The great irony of the discipline is that although our practice is preoccupied with space, our product is pure time. Even the sportswriter-philosopher Graham Harman manged to observe that “a landscape is like a wormhole linking different times. . . . The fossils are themselves the landscape.” When we plant trees, pour concrete, embed stones, and erect mounds, we are burying the fossils that Anthropocene society will use to order its universe. Why, then, do we waste this transcendent power on gazebos and putting greens that will all be underwater before we’re even dead? If we love fishes so much that we’re designing dog parks and jogging trails for them, why do we kill three trillion every year?
“. . .for, as philosopher Erazim Kohák writes: ‘If there is no God, then everything is not a creation, lovingly created and endowed with purpose and value by its creator. It can only be a cosmic accident, dead matter propelled by blind force, ordered by efficient causality. In such a context, a moral subject, living his life in terms of value and purpose, would indeed be an anomaly.’ [. . .] It is within the space of this anonymous dialectic that further discussion of ecology and creativity as active agents in the unfolding of evolutionary time must lie, and from within which more critical and active practices of landscape architecture may emerge.”
“If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential; if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair?”
What can explain the ability of James Corner—way back in 1997—to look unflinchingly into the void at the core of existence and pluck from it a thrilling dialectic—to achieve what so [so!] few have done and transform, rigorously, a metaphysics into an ethics of building without resorting to bullshit or childish wordplay like most [almost all] architects? That is, what power does Corner have over Kierkegaard?
Maybe we’ve been getting climate nihilism backwards; is anthropogenic mass extinction actually the first reasonable argument—ever—for meaning in human life?
Maybe it’s simply the difference between people who grew up in a world where nature made them happy instead of sad (everyone born before 1975, let’s say). Holocene refugees.
Or maybe this just explains why some people become celebrity designers (in this light it is unsurprising that “Ecology and Landscape as Agents of Creativity” passes as “Introduction to Nietzsche for Design Students”).
We have not yet fully appreciated the consequences of unleashing a busy discipline—that which is called “landscape architecture”—across the surface of the Earth without much more than a gesture toward its role or responsibilities.
The website of the American Society of Landscape Architects starts its helpful “What Does A Landscape Architect Do” page with the sentence “Landscape architecture combines art and science,” then links to “What Is Landscape Architeture [sic] PDF,” which begins, “Landscape architecture translates as the design of almost anything under the sky.” (One wonders about “almost.”) A third document on the same website—also titled “What is landscape architecture?”—is mostly about quantifying the “contribution” of “landscape architecture services” to the “U.S. economy.”
This is likely why in the current moment of cathartic and long-repressed reform most of the energy seems focused on the two questions of “who are allowed to be landscape architects?” (mostly white people) and “who is landscape architecture for?” (mostly white people). Less attention is being paid to the third question: “what does landscape architecture do?”—that is, the question of the consequences of landscape architecture.
Of course, much of landscape architecture’s professional identity rests precisely in the belief that we understand consequences: if I build a path here, then people will go there; if I install this soil, then that plant will grow; if I add such program, then property values will increase by so much. These are surficial questions with knowable-seeming answers.
It is harder to believe that one knows the answer to causal questions such as “if I train 26,000 landscape architects without first determining the bounds of the profession and give them authority to interfere in public space, what will they do?” Here are three potential consequences that stand to be further examined:
1. The consequences of how we understand our projects; or, the consequences of scale.
E.g., “If we sort and subdivide causes and effects based on their physical size—i.e., scale—such as is typically the first step in the ‘design process,’ then which hierarchies, singularities, and unidirectional causal arrows are we perpetuating?”
2. The consequences of how we communicate our capacities; or, the consequences of teaching.
E.g., “If teaching is how we expand our capacity to act in the world, then what agencies are we forgoing, or excluding, by limiting this communication to formal, one-way, monocasual classroom relationships?”
3. The consequences of what landscape architecture means; or, the consequences of landscapes.
E.g., “If landscape architecture is the practice of embedding cultural meaning into the physical environment, then what cultures are we creating by focusing exclusively on bourgeois recreation and ecological services?”
“I truly had not realized that Harlem had so many stores until I saw them all smashed open; the first time the word wealth ever entered my mind in relationship to Harlem was when I saw it scattered in the streets. But one’s first, incongruous impression of plenty was countered immediately by an impression of waste. None of this was doing anybody any good. It would have been better to have left the plate glass as it had been and the goods lying in the stores.
