Notes (On the Index Card)

Author(s): Denis Hollier

Source: October, Vol. 112 (Spring, 2005), pp. 35-44
Published by: The MIT Press
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 Notes (on the Index Card)

DENIS HOI, TIER

1. Leiris and Barthes belong to very distinct intellectual universes, two lite
generations: Leiris, that of Surrealism and existentialism; Barthes, that of struc
ism and poststructuralism. One could easily draw up one of those two-colum
of binary opposites that Barthes, being a structuralist, liked so much: ope
example, a very high plus in Leiris's column, would be a very low minus in Bart
(expressive repertory); the same with teaching-or any kind of public spe
which Leiris hated and dreaded, while for Barthes his seminar was a source of
pleasure and inspiration. Nothing seems more distant from the "Objective literature"
Barthes advocated in his manifesto-like article on Robbe-Grillet than Leiris's system-
atic use of the autobiographical first person. Certainly Leiris became an admirer of
Barthes when Barthes unexpectedly shifted toward the first-person singular (Leiris
dedicated one of his last essays to Barthes), while Barthes's autobiographical turn of
the late 1960s (The Pleasure of the Text) led him to take positions and perform gestures,
to affirm values that, with the years, were to bring him surprisingly close to those
associated with Leiris, the most striking of which might be the increasing recourse to
the autobiographical mode of utterance as a means of escaping what he came to call
the arrogance of theory. Leiris often associated his autobiographical inspiration with
the deep uneasiness he felt in assuming the authority of the one who speaks for oth-
ers. (Hence, in fact, the intensely uncanny absence of others in La Regle du jeu [The
Rules of the Game].) As for Barthes, he used the first person more and more as a lin-
guistic tool to dampen the "fascistic" dimension of language: "An egotistic writing
cannot be arrogant," as he says in his seminar on The Neutral.
But they share another common feature, one that may be more anecdotal, more
contingent: both left an impressive volume of index cards or slips. There are 399 cards
filed in Leiris's box for La Regle du jeua and, according to Nathalie Leger, one of the
curators of the Barthes exhibit at the Centre Pompidou in 2002, there are 12,250 slips
in Roland Barthes's bequest at Institut M6moires de l'edition contemporaine (IMEC).2

1. I published them as an appendix in the Pleiade edition of La Regle du jeu (Paris: Gallimard,
2003), pp. 1155-1265.
2. Nathalie Leger, "Immens6ment et en detail," in R/B Roland Barthes, exh. cat. (Paris: Seuil,
Centre Pompidou, IMEC, 2002), p. 91.

OCTOBER 112, Spring 2005, pp. 35-44. ? 2005 Denis Hollier.

