Around The Day In Eighty Worlds Politics Of The Pluriverse

Martin Savransky
Around the dAy in
eighty Worlds Politics of
the Pluriverse

around the day in eighty worlds

thought in the act
A series edited by Erin Manning and Brian Massumi

a r o u n d
t h e d a y
i n
e i g h t y
w o r l d s
politics of the pluriverse
Martin Savransky
Duke university Press · Durham and London · 2021

© 2021 Duke University Press
All rights reserved
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Savransky, Martin, author.
Title: Around the day in eighty worlds : politics of the
pluriverse / Martin Savransky.
Other titles: Thought in the act.
Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2021. |
Series: Thought in the act | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2020038096 (print) | lccn 2020038097 (ebook)
isbn 9781478011989 (hardcover)
isbn 9781478014126 (paperback)
isbn 9781478021438 (ebook)
Subjects: lcsh: James, William, 1842–1910. |
Pluralism—Political aspects.
Classification: lcc b945.j24 s28 2021 (print) |
lcc b945.j24 (ebook) | DDc 147/.4—dc23
lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020038096
lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020038097
Cover Art: Brie Ruais, Circling Inward and Outward, 128 lbs,
2020. Glazed ceramic, rocks, hardware. 96 × 92 × 3 inches.
Image courtesy the artist and Night Gallery.

contents
Acknowledgments · vii
chapter one · Ongoing and Unfinished · 1
chapter two · Runaway Metaphysics · 25
chapter three · Trust of a Held-Out Hand · 49
chapter four · Worldquakes · 70
chapter five · Pragmatism in the Wake · 91
chapter six · The Insistence of the Pluriverse · 113
Notes · 133
Bibliography · 163
Index · 177

acknowledgments
Can one ever say when a book begins? Or when it ends? This one has, in-
deed, been long in the making. But, thinking back, it seems impossible
now to pinpoint precisely when it begun. It certainly did not begin when I
started writing it. For the fact is that, if I started writing it, it’s only because
it had already begun, in some other form, insisting in whatever else I was
doing, making me hesitate, insinuating itself in the form of a generative
problematic that, with the force of an imperative, turned me into its prey
and compelled me to turn to it, to do what I could to develop it, to respond
to its demand while intensifying the possibility that it could, in fact, be
written. Which is to say that the book was already ongoing when I started
writing it, and now that it is out of my hands, it remains unfinished, insist-
ing and persisting in yours, unexpectedly morphing into whatever might
come after it. The book is ongoing and unfinished, much like what is in
the book—much like the runaway philosophical and political experimen-
tation that turned me into its means and that, with the help of William
James, I seek to activate through it, to make felt by means of it. The “and”
trails along every edge, along every sentence: Ever not quite! Which is why,
while this book is written in gratitude for, and in honour of, a whole host
of relations (intellectual, personal, institutional, political, enduring, and
ephemeral) through which it became composed, it is the ongoing and un-
finished nature—of every book, perhaps, but certainly of this book—that
overwhelms my capacity to name every one of those relations here.
And yet, as James himself told his editor upon submitting his thousand-
page, two-volume manuscript The Principles of Psychology, “No subject is
worth being treated of in 1000 pages!” If ongoing and unfinished (and
it is clear that his was just as ongoing and unfinished as this one, albeit
significantly longer), a book must have, if not necessarily an introduc-
tion and a conclusion, then at least a “before” and an “after.” Above all,
one must do one’s best to avoid turning it into what, in his letter, James

viii AcknowleDgments
called “a loathsome, distended, tumefied, bloated, dropsical mass.” The
same goes, because of my own incapacity to name them all, for the rela-
tions I can and must strive to invoke by name here. Thus, I will try to ex-
ert some self-restraint, and restrict these thanks to those whose mark has
been most patently felt in the weaving of this text. It goes without saying,
but not without thanking, that this book would not be what it is without
the warm and generous support from Erin Manning and Brian Massumi,
who have been keeping the flame of speculative experimentation burning
in extremely generative ways, and who enthusiastically welcomed the in-
clusion of this book in their brilliant Thought in the Act book series. Deep
gratitude also goes to Ken Wissoker, Ryan Kendall, Annie Lubinsky, and
two anonymous readers, who asked thoughtful questions, made perspi-
cacious and invaluable suggestions, and carefully saw the book through
its various stages of development and production. Their attentive, careful,
and responsive editorial work is second to none, and it made the entire
process a true pleasure.
Goldsmiths, and in particular the Department of Sociology, have pro-
vided the increasingly rare space of refuge within which a book like this
could even be conceived, let alone developed. As it now faces—like many
other institutions in the UK and around the world—new threats of intel-
lectual devastation, this book is a modest thank you to everyone and ev-
erything that for years has made of Goldsmiths a place where thought can
be cultivated pluralistically, along lines of divergence that connect it to the
possibility of creating another possible university, of thinking, writing,
and teaching for another possible world, even when the worlds we trust
are possible are not always the same world. Inside it, even today, hindrance
and experiment go all the way through.
Amongcolleaguesandfriends,thisbookisparticularlyindebtedtosome
without whose careful questions, comments, and suggestions—or indeed,
without their patient reading of too much of the text, at various stages—it
would not be what it has become. In this sense, I am especially thankful
to Monica Greco, Isaac Marrero-Guillamón, Rajyashree Pandey, Marsha
Rosengarten, Sanjay Seth, and Isabelle Stengers, for their always gener-
ative and generous engagements, provocations, and propositions. Others
who have enabled the composition of this book, through their helpful com-
ments and suggestions on various chapters, sections, or passages or simply
throughtheircloseintellectualfriendshipandsupportwhilethebookwasin
themaking,include,amongothers,AndrewBarry,VikkiBell,SteveBrown,
Felicity Callard, Nerea Calvillo, Didier Debaise, Vinciane Despret, Craig

AcknowleDgments ix
Lundy, Cecile Malaspina, Patrice Maniglier, Mariam Motamedi-Fraser,
Dan Neyland, Dimitris Papadopoulos, Melanie Sehgal, Shela Sheikh, Pe-
ter Skafish, Katrin Solhdju, Paul Stenner, John Tresch, and Alex Wilkie. I
thank them for reminding me, each in their own divergent way, that the
book might, just perhaps, be worth writing in spite of all.
This book was written in the thick of it, amidst all other goings-on,
without the benefit of sabbaticals, fellowships, or other such contempla-
tive pleasures. On occasion, such escapes might have been welcome. And
yet, in this particular case, the fact is that the writing benefited from the
messy buzz of sociality, from the multifarious stream of life. Above all,
it benefited from the interstices of thoughtful, collective experimenta-
tion that the MA and PhD students that attended my Politics & Difference
masters module engendered each year for the last five years. Their willing-
ness and ability to consent to experiment with a whole array of decidedly
strange philosophical propositions; with even stranger beings; their capac-
ity to put themselves at risk and their values in question as they groped for
the possibility not only of making sense of obtuse ideas but of learning to
think, live, and be connected to one another otherwise, gave me vital en-
ergy to carry on snatching bits of time here and there to enable the writing
to continue its course, and to continue instilling joy, inside and in spite of
the institutional demands of the day. At a time when universities seem
increasingly unworthy of our attempts to defend them against their own
devaluation, they persuade me that it is not the idea of the university, but
something that can happen inside and in spite of it, something that brings
us in and brings us back, which must be defended at all costs.
And those interstices are sometimes created, too, in rare spaces of schol-
arly exchange, through talks and seminars and meetings. In this sense,
I’ve had the privilege of being invited to present and discuss aspects and
parts of this book in various, immensely enriching contexts, with thought-
ful audiences and participants. I am particularly grateful for discussions
that took place at the Centre for Philosophy and Political Economy (cPPe)
and the Business School at the University of Leicester (with thanks to Ma-
ria Puig de la Bellacasa for inviting me), with the Groupe d’Études Con-
structivistes (GECo) at the Université Libre de Bruxelles (with thanks to
Didier Debaise and Isabelle Stengers), with the Unité de recherche en
métaphysique et theories de la connaissance (MéThéor) at the Université
de Liège (with thanks to Vinciane Despret), at the Wellcome Centre for
Cultures and Environments of Health at Exeter University (with thanks
to Lara Choksey), at the Experimental Speculation/Speculative Experi-

x AcknowleDgments
mentation meeting at Europa University Viadrina/Diffrakt Centre (with
thanks to Melanie Seghal), at the Instituto de Altos Estudios at the Uni-
versidad de San Martín (with thanks to Lucía Ariza), and at the Pontifica
Universidad Católica de Chile (with thanks to Manuel Tironi, Felipe Palma,
and Martin Tironi).
It was on a certain afternoon—which might as well have been one of
many hesitant beginnings—with Inês Violante, that the story of the first
circumnavigation that opens this book began to insinuate itself in the
midst of our conversation. It is to her, to life with her, that I am most grate-
ful. May that remain, like a book, like the insistence of the pluriverse itself,
always ongoing and unfinished.

