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  • Mapping the Literary Text:Spatio-Cultural Theory and Practice

How should we theorize the connections between literary expression and space/place? Literary texts are replete with spatiality, but the "spatial turn" has yielded little in the way of systematic thought about the relationship between literature and space, its advocates eschewing the notion of a "spatio-cultural" map. Here, I outline parameters we could use for reflecting on that relationship. I present two intersecting axes—the "abstract-concrete" one and the "individual-collective" one—along which spatio-cultural phenomena can be located. These range from sociopolitical concerns to identity, to awareness of the nature of space and time themselves, to textual dimensions of literary works.

What is the relationship between place and cultural production? How do we account for the interaction between the domain of spatiality and that of artistic expression? In particular, how might we conceptualize the connections between space and literature? Here, I attempt to map the principal ways in which the central thematic issues we associate with literary expression are related to questions about space and place. By elucidating these matters, I hope to arrive at a rationale for an approach to setting out the links between symbolic expression and spatiality. Literature is envisaged here as one specific type of cultural expression, and the suggestion is that much of what applies to literature can be taken as being relevant in more general terms to most forms of symbolic or cultural expression.

Given the geographical nature of social and political concerns, the relevance of spatiality to cultural expression—of whatever form—is [End Page 67] most obvious when we view the material through a sociopolitical lens. If we consider examples such as Picasso's Guernica or the depiction of nineteenth-century Paris in the novels of Victor Hugo, we can readily appreciate both how the works in question reflect the locations that are referenced in them and how our awareness of those locations brings depth to our appreciation of the works. The pathos of the 1937 massacre of innocent people during the Spanish Civil War is, in a sense, "embodied" in the very location referenced in Picasso's painting, so that the place-name "Guernica" conjures up associations with both that picture and the tragic bombing of the Basque village by fascist forces. On the other hand, when we encounter Hugo's work, we bring to our reading a sense of the civil injustice and social division that we associate with the historical realities of the Paris of that era. Equally, our reading of Dickens is likely to be informed by at least a vague sense of what "London" means, in the context of the nineteenth-century setting for novels such as Oliver Twist or David Copperfield.

If social and political concerns necessarily loom large in any account of literary works such as those of Hugo or Dickens, we can also appreciate how these and many other authors address a wide series of questions relating to such subjects as nationalism, imperialism, colonialism, and postcolonialism, along with issues of globalization, urbanization, environmentalism, ecology, or gender. These areas—fundamentally spatial in nature—feature in literary works from around the world, works that often explicitly reference a range of such aspects of space and place, from resistance to territorial encroachment by colonizers in the writings of Aimé Césaire to the gendered use of domestic space in the novels of Jane Austen or Ian McEwan.

In the examples above, the key feature of the spatial element is that it is external, collective, shared: it points to the world that surrounds us, in all its complexity. Our public experiences entail processes through which we negotiate spaces, compete for space, or find ourselves excluded from places and disempowered; these spatial phenomena are variously subtle and profound, overwhelming or enabling, tokens of dominance or of poverty and isolation.

But space, including literary space, is also intimately related to issues less overtly social or political than the above, and less public or concrete than issues of power or the lack of it. This is the realm of features that do not point to an extradiegetic context; they are not referential, but intrinsic to the text (in the case of literature) or to the material substance used in the creation of any artistic product. Centered on aesthetic [End Page 68] criteria, they draw our attention to the formal features of literary texts or other artistic works. They relate to spatiality itself as a feature of creative texts, as an aspect of the very form of such texts. The formal features of poetic texts are a clear example of this type of spatiality, so that the pattern of construction of a poem constitutes in itself part of the aesthetic effect of the work, and its structure contributes to the poem's success or failure. Whether we think of this as a pattern of lines presented on a page or as the series of utterances, with their rhythms and cadences, their pauses and blocks of sense, that we hear when a poem is read aloud, ultimately we intuit that any poetic work is a spatial artifice, with meaning, tone, color, connotation, and sound functioning in tandem with sequences and patterns of utterance to yield the physical (that is, spatial) object that is the poem, and its symbolic correlate, which is our reception of it.

