Up, Across and Along

Tim Ingold
University of Aberdeen, Scotland, UK
[email protected]

The trace and the connector

Whilst a man is free - cried the Corporal, giving a flourish with his stick thus -
Here is the line traced in the air by the Corporal, as depicted in Laurence Sternes
narrative of 1762, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.
Like any other gesture, the Corporals flourish embodies a certain duration. The line
to which it gives rise is, therefore, intrinsically dynamic and temporal. When, pen in
hand, Sterne recreated the flourish on the page, his gesture left an enduring trace that we
can still read. The painter Paul Klee described this kind of line as the most active and
authentic. Whether traced in the air or on paper, whether by the tip of the stick or the
pen, it arises from the movement of a point that - just as the Corporal intended - is free
to go where it will, for movements sake. As Klee memorably put it, the line that develops
freely, and in its own time, goes out for a walk (1961: 105). And in reading it, the eyes
follow the same path as did the hand in drawing it.
Another kind of line, however, is in a hurry. It wants to get from one location to another,
and then to another, but has little time to do so. The appearance of this line, says Klee, is
more like a series of appointments than a walk. It goes from point to point, in sequence,
as quickly as possible, and in principle in no time at all. For every successive destination
is already fixed prior to setting out, and each segment of the line is predetermined by the
points it connects. Whereas the active line on a walk is dynamic, the line that connects
adjacent points in series is, according to Klee, the quintessence of the static (1961: 109). If
the former takes us on a journey that has no obvious beginning or end, the latter presents
us with an array of interconnected destinations that can, as on a route-map, be viewed
all at once.
Retracing the Corporals stick-waving gesture, Sterne evidently took his line for a
walk. But now let me suggest a simple experiment. Take this line, and cut it up into short
segments of roughly equal length. Now imagine that every segment could be wound up
like a thread, and packed into the confines of a spot located around the mid-point of the
original segment. The result would be a scatter of dots, as shown below.
I have in fact drawn each dot by hand. To do this I had to bring the tip of my pencil
into contact with the paper at a predetermined point, and then to jiggle it about on that
point so as to form the dot. All the energy, and all the movement, was focused there. In
the spaces between the dots, however, there remains no trace of movement. Although the
dots are located on the path of the original gesture they are not connected by its trace,
since what is left of the trace and of the movement that gave rise to it is wound up in the
dots. Each appears as an isolated and compact moment, broken off from those preceding
and following. To be sure, in order to proceed from the execution of one dot to the next
I had to lift my pencil and shift my hand a little, before returning the tip to the paper
surface. But this transverse movement plays no part in the process of inscription itself
46 Tim Ingold

which, as we have seen, is wholly confined to drawing the dots. Had I wished, I could have
withdrawn my hand altogether from the work and laid down my pencil, only to resume
the task at a later time.
Where then, in this scatter of dots, is the line? It can only exist as a chain of connections
between fixed points. To recover the original trajectory of the Corporals stick, we have
to join them up. This I have done below.
Although the connecting lines have to be executed in a determinate sequence, the
pattern they eventually comprise - much as in a childs join-the-dots puzzle - is already
given as a virtual object from the outset. To complete the pattern is not to take a line for
a walk but rather to engage in a process of construction or assembly, in which every linear
segment serves as a joint, welding together the elements of the pattern into a totality of
a higher order. Once the construction is complete there is nowhere further for the line
to go. What we see is no longer the trace of a gesture but an assembly of point-to-point
connectors. The composition stands as a finished object, an artefact. Its constituent lines
join things up, but they do not grow or develop.
This distinction between the walk and the assembly underlies everything I have to
say. I aim to show how the line, in the course of its history, has been gradually shorn of
the movement that gave rise to it. Once the trace of a continuous gesture, the line has
been fragmented - under the sway of modernity - into a succession of points or dots. This
fragmentation, as I shall explain, has taken place in the related fields of travel, where
wayfaring is replaced by destination-oriented transport, mapping, where the drawn sketch
is replaced by the route-plan, and textuality, where storytelling is replaced by the pre-
composed plot. To an ever-increasing extent, people in modern metropolitan societies find
themselves in environments built as assemblies of connected elements. Yet in practice they
continue to thread their own ways through these environments, tracing paths as they go.
I suggest that to understand how people do not just occupy but inhabit the environments
in which they dwell, we might do better to revert from the paradigm of the assembly to
that of the walk.

