Introduction to: J. Brouwer, L. Spuybroek, S. van Tuinen (eds.), The War of Appearances: Transparency, Opacity, Radiance (Rotterdam: V2_Publishing, 2016). In	the	Thick	of	Things There	are	many	interpretations	of	Heraclitus'	statement	"Nature	loves	to	hide,"	and	probably this	one	–	the	accepted	English	translation	–	is	the	least	correct. In	The	Veil	of	Isis,	Pierre	Hadot offers	at	least	five	different	interpretations	of	the	original	Greek,	some	of	which	mean	the	exact opposite	of	others.1	In	the	end,	Hadot	opts for	a typically	Heraclitean,	antithetical translation along the lines	of "the	way	things	appear is the	same	way	as they	disappear,"	similar to "the way	up	and	the	way	down	are	one	and	the	same,"	another	famous	fragment	of	the	pre-Socratic philosopher's writing.	Whatever its original	meaning	may have been, the statement quickly came to signify the idea that nature has secrets, or that it is in the nature of things to have secrets. And while it remains questionable to speak of secrets, there undeniably exists a specific	thickness	to	things	that	prohibits	us	from	seeing	every	feature	of	them	simultaneously, making	us	speculate	on	the	relationship	between	what	is	hidden	and	what	is	shown. The	first	form	of	thickness	is	that	of	form	itself:	things	tend	to	be	volumetric;	what	we see	on	the	surface	"hides"	a	thing's	internal	configuration,	be	it	an	invisible	structure	or	simply parts	so	tiny	that	the	human	eye	cannot	perceive	them	(what	Lucretius	called	the	"spectacle	of atoms").	A second form	of	hiding is	not so	much	a spatial condition	but lies in the temporal realm, such as the origins or causes of things. While all things have a history, it does not become	unambiguously	visible	on	their	outer	surfaces,	and	even	if	it	did	show	on	the	outside, we	would find that history itself is ambiguous. The third and last form	of hiding is also the most	complex,	namely	that	things	arrive	in	the	world	split in	two.	All	things	are	organized	as well as structured; the distinction is similar to those between abstract and concrete, virtual and	actual,	or	essence	and	existence,	although	seething	disagreements	continue	about	which division is the	more convincing. In themselves, the three categories	of volumetric extension, generative causality and internal depth do not interest us very	much in this book, nor does even	the	logical	conclusion	that	strong	connections	must	exist	between	them.	What	matters	to us	at this	point is that things	simply	have	a thickness.	The	mere fact that	we	speak	of things implies it. What interests us above all is that, as Heraclitus frequently suggests in the Fragments,	this	thickness	means	war,	conflict,	strife	and	battle:	we	live	in	the	thick	of	things. Perhaps	we	will	understand	that	conflict	better	if	for	a	moment	we	reverse	Heraclitus' statement	into	"Nature	loves	to	show	itself,"	since	the	notion	of	hiding	is	dependent	on	the	fact that things are shown. From the day we open our eyes, we are drenched in the visible; moreover, each individual thing has so	many sides to show that it cannot stop varying and changing its appearance. The thick of things means, firstly, that things act as if they have something	to	hide,	dancing	before	our	eyes	like	whirling	dervishes.	The	uncertainty	is	enough to	start	the	war	of	appearances;	the	conflict	within	things	plays	out	as	an	external	conflict	–	a continuous	strife	we	call	the	present.	Thickness,	depth,	conflict,	uncertainty,	ambiguity:	these are expressions that allow things to be different from	each other because they are different from	themselves.	If	such	difference	were	to	dissipate,	all	actuality	would	immediately	come	to a	stop,	giving	way	to	an	omnipresent,	darkened	state	we	know	better	as	entropy.	The	thick	of things, then, requires strategies for dealing with that thickness, since it implies war and conflict. The three	strategies	we	have identified	are transparency,	opacity,	and	radiance.	Each has its own advantages and its own supporting disciplines, and	none of the three can claim prominence	over	the	others.	Since	they	are	situated	in	the	thick	of	things,	all	three	occur	in	the highest	regions	of	doctrines	as	well	as	in	everyday	behaviorial	plans	and	individual	willpower. That	means	we	leave	it	to	the	reader	to	decide	whether	the	strategies	originate	in	things	or	in thought;	we	are	only	interested	in	the	fact	that	one	implies	the	other,	that	internal	conditions directly	affect	external	conditions	and	vice	versa. In	this	sense,	it	is	immediately	clear	that	the	notion	of	transparency	involves	a	view	of things	that	understands	them	as	potentially	transparent	and	that	the	light	that	pervades	them is subsequently the light	of the	mind. It is the rational light	of	Enlightenment,	of	Aufklärung. There are no secrets, only gradations of transparency, turning the diaphanous structure of light	into	what	Pierre	Hadot	calls	a	"Promethean"	strategy	of	wresting	secrets	from	nature.	