It would have been better, but it would also have been intolerable, for Harlem had needed something to smash. To smash something is the ghetto’s chronic need. Most of the time it is the members of the ghetto who smash each other, and themselves. But as long as the ghetto walls are standing there will always come a moment when these outlets do not work.”
—James Baldwin, “Notes of a Native Son”
Since Olmsted the project of landscape architecture has been to predict, sublimate, and repress intense emotion (paysage ou révolution). The landscape solution to the “intolerable” rage of the oppressed and desperate is generally to provide more-or-less accessible spaces for programmed salutary bourgeois recreation. To wit:
“The situation in Harlem had grown bad enough for clergymen, policemen, educators, politicians, and social workers [ed—in 2020, “designers” surely have a seat at this table] to assert in one breath that there was no ‘crime wave’ and to offer, in the very next breath, suggestions as to how to combat it. These suggestions always seemed to involve playgrounds, despite the fact that racial skirmishes were occurring in the playgrounds, too.”
Landscape architecture should always be on the side of the chronic need to smash, not the side of the improving urge to repress emotion. It is a discipline of death, decay, chaos, and disruption; and it is the only design field that engages the body, fully, in space and in rugged contact with the material world.
“It is unlikely that anyone acquainted with Harlem seriously assumes that the presence of one playground more or less has any profound effect upon the psychology of the citizens there. And yet it is better to have the playground; it is better than nothing; and it will, at least, make life somewhat easier for parents who will then know that their children are not in as much danger as being run down in the streets.”
—James Baldwin, “The Harlem Ghetto”
Is landscape architecture anything more than the question of whether to add one playground more or less?
“We exhaust all our forces, which ought to face death boldly, in distracting our will from it. We deliver death into the dim hands of instinct, and we grant it not one hour of our intelligence. Is it surprising that the idea of death, which should be the most perfect and the most luminous, remains the flimsiest of our ideas and the only one that is backward?
How should we know the one power we never look in the face? To fathom its abysses we wait until the most enfeebled, the most disordered moments of our life arrive.”
—Maurice Maeterlinck, Death
Consider reading “we” as “landscape architects”; and further consider, as examples of “disordered moments,” such existential crises as the climate apocalypse, the fight for Black lives, and the ruinous pandemic. Is our field relevant to anyone outside it?
“Critics have often mistaken a depiction of the world for a choice about our future, as if philosophers had rejoiced at the decline or decay that they described. But this is like deriding scientists who warn of global warming because their models give apocalyptic predictions. . . . this assumption says more about the critics than about their targets. Who is it, exactly, that cannot bear a story unless guaranteed a happy ending?”
—Joshua Foa Dienstag, Pessimism: Philosophy, Ethic, Spirit
Why are we afraid to make our clients sad? (It’s because we are also afraid to be sad ourselves.)
“When one hears about another person’s physical pain, the events happening within the interior of that person’s body may seem to have the remote character of some deep subterranean fact, belonging to an invisible geography that, however portentous, has no reality because it has not yet manifested itself on the visible surface of the earth.
Or alternatively, it may seem as distant as the interstellar events referred to by scientists who speak to us mysteriously of not yet detectable intergalactic screams or of ‘very distant Seyfert galaxies, a class of objects within which violent events of unknown nature occur from time to time.’”
—Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain
Pain cuts in both directions for landscape architects. We are tasked with masking the scars of violence done to the land itself (masking violence is the project of the Picturesque); but we are also uniquely capable of (and responsible for) shaping the land in such a way as to draw out hidden pain (ecological, historical), making it legible to others. The second task is far more important, but we are much better at the first.
Waldo Tobler’s “First Law of Geography” states that all objects are related, but that close objects are more related than far objects. This seeming truism is axiomatic for much of geography and spatial science. Less frequently discussed is the contrapositive: if an object does not preferentially effect its neighbors, then it is, presumably, breaking the First Law of Geography. Does it follow that such an object is non-geographical? If so, what is it?
Consider the Greenland Ice Sheet. It sits atop a mountainous island at high latitudes; to look at a satellite image of the north Atlantic is to see a landscape dominated by white ice. But the Ice Sheet exhibits perplexing non-locality in a number of ways—chilly action at a distance.