Trails and routes

It is not the harnessing of sources of energy beyond the human body that turns wayfaring
into transport, but rather the dissolution of the intimate bond that, in wayfaring, couples
locomotion and perception. The transported traveller becomes a passenger, who does not
himself move but is rather moved from place to place. The sights, sounds and feelings that
accost him during the passage have absolutely no bearing on the motion that carries him
forth. Only upon arrival at each stop, and when his means of transport come to a halt,
does the he begin to move. Thus the very places where the wayfarer pauses for rest are,
for the transported passenger, sites of activity. But this activity, confined within a place,
is all concentrated on one spot. In between sites he barely skims the surface of the world,
leaving no trace of having passed by or even any recollection of the journey. In effect, the
practice of transport converts every trail into the equivalent of a dotted line. Just as in
drawing the dotted line I lower my pencil onto the paper and jiggle its tip on the spot,
so the tourist alights at each destination on his itinerary and casts around from where
he stands, before taking off for the next. The lines that link successive destinations, like
those that join the dots, are not traces of movement but point-to-point connectors. These
are the lines of transport. They differ from lines of wayfaring in precisely the same way
 Up, Across and Along 47

that the connector differs from the gestural trace. They are not trails but routes.

Drawing freehand, I take my line for a walk. Likewise the wayfarer, in his perambula-
tions, lays a trail on the ground in the form of footprints, paths and tracks. Every such
trail is tantamount to a way of life. Taken together, these lines might be taken to comprise
a network. I think it would be better, however, to regard the tangle of trails as a meshwork.
To be sure, the tangle resembles a net in its original sense of an open-work fabric of en-
twined threads or cords. But through its metaphorical extension to the realms of modern
transport and communications, and especially information technology, the meaning of the
net has changed. We are now more inclined to think of it as a complex of interconnected
points than of interwoven lines. The lines of the network, in this contemporary sense, join
the dots. They are connectors. The lines of the meshwork, by contrast, are the trails along
which life is lived. And it is in the entanglement of lines, not in the connecting of points,
that the mesh is constituted.

Wayfaring, I believe, is the most fundamental mode by which living beings, both human
and non-human, inhabit the earth. By habitation I do not mean taking ones place in a
world that has been prepared in advance for the populations that arrive to reside there.
The inhabitant is rather one who participates from within in the very process of the worlds
continual coming into being and who, in laying a trail of life, contributes to its weave and
texture. These lines are typically winding and irregular, yet comprehensively entangled
into a close-knit tissue. From time to time in the course of history, however, imperial powers
have sought to occupy the inhabited world, throwing a network of connections across what
appears, in their eyes, to be not a tissue of trails but a bare surface. These connections
are lines of occupation. They facilitate the outward passage of personnel and equipment
to sites of settlement and extraction, and the return of the riches drawn therefrom. Unlike
paths formed through the practices of wayfaring, such lines are surveyed and built in
advance of the traffic that comes to pass up and down them. They are typically straight
and regular, and intersect only at nodal points of power. Drawn cross country, they are
inclined to ride roughshod over the lines of habitation that are woven into it, cutting them
as, for example, a trunk road, railway or pipeline cuts the byways frequented by humans
and animals in the vicinity through which it passes.