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36 OCTOBER

2. While recovering in the intensive-care unit of a Parisian hospital

failed suicide attempt in 1957, Leiris scribbled some notes from his be
them reads: "Go back to La Regle du jeu aiming at turning it into a tota
work, on the model of Mallarm6's Livre or Duchamp's Mariee mise a nu."3
Practically from the start, even before joining the Surrealist grou
was a groupie of Rrose Selavy, whose puns he copied out in his diary (
12, 1925). Via Robert Desnos, they are one of the major models for his o
anagrams that start to appear in his diary from 1924 on and that he fir
under the title Glossaire, jy serre mes gloses in La Revolution surrialiste in 192
When Leiris and Duchamp met, however, in December 1935, the con
quite different. Leiris, for one, was no longer a Surrealist. The middlema
Paulhan, the editor of La Nouvelle revue francaise, in whose office the
occurred. It seems that the occasion was Raymond Roussel's Comment j'a
tains de mes livres, which had just come out in November. Roussel had
suicide in July 1933 and Leiris had somehow been instrumental in the
production of the posthumous book at Alphonse Lemerre, Roussel's on
publisher, as well as in its promotion. Not only did he have some excerpt
volume prepublished in the April issue of La Nouvelle revue franaaise, fo
wrote an introduction ("Documents sur Raymond Roussel"), he was also
review it for the same journal in January 1936. It is quite probabl
Rousselophiles or Rousselomaniacs of the time were fantasizing that Lei
known Roussel personally since his childhood, had more to say about Ro
Roussel himself did, that he must have known even more about the Roussel m
than the posthumous revelations of Comment j'ai ecrit certains de mes livres
As for Duchamp, his early interest in Roussel was probably revived by th
disclosure that most of his narratives, and among them the cult novel Im
d'Afrique (1910), had been generated from puns reminiscent of LHOOQ
case, Roussel was part of the conversation since Duchamp, in his first
Leiris, dated December 14, 1936, gives him liberty to use as he wishes
characterization of Roussel as an example of what the psychology of the
to call a "secondary type of personality."
It seems that, before the two met in Paulhan's office, Leiris had already
(volunteered?) to review La Mariee mise a nu for La Nouvelle revue francaise.
had given him a complimentary copy of the Green Box (published in Oct
The review, which Leiris wrote just after the one on Comment j'ai ecrit cert
livres,4 appeared in the December 1936 issue. "I read your letter," Duchamp w
Leiris, "before looking at the review, and I share your feeling that some
started so well is brought to a stop abruptly.... I'd love to see the end-do

3. Michel Leiris,Journal 1922-1989, ed. JeanJamin (Paris: Gallimard, 1992), p. 501.

4. For all that, see Michel Leiris and Jean Paulhan, Correspondance, ed. Louis Yvert (Par
Claire Paulhan, 2000), pp. 56-57 and 62, letters dated November 26 and 27, 1935. Leir
Roussel appeared in the January issue of La Nouvelle revue francaise (and was later included
Brisees); his review of Duchamp appeared in the December 1936 issue (and was republished
the Cahiers du College de Pataphysique and by Pierre Hebey in LEsprit de la NRF).

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Notes (on the Index Card) 37

it? Delighted to see that you appreciate the 'secundarism' of Roussel; use it as you
wish."5 Duchamp's mention of the abruptness of the ending refers in part to the fact
that Paulhan had made some editorial cuts in the original text (which Leiris will
publish in extenso in 1959 in the Cahiers du College de Pataphysique).6 But it refers also to
the fact that the article was to have a sequel. For Leiris expanded it in "Arts et
metiers de Marcel Duchamp" (Arts and crafts of Marcel Duchamp) which (as the
title indicates) was supposed to appear in the journal Arts et metiers graphiques, where it
would have been illustrated by the reproduction of a number of Duchamp's works. It
will appear only some ten years later, after the war, in Fontaine. In 1965, Leiris will
include it in his collection of essays, Brisies.7 On February 6, 1937, Duchamp
commented on this second piece: "I read and liked a lot your article-you are the
first one to highlight the various 'aspects' of the Readymade. The whole piece more-
over has an elevated tone that quite naturally pleases me." And later, on March 12,
1937: "We could talk about submitting in June your article for A et M G."8

3. Leiris's "imagination of the sign," to use Barthes's phrase, has a fundamen-

tally phonographic bent. It is rooted not so much in the experience that a word
doesn't mean as it sounds, but that a letter doesn't sound as it looks, exploring thus
what could be called the audiovisual fault, i.e., the arbitrariness not of the sign as
such (the relationship between words and things) but of the sound, the many ways
sounds can become estranged from-and even within-the world of opticality,
graphic or not. Hence Leiris's interest in Duchamp's rotoreliefs, which he describes
as "records to look at and not to listen to,"9 records, in other words, whose sound is so
to speak "hidden" by their look, as if they were painted over to the point of being
silenced. In many regards, Leiris's treatment of the letter could remind one of
Duchamp's famous rattle, "A bruit secret" (with hidden noise): it's not enough to
look at it, you also have to shake it if you want to know how it sounds. As with a throw
of dice, one doesn't know what sound is going to come out of the "cup" of the letter.
Leiris's sensitivity to the written word goes against the grain of the traditional phono-
centric utopia of a faithfully phonetic writing: far from dreaming of a writing that
would support every curve of the phonetic wave, he emphasizes the audiovisual
disjunction and does so by merely spelling out the letters: LHOOQ.

