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‘The Beast Within’: Race, Humanity, and Animality
Kay Anderson

The definitive version of this article is published as:
Anderson, K. 2000, ‘‘The Beast Within’: Race, Humanity, and Animality’,
Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 18: 301-320.

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Centre for Cultural Research Pre-Print Journal Articles – Kay Anderson (2000): ‘The Beast 1
Within’: Race, Humanity and Animality.

‘The Beast Within’: Race, Humanity, and Animality
Kay Anderson

Abstract
Recent years have seen efforts to critique the dichotomy of ‘nature’ and ‘society’ in Western
thought, and to demonstrate their coconstruction under specific material conditions. As yet,
however, little work has uncovered the discourses of animality that lie buried within a social
field whose ontological status until recently has been securely ‘human’. In this paper, I show
how Western concepts of animality have circulated across the nature border and into a politics
of social relations. Concepts of savagery and vulgarity can, in particular, be found within
racialised representational systems with whose historicity, I will be suggesting, we can make
fresh critical engagements. In much recent work on colonial power formations, ‘othering’
practices have been implicitly conceived within a psychoanalytic frame – one in which the
white self’s ‘interior beasts’ are anxiously displaced onto an externalised other. Whilst not
refuting the efficacy of repression I wish to historicise the workings of a peculiar western
model of the Human self, ‘split’ into physical ‘animal’ and cultural ‘human’. This is done
both through an extended theoretical account, followed by a microstudy of geographies of
savagery and civility in Sydney, Australia.

“Human nature is what we were put here to rise above.”
Katherine Hepburn (The African Queen)

Recent years have seen a rise in interest in the ways in which animals are
conceptualised in Western societies. Against a backdrop of Cartesian legacies, which
have not only shaped our intellectual attitudes toward animality but also justified a
range of institutionalised exploitations, mainstream scholarly publications are
pondering issues such as animal consciousness, animal societies, animal politics,
comparative animal ontologies, and speciesism (for example, see the journal Society
and Animals; Adams and Donovan, 1995; Arluke and Sanders, 1996; Gates, 1996;
Ham and Senior, 1997; Manning and Serpell, 1994). The conceptual boundaries
which segregate humanity and animality are being disturbed and the way cleared for
us to unthink the cultural categories, both popular and scientific, which map our
understanding of the animate environment of which human and nonhuman animals
are a part.

In human geography, the ‘animal turn’ has recently been registered in contributions
not only to the substantive study of human experiences of animals, but also to
retheorisation of spaces including ‘the urban’ (for example, see the special issue of
Environment and Planning D: Society and Space volume 13, issue 6; Anderson, 1995;
Proctor and Pincetl, 1996; Wolch and Emel, 1998). In this paper I attempt to enlarge
the conceptual scope of the so-called animal turn in geography. My focus will be less,
however, on the ways humans have interrelated with the diverse beings they classify
as ‘animal’. I will not be concerned, for example, with those webs of meaning in
which the likes of serpents and felines are represented, and which reveal so much
about human cultures (see Baker, 1993; Willis, 1994). Rather, my interest centres on


human self-definition through exploring the idea of animality in Western cultural
process.

A most persistent theme within Western thought has been the concern with what
makes us human, an impulse that has seen elaborate efforts to specify how we are
different from animals and also machines (Haraway, 1992). Whilst it is universally
recognised that humans and animals do manifestly differ, not all cultures have worked
with a simple or strict classification of human versus nonhuman (Ingold, 1994). The
species divide is not solely a behavioural or biologically determined distinction, but a
cultural and historically changing attribution (Noske, 1989; Ritvo, 1991). And yet in
Judeo-Christian traditions – and despite Darwin’s influential claims for continuity
between the human and animal worlds – humanity has persistently been seen not as a
species of animality, but rather as a condition operating on a fundamentally different
(and higher) plane of existence to that of ‘mere animals’.

The felt sense that ‘human’ designates a different order of being is plainly evident in
popular circles. Hardly a month goes by without a judge or journalist proclaiming that
someone ‘lives like an animal’ or, worse, has become one through their behaviour.
Drinking alcohol, it is said, releases ‘the animal’ in people, especially men. But so too
have scholarly traditions (such as philosophical humanism) carried forward the
idealising tendency to conceive of humanity by way of essential contrast to animality
(Glendinning, 1996; Ham, 1997). Whereas zoologists and biologists have been
pursuing the specificity of the kind of animal that humans are, the point of departure
for the humanities and social sciences has been that which makes humans
categorically different from animals. In geography we have created the nature-society
divide and made sure that no nonhuman animal crosses it. The ontological status of
the ‘social’ has been securely ‘human’, and only recently have the boundary-making
efforts underpinning it been critically undercut (Bingham, 1996; Braun and Castree,
1998; Thrift, 1996; Whatmore and Thorns, 1998).

In order to underline further the claim that animal geographies belong both logically
and literally within a reconstituted human geography (Philo, 1995) I wish to explore
the implications of discourses of animality for the ‘identity politics’ that have recently
absorbed sociocultural and other geographers. In particular I am interested in the
discursive production of social groups identified for their base drives, proximity to
‘nature’, infantility, eroticism, and absence of civilised manners. Human beings ‘in
the raw’ – supposedly motivated in their conduct by naked impulse rather than
rational deliberation – have included those variously savage peoples, the mentally
disordered, some women, and the so-called dangerous classes who in different ways
have been deemed either beyond, or potentially improved by, the cultivation of self-
government.

So too have such groups been variously identified with the discursive spaces of ‘wild’
nature (as distinct from that proud monument of ‘civilisation’ known as the city or,
alternatively, those counterpoint spaces like ‘ghettoes’ within the city’s ‘dark side’).
Animality has been a crucial reference point for constructing sociospatial difference
and hierarchy in Western cultures. Its meanings have circulated across the nature
border and into a politics of sociospatial relations. Specifically, animality has
informed rhetorics of race, class, and gender, and other identity constructs with whose
histories and geographies, I will be suggesting, we can productively make further


critical engagements. Given the scope of a paper, however, I will be restricting my
focus to the nexus of race/culture/nature, undertaking analytical bridgework across the
processes that construct social race and nature.

I begin with a critical review of recent efforts to conceive of ‘the racialised bestial’ by
using tools of psychoanalysis. I examine the emphasis in such work on the human
psyche’s drive to repress fears and desires surrounding bodily (‘animal’) impulses
such as sex and violence, and to elide such ‘impure’ impulses with racialised others.
The paper then adopts its own explanatory direction by historicising ideas of animal
difference in that diffuse space that came to bear the label of ‘Europe’. Among key
classical philosophers, the idea arose of an essential humanity complete with a priori
notions of what human beings (and animals) were like. In time, and without precise
articulation, the Christian ideal of transcending the so-called ‘bestial’ within human
character began to cohere. This ideal took as its narrative underpinning the model of a
divided Human self, ‘split’ between a (despised) ‘animal’ nature and a (moral)
‘human’ culture.