To sum up so far: I have established a contrast between two modalities of travel, namely
wayfaring and transport. Like the line that goes out for a walk, the path of the wayfarer
wends hither and thither, and may even pause here and there before moving on. But it
has no beginning or end. While on the trail the wayfarer is always somewhere, yet every
somewhere is on the way to somewhere else. The inhabited world is a reticulate meshwork
of such trails, that is continually being woven as life goes on along them. Transport, by
contrast, is tied to specific locations. Every move serves the purpose of relocating persons
and their effects, and is oriented to a specific destination. The traveller who departs
from one location and arrives at another is, in between, nowhere at all. Taken together,
the lines of transport comprise a network of point-to-point connections. In the colonial
project of occupation, this network spreads across the territory, overriding the tangled
trails of inhabitants. I shall now go on to show how the distinction between the walk and
the connector underlies a fundamental difference not only in the dynamics of movement
but also in the integration of knowledge. I begin with a discussion of the ways in which
lines may be drawn on maps.
48 Tim Ingold

Mapping and knowing

The vast majority of maps that have ever been drawn by human beings have scarcely
survived the immediate contexts of their production. These are usually contexts of story-
telling in which people describe the journeys they have made, or that have been made by
characters of legend or myth, often with the purpose of providing directions so that others
can follow along the same paths. As he retraces his steps in narrative, the storyteller may
also gesture with his hands and fingers, and these gestures may in turn give rise to lines.
These lines are formed through the gestural re-enactment of journeys actually made, to
and from places that are already known for their histories of previous comings and goings.
The joins, splits and intersections of these lines indicate which paths to follow, and which
can lead you astray, depending on where you want to go. They are lines of movement. In
effect, the walk of the line retraces your own walk through the terrain.
For this reason sketch maps are not generally surrounded by frames or borders. The
map makes no claim to represent a certain territory, or to mark the spatial locations
of features included within its frontiers. What count are the lines, not the spaces around
them. Just as the country through which the wayfarer passes is comprised by the meshwork
of paths of travel, so the sketch map consists - no more and no less - of the lines that make
it up. They are drawn along, in the evolution of a gesture, rather than across the surfaces
on which they are traced. Modern cartographic maps, however, are quite different. Such
maps always have borders separating the space inside, which is part of the map, from
the space outside which is not. Of course there are many lines on the map, representing
such things as roads and railways, as well as administrative boundaries. But these lines,
drawn across the surface of the cartographic map, signify occupation, not habitation. They
betoken as appropriation of the space surrounding the points that the lines connect or -
if they are frontier lines - that they enclose.
Michel de Certeau has shown how the maps of medieval times, which were really illus-
trated stories telling of journeys made and of memorable encounters along the way, were
gradually supplanted during the early history of modernity by spatial representations of
the earths surface (de Certeau 1984: 120-1). In this process the original tales were broken
into iconic fragments that, in turn, were reduced to mere decorative embellishments in-
cluded, alongside place-names, among the contents of particular sites. The fragmentation
of the narrative, and the compression of each piece within the confines of a marked loca-
tion, strikingly parallel the impact of destination-oriented transport on earlier practices of
wayfaring. In mapping as in travel, the trail left as the trace of a gesture is converted into
the equivalent of a dotted line. Drawing a line on a cartographic map is like joining the
dots. Such lines, as on a marine navigation chart or an air traffic route map, comprise a
network of point-to-point connections. They enable the prospective traveller to assemble
a route-plan, in the form of a chain of connections, and thereby virtually to reach his des-
tination even before setting out. As a cognitive artefact or assembly, the plan pre-exists
its enactment on the ground.
The same principle applies in the making of the map itself. An example comes from
Charles Goodwins (1994) account of the map-making practices of archaeologists. In this
case the map is of a profile, that is, of a vertical section cut through the earth at a site of
excavation. In the following extract, Goodwin describes the procedure involved:

