world's "worldliness" is, to a large extent, perceptually constructed
through touch, kinaesthetics, and proprioception. Gesture, too, is embedded in
sedimentations of the body's prior sensory exchanges with the environment.
Materiality is transitive; it triggers sensory landscapes through performance.
Consisting of particles of pollen, human and animal skin, hairs, minerals,
soil, and burnt meteorites, dust is usually seen as the antithesis of the
performative-material nexus. In this paper, I propose a different view: that
dust is and acts as a connective tissue. Borrowing from Hélène Cixous's écriture blanche, Quentin Smith's degree presentism,
and theorizing nostalgia as a structuring absence, I argue that dust does not
numb memory but instead codes it. Activated by embodied acts that bring to
light its metaphysical function, dust illuminates the grammar of existence in the
spatial, temporal, and affective register.
presentism; haptic vision; memory; nostalgia; sensory stratigraphy; white
I am… a hollow, a fold, which has been
made and which can be unmade.
Pondering Maurice Merleau-Ponty's view
of individual human existence as a hollow and a fold in the flesh of the world,
Laura U. Marks points to the similarity between the malleability of the fold
and the malleability of the universe seen through the lens of quantum physics.
On this view, the universe is a movement, a temporality and a geometry that
brings together infinitely distant planes and surfaces creating a giant strudel
in which every new perception acknowledges the continuity of the universe's
multiple spatio-temporal layers.
Among numerous connective tissues that actualize the phenomena and events
enfolded in these layers is haptic vision. Unlike its ocularcentric
counterpart, which presupposes distance, surveyability, and detachment, haptic
vision depends on proximity, touch, kinaesthetics, and even proprioception, the body's sense of balance.
Anchored in the network of sensory sedimentations, it illuminates our position
in the world as "caught in its fabric," to borrow from Merleau-Ponty once
At first blush, dust blurs and
disorients haptic vision by embroiling our sense of encrustedness in the
familiar environment. Habitually associated with oblivion and decay, which even
a cursory glance at the commonly used metaphors—to eat the dust,
to dust off, to bite the dust—shows, dust imposes a hiatus on the
material world. Given that even the hardest materials, such as bone, steel, and
stone, erode and become dust, dust is also among the most minuscule things the
naked human eye can see. It is often equated with insignificance and poverty,
to which metonyms like "beggar's velvet" testify. Dust is ubiquitous; it is found in all things
solid, liquid, and vaporous: minerals, seeds, pollen, insects,
molds, bacteria, hair, feather, skin, blood, and excrement. However, it is
neither the ubiquity of dust nor its origins in the collapsing stars that forms
its connection with the infinite; it is its opaque metaphysical function.
Dust forms the ceaseless tides of
becoming and dissolution and is both the medium and the locus of invisible
transformations, although the word 'metaphysical' should not be understood as
"beyond the physical," "otherworldly," or
"extra-temporal" but as referring to Kitaro Nishida's notion of
reciprocity, a structuring process through which phenomena, things, and
beings come to form the concrete world. Consisting of all things big and small—mountains,
rivers, humans, animals, pebbles and specks of dust—the
concrete, immanent world is, for Nishida, the metaphysical society; every 'it'
is here a 'thou,' not in the animistic sense of the word but because of its
embeddedness in the complex relationality of ceaseless multilateral
structuration and codependent origination.
Such structuration, which, on the one hand, activates previously inscribed
relationships between matter, phenomena, sentient beings, behavior, and
practice, and, on the other, proliferates new relationships, could be seen as a
general grammar of existence.
Coming from the Greek grammé, which means to
inscribe, grammar configures biomaterial and social worlds. It creates
biosocial synchrony. Like the linguistic grammar that consists of verb
conjugations and noun declensions, the psychophysical grammar of existence
"conjugates" our mode of connection with the sensory environment,
much like it "declines" our memory—the coming
together of things and beings in lived and historical experience. Far from
being a mere signifier of oblivion or obsolescence, dust illuminates the subtle
relationship between performance and sedimentation, between becoming as the
taking-form of fleeting impulses and durable inscription or habit-formation.
More specifically, dust renders transparent three existentially grammatical
areas: spatial and environmental writing, which, after Cixous, I will call
white; the simultaneous temporal presence of all things and beings, also
referred to as "degree presentism" (Smith); and the structuring
absence best described as nostalgia, understood not as cheap sentimentality but
as a complex process of affective structuring.
