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In a preface, written, naturally, when the rest of the work has already been done, one is often at pains to bring together the way in which the work was initially projected with its present form, as if one had known from the outset in what particular ways it would unfold. Somehow one must show the coherence of the various parts, the way in which each of them “naturally” develops out of the other. While one has certainly believed this to be the case, one is always aware there is no way that one can present this study after the fact as a straightforwardly sustained “argument.” As one proceeds, things get out of one’s “own” control and change, without giving any explicit direction for them to do so. And yet, this is precisely the way in which all writing progresses. It is also the way in which a plant grows. When a seed first opens and allows the signs of root and stem to emerge, one cannot tell what kind of plant it will become. Indeed, to the untrained eye, the leaves of the plant give no indication of its eventual flower, nor does the flower somehow imply the particular form of its fruit. I initially became interested in plant anatomy and growth through descriptions in philosophical texts from the late eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries. What is intriguing about plants, and certainly what thinkers from Goethe to the German Idealists and Romantics and Friedrich Nietzsche found fascinating about them, is the lack of immediately comprehensible or recognizable signs of the direction in which they will grow, the way in which, as a plant develops, one of its parts will completely metamorphose into another, leaving little or no trace of its earlier form, and the astonishing adaptability of plants to the vicissitudes of their environments. The seeds and growth of a book necessarily reflect interactions with others who inspire, read, discuss, and criticize it or its ideas. I would like to thank the DePaul University philosophy community, and especially: Michael Naas, whose language and philosophical stance were ACKNOWLEDGMENTS vii always something to which to aspire; Peg Birmingham, who could be counted on to come up with bright guiding ideas at a moment’s notice; and David Farrell Krell who gave inspiration, motivation, and direction from beginning to end. Daniel Selcer and Anna Vaughn read my work from its inception and helped prune its growth, while Daniel Price spent many much appreciated hours carefully commenting upon and discussing ideas. A summer research grant and an assigned research leave at Miami University gave me the time to complete this book in its current form. Emily Zakin provided many valuable insights into its continued development and revision. Celeste Friend gave generously of her time and ideas. My family gave me support in many ways that allowed me to continue and thrive. Mark Bryant generously gave me the computer on which it was originally written. I would like especially to thank my mother, Susan Miller, for proofreading, childcare, and belief in me even when she didn’t understand. Sheila Croucher’s encouragement and creative input helped me overcome more than one mental impasse at the last minute and were immensely appreciated. Jane Bunker and Kelli Williams of SUNY Press were the most helpful of editors. Finally and most importantly, I could not have written this book without Ferit Güven’s intellectual and emotional support. He was there when I chose to follow philosophy and showed me a way beyond the conventional path; this book would never have been written had I not met him. As critic and friend, he, more than anyone, witnessed and fostered its expansive and contractive metamorphoses. I dedicate it to Sofi Nur, who was born just as I was finishing the final manuscript, and who convinced me of what I have formally argued, that the most beautiful creations transcend any calculation. viii The Vegetative Soul ...

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