The implications of notions of vulgar animality for self-other distinctions in relation
to the modern race idea are then examined. I will argue that the sources of the anxious
displacements of racialised otherness in Western colonial cultures lie less in the
frozen chambers of the white unconscious – and not only within the by now much
studied logics of race-power formations. They can also be found within another
modality of power – one that can be tracked from microarchaeologies of the (white)
self and into wider fields of sociospatial relations. This is the edifice of animality
discourses around which the ‘human’ has long been configured. Finally I briefly work
through themes of animality and the conflicted self in relation to tensions over the
Aboriginal savage seeking to establish a housing estate in the sacred spaces of
metropolitan Sydney, Australia, during the 1970s.

Race, Repression, and the ‘Internal Enemy’
Perhaps the most useful insight of the constructivist perspectives on race that were
inspired by Foucault and Gramsci was to move race and racism ‘outside’ the arena of
nature and the biological, and ‘inside’ a social field of agency and contestation. In so
doing, it became possible to conceive of race as a set of discursive and material
inclusions or exclusions linked to the rise to power of certain ‘historical blocs’. A
crop of useful work historicising the representational practices of diverse European
empires in their encounter with ‘New World’ societies has been among the many
exciting offshoots of this insight.

One question can, and arguably should, however, be pressed further in this now well
accepted line of argumentation concerning racialisation as a set of representational
practices. Notwithstanding the enormous variability across time and space in the
forms of racialised thought and practice, both individual and institutional, conceptual
and instrumental, there is as yet more to interrogate in relation to the following issue:
why have the markers of racial difference inspired such a profound arousal of
sentiment and imaginative energy on the part of oppressor (and subjugated) groups?
Why has peculiarly racialised difference attracted such a weight of discursive baggage
in the European cultural process?


To suggest that the answer lies in the potential of race for securing the white self’s
cultural hegemony has obviously taken us a long way, with more directions still to be
pursued. There can be no disputing the compelling evidence in America, Canada,
Australia, and elsewhere that the race idea, authorised in different ways by
governments, has been a source of cultural integrity, political leverage, and economic
gain for those imperial and white settler groups armed with the power of definition.
And yet, this line of argumentation – in its emphasis on strategic outcomes for the
oppressor – only takes us so far. The rational instrumentality in the claim that racism
entails a will to social power has obscured attention to additional explanatory sites.
Not least it has overwritten microarchaeologies of self, the dynamics within which
may be useful in accounting for the character of the thought and practice that came to
be called ‘racial’.

In turning to theorisations of the self in contemporary social theory, one encounters
diverse strands of psychoanalysis. Notable in geography is Sibley’s (1995)
Geographies of Exclusion. In this work Sibley explores the sociocultural and
inherently geographical rituals that develop around the need of individuals for
purification, and the anxiety generated by what he calls ‘defilement’. The links of
these impulses to specifically racial tensions are recently made plain when Sibley
(1998, page 119) states, after Kristeva (1982), that: “... racialised minorities ... enter
the psyche as objects which cause unease and discomfort ... .These feelings are
projected onto others who are defined as abject. ...While we try to remove the abject,
it is always there. Anxieties about abject difference will not go away.” Crucial to the
habit of distancing from others is the concept of abjection, by which is meant ‘that
which disturbs identity, system, and order’; that which does not, in Wilton’s (1998,
page 180) words in the same journal issue, “respect borders, positions, rules”.

Among the most influential attempts to theorise the ‘dark’ forces within the human
character was Freud (1961) whose repressive hypothesis was outlined in Civilisation
and its Discontents. In that work, Freud argued that the truth of human sexual desire
was to be found in the primal instinct hidden within us, an instinct that for want of
outlets for expression is sublimated in fantasy or pathologised in violence. Instinct
and culture were opposed by Freud, or at least the latter was interpreted in the light of
the former by use of such concepts as ‘substitute formation’ for all nonsexual patterns
(Midgely, 1984). Psychoanalytic theorisations of the human self have carried forward
the depiction of individuals at war with subliminal desires and fears. For example,
Jungian analyses have made lively contributions to understandings of the conflicted
self, further to Jung’s utterance in 1931 that “every civilised being, however high his
conscious development, is still an archaic man at the deeper level of his psyche”
(cited in Greenslade, 1994, page 67).

The conflicted individual has been secreted into the collective imagination of the
oppressor in recent theorisations of power relations under colonialism. When a
dominant group’s sense of order undergoes stress, as it did in the encounter of
European empires with the ‘New World’, the powerful externalise the loss of control
that is threatened to the purity and integrity of self-identity or body. Anxieties are
projected onto abject (racialised) sites of unreason with whom their own repressed
‘internal enemy’ is elided. McClintock (1995) and Brantlinger (1986), for example,
have interpreted colonial relations as sublimated expressions of sexualised anxieties
and desires in the West. They explore how blackness in imperialising contexts of the


19th and 20th centuries was encoded with notions of the bestial, the incestuous, and
that which was filthy, sinful, or evil.

Freud relied on naturalised categories of difference as the basis for identifying the
abject. But as many geographers working with strands of psychoanalysis, and others
such as Stoler (1995), acknowledge, Freud’s premise of pregiven difference is not
necessary and can be productively complicated. What becomes defined as ‘abject’ is
culturally specific, they argue, and can only be understood as the product of the
internalisation of broader sociohistorical forces such as racism. And bodies, too, are
not self-evidently ‘different’ but become so through a process of sociocultural
inscription. In such ways the dynamics of the self are linked more fully to the social in
treatments of race and colonialism within a psychoanalytic frame.

Foucault’s genealogy of the desiring subject also unsettled the fixity of sexual impulse
that was Freud’s point of departure. In the History of Sexuality Foucault (1981) tried
to show how concerns about human instinct were translated into discourses
surrounding the body during the mid-19th century; moreover how the cultivation of
the body became a preoccupation inseparably bound up with bourgeois class
aspirations. And yet, as Stoler argues in her stimulating book Race and the Education
of Desire (1995, page 169), Freud is not absent from Foucault, nor from many of the
colonial historiographies Foucault has inspired. Notable for Stoler is the work of Said
(1978) where the notion of projection – of the Orient as theWest’s ‘shadow self’ – is
an implicit (untheorised) part of his argument. A debt to Freud, or at least to
psychologically inspired treatments of motivation, is also apparent in those
historiographies of colonialism that emphasise the role of fantasy and anxiety in the
ambivalent worlds of European colonials [for example, see Bhabha’s foreword to the
reprint of Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks (1967)].