chapter one · Ongoing and Unfinished
Damn Great Empires!—including that of the Absolute.
williAm jAmes
These days, my notion of the fantastic is closer to what we call reality.
Perhaps because reality approaches the fantastic more and more.
julio cortázAr
One and Many · Ours is a tempestuous time. In the wake of the multi-
farious storms pouring over worlds for the last five hundred years, of
imperial conquests and colonial projects, of capitalist supply chains and
industrial progress, of rational knowledges and ecological devastation, it
has long been a time of endings. Yet despite the ubiquitous resurgence of
the term apocalypse, this is not the end to all endings, it is not for all that
the end of time. Not yet, perhaps not ever. For in the end—to borrow Aimé
Césaire’s words—it is The End of the World that is the only thing in the
world that’s worth beginning.1
Which is to say that it is the possibility of
other worlds in this world that is beginning amidst all endings. The pos-
sibility of other stories, ongoing and unfinished, in-the-making in spite of
all. Stories which offer neither the comfort of redemption, nor the foun-
dations of a new and better civilization. But in the eye of the storm, they
counter any sense of finality and trouble all fantasies of totality.2
Plural-
izing the present, these other stories, these other worlds in this world,
precipitate a pragmatics of collective imagination against ongoing deso-

2 chAPter one
lation.Which is why it is possible that perhaps, just perhaps, by attending
to stories where other worlds remain ongoing and unfinished, by experi-
menting with the possible beginnings such worlds might open up, the im-
possible itself can crack open, and an adventure in divergence around the
day in eighty or a thousand worlds may once again become worthy of a
certain kind of trust. This, indeed, is the speculative wager of this book,
its groundless gamble, its throw of the dice: the wager on the possibility of
rendering ourselves capable of thinking, against all odds, for other times
to come, for worlds to be otherwise composed. To think, while we still can,
in the hold of an improbable but insistent perhaps. One that, after William
James—that most singular, divergent, and adventurous of American phi-
losophers—we might call a pluriverse: a pluralistic universe underway and
yet to be made, one and many, ongoing and unfinished.3
What might a radical pluralism look like, in the hold of perhaps? What
politics of the possible might the pluriverse open up? Let me begin by be-
ginning again, hesitantly, with a series of partial stories in the form of a list
threading some loosely connected worlds through which openings make
themselves felt in spite of all. A list which, like all good lists, is neither defi-
nitely finite nor statically infinite, but always indefinite, without beginning
or end, ongoing and unfinished, always beginning with “And” and ending,
provisionally, with “et cetera”:4
And there is this world where, for much of the year, the sun doesn’t set,
either east or west, until a green and yellow night erupts to cover all hours
of the day.
There is this world in which people cultivate their existence in the sea,
learning to move, and think, and live under water for tens of minutes on
end.
There is this world where elves are real, living underneath rocks. Med-
dling in human affairs, they’re called the huldufólk (the hidden people), and
often force modern infrastructural development projects to slow their pace
and change course.
There is this world where ghosts are real, requiring the same things that
humans require, making demands for care and justice after a disaster, and
often receiving offerings of food and drink, money, clothing, and even bi-
cycles and motorbikes.
There is this world where immortality is real, enjoyed by strange fun-
gal beings that, borne of deforested landscapes, do not die unless they are
killed.

ongoing AnD unfinisheD 3
There is this world where shamanism is real, releasing its forces with
the thawing advent of spring, which pushes forward a permanent state of
transition after socialism, with or without shamans.
There is this world where soybeans, real soybeans, kill, actively taking
the lives of peasants in expanding monoculture plantations.
There is this world where sorcery-lions are real, haunting their victims
at night by means of direct, deadly attacks, or more slowly, by poisoning
the health of their victims.
There is this world where characters are real, fictional characters borne
of novels and stories who then come to inhabit the private spaces of peo-
ple entering into conversations with them, making suggestions, offering
advice.
There is this world where Gods and Goddesses are real, some revolu-
tionary, some impersonal and remote, some extremely personal, engaging
in intimate exchanges with those who learn how to trust them.
There is this world where yellowish moldy things, unicellular beings
with no brains or nervous systems, inhabiting suburban backyards, can
think and select and make logistical decisions that at times are as efficient
as those made by human engineers.
There is this world where healers, developing the appropriate tech-
niques, can extract gray, visible spirits from people’s bodies, relieving them
of their pain and suffering.
There is this world where oracles pronounce indubitable truths, truths
that can sooth or bewilder those who consult them but which are never put
into question, never doubted, for doubt is irrelevant to them.
There is this world, which are many, where Pachamama—or what, in-
adequately, some of us call Nature—has a real existence and even the right
to integral respect for its ongoing existence despite persistent assaults by
extractivist practices.
There is this world where the dead are real and present in the lives of
those who go on living, often appearing in the guise of birds or cats, trans-
forming the habits of those who love and remember them.
(Etc.)
There are more, many more little worlds in this world, many et ceteras
to be added to this permanently unfinished list. But here’s the thing: this
is not a list of imaginary places or legendary lands. These are neither par-
allel universes, little freestanding units, nor utopian scenarios. When I
speak of these many beings as real, I do not speak metaphorically. I am not

4 chAPter one
simply claiming certain people believe them to be real, that they belong to
some exotic worldview or to other modes of knowing the world, and I am not
even saying they correspond to so many ontologies, or to theories of what is.
All such formulations would leave the foundations of our modern world,
of what some call “reality,” ultimately unscathed. These are many little
worlds insofar as their realities diverge radically from each other, and from
the heavily policed borders and deep foundations of the modern, West-
ern ploughing of the world. But their differences are immanent. Rather
than absolute separations, they trail along the “and” that, James proposed,
makes the world both one and many.
Indeed, divergence does not oppose, but presupposes, togetherness.
Already in 1907, James argued that the problem of whether the world is
one or many was the most pregnant of all philosophical problems, the one
with the largest number of consequences, such that if you know whether
someone is a decided monist or a decided pluralist you perhaps know more
about their outlook on life than if you give them “any other name ending in
ist.”5
But James was also aware then of what no philosophy can any longer
pretend to ignore: that the problem of difference, of one and many worlds,
has always been more than philosophical. For indeed, in the wake of the
tangled catastrophes of capitalism, colonialism, and extractivism, the
mass disqualification of differences through which the modern world was
born has radically devastated the very conditions of livability of myriad
human and more-than-human worlds in this world. In relay and return, to
experiment with differences under the sign of a radical pluralism requires
that we trouble those facile images of diversity and sameness in a unified
cosmos capable of containing difference in its midst. For the pluriverse is
speculatively situated in the “and” that connects “one” and “many” through
divergence, holding the many connecting frictions in generative tension.
Standing resolutely against the absolute, before the beyond, without foun-
dations, the pluriverse trembles in the interstices between the one and the
many, insinuating the possibility of other worlds in this world, of differ-
ences all the way down.
The possible it intimates is an urgent and insistent one, for it lurks
there where the seams of the modern modes of worlding the world have
begun to burst. As such, while its degrees of oneness and unity ultimately
remain an open, empirical question, permanently up for verification and
transformation, its ongoing insistence is in the form of partial stories, of
loosely connected and disconnected realities, of eighty or a thousand “little
hangings-together” in continuous processes of unification here, and plu-

ralization there, without amounting to an encompassing unification yet, or
perhaps ever.6
For these realities, spread across South and North, the West
and “the rest,” frequently derided and condemned, often hard-won, when
not reluctantly conceded and dimly disclosed, nevertheless subsist precari-
ously. They persist in intimate friction with and in spite of the ongoing and
unfinishedprojectofwhatIwouldcallthemodernmonificationoftheworld:
the disqualification and devastation of differences brought about through
capitalist supply chains and corrosive forms of laughter, through rational
knowledges and colonial expansions, through development programs and
socio-ecologicalplundering.7
Theserealitiesaremany,butinsomerespects,
in some planetary respects, we’re all in the same multifarious storm, to
swim or sink together—literally.8
It is the reality of such realities—one and
many, ongoing and unfinished—that the pluriverse insinuates as an insis-
tent possibility. And it is this possible to which this book seeks to respond.
The Feeling OF RealiTy · In spite of all, worlds still abound, unbound,
they stir trouble and pose problems, they insist and persist. There are now
a host of efforts in fields as diverse as philosophy, geography, postcolonial
studies, anthropology, theology, political theory, and the nascent environ-
mental humanities that seek to engage with the insistence of differences
and the troubles they precipitate so as to try and cultivate a radically plu-
ralistic politics that may work to displace and counter the modern monifi-
cation of the world—in other words, to reimagine the possible conditions
for its livability in the plural. And it is precisely in the interstices of these
various diverging paths that, in Around the Day in Eighty Worlds, the ef-
fort involves something altogether different from the attempt at writing
another exegetical commentary or an interpretation of James’s thought,
which still appears to produce contemporary exegetes who conclude that
his work provides us “with little discussion of social issues that appear
central at present.”9
What I seek instead is to relay aspects of the thrust
of his thought as a hand held out from a past that has never left our pres-
ent. A held-out hand which perhaps another hand—one that quietly but
irreverently sidesteps the fate of much of James’s reception among avid
commentators—may speculatively experiment with, may seek to relaunch
and reactivate, to turn it once again into a generative and demanding
proposition.10
To relay James today is not, therefore, to attempt yet another faithful
exposition, another go at “building up an author’s meaning out of separate