2. The white writing of dust
Being minuscule, ubiquitous, and
almost imperceptible, dust is difficult
to classify; it triggers confusion and uncertainty. A house covered in dust is
not quite a house. It's not an instrument against chaos as Gaston Bachelard famously claimed
it to be but, more likely, an instrument of chaos because of the unintelligibility of
Spatially, the psychophysical grammar of existence manifests in ingrained ways
of walking, sitting, leaning against the wall, eating, drinking, paying
attention, bestowing value, and valancing place, space, and time. Quotidian
practices of living, formal and informal interactional rituals create spaces
and develop identities within those spaces. Social synchrony emerges from the
way we haptic-visually read spatial cues—the layout of used objects or items of
clothing, the presence of spatial "scars," indents in the furniture or stains on the carpet—in
other words, cues that make us perform specific actions in specific ways, such
as leave the coffee cup on the mantelpiece rather than on the coffee table or
take our shoes off at the bottom of the stairs instead of in the hall. In each
specific case, the grammar of existence emerges from the reactivation of
response dispositions triggered by the context cues that occurred during the
last performance and the last individual or social choreography. In each
gesture, movement, or action, the accumulated layers of individual and communal
experience, present in and through material networks, spring to the surface.
Ostensibly, dust gathers in the
absence of movement, action, and interaction and is, in this sense, both the
residue of performance and its erasure. But dust is also much more than that.
It's a form of subliminal perceptual relationality comparable to the mystic
writing pad, a children's toy consisting of a thin sheet of transparent plastic
on a wax board that so intrigued Sigmund Freud and Jacques Derrida. When
written upon with a pen, the plastic makes an indentation in the wax. It
creates a dark trace that can be seen through the plastic. When the plastic
sheet is lifted from the surface of the wax tablet, however, the dark traces
disappear and the pad is clean again.
In "Freud and the Scene of Writing,"
Derrida discusses Freud's dependence on metaphors of writing, such
as the mystic writing pad, to describe unconscious psychological
processes. He concludes that such notions are not metaphors; perception really
is a writing machine that resembles the mystic writing pad because the marks on
the pad are not visible straight away but become visible through the contact of
the wax and the (reverse side of the) plastic. For Derrida, we never apprehend
the world directly, only retrospectively. Our impression of the world and our
understanding of our physical and metaphorical place in it is the product of previous
marks and memories, our own and those of other people. "Writing,"
therefore, for Derrida, "supplements perception before perception even
appears to itself."
In spatial terms, dust both creates
and reactivates past traces, albeit in a manner that doesn't impose its
presence or temporality in the form of a clearly distinguishable mark. This is
why it's more appropriate to call dust's writing white. First conceptualized by
Hélène Cixous and often referred to as feminine writing, white writing or écriture blanche, is like mother's milk.
Like the mystic writing pad, it unfolds pre-perceptually yet has no definitive
difference in color, shape, or indent. It's not a mark left on a passive
surface by an active agent but a constituent part of the environment that
brings to the fore many degrees of visibility at once. Upon entering a space
that other people have frequented before and where they have invariably left
their traces, I unconsciously trace those positions, postures, and attitudes
because the varying degrees of dust have created a map of interactive frequency
and now lure me into the more rather than the less frequented spots and
positions. They make me trace their traces one more time. However, lingering in
these spots—standing, sitting, crouching, leaning against the wall or
the rail or picking up and fingering objects—also creates new
marks and cues that, like musical theme variations, merge with the haptic image
of the space while simultaneously altering it. For Cixous, the purpose of white
writing is to think-feel with the environment, to trace the tracing that has
already been traced, thematizing the process of sensory sedimentation and
illuminating its pre-perceptual inscription.
But such tracing is not limited to
situations of close bodily, and temporal, proximity, as can be seen from works
like Jorge Otero-Pailos's The Ethics of Dust (2009). Taking its title
from the eponymous 1865 essay by John Ruskin, which differentiates between
restoration as a refashioning of the past and conservation as preservation,
this work emerged from Otero-Pailos's conservationist practice.