5. Leiris notes in his "Cahier Raymond Roussel" (Raymond Roussel Notebook): "'Secundarism' of
Roussel, the way there is a 'primarism' (Duchamp)" (Leiris, Roussel & Co. [Paris: Fayard, 1998], pp.
148, 152, 155); see also "Conception et realite chez Raymond Roussel," ibid., p. 255.
6. This original (and definitive) version is the one translated in the present issue; see pp. 45-50.
7. It is translated as "The Arts and Sciences of Marcel Duchamp" (Brisees: Broken Branches, trans.
Lydia Davis [San Francisco: North Point Press, 1989], pp. 102-07).
8. Together with the translation of Leiris's 1936 review (in its 1959 version), we publish in this issue
the preparatory notes for this second article Leiris wrote, under the same heading ("Arts et metiers de
Marcel Duchamp"). These notes were written in a pocket-size notebook where they immediately precede
the first sketches for Miroir de la tauromachie (written during the summer of 1937; see "The Bullfight as
Mirror," trans. Ann Smock, October 63 [Winter 1993], pp. 21-40). This notebook, as well as Duchamp's
letters to Leiris, are part of the Leiris archives at the Bibliotheque litteraireJacques Doucet, in Paris.
9. Leiris, Brisees: Broken Branches, p. 105.

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38 OCTOBER

This willfully antiromantic shortsightedness also nourishes Leiris's

extravagant literalist bent, his systematic lowering or de-figurati
metaphor, taken at its word, acted out according to its letter, his stubbo
taking "seriously" what is just a figure of speech. It will, here again, f
material in the short circuits of Duchamp's antiart objects: "Metaphor
the letter': a geometry book suspended by a thread ('geometry in space
mention "the 'Paris air' ampule."10 Barthes will call this antifigure "auto
example: "rat is a syllable"). It's the same literalism that also frames Leir
tion of the Green Box, of the way it dodges a grave and slightly pompou
problem by giving it an arts-and-crafts solution, what he would call a
solution" (substituting the relationship between container and content
between form and content).

4. No matter what the exact narrative of the encounter between the two

might have been, there is something definitively enigmatic in thinking

Duchamp's Green Box played a major role in the genesis of Leiris's autobiograp
cal endeavor and a lasting one since, as we saw, he still invoked it as a model
late as 1957. In December 1935, Leiris (who had just finished L'Age d'hom
[Manhood], his first autobiographical essay, in November) had no idea of
form his next project would take. In fact, he was busy completing his degre
anthropology and was not going to start La Rfgle du jeu until 1940. Moreover
only in 1945 that he will decide on this title. There was nevertheless a prem
tory note, an inkling of the stakes around which La Regle du jeu would deve
namely the articulation of autobiography with the dialectic of games and ru
in the way his review of the Green Box emphasized the "valorization of the-g
as-living-thing over the-painting-as-dead-thing." In his practice, Leiris wrot
Duchamp demonstrates

all the honesty of a gambler who knows that the game only has meaning
to the extent that one scrupulously observes the rules from the very out-
set. What makes the game so compelling is not its final result or how well
one performs, but rather the game in and of itself, the constant shifting
around of pawns, the circulation of cards, everything that contributes to
the fact that the game-as opposed to a work of art-never stands still.