To demarcate what the archaeologist believes are two different layers of dirt,
a line is drawn between them with a trowel. The line and the ground surface
 Up, Across and Along 49

above it are then transferred to a piece of graph paper. This is a task that
involves two people. One measures the length and depth co-ordinates of the
points to be mapped, using a ruler and tape measure. He or she reports the
measurements as pairs of numbers, such as At forty, plus eleven point five...
A second archaeologist transfers the numbers provided by the measurer to a
piece of graph paper. After plotting a set of points, he or she makes the map
by drawing the lines between them.
Goodwin 1994: 612

The line drawn with a trowel in the earth is of course the trace of a movement. But the
line on graph paper is a chain of point-to-point connections. These lines are distinguished
precisely as Laurence Sternes tracing of the Corporals flourish, with which I began, is
distinguished from my join the dots reconstruction of it. Both kinds of line embody
in their formation a certain way of knowing. But these ways, as I shall now show, are
fundamentally different.
When, drawing a sketch map for a friend, I take my line for a walk, I retrace in gesture
the walk that I made in the countryside and that was originally traced out as a trail along
the ground. Telling the story of the journey as I draw, I weave a narrative thread that
wanders from topic to topic, just as in my walk I wandered from place to place. This story
recounts just one chapter in the never-ending journey that is life itself, and it is through
this journey - with all its twists and turns - that we grow into a knowledge of the world
about us. As James Gibson argued, in his groundbreaking work on the ecology of visual
perception, we perceive the world along a path of observation (1979: 197). Proceeding on
our way things fall into and out of sight, as new vistas open up and others are closed off.
By way of these modulations in the array of reflected light reaching the eyes, the structure
of our environment is progressively disclosed. It is no different, in principle, with the senses
of touch and hearing, for together with vision these are but aspects of a total system of
bodily orientation. Thus the knowledge we have of our surroundings is forged in the very
course of our moving through them, in the passage from place to place and the changing
horizons along the way (Ingold 2000: 227). As wayfarers we experience what Robin Jarvis
(1997: 69) has called a progressional ordering of reality, or the integration of knowledge
along a path of travel.
That is not, however, how the matter is understood within the dominant framework of
modern thought. It is rather supposed that knowledge is assembled by joining up, into a
complete picture, observations taken from a number of fixed points. As we have seen, this
is how the surveyor proceeds in the construction of a cartographic map. Many geographers
and psychologists have argued that we are all surveyors in our everyday lives, and that
we use our bodies, as the surveyor uses his instruments, to obtain data from multiple
points of observation that are then passed to the mind, and from which it assembles a
comprehensive representation of the world - the so-called cognitive map. According to this
view, knowledge is integrated not by going along but by building up, that is by fitting site-
specific data into structures of progressively greater inclusiveness. In effect the surveyors
walk (if indeed he does walk, rather than take a vehicle) is broken up and reduced to the
geographical counterpart of the dotted line. Just as in drawing the dotted line the pencil
tip has to be carried across from one point to the next, so to obtain his data the surveyor
has to be transported from site to site. But if the transverse movements of the hand, in
the former case, are ancillary to the process of inscription, so those of the surveyor, in the
latter, are ancillary to the process of observation. Serving merely to relocate the agent
50 Tim Ingold

and his equipment - or the mind and its body - from one stationary locus of observation
to another, they play no part in the integration of the information obtained.
I have argued that it is fundamentally through the practices of wayfaring that beings
inhabit the world. By the same token, the ways of knowing of inhabitants go along, and
not up. Or in a word, inhabitant knowledge - as I shall call it - is alongly integrated.
Occupant knowledge, by contrast, is upwardly integrated. And this finally brings us to the
crux of the difference between these two knowledge systems, of habitation and occupation
respectively. In the first, a way of knowing is itself a path of movement through the world:
the wayfarer literally knows as he goes (Ingold 2000: 229-30), along a line of travel. The
second, by contrast, is founded upon a categorical distinction between the mechanics of
movement and the formation of knowledge, or between locomotion and cognition. Whereas
locomotion cuts from point to point across the world, cognition builds up, from the array
of points and the materials collected therefrom, into an integrated assembly.