Despite the useful efforts inspired by psychoanalysis to theorise racialised abjection,
the mechanism of repression – whether essentialised within a universalised human
psyche outside of time, or sociologically conceived – would seem inadequate to the
task of explaining the character of abject sites. Nor does the focus on repression
advance very far the prospects of attitudinal and social change with regard to
racialised outsiders. To address these issues I prefer to augment the tools of
psychoanalysis with those of geohistoriogeography and ask: what discourses were,
and are, productive of peculiarly racialised distinctions? On which interiorised
conflicts, ideological materials, and political contexts did reductive thinking about
racialised humans draw?

In what follows I argue that the fears and fantasies surrounding racialised otherness
can be brought into more self-conscious communication than is possible within the
Freudian frame. The ‘beast within’ may well represent the denied bit of ourselves, the
bit of ‘human nature’ we fear we cannot control. But if we understand the repressed
anxieties or desires surrounding uninhibited behaviour culturally – within a lineage of
European discourses about animality and organised discursively within representation
– alternative possibilities are opened up. Not least our interior beasts can be
‘contacted’ historically, rather than hived off to the collective or individual
unconscious. I thus propose an agenda of critiquing the debt within racialised
rhetorics, of discourses of beastly animality. Both discourses need to be problematised
within the boundary-making efforts of historically specific power blocs. In the case of


European culture process, the contrasts that became layered upon the human-animal
distinction during the course of ‘nature’s’ material transformation – contrasts between
learning and instinct, agency and stasis, mind and body, civility and savagery – were
crucial foundational resources. By working across, rather than from within, the
parameters of a nature-society divide, then, I subject racialisation processes to fresh
avenues of critique and challenge.

Domesticating Animal and Human Nature: ‘Improvement’ as a Narrative
Triumph
It is to the ancient philosophers, in particular Aristotle, that we owe a debt for some of
our cherished ideas of human versus animal nature. To characterise the ideas of any
age is fraught with problems of overgeneralisation, no less for the ancients writing
over a time span from Hesiod in the 8th century BC to the early Christian theologies
of Augustine in the 4th century AD. There are also problems of oversimplification,
given the vast and possibly unbridgeable differences that exist in time and space
concerning human-animal thought. Regardless, my aim is not to chart a
comprehensive genealogy of Western concepts about ‘the cultural’ and ‘the natural’ –
as if ideas evolve in the form of unbroken strings of beads. Rather it is to distil from
select moments (and secondary sources) a tool kit for further disrupting the animal-
human divide. That this manoeuvre furnishes new terrain for enlarging our
understanding of the sources of racial distinction and tension is my primary objective.
Indeed the thought of remote Greek scholars (reviewed below) – although influential
in that it prepared the ground for normative associations among culture, learning, and
‘improvement’ – was less ‘foundational’ in itself. It is no accident, for example, that
the tradition of Greek thought was made to stand as ‘classical’ in the 18th and 19th
centuries when the modern race idea was being put to imperial service (Eze, 1997).

There exists a degree of consensus among classics scholars that from Aristotle there
developed a habit of seeing animals not as they are, but as crucial sites of contrast to
human identity (Sorabji, 1993). The Greeks, and in particular those philosophers
called the Stoics, were among the first scholars to theorise ideas of human identity.
They argued that the possession of a rational soul was the primary characteristic that
distinguished people from the animal kingdom. For example, Aristotle (384 - 322 BC),
in seeking to define the soul, claimed that the soul’s powers are not possessed by all
living things equally (Balme, 1991). Animals possessed the powers of nutrition,
sensation, and movement, he claimed, but only humans possessed the powers of
thought (nous), reason (logos), and belief (doxa) (De Anima 414 A29 - B20, cited in
Blundell, 1986, page 74).

In broad terms, the Stoic narrative logic regarding human ^ animal difference can be
characterised as follows: whereas humans could control their biological endowments
through thought, animals were locked in the tyranny of instinct, unable to realise their
potential. Evidence for this claim was, among other things, the art of cultivating plants
and animals through which people had ‘improved’ the brute forms of existence (that
is, brought them closer to the interests of humanity). “If nature makes nothing in vain”,
Aristotle stated, “we must infer that animals have been created in order to supply
humans with food, clothing and labour” (Politics 1256 B15-B26, cited in Blundell,
1986, page 75). But rather than query the processes (of selective breeding) by which
animals had come to supply food, warmth, and service systematically to humans,


Aristotle rationalised them away as part of what the Greeks called ‘natural law’. The
servicing role of the animal – rather than itself being a subject of enquiry (see
Anderson, 1997) – was taken as prima facie evidence of the categorical difference and
inferiority of animals, as well as of the singular capacity of humans to actualise
themselves.

It is in Aristotle’s teleological accounts of the divine reason he saw as inherent in the
world that one sees how he arrived at the premise of human uniqueness. The concept
of telos was crucial to the universalising idea of Human – as a singular a priori
category distinct not only from Animal, but also from embodied and differentiated
individuals. It was not just a matter of the human monopoly of reason. Animal bodily
service and flesh had launched humanity on a course of agency – a trajectory of
history no less. The Human [known as Man (sic)] had transcended the primal struggle
for survival. Man was not only pitted in conceptual opposition to Animal then; He
was also temporally removed, having ascended from an anterior condition occupied
by other life-forms. This capacity for transcendence found its ultimate glory in city-
states (Aristotle’s polis) where wild nature was either kept out or ‘brought in’ on
human terms, and ‘civil society’ found its supreme manifestation (Owens, 1991). By
contrast, animals were stuck. Lacking agency, they occupied that space of stasis that
was somehow left behind, after universal Man had detached himself.

A further sense of the perceived triumph of this detachment can be found in the
shadowy classical idea that Man, in rendering beasts into service for human purposes,
was overcoming the brute force within himself. The logical corollary of man’s
cultivation of nature was the cultivation of himself (Ingold, 1994, page 6). He became
free, released from the bodily strictures of his own ‘nature’. The concept of the
‘interior beast’ does not itself appear to have been explicitly used in antiquity, but two
of its logical antecedents feature strongly. First, there existed the notion of the
intellect as the ruling element of the (subordinated) bodily passions and, second, the
Animal was conceived as the site of ungovernable instinct. To be Animal for the
ancients was to be brutal, lustful, violent, or at best, infantile (Clark, 1982). So if the
cultivation of animals marked steps toward Man’s self-realisation in the external
world, so did the education of desire, the regulation of ferocity, and the more general
rational control over the instinctual impulses of the body, secure the Human’s sense of
moral identity and superiority from other beings. Henceforth, a dualistic conception of
Human as ‘split’ – into physical animal and cultural human – entered philosophical
thought and vocabulary.