The dominant symbolic presence of the Ice Sheet in Western media is as a threat—a boreal Sword of Damocles poised to melt and drown coastal humanity. But setting aside colonializing synecdoches (“Greenland is Melting,” etc.), it is worth pointing out that coastal Greenland is not in danger of sinking—due to glacial rebound, the rocky island is in fact rising steadily above the waves. It is faraway southern shores that will experience the consequences of Greenland’s melting ice.
Another western cliché is to write of AGW’s enormous impact of AGW on Greenland’s culture and economy—for ill and for good. Either the receding sea ice is annihilating traditional hunting lifestyles; or rising temperatures are welcoming an economic renaissance (mining under the melted ice; a new Northwest Passage; arboriculture and produce farms). But the truth on the ground is more ambivalent. In fact, AGW may just not be as big of a deal to Greenlanders as Western media might suggest—and maybe Greenlanders are growing sick of southern environmentalists and other concerned parties coming to ask them “what they think.”
But the nonlocality is starkest in the occupancy of the ice sheet itself. Intimacy with sea ice has always been central to Greenlandic technology. The ice cap, however—a mile-high tower of fauna-less ice, typically separated from the coast by rugged mountains—has historically been free from human footsteps, with the exception of Western militaries and (typically) Western scientists. These scientists arrive in Greenland from overseas and mount the ice cap in helicopters; they gather data and transmit it south to mainland universities, where it drives apocalyptic narratives in Western newspapers.
Here the ice cap primarily functions as a data source—sitting atop the world and transmitting messages to southern receptors, in the form of ice cores and .csv files. This system does not require humans to function; in this framework, an iceberg is a mobile data structure: an icy messenger.
It is worth considering what message, exactly, the ice is transmitting. In Sidereum Nuncio, Galileo generated hyper-dense data structures by typologizing the relative positions of Jupiter’s moons. The immediate observation was that the moons were in orbit around the central body; the more profound message led to a cataclysmic de-centering of the human in the universe.
To quote Jacqueline Rose citing Elena Ferrante, “It is, Ferrante Explains, the deep-rooted mistake of every city to lay claim to be a city of love without labyrinths, to believe you can give birth to a future with no Furies lying in wait.” This is why Ferrante’s idol was Medea, the mother who murdered her own child—the truth of passionate connectedness, the shattering intimacy and intensity of the relationships worth caring about, is that love is not enough; hate is what there too. But we all know this. Maybe we don’t want to admit it. We know it. We live it. I’ll speak the truth: landscape architects hate nature. If we didn’t hate nature—at least as much as we love it—then we would do something else with our lives, and we’d go hiking on the weekends like everybody else who loves nature. But what is it that we do that nature-lovers don’t? We destroy; we kill, uproot, poison, burn, eradicate, cull; how many of you have mocked, lamented, the stupid public who objects to shooting deer, poisoning feral cats, oiling eggs, burning down the forest—they don’t understand that it’s right, and because we do understand, it makes us smart to kill. We make the tough decisions. What else do we do? We tear open the ground, root around in its innards, rearrange, replace. We have euphemisms. But what is a greenfield if not just something that hasn’t been destroyed yet, and that we can’t wait to destroy? What is a brownfield if not a mass grave for a history of abuse—workers and animals alike—to be dug up and repurposed for… something?
I’m not saying this is bad—that it makes us bad people to hate nature. That hatred is what makes it possible for us to garden the earth.
- Studio-ooo 1
Here are some things that have become common in the graduate studios of certain mid-career architecture instructors:
.pdfs of “The Third Table”
The words “weird,” “speculative,” and “aesthetics,”
These are all emanations of Object Oriented Ontology, a philosophical movement that entered into the architectural discourse in the early 2010s. Something in Object-Oriented Ontology (“ooo”) appeals to the theory-optimistic thirty-something studio critic. And these enthusiasts seem eager to feed it to their students—just as they, as the story goes, were fed Gilles Deleuze in their pupal years. But to what end? What is the effect on the student? And what is the effect on the philosophy itself, and its architectural ripples?
- ooo, briefly
ooo’s core is a simple chain of arguments:
First: The universe is made up of entities (“objects”) with core identities that they keep hidden (“withdrawn”) from other objects.
Second: When objects do interact, they only engage certain of each other’s external qualities, which orbit the inner identity of the object like satellites around a planet. ooo considers this exchange to be an aesthetic encounter.