Storylines and plots

I have suggested that drawing a line on a sketch map is much like telling a story. Indeed
the two commonly proceed in tandem as complementary strands of one and the same
performance. Thus the storyline goes along, as does the line on the map. The things of
which the story tells, let us say, do not so much exist as occur; each is a moment of ongoing
activity. These things, in a word, are not objects but topics. Lying at the confluence of
actions and responses, every topic is identified by its relations to the things that paved
the way for it, that presently concur with it, and that follow it into the world. Here the
meaning of the relation has to be understood quite literally, not as a connection between
pre-located entities but as a path traced through the terrain of lived experience. Far from
connecting points in a network, every relation is one line in a meshwork of interwoven
trails. To tell a story, then, is to relate, in narrative, the occurrences of the past, retracing
a path through the world that others, recursively picking up the threads of past lives, can
follow in the process of spinning out their own. But rather as in looping or knitting, the
thread being spun now and the thread picked up from the past are both of the same yarn.
There is no point at which the story ends and life begins. Stories should not end for the
same reason that life should not. As with the line that goes out for a walk, in the story as
in life there is always somewhere further one can go. And in storytelling as in wayfaring,
it is in the movement from place to place - or from topic to topic - that knowledge is
integrated.
But now let us suppose that the story is told not with the voice but in writing. Instead
of a stream of vocal sound we have a line of handwritten text. Does not this line, too, go
out for a walk, continually advancing from the tip as the story proceeds? To readers of
medieval Europe, the analogy between reading and travelling would have been self-evident.
Time and again, commentators from the period would compare reading to wayfaring, and
the surface of the page to an inhabited landscape in which one finds ones way about,
following the script as the traveller follows footsteps in the terrain. Allusions abound to
hunting and fishing, and to tracking down prey (Carruthers 1990: 247). As Andre Leroi-
Gourhan put it, in his massive treatise on Gesture and Speech, readers would stalk the
pages of manuscripts like primitive hunters - by following a trail rather than by studying
a plan (1993: 261).
The method of reading, in medieval times, was quite different from what we are accus-
 Up, Across and Along 51

tomed to today. For writing was understood not as something made, like a composition or
work, but as something that speaks (de Certeau 1984: 137). Thus the task of the reader
was to listen. In effect, reading was a practice of remembering, of bringing back the voices
of the past. Just as to travel is to remember the path, or to tell a story is to remember
how it goes, so to read, in this fashion, was to retrace a trail through the text. One re-
membered the text in much the same way as one would remember a story or a journey.
The reader, in short, would inhabit the world of the page, proceeding from word to word
as the storyteller proceeds from topic to topic, or the traveller from place to place. We
have seen that for the inhabitant, the line of his walking is a way of knowing. Likewise the
line of writing is, for him, a way of remembering. In both cases, knowledge is integrated
along a path of movement. And in this respect, there is no difference in principle between
the handwritten manuscript and the story voiced in speech or song. There is however,
as I shall now show, a fundamental difference between the line that is written or voiced
and that of a modern typed or printed composition. It is not, then, writing itself that
makes the difference. It is rather what happens to writing when the flowing letterline of
the manuscript is replaced by the connecting lines of a pre-composed plot.
Writing as conceived in the modern project is not a practice of inscription or line-
making. It has little if anything to do with the craft of the scribe. The modern writer,
according to de Certeau, confronts the blank surface of the page much as a conquering,
colonial power confronts the surface of the earth, as an empty space awaiting the imposition
of a construction of his own making (de Certeau 1984: 134). Upon this space he lays
out linguistic fragments - letters, words, sentences - which, nesting hierarchically, can be
integrated to form a complete composition. Indeed his practice is not unlike that of the
cartographer who likewise positions iconic fragments on the paper surface to mark the
locations of objects in the world. Neither on the page of the book nor on the surface of the
map do the gestures of the author leave any trace beyond these discrete and compacted
marks. They are all that is left of the original lines, respectively, of the manuscript and
the sketch map.
For modern readers the text appears imprinted upon the blank page much as the
world appears imprinted upon the paper surface of the cartographic map, ready-made
and complete. The elements of the page may be joined in the imagination so as to form
a plot - the literary equivalent of the scientists graph or the tourists route-plan. But the
lines of the plot are not traced by the reader as he moves through the text. They are rather
supposed to be laid out already before the journey begins. These lines are connectors. To
read them, as Leroi-Gourhan realised, is to study a plan rather than to follow a trail.
Unlike his medieval predecessor - an inhabitant of the page myopically entangled in its
inky traces - the modern reader surveys the page as if from a great height. Routing across
it from point to point, as the Royal Navy on the high seas, he moves in terms of area. In
so doing he occupies the page and asserts his mastery over it. But he does not inhabit it.
Though I have drawn inspiration from de Certeaus account of the transformation of
writing that accompanied the onset of modernity, he is wrong about one thing. Depositing
verbal fragments at points across the space of the page, de Certeau tells us, the writer
performs an itinerant, progressive, and regulated practice - a walk (1984: 134). But
that is precisely what he does not do. Even if he writes with a pen, he inscribes each letter
by causing the tip of the pen to perform a miniature pirouette on one spot, before shifting
his hand a little to the right in order to form the next. These transverse movements of
the hand are no part of the act of writing; they serve only to transport the pen from spot
to spot. The typewriter works on the same principle: the keys, tapped with the fingers,
52 Tim Ingold

