NOLI ME TANGERE: For Jacques Derrida

16
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave. Anna Akhmatova 1 I F or Jacques Derrida, this (im)modest writing shall not be, as academic jargon would have it, on or about or around the subject (of) ÒDerrida.Ó I shall not be touching on, as topic, or writing on, as topos or subjectile, the prodi- gious corpus signed by Derrida (ÒThis is my corpus, the set of sentences I have signedÓ 2 ), or the figure(s) of ÒDerrida,Ó the subjects of enun- ciation that the corpus itself conveys and puts into play. And although they have simultane- ously solicited, disturbed, and touched me in endlessly complex ways, I especially will not hold discourse (touching) on the subject of DerridaÕs Òself-portraitsÓ: blind and immodest (self-)exhi- bitions and confessions that have been arriving more frequently and more openly as of late (which, we fear, itself may be a sign), in mourn- ful memoirs, letters (on voyage, on ÒtournageÓ), journals (of exhibitions). The motivation for imposing this constraint on Òtouch(ing)Ó issues not from limit or obstacle; namely, that the ÒcorpusÓ is an open set: incom- plete, despite, or rather because of, the innumer- able books, essays, translations, lectures, improvisations, colloquia, collaborations, adieus, memoirs, choral works, interviews – incessantly at work in-completing a ÒcorpusÓ; that is, completing it precisely as incomplete, as an unde- lineated and undelineable, monstrous , body that always already exceeds every last word pronounced on it, in advance. Or, that by virtue of a similar alogic, the ÒfiguresÓ – the ÒIÓs, the many voices behind the prosopopoeia of perhaps fictional, perhaps true ÒselvesÓ announced in and projected by the texts, themselves perhaps fictional testimonies and simulated autobiogra- 149 zsuzsa baross NOLI ME TANGERE for jacques derrida ANGELAKI journal of the theoretical humanities volume 6 number 2 august 2001 ISSN 0969-725X print/ISSN 1469-2899 online/01/020149-16 © 2001 Taylor & Francis Ltd and the Editors of Angelaki DOI: 10.1080/0969725012007647 5 Fra Angelico, Noli Me Tangere (detail)

Transcript of NOLI ME TANGERE: For Jacques Derrida

Here�is�my�gift,�not�roses�on�your�grave.Anna�Akhmatova1

I

F

or Jacques� Derrida,� this� (im)modest�writingshall�not�be,�as�academic� jargon�would�have

it,� on or� about or around� the� subject� (of)ÒDerrida.Ó� I� shall� not�be� touching on,� as� topic,or�writing� on,� as� topos or� subjectile,� the� prodi-gious� corpus� signed� by� Derrida� (ÒThis� is� mycorpus,� the�set�of�sentences� I�have�signedÓ2),�orthe�figure(s)�of�ÒDerrida,Ó�the�subjects�of�enun-ciation� that� the� corpus� itself� conveys� and� putsinto� play.� And� although� they� have� simultane-ously� solicited,� disturbed,� and� touched� me� inendlessly�complex�ways,�I�especially�will�not�holddiscourse� (touching) on the�subject� of�DerridaÕsÒself-portraitsÓ:� blind� and� immodest� (self-)exhi-bitions� and� confessions� that� have� been� arrivingmore� frequently� and� more� openly� as� of� late

(which,�we�fear,�itself�may�be�a�sign),�in�mourn-ful�memoirs,� letters�(on�voyage,�on�ÒtournageÓ),journals�(of�exhibitions).

The�motivation�for�imposing�this�constraint�onÒtouch(ing)Ó� issues� not� from� limit� or� obstacle;namely,�that�the�ÒcorpusÓ�is�an�open set:�incom-plete,�despite,�or�rather�because�of,�the�innumer-able� books,� essays,� translations,� lectures,improvisations,� colloquia,� collaborations,� adieus,memoirs,� choral� works,� interviews� –� incessantlyat� work� in-completing a� ÒcorpusÓ;� that� is,completing�it�precisely�as�incomplete,�as�an�unde-lineated� and�undelineable,�monstrous,�body� thatalways� already� exceeds� every� last� wordpronounced�on�it,�in�advance.�Or,�that�by�virtueof�a�similar� alogic,� the�ÒfiguresÓ�–� the�ÒIÓs,�themany�voices�behind�the�prosopopoeia�of�perhapsfictional,�perhaps�true�ÒselvesÓ�announced�in�andprojected� by� the� texts,� themselves� perhapsfictional� testimonies� and� simulated� autobiogra-