Leiris, clearly, was more interested in the box than in the painting itse
This might be, to start with, because he hadn't seen The Large Glass itself (wh
never left America).l1 But also, more positively, and more importantly, becaus
was instantly sensitive to the mysteriously autobiographical dimension
Duchamp's device, to the way it articulated Duchamp's two major fields of exp

10. See the notes for "Arts and Crafts of Marcel Duchamp," this issue, p. 48.
11. This, however, didn't keep Breton from practically dismissing the relevance of the bo
understanding the painting in his 1934 "Beacon of the Bride" (included in Breton's later edition
Surrealism and Painting, trans. Simon Watson Taylor [San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1972], pp. 85

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Notes (on the Index Card) 39

mentation, the readymade and the index, collapsing the difference between sig-
nature and seriality, performance and facsimile.12 Duchamp's next step, writes
Leiris presciently (foreshadowing Manzoni), should be "to place himself on
exhibit after having signed himself, thus renewing on his own person those same
procedures to which he submitted manufactured objects."
There is also the fact that, as a genre, autobiography is structurally condemned
to incompleteness and that, conversely, incompleteness tends to induce an autobi-
ographical effect. Duchamp's publication of the documents pertaining in various
ways to the genesis of the Bride stamped as definitively unfinished the work he had
left in New York in a state of arrested progress, the first Bride being thus forever
interrupted by the second. In that sense, as Leiris notes, the Green Box performs
the ultimate (definitively-and unfinishingly-unfinished) strip tease, "the true
'stripping bare"' ("la vraie 'mise a nu"'), both second and secondary, of its pri-
mary homonym, its remote referent, the glass painting.
Leiris's interest in Duchamp's box comes at a time when, havingjust completed
the manuscript of L'Age d'homme, having also irreversibly decathected from the
mirages of automatic writing, he was searching, in the aftermath of the revelation
of Roussel's ars poetica, for a protocol that would ensure that the autobiographical
self would never lose what Sartre called its transcendence, that the I would keep
its linguistic status as an empty sign. The 1931-33 Dakar-Djibouti anthropological
expedition had been for him an intensive training ground for the systematic tech-
nique of note-card filing. While in the process of becoming a professional
ethnographer and of setting the stage for the dual exploration of autobiography
and ethnography that will inform his further work for more than fifty years, this
almost-manual (artisanal) aspect of his professional training will soon lead him to
open a sort of autobiographical account, a kind of safe into which he will deposit
entries cut out (i.e., copied out) from his diary, before drawing from this frequently
reshuffled and augmented portfolio of memories, anecdotes, ideas, and feelings,
small and big, to feed his continuous self-portrait.13 The result is a secondary, indi-
rect autobiography, originating not from the subject's innermost self, but from the
stack of index cards (the autobiographical shards) in the little box on the author's
desk. A self built on stilts, on "pilotis," relying not on direct, live memories (as in
Proust's involuntary memory), but on archival documentation, on paper work, a
self that relates to himself indirectly, by means of quotation, of self-compilation.

5. The Roussel-Mallarm6-Duchamp triangle, already in place in 1935 (see

Roussel & Co.), was spectacularly revived (at the same time, if one may say so, as Leiris
himself was) in 1957. In the hospital, Leiris had at his bedside, like some sort of bible,
Mallarme's notes for the Le Livre (which had just been edited for the first time by
Jacques Scherer). An important chapter of Scherer's introduction is devoted to

12. Rosalind Krauss, "Notes on the Index: Part 1," The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other
Modernists Myths (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985), pp. 196-209.
13. See Richard Sieburth, "Leiris/Nerval: A Few File Cards," this issue, pp. 51-62.