deliver ready-made letter forms to the page, but the machine takes care of the lateral
displacement. Here the original connection between the manual gesture and its graphic
trace is finally broken altogether, for the punctual movements of the digits on the keys
bear absolutely no relation to the shapes of the marks they serve to deliver. In the typed
or printed text, every letter or punctuation mark is wrapped up in itself, totally detached
from its neighbours to left and right. Thus the letterline of print or typescript does not
go out for a walk. Indeed it does not go out at all, but remains confined to its point of
origin.
Now if the modern writer does not lay a trail, neither does the modern reader follow
it. Scanning the page, his cognitive task is rather to reassemble the fragments he finds
there into larger wholes - letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into the
complete composition. Reading across the page rather than along its lines, he joins up
the components distributed on its surface through a hierarchy of levels of integration. The
procedure is formally equivalent to that of the assembly line in industrial manufacture,
where the transverse motion of the conveyor belt allows for the piecing together of compo-
nents added at fixed intervals to the finished product. In both cases, integration proceeds
not alongly but upwards. And so the line of print, which has the appearance of a string
of letters, interrupted at intervals by spaces and punctuation marks, can never even get
underway. It is not a movement along a path but an immobile chain of connectors.
The distinction between these two kinds of line finally allows us to resolve what I shall
call Leroi-Gourhans paradox. In his Gesture and Speech, Leroi-Gourhan argues that for
as long as human beings have been talking and telling stories, they have also been drawing
lines. These lines are traces, left by the manual gestures that routinely accompany the flow
of spoken narrative. Leroi-Gourhan calls this kind of line-making graphism. Since the oral
contexts of early graphic performance are now irretrievably lost, we can only guess at the
significance of its surviving traces. However one striking feature that Leroi-Gourhan claims
to find in prehistoric graphism is that its basic geometry is radial, like the body of the
sea-urchin or starfish (Leroi-Gourhan 1993: 211). Every graph spirals out from a centre,
with its rhythmically repeated elements - or ideograms, in Leroi-Gourhans terminology
- arranged in concentric rings. Only much later do we find the graphs being stretched
out into lines. Graphism became linear, according to Leroi-Gourhans account, to the
extent that it was released from the contexts of oral narrative, only to be subordinated
to the demands of representing the sounds of speech. It was with the establishment of
alphabetic writing, Leroi-Gourhan thinks, that linearisation was taken to its fullest extent.
Thenceforth the rounded cosmos of human dwelling with the figure of man at the centre,
and from which all lines radiate around and away, was replaced by an intellectual process
which letters have strung out in a needle-sharp, needle-thin line (Leroi-Gourhan 1993:
200).
Whether it was really the alphabet itself that made the difference or - as is more likely
- the separation of letters in print, need not detain us further here. The paradox is this.
Surely every trace left by a dextrous movement of the hand is itself a line. How, then, can
the lines of prehistoric graphism be non-linear? How could it be that the storytellers and
readers of old, as they traced their lines, followed a non-linear trail? And how, conversely,
can graphism be linear when it leaves no trail to follow at all? In short, how can the line
be non-linear and the non-line linear? The key to the solution lies in the phenomenon
of the dotted line. Recall that in the evolution of the dotted line an original trace is
broken into segments, each of which is then compressed into a point. It is in precisely this
fragmentation and compression, in the reduction of a flowing movement to a succession of
 Up, Across and Along 53

