Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
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Hors duvre
Jody Greene
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consequences for the memory or legacy of whatever or whomever has been lost, as
well as for ourselves and those who come after us. Mourning, remembrance, and
the preservation of the past are all intimately linked, as Derrida argues in Archive
Fever, to a responsibility for tomorrow.1
In assembling a volume that engages the question of Derridas relationship
to the eighteenth century, I am unquestionably participating in an act of public
mourning, even as I ask othersreaders, writersto join with me in bear[ing]
Derridas legacy as a scholar of eighteenth-century texts to an audience of eighteenthcentury scholars. I am trying, that is, in what I know is a doomed act of preservation,
to protect from the ruin of forgetting something specific about Derridas oeuvrehis
lifelong engagement with an eighteenth-century archiveeven as I call attention to
the fact that so many prominent readers of Derridas work make a living or at least
began their careers as dix-huitimistes. This project remains doomed because it is as
likely to fall on deaf ears among self-identified Derrideans, skeptical of historicisms
and periodizations, as among those who desire no truck with poststructuralism.
The proprietary challenge of Derridas eighteenth century, then, seems to solicit
in return only two possible and equally proprietary responses: Not my Derrida;
Not my eighteenth century. Yet my interests here are not exclusively preservative
and might even, truth be told, border on the destructive, or at least the disruptive.
I am hoping that a volume such as this one might change the way scholars of the
eighteenth century, in both senses of that modifying genitive, understand their
eighteenth century, as well as the way readers of Derrida apprehend the Derridean
corpus, the archive or oeuvre that consigns itself under that proper name. At once a
project of derangement and a scheme of conservation, this volume offers itself, too,
however sheepishly, as an act of lovefor eighteenth-century studies, for the work
of Jacques Derridaa hybrid venture of mourning, love, and reading that both
affirms the future of the Derridean archive and calls that future into question.
Throughout Derridas work, mournings link to futurity is conceived in
both ethical and practical terms. While the two inevitably contaminate each other,
for the purposes of an introduction (a foolhardy enterprise in itself, as any reader of
Derrida well knows), it seems excusable to hold them apart, however provisionally.
Derridas ethical approach to mourning can be glimpsed in the passage from Politics
of Friendship cited among the epigraphs above, the one in which he adjures us to
love the future. Lest we think we know what it is we are being asked, or told,
to love in this undeniably affirmative moment, Derrida modulates instantaneously
and characteristically from affirmation to something more tentative: there is no
more just category for the future than that of the perhaps.2 An injunction to
commit ourselves to a perhaps, a command, in the name of justice, to love a mere
possibility, an instruction, finally, later in the passage, to open on to the coming
of what comes, whatever that may be (PF 29): the terrain of friendship, love,
bear[ing] the other is suddenly very short on assurances. Futurity is becoming
more perilous by the moment.
Perilous, or perhaps monstrous. One of Derridas preferred figures for the
ethics of futurity from the time of the Grammatology forward, as Peggy Kamuf
notes at the opening of her essay in this volume, is the figure of the monster. In
1990, in an interview on German radio, Elisabeth Weber asked Derrida to reflect
on what he had elsewhere referred to as the monstrous nature of his writing, its
369
tendency to mutate away from the tradition in which he had begun writing into
something new and unrecognizable, a mutation into the future that serves to illustrate the writers powerlessness over his own text. What is the relation between
what you call the monsters of your writing, Weber asked, and the memory of
this absence of power?3 Derridas response itself mutates from a discussion of the
past and of memory that returns him to the beginnings of his own oeuvre to an
invocation of the future:
I think that somewhere in Of Grammatology I said, or perhaps its at the
end of Writing and Difference, that the future is necessarily monstrous:
the figure of the future, that is, that which can only be surprising, that for
which we are not prepared, you see, is heralded by species of monsters.