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40 OCTOBER

the theme of the container in Mallarme's poetics and his symbolist

specifically to the affinities and differences between the book, the casket
the chest or chest of drawers, and the coffin.14 But there were for Leiri
associations of Mallarm6's work with more literal containers. In his pref
1925 first edition of Igitur, a text to which Leiris refers on a variety of
Dr. Bonniot, the son-in-law of the poet, had written: "Mallarm6, as we k
to jot down his first ideas, the first outlines of his work on eighths of half-
school notebook size-notes he would keep in big wooden boxes of China
Here the box, a coffin for the literary unborn, is thus associated with t
tively unfinished: it is the resting place for notes that didn't make it, di
the stage of the book.
The index card file, however, is not doomed to be tied to this funera
It is also the best support for the opera aperta, whose desire was pervasi
1950s and 1960s. Not unlike Duchamp's door that is both open and close
same time, the card file resists the syntagmatic closure of the sentence b
ing the openness of the paradigm. It doesn't allow the phrase to gel
shape. A filing system is indefinitely expandable, rhizomatic (at any poin
or space, one can always insert a new card); in contradistinction with th
tial irreversibility of the pages of the notebook and of the book, it
mobility allows for permanent reordering (for, even if there is no narrative
sion of a diary, there is a last page of the notebook on which it is written
are numbered, like days on a calendar).

6. According to Nathalie Leger, Barthes's practice of the index c

back to his first reading of Michelet, in 1943, which is more or less also t
his very first articles. The quotations and reflections he started to writ
the time on separate pieces of paper would become the bits around
would later compose the Michelet par lui-meme. As it is known, this volume w
of a book series whose editorial protocol (the title of the series, the standard
tation of the covers) was meant to flag a somehow self-contradictory m
was a catchy way to indicate their two textual levels, combining antholog
meme) and monograph (by Roland Barthes). As it is also known, some tw
later, Barthes was to return to this book series, as both author and subje
author and title: Roland Barthes par Roland Barthes. This time, the index card
already there. One of the pages of illustrations of the volume reproduce
them in facsimile. The text doesn't comment on them, doesn't even allude to
them. There is just a caption: "Reversal: of scholarly origin, the index card ends
up following the twists and turns of the drive." It is hard not to be struck by the
timing: as if the two were the flip side of each other, the emergence of the file
card in Barthes's text is simultaneous with his deliberate use of the autobiographi-
cal first person, with his giving in to the autobiographical drive.

14. Jacques Scherer, Le "Livre" de Mallarme (Paris: Gallimard, 1957).

15. Bonniot quoted in Michel Leiris, La Regle dujeu (Paris: Gallimard, 2003), p. 1658.

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Notes (on the Index Card) 41

Notes .

in bed. ..

Reversal: of scholarly ori

various twists and turns

4-4 4

,l* . . i

t( /u /ets^4
. . . outside . .w
. Zt 4'' 4"

.aQ . ,'' . oradesfic c. C

^ &L?tuu/^ MA ,*' s
A^4A? L< ^6?tf. ^A

o^ a a dss.
. . or at a desk

From Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes. 1975.

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42 OCTOBER

Barthes's shift to autobiography came as a surprise for most of h

and became an easy target for the irony of those who couldn't forg
having written "The Death of the Author." One can imagine that he w
less innocently lured into it byJakobson and Benveniste, whose exam
to believe that one could use the first-person pronoun without fallin
traps of what he denounces as the "illusion common to autobiographie
guistics could perform a quasi-surgical clearing of the first pe
psychological mucus and substitute the semantic emptiness of the sh
dissimilar to the neutral emptiness of Robbe-Grillet's world) for the
fullness of the person.
For interest in the shifter isn't in and of itself the symptom of a sub
sonally tempted by the first person. (Jakobson didn't write an autobio
did Benveniste.) Barthes, too, so it seems, entered the space of the fir
if he were free of any autobiographical afterthoughts, as if Jakobson'
the shifter, as a counter-poison, or anti-venom, had immunized him
risk of contamination by the subjectivity effect: using the first perso
the conviction that for a writer it has no use value. Thus he took the risk of talk-
ing about himself precisely because there was no risk of succeeding at it. He was
ready to put himself on the line to demonstrate that, language embodying the
paradox of the institutionalization of subjectivity, one always fails in speaking of
oneself: the autobiographical drive is doomed to what J. L. Austin would call
"infelicities."