6 chAPter one
texts” so as to assess their inward coherence, or lack thereof.11
Relaying
is above all an art of consequences. It is experimental or it is nothing.12
As such, it requires not fidelity but the risky cultivation of a certain form
of trust, and its efficacy consists precisely in the extent to which such an
experiment may manage to grasp something of James’s “centre of vision,
by an act of imagination,” breathing a bit of new life into propositions that
might otherwise fade away.13
Such is the task before us. Relaying James’s
pluralism as a proposition that is at once dramatically political, radically
empirical, and fugitively metaphysical, I hold out a trusting hand as I seek
to forge new and always partial connections among a multiplicity of di-
vergent paths. For indeed, as it happens in this overspecialized academic
habitat we inhabit with difficulty while we still can, these diverging proj-
ects speak to each other less than one might wish, expressing the some-
what troubled dissonance created by the “and” that turns “the one and the
many” into a problem on which we cannot turn our backs any longer.
Seeking to construct the theoretical conditions for a decolonial option
to a global future, the tradition of postcolonial thought, for instance, is
of course acutely sensitive to the ways in which the imperialist system of
knowledge and capitalist production that Walter Mignolo, for convenience
(I hope), dubs the “Western code,” the code by which European moder-
nity proclaimed its own historical exception, has operated in such a way
as to override and strip divergent worlds from their generative liveability.14
Postcolonial and decolonial thinkers are sensitive, that is, to the fact that
Euromodernity continues its expansion on the alleged achievement of a
universal thought that may finally be called “rational,” while doing so at
the expense of the experiences, values, and knowledges of the those that
have been on the receiving end of its imperialist operations. Their plight
is poignant and urgent, and aspects of their proposals continue to inspire
and inform the experiment that this book sets in motion. At the same time,
however, divergences abound and proliferate. For I fear that as they seek
to uncover the foundations of a post-Occidental reason, their concern with
epistemology and identity, and their profusion of neo-Kantian diagnoses
onthecolonialityofknowledge,ofpower,ofbeing,andsoforth,oftendraw
many a postcolonial thinker back into the modern quicksand of the West-
ern code itself, not only presenting the latter as a homogenous and accom-
plished block but as a “coloniality at large,” endowed with a reality no other
decolonial “option” appears capable of resisting, or even putting at risk.
A fertile and divergent path is being traced by a growing number of
contemporary anthropologists, philosophers, and political ecologists.

They have radically turned the tables on the Eurocentric game of cultural
relativism by appealing to the language of multiple ontologies and com-
parative metaphysics.15
In so doing, they sometimes have created quite
wonderful openings for beginning the task of taking seriously the realities
of these many worlds outside the modern West. Indeed, if I find myself
drawn to an experiment in relaying James’s pluralistic problematic today,
it is no doubt thanks to what they have taught me. Around the Day in Eighty
Worldsholds out a hand to them too, in generous affinity with their efforts.
Alas, I’m not an anthropologist. Yet it is our shared interest in the “perma-
nent decolonization of thought” that leads me to experiment, beyond an
analytics of ontology, with the divergences, connections, and transforma-
tions that are made and unmade by the ongoing and unfinished adven-
tures of many other worlds in this world.16
For while possibly appropriate
to those others who have a stake in the theorization of their own modes
of experience, it is worth continuing to remind oneself, now and again,
that “ontology” is not everybody’s problem. Its significance belongs above
all to a world which, to varying degrees, still keeps alive the flame of that
questionable tradition that so comfortably has split the world into episte-
mologies and ontologies, appearances and realities, what things are and
what they look like. Which is why it is the great merit of these adventurous
anthropologies to have resisted the habit—to borrow Eduardo Viveiros
de Castro’s apt words—of relating to other cultures “as solutions to those
problems posed by our own,” attempting instead to create the means to
attend to the divergent ways in which others pose problems of their own.
And it is in alliance with them that what I seek to intensify throughout this
book is precisely the possibility of giving to those differences and diver-
gences the power not to solve but to induce a metamorphosis of the man-
ner in which we might come to pose our own problems.17
This is to say that, in seeking to stimulate a new appetite for trusting
the pluriverse, what I hope to do in the course of this book is not to solve
but to learn to inhabit the problem of differences, of the one and the many,
to feel this “and,” in its viscosities and its openings, in its violences and its
possibilities. If the problem of the one and the many is so crucial today,
then it’s because it evokes in its most dramatic stakes the need to pay at-
tention to what James called “the feeling of and.”18
It is, in other words,
because this “and” matters: because any clear-cut, either/or solution, while
possible in the abstract, is practically unworkable. “Things are with an-
other in many ways, but nothing,” James protested, “includes everything
or dominates over everything. The word ‘and’ trails along after every sen-

8 chAPter one
tence. Something always escapes. ‘Ever not quite’ has to be said of the best
attempts anywhere in the universe at attaining all inclusiveness.”19
Plural-
ism is not an unproblematic celebration of the many. It is an ongoing re-
sponse to a generative problematic, an insistence that calls for no jubilant
solution but for careful and pragmatic experimentation. This is what the
anaphoric operation that composes the list above (“There is this world . . .”)
tries to evoke: this andthat, one and many,same and different, ongoing and
unfinished. For as James argued, when the problem is addressed pragmat-
ically rather than abstractly, “the world is one just so far as its parts hang
together by any definite connexion” and “it is many just so far as any defi-
nite connexion fails to obtain.”20
And it is growing more and more unified
or pluralized as the many practices that compose it continue to intervene
in it. The pluriverse insists and persists in the interstices between the one
and the many, rejecting either as final solutions to its ongoing problematic
insistence.
The kind of pluralistic variation I am after, therefore, is one concerned
with the pluralization of this element over which the modern world has
claimed exclusive jurisdiction—a pluralization of this thing, of this king,
called “reality.” Pluralism’s trusting hand is held out to manifold realities,
loosely connected, partially open to each other and to their own becoming,
composing a precarious cosmos that is diverging with itself all the way
down—one and many, ongoing and unfinished. For if an ontology is al-
ways in some sense the handmaiden to some metaphysical system, reality,
the sense of reality—suggested James, sneakily, in the middle of his trea-
tise on psychology—“feels like itself, that is about as much as we can say.”21
Reality feels like itself: a demanding formulation that needs no phenome-
nological subject, no human agent, and no cultural whole, to be already
there (where?), doing the work of feeling. Reality feels and is felt– a formu-
lation which, put in the general language of serious metaphysicians, might
perhaps read like this: “reality” may be said of everything that feels and is
felt anywhere in the universe. Or as James put it elsewhere: “Everything
real must be experienceable somewhere, and every kind of thing experi-
enced must somewhere be real.”22
Indeed, it is precisely in this sense that
AroundtheDayinEightyWorldssets out to relay James’s thought: as the anti-
imperialist efforts of a runaway metaphysician. For while he may be better
known as a mere psychologist or, at best, a philosopher of “experience,”
it is also James who, bit by bit, makes experience and reality coincide in
an irrepressible and generative plurality, such that while experience is the
“primal stuff or material in the world” of which “everything is composed,”

there is also “no general stuff of which experience at large is made. There
are as many stuffs as there are ‘natures’ in the things experienced.”23
Real-
ity feels like itself, in the plural.
Feeling like itself, “reality” doesn’t always need to come wrapped up in
proper names—like Amerindian, Cuban, Western, Melanesian, and so
on—because it hasn’t yet learned that it is indecent for it to go out naked.
To those who are heirs to the musings of modern European philosophy,
this may sound like a minor, technical distinction, but the pragmatic dif-
ference it can make is, I suggest, significant. Because the modern tradi-
tion is also the one that has turned its own metaphysics into an empire,
deploying its trained realism into a weapon of mass disqualification that
creates and polices the border between what may count as real and what
is dismissed as illusory, fantastical, superstitious, magical, or whimsi-
cal, no matter where (or when) it is found. Which is also to say that, as I
gasp for another chance to regenerate my imagination while I still can, in
this book I find myself entertaining pluralism, after James, as an ongo-
ing, anti-imperialist effort dedicated to our own metaphysical indetermina-
tion—a speculative pragmatism that is not against the work of metaphysics
as such, but resolutely other to its imperial expansions into an all-inclusive
system.24
More than a straightforward multiplication of the many, then,
pluralism animates the politics of a world that persistently resists the as-
saults that would turn it into a single order, risking its own unfoldings and
refoldings into an irreducible and insistent pluriverse. This kind of plural-
ism is thus a vector for a speculative, decolonial imagination.25
One that
instead of opposing power to power, instead of confronting the empire of
modern realism with the anti-realism of deconstructive critique, lays siege
to empire by embarking on the adventure of cultivating a realism generous
and generative enough to travel around the day in eighty or a thousand
worlds. A pluralism trusting enough to wager on the possibility that, as In-
dian writer and activist Arundhati Roy once reminded the World Social
Forum, “another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet
day, I can hear her breathing.”26
STORieS wiThin STORieS, wORldS wiThin wORldS · Other worlds
underway, ongoing and unfinished, trust we must. Isn’t this what Gilles
Deleuze meant when he implored that the most urgent and most difficult
task before us today is precisely to believe in the world? The urgency of this
task, one that requires a “mode of existence still to be discovered,” and

