
How to Talk to a Cat: Buber, Philosophy, and Dialogue with Unspeaking Things
(Prepared by and with permission of the author and Indiana University Press) PROMO code below
CONTENTS
Introduction: Dialogue and the Maintenance of Domestic Bubbles
1. Homes: Domesticity and Conflict
2. Animals: Communication and Language
3. Domestic Cats: Anxiety and Singularity
4. Plants: Dispersion and Surfaces
5. Babies: Noise and the Nursery
6. Sensuality: Tools, Crafts, Decoration
Conclusion: Death and Dialogue
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Martin Buber was a Viennese philosopher, a theater director, an aesthete, a cat lover, and a Jew. Like many of the fin de siècle set, he had a hunger for immediacy which clashed with an internalized Germanic culture of weight and precision, one sustained by a near-constant ingestion of books. Read from a present where it seems like nobody reads, the fear of the written word that permeated Buber’s world seems quaint, if not delusional. But if we transfer that fear from books to screens it’s more understandable and helps explain why Buber pits dialogue against the world of the grid: the world where everything has its place, whether on a page, in a network, or as part of a model. In rejecting the grid, Buber has lots of company, good and bad, but he stands apart because his work on dialogue and is neither mystifying nor irrational. Buber’s writing can be treacly or fantastical, but his ideas are not. Dialogue is strange, but not irrational; relationships are confusing, but not incoherent, and while we may have grown unaccustomed to reasoning about these matters, that does not make them unreasonable.
This book is about dialogue with entities that don’t use language. In simple terms, it’s about talking-to creatures that don’t speak. Talking-to them, not talking-about them. But what is this “dialogue,” and how much does it differ from the standard definition of the word? Buber’s notion of dialogue (Zwiesprache) is modeled on human conversation but covers much more than discussion. Dialogue is bigger than conversation, but sparser in detail. If we strip dialogue down to the beams we can define it like this: Dialogue is an attentive and reciprocal relationship, a relationship where we are directed toward another creature. Conversation is just one type of dialogue, although it is perhaps the easiest way into the concept. [1]
…
Why this word?
The word in question is dialogue, or Zwiesprache. But why stick with this overused term, one worn near to death by human resources departments and wellness clichés? And why use a term that suggests speech, when the goal is to think about beings that don’t speak?
I’ve a few reasons. First, dialogue evokes a common phenomenon, an experience we’ve all (hopefully) had: an intense, reciprocal, back-and-forth conversation. True, by dialogue, I mean something broader—a much larger set of relationships of which conversation is only a part. Dialogue is a type of relationship, and conversation is merely one type of dialogue. Still, for many, the experience of a powerful conversation is the easiest way to access the broader concept of dialogue. Like Buber, I merely extend the term so that it also covers relationships where there is no speech and where our partner is not human. [5]
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Domestic Maintenance
Dialogue requires a maintenance budget—we cannot spend everything on the encounter. While the I-You encounter establishes its own place and time, dialogue veers in and out of the space-time of the absolute encounter, so it needs a place to be contained and protected. It is often best if this place cultivates and supports several kinds of encounters that work together to form dialogues. The same comforts that facilitate human dialogues can also inspire nonhuman encounters. This is why the domestic—however fraught—is a chief place for nonhuman dialogue.
The domestic support systems required by human dialogue are hidden, but nonhuman dialogue exposes them. Human speech, especially between friends, often seems effortless, weightless and placeless, in a word: easy. Dialogue with mute beings is different, it is troublesome, and for this reason the forces which sustain it are more conspicuous. Nowhere are dialogue’s supports more visible than in the home, where the forces which sustain the domestic also create an atmosphere that encourages dialogues. In this book I avoid idealized, withdrawn, or aseptic concepts of the home, or any model where the family lives outside of time and politics. The desire to live outside of history, while perfectly understandable, is a trap. Instead, I use a concept of the home drawn from Jewish political thought and psychoanalysis. Seen as such, the home is set within politics and history, even as it develops a membrane to protect itself from them. Building and protecting this membrane provides dialogue with the space it requires. [12]
- HOMES: Domesticity and Conflict
The edifice of twentieth-century Jewish thought has many chambers, and surely one of its most dazzling is the philosophy of relationships. But philosophy untempered by materialism tends to present relationships as placeless: They occur between men of good intention and similar income and seem to float above the world. There is a logic to this placelessness. From the perspective of someone in the midst of an encounter, the background does seem to recede; the location feels less important than the happening. But dialogue takes place over time and needs to be sustained even as we fade in and out of it. When we think about how to sustain dialogue place moves from the margins toward the center of our thinking. Some places are more conducive to dialogue than others; some places contain and shelter dialogues better than others. [14]
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The domestic is often lazily thought of as an unimportant or castrated space, much as the domestic animal is considered an unimportant or castrated wild animal. If we think of the domestic as a substandard or less-real space or consider the term domestication to be as a slur, we impoverish our thinking about dialogue and how to cultivate it. Conversely, to valorize the domestic, as if it were intrinsically good, is to instrumentalize it, to turn it into a faddish weapon of the weak. [15]
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From the avuncular to the paternal, the queer enclave or the hippie commune, what all these domestic spaces share, even the most antiseptic suburban monument to fear, is that countless creatures dwell in them. But of these creatures, only a few really enter our dialogical space. Granted, some of us may speak with spiders, but who has had regular conversations with silverfish? One should not too blithely embrace our involvement with companion species. Yes, my skin is covered with bugs, but I don’t notice or care about them. My house was “home” to many stray children, especially those with artistic inclinations. My mother adopted them, the walls adopted mice, the chimney adopted bats, and so on, but the full members of the household—meaning those able to speak and be heard—were the humans and the pets.