In summary, a language of difference became expressed by the Stoics in terms of a
temporal metaphor of Human (as the site of intellect and cultivation) versus Animal
(as the locus of bestial instinct). Five concluding observations can be made about this
distinction. First, the language exaggerated animal from human difference so that
there developed a habit of drawing crisp lines between human and nonhuman at the
expense of acknowledging species-specific diversity among human and nonhuman
animals. Second, it sharpened an uncomplicated model of animality as a bodily
condition of stasis (as opposed to humanity’s condition of agency). Third, the
language crystallised a universalist (but in practice, Eurocentric) model of human
development as an ascent out of savagery. Fourth, it conceived of that part of the
Human which was not Animal as the capacity for learning to ‘cultivate’ both oneself


and other life-forms. Fifth, it privileged a limiting conflation of humanity with
rationality.

Universalising ‘Difference’: Human-Animal as a Baseline Distinction
Constructs of human-animal difference appear also to have been a departure point for
ancient conceptions of social hierarchy. The discursive gap between the idea of
Human, on the one hand, and the manifest reality of embodied people whose
subjecthood could be marked in specific ways, on the other hand, typically drew on
the contrast with Animal. Aristotle held that ‘barbarians’ (nature’s slaves) stood at the
bestial end of the human scale where people lacked mastery over their passions.
Unlike animals, such barbarians could apprehend reason, so there was no question
about their humanity. But unlike their masters, they could not formulate reason. It was
thus in the ultimate interests of both master and slave for slaves’ freedom to be
removed and their natural purpose realised under slavery, just as the condition of the
wild animal was thought to be ‘improved’ once brought under practices of selection
and controlled breeding (Pagden, 1982, page 43).

There were other categories of bestial (brute-like) people for Aristotle. In the
Nicomachean Ethics he introduced the concept of the subhuman condition to refer to
people who were diseased or physically underdeveloped, ‘degenerate’, senseless or
insane people: “They are by nature incapable of reasoning and live a life of pure
sensation, like certain tribes on the borders of the civilised world, or like people who
are diseased through the onset of illnesses like epilepsy or madness” (Ethics 1149 A9-
A12, cited in Garnsey, 1996, page 114). Other Greek scholars conceived of such
differences less in terms of natural law than cultural evolutionism. For Lucretius and
Diodorus, for example, human beings only gradually acquired the status of fully
rational beings. For them, the growth of civilisation was a process, a slow progression
from a prepolitical state where ‘primitive man’ lived an ‘unordered and bestial life’
(Lucretius, cited in Blundell, 1986, page 86). Such ideas were to prove influential to
later Western concepts of progress and hierarchy. In the case of women and children,
Aristotle did not classify them as ‘bestial’ but had a clear conception of both as
inferior categories of human. The value to the polis of ‘educating’ both women and
children was thus recognised by Aristotle. Just as civilisation was achieved in the
course of the ascent of humankind from savagery to civilisation, so it had to be
cultivated in the development of children to adults.

Animality Beyond the Ancients
The premise of a unified ‘animal’ condition fitfully entered Western Latin-speaking
Christianity through networks of texts whose logics and contexts need not detain this
account. Some moments, however, deserve at least broad attention. For the ancients,
history had been constituted by a pattern of ‘improvement’ of the conditions of life
distinctive to humanity (Edelstein, 1967, page xxiii). Christianity assimilated this
notion of improvement into a grand vision of human destiny guided by God. Human
beings owed their essential humanity, it was argued by writers such as Augustine in
the 4th century, to a divine spirit bestowed by God. Premises about human dominion
thus became more confident. Not only did a relative complacency about killing
animals come to prevail, but an institution evolved to curb ‘bestial’ impulses within
humans (Sorabji, 1993, page 3). The notion of a rational soul, uncontaminated by


carnal passions, was given a religious inflection in diverse strands of Protestantism,
and gratification of the senses became dimly viewed (Weber, 1976). Also hardened
was the concept of the ‘beast within’, signifying all the fears and desires surrounding
the uneasy sense of the Animal within the Human (Midgely, 1979).

Ideas about the integrity of the human species grew more uncertain in medieval times.
Ambiguous entities of mermaids, centurions, and other figures of sexual transgression
entered medieval myth (Davidson, 1991; Salisbury, 1997). But rather than soften a
sense of categorical difference, the confusion tended to see animality further
identified with untamed brutishness, and humanity with angels. Fears that the Devil
(usually depicted as a dog) was at work in the world even led to the public trial of
animals found guilty of damaging humans or crops (Evans, 1987). In 11th-century
England, there was confusion among missionaries about who to convert and to what
lengths they should go: what about people said to have dog-heads? Were they human
or not (Friedman, 1981)? The medieval preoccupation with creatures on the border of
humanity foreshadowed later concerns (in, for example, the 16th-century writings of
Shakespeare) about those rude forms of ‘unaccommodated humanity’ in the ‘New
World’ who were thought to lack an overlay of ‘learning’ on their physical selves
(Hamlin, 1995).

In the 1400s and 1500s, bestiality (copulation between human and animal) was
deemed the ultimate heresy (Serpell, 1996, page 154). In continental Europe, it met
with public trials and executions. And yet, the time period also saw some outspoken
critics of the idea of human uniqueness and superior station. Erasmus, Thomas More,
and Montaigne, for example, were bitter critics of hunting, an activity that for
Erasmus rendered humans ‘beasts themselves’ (cited in Cockburn, 1996, page 19).
But such efforts to align human and animal interests in early modern Europe (see
Thomas, 1983) did not unseat the prevailing view that a wise Providence was guiding
humans whose duty on earth was to ‘improve’ the earth through animal husbandry
and tillage (Glacken, 1967, page 75).

With the development of the scientific revolution in Europe over the 17th century,
humanity was again opposed rigidly to animality (Plumwood, 1993). Earlier
invocations to Man’s divine status were cast off, but they were replaced with appeals
to the equally distancing discourses of science. When, in the 1660s, the French
philosopher Descartes explicitly overlaid the dualism of reasonöanimal with the
opposition of mind and body – one which privileged the former (as the presumed site
of intellect) over the latter (the presumed locus of instinct) – the conceptual ground
was further cleared to segregate human from animal (Midgley, 1984). Although both
were believed capable of physical sensation Descartes deduced that, because animals
lack reasoning capacity, their sensations were ‘merely bodily’ ones of which they
were not ‘conscious’ (Lloyd, 1984). Lacking ‘mind’, in the sense of a substance
distinct from body, animals were effectively machines.