A future that would not be monstrous would not be a future; it would
already be a predictable, calculable, and programmable tomorrow. All
experience open to the future is prepared or prepares itself to welcome
the monstrous arrivant, to welcome it, that is, to accord hospitality to
that which is absolutely foreign or strange, but also, one must add, to
try to domesticate it, that is, to make it part of the household and have it
assume the habits, to make us assume new habits. (P 38687)
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Those texts we have the most trouble welcoming, those that most resist domestication, ultimately, even during the era of their anomaly, bring about transformations
in the cultural and historical field. What is most powerfully rejected and forcibly
held outside, Derrida insists, must nonetheless already be intimately connected
with what is inside a given culture, inside its archive, or it would not require such
radical denunciation in the first place. It would not, we could say, provoke such a
perversely preservative response. As he put it in the very first section of his essay,
Scribble, his introduction to the French translation of William Warburtons 1742
essay on Egyptian hieroglyphics, ce qui est chass, exclus, dehors, se fait toujours
reprsenter . . . au-dedans, il travaille de faon surcrypte au-dedans [whatever is
driven out, excluded, outside, always has itself represented; it works in an encrypted
way on the inside].4 Whatever is deliberately defined as outside a culture, a system,
or an oeuvre must also and at the same time be recognizable inside that culture,
and thus must already reside there, albeit in an encrypted form.
Derridas remarks concerning the encrypted interior of any cultural system
appear in the course of a discussion of the practice of editorial collectionsspecifically, the curiously named Collection Palimpseste in which, in 1977, Warburtons
essay on hieroglyphics appeared. How do we decide what should go in such a
collection, Derrida wonders, especially a collection devoted to texts dcrypts
[unburied, taken out of the crypt] (S10) after more than two hundred years? What
should be included and what should be left out, and who decides? Almost twenty
years later, Derrida would return to the question of the criteria that govern the
collection of texts, this time in the 1990 work Archive Fever. Here, Derrida once
again renders the movement between mourning and the future both as an ethical
problem and as a matter of textual dissemination and reception, but now he does
so in terms of the archive. One might be tempted to think of archives as repositories of the past, Derrida hazards, whose job it is to gather up and preserve the
artifacts of a bygone culture or deceased cultural maker in as complete, faithful, and
permanent a manner as possible. Archives, then, would be yet another example of
the work of mourning, of how we bear the other in mourning, not to mention
of how we attempt to encrypt the things we love. Nothing, Derrida argues, could
be further from the truth of the archive:
The question of the archive is not, we repeat, a question of the past. It
is not the question of a concept dealing with the past that might already
be at our disposal or not at our disposal, an archivable concept of the
archive. It is a question of the future, the question of the future itself, the
question of a response, of a promise, and of a responsibility for tomorrow. The archive: if we want to know what that will have meant, we will
only know in times to come. (AF 36)
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The archive, Derrida counsels, is not of the past but of the future, not complete but
openan opening on the future (AF 30)not so much faithful as an example
of what he later called la fidlit infidle [unfaithful fidelity].5 There is no subject who determines the meaning of the archive, though there are subjectscall
them archons (AF 2)whose job it will be to decide what should be included
in a given archive and what should not. Every archiving gesture, it follows, is a
gesture of exclusion as much as of inclusion, which is why, as he tersely put it,
No archive without outside (AF 11). Once again, of course, as with an editorial
collection, decisions concerning what to exclude will have ramifications for the
reception of whatever finds inclusion, inflecting the meaning of the content of the
archive inexorably. Better to leave the archive open, Derrida suggests (as though
we have any other choice), better to be prepared to welcome the unexpected arrival, however monstrous, and even to prepare a response. The archive, he writes,
should not try to determine the future but should, instead, call into question the
coming of the future, primarily by recognizing its own contingency, its susceptibility to ruin and loss as well as to preservation (AF 3334). As Michael Naas and
Pascale-Anne Brault note, in reflecting on Derridas own response to the works
of his deceased friends, this conviction regarding the openness of the archive was
derived from experience, as much as from philosophizing. In his acts of mourning, they write in the introduction to The Work of Mourning, Derrida always
recognizes not only the systematicity and coherence of a corpus but its openness,
its unpredictability, its ability to hold something in reserve or surprise for us.6
Derrida, that is, models for us in his reading of others, particularly dead others,
how to open our mourning work and our archiving work to the future, how to
stay faithful to an oeuvre and attend to or at the very least make way for what is
hors duvre at the same time.