1 4 9

zsuzsa�baross

NOLI�ME�TANGEREfor�jacques�derrida

AN GE LAK Ijournal� of�the� theoretical� humanitiesvolume 6������number�2������august�2001

ISSN�0969-725X�print/ISSN�1469-2899�online/01/020149-16�©�2001�Taylor�&�Francis�Ltd�and�the�Editors�of�AngelakiDOI:�10.1080/0969725012007647 5

Fra�Angelico,�Noli�Me�Tangere (detail)

for�jacques�derrida

phies� –� are� multiple� and� heterogeneous.� True,this�ÒpermanentÓ�incompletion�and�heterogenesisalone� would� more� than� justify� not turning� thecorpus�or�its�figures� into�something�upon whichto�write�–�a�topic,�a�substratum,�an�inert�(dead)ÒsubjectileÓ�holding�up�and�supporting,�blindly,the� discourse� and� its� ÒsavoirÓ� on,� about,� over,around ÒDerrida.Ó� (For� is� it� not� Derrida� whoexposes,� beneath� the� ostensibly� neutral� andobjective� stance,� the� violence that� secretlyanimates�the�relation�of�the�ÒtraitÓ�–�of�drawingand�writing�–�to�its�subjectile?�And�is�it�not�alsoDerrida� who,� in� a� text� for Jean-Luc� Nancy� thatsignificantly�bears�the�title�Le�Toucher,�speaks�ofthe�Òradial�solitudeÓ�of�the�subject,�subsumed�asthe�subject�of�the�knowledge� that� it�supports� asits�subjectile?3)

Still,� my� reasons� for� drawing� a� boundaryaround�Òtouch/ingÓ�(or�Òle�toucher,Ó�which�alsotranslates�into�Òto�touch�himÓ)�in�this�way�stemsless�from�an�exigency� imposed� from�the�outsidethan�from�my�desire�to�come�to�write something,an� offering, for Jacques� Derrida.� An� offeringmeaning:�writing�that�approaches�Derrida�from�adistance,� writes� toward him,� perhaps� withoutever�reaching�him�(as�news�or�missive),�perhapswithout�even�touching him.

And� yet� the� desire� thus� confessed� instantlyruns� up� against� some� formidable� obstacles.�Thefirst�comes�in�the�form�of�the�obvious�question:who�or�what� is�Derrida?�What�unlocatable� loca-tion,�what�impossible�Òaddress,Ó�does�Derrida�asnaked� vocable� designate� for� my� missive� here� –standing� alone,�without� the�protective� shelter� ofthe� inverted� marks� instantly� converting� it� intosome common� sign, impersonal metonym� –� forÒdeconstructions,Ó� for� example?� Would� theerasure� of� the�marks� restore� the�ÒproperÓ�func-tion?�Proffer�the�one�unique�referent?�Or�shouldone�rather�reflect�(on)�the�uncanny�experience�ofthis� loss�–�forever�–�of�the�proper,� the�uniquelysingular� –� in� other� words,� accept� to� ÒaddressÓDerrida�in�the�place�of�a�relation�without�location(fixed� in� corpus,� existence,� or� figure),� or,� evenmore� radically,�a�nonlocatable� ÒinexistenceÓ�notto�be�reached�or�touched�–�yet�still�to�be�held�ina� relation?� A� relation� whose� sign� the� old� Latinphrase�enigmatically�gives�as�Noli�me�tangere?

A�second�and�double�difficulty�arises�from�the

prohibition�of�touch�itself.�Is�not�this�rule�alreadyundermined� even� before� I� begin� to� write,� asevidenced�by�the�very�fact�that�I�begin�to�write?Have� I�not�been� touched�precisely� by�DerridaÕswritings� –� Òfor� my� mother,Ó� for� Paul� Celan,for� Paul� de� Man,� and,� especially,� for� Jean-LucNancy� –� on� the� very� subject� of� ÒtouchÓ?4 Andconversely,�will�not�this�same�limit�be�also�trans-gressed�from�the�other�direction�as�well,�despitethe� promise� of� reserve,� of� holding� back,� justmade?� As� offering,� writing� ineluctably� risksgiving�offense,�an�intrusive�touch (whose�violencethe�biblical�usage�of�offense�as�Òstriking�againstthe�footÓ�[OED]�so�well�preserves),�sending�off�asit�does�in�the�direction�of�the�other�an�unsolicitedmissive,�a�perhaps�unwanted�gift,�and,�insofar�aswriting,�a�ÒfalseÓ�present5 that�would�never�giveitself� completely,� without� reserving� somethingfor� itself.�But� this� text� of�mine,� at�once� impru-dent�and�(un)timely,�may�especially�ÒstrikeÓ�theother�as�improper,�speaking�as�it�does,�inevitablyyet� prematurely,� in� complicity� with�a� logic� andeconomy� –� of� mourning� –� that� AkhmatovaÕsbrutal� missive� so� unhesitatingly� brings� to� light:ÒHere�is�my�gift,�not�roses�on�your�grave.Ó