European enlightenment thinkers retained not only the Greek ideal of reason, but also
the function of that attribute to discriminate between the cultured (now called
‘civilised’) and the barbarian (the ‘savage’ or ‘primitive’). Influential natural
historians, such as Carl von Linne¨ (1707-78) and Comte de Buffon (1707-88)
embarked upon the classification of all objects of existence according to the ancient
‘Great Chain of Being’ system (Eze, 1997). Every being, from humans to fauna and


flora had a naturally assigned position and status. As we shall see in the following
section of the paper, this wider and older universe of discourse surrounding ‘the
cultural’ and the ‘natural’ shaped what were constituted as objects of scientific and
cultural study during the so-called Enlightenment. Race, for one such object, became
a means through which Europeans conceived the relationship between humanity,
society, and nature.

The writings of Darwin attempted to deliver a radical blow to the entrenched
assumptions about a bounded humanity that have been described thus far. Darwin’s
arguments in The Origin of Species (1968, first published in 1859), not to mention
interpretations of them, are more complex than can be reviewed here (see Hawkins,
1997). But, in brief, the significant ones in the context of this paper included a
fundamental rejection of the premise of an essential humanity of which all actual
human beings – past, present, and future – were embodiments. In biological terms,
humanity presented itself not as a pregiven condition, but as a continuous field of
variation that had evolved out of apes. Little store could be put in the concept of
‘mind’ or ‘spirit’ as defining attributes of humanity, Darwin argued, because both
were the products of a material organ (the brain).

And yet despite, or perhaps because of, the momentous implications of the paradigm
of evolution, certain ideas about the felt sense of ‘human’ stubbornly persisted. First
among them was the premise of a constitutionally divided human being, ‘split’ into
‘physical’ animal and ‘cultural-moral’ human. Moreover, neither Darwin nor neo-
Darwinism (that from the 1940s combined Darwin’s theories with the laws of genetics)
unseated the conceptualisation of animality as a stimulus-response condition, a state
of being lacking reason, agency, history, communicative status, and cultural life
(Ingold, 1994, page 22). In that sense, that part of Human which was not Animal
continued to sit in privileged (albeit uneasy) relation to a devalued physical province.
Post-Darwinists writing at the height of European power over the globe also tended to
reinforce age-old cultural evolutionism (for example, see Morgan, 1877; Shaler,
1896). If to be ‘human’ was to hold the capacity for ascent out of instinct or savagery,
then the superiority of some humans over others could be made to stand analogously
to the superiority of primitive peoples over apes. In a context of imperial expansion,
Darwinism used the claims about universal Man of the ancients to make artful sense
of the mounting evidence through the 18th century of human variation.

By way of summary, some qualifiers might usefully be noted here. Cultures stemming
from a European tradition have not been alone in drawing associations between
animality and base drives. And critiques of the reason-instinct split in the Western
conception of Human should not be taken as crediting a ‘blank page’ reading of
human beings as wholly plastic at birth. Rather it is to dispute the ideologically
charged terms on which a specific notion of instinct has rested and to seek to register
a debt to reductive notions of brutish animality. Finally, there are risks of invoking an
oversimplified negative view of the so-called age of enlightenment as the era when
rationality stripped humans of all connectedness to the passions (Hulliung, 1994). But
reason and emotion have not always been wholly antagonistic in Western
theorisations of the Human, and increasingly that distinction is being problematised
(Damasio, 1994). Certainly the movement begun in the mid-18th century (in England)
advocating a more ‘humane’ treatment of animals persisted throughout the
Enlightenment (Serpell, 1996, page 160). But the categorical and status opposition of


humanity-animality were not in dispute among those condemning cruelty to animals
in the 18th century and beyond.

Critical Race Theory and the Divided ‘Human’ Self
Recently I have turned my attention to the nexus of race/culture/nature in an effort to
try to understand the comprehensive history of exclusions and hierarchies of the living
world on which the modern taxonomies of race were based (Anderson, 1998).
Especially from the late 17th century, and then during the Victorian era when the
compulsion for classifying led to a range of taxonomic practices, European societies
drew boundaries not only of class, race, and gender, but also of human and nonhuman
(Ritvo, 1992). The concept of ‘breeds’ of nonhuman animal, for example, spilled over
into other pseudo-scientific theories involving discretely different human races. My
interest here is not, however, in the suggestive interactions between discursive
networks of racialised humans and animals (anti-Semitic notions of Jews as dogs, for
example). Rather it is to develop the sense in which theWestern model of the divided
self furnished a narrative infrastructure for racialised distinctions and statuses.

Earlier in the paper I noted that the conceptual frame through which the archetypal
Human was historically defined in the Western culture process carried not only an
oppositional (Human versus Animal), but also a hierarchical and temporal logic. In
most interpretations of the human-animal ranking, the animal-like status of certain
categories of human has been conceived pejoratively. One thinks of such still highly
serviceable (and deeply gendered) badges of disapprobation in popular discourse as
‘silly cow’, ‘dumb bunny’, ‘stupid bitch’, and the derogatory allusions to people who
‘eat like pigs’, and are prone to ‘making monkeys’ of themselves. A ‘rat’ is no term of
endearment. To be the human counterpart of a ‘snake’, a ‘shark’, or a ‘stick-insect’ is
no badge of honour. Being tough requires no ‘pussyfooting’ about or ‘chickening out’.
To be ‘treated like meat’ is the ultimate denigration of women (Dunayer, 1995).

Such labels are often harmlessly applied to individuals and typically invoked in jest.
They register in the stories we like to tell ourselves about different human characters:
asses do stupid things, sharks are merciless corporate monsters, Miss Piggy cannot
restrain herself from eating, and so on. Many such characters feature in children’s
story books, nursery rhymes, and other moral tales. But when laid bare, the premises
about an essential animality on which such superficial allusions rely reveal the
potential for more significant boundary efforts. Indeed, under specific historical
conditions, animality has been a state of being to which whole categories of humans
have been referred back. Discourses about animality have regularly found their way
into institutional life and collective efforts at exclusion, the interrogation of which
clarifies at least two things as they relate to European racist formations: first, the role
that universalising assumptions about humanity and animality played in justifying
peculiarly racist regimes; and second, we stand to gain a more precise understanding
of the cultural character of discursive regimes known often too blandly and
monolithically as ‘racist’.

‘Early Man’ as ‘Savage’
Among the most materially damaging set of associations between animality and select
peoples has been that reserved for the indigenous societies of the ‘New World’. New


Zealand’s Maori, Australia’s Aborigine, the Indian of North America, and other
indigenous people encountered during the global extension of European empires were
made to bear some of the most pernicious of allusions to savagery (Goldie, 1989;
Pearce, 1988; Wall, 1997). The savage was – it was so often said – given to the most
grotesque category error of all, that of eating other humans. Cannibalism was that
defining moment when certain humans (all the while flesh-eaters themselves) became
inhuman. In taking human flesh for ‘meat’, such people were themselves little more
than brutes – a view that is still in political service today in such technically
postcolonial settings as Australia (see Hansen, 1997).

