This essay was written in the Fall of 2002 as part of a course on Hermeneutics which I attended with Dr. Morny Joy at the University of Calgary. It offers an interpretation and analysis of the word 'horizon' as it pertains to our experiences of such a thing both in the world and in our modes of interpretation. Perhaps by synchronicity, it also corresponds to a digital art project I am currently working on for release in the coming days.
Enjoy.
Horizons
Sometimes when we don't understand something we will remark that we are "in the dark" about this or that, or that the matter in question is "over our heads." In the former, we might say that we lack the "light" of comprehension--there is something in our interpretation of things that is obscured in shadow, that is unknown. In the latter, we may feel that the topic is too "airy" in the sense that it is unfixed and drifting, avoiding the grasp of our intellect or perhaps our interest. We might feel that our incomprehension is what keeps us chained, but perhaps also sure-footed, on the ground, while the interpretation that would promote some kind of understanding drifts aloft, soft, defined with fuzzy edges, and open to the fancies of imagination--a cloud in the sky. Off in the distance from where we stand, where the earth stops and the sky begins, we find a unique series of points which forms a line so special that it has its own name--the horizon. It is the horizon that traces the boundary between life amongst humans and life amongst the birds. We fly unaided only in our dreams.
An interesting thing occurs on the horizon, a trick of perspective: parallel lines intersect. We can imagine ourselves standing on a railroad track which stretches off into the distance, built with careful hands in a straight line over a vast and flat plain. Looking down (and assuming our basic understanding--our preunderstanding--of railways, trains, and tracks), we see that the two rails are side by side--never to meet--and we know that they will remain that way the whole length of the track. They are as two soulmates whose paths are entirely complementary, but are destined to remain forever unable to hold one and other in a loving embrace. Yet, when we look towards the horizon, we see that the rails come together--the hopelessly separated lovers merge into one line, they do get to embrace one and other after all! At, or perhaps in, the special location known as "the vanishing point" the two parallel lines become the same line. this unique point occurs on, or perhaps within, the horizon. It exists as a part of the edge of our world, the edge where the sky and the ground caress one and other.
The horizon is not merely responsible for invoking the paradox of intersecting parallel lines, it is also the prime and unique location of the rising and setting of celestial bodies. In particular, the sun brings its light each day, sweeping out an arc from east to west across the sky, but it begins its journey by rising out of the horizon and ends its travels by sinking into the horizon. The moon also traces its path from east to west. It too comes from and returns to the horizon each day. It is at this point, but only in passing, that we may note that occasionally the sun is associated with reason, and sometimes the moon is associated with our intuition. Of course, the two bleed into one and other--our intuition can sometimes be clearest in broad daylight, and our reason can keep us up late, working with precision and logic under the silvery light of the moon--and like our parallel lines, reason and intuition, in their distinctness, share a loving embrace.
Day breaks on the horizon, chasing away the twilight which was yielded by the dark (but later it is the dark which makes the twilight begot from the sun scurry off). The beauty of a sunrise is comparable only to that of a sunset, and the glory of both events is interwoven in the distant horizon. If there was no horizon, then there would be neither rising nor setting sun. There would not be a day separate from night, and there would be no subtle interim between the two that cloaks itself in greens and blues as stars fade from or into sight. The horizon is woven into the cycles of life, and appears to be a necessary aspect of our very being. If there were no earth as distinct from and complement to the sky, and if there were no sky as distinct from and complement to the earth, then there would be no life for humans: we would not be around to understand or misunderstand anything! Without a definition of the horizon, without a line between the earth and the sky, there would be no individuals who would utter, when they misunderstood something, "that's over my head."
Which returns us to our exclamation of misunderstanding that we began with before we embarked on a metaphorical, paradigmatic plane shifting journey provoked by thoughts on the horizon. But such a whimsical romp was not without purpose. In chapter two of his book Hermeneutics, Richard E. Palmer introduces us to the notion of a horizon.i He suggests that it is the meeting of horizons of understanding between an individual and, in the context of his discussion, a text, which gives rise to the "hermeneutical problem" (26). However, we could easily substitute 'other' for 'text,' ii and we would now have a better idea of the range of hermeneutical inquiry. Hermeneutics appears to be concerned with the "dynamic complexity of interpretation" (ibid.) that arises when the self encounters the other, and it seeks to study the ins and outs of understanding, which is generated out of this complexity. It is suggested here that our reading of Palmer's "horizon" would do well to include the shifting sense of our previous meanderings.