This physical dimension encompasses not simply the shape of a poem's stanzas or the length of its verses but literary texture generally. Whether appreciated as a material, spoken phenomenon or imaginatively as cadence, rhythm, and pattern, the formal features we identify as qualities of works of literary art are spatial realities. Features such as figurative language, the way in which events are told, or the arc of the narrative are characteristics of literary works that exist as either concrete or imagined spatial phenomena, and often are both. When we imagine ourselves to be present within a fictional world created by an author, that feat is a spatial achievement—whether we're thinking of Goethe's Faust or a short story by Maupassant. We can recognize and appreciate the features of that world, so that we feel we know it, similar to the way in which we know the world we actually live and move about in: in a sense, it is no less real for being imaginary.

The arch naturalists cited earlier—Dickens and Hugo—are perhaps extreme examples of how writers conjure worlds into existence. But even writers who create fantasy worlds and those who completely eschew the depiction of obvious physical settings are inviting us into a world of some sort, not least because that invitation is being conveyed through the medium of language, and language is never entirely free of spatial characteristics, since every language is related to the places where it is spoken. Just as we never experience language in the abstract but always as an individual language, necessarily place related, so, in the literary context, we are always located, even if that locatedness is couched in very abstract terms. [End Page 69]

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the spatial literary experience is actually the connection between space and time itself. After all, if we ask ourselves how we perceive and appreciate our personal past experiences, or how we examine our relationship with our community's past—in other words, how we deal with memory, whether personal or historical—we may tend to regard such interrogations as essentially related to the question of time rather than space. On the face of it, history seems to be about time, and of course in one way it is. But the first fact about history is geography, and so, what we tend to elide in such reflections is the intimate link between time and space, the fact that you cannot have one without the other, and the degree to which time is in fact a spatial phenomenon. This relationship is what underpins Einstein's insight into the nature of relativity: travel far enough and fast enough and time will slow down for you. It is "space-time," and refers to that intimate and essential connection between the temporal and the spatial.

The imaginative space of literature is related to the everyday world of space and time, but even when we do not recognize the spatial and temporal parameters within which it is set, the literary work in itself still constitutes a spatial and temporal framework that operates on its own terms. Its own shape and form, its own discursive universe, its diegetic features, its own narrative world—no matter how different these may be from what we are familiar with—all form part of and serve to construct a spatio-temporal reality that is sui generis, special to the particular text in question. Not only science-fiction texts but literary texts generally generate their own versions of time and space. The Brazilian novelist and critic Osman Lins made the claim that "it is important to pay detailed attention, in a literary work, to the way in which that work understands its own space and time, or, more exactly, to the treatment accorded to space and time in the work: the role they play, what their significance is, and how the narrator presents them." Lins concludes categorically that "the study of time and space in a novel pertains, above all else, to that novel's own universe and not to the world itself."1

The space of literature, then, is actually an imaginative space-time, a sort of autonomous region bounded by imaginary spatial and temporal parameters in which the literary work functions as an autonomous text, abiding by its own rules. While these rules are related to the normal rules about time and space that operate in the everyday world, the imaginative power of the literary event pivots on the capacity of the work—any artistic work—to conjure up its own version of space-time, to invent a world in which, potentially, characters are situated and in which the reader, in collaboration with the author, explores alternative realities. [End Page 70]

All of this argues for a notion of spatiality that embraces temporality, a recognition that place implies time, that the temporal is a fundamental constituent of the spatial, an acknowledgment that there is no space—even an imaginary one—that is not time bound. In this context, the geographers Jon May and Nigel Thrift have lamented the fact that, too often, "time is understood as the domain of dynamism and Progress, the spatial is relegated to the realm of stasis and thus excavated of any meaningful politics." They go on to argue for a deeper understanding of how space is linked to time, to dynamism, to progress. In relation to the spatial turn in culture and the humanities, they argue against a time/space duality, including one that would privilege space, claiming that "the tendency has been to work within a basic duality, albeit one within which it is space rather than time that is prioritized, such that in place of an earlier and debilitating historicism it may be that social theory is moving towards a creeping—and just as debilitating—'spatial imperialism.'"2

