Exterranean: Extraction in the Humanist Anthropocene

Contents

List of Figures

Incipit: From Sub- to Exterranean

I: Terra Global Circus

1. Terra Has Standing

2. Terre’s Brilliant Mines

3. Terra Globalized

II: Welcome to Mineland

4. Sickly Mountainsides

5. Demonic Mines

III: Hiding in Exterranean Matter

6. Geomedia

7. Saline Intimacies

Explicit

Acknowledgments

Notes

Index

Figures

1. Measuring the Ear of the Anthropos, from Alphonse Bertillon, Identification anthropométrique (1893)

2. Gaïa Global Circus

3. Terra versus the Miner, woodcut from Paulus Niavis, Judicium Jovis

4. Terra on the Ara Pacis, Rome

5. Studio of Nicholas Hilliard, Queen Elizabeth I (c. 1599), known as the Hardwick Hall portrait

6. Wheel of Fortune, from Boethius, Consolation de la philosophie

7. Placer mining in Agricola, De re metallica

8. The river Aurence in the Parc du Moulin Pinard, Limoges

9. Gold-colored specks and rocks from the river Aurence

10. Martin Waldseemüller’s terrestrial globe gores (1507)

11. Terra as globe in Münster, Cosmographia (1572)

12. World map in Münster, Cosmographia (1575)

13. Mining in Münster, Cosmographia (1552)

14. Théodore de Bry, Atahualpa, from Americae, Part VI (1596)

15. Potosí, in Pedro Ciezca de Leon, Parte primera de la Chronica del Perv (1554)

16. The silver mine in Potosí, from Théodore de Bry, America (1590)

17. Agricultural terrain along the Capac Ñan

18. Philippe Quesne’s play La nuit des taupes (The Night of the Moles)

19. Agricola, De re metallica (1556)

20. Agricola, De re metallica (1556)

21. Francisco Goya, Fight with Cudgels (Riña a garrotazos, or Duelo a garrotazos) (1819–1823)

22. Mining on a hillside, from Agricola, De re metallica (1556)

23. Ways of descending into the mines, from Agricola, De re metallica (1556)

24. Drawing of fossilized crocodile found in Caen in 1817, from Eugène Eudes-Deslongchamps, Notes paléontologiques (1863–1869)

25. Map of Caen, from François de Belleforest, La cosmographie universelle (1575)

26. Exposed stone in a dry moat at Caen Castle

27. Hôtel de Nollent, Caen

28. Petrarchan triumph engraved on Norman limestone at the Hôtel de Nollent

29. Hawaiian Plastiglomerate, 2013

30. L’aile des statues, Hôtel d’Escoville, Caen

31. William the Conqueror’s Epitaph in Charles de Bourgueville, Recherches et antiquitez

32. Benevenuto Cellini’s saliera (c. 1540)

33. The evaporation ponds on the island of Oléron in the twentieth century

34. Ecognostic jigsaw

What the Earth has hidden and kept underground . . . destroys us.

—Pliny, Natural History

Incipit

From Sub- to Exterranean

. . . the voice-less things once placed as a décor surrounding the usual spectacles, all those things that never interested anyone, from now on thrust themselves brutally and without warning into our schemes and maneuvers.

—Michel Serres, Le contrat naturel

Humans in the sixteenth century did not observe things with a cold eye, with a detached gaze. They felt wholly bound up with them. They are voices with which all inquiry and all exchange is a veritable dialogue.

—Jean Céard, La nature et les prodiges

This is a book about the extraction of stuff from the Earth, a process in which matter goes from being sub- to exterranean.¹ Its driving conviction is that if we have stumbled into the Anthropocene, this age in which humans are the major geological re-shapers of Planet Earth, it is not only because we emit but first and foremost because we extract. Much of the CO2 that now fills our atmosphere, currently at a concentration of about 400 parts per million, was released by the combustion of stuff (coal, oil, gas, etc.) that used to be underground and materially connected to the Earth.² While we know this, we clearly do not always feel or remember it. The document known as the Paris Agreement, produced within the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (COP 21) in December 2015, is thirty-one pages long. It uses the word emission a total of ninety-eight times. Words such as extraction and mining appear not at all, as if what we burn had no origin. An exercise in ecological mindfulness, this book’s aim is to make perceptible the material and immaterial entanglements of the Earth from which we extract, the human and nonhuman agents of extraction, and the extracted matter with which we live daily. In crafting the concept of the exterranean, my hope—and here I follow the recent work of Bruno Latour—is to produce a shift away from the idea that to think at the scale of the planet in the Anthropocene is to keep in our mind the figure of a globe. We can no longer make do with looking back at Earth as if from nowhere or as if from outer space, the kind of global thought associated with Lucian’s Icaromennipus, the inventions of early modern cartographers, and most famously with the Earthrise photo.³ In place of the globe’s totalized Earth, this book presents Earth relationally: We live not just on the Earth but with it.⁴