The� ever-present� danger� of� misappropriationby� way� of� the� hand� –� unlawfully� grabbing,taking� hold� of,� (anotherÕs)� writing,� as� thoughÒpropertyÓ�–�is� touched�upon�here� and�there� inthe�work�by�forceful�but�passing�comments�thatwould� rather� dismiss� such� ÒmanipulationsÓ� asoffensive� but� not� give� them� serious� attention.6But� I� should� want� a� stricter� interpretation� andobservance�of�the�law�–�Noli�me�tangere.�Even�ifDerrida� himself� does� not.�And� even� if,�upon� atleast�one�occasion,�he�appears�to�have�encouragedGeoffrey� Bennington� to� write,� figuratively� andliterally,� on,� over,� and� above� him� (Òup� there,beside�or�above�me,�on�meÓ�JD�27);�to�write,�thatis,�on� and�about�his� corpus,� over�and� above�hisown�text�on�the�bottom�half�of�the�pages�of�thesame� book,� underneath� Bennington� holdingdiscourse� on� Òthe� body� of� [his]� writingsÓ� thatBenningtonÕs�neither� penetrates� and� of�which� itincorporates� no�part� (Òdoing�without�my� bodyÓwhich�Òhe�has�literally�not�quoted�onceÓ).

However� exceptional� this� case� may� be(Òbecause�I�love�himÓ�13),�the�instance�–�the�rela-tion�between� the� text� and� Òsur-textÓ�composing

1 5 0

baross

the�book�for�which�Jacques�Derrida redoubles�asthe�proper�name�of�one�of�the�cosignatories� andas�the�bookÕs�title�–�will�serve�as�my�counterex-ample.�If�ÒG.B.Ó�does�Òwithout�[his]�body,Ó�if�heÒhas� not� retained� a� single� fragment� of� [his]corpusÓ� and� Òif� he� has� cut� or� lifted� out� somepieces�itÕs�just�so�as�not�to�keep�them�to�let�themdrops� like�skins�useless É�Ó�(27;�my�emphasis),then�I�will�incorporate what�my�writing�circum-scribes.� This� then� will� be� my ÒruleÓ� here:� If� Icannot�Òdo�withoutÓ�his�body,�I�will�take�into�thebody� of� my� text� the� words� and� (fragments� of)sentences� (Òsentences� are� proper� names� É� layclaim� to� be� proper� namesÓ� 28)� –� which� I� willsavor,�as�mothers�in�the�past�used� to�savor�Òthestill� bloody� foreskinÓ� (69).� My� justification� istwofold.

The� first� fold:� however� generous� and� giving,writing� Òon� someone� who� writes� booksÓ� cannotbe�a�model�for�my�missive�here.�It�seems�that�themore�writing�gives�nothing�but�praise,� the�moreit�enjoys a�secret�relation�to�the�corpus�on�whichit� writes� that� resembles� not� so� much� (dead)ÒrosesÓ� on� a� grave� but� rather� the� relation� thelizard�has,�in�HeideggerÕs�example,�Òto�the�stoneon�which�it�lies�basking�in�the�sun.Ó�More�so�thanthe� cold-blooded� creature,� the� Òsur-textÓ� drawsthe�warmth�of� its�life�from� its�sun�–�the�corpusthat�it�reduces�to�a�mere�stone�or�subjectile.�(ÒAstone� is� without� world,Ó� writes� Heidegger.ÒBecause� in� its� being� stone� it� has� no� possibleaccess�to�anything�else�around�it.Ó7)

The� second� fold:� sur-writing� would� onlydeprive�the�corpus�it�Òwalls�up� insideÓ�of�accessto� the� world� or,� rather,� to� the� Outside� fromwhere,�unforeseen,�a�sentence�arrives�(ÒI�wonderif� Geoffrey� knows� it� É� a� sentence� came� fromfurther�away�than�I�could�ever�sayÓ�JD�6).�Posingas� the� posthumous� or� last� word� that� Òknowseverything�about�the�ÔlogicÕ�of�what�I�might�havewritten�in�the�past�but�also�of�what�I�might�thinkor�write�in�the�future,�on�any�subject�at�all,Ó�thesur-text�would�bury� the�workÕs�incomplete�bodyunder� the� finished� sarcophagus� of� its� ownconstruction� so�Òthat�I�should� have�nothing� leftto�sayÓ�(16).�Tomb�or�tombeau –�funerary�monu-ment,�simple�cave,�or�poetic�composition�–�it�is�amatter� of� forgetting� (Òforgetting� me� under� thepretext�of�understanding�meÓ�33)�or,�better�still,

a� secret� strategy� for� supplanting� the� corpusfreshly�buried�under�the�pretext�of�some�memo-rial,�in�verse�or�stone.

