by Mark R. DeLong

We humans grasp and use things. We dwell among things. We devise new things. As a result of being so pervasive and common in experience, things qua things are practically invisible to us. For the most part, we tend to see them as things outside of us, not as something “inside” of us or capable of manipulating us even as we manipulate them. But deeper thought helps us see the relationship more complexly. The complex relationship of things and humans isn’t just the province of philosophers; it’s also for artists and poets to explore in works that amuse and, in some cases, horrify.
Folklore and old stories mark out some of the points of the relationship of things and humans. The lore of medieval Japanese Tsukumogami delight, as comically violent as they are, because they explore a world in which things acquire an identity—an energetic and human-like identity. The old Shinto versions tell of forsaken tools and utensils that become “ensouled” and take revenge on humans for throwing them away so carelessly. Things and humans become adversaries in the story, at times even deadly ones; yet, in order to sanctify the story for religious teaching, the ensouled old tools eventually achieve enlightenment.
The narrative follows a path of separation and estrangement finally redeemed. In the end, things ensouled and divinely blessed—attributes that traditionally only apply to humans—blur the distinctions of thing and human. All things (human, too) are united in enlightment, a signal of the animism that Shinto monks injected into old Japanese folk tales to make the stories into homilies.
Another narrative arc exploring things and humans in effect goes in the opposite direction. Rather than moving from degrading rejection and estrangement as in stories of the Tsukumogami, such stories depict the merger of things and humans (or, at least, personifications). They are inseparable, and identities dissolve into the things that, quite literally “make them up.” In the end, trying to discard a thing also diminishes the identity.
As with the Tsukumogami, there’s also a good deal of art that illustrates the relationship. Read more »