10 chAPter one
a problematic “we” yet to be composed, signals that this is not a matter
of cultivating an amor fati toward an impending apocalypse.27
To trust the
world, to insist on living in it, to persist in it, is urgent because it demands
that we insist on another world in this world, and that we trust that. This
is what Fred Moten beautifully calls the “the joyful noise of the scattered,
scatted eschaton,” the refusal of a modern eschatology that has gone to
great lengths to bring about its miraculous discoveries and creations, and
now begins to wonder whether those same lengths may well bring about
the end.28
But while possibly joyful, this possible refusal is no doubt also
the most difficult. Because, as Deleuze acknowledged, “we have so many
reasons not to believe” in the world, “we have lost the world, worse than a
fiancée or a god.”29
More than that, we continue to lose it. Indeed, it was
the impending loss of the world, the progressive erasure of differences
propelled by the imperialization of America, that marked James’s anti-
imperialist pluralism at the turn of the twentieth century, and against
which he sought to cultivate a risky, experimental trust in the insistent
possibility of an irreducible pluriverse.30
What has happened to us? What have been the lengths that this mod-
ern eschatology has gone to such that it could have partly succeeded in
creating the foundations for a narrow form of reason fundamentally pit-
ted against trust, and turned its provincial realism into a weapon of mass
disqualification? We could recall Max Weber’s nostalgic lament about the
modern disenchantment of the world generated by the growing rational-
ization of a culture finally freed from all illusions.31
This is a fine story, but
I fear it is not the one the urgency of the task demands. Because any (re)
enchantment of the world has disenchantment built into it.32
And Weber’s
romanticism, for its part, is the child of a modern epoch that accepts as fait
accompli a fate that is still ongoing and unfinished. A fate many of those
other worlds are either indifferent to, or keep plying against as their “out-
sized realities,” to borrow Gabriel García Márquez’s words. The realities of
hidden people, of gods and ghosts and soybeans and oracles and sorceries,
were never “enchanted” to begin with.33
They just feel like themselves.
Thus, in attempting to scat the eschaton, to disclose its enclosure such
that another throw of the dice may become possible, perhaps we can ex-
periment with a different tale. One whose memento will neither lead us to
simply ponder where the magic has gone, nor set the mythological founda-
tions for the complete erasure of a memory that, however sad, is still ours,
to which we are today called upon to respond. The challenge is whether
we can explore the possibility of asking other generative questions that

may in turn make the monumental challenge of trusting the other worlds
in this world possible. With that in mind, let me propose a failing story of
origins of the modern project of world-monification, one whose implau-
sible plot is I think as interesting as its unraveling. This is a tale, in other
words, about the turning of the world into a globe. It is a tale I entertained
for a short while (only to be amazed at its unraveling, and humbled by my
own learned ignorance) when trying to imagine that, just as the moderns
were supposedly able, according to their own stories, to leave the Middle
Ages behind—that is, in the middle of their path to “progress”—by real-
izing that the innumerable marvels and wonders that fascinated Europe-
ans at that time were not real because the world, now enlightened, had
never in fact been populated with divine presence;34
that this might have
been made possible, in turn, by the fact that they had already discovered
that those other worlds in this world could not in any genuine sense be
real, either. While today, out of tolerance and goodwill, one may call them
cultural, metaphorical, magical, traditional, or religious, they could not
possibly be real because it was the turning of our unbounded reason into
technologies of circumnavigation that gave us Columbus’s egg and Magel-
lan’s voyages, that gave us the modern Age of Empires and enabled us to
settle, once and for all, that the world is not many, for contrary to medieval
wisdom, the earth is not flat, but round.
One could imagine how, rightly or wrongly, the event of the first suc-
cessful circumnavigations would have been key to this process. First,
because of the economic and geopolitical accession to world-wide trade
and processes of enslavement and colonization of non-European peoples,
but also, importantly, because of the geometrical discovery of a spherical
Earth, perfectly self-contained, with no cliff-edges, and no possible worlds
beyond. A round world mirroring in earthly experience the theologics of
the One.35
Indeed, as the modern epic goes, Columbus held the enlightened
but then unpopular conviction that the Earth might in fact turn out to be
round, and had to overcome the calumnies of the assembled clerics at Sal-
amanca to get a hearing with the Spanish monarchs to gain their support
for the expedition that would open a nautical path between the Spanish
Kingdom and the Far East. For this reason, when they reached what later
became known as America, Columbus was convinced he had actually ar-
rived in Asia. It was thanks to this cosmographical mistake, therefore, that
Europe was placed at the center of the map as well as of history—a gesture
that prompts postcolonial philosopher Enrique Dussel to make the provoc-
ative suggestion that, rather than having been born of its own accord,

12 chAPter one
through the miraculous inventions of an enlightened techno-scientific
culture, it was Columbus who in fact inaugurated Modernity.36
Columbus, however, didn’t make it to Asia, and so he never quite man-
aged to bend the medieval map. It was the Portuguese renegade Fernâo de
Magalhães who, as is known, is credited with having led, between 1519 and
1522 (and with Spanish funding), the first voyage around the world—not
quite in eighty days like Phileas Fogg, but in well over a thousand. Unlike
Columbus, who described his voyages as the discovery of “another world,”37
Magalhães was still adventurous but a lot less speculative, simply seeking
westward access to the Spice Islands promised by Columbus but never de-
livered, a kind of access that, if achieved, would have enabled Spain to lay
sovereign claim to part of the Portuguese-dominated spice trade. Assisted
by his Malaysian polyglot slave Enrique, a fleet of five ships, 230 men, co-
pious artillery, and promises of massive future dividends, he sailed south
alongside the African shore, and made the Atlantic crossing south of the
Equator to reach southern Brazil. From then on, they continued sailing
along what would now be the Uruguayan and Argentinian shores.
For reasons far more numerous than I can here relate, this was a dan-
gerous trip. Suffice it to say that, on their way down the American coast,
Magalhães and his fleet came across “hogs with navels on their haunches,
clawless birds whose hens laid eggs on the backs of their mates, and others
still, resembling tongueless pelicans, with beaks like spoons.” They also
encountered “a misbegotten creature with the head and ears of a mule, a
camel’s body, the legs of a deer, and the whinny of a horse.”38
And as they
found shelter in the natural harbor of what later became known as Puerto
San Julián in the Argentinian Patagonia, Antonio Pigafetta, a Florentine
member of the fleet who kept written records of their journey, writes that
they encountered a giant who, at the glance of a mirror, “was greatly terri-
fied, leaping backwards” and making “three or four men fall down.”39
This
was, of course, less than half of the trip. Navigating through the strait that
crosses the southern tip of the continent on to the Pacific Ocean, the other
half also included internal rebellions and desertions within the crew, food
shortages, generalized cases of scurvy, and violent encounters with indig-
enous peoples from Micronesia—until at least part of the fleet made it
to the Philippines and then on to the much sought-after Spice Islands in
what is now the Indonesian archipelago. After spending some time stuff-
ing themselves on cloves and cinnamon, they eventually reentered the At-
lantic and made the final stretch back to Spain.

The map was bent. If, as the Martinican philosopher and poet Édouard
Glissant put it, “the first Colonist, Christopher Columbus, did not voy-
age in the name of a country but of an idea,” then presumably Ferdinand
Magellan, the first circumnavigator, would have literally brought home
the idea that, contrary to medieval wisdom, the world was not flat but
round—without worlds beyond, wholly and ecumenically one.40
As he
turned the cliff-edges into a challenging but united mass of water, and
established a definite connection around the many little worlds for the
first time, the Dark Ages drew to a close and the colonial monification of
the world was thus initiated. Indeed, in some regards, this was a critical
event. Not only was the very construction of the fleet responsible for “the
final demise of the forests of the Mediterranean and the beginning of an
intensive exploitation of wooded parts of the Baltic, Scandinavia, Russia,
and eventually, the Americas,”41
but as historian Joyce E. Chaplin has ar-
gued, having succeeded in turning the globe into a real object, the expedi-
tion also made “plans for global empire real.”42
The Global World, the Age
of Empires, and Cheap Nature Capitalism were thus born as triplets, and
modernity began to lose the world as soon as it had finally managed to
capture the globe.43
That said, a contemporary historian may understandably want to burn
me at the stake for this story. Others may object that it risks creating too
strong an association between modernity and the West, thus giving a free
pass to the Eurocentric character of many a story of the advent of the mod-
ern age. They would remind us that “the West” is little more than an ab-
straction, that modernity was neither an exclusively European invention,
a historical rupture with a pre-modern past, nor a fully successful achieve-
ment. They would argue that despite its furious disavowals, modernity is
itself multiple and plural. They need not be wrong either. As far as I am
concerned, “modernity” is the heteronymic name for a host of different
stories we tell. Which is not to say that these are “just stories.” Stories do
things, they infect our lives and practices, they weave and tear worlds, they
shape how they might come to be inhabited. We live and die by the sto-
ries we tell. Thus, no story can claim innocence.44
No story can disentan-
gle itself from what it omits, any more than it can distance itself from the
consequences it precipitates, or the difference it might be liable to make.
Each involves a risk, a wager on the worlds we might seek to weave. Which
is why it matters how stories are told. With some stories we are lured
into the surreptitious instabilities of the modern, looking for the per-