If to think of the Earth as a globe means to take oneself for God, as Latour argues it is, then we should instead seek out a sense of planetary scale that is obtained via the ability to establish more or less numerous and most importantly reciprocal relations; that is, we should follow feedback loops and avoid totality.⁵ This is why in his most recent work Latour has turned to explore Earth’s critical zone, that spot on the envelope of the biosphere that "extends vertically from the top of the lower atmosphere down to the so-called sterile rocks and horizontally wherever it is possible to obtain reliable data on the various fluxes of ingredients [i.e., all kinds of elements, whether chemical, physical, political, etc.] through the chosen site."⁶ Such a turn was central to Latour’s 2016 exhibition Reset Modernity! at the Zentrum für Kunst und Medien Karlsruhe. In a room titled From Land to Disputed Territories, a sign reads: Instead of looking at the ‘blue planet,’ what about digging through critical zones, examining the thin planetary membrane that contains all forms of living beings?⁷ The room responds by juxtaposing inter alia Pierre Huyghe’s Nymphéas transplant (14–18), an aquarium inspired by—or better, recomposed after—Monet’s famous Nymphéas painting and maps detailing the extensive footprint of oil extraction in Texas, Canada, the Middle East, Nigeria, and the Arctic,⁸ in order to direct attention away from the globe on which we live but which we can never truly see and toward the critical zones on which life depends and with which we clearly do interact each and every second. This concern—to eschew globes and the Global (to which Latour gives a capital G) and to avoid the equally troublesome Local (also capitalized)—is also central to, and further developed in, Latour’s latest book Où atterrir? (Where to Land?), which came into print as I finalized Exterranean. There, Latour argues against the Global, which "apprehends all things from afar, as if they were exterior to the social world and quite indifferent to human concerns," and in favor of the terrestrial (le terrestre), which "apprehends the same assemblages [agencements] as if seen up close, interior to collectives and sensitive [sensibles] to the action of humans to whom they keenly react."⁹ Exterranean is in many ways an enterprise parallel to Latour’s turn to critical zones and to the terrestrial and might be seen as anticipating or responding to Où atterir?’s call for new descriptive cartographies of the terrestrial, although its scope is more limited—in what follows, I am only interested in the material and immaterial, visible and invisible, knottings of the Earth and the stuff that gets disconnected from it.¹⁰

Before we go any further, it is worth asking: If there is a need to rephenomenalize extraction, then why also a new word? How does it help to talk about the exterranean? My intention is that the new term respond to a need to grasp at, in just one word, all of the following: the land/ground/place where extraction occurs (terra), the planet to which this land/ground/place belongs (Terra, tellus),¹¹ the action of moving matter away from the land/ground/place/planet (ex), and that matter itself (which, removed, becomes—and always will be, can never not be—exterranean). In opposition to this word, the terms mining and extraction create a cut and make that cut invisible. To mine (< OFr. miner = to dig under land, a rock, so as to make it collapse; cf. to undermine) captures the moment of collapse—mines are, etymologically, places for disintegration.¹² To extract (< Lat. extrahere < ex- [out] + trahere [to draw]) emphasizes the action of removal. Both terms (to mine, to extract) perform a rupture: The ground/hillside/planet becomes raw material/product, such that what is one moment merely a part of the Rhondda Valley is transformed, materially and ontologically, into coal. The words to mine and to extract make us forget where that coal comes from. To talk of the exterranean, on the contrary, allows us to think-feel material continuities and to take into hermeneutic custody all of the human and nonhuman agents and materials of the process. This is, theoretically, an important move, for it privileges neither the miner, nor the pickaxe, nor the valley, nor the firedamp, nor the gold, nor the ring wearer. The term is capacious, and for that reason—and it is theoretically productive this way—what it designates is harder to access. It is possible to point to a miner’s pickaxe and conclude: At this precise moment, a miner is extracting marble from this quarry. We can, still easily, call this exterranean activity, for matter is being removed from (ex) the ground (terra). It is not possible, however, when we nominalize the adjective, to point to, to localize, the exterranean—just as we can watch a film but not see the filmic. Accessing the exterranean thus requires multiple entry points and perspectives, renewed attempts to perceive connections that we normally overlook.

