Reading Foucault

The following articulates of course the fundamental thesis of Surveiller et punir and La Volonté de savoir: power is productive, not repressive; it sustains instead of kills off; it directs rather than impedes; it disperses rather than gathers:

In defining the effects of power as repression, one adopts a purely juridical conception of such power, one identifies power with a law which says no, power is taken above all as carrying the force of a prohibition. Now I believe that this is a wholly negative, narrow, skeletal conception of power, one which has been curiously widespread. If power were never anything but repressive, if it never did anything but to say no, do you really think one would be brought to obey it?
From "Truth and Power" in Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 119.

But the last sentence here--"If power were never anything but repressive... do you really think one would be brought to obey it?"--lets us come away with two very different views of all this, two views that, because of how Foucault has been interpreted in America, we continually need to distinguish between. (This is not just corrective: it is also good practice. If theoria had connections with eudaimonia once, it was precisely because it was as much exercise as it was contemplation. Thinking as production of the new is quite a limited conception of thinking.) This sentence of Foucault can mean,

1. That a system (let's just posit a system distinct from power for now to keep things straight) in which power only said no, where it was only repressive, could not really allow for people to obey power. People obey power when they are suffused, sustained, stretched across the span of power's distribution, precisely insofar as they resist power or (what is not the same thing) free themselves from all sorts of constraints.
2. That a system in which power only said no could not allow for people to obey power, so power is crafty, cunning. How could one obey power if it were merely repressive? It must be more devious than that.

The second reading is the popular view of Foucault, thanks to the way we now read him: our emphasis is upon punishment and upon institutions much more than on knowledge and on the body. This is not to say we don't read and think about all the other dimensions of power: it is just that our understanding of Foucault on things like the production of knowledges in their more abstract forms (the human sciences, the sciences in general) and the exercise and attention to the body in a less immediately violent way (dieting, etc.) are so thoroughly colored by this emphasis that we do not see how, for Foucault, the first reading already contains the second. The second reading is, in fact, extremely superfluous, and verges on a crude personification of power--precisely when power is for Foucault something extremely non-human. There is no cunning going on, for Foucault. Power does not find new ways of making its way into ways of resisting it: it is not that inescapable, this inevitable, even if it is this pervasive. Power is more technological, even more mechanical than that.
But an objection is raised: if power isn't cunning, then we, we who affirm this, we must not be acquainted with the horror of power being actually exercised. We would never say that power was not cunning, was not something that contrived to crush bodies even when bodies resisted power--we would not say this if we saw power being used in certain ways. We make Foucault seem rosy precisely when he is talking about something that works in prisons.
My reply would be that this objection is made from the standpoint that Foucault is trying to break with by talking about power. It is a standpoint that needs to see power exercised, if not as repression, then as violence. In short, power must remain insidious from this standpoint--for all intents and purposes, bad--even if in order to analyze it we have to look at it more complexly than as repression. But this, I hold, is merely displacing repression, sticking it into power. There is a more rigorous way to read Foucault which does not do this. For this view wants to escape power. One has to think of ways of designing schools, organizing communities, building spaces that precisely are full to the brim with power, not shy away from this task as if power in itself was something evil, something that, if it did not make people repress it, marked them with its violence. Power is indifferent, and that is why it is so dangerous. And it does not really get dangerous for any other reason.