14 chAPter one
sistent ambivalences of that which its most Eurocentric and self-indulgent
versions would disavow. With others, we’re prompted to sail in the search
for alternative configurations of what being modern might involve. But
perhaps other stories, like the one I’m in the midst of telling, might yet
take us along different paths, not always marked on a map. By provincial-
izing the modern, by rendering it a mode of ploughing and of inhabiting a
world-turned-globe that has become dominant but never total, by conceiv-
ing it as a project and a force that has proven extremely effective but never
finished nor entirely successful, perhaps these kinds of stories create the
possibility of something else. Perhaps they enable us to affirm that while
we’re heirs to colonizing and imperial histories that persist in the worlds
we might seek to weave—evernotquite, there are other worlds in this world;
other ways of inhabiting worlds are possible in spite of all. Perhaps sto-
ries like this might also precipitate the possibility of telling other stories,
ones which might lure us to the sense of an opening, transforming thought
through a pluralistic variation of interests.
That, for better or ill, is the risk I take—the risk, that is, of experiment-
ing with such stories in order to throw the dice and begin again. But I do
so with some hesitation, for hesitation is at the heart of this story I’m try-
ing to tell. It simultaneously subtends and upends it. After all, compared
to the monistic elegance of most stories of origin, pluralism “offers but a
sorry appearance. It is,” James insisted, “a turbid, muddled, gothic sort of
affair, without a sweeping outline and with little pictorial nobility.”45
Mud-
dle things I must! For it is not just that while Magalhães did made history,
he didn’t actually make the entire journey, having died somewhere along
the way at the hands of Filipino soldiers defending themselves from inva-
sion. Nor is it just that, by the time the fleet reached the South Asian Sea, it
would have probably been Enrique, the Malaysian slave, who was the first
person to have completed a journey around the world. The fascinating un-
raveling of this story begins when we note that much of its “pictorial nobil-
ity” hinges on the bending of the medieval flat-Earth map. Enticing as it
is, I found out rather quickly and with some embarrassment that this could
not, in and of itself, have been the inaugural event of the modern monifica-
tion of the world—at least not without unraveling the untimely thread that
connects the event of circumnavigation in the early sixteenth century with
another event that took place much later. Which is to say, not without con-
sidering that most things happen through the resonance of events, “point
of view on a point of view, displacement of perspective, differentiation of
difference,”46
stories within stories, worlds within worlds.

By this I mean that, if we follow the story linearly, Magellan’s circum-
navigation could not have constituted the birth, or rather, the rebirth—
which is to say, the Renaissance—of the self-contained, spherical Earth, for
the simple reason that the Earth of the Dark Ages was never flat to be-
gin with. This is where the other story in this story opens up. Contrary to
the epic tale, this other story notes that the ancient insights of a spherical
Earth achieved by the Greeks never quite faded, and “all major medieval
scholars accepted the earth’s roundness,” at least in principle, “as an es-
tablished fact of cosmology.”47
In fact, the natural historian Stephen Jay
Gould writes of this other story that apparently only two medieval scholars
espoused such flat cosmologies. One proposed an account whereby people
at the antipodes “might walk with their feet above their heads in a land
where crops grow down and rain falls up,” while the other championed a
literal interpretation of a biblical metaphor which suggested that the Earth
was “a flat floor for the rectangular, vaulted arch of the heavens above.”48
But both of them were largely marginal figures in medieval scholarship,
not least because they wrote in Greek and remained untranslated during
a time when the lingua franca was Latin. To muddle things further, back
in the enlightened imperial center of the world, monsters, curiosities, and
other wild facts and outsized, extraordinary realities still populated fairs,
coffeehouses, and publications until well into the eighteenth century. Af-
ter all, it was at that time that the Académie Royale des Sciences printed
Leibniz’s account of a dog that could bark out about thirty words!49
As this
other story goes, it was not until the last couple of decades of the nine-
teenth century that the epic story of the flat Earth took hold, and was in-
troduced on a massive scale in history textbooks pretty much until today,
with the sole purpose of supporting the place of Darwin’s theory of evolu-
tion as the latest episode of “a tale of bright progress continually sparked
by science.”50
The introduction of the flat-Earth story in history textbooks
was, as Gould suggests, a chapter written by modern historians in their
equally implausible story of the development of human civilization as an
ongoing strife between Science and Religion.
A failing story of origins indeed—for neither the circumnavigation, nor
the nineteenth-century campaign led by historians, will singly help us pin-
point its beginning. But something is underway nevertheless. Something
is engendered in the resonance between these events; another story within
these stories is woven through them, one which opens up what has effec-
tively constituted an epochal transformation, underway throughout the
last few centuries, and lacing itself around many other stories of the rise

16 chAPter one
of the “new sciences” and Newtonian physics,51
the bifurcation of nature,52
the rise of natural law in both science and politics,53
and the birth of the
human sciences.54
This transformation that we have come to call “modern”
extracted elements of such divergent stories with a view toward the gen-
eral orchestration of a dominant story of order that would bring together,
into an encompassing scheme, the laws of nature and the laws of nations.
And in so doing, it embraced the arrival of what in hindsight we might
call a new, modern metaphysics of an ordinary, uniform, and unexcep-
tional order of nature. Conflating it with reality as such, modernity cele-
brated its intellectual, political, and social implications. Stephen Toulmin
had a point, then, in associating the “hidden agenda” of modernity with a
counter-renaissance that, in conflating reason with the boundless, the gen-
eral, the universal, the certain, and the timeless, poured scorn on every-
thing specific, local, timely, and uncertain.55
Writing a historiography of
backward pasts to accompany a geography of living anachronisms, this
new metaphysics spread throughout philosophy, science, and the arts in
the form of a modern realism that rendered the imagination dangerous
and the extraordinary vulgar, and thus transformed the way in which the
event of circumnavigation came to matter. According to its own story, go-
ing around the world was no longer merely a nautical success, nor even just
a political achievement. Instead, it represented the absolute victory of a
finally boundless reason over a world whose unruly edges and extraor-
dinary multifariousness could then safely be ignored, and eventually
banished. A mode of inhabiting the world where one would no longer be
compelled to believe in other worlds in this world, or to trust anything be-
yond what this domesticated orthodoxy now deemed possible. And yet,
ever not quite: the story is still ongoing, the agenda is still unfinished.
whaT iS RealiTy Capable OF? · In knitting together certain forms of
naturalism, of rationalism, and of colonialism, what these connected sto-
ries animated, therefore, is the conjuring of an order of the possible in a
now self-enclosed world.56
This is why rather than choosing between them,
I propose these stories-within-stories as a kind of opening, one perhaps ca-
pable of dis-closing the closure brought about by the progressive plot of the
epic tale of the nineteenth century, one providing a possible resource to
counter the process of monification and to reimagine the stakes of trust-
ing the world and its pluralization again. Rather than simply arguing for a

(re)turn to the flat Earth, then, I propose to invert the direction, which is
to say the sense, of Magalhães’s and Fogg’s travel—around the day in eighty
worlds. What is at stake here is neither the affirmation of many little sep-
arate worlds in isolation, nor the number eighty, but the wresting of the
adventure of voyaging from the dreams of the colonial project by going
around a pluralistic universe of partial stories and connections. In other
words, it is a matter of attempting to rescue realities in the plural from the
hands of modern realists and anti-realists alike. Of course, disputes over
some form of “realism” or another may have been around ever since Plato
expressed his distrust of art and sought to expel poets from the Repub-
lic, but these connected stories have enabled the modern flame-keepers
of Platonism to truly spread across the contemporary world.57
And today,
while the list of disqualified realities rises exponentially in a world with-
out refuge, “realist” thinkers fight over whether one should be a realist ei-
ther about the past or about futures, a realist about natural kinds or about
human kinds, a realist about things-in-themselves or about things-as-
related, a realist about objects or about relations, a realist about substances
or about processes, or a realist about stars but not about the occurrence of
the sequence “777” in the number π.58
Which begs the question: other than
by its love for the unexceptional, how should modern realism be character-
ized? What is the patterning through which it ploughs the world?
Given that no “cat-on-the-mat” argument is capable of singlehandedly
ploughing the world, and given that, as I have just suggested, so-called
realist philosophers may disagree about whether one should affirm the re-
ality of the cat, or the mat, and would probably frown upon any modest
attempt to affirm the reality of the on, my suggestion is that modern real-
ism can be characterized neither as a philosophy, a theory, nor even as an
intellectual position. Consider the supposedly standard definition of re-
alism, which states that among its basic premises are that “the world con-
sists of some fixed totality of mind-independent objects” and that “there is
exactly one true and complete description of ‘the way the world is.’”59
What
is this if not a legislative decree? What is this if not the arbitrary definition
of an abstract boundary? What difference does this definition make, if not
that of inspiring distrust in other worlds by insisting dogmatically in the
fixed and single nature of this world as the world? Which of the many other
worlds could possibly survive it? Alas, poor ghosts, poor hidden people,
poor giants and oracles, poor gods and goddesses and the dead; poor Pi-
gafetta, poor our own imaginations, apparently so mind-dependent; poor