That tendency toward "spatial imperialism" has been superseded, in much of the more recent scholarship on spatiality, by a sane emphasis on the connectedness of time and space. Doreen Massey, in particular, has argued that space and time are "integral to one another," distinct but "co-implicated," and has made the point that "it is on both of them, necessarily together, that rests the liveliness of the world."3 She convincingly claims that relational approaches to space-time can enable us to reconnect the spatial with the political, as well as forming the basis for dialogue between human and physical geographers.4 She neatly summarizes this interconnectedness by claiming that space is "a product in process," meaning that "it is never something finished, nor is it a closed totality" ("EDM," p. 331). By the same token, space is "the product of things that are happening; the product of interrelationships, of practices."

Massey's primary concern is avowedly the human geographer's focus on social space ("space is the dimension of the social"), a concern "not just with the question of being, but with the question of being with," a point she again makes by stating bluntly that "we cannot become . . . without others" (FS, p. 56). She therefore readily associates her conception of space with social and political issues such as globalization and cultural difference, contributing, inter alia, to arguments about the relationships between the developed and the developing world—although that distinction between "developed" and "developing" world stated in those terms would be precisely what she argues against ("EDM," pp. 332–33). [End Page 71]

But the conceptualization of space that she advocates reinforces the argument she makes in favor of affording equal respect to all the various manifestations of human society. While acknowledging the fact that such differences exist and that all variations are equally valid, she argues that assumptions about the superiority of Western civilization and the ethnocentric tendency to read less technologically advanced societies as "backward" are countered more effectively when all forms of social organization can be seen synchronically; in this way, they are viewed simply as alternate versions of contemporaneous spatial phenomena. With the temporal dimension deemphasized, and the spatial one duly characterized as suffused with temporality, dynamism, and process, these points stand more strongly as valid commentary on the nature of those social realities.

Massey's argument is relevant to literary studies and cultural expression, and links literature to areas of interest beyond the text. Through reflection on the relevance of the temporal dimension of spatiality we can open spatial concepts out to other disciplines, other modes of thinking, and a wide variety of forms of creative activity. It is true that time and space are fundamental Kantian parameters of existence and that we can distinguish one from the other. Positing a simple dichotomy between them, however, is not the best way to defend the relevance of spatiality to artistic and cultural concerns. Rather, that way comes through an appreciation of how space links to time: literary spatiality suffused with the temporal.

I also point to the primordial position occupied by questions of place and space in any interrogation of personal history, identity, biography, and explorations of memory. This underpins the kind of conclusions arrived at by Gaston Bachelard and those writing within the tradition of "topoanalysis," centered primarily on a phenomenological interpretation of human experience, seeing the individual as the core focus for interpreting meanings in the world around him or her. Such an approach valorizes the individuality of spatial experience, with Bachelard noting that "for a knowledge of intimacy, localization in the spaces of our intimacy is more urgent than determination of dates."5

Thus, memory—a phenomenon rooted in the private sphere—is a spatial reality, just as much as public facts of the political or social realms are. The move to counterpose the private sphere to the public serves as a means of acknowledging that such a distinction functions generally in human experience; that our awareness of a "private life" is a fact of individual existence, and that the notion of an axis that goes [End Page 72] from the inner and private world of the self to the shared, public world is a reflection of a truth about a fundamental parameter of our being. Furthermore, the private is no less a spatial reality than the public or communal realities that human geographers typically reference.