Now, don't get me wrong: power produces violence--it sustains violence of all kinds. But the viewpoint in question here and from which the objection was raised--that power can only not be repressive if it is some sort of cunning, some sort of pervasiveness or weight that invades even attempts to resist it--misses the point: that the production of knowledge can even exercise violence without being insidious. Far from evading issues of the most horrific violence--like trauma--ours is in fact a statement that precisely seeks to account for them. Violence without intent, purpose, meaning: this is a possibility of power, but it does not immediately make power bad, and that is why we must analyze it. In short, we do not need to see violence in order to see power, and we do not immediately need to see power as the direct cause of violence where we see violence. Rather, power is light, it is a subtle web, it is barely there, it subtends both blows and caresses, precisely when one is not equatable the other (when a caress is just a caress, and a blow, a cut--just that). But why is it so hard for us to look at things this way? Why do we need to see violence in order to verify that power has been at work?
Because we (in America) are, in a sense, still getting used to reading without suspicion, still getting used to the break with hermeneutics that Foucault and others have allowed us to make. Historicism and crude deconstruction (and not just these, but a whole set of silly factors and tendencies that supported them) have made us so suspicious of various texts, so eager to see the violence that they perpetrate, to bring it to light as testimony to the complicity of a party in the textual process that we are extracting, that we cannot in fact talk about the systematicity of violence, its indifference to interpretation at the level of its most organized, routinized, and ghastly unfolding. Only recently are we figuring out that terms like "power" were precisely used by Foucault for indeed talking about precisely this systematicity, about the way violence may be perpetrated but not experienced. If we realize this, we realize what Foucault means by talking about the "positivity" of power. Power can produce an object that is not violent, nor seeks violence. It doesn't mean that everything is complicit, but that we indeed can account for both violent and nonviolent acts. (I know this sounds ridiculous from another perspective, but indeed there are those who generalize so much that they say nearly every act is violence--this betrays a crude ontologizing of the violent which, while not wrong in principle, definitely subverts any ability to see degrees. On the other hand, from that very perspective this sounds indifferent to violence and betrays a willingness to classify some acts as violent and others as not. What I would say to these people is that even and actually primarily Derrida is the one who asserts the necessity of this precise classification to occur. The point is to make it strategic--there won't be a way of escaping it.) In the end, one needs to think of the power in the caress: not as its assault upon another body, but as the control and lack of control subtending every motion, every force within the hand. Only then will we realize--and not the other way around--how thin a line would indeed be needed to turn this into a blow.

This is what Gayatri Spivak just a few years ago (and she was one of the first in America--along with Judith Butler, who did an immensely better job with all this) found out to her amazement, only to conclude precisely the wrong things about it: Foucault was breaking with hermeneutics! Was breaking with the need for us to explain or tease out a meaning that we experience in a text! She then composed "More on Power/Knowledge," and, more recently, in her A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, which immediately link Foucault with Derrida. Even though she tries to respect the difference between them, this impulse to connect or even place side by side shows the poverty of the American academy in its reception of an anti-hermeneutic tradition (the same goes for me below, when I did this as well a little in a post or two). Two people couldn't be as far apart as Foucault and Derrida, and yet we think they are on the same page. Moreover, as usual, this leads her to think of Foucault as somehow not facing up to the Derridian truth of things--the impossibly insane standard that Derrida's ethics/metaphysics-nonmetaphysics has set for any interpretation. This leads her in the A Critique to dismiss Foucault when he says the following:

One can perfectly well not talk about something because one doesn't know about it, not because one has a knowledge which is unconscious and therefore inaccessible.
-"Questions on Geography," in Power/Knowledge, 66.

First, Spivak (and this is a revised version of "Can the Subaltern Speak?"--the position hasn't changed in 15 years) quotes Foucault out of context. Second, she submits him precisely to the Derridian standard. Third, she thereby doesn't actually listen to what he is saying or the fact that this is precisely one of the places she could have--mistakenly, again--seen Derrida and Foucault precisely on the same "side."
The important thing about this quote (which I will reproduce in full below) is the part "which is unconscious and therefore inaccessible." Why? Because Foucault is talking precisely resisting the impulse to think of not speaking about something, about being silent, as an instance of repressing something one should have said. A statement can just indeed reside there, and others can just simply remain absent. The fact that both are this way does not mean that they are lacking something else. This is the whole point of discursive analysis: merely to describe the things there and their possibilities for being different than they are without resorting to the language of lack to fill out how these possibilities are possibilities. This is why the whole quote goes like this: he is responding to geographers who said he should have included geography in The Order of Things and Discipline and Punish, but lacked it, and says in reply to them,

I hesitate to reply only by means of factual arguments, but I think that here again there is a will to essentiality which one should mistrust, which consists in saying, "if you don't talk about something it must be because you are impeded by some major obstacle which we shall proceed to uncover." One can perfectly well not talk about something because one doesn't know about it, not because one has a knowledge which is unconscious and therefore inaccessible. You asked if geography has a place in the archaeology of knowledge. Finding a place for geography would imply that the archaeology of knowledge embraces a project of global, exhaustive coverage of all domains of knowledge. This is not at all what I had in mind. Archaeology of knowledge only ever means a certain mode of approach.
-"Questions on Geography," 66.

