general remarksIn my capacity as Principal Investigator at the it_290 corporation, I have undertaken numerous researches into biological phenomena. I began with Cavia porcellus, and then proceeded to study mutant strains of Carassias auratus. Ultimately, however, I found [and continue to find] the study of carnivorous plants most absorbing. Although I cultivate several genera of CP's, I am currently most captivated by the Mexican species of Pinguicula. The primary purpose of this page is to share photographs and other information pertaining to these fantastic creatures.
Unfortunately, it is inappropriate to elaborate the full significance of the following quotations, given my purpose. Nevertheless, I believe that, taken together, they ably indicate my principles, proclivities, and affiliations.
"The study of nature is the study of the Beautiful and the Fine"
For most, I suspect that this claim from Aristotle retains little of its original import; at best, it may possess a certain romantic appeal. It may have the reassuring character of an uncontroversial truth. It is important to realize that this claim was actually quite revolutionary, and remains so. Plato, whose own ideas were radical enough to ensure his assassination, eschewed the material world as a source of truth. And yet his pupil Aristotle was sufficiently bold to envision an entirely different philosophy. Audaciously, he insisted contra Plato that the natural world merited study, and furthermore, that such study fell under the scope of philosophy. Although we have inherited this broader conception of philosophy from Aristotle (we call it science), we have largely failed to preserve his notion that investigations of the natural world constitute investigations of the Beautiful and the Fine.
Even Aristotle's boldness had its limits. Indeed, his first inclination was to organize nature into hierarchical categories. We have inherited this inclination from him as well. Indeed, we have employed hierarchical models of phenomena so thoroughly that Deleuze and Guattari found it necessary to denounce them entirely:
"We're tired of trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and radicles. They've made us suffer too much. All of arborescent culture is founded on them, from biology to linguistics. Nothing is beautiful or loving or political aside from underground stems and aerial roots, adventitious growths and rhizomes." Prima facie, it is easy to reject these claims. Even the authors understood that replacing the hierarchical tree model with another is futile. The rhizome concept of deleuze and guattari cannot even be taken as a model; to retain consistency (both logically and intentionally) it must be viewed as an invitation, or perhaps just a wish. They understood that the rejection of one falsification cannot be accomplished by the erection of another.
"Turning on a fluorescent light over a potted plant will not work a miracle. The miracle happened when the plant came into being…"
This comes from an extremely rich text written by Elaine Cherry in the 1960's. She was a pioneering fluorescent light gardener; indeed, she was among the first to test the GroLux lamp while it was in its developmental stage. Though her activities were perhaps tainted by the bankrupt concerns best exhibited by the colorless business-speak of the american english which increasingly dominates our planet [she referred to, or more importantly, thought of her basement garden as "the plant factory" (we should add here that the present author suffers similarly; even if the fictitious it_290 corporation does afford him occasional ironic gestures, ideally the pure joy of existing in the company of Pinguicula would obviate any artifice)], her prose was supple, she presented a great deal of useful information, and most importantly, she identified the plant's coming into being with the miraculous.
Despite the limitations so carefully made explicit at the outset, we have thus far accomplished little. We want to talk about Pinguicula, i.e., the sublime. Even if we have already implicitly rejected the notion that our words can or even should attempt to capture the sublime in a representation that is itself sublime, one still wishes that it could be done. Interestingly, I know of one man who has done it, and then (perhaps crucially) only by way of an accident. Norito 'sethos' Inaho, whose love for pinguicula is boundless, has a firm grasp of the japanese grammar and lexicon. I'm sure his prose is beautiful, though I've never read it. I only have access to the machine-made translations of his work. Ultimately, I am glad of this, for his collaboration with the machine has produced claims which amply surpass all of the foregoing. Their (i.e., inaho and the machine) words hasten us to the Beautiful, the miraculous, and the sublime. Their collaboration is a rhizome, sensu deleuze et guattari. They (i.e., the words) are at once our point of departure and its richest possible elaboration:
"Oneself may be thought to be other persons to be funny somewhere.