moments, that the process of linearisation consists. No wonder that the resulting line, as
Leroi-Gourhan put it, is both needle-sharp and needle-thin. It is sharp because it goes to a
point. And it is thin since it exists only as a virtual connector rather than a physical trace.
Understood in a purely geometrical sense, it has length but no width at all. Fully linearised,
the line is no longer the trace of a gesture but a chain of point-to-point connections. In
these connections there is neither life nor movement. Linearisation, in short, marks not
the birth but the death of the line.

Conclusion

Perhaps what truly distinguishes the predicament of people in modern metropolitan soci-
eties is the extent to which they are compelled to inhabit an environment that has been
planned and built expressly for the purposes of occupation. The architecture and pub-
lic spaces of the built environment enclose and contain; its roads and highways connect.
Transport systems nowadays span the globe in a vast network of destination-to-destination
links. For passengers, strapped to their seats, travel is no longer an experience of movement
in which action and perception are intimately coupled, but has become one of enforced im-
mobility and sensory deprivation. On arrival, the traveller is released from his bonds only
to find that his freedom of movement is circumscribed within the limits of the site. Yet
the structures that confine, channel and contain are not immutable. They are ceaselessly
eroded by the tactical manoeuvring of inhabitants whose wandering lines (de Certeau
1984: xviii) undercut the strategic designs of societys master-builders, causing them grad-
ually to wear out and disintegrate. Quite apart from human beings who may or may not
respect the rules of play, these inhabitants include countless non-humans that have no
heed for them at all. Flying, crawling, wriggling and burrowing all over and under the
regular, linearised infrastructure of the occupied world, creatures of every sort continually
reincorporate and rearrange its crumbling fragments into their own ways of life.
Indeed nothing can escape the tentacles of the meshwork of habitation as its ever-
extending lines probe every crack or crevice that might potentially afford growth and
movement. Life will not be contained, but rather threads its way through the world along
the myriad lines of its relations. But if life is not enclosed within a boundary, neither
can it be surrounded. What then becomes of our concept of environment? Literally an
environment is that which surrounds. For inhabitants, however, the environment comprises
not the surroundings of a bounded place but a zone in which their several pathways
are thoroughly entangled. In this zone of entanglement - this meshwork of interwoven
lines - there are no insides or outsides, only openings and ways through. An ecology of
life, in short, must be one of threads and traces, not of nodes and connectors. And its
subject of inquiry must consist not of the relations between organisms and their external
environments but of the relations along their severally enmeshed ways of life. Ecology, in
short, is the study of the life of lines.

Literature

Carruthers, M. (1990) The book of memory: a study of memory in medieval culture,

Gibson, J.J. (1979) The ecological approach to visual perception, Boston: Houghton Mif-
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