What Spivak does, like those who conceive of power not as repression but as violence, is displace the repression they really do attribute to Foucault (because Foucault should have been talking about X--in Spivak's case it is because Foucault should have just been Derrida, who is nearly always right), into a sort of violence that hangs about along with the fact that there is a non-address of something. But what Foucault is saying is that supposing, on the one hand, repression, and on the other (which we can read into this), the inability to conform to an infinite ethics (tout autre est tout autre, the nonstatement should have been in itself a statement beyond its being a nonstatement), both move to quickly to dismiss the ability for a statement not to be there and be sustained (only) by a positive, light force--a force or power that distributes itself all about. They also therefore make violence into everything, and do not see the specificity of its tenuous relationship to the said and the unsaid precisely in that statement or nonstatement that was there or was not but was there as possible (i.e. not in its possibility, but in its being there as possible).
In the end, because power is everywhere this precisely does not mean that we have to be suspicious. It means that we need to be descriptive. I will find the Spivak and quote it in full in the near future (my book is away from here now). But the point of all this is to promote, ultimately, a reading of power into The Order of Things: we are too hesitant to see power operative in this book as it does in the later works or, more crudely (not as the fully theorized form of power) in the earlier works. Foucault periodizes his thought so much that we in America, who are seeking a representative Foucault, only look at the one period we think is most "mature." What this does is exile a whole domain of thinking about knowledges precisely in their systematicity and transformation as sustained by power. While one can't do this totally rigorously (the concept just isn't there), it would be better to do this than find new domains where power just is violent and bad and oppressive, like so many historicists have done.

Is close reading dated?

Nearly all of us talk about “close reading” ahistorically—that is, as if it was not dated. I "close read" that text there--and yet also by this I mean I use a technique that has particular affinities with an act that was performed by the New Critics, say, or, even better, I.A. Richards--that is, by those in my field and who interpret in a similar way. We might know more about what close reading is, then, as vague as this is----slow, patient and minute attention to a text--than when am I when I say I am close reading. Similar frustration with other terms of this sort has led people to want to give them up completely--that is, not just date them, return them to their specificity, but be done with them. Thankfully, few people seem weary in this way with close reading. Despite attacks over the years and even amidst the current pressures of the proliferation of media and the expanding canons and global literature (that is, despite such a large amount of text that close reading all of it becomes impossible), it seems safe to say that the sense that we have moved on—moved on much more than people are willing to admit or acknowledge, and need to be doing something else completely—has not taken over. But it is not clear whether this mode of talking prevents something like fatigue from occurring, or whether it does not. Indeed, there is a defensiveness (I might also call it an aggressiveness) in what D.A. Miller says about close reading in his lectures on Jane Austen, published recently as Jane Austen, or the Secret of Style, that seems to grasp this and try to protect close reading from it. Miller gives us two “exercises:”

Picture, if you can, a past moment of literary criticism when, institutionally empowered and rewarded, close reading was the critic’s chief tool of professional advancement; his command of a text, his capacity to tease from it a previously invisible nuance, or illuminate it under a fresh insight, would as good as light the pipe in his mouth and sew elbow patches on his jacket, so unfailingly did he thus distinguish himself as the compleat, the full professor of English literature. Now picture, if you need to, a future moment of literary criticism in which the same practice has fallen into total dereliction, and the esprit de finesse has ceded all its previous authority and prestige to the esprit de géométrie, more familiarly known as “theory” (all quotes from Jane Austen, or the Secret of Style, 56-58).

The defensiveness, in a way, has already formed itself—and not necessarily in the depiction of the rise of “theory” as impatient and deaf to close reading. But Miller continues:

I don’t mean to suggest by either exercise that, whether or not we ever lived in such a past, we should contemplate returning to it, or that, if such a future is indeed at hand, we should do our best to resist it. On the contrary, it is close reading in its humbled, futile, “minoritized” state that would win my preference in any contest. For only when close reading has lost its respectability, has ceased to be the slave of mere convenience, can it come out as a thing that, even under all the high-minded (but now somewhat kitschy-sounding) rationales of its former mission, it has always been: an almost infantile desire to be close, period, as close as one can get, without literal plagiarism, to merging with the mother-text.