18 chAPter one
the relationships and partial connections we’re in; poor novelty; but also
poor Darwin, poor James, poor Deleuze, poor our sense of curiosity, dis-
covery, and invention; poor the possible itself.
Because it is a moving border legislating on the kinds of questions that
can be asked, the meaning and function of modern realism is first to be
defined negatively. Just like the notion of Enlightenment itself,60
this order
of the possible for which modern realism is a nickname is largely defined
by what it excludes, which is to say, by what it opposes, such that we may as
well imagine it rather as an order, both metaphysical and political, of the
impossible. More than a philosophical doctrine with an affirmative prop-
osition about what reality is, modern realism must thus be pragmatically
understood, first and foremost, as a belligerent operation, as an entire
mode of inhabiting and engaging the world and its forms of divergence,
a mode which makes its own militant legislations percolate into every en-
counter, into every feeling of and. This modern-realist operation functions
primarily as an act of policing that, aided by the rise of an unexceptional
metaphysics and the global expansion of European empires, consists in
marshalling a distrust for the world as it travels around it, undertaking the
ongoing—but I insist, unfinished—task of legislating what is real from
what is illusory or superstitious, what is possible from what is impossible.
With no patience for generative questions, it behaves like the schoolmate
of Julio Cortázar, the Argentinian writer in whose honor I’ve titled this
book. This was a classmate to whom Cortázar lent a book by Jules Verne;
after a few days the boy brought it back and, to Cortázar’s surprise, said: “I
can’t read this, it’s too fantastical.”61
Were it not for the fact that European colonization turned this distrust-
ing realism into an imperial machine of its own, we would not need be
concerned with it. But its ubiquitous presence today, its capacity not only
to disqualify anything it faces but to transform the very mode of judg-
ment, cornering those who seek to think the possibility of another world
in this world into the defeat of an equally distrusting anti-realism, makes
its consequences felt with an urgency that one can no longer afford to ig-
nore. Because while abstract philosophical arguments cannot singlehand-
edly shape the world in their own image, philosophies nevertheless are, as
James said over a century ago, “intimate parts of the universe,” such that
“with our theories,” even with our modern realist theories-of-no-theory,
the universe “may trust itself or mistrust itself the more, and by doing the
one or the other, deserve more the trust or the mistrust.”62
This is why, ani-
mated by James’s proposition that reality feels like itself, this books sets

out to invert Magellan’s journey, and go around the day in eighty worlds.
Because it seems to me that the first task to be undertaken in the perma-
nently ongoing and unfinished project of our own metaphysical indeter-
mination, one that might perhaps enable us to regenerate our trust in this
world and its possibilities, is the task of refusing the modern-realist oper-
ations by snatching realism from its modern alliance with monism. Which
is to say, the task of laboring against the empire of mistrust that the meta-
physics of an ordinary nature has instilled in our practices and imagina-
tions. Because what distrusts itself deserves to be mistrusted.
Édouard Glissant once wrote that decolonization “will have done its
real work” when it goes beyond the limits of the oppositional logic that de-
fines it as the negative of colonialism.63
Seconding him, I would say that it
will then have resumed its work on and in reality. More than a deconstruc-
tive critique of coloniality, refusing the reasons that give rise to opposition
requires a pluralistic realism that works experimentally to cultivate an on-
going and unfinished pluriverse, diverging with itself all the way down.
Not, therefore, a relativist “anything goes,” but a pluralist “many things
are!” Laboring toward metaphysical indetermination, I want to associate
this kind of pluralism with the paradoxical figure of a runawaymetaphysics,
unhinged from first principles and apocalyptic endings, permanently on-
going and unfinished: an exercise that has certainly nothing to do with the
modern systematic search for the ultimate structure of a boundless reality
principle, to be discerned above and beyond the multifarious realities of
this world. It is the modern justifications for the distrust in the world that a
runaway metaphysics rejects, and it is the temptation to be absolved in yet
another boundless beyond that it resists. As such, it will favor no system,
condone no systematic distrust, and authorize no principle of neglect. Un-
hinged, its task is that of an ongoing experimentation, a permanent effort
in generative feeling, an ongoing and unfinished art of noticing and learn-
ing, not from a realm of a higher denomination but from the multifarious,
empirical “reality where things happen,” without exception.64
A runaway
metaphysics must thus go wandering South and North in the search for
possible alliances with other little hangings-together, with realities lost,
suppressed, marginalized, and derided, with realities fantastical, incom-
prehensible, and implausible; always in touch with other worlds underway
and yet to be made, insisting in the distrusted rubbles that modern-realist
operations have disavowed. And it insists in them to make felt, always a bit
more, always a little differently, that if reality needs no other justification
than experience itself, there is no one substance of which all experiences

20 chAPter one
are made. That there are other worlds in this world, underway and yet to
be made. That reality feels like itself, in the plural.
A thoroughly realistic project, albeit of an unusual sort: pluralistic, un-
principled, counter-ecumenical, pragmatic, radically empirical. Going
around the day, it will perhaps resemble the kinds of realism we enter-
tain during the night, when even the most skeptical of the moderns can be
shaken at the glimpse of the shadow of a possible ghost. Such a pluralistic
realism would no doubt be unusual because, instead of beginning with
either positive or negative doctrines, with so many determinations and
definitions distinguishing what is real from what is not, it must always
begin again, with a generous and generative question that modern-realist
operations have made almost impossible to utter: “what is reality capable
of?,” and stay to hear the responses. It is clear that this question will not,
by itself, solve any of our problems. Worse, it will take away our favorite
weapon for dealing with them. In so doing, it is likely to create new, prag-
matic problems of learning to inhabit a pluralistic world without founda-
tions. But, perhaps, just perhaps, these new problems may change the ones
we’ve got. Perhaps they may be able to create the possibility of something
unexpected to happen on a day when we have learned to expect nothing.
And perhaps, just perhaps, giving this possible a chance matters. With it,
perhaps the pluriverse may trust itself a little more. This, at any rate, is
what I’m trusting.
Like a many-storied universe, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds unfolds and
enfolds experimentally, through piecemeal approximation, stuttering
its most humble questions while holding out a hand to a host of different
worlds it trusts may meet its hand. Cultivating a pluralistic art of noticing
other worlds in this world, the book thinks with what some of their many
stories may demand of our own concepts and propositions in relay and re-
turn, so as to render each other capable of response, capable of trusting
reality to feel and be felt in the plural. In so doing, each chapter attempts
to relay relevant aspects of James’s thought by situating it in generative and
generous alliances with ethnographic stories of other fellow day-travelers
as well as with a host of other thinkers inhabiting the interstices of this plu-
ralistic manifold in and out of Europe. Chapter 2, “Runaway Metaphysics,”
undertakes the initial task of articulating the stakes and demands of our
own metaphysical indetermination by following the story of the fractious
exchangebetweenanthropologistHarryWestandLazaroMmala,aschool-

teacher and veteran of the Mozambican war of independence, on the ques-
tion of whether the sorcery-lions that populate the Mueda Plateau can be
understood as political “symbols,” or whether, as Mmala forcefully insists,
we must come to terms with the fact that they are indeed real. The attempt
to take Mmala’s response seriously precipitates nothing less than a prag-
matic revaluation of the ways in which we have come to approach the poli-
tics of difference. Relaying aspects of James’s thought in conversation with
postcolonial scholars and contemporary cultural anthropologists, I suggest
that rather than a matter of choosing between “epistemological” or “onto-
logical” pluralisms, the adventure in divergence opened up by a runaway
metaphysics calls for nothing less than the decolonization of the plural itself.
By threading together a speculative exploration of James’s concept of
trust with anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann’s story of evangelicals who
learn to trust in the reality of God standing by their side, with love, Chapter
3, “Trust of a Held-out Hand,” examines and dramatizes the implications
of James’s generative proposition that reality feels like itself. Countering
the modern histories that reduced the realities of gods and spirits to the
realm of “religion,” and turned “belief” into a weapon of de-realization of
other worlds, I suggest that trust isthe generic name James gave to the feel-
ing of reality in the plural. And in this sense, it designates an immanent,
living disposition that impregnates, always differently, the multifarious
ways in which the inhabitants of the many worlds in this ongoing and un-
finished world live, think, feel, and act. Trust, in short, characterizes a liv-
ing attitude of consent to the world: a feeling-with one’s world. As such,
whenever James is concerned, trust constitutes an immanent metaphysi-
cal ultimate, capable of generating a transformation of our concept of re-
ality and an opening to our own metaphysical indetermination. For what
the practices of these evangelicals make perceptible is that it is possible to
learn to trust another world in this world. Trust, therefore, does not sim-
ply subtend the manifold relationships people establish with their worlds
in this world, but simultaneously opens these relations up and creates
the possibility of extending them, to a whole array of “ifs” and “maybes.”
Learning to trust, I suggest, precipitates a pluralistic event: the partial,
fragile, ongoing, and unfinished weaving of a tremorous form of togeth-
erness that obtains thanks to, and not in spite of, divergence. And for that
reason, the risky cultivation of trust is a requisite for the pluriverse’s own
verification.
Trust is therefore what a radically irreducible politics of difference
requires, interrupting the modern habit of considering ourselves free to