To prepare fully for exploring the consequences of this proposed conceptual leap, let us first refashion the OED’s entry for subterranean, substituting for sub the preposition ex + ablative (out from, away) and allowing terra to be infiltrated with Terra, as if the term were now to enter the dictionary:

1. a. Of a physical phenomenon, force, movement, etc.: operating or performed moving away from the earth; occurring out of or from the ground/the planet.

b. Of an inanimate object: existing, lying, or situated apart from the ground/planet; formed or constructed by coming from, by being disconnected from, the ground/the planet, either naturally or by human activity.

c. Of a person, animal, etc.: constituted from, or living or working in a movement away from, the ground/planet.

d. Bot. Of a plant, part of a plant, fungus, etc.: growing of/away from the ground.

2. Existing, belonging to, or characteristic of a distancing, or distanced, relationship to hell or the underworld; partaking of, but separate from, the infernal.

3. fig. Existing or working in a manner that is at a certain remove from the clandestine, not quite hidden.

To summarize: Exterranean, then, are those physical phenomena that perform an action in a direction that leads away from the ground/planet (e.g., mining, extraction, but also the accountancy of a mining company, whatever other activities contribute to the possibility of mining, etc.); inanimate (but perhaps vibrant) objects that were, but no longer are, part of the ground/planet (e.g., coal, gold, iron, etc.); animate beings that are constituted from, or who live, work, or move, in a relationship of growing distance from the ground/planet; plants that grow from the ground/earth. By extension, exterranean is what exists, belongs to, or is characteristic of moving away from the infernal underworld. And figuratively—if we want this opportunity—exterranean is what exists or works in a nonhidden manner. A book titled Exterranean will thus logically strive to account for a lot of realities and phenomena, and it must logically do so from multiple, and not necessarily a priori reconcilable, perspectives.¹³

The Humanist Anthropocene

In what follows, I approach and develop the notion of the exterranean from what might appear at first to be an oblique perspective, by engineering collisions between the reality and theory of our present moment and texts and images from early modern Europe, a collision laboratory that I refer to as the Humanist Anthropocene. Because the whole book happens in this intellectual sandbox, a brief aside here is essential, before returning to the exterranean in particular. I shall thus be putting, because of their differences and différends, the anthropos of the Anthropocene in dialogue with the homo of humanism, a dialogue that aims to respond to Dipesh Chakrabarty’s central insight: However anthropogenic the situation of the Anthropocene may be, there is no corresponding ‘humanity’ that in its oneness can act as a political agent.¹⁴ I expect that both scholars of early modern Europe and theorists of the Anthropocene might, on first blush, diagnose here a bad case of anachronism. Surely, both might say, the Anthropocene calls for posthumanism. To appreciate the work that the proposed encounter might allow, we must begin not by defining humanism and the Anthropocene but by untranslating—as I have done in more detail elsewhere—the terms homo and anthropos from which they are hewn.¹⁵ Both appear to refer to something like man or human, but they actually apprehend quite different aspects of the human and populate our academic lexicon in vastly different ways. On the one hand, there is the anthropos of anthropology—s/he is an object of study, traditionally marked as foreign/other, and defined in opposition to the traditionally Western, notebook-wielding academic. We find the same reified anthropos in anthropometry, the science of measuring the human body—s/he is not the hand that measures but the ear caught between the calipers (Figure 1).¹⁶ The extent to which this observer-measurer might, in either case, share humanity with the studied anthropos is uncertain, put in parentheses.

Figure 1.

Measuring the Ear of the Anthropos, from Alphonse Bertillon, Identification anthropométrique (1893). Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library.