I call Miller defensive here because his exercises and comments seek to secure a space and time for close reading—a setting in which it is, paradoxically, already the least secure. This setting is, as he says, that “minoritized” state which he prefers. But we do not understand what Miller means if we conceive of his preference as a type of choice or pleasure in apprehending a close reading performed in this state—that is, if we conceive it as similar to that like or dislike accompanying our exercise which, as Miller pictures a past and future, prompts us to choose a side. For the contest in which the “minoritized” state wins Miller’s preference is not of a kind that would produce this like or dislike. This is because it does not occur between the close reading of the future and that of the past that we are invited to picture. We can understand this if we ask ourselves whether, even if close reading lost its respectability in the future we saw and ceased to be a slave to convenience when it was performed—whether it would not also be this when in the past we pictured it was a tool for a professor to distinguish himself. Now, this is not to say that the practice of close reading as Miller thinks of it is the same in both of these situations: indeed in this future, it has lost the frequency with which it has been performed and fallen into dereliction. And neither is this to say that the use of close reading as a tool for advancement is really the same thing as performing it while it has ceded its authority (Miller shows our professor, in between the passages cited, transformed by close reading into an emeritus, seeming to ramble before impatient listeners). It is merely to say that in both of these situations we picture, we do not picture the close reading, the “minoritized” act itself that Miller prefers and that takes place in the contest: close reading’s loss of respectability and its lack of convenience are in fact simply different things here than either the authority it has or has not ceded. That is, if close reading cedes this authority in the future we pictured, this does not mean that in the past in which we saw it was not performed also in a “minoritized” state, beyond our capability of vision. Also, if it had this authority in the past, if it appeared as a mission with all sorts of rationales, these rationales exist in the past as well as in the future we pictured—appearing in the first as high-minded, in the second as kitchy—and only alongside the fact that close reading itself is what it has always been: that is to say, never reducible to this mission with its rationales. Secure, then, outside both this past and future, and yet alongside them both, as if it were their lining, we are never sure (almost like an infant, we are so insecure) whether the authority of our interpretation is a reflection of its humble, futile state. The “coming out” of which Miller speaks is therefore also, despite its importance and its very real occurrence, a non-phenomenon. The “minoritized” state of this emergence is precisely that which, if we look for it in the future we picture, appears fully and only as what is antiquated (the remarks of the poor emeritus before the impatient crowd). In the past, it appears only as a tool, as something done with convenience (the lecturing of the “compleat,” distinguished professor). Nowhere does it appear as humble or futile. Thus it also can be said to appear everywhere beyond our ability to picture it—and appear precisely as the insecurity, the registration of a danger that it could be always becoming less and less frequent. For in every non-appearance, close reading is as exposed to the danger that alongside what we picture it to be our actions are actually hurting it as a practice: though when it emerges it is what it has always been, Miller affirms that it has fallen into dereliction, that somehow it exists less often and is abandoned. Secure without being secure, then, it is in fact opposed to both our pictures via Miller’s “On the contrary,” which may and may not (it is as if there were an enjambment or a caesura between them) connect this humble, futile practice with the past and future in the sentence before it:

I don’t mean to suggest by either exercise that, whether or not we ever lived in such a past, we should contemplate returning to it, or that, if such a future is indeed at hand, we should do our best to resist it. [||] On the contrary, it is close reading in its humbled, futile, “minoritized” state that would win my preference in any contest.

Between two things that are not opposed but either occur or do not occur side by side, this contest for Miller’s preference is no contest—and is therefore also “any contest.” And the preference in the contest is precisely that—only a preference, a feeling for something of which we are not sure. We might therefore call it, as Miller does, a desire—a desire that “is” only a desire, for if it were to do more than desire, if it were to come into existence as desire, we would be able to apprehend it there before us. We see, then, that this desire is nothing like our liking or dislike for one or the other of the states of close reading that we picture, simply because when we close read there is no opposition between them:

But point of picturing these two extreme conditions is not to get us to choose sides, but to recognize that, if we retain any vital relation to close reading whatsoever, as we all do, we must always be on both.