While cleaning the Palazzo Ducale in Venice, the artist covered the walls of
the palace in several large sheets of latex. When the latex was peeled off,
centuries of dust came into view (Fig. 1). Marks left by climatic and
atmospheric conditions, such as strong winds or earthquakes, maintenance
practices, even ideas about conservation, the materials and chemicals used, all
brought to the fore the continuum of the visible and the invisible.
Fig. 1. Jorge
Otero-Pailos, The Ethics of Dust, Doge's
Palace (2009), as exhibited in the Corderie of the 53rd Venice Biennale.
Collection of Thyssen-Bornemisza Contemporary Foundation T-BA21. Courtesy of the artist.
For Merleau-Ponty, "the visible
is a quality pregnant with a texture, the surface of a depth … a grain or
corpuscle borne by a wave of Being" but "the total visible is always
behind, or after, or between the aspects we see of it."
The visible is encrusted in that which, strictly speaking, remains invisible
but can be sensed through haptic vision, such as the body's postural schema,
sense of touch, balance, and movement, all of which are attuned to the numerous
processes of transubstantiation unfolding imperceptibly in the world around us
at all times. The moment I touch the trembling fur of a two-month old kitten
and my hand melts into its pillow-like surface, or the moment I jump into the
cold ocean on a hot summer day and my hot body dissolves into the coldness of
the ocean, is a moment of transubstantiation. Here, one substance (fur, skin,
water) merges with and becomes another. However, the moment I reach for the
long-forgotten top shelf of my bookcase and my hand touches a soft, dry,
feathery surface, sensing something that is neither a substance nor a
non-substance, neither present nor absent, since dust has no weight and no
shape, is like sensing myself touching the fold, touching an infinitely delayed
transubstantiation branching onto a dizzying multitude of potential substances.
Like snow, dust muffles sound. Even if very faint, the sound of one's hand
touching the wooden bookshelf, the wall, or the ladder can be heard, but not
the sound of touching dust. Dust thwarts the taken-for-granted-ness of the touching-nearing-hearing
sensation. Instead of the usual orientation cues (the sound of the surface; the
feedback loop), there is the long yet inconclusive movement of expectation.
Touching dust with one's hand is like touching the metaphysical society with one's
entire being. It awakens the dormant cycles of repetition and variation that
manifest in different yet simultaneous degrees of temporal presence.
3. Degree presentism and the folds of
Having grown out of the irreconcilable
differences between the so-called A-theory of time and the B-theory of time,
degree presentism suggests a difference in degree and not kind. On the
A-theory, or the so-called "tensed" theory of time, time is a real
feature of the world. Despite the fact that the past and the future can only be
accessed through the present moment, which is in a continual process of
passing, the present moment is nevertheless a real location in the
world, as are all notions of coming into being. On the B-theory, by contrast,
time is not a real existent. Events in space occur without tense. They are unrelated to the "present," "past" and
"future" and can only be spoken of in relational terms, such as
"earlier than," "simultaneous with" or "later than."
Contrarily to A-theorists, B-theorists view any notion of present, past, or future as a construct of the
mind, since, on the B-theory, events are not related to time but are in
time and of time. Time is here a relational concept used to describe
change. In an attempt to reconcile the relativistic with the ontological
approach, Quentin Smith proposes a theory of degree presentism and suggests
temporally present is the highest degree of existence. Being past and being
future by a merely infinitesimal amount is the second highest degree of
existence. Being past by one hour and being future by one hour
are lower degrees of existence, and being past by 5 billion years and
being future by 5 billion years are still lower degrees of existence.
The degree to which an item exists is proportional to its temporal distance
from the present; the present, which has zero-temporal distance from the
present has the highest (logically) possible degree of existence.