The anthropos of anthropology and anthropometry, the observed, measured, out-there-and-not-quite-me human, reappears in and constitutes the Anthropocene—from the very moment Eugene Stoermer, a professor of biology, and Paul Crutzen, the Nobel Prize–winning atmospheric chemist, coin and popularize the term, which is precisely why the Anthropocene raises, as many thinkers have noted, such complex questions about agency, about who we are, about how we relate to what we have done. We can observe this distancing of the human in Stoermer’s and Crutzen’s very first (and very short) article about the Anthropocene, published in Global Change Newsletter in May 2000. Take the following extracts from that article, which I list here in the order they appear:

The expansion of mankind, both in numbers and per capita exploitation of Earth’s resources, has been astounding.

In a few generations, mankind is exhausting the fossil fuels that were generated over several hundred million years.

More than half of all accessible fresh water is used by mankind.

Human activity has increased the species extinction rate by [a] thousand to ten thousand fold in the tropical rain forest.

Mankind releases many toxic substances in the environment.

Coastal wetlands are also affected by humans, having resulted in the loss of 50% of the world’s mangroves.

Mechanized human predation (fisheries) removes more than 25% of the primary production of the oceans in upwelling regions and 35% in the temperate continental shelf regions.

Anthropogenic effects are also well illustrated by the history of biotic communities that leave remains in lake sediments.

It seems to us more than appropriate to emphasize the central role of mankind in geology and ecology by proposing to use the term "anthropocene" for the current geological epoch.¹⁷

Over the course of their short article, the two scientists place the greatest emphasis on mankind (i.e., Menschheit), turning quickly to Greek to speak of anthropogenic effects and finally of the Anthropocene. Like practitioners of anthropometry, they seek to understand and to measure—from a distance of scientific analysis—an alienated and strange human. If we imagine graphs that chart a variety of anthropogenic changes wrought and written on Planet Earth—atmospheric CO2 concentration, great floods, the fall in global biodiversity, the loss of tropical rainforest and woodland, ozone depletions, as well as correlated measures of human activity: population, GDP, water use, number of motor vehicles, McDonald’s restaurants, international tourism—we see a callipered, averaged, abstract human that is not us. Our hands turning the keys of our car ignitions are there, somewhere, within those averages, but completely impossible to locate. As I am far from the first to note, the anthropos of the Anthropocene is thus everyone and no one, all of us and none of us, a guilty party to whom it is difficult to assign agency—and first and foremost, a human observed and aggregated by an agency whose humanness is ill-defined.

On the other hand, there is the homo of humanism, a word that, having been around a lot longer than Anthropocene, possesses an even greater ability to befuddle. Let’s be clear from the outset about two points. First, the humanism of the Humanist Anthropocene is early modern humanism. Second, this homo is neither our hero nor our savior, just a second, different, human. Before directly addressing the second point, and given that a certain understanding of the word humanism all too often these days becomes posthumanism’s mystifying faire-valoir, a problem of evident consequence for this book’s own suturing of the early modern and the contemporary, we must attend to the first point and unravel the term.¹⁸ As Kenneth Gouwens has shown recently in an urgent article titled What Posthumanism Isn’t, Cary Wolfe in his What Is Posthumanism? pays negligible attention to early modern humanism—there is no mention of Petrarch, Valla, Erasmus, or others in Wolfe’s book. No study can be exhaustive, of course. Problematic, however, as Gouwens demonstrates in no uncertain terms, is that despite this lack of coverage, the humanism that Wolfe sets up as a foil resembles only marginally how leading scholars of intellectual and cultural history have used the term with respect to Europe in the period extending roughly from 1250 to 1600.¹⁹ Gouwens’s admonition is surely justified: Wolfe opens his book by stating that "[most] definitions of humanism look something like the following one from Wikipedia: ‘Humanism is a broad category of ethical philosophies that affirm the dignity and worth of all people,’ to which he opposes posthumanism as a counterconcept capable of decentering of the human.²⁰ As Gouwens phrases it, Wikipedia, while as good a place as any to eavesdrop on the Zeitgeist, here offers up a definition that is wildly misleading."²¹ Rosi Braidotti similarly, in her The Posthuman, also emphasizes the idea of a de-centering of Man as constitutive of posthumanism and—as if to stage this decentering as a simultaneous rejection of specifically early modern humanism—she opposes Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man (c. 1490) to various new artworks that rework it, such as Maggie Stiefvater’s Vitruvian Cat, to encapsulate the idea that early modern humanism has been superceded by posthumanism.²²

