This is more of a disorganised reflection than a review. When I look around the room or “studio” which I have occupied for the longest one thing that stands out to me is the meticulous and clinical bareness of it. I have nothing on my walls and instead of bookshelves I keep my books in cupboards. At the moment there is a box with my new pair of shoes. I’m very pleased with the idea that this at first sight could belong to anyone and reveals nothing about me. The structure of this pleasure is simply that a person cannot tear me down if they know nothing about me. I grew up first with my grandparents and then in the rooms of others and then when I eventually had my own room my parents had their own ideas of what constituted acceptable and unacceptable expression. So I never got into the habit(!) (habitare = to dwell in Latin) of existing in a way where I would leave traces of myself or letting it be known I had a real existence. Agamben writes: “Habito is a frequentative of habeo: to inhabit is a special mode of having, a having so intense that it is no longer possession at all. By dint of having something, we inhabit it, we belong to it.”
Recently, for some reason, I’ve asked myself what kind of person I am. It’s a pointless question. But, out of many things, I would have liked to be the kind of person who can express their selves in their room without fear. Once I had a reproduction of a painting of two mandarin ducks by Shōson on the wall facing my desk and an envelope above the door frame containing my wishes (based on a Chinese tradition and it looked aesthetically pleasing). I put away the painting by Shōson when I moved away and haven’t gotten around to putting it up again. I also stopped wishing for things so the envelope went away too.
I lived with a set designer for the BBC for some time which gave me a certain confidence for interior personalisation. Maybe when I feel compelled to personalise my room I will put up reproductions of Picasso’s sketches of goats, my most loved depictions of horses (my favourite animal), Snoopy, and other such things. At the bottom of the dilemma is this: that I’m not quite sure how to be a person.
The Italian for “bedroom” is “camera”. I’ve always liked this word because it makes me think of the camera obscura and the visual capacities of opacity. Camera comes from the Ancient Greek καμάρα (kamara) which meant vaulted chamber. Perhaps that my “studio” reflects a certain guardedness means it is faithful to the original sense of the term. I admired that there was so much person in the images Agamben shows of his studies. Everything from Walter Benjamin shrine to the puppet. It was so endearing.
I will say my only concern with this auto-biography is that he doesn’t mention his wife. I find it difficult to accept that an almost lifelong partner who is also a writer and professor in their own right had no intellectual influence on his development. This makes the self-portrait seem quite insincere and superficial. This is especially the case as it becomes tedious towards the last few pages where he hurriedly mentions all the intellectual figures he associated with and knew. These friendships (as he calls them) which seem like superficial acquaintances to the reader make me wonder at the affective depth of all he says.
Even so, this criticism has made it possible for me to voice my problem with the idea of literary and intellectual ‘circles’—I find that because they are exclusionary and depend on a narcissistic cult of self they are just so gauche and self-conscious! I can’t imagine the vapidity of people who treat human connection like a networking event but play pretend at feeling things. This sense of superficiality distracts from his project of giving an account of himself through others.
Upon reading this, I am amused. Is it possible that to share a soul with another person who is also living? And how can a person even say of themselves ‘I share a soul with Agamben?’ I found it somehow unpleasant I would have a thought like that. But intellectual tendencies aside, specific experiences and thoughts such as the one on belonging and moving properties, specific aspects of Zorastianism, the idea of vegetative life as relational life, even the passage on urination… and on alphabet books and Pinocchio: in a seminar I once selected a sculpture by Étienne-Martin (Abécédaire, 1967) discuss with the class. I had related it to the Abécédaire of Victor Hugo (and also Gilles Deleuze). The idea was to relate to Foucault’s notion of episteme in relation to personal knowledge. The professor mentioned Pinocchio’s alphabet book: Geppetto sells his coat to buy Pinocchio an ABC book: education would be the individuating force which transforms him into a real boy. I had long since been preoccupied with The Adventures of Pinocchio since it was one of the few books I had as a child and because in the idea of wanting to become real I found an image of my earliest suffering. I also like the idea of an adventure—fucking off is always very appealing. Pinocchio haunts me always in relation to the adventure. It’s true because I was watching JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure and Pinocchio features in Stone Oceans where he keeps asking Narciso, “I was your favourite as a child, wasn’t I?”
Back to Agamben. So this is ultimately a book on the transformative impact of love and how it influences one’s philosophical practice. For me his view on love—one which relates loving to memory and knowledge—is difficult to accept. I agree with the transformative aspect nascere connotes (to love is individuating, it is to accept the invitation to be transformed). For those who want all the benefits of love whilst preserving themselves, they prove incapable of loving because in the acceptance to transform, there is no question of the I and We. It is a matter of re-negotiating the self with itself. On the other hand, what Agamben presents as meditative and reflective but is just a cliché of love as a site of property relations and control.
“Smara in Sanskrit means both love and memory. We love someone because we remember them and we remember because we love. In loving we remember and in remembering we love. This is why loving means being unable to forget.”
Against this I would say that love is constituted in forgetting. This finds its most prominent form in the act of forgiveness. To which he writes:
“But in truth it also means that we can no longer have a memory of it, that love is beyond memory, immemorably, ceaselessly present.”