I think it’s worth making explicit. Despite the occasional reminder that minor or nomad modes are “not better, but different,” I think we are safe in assuming that a gradient

of value exists for D&G across all the ways in which they make the distinction, and that for them the grandeur will always reside in becoming-nomad.

And therefore, that learning to recognize the qualities of nomad space is something we might want to devote some effort to. Thus: “The sand desert does not only have oases, which are like fixed points, but also rhizomatic vegetation that is temporary and shifts location according to local rains, bringing changes in the direction of the crossings.”

What a gorgeous image this is: the near-monochrome expanse of the desert swept with sheets of rain, whose patterns are only haphazardly predictable, and which raise in their wake a thin scrim of green barely less sere than the sands themselves. And it’s these outcroppings we subsist on, these patches of green we navigate by. (And sometimes, indeed, the rains fail.)

Whether or not this is a condition of being we ought to aspire to, it feels a whole lot like the condition that *is*: this is what

it means to live an intellectual life.

The register here, though, remains resolutely physical: “The same terms are used to describe ice deserts as sand deserts: there is no line separating earth and sky; there is no intermediate distance, no perspective or contour, visibility is limited; and yet there is an extraordinarily fine topology that does not rely on points or objects, but on haecceities, on sets of relations (winds, undulations of snow or sand, the song of the sand or the creaking...

“of ice, the tactile qualities of both); it is a tactile space, or rather ‘haptic,’ a sonorous much more than a visible space...” [ellipsis in original].

I take such pleasure in this passage, simply as description, because I recognize it immediately, as will anyone who’s ever walked alone across a moor in the gloaming. The satisfactions involved may be what we think of as “Type 2 fun” — i.e. those that only surface in retrospect, in the recounting — but they are nonetheless real. And they are

here redoubled because, D&G tell us, we ought to consider bringing this same kind of perceptual intelligence to *every* space in which we might find ourselves, thereby transforming it. What would that feel like? What kind of results might it produce for us, and who might we become in making the attempt?

How about that word “haptic,” though? Why do they emphasize it and what might that connote here? What’s particularly interesting to me is that the word, and the concepts it enfolds, has enjoyed