A similar shift from mention to use, from theory to practice, from descrip-
tion to performance can be traced in relation to what Barthes will eventually
identify as his formal fate, his signature form, the discontinuous-what he himself
describes as a certain shortness of breath. Very early on, he fought for an aesthet-
ics and an ethics of the discontinuous (which the structuralist activity of cutting
and editing, the gestures of montage, the practice of analysis will epitomize) as a
defense against the endoxal stickiness of continuity. He defended it in short texts;
but that was not the point. The small dimension of his own output was never fore-
grounded, never thematized. There was no hint of a possible self-referential
connotation, of the possibly pro domo dimension of such an adamant and eloquent
discourse in favor of the discontinuous. Discontinuity, then, was on the side of the
object, its concentration on the referent and the signified leaving no space for a
feedback on the textual performance itself. At least not before the preface of
Critical Essays, where Barthes identifies it as the formal feature of critical writing:
"the very discontinuity which marks all critical discourse."

7. The theory of the shifter is a perfect defense against the psychological

temptation to endow the subject with an ontological, translinguistic reality, to posit
a subjective substance (psyche, soul, person) that would exist independent of its
performance in speech acts. The focus of Barthes's first references to Jakobson's
work, however, is not so much to the analyses of the shifter as such as to the way

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Notes (on the Index Card) 43

they allow Jakobson to explain why the first person and its cognates are both the
last linguistic acquisition of the child and the first linguistic loss of the aphasiac.
Jakobson's first essays to be translated into French came out in 1963. Barthes
refers to them, the very same year, in the preface to the Critical Essays where he
identifies (if one may say so) both positively and negatively with those two invalid
speaking subjects whom, for not having yet (or having no longer) access to the
first person, he promotes as models or examples for the writer, granted one differ-
ence: the writer takes responsibility for not uttering the "I" that both the child
and the aphasiac are constitutionally unable to use.
But there is another difference: as opposed to the child who is able to over-
come this lack by using the third person to speak about himself (referring to himself
by way of his first name or nickname), the aphasiac cannot make up for the loss of
the first person, cannot compensate. Hence the two types of writers Barthes distin-
guishes: the novelist who, like the child, shifts to the third person and speaks of
himself as other people do, and the critic who, like the aphasiac, does not have access
to such a substitute and can use neither the first nor the third person. Why not?
Because he cannot bring himself to convert his "I" into "the fragment of a code," to
have his privacy, his intimacy reduced to a mere shifter. For the critic, says Barthes,
wants to have it both ways, wanting (or wishing) to write but not wanting (or unable)
to renounce the first person. Like the fetishist, he thinks: I know (I've read
Jakobson), but nevertheless .... "The critic would be the man who cannot produce
the 'he' of the novel, but who also cannot cast the 'I' into pure private life, i.e.,
renounce writing." "His 'I' is too heavy with time for him to be able to renounce it
and to bestow it upon the integral code of others."
In 1964, in the pages of Elements of Semiology where Barthes summarizes
Jakobson's work for the second time, the shifter is described as a reversal of the
relationship between code and message; instead of the message being formatted
by the code, as usually happens, it is the code that is being troubled, upset by the
force of a message that tries to break in. Once it appeared in Barthes's text, the
problematic of the shifter will never be very far from that of the index, i.e., from
that of messages without a code, to quote the definition he gave early on of the
photographic message. And it is not insignificant from this point of view that
Barthes's self-portrait is also his first book to include photographic reproductions
and that the second one, La Chambre claire, will be a phenomenological explo-
ration of the interface between photography and autobiography. It is not
insignificant either that among the illustrations of the Roland Barthes par Roland
Barthes there are a series of facsimile reproductions of the author's handwriting,
analogic reproductions of linguistic graphemes, pieces of writing silenced,
abstracted from the universe of discourse by their photographic reproduction. In
particular, as we have seen, the three index cards are reproduced not for the sake
of their content, not for their signified, but for a reality-effect value for which our
expanding taste, says Barthes, encompasses the fashion of diaries, of testimonials,
of historical documents, and, most of all, the massive development of photogra-

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44 OCTOBER

phy. In that
a different sc
to the magic
French langu

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