If this setting of close reading that Miller specifies is both secure and not secure, we now begin to understand why what Miller says has a tinge of defensiveness, and (what is the same thing) aggressively anticipates a total attack upon what he is talking about. In other words, we understand why the articulation of close reading here is made up against that sense of a total weariness with close reading: always remaining in its humble, futile state, always possibly occurring there, right outside where we can be sure we have respected a text or interpreted well enough, close reading can never surely be killed off, made impossible, or kept from emerging again before us—it cannot be kept from coming out. Furthermore, this is precisely because it is its obsolescence that it is exposed to constantly: because anything that we apprehend about our interpretation cannot guarantee that we or some other force are not killing it off, close reading exists precisely as a defense against this weariness, as a desire that is more than non-existent but always existent enough to be continually asserting itself against non-existence. Now, while this definition is an outstanding achievement, we must wonder whether the protection it provides close reading is as strategic as it could be. For if it prevents us saying of close reading that it is over and done with, that its existence there is wearisome and should be left behind, it has little to say to those who do not, as of yet, use the phrase “close reading” with any sense of it being dated—and especially to those of this group who are either “incompetent” in it as a technique and who say they use it as well as those who, with other techniques, willingly or unwillingly would do damage to close reading. And while this looks like it is a plea for pragmatism in the face of Miller’s definition, it actually is not. It is (or tries to be) a plea for the radicalization of what Miller says by extending it back into this domain, the domain where close reading is not only performed but also pointed towards, classified, asserted to exist in some places but not others.
For what is so defensive and aggressive in Miller and can be more strategic is not that Miller defends against something too large or too total in an environment that has many smaller problems. It is that he lacks any way to respond to those problems than by making them into the largest one: the question of whether we are really being responsible to the text, whether close reading has indeed occurred, in short (and in a phrase I think Miller is, with his peculiar and outstanding exercise, trying to tease out of us) whether we are in fact as close as we picture ourselves to be. Miller’s singular achievement is to thereby restore to the word “close” in “close reading” the deepest and most vital sense in which it is operative. This is as a relation expressing being near and being far at the same time, as a process of becoming nearer but never being sure one is near—in sum, as a desire to be close instead of what we usually refer to it as: a demonstrable, apprehensible closeness, a general sense that we have spent time with a text, a familiarity, a fine form of attention to minute details on the page. But addressing the small problems by this massive act of restoration perhaps does not show as much faith in close reading’s ability to deal with them as it might seem. For what Miller is saying is that a certain class of acts that we normally call “close reading” and towards which we can point ultimately have the same status as the past and the future that we pictured in the exercise. In other words, in order to protect close reading, Miller has to assert that these examples of close reading have the same relation to historical existence as do the pictures itself—they remain, in fact, always in question beyond that point where we can apprehend or question them. If a reading that we call “close reading” is there, if we can point to it and say “there, that is a close reading, that is what they are like,” its particular closeness is always susceptible to being questioned again by another close reading; always able to be subjected to the standard, so to speak, of a new degree of intimacy, a new desire. A new desire that, indeed, is the same old desire: so in fact the reading that we point to, the example, can never really be said to just be a function of an older desire, for the closeness only can be said to be operative in the desire that is functioning. The example is then, in fact, questioned already as we point to it, as we try to close read with it in mind. Always already taken up into the newer reading and its closeness, we lose any ability to account for why we thought that reading, there, was indeed close and should guide our reading in the future: we can only say that it bears on our new reading, that our new reading questions its closeness as much as the old one questions the new by being an example or guide. Defensive of close reading and aggressive against anyone who would deny a close reading its new existence, its ability to recur, this definition—precisely when we accept it—seems not to extend itself to what is operative in what makes us consider a thing close at a particular time, and because this continual process of calling into question seems to be the only way Miller here is envisioning history. To put it bluntly, here Miller does not seem interested in accounting for close readings that we thought existed in the past except as they bear upon a close reading that cannot be sure if it is going on. While this secures close reading—and, as we said, does so precisely by restoring what makes it close—it also limits our ability to build up a set or class of objects that could be considered close readings as opposed to, say, Austen’s commentary on her novels in her letters. Now, the absence of this class is not important because it allows our powers of apprehension to distinguish close reading from something that is not (and this is why this is not a plea for pragmatism). It is important because it allows us to distinguish different degrees of closeness as what we pointed to (or did not point to) in the past: we can tell that a reading somewhere, even if we cannot totally justify why it is classed as close, is more or less close than another. Similarly, Austen’s comments may not be a form we would normally consider close reading, but we can suppose that if they were, they would be more or less close than something else. In the end, without this class the way Miller approaches things makes it possible for someone with a more dogmatic allegiance to close reading (that is, much less faith or with faith of a totally different type than him, like Paul de Man) look like he has more (of the same) faith than Miller.
And it is here that the problem of dating close reading, as I have been calling it, comes in. While considering close reading as dated does not seek to directly prevent the weariness we talked about, it seeks to build up—precisely out of that definition of close reading as desire that Miller gives us—a historical sense, so as to be able to consider close reading as more stratified in its operation, as providing different ways of referring or not referring to its closeness as “close” (even including referring to it as “distant”). The problem then is not one of how best to keep insisting to all the people we referred to earlier that, whatever they apprehend about their efforts to read, as a close reading it is not close enough; that however they read, it will only be close if it is the desire to be close, if it needs to be read again even closer (as Derrida says: “Un autre conseil, solution de désespoir: tout lire et au besoin relire!”). The problem is to try and provide a way of indicating how the closeness in close reading can gauge itself against itself—that is, stratify itself, distribute itself—beyond our apprehension of it; how, aided by the clues that are our acts of calling something a close reading (rather than something else), we can better acquire a sense of the general area in which things become able to be close—without having as our only way of doing so the injunction that we are constantly not close enough, and that close reading is totally threatened thereby. This allows us to respond to some basic questions that, astonishingly, seem still have not been answered, and without answers still keep us from using close reading as a dated word: What, in the end, distinguishes what we now call close reading from formalism? And from deconstruction? And from traditional hermeneutics and commentary? I have heard the words “close reading” used to designate all of these. And perhaps it is correct to do so. But the way to find out whether this is the case is not to look at whether they are close, but whether they have a relationship to that set of objects we think qualifies as close reading, and to do so (like Miller excellently does with respect to how close reading is close) beyond the level where we currently apprehend these qualifications, where they apply but where we cannot directly picture them.