22 chAPter one
translate and redefine the ways in which others inhabit their world. What
it makes possible is a felt approach to the turbulent insistence of the pluri-
verse itself. Indeed, it is this interstitial trembling, the partial connections
between its different little worlds, that makes the pluriverse felt. On a
quiet day, one can hear it breathing. Modern realism has always despised
the tremors, going to any lengths to hold our world fast, deploying its
weapons of de-realization to countervail the quickening of our own foun-
dations. Approaching this tremorous togetherness can hardly be achieved,
therefore, without experiencing something of our own metaphysical inde-
termination as another world passes into our experience. This is what, in
Chapter 4, I call a “worldquake”: the insinuation of another world under-
way, of a buzzing multiplicity of other worlds in this world, of the feeling of
another world passing into one’s experience. By threading Edith Turner’s
experience of seeing a visible spirit coming out of a woman’s back in Zam-
bia, together with James’s own experience of a mild earthquake and some
of his reflections on the relationships between percepts and concepts, it
is the aim of this chapter to dramatize the experience which worldquakes
precipitate.
A worldquake, I propose, puts all general principles out of their depth,
making perceptible the radical contingency of any and all responses to the
feeling of difference in the concrete. As such, it helps us understand that a
politics of the pluriverse is neither a matter of articulating equanimous re-
sponses, singlehandedly capable of putting us and others on symmetrical
footing, nor is it only about a politics of translation, of choosing between
betraying either the language of origin or of destination. Rather, world-
quakes require that one grants the trembling of togetherness the power to
transform our stories and concepts, to let oneself be transformed by them.
They prompt what, throughout this book, I call an intranslation: an entirely
nonsymmetrical act, at once conceptual, political, and pragmatic, of in-
troducing (“intraduire”) and precipitating generative vectors of alteration,
curves of divergence, variations of interest, the many boiling over the one,
a pinch of chaos in the cosmos.65
Worldquakes leave us without founda-
tions. They make present that there is something tragic in every decision,
inanyresponse.Theongoingnessofthepluriverseitselfisatstake,andjust
as there are novelties, there will be losses. Which is why a runaway meta-
physics cannot but keep stuttering out its most humble needs like a foolish
little child in the eyes of reason. Thus, the test of its experiments cannot
be any other than a thoroughly pragmatic one: what difference might this

make? With our responses and additions, does the pluriverse “rise or fall
in value? Are the additions worthy or unworthy?”66
Chapter 5, “Pragmatism
in the Wake,” explores the generativity of James’s pragmatism as an ex-
perimental and speculative response to events that make such radical
contingency felt. And it does so by threading his thoughts on the prag-
matic method together with a most dramatic story: that of the profusion
of ghosts that emerged in the aftermath of the tsunami that hit the coast
of Japan in 2011, killing 18,000 people, and of the improvisational practices
that a group of Buddhist, Shinto, and Protestant priests articulated in the
wake of the disaster. Eschewing the strictures of their doctrinal knowl-
edges and languages without surrendering to the professed modernity of
contemporary Japan, these priests developed a host of spiritual care work
practices across divergent forms of religious faith to address not only the
trauma of the survivors, but also the suffering of the dead who lost their
living to the wave. In so doing, I suggest that their practices dramatize
the most generative feature of pragmatism: the speculative wager on the
feeling of if, the insistence on the possibility that caring for other stories
can lead, in turn, to composing ways of living and dying well with others,
of rendering each other capable of response, of enabling the pluriverse to
trust itself a little more.
Building on the preceding explorations, the final chapter, “The Insis-
tence of the Pluriverse,” brings aspects of James’s melioristic thought to
bear on contemporary debates around what I refer to as the emergence of
an interest in political cosmology. Which political dreams and fears, hopes
and perils, might the Jamesian pluriverse animate? By relaying a story of
James’s own visit to a sort of concrete middle-class utopia, the Method-
ist retreat at Chautauqua, the chapter places James in conversation with
a renewed engagement among postcolonial thinkers in the very idea of a
“pluriverse,” and dramatizes the possible alliances and divergences that
are made present between them. Whereas contemporary thinkers tend to
associate the notion of the “pluriverse” to a cosmology where many worlds
“fit,” and some even characterize it as a new universal project from below,
I argue that the Jamesian pluriverse conjures a political cosmology that
rejects all cosmopolitan dreams of transcendence. Instead, the cosmology
arising from James’s world-picturing activity is that of a precipitous man-
ifold, a permanently ongoing and unfinished composition of forms of di-
vergence, togetherness, and experiment. The pluriverse, I suggest, is the
name for a perhaps that insists and persists. And pluralism, in relay and

24 chAPter one
return, is but a pragmatics of the pluriverse—the art of relaying the dy-
namic of collective invention through which myriad divergent practices,
in and out of Europe, cultivate their own forms of trust in the possibility of
another world while consenting to the possibility that the worlds they trust
are possible are not the same world.

notes
chapter one: ongoing and unfinished
1 “What can I do? / I must begin. / Begin What? / The only thing in the world
that’s worth beginning: / The End of the World, no less,” Aimé Césaire, Re-
turn to My Native Land, trans. John Berger and Anna Bostock (Brooklyn: Ar-
chipelago Books, 2013), 38–39.
2 Catherine Keller, Apocalypse Now and Then: A Feminist Guide to the End of the
World (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996).
3 Strictly speaking, the terms James occasionally used for it were “multiverse”
and, more frequently, “a pluralistic universe.” Even contemporary physi-
cists begrudgingly acknowledge a connection between their cosmological
theories of the multiverse and James’s early use of the term. To my knowl-
edge, it was Benjamin Paul Blood, whom James dubbed a “pluralistic mys-
tic,” who may have coined the term. The frequent attribution of the notion
of “pluriverse” to James is, however, not unwarranted, because it highlights
the crucial fact that, unlike the physicists’ “multiverse,” which connotes the
hypothetical existence of multiple, parallel universes, James rejected the
invitation to consent to a multiverse made of disconnected parts that are
indifferent to each other. What the notion of “pluriverse” evokes, in other
words, is the need to stay with both the one and the many, to attend to the
fact that “[o]ur ‘multiverse’ still makes a ‘universe’” without thereby posit-
ing “a universal co-implication, or integration of all things durcheinander.”
See William James, A Pluralistic Universe (Lincoln: University of Nebraska
Press, 1996), 325; Benjamin Paul Blood, Pluriverse: An Essay in the Philosophy of
Pluralism (Boston: Marshal Jones, 1920).
4 Umberto Eco, The Infinity of Lists, trans. Alastair McEwen (New York:
Rizzoli/Universal, 2009).
5 William James, Pragmatism and the Meaning of Truth (Cambridge, MA: Har-
vard University Press, 1975), 64.
6 James, Pragmatism and the Meaning of Truth, 66.
7 To speak of a process of modern monification is not to say that there haven’t

134 notes to chAPter one
been surreptitious processes of pluralization or indeed “hybridization,” as
Bruno Latour has classically remarked. In his argument, the modern efforts
at metaphysical compartmentalization and border-policing—between na-
ture and culture, facts and fetishes, humans and nonhumans, objects and
signs, epistemology and ontology, reality and appearance—are often in-
consistently produced, applying differently from case to case, and have
always been fraught with all manner of side effects that engender a pro-
liferation of multiple “hybrids,” which in fact turn out to be constitutive of
the “modern constitution” as such. Hence his famous phrase that “we have
never been modern.” And yet, this need not lead us to affirm that “moder-
nity” is therefore nothing but a bluff, another illusion that simply ought to
be unmasked and denounced as such. As a set of stories and operations that
have ploughed much of the world, modernity “is a force added to others that
for a long time it had the power to represent, to accelerate, or to summa-
rize—a power that it no longer entirely holds.” See Bruno Latour, We Have
Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 1993), 40.
8 There is no Planet B, as activists rightly say. Yet to be in the same storm does
not in any way mean that we’re all in it in the same way. Many of us, mod-
erns and other-than-moderns, humans and other-than-humans, living and
dead, are already, as others have been and may end up soon, drowned at the
bottom of the sea, piled up in the belly of the ship. Our togetherness is made
of divergence through and through.
9 James Campbell, Experiencing William James: Belief in a Pluralistic Universe
(Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2017), 215.
10 The dominant reception of James has been adamant in casting his thought
as fundamentally apolitical and has read his pragmatism as a hallmark of
the American protest against philosophical questions—whatever works. A
minor group of readers, scattered across the twentieth century and grow-
ing in recent years, on the other hand, have provided perceptive and lu-
cid accounts of James as a deeply philosophical and profoundly political
thinker. It is those that I pay tribute to. See among others, Henri Bergson,
The Creative Mind: An Introduction to Metaphysics, trans. Mabelle L. Andison
(Mineola, NY: Dover, 2007); Deborah J. Coon, “One Moment in the World’s
Salvation: Anarchism and the Radicalisation of William James,” Jour-
nal of American History 83, no. 1 (1996): 70–99; William Connolly, Pluralism
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005); Kennan Ferguson, William
James: Politics in the Pluriverse (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2007);
Alexander Livingston, Damn Great Empires! William James and the Politics of
Pragmatism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016).
11 William James, TheLettersof WilliamJames,ed. Henry James (London: Long-
mans, Green, 1920), 355.
12 On the experimental practice of relaying, see Isabelle Stengers, “Relaying