Not long before his death, in a now well-known interview with Jean Birnbaum published under the title Apprendre vivre enfin [To Learn/To Teach How to
Live, Finally], Derrida addressed in personal and often humorous terms the matter
of his own oeuvre and its destiny both within his life and after his death. To send a
book into the world, he emphasized, always uncannily anticipates the experience
of ones own death: au moment o je laisse (publier) mon livre (personne ne my
oblige), je deviens, apparaissant-disparassaint, comme ce spectre inducable qui
naura jamais appris vivre [at the moment I let my book go (to be published)
(no one makes me do it), I start appearing and disappearing like that unteachable
ghost who has never learned how to live] (AVE 33). Publication precipitates an
experience of radical self-loss, a powerlessness not only over the work, which has
mutated into a public object, but over what is mine more generally. In publishing, I let go of what I once thought of as my bookbut was it ever properly
mine?relinquishing it to its readers, and in so doing confront the specter of my
own exteriority with relation to myself and to what I thought I could call my own.
This experience of self-loss that attends publishing, which Derrida playfully describes as irrappropriable [unreappropriable], hardly differs from the experience
of death itself. preuve extrme: on sexproprie sans savoir qui proprement la
chose quon laisse est confie. Qui va hriter, et comment? Y aura-t-il mme des
hritiers? [The final test: one expropriates oneself without knowing to whom the
thing one leaves behind is properly entrusted. Who will inherit, and how? Will
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373
a thing exists].10 Anyone can see, Bennington argues, in the Grammatology above
all, Derridas attention to and even affection for the texts of this period (382), a
period Derrida identifies as uniquely important in the history of writing. For Derrida,
this period stands out as the place where a battle for supremacy between speech
and writing became explicit in Western European history and philosophy, a place
of combat and crisis (G 147) precipitated by three scholarly developments
that occurred in the epoch running roughly from Descartes to Hegel: the project
for a universal writing; the scholarly exploration of non-European scripts; and the
development of a general science of language and of writing. Yet that epoch, from
our belated perspective, is not the eighteenth century, but ce quon appelle le XVIIIe
sicle [what is called the eighteenth century] (G 147), a deliberate estrangement
of the historical referent that leads Bennington to his title, Derridas Eighteenth
Century. The necessity of defamiliarizing the referent, rendering it inhospitable,
is directly traceable to the practice of reading: the mere fact and act of reading
(its very possibility), Bennington writes, is itself already sufficient to undo the
largely unquestioned historicism that continues to afflict any periodizing effort
(384). Whatever it is that we access or respond to when we read a work written
in the eighteenth century, Bennington reminds us, it is not a historically verifiable
entity, the reality and consistency of another era located firmly in the past (384).
What we access instead is a powerful received idea about the meaning of a particular erathe French eighteenth century, for instancethat conditions our
reading practices but also inevitably deforms them. Our very activity as scholars,
Bennington concludes, opens texts up always beyond their historical specificity
to the always possibly menacing prospect of unpredictable future reading (392).
Reading, that is, like archive-making, is open to the future, unpredictable, and,
as often as not, fraught with danger.