This argument is not advanced as a means of advocating a solipsistic approach to the experience of living, since we could readily claim, with the Wittgenstein of Philosophical Investigations, that much language only holds true meaning when considered publicly: "the meaning of a word is its use in the language."6 Nor is the argument above intended to support any soft option with regard to addressing difficult issues historically kept secret on the basis of an oppressive social or political agenda. Nancy Duncan provides a good example in her discussion of the suffering endured by individuals whose nonconventional sexual orientation is used as a pretext for discrimination. Duncan rightly laments the traditional strategy of confining the complexities of sexual orientation to the private sphere as a means of avoiding their politicization and maintaining a social hegemony that oppresses homosexuals, for instance.7

Notwithstanding such caveats, a private-public or individual-collective axis is posited in relation to a framework for conceptualizing spatio-cultural issues, on the grounds that such an axis corresponds to our sense of our own relationship with the world. The very fact that we can debate the validity of a private dimension in relation to language, sexuality, or any other aspect of human activity may well be taken as indicating the existence of a fundamental, underlying notional parameter comprising an axis that goes from an individualized conception of human existence to a shared, collective one. It seems unlikely that we are ever fully "individualized" or private, or that we are ever exclusively public or "collective" beings. At the very least, human cognitive capacities, including memory and imagination, seem to attest to an ingrained tendency to consciously and/or subconsciously ensure that we vacillate between those extremes. Often, within the domain of spatiality, people's ability to utilize this distinction is most obvious: our spatial competence is such that we can alternately invoke personal privacy or engage with the collective as befits our circumstances, just as we can engage in a metanarrative about definitions of public or private space. Indeed, Duncan, quoted above, has shown how it is often only via the self-conscious process of bringing the "private" into the public space—insisting that personal sexual behavior is in fact a public issue, for example—that change can be brought about and power abuses adequately challenged. [End Page 73]

This individual-collective axis is reflected in the links between location and personal identity. On the one hand, our sense of self is bound up, philosophically, with an awareness of the situated nature of our being. Psychologically, the relation between spatiality and identity can allude to the dimension of our identity involving our relationships to others. In a sense, this is an abstraction, whether we think of national or ethnic identity, or that vaguer sense of identity, harder to define, that we have as beings connected with local places. These aspects of our identity typically come to the fore in contexts that require us to relate to others who espouse a different identity: I identify more with my locality when I'm supporting my own football team, say, than I might do in other contexts; it is at such conflicted frontiers that identity is asserted, or even brought into being. Identity associated with place, then, is identity for rather than identity of: by avoiding the reification of identitarian characteristics, we obviate any easy identification of people with place. In other words, we avoid those processes that entail coercive pigeonholing of others, in the sense that they are identified in an essentialist way with a particular location.

As already suggested, the sense of identity referenced above is an abstraction. Nothing in my concrete physical makeup renders me a member of a particular localized community, nothing genetic or essential in my physical being, nothing remotely "racial" (whatever that term may mean) binds me to the place I identify with—but, of course, the identity I claim is no less real for being abstract. Indeed, as we know only too well, national, ethnic, or religious identity can become an overpowering, hyperreal abstraction, leading to the destruction of ourselves or others.

Another such basic spatial dichotomy operates in our lives, as well as in artistic expression. Again, we seem to be at our most human when negotiating the spectrum of possibilities populating the range of meanings that runs between the two extremes of the axis representing it. This is the distinction between abstraction (our capacity to rise above the everyday world in which we live) and concreteness (the constant awareness of the fact that we are situated in that world). Uniquely, we humans can conceive of worlds other than the one in which we are located, while also negotiating the material facts of our lives and our surroundings—and, most important, articulating the distinction between these two extremes. We can simultaneously be aware of two polar opposites, one being the possibility of transcending the limitations of our human condition, the other being our very affinity with the material world around us. Whether the former—the possibility of [End Page 74] transcendence—takes the guise of Platonic forms, supernatural beings, or an afterlife, we are in a realm where the imaginary is real, and whether the latter—our affinity with the material world—is lamented as human frailty or exulted in as the embodiment of human potential, the result is that neither the material nor the potentially mystical is ever entirely occluded by the presence of its opposite.