The meanings of European modernity were often articulated against a supposed
bestial primitivism that indigenous people had not yet ‘overcome’. Australia’s
Aboriginals, for example, as the most savage of all such people, did not have
agriculture, settled abodes, clothing, democratic government or city life – the
(Eurocentric) hallmarks not only of civilised and modern man (sic) but of his
putatively universal destiny out of savagery. Indeed Australia’s Aborigines were
typically taken as living evidence of ‘early man’ – of man before his maturity from
barbarity to freedom. It followed that early man was ‘stuck’ in so-called nature – his
(sic) own nature, as well as that space of uncultivated savagery that (European) man
had long ago transcended. He thus displayed a vulgar indifference to all but the needs
associated with humanity in its most atavistic state. The unbridled drives of the
(devalued) body were foremost among such needs, and hence the recurrent
association on the part of colonial observers of Aboriginals with sexuality and
promiscuity. If, by this time, notions of ‘civility’ had been refined to take in ideas of
breeding, manners, and discipline over the instinctual self (Elias, 1982), then the
sensate savage was its ultimate counterpoint.

It has long been noted by race relations scholars that indigenous and other racialised
peoples, and especially men, were perceived like beasts by their colonial oppressors
(see Fredrickson, 1981; Jacoby, 1994; Jordan, 1968). Much has been written about the
racisms that worked with ideas of select people as brutes existing ‘close to nature’.
There are certainly plenty of critiques of the moral panic in times past and present
surrounding putatively ‘unnatural’ sexual relations between white and nonwhite
people. For example, we have heard a lot about the hysteria surrounding lascivious
John Chinaman (see Anderson, 1991) and the brutish Negro in the North American
colonies (see Brantlinger, 1986). Such critiques have not as yet, however, entertained
any conversation across the society-nature border. They have been content to take the
dehumanising invocations to ‘beasts’, and the more general panic of powerful groups
about ‘interracial’ sex, as evidence in themselves of white power or racism.

Nor do psychoanalytic tools help us adequately clarify why the white self’s anxious
repressions are displaced onto peculiarly racialised sites of unreason. What I have
been suggesting is that racialised constructions of bestial bodies can more fully be
understood within a lineage of discourses at the nature-society border. The referents
of such discourses are the constructs of animality/savagery and humanity/civility that
I have been arguing owe a debt to Western configurations of, and interior conflicts
about, what it is to be Human.

‘Early Man’ as ‘Free’


Not that Western models of animality have been relentlessly or exclusively
derogatory. More benign animal references have been, and are at times, invoked. To
be ‘busy as a bee’, as ‘meek as a lamb’, and as ‘wise as an owl’ can be compliments,
if banal ones, in past and present European vocabulary. It is possible, and usually
desirable, to be as ‘free as a bird’. To possess ‘animal magnetism’ can be to exude the
appeal of a ‘foxy lady’. In the case of the generic Savage, romantic views of the free
and eccentric Wild Man living close to nature came alive during the Renaissance
(Dudley and Novak, 1972; Togovnick, 1990; White, 1972). Later on, such views were
pronounced in the writings of Rousseau (1754; quoted in Mason, 1979) whose
critique of humans’ self-imposed domestication as an over-civilising process to which
Europeans had become enslaved was profoundly radical for his day. In late-19th-
century England, William Morris was only one of many anticapitalist utopians who
envisaged a radical barbarism. “How often”, Morris wrote, “it consoles me to think of
barbarism once more flooding the world, and real feelings and passions, however
rudimentary, taking the place of our wretched hypocrisies” (cited in Greenslade, 1994,
page 66).

The Innate has thus sometimes been conceived romantically as a site of freedom from
the chains of socialisation, as well as darkly as the locus of uncultured savagery. Nor
are the diverse (positive and negative) associations with innateness hermetically
sealed. They coexist in the same tension as the segmented parts of the (Western)
divided self. The proverbial ‘call of the wild’ appears to draw its mythic power from
precisely the contradictory impulses of freedom and control that reside in that
discursive borderland between humanity and animality. In colonial contexts, the mix
of pejorative and benign associations surrounding a presumed ‘base’ condition from
which ‘humanity’ departed meant that notions of depraved and innocent peoples
could circulate simultaneously. The 18th-century lexicon regarding the Aborigine of
New Holland, for example, regularly drew on conceptions of the noble savage as a
pre-modern child of nature. By the 19th century, with the extension of colonial
settlement across the Australian land mass, derogatory notions of Aborigines as
unevolved beasts came to overtake (without erasing) benign portraits.

To conceive of racialised subjects as constructed out of “a cultural tradition of the
threatening ‘other’ ... from the dark inner recesses of fear” where explanatory
recourse is made to “an inherent bestiality lurking in us all somewhere” (Malchow,
1993, page 103) does not advance very far the effort of theorising the sources of racial
tension. I have been suggesting that, contrary to psychoanalytic approaches, the (by
now familiar) claims of social constructivism of race might be augmented by attention
to the anxieties or desires surrounding the idea of a ‘split’ human self in European
cultural process. The dynamics driving such a model must be understood within the
context of humans’ practical transformation of, and alienation from, the nonhuman
world. It follows that efforts among critical race theorists to disengage the ‘social’
from the ‘natural’ – for politically strategic reasons that need no restatement here –
may have blunted the full potential of their own antiessentialist stance.

Geographies of Savagery and Civility
Notions of bestial animality have been articulated in ways that require their own
detailed geohistoriographies. Needless to say, a broadbrush historical geography of
ideas, such as I have undertaken so far, is only a starting point from which to map


their foldings through time and space. It is therefore useful to reinforce the material
sense in which animality discourses have operated in interaction with certain socio-
institutional practices in specific settings, and in time periods more recent than those
treated so far in this paper.

In what follows I seek in a most preliminary way to work across the so-called ‘social’
and ‘natural’ divide with reference to a space of Aboriginal housing in central
Sydney – Australia’s ‘very own Harlem’ according to media accounts. Redfern is a
raced space that is devalued and demonised like many American ghettoes. ‘Sydney’s
Shame’, ‘War Zone’, ‘Ghetto of Broken Dreams’, ‘The Street that Whites Fear to
Tread’ – these and other characterisations contribute to Redfern’s notoriety
throughout
Australia. But ‘race’ and racism may not be the only or most useful interpretive grid
through which to understand the conflicts that arise as different groups struggle to
claim and define this space. Rather than reinscribe the race scripting of Aboriginal
Redfern that figures in racist, antiracist, and anticolonial depictions of that space (see
Anderson, 1993) it is possible to cast the district’s tensions differently. That is, they
can be narrated to shed light – less on white power, as if it somehow explains itself –
than on racist culture (Goldberg, 1995). In this way, more can be gleaned about the
character of those cultural forms and unspoken conceits out of which ‘whiteness’ has
been made in Australian society. The interpretive grid also provides new pathways
into the complex significations surrounding ‘the city’ and city spaces.