Our parallel lines might be framed as the self and other, polarized points of view, or perhaps any sharply defined dichotomies: appearing in the foreground as distinct and separate, but merging into a unity at a point on the horizon. Or perhaps the lines are like two differing interpretations. Our contrast between sky and earth could mark the distinction between our future--up in the air--and our past--roots firmly planted in the ground--with the horizon tracing out the meeting of these in the moment of the now. It is in the present moment that we live, and we live within our understanding of the world. The sky could also stand in for the unknown, the strange, the foreign which drifts beyond the reach of our understanding in vast expanses, while the earth could represent the known, the common place, the familiar things which make up our everyday comprehension of our world. Again, it is the horizon where these two contraries meet and mingle, blending together with subtlety, one embracing the other. Likewise, the cycles of day and night, the rise and setting of sun and moon, could be read as the alternating cycle of reason working in tandem with our intuition. It is these two aspects of our human lives that support and enhance one and other, and it is a relation of mutual respect and necessity for one and other which generates a broader understanding. We could also see these cycles as related to the hermeneutical circle, the interplay between part and whole within which understanding is generated "by a dialectical process [where] a partial understanding is used to understand further still..." (Palmer 25). The light of day being our understanding which must succumb to the night's darkness--our incomprehension--which will itself dissolve back into understanding when the sun returns from the horizon again during the dawn: the dawning of our comprehension. Again, it is the horizon which marks out distinctions, and without it there would be no separation of one from the other, but, at the same time, it is the horizon which blends and shades one into the other, and, as such, the horizon is a sort of paradox, but it is necessary for our lives. These possible readings of the elements of our journey are only part of an interpretation which might open up vast expanses of sense and meaning--the layers of the horizon are as intricate and bountiful as the complexities of human interaction.
It is my hope that these thoughts on the horizon point to a deeper and more meaningful understanding of Palmer's use of the word with respect to hermeneutics. Moreover, we can see that "the meeting of horizons" creates a further horizon: the boundary between our circles and cycles of understanding, and the circles and cycles of an other's understanding. This horizon is the turbulent edge where self and other are united, where experience is generated, where interaction and embrace gives rise to human interpretation and mutual understanding.
i) Palmer, Richard E., Hermeneutics; Northewest University Press, 1969.
ii) We do this in the spirit of David E. Klemm's opening remarks, on page one, in his Hermeneutical Inquiry Volume 1 The Interpretation of Texts; The American Academy of Religion, 1986.
Our parallel lines might be framed as the self and other, polarized points of view, or perhaps any sharply defined dichotomies: appearing in the foreground as distinct and separate, but merging into a unity at a point on the horizon. Or perhaps the lines are like two differing interpretations. Our contrast between sky and earth could mark the distinction between our future--up in the air--and our past--roots firmly planted in the ground--with the horizon tracing out the meeting of these in the moment of the now. It is in the present moment that we live, and we live within our understanding of the world. The sky could also stand in for the unknown, the strange, the foreign which drifts beyond the reach of our understanding in vast expanses, while the earth could represent the known, the common place, the familiar things which make up our everyday comprehension of our world. Again, it is the horizon where these two contraries meet and mingle, blending together with subtlety, one embracing the other. Likewise, the cycles of day and night, the rise and setting of sun and moon, could be read as the alternating cycle of reason working in tandem with our intuition. It is these two aspects of our human lives that support and enhance one and other, and it is a relation of mutual respect and necessity for one and other which generates a broader understanding. We could also see these cycles as related to the hermeneutical circle, the interplay between part and whole within which understanding is generated "by a dialectical process [where] a partial understanding is used to understand further still..." (Palmer 25). The light of day being our understanding which must succumb to the night's darkness--our incomprehension--which will itself dissolve back into understanding when the sun returns from the horizon again during the dawn: the dawning of our comprehension. Again, it is the horizon which marks out distinctions, and without it there would be no separation of one from the other, but, at the same time, it is the horizon which blends and shades one into the other, and, as such, the horizon is a sort of paradox, but it is necessary for our lives. These possible readings of the elements of our journey are only part of an interpretation which might open up vast expanses of sense and meaning--the layers of the horizon are as intricate and bountiful as the complexities of human interaction.
It is my hope that these thoughts on the horizon point to a deeper and more meaningful understanding of Palmer's use of the word with respect to hermeneutics. Moreover, we can see that "the meeting of horizons" creates a further horizon: the boundary between our circles and cycles of understanding, and the circles and cycles of an other's understanding. This horizon is the turbulent edge where self and other are united, where experience is generated, where interaction and embrace gives rise to human interpretation and mutual understanding.
i) Palmer, Richard E., Hermeneutics; Northewest University Press, 1969.
ii) We do this in the spirit of David E. Klemm's opening remarks, on page one, in his Hermeneutical Inquiry Volume 1 The Interpretation of Texts; The American Academy of Religion, 1986.
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