in degree presentism, where the main conceptual operator is subtly changing
differences, not segregated categories, a particular event is always
present, even if only to a degree. This brings the historical sedimentation of
embedded and embodied performance into play. If I go away for a period of two
months, and if my study is dusted in the meantime, upon my return, my
sedimented connection with the familiar environment will be immediately
available to me, and also immediately reactivated through performance, since my
performance is, in part, elicited by externality. If, upon my return, my study
is covered in dust, my absence will be abundantly present, as will be the
various degrees of my presentness and absentness. Whereas the desk as the focal
point of the study may be covered in light fluff, the less frequently used top
shelves of my bookcases will be covered in much thicker gray
dust. There may even be ashen layers of dust in the more remote corners of the
room. The different degrees of neglect and absence will be palpably different
in texture, color, and shape. These differences will, in turn, create a rich
haptic-visual fabric that functions both as a scale and a negative. A place we
call home, simultaneously a place, a relation, a climate, and a set of
circumstances, is a repository stocked with varying degrees of presence, our
own and those of other people, animals, and objects. It is a micro
metaphysical society in which numerous relations have sedimented into a rich,
mnemonic texture that acts as an anchor in the ocean of incessant becomings and
is both a metaphysical ingredient and a perceptual relation that shapes our
relationship with familiarity and estrangement creating complex psychophysical
patterns in the process. The most extreme of these patterns is melancholy. When
an object is entirely covered in dust, we search in our memory—the
meta sense that encompasses all other senses, i.e., sight, hearing, touch,
taste, smell, haptic vision, kinaesthetics, and proprioception—for the precise presentness, the shape,
angle, texture, color, hue, and luminosity of the object. Instead, we see a
blankness, an erased presence that gives rise to a sense of displacement or
dissipation creating a break in the valancing system by momentarily embroiling
the grammar of existence, like an unconjugated verb in a fragmented sentence,
such as "or… to do…" that denotes very little beyond the vague possibility
of a generic action. Even if we have never seen the object in question, a thick
veil of dust creates a temporary inertia. It freezes the ebb and flow of time.
It interrupts the connectivity between seeing, touching, and being touched in
the physical and emotional sense alike, not least of all because of its smell,
that faint, mildly prickly, relatively neutral, yet strangely settled scent
that comes much closer to the smell of dry mortar or sand than to anything
organic. An object or, more generally, a convex surface conspicuously covered
in thick, mildly olfactorily prickly, settled dust draws attention to itself
by way of negation. It draws attention to its simultaneous presence and absence
or, better said, to its severance from the network of established mnemonic
Holzer's Dust Paintings probe just such temporal, sensorial, and
emotional severance (Fig. 2). Consisting of text-based abstractions painted in
oil on linen, the content of Dust Paintings is derived from declassified
U.S. government reports on brutality, torture, and death during the 2001-2014
Afghan War. The feathery, gray strokes of paint here stand in stark contrast
with the typewritten notices, "For Official Use Only-Law Enforcement
Sensitive or SECRET/NOFORN" (meaning: "no foreign nationals" are
allowed to read the report) that interrupt the haptic-visually pleasing flow of
Holzer Dust Paintings: Or Burnt 2013, oil on linen. Dimensions 80 x 62 x 11/2 inches.
Courtesy of the artist.
effect is, of course, paradoxical, as objects covered in dust both reassure us
that there is a persisting presence, an enduring continuity, while
simultaneously negating that very continuity. As Nishida notes, time is, by
necessity, both continuous and discontinuous. There has to be something
continuous in time for change to be change. And yet, time is change. As
change, it is discontinuous.
This dialectical relation, which is the same in Nishida and in degree
presentism, despite considerable genealogical differences between the two
theories, is rooted in the event's simultaneous eternal presence and its
perpetual mutation in quality and, thus, also in quiddity, which illuminates
the fragility of memory. Memory, too, is
both continuous and discontinuous. Predicated on repetition, performance,
regeneration, or, conversely, entropy, it is steeped in the
material-performative nexus. The Dust Paintings' narratives are witness
statements of Afghan soldiers who were tortured or who died in American
custody. In some cases, the words below the main text's first-person accounts
read: "Not Electrocuted," "Or Burnt," and "No Toenails
Removed." They point to the fact that the paintings are simultaneously
documents of actual events and abstractions. Their feathery surface is a veneer
of cultural oblivion that cues the dissolution of social grammar that
articulates, in words, emotions and social gestures, a slippage into inhumane
yet profoundly relational forms of behavior.
Like the performative-material nexus exemplified
by pre- and peri-perceptual white writing, the socio-cultural tissue, too, is
woven of past relations. Nothing is ever
erased. No development, entropy, or, more generally, structuration is ever
stopped, only rendered culturally and sensorially imperceptible. Both despite
and because of its veiled, frozen nature, the persisting presence of
purposefully distanced objects and memories continues its movement on the
continuum of degree presentism. What is more, it amplifies memory's affective
working, one could even say fermentation, by
way of negation.