Aborigines in Central Sydney
During the 1930s, as the myth of White Australia flourished and rural recession in
New South Wales deepened, Aborigines migrated to Sydney in search of job
opportunities and fresh beginnings (Parbury, 1986). The movement set in train a flow
of migrants who were attracted to the cheap housing, unskilled employment, and
transport opportunities afforded by central, working-class neighbourhoods such as
Redfern. By the early 1970s there were between 4000 and 9000 Aborigines living in
inner Sydney, the majority of whom were ‘living in the worst housing conditions’,
according to a local welfare organisation (South Sydney Community Aid, 1970).
Australia’s Aborigines – discursively positioned in the open spaces of country –
suffered not only the material deprivations of rounds of spatial displacement, but also,
we shall see, the stigma of ‘unlikely’ urban dwellers.

Violating Conventions of Civility: New Perspectives on the ‘Ghetto’
The practice of squatting in vacant premises was a popular mode of existence for
many inner-Sydney Aborigines during the 1950s and 1960s. This precarious lifestyle
brought them into frequent contact not only with land-interested groups, but also with
law enforcement agencies including police and the courts. One encounter in Redfern
in late 1972 saw police arrest and charge with trespassing some fifteen Aboriginal
squatters who had taken refuge in derelict premises awaiting redevelopment in
Redfern’s Louis Street.

At a nearby presbytery, two non-Aboriginal priests saw an opportunity to politicise
the squatters’ plight in the context of rising concern, from some liberal quarters of
Australian society, about the status of Aboriginals. The convicted Aborigines became


the priests’ cause célèbre, and on hearing the guilty verdict at the Redfern courthouse
they offered to make available the church’s hall for the temporary shelter of the home-
less men. An emergency refuge supplying beds, food, and medicine was soon opened
at the hall, funded by the proceeds of a bottle collection operation undertaken by the
Aborigines themselves.

The presbytery’s unconventional hostel soon attracted the notice of other Aborigines,
and within weeks over fifty had made a home of the hall. The refuge also caught the
attention of non-Aboriginal residents, however, some of whom included members of
the Council of the City of South Sydney.Vocal among them were two aldermen who
set out to break the alliances being forged at the church hall. Council declared the hall
a “danger to children and community health” and found a pretext in the lodging house
by-law to serve an eviction notice on the Catholic Archdiocese of Sydney (Treffery,
St Vincent’s Church, Redfern, 3 November 1972, in Murphy papers). There were
charges of promiscuous behaviour, nudity, and “other lapses of bodily function”. The
hall was deemed “a violation of privacy, self-respect, accepted living arrangements”,
and “proper standards of cleanliness and conduct”. The church trustees were given
seven days to cease residential use of the hall. Council also refused to entertain one of
the priest’s proposals for housing the Aborigines in its constituency (report of meeting
with the mayor and priests on 15 November 1972, in Murphy papers).

Enquiries in the latter part of 1972 by the presbytery intelligence revealed that a single
developer had bought a row of terraces in nearby Louis Street with a view to
upgrading them for middle-income residential use. The possibility the vacant terraces
presented was quickly registered by the squatters and priests. One of the priests,
Father Ted Kennedy, saw the potential for an alternative model of housing for people
“not fully acquainted with city living” (1991, personal communication). Furthermore,
the terraces were located, Kennedy observed, in full view of passing passengers to
Sydney’s Central Station. In the ferment of the early 1970s the priests anticipated that
a “Black commune” (in the priests’ words) would send a pointed message to
individualistic White Australia. In Kennedy’s words, the Aborigine in the city would
stand as a reminder of a “propertyless simplicity” from which other cultures had
departed to their detriment.

The newly formed Aboriginal Housing Committee (AHC), consisting by this stage
exclusively of Aborigines, found a receptive ear in the Sydney branch of the
Commonwealth Office of Aboriginal Affairs. A delegation from Redfern met in
December 1972 and there soon followed a written submission from the AHC calling
for “extended housing” in Redfern (Bellear et al to Coombs, 17 December 1972, in
DAA, 1972-73, R76/89).

Elements in the New South Wales trade union movement also saw fit to support the
activists. Like the priests, the unionists drew on ideas within the persistent tradition of
thought known as ‘noble savagery’. In the Aboriginal squatters, the Builder’s
Labourer’s Federation saw an opportunity to support a “socialist alternative” to the
proposed “capitalist development” for Louis Street (cited in Bellear, 1976, page 23).
When the union leader threatened to impose a work ban on the redevelopment project,
the developer freed two houses for the squatters (Ian Kiernan, 1991, personal
communication). However, the Aboriginal president of the squatters’ group declared
the offerings “uninhabitable”. Indeed the self-named “mop and bucket brigade”


showed themselves quite capable of adhering to prevailing health conventions by
bringing up to bylaw standard two of the developer’s better terraces.

By early 1973, when some 45 Aboriginal members of the clean-up campaign were
occupying three of the houses (Sydney Daily Telegraph 2 January 1973), the federal
Minister for Aboriginal Affairs encouraged an application for Commonwealth
funding for a ‘cooperative housing scheme’. This the AHC lodged, as well as
recruiting an architect who, like other allies we have seen, saw embodied in the
squatters the primal innocence of ‘early man’. “It is very natural for Aborigines to
share their resources”, he claimed in proposing a communal design (cited in transcript
of the settlement meeting, 25 March 1973, in Murphy papers). This, despite the
diverse origins of Redfern’s Aboriginal population (who by the mid-1980s had seen
fit to restore the back fences of all properties on the block).

For the Labor aldermen who formed a majority on the South Sydney council, the
proposal to house the squatters foreshadowed an unruly “ghetto” which would
“encourage Aboriginal people to come into South Sydney which lacks suitable
accommodation for these kinds of people” (minutes of meeting, 23 February 1973, in
Murphy papers). The council set about obstructing the project. First, it required the
developer to “clean up” all the buildings then inhabited by the Aborigines. Second,
the application for renovations was approved on the sole condition that each premise
provide for “single-family housing”. That this was itself an exclusionary strategy is
suggested by the revealing adaptation of the architect’s design for the Block found in
the Redfern Police Station in 1973 (figure 1). Note less a blanket racism here,
however, than the specific allusions to indolence, promiscuity, drunkenness, and
degeneracy in ‘Coonwarra Estate’ (an Australian wine) that had white conventions of
civility and nuclear familism as their oppositional referent.