Peggy Kamuf opens her essay, To Do Justice to Rousseau, Irreducibly,
in similar terms, with an act of estrangement and a warning of impending danger,
a warning that is also, as with Bennington, a kind of promise. Like the eighteenth
century to which he ostensibly belongs, Rousseau remains inaccessible to us,
not only because the Rousseau we apprehend is a product of our reading, but also
because the place in our reading from which Rousseau can be glimpsed is inevitably a blind spot. So, for instance, although Rousseau names supplementarity
endlessly, refers to it constantly throughout his work, the law of this naming and
the concept governing its compulsive repetition in Rousseaus discourse remains
unthought, unnoticed, unread, and unseen by the signatory not less than by the
generations of scholars or savants who have built a house of knowledge on the
archive of Rousseaus oeuvre (396). The blind spot in Rousseaus own discourse is
replicated and redoubled in the field of vision of Rousseau scholars, such that they
are as oblivious to the law of his discourse and hence of his entire oeuvre as he
himself must inevitably be. What is significant in Rousseaus writing thus remains
outside his oeuvre, or rather, inside and outside at the same time: Rousseaus legacy
both belongs to and does not belong to the authors signed work (396), rendering
it unreappropriable by us as much as by Rousseau himself. The task of reading,
nonetheless, of reading Rousseau, the age of Rousseau, and ultimately the
age of Derrida, Kamuf writes, is to forge a tiny opening within the blind spot
(402), to remove and reorient ourselves through a practice of reading that allows us,
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375
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377
made any appearance at all, works by Locke, the Shelleys, Defoe, Diderot, Herder,
and even Cleland. Balfour references these works as some of those he might include
alongside Kant and Rousseau in a new project on the language of origins in the
eighteenth century (470), a project in dialogue with Derridas work, but which also
aims to provide a somewhat original supplement to Derridas charting of the territory (471). A supplement, as readers of Derridas Rousseau well know, both
adds to an entity and transforms it; thus Balfours work to come leaves us with a
promise, a promise that it will expand what has come, perhaps in part through
this volume, to be considered Derridas eighteenth century, even as it transforms
that territory, that oeuvre, in as yet unpredictable ways.
To the list already provided by Balfour, I might add or expand on a few
items of my own, items set down here like breadcrumbs for an eighteenth-century scholar to come, and especially for one who desires to perform a mutation
in the archive we have so provisionally gathered here. Among the most obvious
candidates for inclusion in the next version of Derridas eighteenth century, si
quelque chose de tel existera, must surely be the works of and on Condillac and
Warburton, treated in the Grammatology but also in essays of their own, each of
which forms a tendentious introduction to a modern edition of an eighteenth-century workScribble, in the case of Warburtons essay on hieroglyphics from The
Divine Legation of Moses Demonstrated, and The Archeology of the Frivolous,
originally published as a sprawling introduction to Condillacs Essay on the Origins
of Human Understanding, itself advertised as a supplement to Locke.13 Briefer
and harder-to-find but no less tantalizing examples, some of which might divert
the conversation in revolutionary as well as monstrous directions, some of which
also push the eighteenth century into its long version, include the following: the
reflections on Robinson Crusoe that wind through the unpublished 20012003
seminars on La Bte et le souverain, as well as the extended lycological analysis
of Hobbes touched on here by Aravamudan, which can be found in those same
seminars and is already available in the French collection La Dmocratie venir;
the discussion of Thomas Jefferson in Declarations of Independence, a must-read
on this side of the Atlantic at least, particularly alongside Peggy Kamufs treatment of the work of Thomas Paine in Sign Paine, ou la panique dans les lettres;
staying with the revolutionary theme, the staging of a conversation between the
French revolution and the South African anti-apartheid struggle in The Spirit of
the Revolution; and finally, the invocation of Jeremy Bentham and Cesare Beccaria as early and influential opponents of capital punishment in Death Penalties,
perhaps paired with Violence against Animals, in which Bentham appears again,
this time elaborating a ground for a theory of animal rights.14 These few and hastily
assembled examples together serve to demonstrate that the present volume might
be subject to yet one more act of diacritical defamiliarization: perhaps my title
would be best rendered, with apologies to Geoffrey Bennington, as Derridas
Eighteenth Century, given the near exclusive preoccupation in these pages with
only two of Derridas eighteenth-century interlocutors. Is that preoccupation really
a reflection of Derridas engagement with the eighteenth century, or does it instead
tell us something about our own scholarly epoch, and perhaps also about our will
to close off Derridas oeuvre, to domesticate that within it which is unfamiliar,
foreign, or strange?
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The answer to such a question must come from elsewhere, from outside
these pages. It will require a turn and a return toward the works of the past, a
renvoi that is in part a work of mourning and in part a welcoming of the future.
It will require not only revisiting the archive, but remaking it, attending to what is
dehors as much as to what is dedans. To hear the answer, the echo from the crypt
that calls the future into question, all that is demanded is a willingness to listen,
to read, and in turn, to respond.