Awareness of this abstract-concrete dualism is reflected in discussions of the spatial turn in the humanities and in the increased emphasis on redressing the balance between concerns with temporality and concerns with spatiality that have characterized much recent thinking. This was notably the case also with Martin Heidegger. In his articulation of the notion of being, space lies at the core of human reality, but the consequence of this is the conclusion that being implies a conjunction of the abstract and the concrete. Heidegger summarizes this by claiming that "the way in which you are and I am, the manner in which we humans are on the earth, is Buan, dwelling. To be a human being means to be on the earth as a mortal. It means to dwell."8

It is clear from this kind of statement that we cannot escape the situatedness of our being; we cannot be without being located, just as the phenomenon of language, discussed earlier, is never experienced in an abstract or general way but always as a particular language associated with a place. Heidegger's statement equally implies, however, that we are beings who conceptualize our being; in other words, we produce statements such as that made by Heidegger. We are, we dwell, but we also have the capacity to abstract such notions from the fact of our being, so that we are not merely "being on the earth as a mortal" but, in addition, unlike other creatures, we possess awareness of that very fact. "Being" means to dwell, indeed, but going hand in glove with that fact is our capacity to conceptualize our being, to know about our dwelling, to abstract from the concrete fact of the process of dwelling that (partially) constitutes our being. Nothing in Heidegger precludes this, nor does his emphasis on such a concrete notion as "dwelling" or on the related ideas of "building" and "doing" entail an elision of the abstract; rather, abstraction, he implies, is a primordial consequence of this interpretation of how we are, and this in turn carries over into literary texts.

Abstraction and its opposite are relevant to the spatio-cultural domain in another fundamental way, the oft-mooted dichotomy between absolute space and lived place. This is classically conceived as the idea that first there is empty space, and then people come along and transform this preexisting space into meaningful places, with a preference, in our times, [End Page 75] for a focus on the latter. In much contemporary discussion of spatiality, it has become standard practice to reject Newtonian conceptions of absolute space, in which space is seen as a container within which entities exist, in favor of the assumption that what matters is to demonstrate human involvement in spatial practice.9 Frequently, this preference for an emphasis on lived space is linked to the role played by various ethnic groups in appropriating places, naming them, attributing a variety of symbolic meanings to them, or associating them with divinities or with various kinds of ritualistic, religious, or other symbolic behavior. This appropriation can result in contrasting and sometimes conflicting interpretations of particular places, such as in Keith Basso's account of Apache naming, so much at variance with the naming practices of modern, urbanized America.10 The assumption often made—and often erroneously assumed to underlie the approach taken by authors such as Basso—is that space exists in a primordial fashion and that various forms of human cultural behavior, including the production of narratives, have the effect of inscribing human meanings on that otherwise blank slate. A related but different approach to accounting for this type of distinction can be found in Hubert L. Dreyfus's explication of Heidegger's views when he alludes to the difference between "physical space" and "existential spatiality," with the former characterized as homogeneous, geometrical space consisting of "pure extension," and the latter as personal, lived space, centered on the individual and concerned with the nearness and remoteness of objects.11

The philosopher Edward Casey inverts this paradigm, suggesting that the notion of place is best seen as general, and as including space, with the latter seen as particular and derived from the former. He identifies the emergence of the idea of "space" as a modern concept preceded by the premodern notion of place, or perhaps followed by one that is postmodern—place, then, is "primary, universal, and general."12 Adding to the terminological complexity, on the other hand, Michel de Certeau inverts the terms but not the concepts. He refers to lieu or "place" as primordial, and talks about how we humans walk, move, build, or stay in place as we create particular espaces or "spaces" into which we inscribe meanings.13 These distinctions are as valid for literary experience as for our normal experience of everyday life.14

Consideration of the spatial dimension of literature suggests that it may be a mistake to argue in favor of either side of such a simple opposition. Surely human understanding of space encompasses both of the above approaches to spatiality simultaneously. Unlike other creatures, or [End Page 76] at least to a unique degree, we can both appreciate the physical setting in which we happen to be located at any particular time and know that this locale fits into a wider conception of spatial reality that extends in all directions, as far as our imaginations wish to take us. In literature, as in life, we regularly experience a capacity to simultaneously live within a place and to be aware that the place we are in forms part of a more extensive—potentially infinite—spatial context.