In short,	enlightened	thinking	is	not	simply	a	matter	of	a	switch	from	philosophy	to	science	but, moreover,	one	that	is	fundamentally	technological.	Exposing	the	inner	workings	of	things	is	a purely	technological	act.	Appearances	are	viewed	as	porous,	as	mediators	between	inner	and outer	workings.	There	is	nothing	innocent	about	this	view;	the	connection	between	truth	and torture	has	been	extensively	studied	by	Page	duBois,	and	the	notion	of	porosity	requires	actual technologies of penetration and perforation.2 Between the schematism of things and their physical appearances, between the most abstract mathematical patterns and concrete materializations,	lies	no	obstacle	that	cannot	be	solved.	And	"solved"	is	not	an	innocent	word, either, especially if	we understand it in the context of strategies and	war. Solving problems means	dissolving	appearances,	shifting	a	world	of	appearances	to	one	of	blind	workings.	It	is, of	course,	technology	that	loves	to	hide,	not	nature. Today, we encounter this passion in two technical phenomena: automation and leaking.	The	first,	which	sides	with	the	schematism	of	workings,	is	one	that	not	only	automates human	labor	and	behavior	but	robotizes	our	environment,	showing	us	the	nearest	traffic	jams, warning	us	of	bad	weather,	calculating	our	chances	at	romance,	ordering	our	pizza,	heating	the bathwater to the	preferred temperature; in short, living at least half of our lives for us, and mapping	them	out	in	a	way	that	urges	our	personal	technology	to	constantly	advise	us	on	new movies,	books,	restaurants	and	whatever	else.	Automation,	as	it	operates	on	algorithms,	solves our lives as if we were the only obstacle between it and its full realization. The second phenomenon,	leaking	–	a	term	from	the	same	liquid	order	as	"solving"	–	has	nothing	to	do	with truth but is a purely technical construct. Leaking only exists in the light of the media. As Baudrillard	said	more	than	once,	it	is	here	that	the	media	turn	against	themselves.	Leaking	is literally	troubling.	It	increases	the	opacity	of	things	because,	while	penetrating	and	perforating appearances, it encounters...	more	appearances.	The	project	of transparency fails	by	default: truth	simply	unveils	more	veils, revealing	more images	behind images. Indeed, the revealing itself	becomes	the	spectacle.	What	at	first	seemed	to	be	proper	causes	immediately	take	on	the form	of	new images.	Aufklärung is the	powered	opening	up	of things, and	by consequence	a technical	construct.	The	collapse	of	the	project	of	Enlightenment	has	now	gone	beyond	its	final, postmodern	stage	of	irony	and	leaves	us	only	two	other	options:	opacity	and	radiance. The	medieval	advocates	of	the	all-pervading	light	of	God,	such	as	Pseudo-Dionysius	and later	St. John	of	the	Cross,	quickly	encountered	the	same	problem	in	theology	and	posited	an opacity	that	was	absolute.	The	former	theorized	it	as	the	Divine	Darkness,	and	St.	John	as	the Dark	Night	of	the	Soul	–	the	title	of	his	book	in	which	God	as	presence	is fused	with	absence, and in which that absence of light enables the fire of the heart to guide the saint through darkness.3 The dark night is primarily one of thought: that is, of resisting images and the pursuit	of	detachment	–	a thought that	goes	beyond theory, since the	Greek theoria signifies seeing. Such spiritual exercises were perfected by Meister Eckhart, the German mystical theologian	who	reconfigured	detachment	from	a	religious	experience	into	a	worldly	attitude: Gelassenheit.	Usually	translated	as	"releasement,"	it	more	precisely	signifies	a	letting	or	even	a leaving.	Detachment	means	to	leave	things,	not	as	an	act	of	abandonment,	as	in	leaving	behind, but	as	a	nonact	of	leaving	things	be.	It	is	a	form	of	serenity,	i.e.,	peacefulness,	and	therefore	a form	of	resisting	the	present	as	the	realm	of	conflict,	what	we	call	the	war	of	appearances.	The willpower	that	drives	transparency	is	now	fully	reversed	into	its	absence. Heidegger's notion of Gelassenheit, developed in his famous "Memorial Address" of October	1955,	is	directly	derived	from	Meister	Eckhart's	example.4	It	claims	to	be	a	meditative way	of thinking, a	nonpenetrative and, again, nontheoretical form	of thought that	Heidegger paradoxically	qualifies	as	"open	to	the	mystery."	In	the	end,	nontheoretical	thought	is	probably the best definition of speculative or reflective thinking.	Heidegger directly posits	meditative thinking	against	what	he	calls the	calculative thought	of science	and	actuality.	The	nonact	of awaiting	should	consequently	be	understood	as	an	act	against	transparency.	While	seemingly impassive in an attitude	of	waiting and	pausing, it turns	out to	be	as strategic	as calculative thinking.	