4. Nostalgia as a structuring absence
Another way to describe dust is as a
process or formation that activates nostalgia, both in the phenomenological and
historical sense, if nostalgia is understood in its original meaning. In Greek,
the verb nostalgho is a composite of nosto and algho. Nosto means "I travel back home"
to a dense experiential materiality, temporally saturated with a multitude of
different yet simultaneous degrees of presence. A-nostos means "insipid, without
taste." The opposite of a-nostos
(nostimos) characterizes something that has matured and ripened and is,
for this reason, tasty. Algho,
on the other hand, means "I ache for." It evokes the sensory
dimension of memory in estrangement foregrounding the somatic and emotional
pain of a body cut off from the material-temporal trajectory of maturation.
Nostalgia is linked to lived and historical experience in a nuanced and
productive way. It is the sensing of the various degrees of ripening through not ripening or, more generally, of the various
degrees of deployment through non-deployment, destruction, or annihilation.
When we see objects like Roger Hiorns' Untitled (2008), a pulverized aircraft engine that,
in its present state, is no more than a heap of fine-granule metal dust, we
ponder the solid object-hood's strange metamorphosis into something as small
and negligible as dust (Fig. 3).
Fig. 3. Roger Hiorns, Untitled
2008, Atomised passenger aircraft engine. Dimensions variable.
Courtesy of the artist and Annet Gelink Gallery, Amsterdam.
Sensorially and conceptually shocking
as the sudden disappearance of a large, technologically sophisticated and
powerful object may be, the heap of dust continues to reverberate with the
engine's past potentiality, with what it could have been had it remained an engine.
Exactly the same occurs with people. When, at the age of twenty-nine, I found
out that a secondary-school acquaintance, last seen when we were both
seventeen, had died of a sudden heart attack barely a year after our last
encounter, for months I couldn't stop thinking about the events that would have
or could have been part of Meemy's life between the ages of eighteen and
twenty-nine: Meemy playing basketball, cycling, or sailing (he was a strong
sportsman); Meemy studying mathematics or physics at university (he excelled at
math); Meemy, the university student, in a part-time job that makes use of his
computing skills (an accounting job);
Meemy laughing with friends (he had a loud, infectious laughter).The
list is endless. The unexpected severance of Meemy's lifeline and the
surprisingly long time it took for the news to reach me (we had both moved away
and lost touch with our peers) made me visualize and re-visualize countless
variations of his possible life paths, all of which were in stark, and emotionally
shocking, contrast with the urn of dust and ashes that Meemy had actually been
on his mother's mantelpiece for more a decade, and, quite likely, still is.
Nostalgic perception, the
perception of what could or would have been, had the circumstances been
different, which is the simultaneous perception of a dizzying number of
variations of countless possible paths, renders affectively palpable the continuity of the various cycles
of multilateral structuration and the invariable finitude of its components.
It's a structuring absence that, in not being there, gives shape,
circumference, texture, and emotional tenor to that which could, would, or
should have been in its place. Nostalgia thematizes perception as a continually
changing (because evolving or ripening) transmutation of the perceived, the
perceiver, and the medium of perception.
Dust is both a process and the medium
of sensory and affective rapprochement and distanciation in lived and
historical time, whether as a semantic cue—a heap of dust—or
as a nostalgic circuit that weds memory to finitude and cyclicity. Like
nostalgia, dust renders the zones of the imperceptible perceptible through haptic and emotional
visuality. It explicitly links performance to materiality, both as a positive
and a negative, in the analog-photographic sense of the word. The relation
between dust and what it covers, much like the relation between solid
object-hood and pulverization, or life and death, is a relation of mutation. The sense of dissipation caused by
the blurriness, change, or absence is not deposited on the object, surface,
sentient being, or a particular segment of time alone. It is also deposited on
the perceiver. Memory, like its slippage, is woven of the many micro
cross-communications between the environment, the senses, affect, and
imagination. It is both elicited and silenced by externality. The sensory
landscape, with its meaning-endowing spaces, objects, and temporalities, bears
within it historical sedimentation that triggers and codes gestures, action,
affect, and emotions that, in turn, open up the sensory landscape's
stratigraphy and expose its materiality. In contrast to this infinitely
nuanced, reticular process in which different modalities of experience weave
the not-quite-visible but nevertheless perceptually present objects, the
current imperative of high visibility renders the very process of rendering
imperceptible (which has a cultural structure based on prescribed zones of
and, therefore imperceptible, in spatial, temporal, and affective terms.