Furthermore, this ability to simultaneously grasp the dual aspects of space appears to underpin the insights offered by one of the foremost modern theoreticians of space, Henri Lefebvre. He posits a tripartite framework for understanding space that starts with perception of space (espace perçu), moves on to conceptualizations of space (espace conçu), and then adds a third category of what he calls "spaces of representation," centered on the idea that particular forms of power may be exercised in particular places. This categorization does not refer to three different types of places; rather, they are three different ways in which humans relate to space, all happening within a context in which space is produced by human beings.15 The foundation of this framework, however, appears to be the dichotomy represented by the contrast between perceived space and conceived space. Perceived space is what de Certeau calls "spatial practice," i.e., the ways in which people function spatially in their everyday lives, as contrasted with representations of space (maps, urban plans, etc.) that are ways in which we conceptualize space. The fact that Lefebvre understands all of these approaches to space as coexisting suggests that he views the dichotomy between the first two of his categories of space as part and parcel of how we humans function in relation to space, that is, by combining awareness of the concrete reality of space with an equal level of awareness of space as an abstraction.

Summarizing the arguments above, we might approach a conceptualization of spatio-cultural phenomena and their relationship to one another by positing two axes along which the whole gamut of dimensions of spatiality alluded to above might be located. This means that the ways in which space impinges on cultural and symbolic expression, and the ways in which those various modes of expression relate to space and place, might be charted on a map based on two axes, each representing a continuum of reflection and concern about two opposed concepts. To recap, the oppositions are between abstraction and concreteness and between the individual and the collective, with the first intersecting the second. As outlined earlier, these axes do not refer to neat categorical divisions but to different ends of two spectra. [End Page 77]

In other words, first we have a spectrum of phenomena that, at one extreme, we think of as abstract, and at the other extreme, as concrete, but which may, as spatial dimensions of symbolic expression, share some of the characteristics of both. By the same token, the other axis, going from individual to collective, represents a continuum of concerns about what are, ultimately, two fundamentally different notions: "I" versus "we"; the individual person, always different from every other person, always unique, versus the inevitability of our belonging to a collective, a society, a community or group.

To summarize, these two axes, the "individual-collective" axis and the "abstract-concrete" axis, provide a kind of map of the spatio-cultural domain, in which we can identify the range of spatial aspects of literary works discussed above.16 Thus, at the extreme of the abstract and individual axes, the spatial dimension of a text may evoke a sense of our "place in the universe," positioning us in relation to what surrounds us or positioning a fictional character vis-à-vis other characters. In this way, when Emma Donoghue evokes the existence of an imprisoned child whose mother has been abducted and confined (in the novel Room17), we are that child; we sense the spatial restriction and cope imaginatively with the limitations that have been imposed on us.

The features that are both abstract and collective relate to issues of identity and other psychological aspects of texts. Badges of identity associated with place are evident in many, or even most, literary works, and whether identity is assumed or contested, whether wholly endorsed or elided, location in places and movements between places often serve to assert, define, or otherwise nuance the relationship a character, narrator, or poetic voice explores in the course of the text.

The domain encompassing those features of literary spatiality relating to what is individual and concrete have to do with the imagined spaces within which characters move—the Dublin of Joyce's Ulysses; the Hell of Dante's Inferno—and, more generally, the imagined zone within which we experience a work. This includes the plastic qualities of the text itself—Heidegger's "thingly aspect of the art work" (PLT, p. 19): the shape of words, the cadence of phrases and utterances and the various figures of speech and other linguistic forms employed by the writer in the exercise of his or her craft.