Third: Objects cannot be explained simply as a collection of parts (what they are made of) or as their relations with other objects (what they do).
The first two arguments are immensely attractive to some architects—for example, Ferda Kolatan, who explains that “if we acknowledge that all real objects are withdrawn, and that they periodically come forward and outward to engage with the world and other objects, then this act of coming forward is an aesthetic act.” Kolatan asks us, “is it not precisely this gap between objects and their qualities within which we as designers operate?” It is clear why this train of thought—which situates ooo as a thoroughly aesthetic philosophy—would be welcome for designers looking for an aesthetic rationale for design.
Yet when architects describe why they have become interested in ooo, they tend to emphasize the third argument—that objects cannot be explained merely in terms of their parts or their relations. Mark Gage, ooo’s east coast knight-errant, laments that pre-ooo architecture had become “paralyzed by an apparent obligation to simultaneously address sustainability, politics, economics, social relations, and context”—i.e., external relations. Harman generally agrees that ooo slithered into architecture on a trail of boredom—boredom with Deleuze, with energy efficiency, and presumably with environmental consultants and the like.
- ooo as alibi
These, then, seem to be the primary takeaways of ooo-architecture so far: that our primary engagement with the universe (and, consequently, with buildings) is through aesthetics; and that architecture should free itself from flows, networks, sustainability, and political correctness.
It is not immediately obvious why a fairly arcane philosophy such as ooo is necessary to argue these points. It is easy to imagine an architect who has become sick of LEED standards and dreams of producing weird and beautiful drawings—to engage the viewer not through the rational appreciation of stormwater management but aesthetically, in an immediate, arresting, emotional collision. We wish this architect success; and yet we must acknowledge that architects have been seeking to stir the soul since long before the early 2010s. It may be that today’s designers are asked to consider an unprecedented diversity of context, even to the point of crippling the “purity” of design itself. But this is, of course, a subjective opinion; and if ooo is primarily invoked in response to this specific circumstance, to justify the particular disciplinary prejudices of its individual enthusiasts, then the philosophy is in danger of being exposed as little more than an alibi.
One instructive example is Mark Gage himself, who had been championing aesthetics over relations for years before pledging allegiance to ooo. The landmark “Killing Simplicity: Object-Oriented Philosophy in Architecture” was published in 2015; but Gage had already written, back in 2009, that “our designs now visually entrap mostly abecedarian observations of programmatic, economic, or environmental phenomena.” Gage had already embarked on his aesthetic crusade; ooo came along as the right fit at the right time.
- Studio-ooo 2
This post-factum framing of ooo—as primarily about beautiful drawings and ignoring context, politics, and consequences—seems particularly dangerous in the graduate studio, where attractive material output is typically encouraged above all, and where students tend to be only nominally encouraged to read (and are in fact generally disincentivized from reading by the demand for “deliverables”). In this environment, ooo sound bites, without context, can easily be deployed by teachers as a theoretical-ish veneer on a pedagogy that emphasizes coolness and prodigious production. This seems like a waste of a perfectly weird metaphysics.
- Serious ooo-architects
Other architects have taken more rigorous stances on the possibilities of this new philosophy. David Ruy, who is canonically credited with introducing ooo to architecture, insisted even in 2012 that ooo does not mean “a simple return to figuration and detached massing”; nor does it mean “the abandonment of interest in current environmental problems.” More recently, Ruy has proclaimed that “designing something to look weird is not the answer.” But if the point isn’t just to “look weird,” the question remains of just what the point is.
Some architects have attempted to answer this question in more or less pragmatic terms. As discussed earlier, Ferda Kolatan encourages designers to aim for the gaps between objects and their qualities. Tom Wiscombe has abstracted ooo’s consequences into design strategies, such as the building as a “sack” of uncertain objects or an “implied outer shell” of invisible stamps. Jason Payne has suggested that we investigate döppelgangers and other “immaterial things that are nonetheless useful for architectural discourse.” Yet Wiscombe, Ruy, and even Harman himself are eager to emphasize that architecture’s incorporation of ooo can never be little more than a metaphor.