5. Without dust
Whereas certain forms of imagination
and visual depiction—pointillism, sfumato or
one-line drawing—encouraged the ripening and maturation
of the haptic image in the observer, precisely because the image had to be
extracted from the invisible or the semi-visible, the current quest for high
visibility is both the cause and result of the relentless production of
standardized facticity. The absence of dust in the spectacular-virtual world
derobes images of mnemonic tracing, of the different degrees of presence and
affective circumference borne of gradual ripening, or becoming, through
absence. There is, of course, a cultural and historical connection between the
proliferation of standardized images, that is, images that do not require the
perceiver's completion, and the digital totalitarianism of availability of all
things and people. The moment not-yet-commodified things, activities, or spaces
become commodified, which is to say standardized and interchangeable, they take
on palpably different spatio-temporal coordinates for human perception. The
mass production of visual facticity has created a perceptual apparatus attuned
to the consumption of over-visible images and their ceaseless amassment through
digital prosthetics. What is more, the deluge of completed images has given
rise to a politics of the imperceptible, a politics that denies visibility to
all things that are encrusted in the world but escape the ocularcentric regime
The missing negative, which is
spatially, temporally and affectively so present in the actual world where dust falls, apples rot, and
humans and animals decompose and die, is a map of possibility, of past
potentiality, that, like all potentialities, has a profound influence on the
texture of the present. It's a four-dimensional map of that which has not taken
place, of things you have not done, of places you have not visited, of people
you have not seen, of occurrences you have not witnessed; in short, a map of
the irreducible, non-compressible heterogeneity of becoming. Much like a place
called home is stocked with the most varied phenomena and is, for this reason,
the prime example of the multilateral structuration characteristic of Nishida’s
metaphysical society, our at-homeness in the world is encrusted in past
potentialities. Much like nothing that has ever existed can be fully erased,
nothing that could or would have been is ever fully excluded from the
circulation of what is. Weightless and shapeless, dust remains the most
palpable sedimented immateriality humans can perceive. As the fabric of the
fold, it is a barely haptic-visible connection to the immanent metaphysics of
existence in which space, time, affect, events, and material culture
interpenetrate to create a perception of history that is inseparable from the
history of perception and, ultimately, memory.
Natasha Lushetich is Senior Lecturer
in Interdisciplinary Practices and Visual Studies as LaSalle, Singapore. She is
the author of Fluxus The
Practice of Non-Duality (Rodopi, 2014), Interdisciplinary
Performance (Palgrave, 2016), co-editor of On Game Structures, a
special issue of Performance Research (Taylor and Francis, 2016), and
editor of The Aesthetics of Necropolitics (forthcoming, Rowman and
Littlefield, December 2018). I would like to thank the anonymous reviewers
whose comments have been very useful.
Published on November 13, 2018.
 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Primacy of Perception,
trans. J. M. Edie (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1964), p. 215.
 Laura U. Marks, Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory
Media (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), pp. x-xi.
 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, p.163.
 Kitaro Nishida, The Fundamental Problems of Philosophy,
trans. David A. Dilworth (Tokyo: Peter Brogren the Voyager’s Press, 1970), p.
 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria
Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), p. 36.
 Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, trans. Alan
Bass (London & New York: Routledge, 2008), p. 224.
 Hélène Cixous, "The Laugh of the Medusa," in Elaine Marks
and Isabelle de Courtivron New French Feminisms: An Anthology (Amherst:
The University of Massachusetts Press, 1980), p. 251.
 See John Ruskin, The Ethics of Dust, The Works of
John Ruskin 18, eds. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn (London: Allen,
1903-12), pp. 209-368.
 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible,
trans. Alphonso Lingis, ed. Claude Lefort (Evanston: Northern University Press,
 Heather Dyke, "McTaggart and the Truth about Time," in Craig Callender (ed.) Time, Reality & Experience (Cambridge, New York and Melbourne: Cambridge University
Press, 2002), pp. 137-152, ref. on pp. 137-139.
 Quentin Smith, "Time and Degrees of Existence: A Theory of
Degree Presentism" in Craig Callender (ed.) Time, Reality & Experience
(Cambridge, New York and Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp.
119-136, ref. on pp. 119-120.