The aldermen’s effort was not only directed at promoting single-family domesticity in
the district. They also rallied the opposition of local non-Aboriginal ratepayers. A
field officer of the New South Wales Department of Aboriginal Welfare noted that “...
the council has as its images of Aborigines, stereotypes such as drunkenness,
immorality, lack of self discipline and community pride. ... [T]he greatest amount of
opposition toward the project stems from the aldermen themselves” (Trotman, 1973,
file F107). The racist mind-set of the councillors is of less interest in the context of
this paper, than, once again, the precise allusions to Aborigines’ lack of self-
government.

By March 1973 the South Sydney Residents’ Protection Movement had formed to
fight, in its words, the “festering sore” of “vermin” at Louis Street. A petition to the
prime minister attached notions of vulgar savagery to this pathologised city space.
Aborigines were undisciplined and unruly, antisocial, dirty, unable to overcome
temptations to drink, promiscuous, and generally “unlearned” in appropriate ways of
living. The petition concluded: “We the undersigned [226] residents of South Sydney
vociferously protest, object and condemn the establishment of the ghetto in Louis and
Caroline Streets by the Aborigines who have squatted in these properties. ...We want
the Aboriginal ghetto stopped now – for if allowed to continue it will spread like the
plague throughout the entire South Sydney area” (Protection Movement to Gough
Whitlam, 10 March 1973, in Bryant papers). One group of residents assured Mayor
Hartup in April 1973 in words that again highlight the degeneracy allusions within


race rhetorics: “We fully support you, sir, and the South Sydney council that a human
zoo should not be allowed in this area” (Mann to Hartup, in Murphy papers).

Figure 1. Copy of “seriously defaced map of the Black urban Louis Street Housing
Project on display in the Redfern Police Station” (source: Aboriginal Medical Service
newsletter number 5, August 1973, page 1).


When South Sydney councillors learned that the owner of the Louis Street holdings
had held negotiations with Commonwealth officials over their sale, council rallied the
scenario of a sensate savage on the loose. It recommended that “the situation in the
Louis and Caroline Street area be referred to the Commissioner of Police with a
recommendation that the area be regularly and frequently patrolled to ensure that the
local ratepayers are free from molestation and the impact of other anti-social
behaviour” (South Sydney Council, item 17, Health Committee agenda, 4 April 1973).
Policy scrutiny of the occupied terraces was intense from late 1972 into 1973, with
many violent confrontations and arrests. Following the Commonwealth decision to
grant the AHC funds for the purchase of over 40 houses, there were over 400 arrests
in the Louis Street area, most being Aborigines on minor charges (O’Grady to Mayor,
7 May 1973, in Murphy papers). Relations with the media grew equally sour with
numerous invocations to the ‘human zoo’ appearing in the press about a district that
continues today to sustain intense regulation (Anderson, 1998; Cunneen, 1990).

In this brief account I have sought to situate the tensions surrounding Aborigines in
central Sydney in a wider semiotic field than the (by now) familiar frame of ‘race’
and racism. I have used the attributions of savagery and civility to enlarge the
meaning of one set of struggles for access to the proud heartlands of white belonging
in Australia. Such a lens enables us to augment the insights of anticolonialism and
critical race theory that have already drawn links between the kinds of exclusions
operating in South Sydney and white cultural domination. In order to clarify at least
some of the norms out of which such racism was constructed, I have targeted the
conventions surrounding savagery, civility, privacy, and domesticity that enjoin a
long genealogy of distinctions as between ‘the cultural’ and ‘the natural’. The Redfern
case also serves to underline a point of more general interest to urban studies. This is
to suggest that culture-nature rhetorics exert an efficacy in the racialised topographies
of (white) metropolis/suburb and (black) ghetto that would repay more detailed
critical attention.

Conclusion
Recent years have seen an interest in human geography in the multiple faces of power
– in the power to construct and enforce boundaries, to have them accepted as ‘natural’,
and to give them practical and political meaning. There have also been useful critical
interventions in the processes by which the categories of ‘culture’ and ‘nature’ have
been opposed (see Demeritt, 1994; Gerber, 1997) and turned into crucial stakes of
political struggle (see Willems-Braun 1997). As yet, however, little critical attention
has been paid to extending the concerns of discourse, power, identity, and
embodiment to the human-animal distinction. There have been few efforts to push
back an arguably crucial frontier in the making of concepts of social identity,
hierarchies of power, and sociospatial arrangements in Western societies.

In this paper I have sought to clear away some of the barriers to such investigations by
problematising animality within a genealogy of distinctions about the cultural and the
natural. The splitting off of these two realms has been achieved by many
representational strategies, not least, as I stated at the outset, by social scientists
themselves. It is often said that to draw analogies between relationships in ‘nature’, on
the one hand, and social relations, on the other, is to risk lapsing into the determinism
of socio-biology where explanatory recourse for social life is made to inanimate


forces such as ‘evolution’, ‘fitness’, and ‘species survival’. Such forces are (quite
rightly) seen to deny agency and power to humans. But the premise behind such a
claim is that humans are not in the grip of their instincts and senses, whereas animals
are. Animals are little more than their biology; this is the basis of their animalness.

Inversely, anthropologists have always argued that there are diverse ways of being
human; that humanity means different things to different cultures (Ingold, 1992). Yet
they too tend to hold tight a defining characteristic of Human, that being the capacity
for culture. This is not only a matter of denying the complex existence of other
animals. It is more that we continue to conceive of an essence of humanity, and a
special one at that, through some categorical distinction from ‘mere’ animal life
(Ingold, 1994). That such understandings have also been smuggled into
representational systems that mark out some (racialised) humans from others is one
major political implication that has been my concern in this paper.

The narrow conceptualisation of animality is now long since out of date with
knowledge of the cultural life of animals, their species-specific cognitive states, and
flexible notions of instinct in all animals, including humans (Birke and Hubbard, 1995;
Masson and McCarthy, 1996). It has also obstructed attention to identity conflicts that
resonate both within human beings and wider fields of sociospatial relations in
Western cultural process. That the ‘social field’ can be seen as having been attained
by separating off interiorised and real ‘beasts’ suggests it may be timely to conceive
of it more flexibly. In this paper I have prised open some cracks in that closed field of
intelligibility in which (some) humans have contained themselves. We might more
freely move across our various states of being, if lines of conversation with our own
dark sides are opened out, rather than shut down and secreted away.


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