notes to chAPter one 135
a War Machine?,” in The Guattari Effect, ed. Eric Alliez and Andrew Goffey
(London: Continuum, 2011), 134–57.
13 James, The Letters of William James, 355.
14 Walter Mignolo, The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Deco-
lonial Options (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). Throughout this
book, I use the term postcolonial studies broadly and liberally to refer to what
is nevertheless a manifold of projects that go under different names. When
approached as specific traditions, however, one can of course discern sig-
nificant historical, geographical, and disciplinary differences. For an ex-
ploration of some of those, see Gurminder K. Bhambra, “Postcolonial and
Decolonial Dialogues,” Postcolonial Studies 17, no. 2 (2014): 115–21.
15 By now the literature on this is too vast to cite comprehensively, but for a
range of thoughtful perspectives and debates, see the excellent collective
volume edited by Pierre Charbonnier, Gildas Salmon, and Peter Skafish,
Comparative Metaphysics: Ontology after Anthropology (London: Rowman &
Littlefield, 2016).
16 Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, Cannibal Metaphysics, trans. Peter Skafish
(Minneapolis: Univocal, 2014).
17 Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, The Relative Native: Essays on Indigenous Concep-
tual Worlds (Chicago: hAu Books, 2015), 46.
18 William James, The Principles of Psychology, Volume One (New York: Dover,
1950), 256.
19 James, A Pluralistic Universe, 321.
20 James, Pragmatism and the Meaning of Truth, 76.
21 William James, The Principles of Psychology, Volume Two (New York: Dover,
1950), 280.
22 William James, Essays in Radical Empiricism (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2003), 83.
23 James, Essays in Radical Empiricism, 3, 14.
24 Martin Savransky, “The Wager of an Unfinished Present: Notes on Specula-
tive Pragmatism,” in Speculative Research: The Lure of Possible Futures, ed. Alex
Wilkie, Martin Savransky, and Marsha Rosengarten (New York: Routledge,
2017), 25–38.
25 Martin Savransky, “A Decolonial Imagination: Sociology, Anthropology,
and the Politics of Reality,” Sociology 51, no. 1 (2017): 11–26.
26 Arundhati Roy, “Confronting Empire” (paper presented at Life After Capi-
talism, World Social Forum, Porto Alegre, Brazil, January 27, 2003). See also
Arundhati Roy, An Ordinary Person’s Guide to Empire (New Delhi: Penguin,
2006).
27 Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, What Is Philosophy?, trans. Graham
Burchell and Hugh Thomlinson (New York: Verso, 1994), 74–75.
28 See Stefano Harney and Fred Moten, The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning
and Black Study (New York: Minor Compositions, 2013), 118.
29 Deleuze and Guattari, What Is Philosophy?, 74–75.

30 Livingston, Damn Great Empires!
31 Max Weber, From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, ed. H. H. Gerth and
C. Wright Mills (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2009).
32 I am thankful to Sanjay Seth (personal communication) for this felicitous
phrase.
33 Gabriel García Márquez, “The Solitude of Latin America,” Nobel lecture de-
livered at the ceremony of the Nobel Prize in Literature, Stockholm, Swe-
den,December8,1982.AccessedNovember28,2019,http://www.nobelprize
.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1982/marquez-lecture.html.
34 Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature,
1150–1750 (Brooklyn, NY: Zone Books, 2003).
35 In fact, another story of around-the-world travel prior to the first circum-
navigation was a cautionary tale against imperialistic hubris from poly-
theistic Ancient Greece. In this story, which seems only too timely today,
Phaeton (son of Helios, the Greek sun god, and a mortal woman) asks to
guide Helios’s solar chariot around the world for a day, only to find that he
cannot control the horses and ends up wreaking havoc along its path. Gaia
pleads with Zeus to stop him, and the latter strikes him with a thunderbolt,
turning Phaeton’s hair on fire. In a desperate attempt to put the fire out,
Phaeton runs into the Eridanus River, where he finally drowns. See Ovid,
Metamorphoses, trans. David Raeburn (London: Penguin Classics, 2004). For
an interesting, historically sensitive, and theologically minded account of
the logic of the One and its possible pluralistic indetermination through a
theology of multiplicity, see Laurel C. Schneider, Beyond Monotheism: A The-
ology of Multiplicity (New York: Routledge, 2008).
36 Enrique Dussel, 1492: El Encubrimiento del Otro. Hacia el Origen del “Mito de la
Modernidad” (La Paz: Plural Editores, 1994).
37 See Joyce E. Chaplin, Round About the Earth: Circumnavigation from Magellan
to Orbit (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2012), 10.
38 See García Márquez, “The Solitude of Latin America,” where he recites the
account of Antonio Pigafetta, a Florentine navigator who traveled with
Magellan.
39 Antonio Pigafetta, The First Voyage Around the World, trans. Lord Stanley of
Alderley (London: Hakluyt Society, 1874), 49–50.
40 Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation, trans. Betsy Wing (Ann Arbor: Univer-
sity of Michigan Press, 1997), 17.
41 Chaplin, Round About the Earth, 18.
42 Chaplin, Round About the Earth, 37.
43 See Jason W. Moore, “The End of Cheap Nature. Or How I Learned to Stop
Worrying about ‘The’ Environment and Love the Crisis of Capitalism,” in
Structures of the World Political Economy and the Future of Global Conflict and
Cooperation, ed. Christian Suter and Christopher Chase-Dunn (Berlin: lit
Verlag, 2014), 285–314.

notes to chAPter one 137
44 A review of the myriad individual voices and versions in these not quite ar-
ticulated debates would require a book in and of itself. Indeed, it is likely to
require more than one book, as these various articulations make themselves
manifest and follow a cornucopia of disparate threads in fields like philos-
ophy, postcolonial studies, cultural anthropology, sociology, development
studies, political theory, and the history of science. For a very succinct yet
illuminating discussion on the merits and perils of some influential, critical
stories of modernity, see Sanjay Seth, “Is Thinking with ‘Modernity’ Euro-
centric?” Cultural Sociology 10, no. 3 (2016): 385–98.
46 Gilles Deleuze, The Logic of Sense, trans. Mark Lester (London: Continuum,
2004), 200.
47 Stephen Jay Gould, Dinosaur in a Haystack: Essays on Natural History (Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 42.
48 Gould, Dinosaur in a Haystack, 42–43.
49 Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 331.
50 Gould, Dinosaur in a Haystack, 47.
52 Alfred North Whitehead, The Concept of Nature (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1920).
53 See Lorraine Daston and Michael Stolleis, eds., Natural Laws and Laws of Na-
ture in Early Modern Europe: Jurisprudence, Theology, Moral and Natural Philoso-
phy (Farnham: Ashgate, 2008).
54 See Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences
(London: Routledge, 2002). For an account of the persistence of the extraor-
dinary and the occult in the human sciences, see Jason Josephson-Storm,
The Myth of Disenchantment: Magic, Modernity and the Birth of the Human Sci-
ences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017).
55 Stephen Toulmin, Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (Chicago: Uni-
versity of Chicago Press, 1990).
56 Indeed, it is not a matter of conflating these, which would lead us to reject
all realisms, all rationalisms, all theisms. Rather, it is always a matter of
attending, in each case, to how certain forms of theism, rationalism, repre-
sentationalism, naturalism, and imperialism become woven together in the
constitution of a specific operation of disqualification.
57 Isabelle Stengers, Cosmopolitics I (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 2010), 29.
58 This, I’m afraid, is as much the case for many “analytical” philosophers,
who have traditionally rallied around “realism” as a flag, as it is for many
contemporary “continental” philosophers, who after deriding realism as a
weakness of thought have recently rediscovered an appetite for realisms of
various kinds. For a contemporary discussion, see, for instance, Manuel
Delanda and Graham Harman, The Rise of Realism (Cambridge: Polity Press,
2017). For an excellent history of anti-realism in continental philosophy, see

Lee Braver, A Thing of This World: A History of Continental Anti-Realism (Evan-
ston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2007).
59 Hilary Putnam, RepresentationandReality(Cambridge, MA: mit Press, 1988),
107.
61 Julio Cortázar, Clases de Literatura. Berkeley, 1980 (Madrid: Alfaguara, 2013),
50. See also Julio Cortázar, La Vuelta al Día en Ochenta Mundos (Madrid: Siglo
XXI, 2007).
63 Glissant, Poetics of Relation, 17.
65 I borrow the term “intranslation” from Barbara Cassin, Sophistical Practice:
Toward a Consistent Relativism (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014).
66 James, Pragmatism and the Meaning of Truth, 122–23.
chapter two: runaway metaphysics
1 I am thankful to Chilean filmmaker, visual sociologist, cartographer of
the fantastic, and above all dear friend and comrade Felipe Palma for this
suggestion.
2 Anna Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in
Capitalist Ruins (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015), 38.
3 Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World, 39.
14 Cortázar, Clases de Literatura, 50.
15 Harry West, Ethnographic Sorcery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2007).
16 West, Ethnographic Sorcery, 1.
17 West, Ethnographic Sorcery, 1–2.
21 Latour, We Have Never Been Modern.

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