Such stories—even as they proclaim to be theoretical rather than strictly historical—are disingenuous. For sure, some early modern humanists seem to celebrate human excellence, anthropocentrism, or human exceptionalism—but such celebrations are not universal and certainly never constitutive of humanism; moreover, they frequently result from misreadings of key texts, most notably of Pico della Mirandola’s so-called De hominis dignitate (On the Dignity of Man).²³ If one needs a memorable reminder that early modern humanists could—just like posthumanist thinkers—decenter the human, one need only think of Montaigne’s quip in the Apologie de Raimond Sebond (Apology of Raymond Sebond), part of course of a much longer and more complex argument, that [la] plus calamiteuse et fraile de toutes les creatures, c’est l’homme, et quant et quant la plus orgueilleuse ([the] most wretched and frail of all creatures is man, and at the same time the most puffed up with pride).²⁴ The point is not just that Montaigne and many other early modern humanists were already posthumanists in many regards but rather that to oppose posthumanism to early modern humanism is simply erroneous and confusing. It is important to remember that the popular—let’s call it Wikipedian—understanding of humanism as some cocktail of secular anthropocentrism and generalized empathy for humanity has a long and complicated history. Vito R. Giustiano plots that history back to eighteenth-century France, when a 1765 journal article reasoned that the general love for humanity might be called humanism, for it is high time that a word be created for such a beautiful and necessary idea.²⁵ After the various senses given to the word by Marx, Feuerbach, Heidegger, and others, the 1933 Humanist Manifesto, signed by thirty-four intellectuals including John Dewey, would secure for good the idea of humanism as a secular celebration of human potential, replacing traditional religious beliefs by stalwart confidence in our capability to achieve moral perfection and happiness.²⁶

Early modern humanism, then, is something different from the 1765 and 1933 versions and certainly not a synonym for anthropocentrism. For some first definitions about it and the homo who stands in opposition to the anthropos it can be asserted that this human is not an object of study (as is the anthropos) but rather the subject who does the studying. This changes everything. In classical Latin, humanus had two complementary meanings: As the adjective of homo, it indeed could just refer to someone as a member of a species, that is, German Menschheit, but it could also refer to those (acquired, not innate) qualities, especially learnedness, that marked a human being as fully embracing the possibilities of humanity via study, that is, German Humanität.²⁷ Thus Cicero spoke, in the Pro archia, of the studia humanitatis (i.e., the ancestor of the humanities) to refer to "all of those related arts which one studies for the first time in . . . youth [in order to] attain humanitas."²⁸ We see here that the anthropos and the homo part ways, as Latin humanitas comes to betoken not an eternal and shared humanness but something additional and that separates the human not from the divine but from the uncivilized and the unlearned. There is the bare homo, and then there is the humanus homo—this is why it was not an uncommon compliment to refer to an esteemed author as humanissime vir, that is, most worthy (i.e., most human) man.²⁹ The productive tension between the homo and the anthropos crystallizes in that famous line from Terence’s Self-Tormentor: "I am a human [homo sum] and, I think, nothing pertaining to humans is foreign to me [humani nil a me alienum puto]," a line said by Augustine to have been met by great applause on its first being spoken and that Montaigne inscribed on one of the beams in his tower library.³⁰ Terence’s formula asserts an earnest and direct connection between the thinking human (homo sumputo) and the general category of the human (humani), between which nothing (nihil) can come. The line says nothing less than the exact opposite of the Anthropocene, which announces rather: I look on at what humans have done, and it and they remain wholly alien to me. One figure of the human beckons alienation; the other does not. This is the homo’s potential within the Humanist Anthropocene, then: to provide a subject to the anthropos’s object.³¹

The subjectness of the homo is constitutive of early modern humanism. It is indeed symptomatic of this that before the word humanism came—in the 1840s, via the writings of Karl Hagen and Georg Voigt, to connect explicitly the term humanism and the early modern period³²—it was first the term humanista that entered circulation in fifteenth-century Italy to name a teacher of humanae litterae, that is, texts of classical antiquity.³³ Before a movement or a corpus, there were thinking subjects. What interests me in these particular thinking-reading-translating-writing subjects is—and the weighing up of this hypothesis is precisely the subject of the chapters that follow—that they are not modern in the sense that Bruno Latour gives to that term. The founding intuition of the Humanist Anthropocene is that early modern humanists read and wrote with a sense of what Latour calls analytic continuity (la continuité des analyses), which the project of modernity largely dismantled to the point that the representation of nonhumans came to belong to science while science came to be no longer "allowed to have any