- ooo is weird
And yet… ooo is so weird that one suspects and hopes that it must have more to offer than high-level design metaphor or shallow alibi. Not only is it weird, but it is new; there is still space and time for it to metastasize into something wholly unexpected.
ooo promises to unlock a marvelous world of weird and wonderous objects; a “glittering coral reef” lurking beneath appearances; a “shadowy thicket whose fast-growing vines begin encircling your legs as soon as you enter.” In addition to this garden of wiggly delights, ooo seems acutely appropriate for the ecological crisis—not least because it treats humans and earwigs as existential equals. In fact, some argue that only object-oriented thinking can cope with the scale of global warming, mass extinction, nuclear war, and other Anthropocene disasters.
- ooo is doom
It is yet unclear whether architecture can take advantage of ooo’s profound alienness—whether architecture can engage with weird objects not simply as beautiful drawings of odd buildings, but as “entities [that] roam across the cosmos, inflicting blessings and punishments on everything they touch.”
ooo’s freewheeling chaos agent Timothy Morton has been feted by architects but is less willing to play along with the game of granting alibis to formal autonomy; his concerns are larger. Rather than imaginary skyscrapers with wriggling facades, Morton’s objects are doombringers, heralding “fate, destiny, death” for humans and non-humans alike. In 2017 Morton visited the University of Pennsylvania in the wake of Hurricane Harvey and suggested that Houston might be fruitfully considered as a city for hurricanes just as well as a city for humans. That is a ooo-flavored provocation of design thinking; that is truly weird (rather than simply weird-looking).
- Fear of burial
The ooo-architects frequently express a fear of being “swallowed up” by adjacent disciplines, particularly ecological science. This disciplinary fear manifests literally in a parallel fear of the “landscape-building… often appearing in lump or hill-like formations.” While ooo claims to swoon over H.P. Lovecraft, this fear of being buried alive canonically belongs instead to Edgar Allan Poe. It has also been adopted by Morton, for being swallowed up is one of the default states of interacting with hyperobjects—like the sugary death and dissolution of “the wasp which sinks into the jam and drowns in it.” Unlike the glossy, super-discrete renderings favored by ooo-architects (which take the “aesthetic object” to its superficially literal extreme), Morton’s favored art, like the wasp’s grave, is sticky, devouring, cloying, deadly, and indeterminate.
ooo-architecture’s fear of burial suggests a similar revulsion toward landscape architecture, not only as a discipline more generally concerned with the ground, but also as a potential bearer of ecological and contextual shackles for architects. However, Morton himself has suggested that “all architecture is landscape architecture”; and landscape architecture is clearly more comfortable working at the spatial and temporal scales of the hyperobject. And if Morton’s model for ooo art is considered over Gage’s, well, landscape architects have a certain expertise with sticky, indeterminate, buried things.
But landscape architecture is not ready to take the lead in ooo-inclined design. How could it be? Landscape architecture cannot even really decide whether aesthetics has value, let alone universal primacy. Gage may boast that the time of flows and processes in architecture has passed; this is not so in the landscape departments, where becoming and fields still dominate. And yet landscape architecture has one powerful head start; it has realized that the construction of “nature” is neither real nor helpful (as stated clearly by Harman and Morton), whereas ooo-architecture still wriggles awkwardly around the subject. Both disciplines should attempt to exchange qualities with each other; neither is yet poised to take full advantage of ooo’s alienness.
- Studio ooo 3
It may be that the tastemakers have already moved on from ooo-architecture; its buzz seems possibly to have peaked near the end of the Obama administration. In late 2016 Mark Foster Gage convened a conference titled “Aesthetic Activism” at Yale University. Kolatan, Harman, Ruy, and Morton all spoke, and one might have reasonably guessed, based on the conference title, that this would have been an opportunity for ooo-architecture to provide nuance to its general rejection of social context. This didn’t happen; Harman and Morton delivered their stump speeches, so to speak, and by and large ooo remained unmentioned on the sidelines of a diverse discussion of aesthetics across disciplines.
One might argue good riddance—that 2018 is profoundly different from 2016, and that in the post-Trump world of waxing fascism, it is dangerously naïve—and ignorant of history—to champion aesthetics over criticality. To complain that architecture has been crippled by its concern with “sustainability, politics, economics, social relations, and context” embodies precisely the sort of privilege that architecture—a discipline drowning in privilege—needs to be on guard for.
And yet ooo, especially as inflected by Timothy Morton, still holds an undeniable transformative promise—not only in the realms of metaphysics, aesthetics, and ecology, but concerning the most basic human interactions with the world.