This may be good, it may be bad, but it’s how the domestic works: It is a selectively permeable space, not an open one. Slaughtering moths without a thought, we plant flowers for monarchs in our front yards. Culture and location determine which animals are allowed in: Dialogically speaking, “wild” animals are merely animals you don’t usually encounter. A friend of mine grew up in a swarm, surrounded by birds (literally hundreds of them), and had a goat for a pet. I can barely imagine this, and it sounds horrifying to me. One person’s wilderness is another person’s house. We wake in an unseen swarm, but alongside only a few [24]
- ANIMALS: Communication and Language
What does Buber mean when he says that we can dialogue with creatures who cannot speak? Typically, dialogue is a certain use of language, a type of talking, so how is it possible without speech? To understand this, we’ll look at our relationships with animals, what Buber calls the “threshold” of language: “Here the relationship vibrates in the dark and remains below language.” It’s a good place to start because many of us already have language-like relationships with animals. After exploring the hopelessly broad notion of animal we will move on to domestic animals and eventually trade them in for the even more specific Felis catus (house cat).
There is a gap between humans and nonhuman animals. This gap and what it means pose a serious difficulty, one that many theorists try to overcome by fiat. Despite our desire to emphasize our overlapping lives, the chasms between humans and nonhumans remain, and no effusive prose can change this. The most noticeable of these gaps is language. Unsupported by language, animal dialogues face complications that rarely affect human relations. When ensuring that both conversants are on the same page, that we are not projecting our thoughts and feelings onto our partner, animal dialogue presents different dilemmas than human conversation does. Although these difficulties may bedevil practice, they are an asset for theory: It’s easier to think about something when its cracks are showing. Spoken language makes dialogue easy, and when things are easy and straightforward, why think about them? The ability to do things with words, to treat words as things, is an extraordinary power. But speech, because it is facile, obscures its own conditions [26]
- DOMESTIC CATS: Anxiety and Singularity
Cats are useless, and the history of their domestication reflects this. Cats moved in because they wanted to, and we kept them because we like them. Domestication has changed cats, but they are still very much like their undomesticated cousins. The primary differences between the two are size and sociality. Domestic cats are smaller, more communicative, and more social, whereas Felis silvestris lybica are solitary; domestic cats, even when running wild, enjoy the existence of other cats. Finally, the range and frequency of their sounds increase (such as the meows made when they want attention), and “apart from when they are in heat . . . and when they are angry, adult cats do not usually ‘talk’ to each other. The sounds they make are mostly for our human ears.” Cats communicate with us and for us. The same can be said of our conversations with them. [39]
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The animal—in this case, the cat—is the preeminent bearer of anxiety about becoming because the animal knows anxiety in a way we cannot. Much as speech irrevocably transforms our sense of self, it also eases our nervousness about becoming by hiding it from us. The cat “owns” anxiety because it knows and expresses it better than we can.[44]
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How do you dialogue with a cat? By talking to it, petting it, and—for the two writers’ cats discussed here—looking at it looking at you. Dialogue is a common relationship with uncommon (singular) beings. The move between the general categories of the relation and the singularity of the creatures involved (between cats in general and a specific cat) requires us to mobilize tools and methods both within and outside of dialogue. This book stands outside of dialogue, the moving of a boundary by Derrida’s cat, within it. What we cannot do is pretend these lines have been canceled or that all our conversation partners are the same. Groups and lines, kinds and types, these cannot be overcome by fiat, and if we try to do so, we end up being unjust to the beings we encounter. It would be not only cruel to expect the same kind of dialogue from a baby as from an adult or from a cat as a dog; it would also be stupid. [57]
- PLANTS: Dispersion and Surfaces
Animals, especially mammals, are probably the easiest nonhumans to dialogue with. There are various reasons for this—many animals are social, emit sounds, and use sign systems—but movement is central. Animals move in roughly the same way and at the same tempo as humans do; both the tortoise and the hare possess locomotion and gestures on which we can base a folk psychology. With animals, Buber’s belief in nonhuman encounters is easily accepted. This is not the case for things that don’t move or, like plants, that move very differently than we do. The slow movement of plant life can, however, help attune us to the time of dialogue. Where the I-You encounter is fast and takes only an instant—or, at most, a moment— dialogue can be stretched out over days or years, a fact easily missed when we restrict ourselves to human communication. Once more, it is the difficulties of plant dialogues that make them useful for theory. [58]