What happens when a great thinker becomes silent, one whom we knew
living, whom we read and reread, and also heard, one from whom we
were still awaiting a response, as if such a response would help us not
only to think otherwise but also to read what we thought we had already
read under his signature, a response that held everything in reserve, and
so much more than what we thought we had already recognized there?
(WM 206)
Notes
1. Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz (Chicago: Univ.
of Chicago Press, 1996), 36. Hereafter abbreviated as AF.
2. Jacques Derrida, Politics of Friendship, trans. George Collins (London: Verso, 1997), 29. Hereafter abbreviated as PF.
3. Jacques Derrida, PassagesFrom Traumatism to Promise, trans. Peggy Kamuf, in Points:
Interviews, 19741994, ed. Elisabeth Weber (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 1995), 385. Hereafter
abbreviated as P.
4. Scribble: pouvoir/crire was first published as an introduction to a modern edition of Lonard
des Malpeines 1744 translation of Warburtons essay, issued under the title, William Warburton, Essai sur les hieroglyphes des Egyptiens (Paris: Collection Palimpseste, Aubier-Montaigne, 1977). Most
of the essay, minus the first ten pages, was translated into English by Cary Plotkin, and published as
Scribble (writing-power) in Yale French Studies 58 (1979): 11747. My citations are taken from
the first, untranslated section of the French edition, and the translations are my own (10). Hereafter
abbreviated as S.
5. Jacques Derrida and Jean Birnbaum, Apprendre vivre enfin (Paris: Galile/Le Monde, 2005),
38, my translation. An English translation is forthcoming from Meville House Publishing in 2007.
Hereafter abbreviated as AVE.
6. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas, To Reckon with the Dead: Jacques Derridas Politics of
Mourning, in The Work of Mourning, ed. Brault and Naas (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 2001),
28. Hereafter abbreviated as WM.
7. Jacques Derrida, Paper Machine, trans. Rachel Bowlby (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 2005),
13.
8. Jacques Derrida, What is Owed to the Stranger? Arena Magazine (AugustSeptember 2002),
6.
9. Jacques Derrida and Maurizio Ferraris, A Taste for the Secret, ed. Giacomo Donis and David
Webb, trans. Giacomo Donis (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), 9.
10. Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie (Paris: Minuit, 1967), 150. Translations follow those
adopted by Geoffrey Bennington in this volume.
11. Neil Saccamano notes below that Derrida in fact made direct reference to the concept of miracles
in Faith and Knowledge, in which he asks us to believe that we already believe in the everyday
occurrence of miracles (413). See Derrida, Faith and Knowledge: The Two Sources of Religion at
the Limits of Reason Alone, trans. Samuel Weber, in Religion, ed. Jacques Derrida and Gianni Vatimo
(Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 1998).
379
12. Jacques Derrida, Rogues: Two Essays on Reason, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas
(Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 2005).
13. For Scribble, see above n. 4. LArchologie du frivole was originally published as the introduction to Condillacs Essai sur lorigine des connaissances humaines (Paris: Galile, 1973), and translated
into English as The Archeology of the Frivolous: Reading Condillac, trans. John P. Leavey, Jr. (Lincoln
and London: Univ. of Nebraska Press, 1980).
14. All material is by Derrida, unless otherwise noted: for the Robinson Crusoe material in La Bte
et le souverain, see J. Hillis Miller, Derrida Enisled, Critical Inquiry 33 (2007): 24876; for Hobbes,
see La Bte et le souverain, in La Dmocratie venir: Autour de Jacques Derrida, ed. Marie-Louise
Mallet (Paris: Galile, 2004), 43376; for Jefferson, see Declarations of Independence, trans. Tom
Keenan and Thomas Pepper, in Negotiations: Interventions and Interviews, 19712001, ed. Elizabeth
Rottenberg (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 2006), 4654; for Paine, see Kamuf, Sign Paine, ou la
panique dans les lettres, in La Dmocratie venir, 1935; for the last three breadcrumbs, see The
Spirit of the Revolution (77105), Death Penalties (13965), and Violence against Animals
(6276), all in Jacques Derrida and Elisabeth Roudinesco, For What Tomorrow?: A Dialogue, trans.
Jeff Fort (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 2004).