If ooo is going to remain present in the graduate studio, instructors owe it to their students (and to the philosophy itself) to emphasize this thoroughly transformative nature, and to encourage a deeper engagement with the writers themselves—and with artists and ooo enthusiasts from other disciplines. If they just want student work that looks weird and cool, and are looking to avoid site research, that is certainly fine—but they probably don’t need such an elaborate alibi.
 Relatively speaking. Great complexity exists, for example in the writings of the US philosopher Graham Harman, ooo’s principal investigator. An exhaustive explanation of ooo is beyond the scope of this essay.
 Graham Harman describes these two explanations as, respectively, “undermining” and “overmining.”
 Ferda Kolatan, introductory remarks, “The Aesthetics of Equality: Object Oriented Ontology and Social Theory,” session at “J. Irwin Miller Symposium, ‘Aesthetic Activism,’” Yale University, October 14, 2016. Accessed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=07mSNQQreS4&index=3&list=PLqHnHG5X2PXAh0Fi0EJ0Eh3CDzdN-GQv2
 Mark Foster Gage, “Killing Simplicity: Object-Oriented Philosophy in Architecture,” Log, no. 33 (Winter 2015), 104.
 Graham Harman, Object-Oriented Ontology: A New Theory of Everything (London: Pelican, 2018), 247.
 Mark Foster Gage, “In defense of design,” Log, no. 16 (Spring/Summer 2009), 40.
 Gage’s dramatic pronouncement of ooo-architecture came in 2015 with the landmark “Killing Simplicity: Object-Oriented Philosophy in Architecture,” in which he describes relational, pre-ooo architecture as, variously, undermined and overmined; “a caricature of itself”; “a series of consumable sound bites”; and “invisible servitude as equipment designed for a functional solution to a limited set of perceived problems.”
 David Ruy, “Returning to (strange) objects,” in Adaptive Ecologies: Correlated Systems of Living, Theodore Spyropoulos, ed. (London: Architectural Association Publications, 2013).
 David Ruy, in Todd Gannon, Graham Harman, David Ruy and Tom Wiscombe, “The Object Turn: A Conversation,” Log, No. 33 (Winter 2015), 87.
 Tom Wiscombe, “Discreteness, or Towards a Flat Ontology of Architecture,” Project 3 (Spring 2014), 34-43.
 Jason Payne, “Projekti Bunkerizimit: The Strange Case of the Albanian Bunker,” Log, No. 31 (Spring/Summer 2014), 168.
 “The Object Turn: A Conversation,” 86.
 During a Q&A session at Mark Foster Gage’s 2017 “Aesthetic Activism” conference, Graham Harman responded to a question contrasting ooo-architecture to the better-established discourse of Actor-Network Theory, Graham Harman reminded us that ooo in the late 2000s can only fairly be compared to ANT in the early 1990s; twenty years is a long time for a discourse to grow!
 Timothy Morton, Hyperobjects (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 14.
 Jane Bennett, “Systems and Things: A Response to Graham Harman and Timothy Morton,” New Literary History, Vol. 43, No. 2 (Spring 2012), 225.
 Some even within the ooo-architecture camp seem to have disputed this ontological equality (“flat ontology”); Gage himself, when pressed by capitalist boogeyman Patrick Schumacher, conceded that “for architecture to be about the natural use of, or design of materials, or even about nonhumans—dealing with birds and bees and stuff. That’s fine, and maybe that’s interesting for people, but at a certain point someone has to do the built environment for humans.” This is pure anthropocentrism; there is nothing flat in his ontology.
 Graham Harman, “Object-Oriented Philosophy,” in Towards Speculative Realism: Essays and Lectures (Ripley: Zero Books, 2010), 95.
 Timothy Morton, “Ecology without the Present,” The Oxford Literary Review 34.2 (2012), 233.
 Wiscombe, “Discreteness,” 40.
 Morton uses “hyperobject” to describe immense, ancient, indeterminate objects that are so vast in size and lifespan that they distort time and space and cannot be rationally comprehended by humans as discrete entities. Some commonly discussed hyperobjects are global warming and nuclear radiation.
 Jean-Paul Sartre, quoted in Morton, Hyperobjects, 30. The original quote can be found in Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, trans. Hazel E. Barnes (New York: Washington Square Press,  1992), 777.
 Timothy Morton, Lecture, “The Golden Stain of Time,” SCI-Arc, March 7, 2017.
 Wiscombe, “Discreteness”; “The Object Turn: A Conversation.”