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A significant portion of modern Jewish philosophy is concerned with interpretation. The brief flourishings of interest in Jewish thought are almost always driven by this interest in interpretation. It is hermeneutics—not the ethical monotheism industrial complex—that Jewish thought contributes to larger discourses. But Jewish interpretive thought is often concerned exclusively with writing. The fact that most creatures don’t read has led too many Jewish philosophers to ignore the natural world as uncomprehending and uninteresting. This is a mistake. It does not take much imagination to extend the concept of hermeneutics beyond the literate human (even if writing remains the focus of hermeneutics). Indeed, when Freud claims, “Psychoanalysis was above all an art of interpretation,” he shows us a way interpretation can be extended to nontextual material realms (such as sex and shitting). [71] …
It might seem strange to say interpretation is more basic than knowing, but we find instances of interpretation long before we find instances of knowing. At the very least, plant interpretation is more like our interpretation than plant knowing is like our knowing. [72]
- BABIES: Noise and the Nursery
Babies are, in a literal sense, prelinguistic, as most of them are on their way to language. Loud and aggressive communicators, babies signal with indexes and icons, screams and cries, not words. Not all babies will develop into language, but (I assume) you and other readers of this book are ex-babies. This embarrassing fact might lead one to expect that baby dialogue would be easy for us, or at least easier than others discussed in this book: Although I have never been a cat or a tree, I have been a baby. But my previous job experience offers me little guidance. I have no recollection of being a baby, and my own infants were as foreign to me as were my cats. Perhaps more so. One of my cats lived with me for twenty-one years, whereas infancy is temporary; once you’re used to it, it’s gone. [77]
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I have known people, real people, who believe you can talk to God, but who do not extend the same courtesy to babies. I understand: Babies are loud, chaotic, and often disgusting. …
The expressive does not thrum and pulse like the divine spheres; rather, it spits and wails. Babies take up inside our walls and pull us into inhuman dialogues through play and feeding. With babies, more than any other being discussed, the domestic sphere is essential to cultivating dialogue; without some form of it, the baby is likely to die. So, we build and reinforce the domus to hold the baby as it moves toward language and locomotion. These little gods of noise can easily destroy a home, and so broader circles (family, neighbors, friends) often come to help maintain the space for the first period after birth. Ideally, we can give these monsters a place of stability, creating a world that does not move apace with the vortex of becoming that rages in the streets. [93]
- SENSUALITY: Tools, Crafts, Decoration
I’ve made it easy on myself by sticking to living beings. This is because life can be thought of as engaging in reciprocal, hermeneutic relationships. Even if these relationships are strange, it’s not too difficult to see how we can join them. But nonliving beings? “Dead” matter? Even this latter term is too much—a stone is not even dead. And yet our relationships with nonliving things (or “mere things”—tone matters here) can be dialogical: pianos, knives, chisels, cars, banisters, pens, laptops, and so on. These things, even manufactured things, can enter reciprocal relationships.
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To understand this, we will examine the tools we use to craft things. Tools allow us to see dialogue within instrumental relationships and challenge the cliché that we shouldn’t treat people like things.[95]
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Nowhere is it harder for me to determine whether a relationship is dialogical or merely comforting than with manufactured objects. It’s easier to do so with repairing and maintaining. When I repair a wall, I am trying to maintain a space while also working with it in a manner that sometimes seems reciprocal, if hostile. The tools I use vacillate between being media through which I engage material, and being themselves a kind of conversation partner. With cooking, it is easier to dialogue. With arts, crafts, and decoration, it is easier still. Immersed in material, I can work with it to find and create things. And there is something of a circle here. With decoration, the attempt to maintain a space that encourages dialogue (through its warmth or richness) can easily veer into becoming a dialogue itself. And so on until we die. [110]
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