Heidegger's turn

It is very confusing to read of a turn in Heidegger's thinking. Philosophers seem to want to locate it in some work of Heidegger's, whether it be the essay on the essence of truth (Richardson put forward this thesis long ago), the humanism letter (Derrida usually tends to see things turning here) or, more recently the Beiträge zur Philosophie (there is also the Kant book). Theodore Kiesel also has added importantly to a certain consideration (also always there) of a sort of turn towards Being and Time, dividing up Heidegger's thought, then, into three areas. For the turn in Heidegger's thinking, as it is usually put, is one from Being and Time to Seinsgeschichtliche denken or thinking in (or on) the way of the being-historical (i.e. "being-historical thinking," as it is usually translated). This thinking of course found most explicitly in the later works on technology and Ereignis (enowning or event of appropriation). The pre-turn that I spoke of, would be the turn towards an analysis of Dasein from the early writings (but this is of course too felicitous a way to put it: the turn is explicitly talked about as a specific movement of thought by Heidegger and it would be wrong to think of a mere turn towards and away from something in one's thinking as this turn itself).
The turn itself is made by moving from an analysis of Dasein towards being via time, to one of how being gets destined or scattered about over history. This second analysis cannot totally be phenomenological in the manner of Being and Time, then.
I will elaborate on this more later, but I think that the more you deliberate this problem of "where," the more you lose yourself in more arbitrary distinctions. The turn needs to be specified really only if you too are trying to be Heidegger, if you too are trying to do the type of analysis he undertakes--and not much even then. With the increasing professionalization of phenomenology (in areas of cognitive science) this indeed might be really necessary--that is, as you elaborate questions of method. But it can easily keep you from the philosophy that this method is trying to articulate--and thus philosophers especially are pretty wrong to keep focusing on it in this way (since they don't even have the tools to do it well, like the scientists). The point itself certainly isn't in a book--one can specify places of the later thought in Being and Time itself (Levinas is particularly good at this, as well as Carol White). It is simply the odd supplement to Being and Time: Being and Time, unless it gets continued in its own manner, slips into a different mode of thinking. The seminars around Being and Time somewhat reflect this. The book itself has its own problematic, and so once you step outside of it, it does not really make sense to locate another book in which this other thinking is located--you are pretty much already in it. This is because what is turned from is so extremely specific, while what is turned to cannot be. The crucial question behind most inquiries into where Heidegger turns is really about what is lost in this gap, in this shift from one perspective to the other.