Consideration of the collective and the concrete relates to the many ways in which literature references society and the wider world beyond the text, and specifically draws attention to what the literary text says about those real-life spatial situations. It raises questions, such as: how [End Page 78] power operates; how different characters in a text wield it; and what spatial evidence there may be in the work for coming to conclusions about how different people have, or do not have, access to power and privilege. This reflects the fact that, overtly or even implicitly, political concerns suffuse many literary texts, and issues of power and, more generally, sociohistorical concerns are frequently referenced in such texts.

The fundamental contention underpinning the argument I present here is that the spatial dimension of a text adds to its richness. Literary texts that work well are likely to be replete with spatiality of one sort or another—often several different sorts—operating in diverse ways. The approach I advocate is intended as a way of capturing a sense of how those spatial operations function, operations that ultimately help us to inhabit imaginatively a world other than the one in which we normally live. The spatial aspects of texts, as of other cultural forms, contribute to the art's transformational effect, and function as part of the magic of the artistic experience we encounter when, with the author, we journey to the alternative reality made available to us through that art.

Bill Richardson
National University of Ireland, Galway


1. The original text reads: "é viável aprofundar, numa obra literária, a compreensão do seu espaço ou do seu tempo, ou, de um modo mais exato, do tratamento concedido, aí, ao espaço ou ao tempo: que função desempenham, qual a sua importância e como os introduz o narrador. Note-se ainda que o estudo do tempo ou do espaço num romance, antes de mais nada, atém-se a esse universo romanesco e não ao mundo." Osman Lins, Lima Barreto e o espaço romanesco (São Paulo: Ática, 1976), p. 64 (my translation).

2. Jon May and Nigel Thrift, eds., Timespace: Geographies of Temporality (London: Routledge, 2001), p. 2.

3. Doreen B. Massey, For Space (London: SAGE, 2005), p. 56; hereafter abbreviated FS.

4. "Entrevista con Doreen Massey: 'Incorporating Space into Life,'" Signo y Pensamiento 27, no. 53 (2008): 327–43; hereafter abbreviated "EDM." The quotations cited are my English translations from the Spanish original.

5. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), p. 9.

6. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963), p. 20.

7. Nancy Duncan, "Renegotiating Gender and Sexuality in Public and Private Spaces," in Bodyspace: Destabilizing Geographies of Gender and Sexuality, ed. N. Duncan (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 127–45. [End Page 79]

8. Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), p. 145; hereafter abbreviated PLT.

9. See, for instance, Michael Keith and Steve Pile, Place and the Politics of Identity (London: Routledge, 1993); Georges Benko and Ulf Strohmayer, eds., Space and Social Theory: Interpreting Modernity and Postmodernity (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997); Setha M. Low and Denise Lawrence-Zuñiga, eds., The Anthropology of Space and Place: Locating Culture (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003); Barney Warf and Santa Arias, eds., The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives (New York: Routledge, 2009).

10. Keith H. Basso, "'Speaking with Names': Language and Landscape among the Western Apache," Cultural Anthropology 3, no. 2 (1988): 99–130.

11. Hubert L. Dreyfus, Being-in-the-world: A Commentary on Heidegger's "Being and Time," Division I (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991), p. 139.

12. Edward S. Casey, "How to Get from Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time: Phenomenological Prolegomena," in Senses of Place, ed. S. Feld and K. Basso (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 1996), p. 20.

13. Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984).

14. For discussion of how this works in the cases of the Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges and the Mexican Juan Rulfo, see, respectively, Bill Richardson, Borges and Space (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2012); and Bill Richardson, "Patterns of Place and Space in the Work of Juan Rulfo," in Rethinking Juan Rulfo's Creative World: Prose, Photography, Film, ed. Dylan Brennan and Nuala Finnegan (London: Legenda, 2016), pp. 66–81.

15. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), pp. 28–39.

16. An outline of the schema referred to here is presented in my introduction in Spatiality and Symbolic Expression: On the Links between Place and Culture, ed. Bill Richardson (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), pp. 1–19.

17. Emma Donoghue, Room (London: Picador, 2011). [End Page 80]

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