After	all,	Heidegger	asserts	such	thought in	a	context	of	rootedness	and	settlement. While	meditating,	we	house	ourselves,	firmly	founded	in	the	ground,	properly	walled	off,	with windows looking out. In this sense, meditation adopts a false form of detachment: false because	it	cannot	stop	time	and	only	acts	as	if	it	does.	Like	transparency,	it	relies	on	construct, stratagem and strategy. We cannot one-sidedly claim indifference or entropy – the world simply disagrees.	While	we are being detached and grasping at suspense and standstill, the world moves ahead through conflict and calculates itself at every moment of the present. Heidegger's	Gelassenheit is the denial of technology's existence at the heart of nature. Being self-constructs and self-engineers.	The	horizontality	of a lake? It's automatic.	The shape	of a cloud?	Automatic.	The	fractal	shape	of	a	mountain?	Automatic.	Nature	houses	itself. What is	missing from these statements is that a	mountain, a lake,	or a cloud is	more than	its	shape.	Far	more,	and	in	any	situation	too	much.	Nature's	technology	is	not	your	typical determinist engineering, structured by mere posts and beams, but an engineering of sheer redundancy and affluence that	we recognize from	bird's nests and jungles. Zillions of	water molecules	work together to	establish the lake's flatness.	Heraclitean	phusis ("nature")	means that each	molecule counts	on its fingers	how to respond to its neighbors.	Nature is physical calculation.	The	material computer	of the lake is a computer far	bigger than	anything in the basements of the Pentagon or Google Inc. In contrast to human forms of computing nature does	not separate	appearance from	calculation; the screen	and the	machine	are	one	and the same thing. All its atoms act through "digital" finger-counting, with which they scan their environment.	They	do	not	see	through; instead, they	"see	out" in the	sense	that they	actively look	forward.	There	is	nothing	blind	in	the	workings	of	nature. This	brings	us	to	our	third	strategy,	radiance.	Things	are	now	their	own	media,	doing their	own	broadcasting. Jewelry,	saints, flowers, fireworks: their	appearances	themselves	are acts,	but	actuality is too small to contain them.	The thinking	of radiance is	neither reflective nor	penetrative	but	a	wondering.	Wonder	does	not	penetrate	things;	it	leaves	them	as	they	are. In	Whitehead's	words, "at the end,	when philosophic thought has done its best, the	wonder remains."5	Things	overflow	–	a	word	seemingly	of	the	same	order	as	"leaking,"	but	in	contrast to the latter, overflow issues from the surface. It finds its precursor in a Gothic emanatio: effluence. The Latin emanare denotes "flowing out," but emanation does not mean the horizontal movement we associate with the word. Emanating things cannot stop leaking, turning their movement into a begetting, an offspring. Things jump from themselves. The radicalism of emanation is contained in the Nicene Creed's "begotten, not made," which excludes both religious creation and	materialist evolution. For the Neoplatonist Plotinus, of course, things emanate downwards; they descend from the One, in what Eckhart calls the ursprunc, the "original jump," as an off-spring or descendant. In the eyes of classical, Neoplatonist	emanation,	things	do	not	so	much	flow	as	fall	from	an	original	state	of	perfection into	ever-less-perfect	beings.	Radiance	does	not	follow	the	classical	concept	of	emanation	in	its pure	verticality	but finds	a	new	form. It	encounters	every thing	uniquely	as	overflowing,	but not as continuous with the first cause. Each thing	makes the flow discontinuous. Radiance, then,	accepts	both	the	flow	of transparency	and	the	blockage	of	opacity	but	puts	them	in	the wrong order. That is, things paradoxically make themselves; their technology is that of appearance. Radiance	seeks	an	extreme	form	of	phenomenology,	a	wonderology,	a	flickering	spookphenomenology	in	which	things	jump	at	each	other,	absent	as	they	move	upwards	and	present as	they	come	down	to	meet	us.	Their	activity,	their	workings,	can	only	be	understood	as	part	of their flickering appearance. Their depth stretches backward to the point of blockage and forward into their surroundings.	Wonderology	does	not	mean	we look	up to things.	We face them	here	in	front	of	us;	however,	that	is	not	where	they	came	from. notes 1	Pierre	Hadot,	The	Veil	of	Isis:	An	Essay	on	the	History	of	the	Idea	of	Nature,	trans.	M.	Chase	(Cambridge, 2	Page	duBois,	Torture	and	Truth	(New	York:	Routledge,	1991). 3	Cf.	Wim	Nijenhuis,	"Het	Zwarte	Licht"	["Black	Light"],	in	NOX	A:	Actiones	in	Distans,	eds.	M.	Nio	and	L. Spuybroek	(Amsterdam:	1001	Publishers,	1991),	93–106.	Nijenhuis	draws	compelling	analogies between	Pseudo-Dionysius,	St.	John	of	the	Cross	and	Meister	Eckhart. 4	Martin	Heidegger,	"Memorial	Address,"	in	Discourse	on	Thinking,	trans.	J.	Anderson	and	H.	Freund (New	York:	Harper	and	Row,	1966),	43–57. 5	A.N.	Whitehead,	Modes	of	Thought	(New	York:	The	Free	Press,	1968),	168.