Tree or Rhizome?

In my theory of psychology class this term I read the following:

In philosophy, Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) applied the metaphor of a root in order to describe various forms of thought. Metaphysics was described as the root of a tree in which everything was derived from a single source or first cause. Modernity was characterized as favoring a fasciculate root, a system of small roots with many sources. (Teo, pg. 138)

Got it so far? I thought not. In other words, metaphysics is like a tree, where there is one main root, with smaller roots branching off, whereas modernity is like grass, which has multiple small roots.

Now, I’m not sure what exactly the justification is for saying that modernity has multiple small roots, and I don’t think that metaphysics and modernity are that distinct. If I were creating a model of thought using a tree it would go something like this: Philosophy is the root is the root of the modernist tree. Philosophy has produced a diverse body of knowledge, including the sciences and the humanities. Each of these fields of study has split into numerous specializations, however it is still possible to trace each branch back to its roots, which is ultimately metaphysics—those ancient conversations about the nature of what is. Nice, right? It’s all very neat and tidy and logical.

Teo continues:

However, postmodernity was described as a rhizome, a stem organ in which branches in the air could grow again into the soil, where old parts died out and where new branches were formed elsewhere. (pg. 138)

My response: Ugh! What a mess!

Even worse, Teo says that modern psychology may be best characterized by the rhizome, given how disunified it is. According to Teo, a postmodern approach to psychology would challenge the “logocentric” notions of cause and effect and “the idea that the person was the center of awareness, an integrated whole, and an entity that opposed other entities” (Teo, pg. 138).

Now, I’m not going to go of on a rant about postmodernism, as much as I’m tempted. I do think that it leads to a deadly epistemological chaos, as the analogy of the rhizome so perfectly illustrates, and that nothing could be worse for psychology than this sort of nonsense.

But let’s consider the tree and the rhizome for a moment, evaluating them simply on their aesthetic merits.

The tree stretches towards the sky for light, and burrows deep into the earth to find water. It has both form and flexibility, trunk and leaves. It is symmetrical. It is strong. Things can be built with its wood. It provides shade. It bears fruit. Children climb it. Birds nest in it.

The rhizome, well… its ability to grow all directions and not be killed by a single cut is pretty useful. There are a few rhizomes, like potatoes and ginger, which I would hate to give up. But in terms of aesthetics, it’s not going to win any beauty prizes. We’re talking about crabgrass here, people! Although the rhizome is certainly an apt analogy for postmodernism, it strikes me as a pretty poor mascot choice. No contest, the tree wins!

Now the only problem with this whole little exercise is that I’m not sure I really want to be chief cheerleader for modernism, or give it a monopoly on the tree. While a neat hierarchical tree is useful for describing science (or church history, for that matter), Biblical trees strike me as wilder and more symbolic. Of course there’s the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in Genesis, and the Tree of Life in Revelation whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. And there's that comforting image of the wise man as a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. No, I wouldn’t trade the biblical trees for modernist tree, despite its charming simplicity.

But perhaps a premodern, medieval tree* would do the trick?





Yes, that’s more like it. Much better than a rhizome!

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Teo, T. (2005). The critique of psychology: From Kant to postcolonial theory. New York: Springer Science.

*Tree by Tolkien.