The primary way in which allure expands its scope is simply through building up a physical body with organs capable of alerting us to that which was previously buried. To develop eyeballs, wings, upright posture, an opposable thumb, or a central nervous system is to take stock of a whole range of new objects that were never sensed before. Inevitably, it also means to lose contact with some previously attained sensual objects, such as the scents or chemical traces that play a large role in the lives of dogs or ants. Physical changes of this kind continually shift the range of objects that have an impact on us. But for animals as for humans, to sense objects is not to transcend or rise above them: it is to descend into their depths, lured away from all the sheer manifestations by which they make themselves known to us. When dogs approach and smell a dubious stranger, they do not remain at the level of odors, but identify a potent withdrawn individual behind those odors; real poets compose lines not to add to their total corpus of productivity, but to wipe away a bit more of the dust obscuring a style that has already announced itself vaguely but is still concealed by extraneous clutter or the lingering echoes of mentors; real philosophers make arguments not to knock down the positions of rivals, but to establish the compelling character of the model of the universe that generates their arguments in the first place. As humans come to terms with objects such as fossils, ozone, or oil, they may well go on to manipulate those objects, and may do so wisely or demonically or in some combination thereof.
Wolves are haunted by cries in the night in a way that sand grains are not, and humans are haunted by metaphysical concepts and fantasy tales in a way that wolves are not. What distinguishes humans from animals is not some sort of arbitrary shift in the power of the as-structure, but simply a new range of access to objects, one that plays out in the first instance through our sheer physical differences from the animals. And unlike most animals, we continue to increase our bodily organs with the external proxy of mechanical and electrical devices, and the day may come when these proxies are no longer external. The question concerning technology is not the theme of how objects are transformed into mere fuel, reduced to reservoirs of presence and incinerated in various furnaces. Technology is really a question of translation, of changing long-dead ferns into the motion of school buses, and the vibrations on embassy windowpanes into transcripts studied by spies (as shown most clearly in the case studies of Bruno Latour, that true metaphysician of case studies). The printing press does not convert truth into stockpiled information, but brings the world of dead queens and knights into my living room in twenty-first-century Cairo. It does not reduce objects to standing reserve any more than my fingers and eyes already do. And the atomic bomb, that poster child of Heideggerian stockpile, arguably changes our patterns of life no more than did agriculture or the longbow.