But� Derrida,� of� course,� knows� this� only� toowell,�even�if�my�reading�of�him�has�feigned�igno-rance�of�the�ironic�–�double�or�dual –�structureof�the�book,�designed�precisely,�that�is,�carefully,as�theater�for�a�ÒduelÓ�(ÒI�would�be�trying�againsthim,� that�would�be� my� rule�hereÓ� 33),� as� stagefor� a�combat� to� take�place� in� the�book betweenwriting�and�sur-writing�(Òbetween�what�I�am�writ-ing�and�what�G.�will�have�written�up�there,�besideor�above�me�on�meÓ�26).�Never�before�have�thestakes�been�raised�so�high�in�a�book�(Òto�raise�thestakesÓ�is�twice�repeated�in�DerridaÕs�sub-text):�itis�death�or�survival�–�one�or�the�other,�for�one�orthe� other� (Òfighting� with� him� over� the� right� todeprive� me� of� my� events,� i.e.,� to� embrace� thegenerative�grammar�of�me�and�behave�as�thoughit�was�capable�É�of�appropriating�the�law�whichpresides� over� everything� that�can�happen� to�methrough�writingÓ�32;�my�emphasis).

To� survive� in� a book,� in this� book JacquesDerrida,� is� incomparable� to� a� life� that� onceregains� its� balance� continues� as� before� after� itsaccidental� brush� with� death.� In� the� transitiveform� here,� the� verb� survive takes� as� its� objectdeath�itself:�the�death�already�actualized,�realized,embodied,� in� the� sur-text� (that� Òdeprives� me�ofmy� eventsÓ),� in� the� colossus� of� the�ÒeverythingsaidÓ� that� already� imprisons� the� non-incorpo-rated�corpus�it�uses�nonetheless�as�its�ground�orsubjectile.� To� survive� thus� is� to� write,� startingfrom� this� death� (that� Òdeprives� of� a� futureÓ)�–the� future.� So� that� there�may�be� writing� in� thefuture.� Survival� is� unending� writing:� writingfrom�death,�writing�sur-viving,�that�is,�breachingopen�the�sarcophagus�walling�it�in�by�writing�theevent� that� is� the� future� itself�–� the� unforeseen,the� unforeseeable,� the� incalculable,� the� unpre-dictable�that�cannot�be�said�or�written�before�theÒtraitÓ�will�have�breached�the�space�and�time�ofits�saying,�by�itself�saying�it,�by�itself�writing�it.Conversely,�to�write�is�Òsalvation,Ó�to�survive:�tohave�a�future,�to�have�events�come�for/from�me,after� death.� (ÒNo� more� event� to� come� from/forme�É�unless�I�write�here,�every�man�for�himself,improbable� things�which� destabilize,� disconcert,surprise� in� their� turn�G.Õs�program� É�that�will

1 5 1

for�jacques�derrida

not� have� been� able� to� recognize,� name,� foresee,produce,�predict,�unpredictable�things�to survivehimÓ�31;�my�emphasis.)

And�yet,�might�a�strict�observance�of�the�lawI�demand�here�not�work�against�me?�Invoked�asÒcategorical,Ó�could�it�not�only�vulgarize�my�giftby� turning� it� into� a�common� (vulgaris)�variety?And,� therefore,� also� into� a� missive� that� is� nolonger� a�gift,� that� is,� a�sending� that� is�uniquelyfor� him� (Òˆ� lui� seul,� tout� uniquement,Ó LeToucher 29)?� Would� not� such� a� missive� alto-gether� miss� addressing� him,� insofar� as� it�wouldremain�merely�distant,�without� relation,�withoutmaintaining� the� distance� imposed� by� the� law� –Noli�me�tangere –�as�a�relation?

II

The�three�Latin�words�in�the�title�–�suffused�withvague� memories� of� representations,� recitations,ancient�recitatives�–�instantly�transport�us�to�thearchaic� scene� of� passion� and� testimony.� Moremodestly� in� relation� to� this� writing,� they� alsobear� witness� to� two� potent� encounters� that,immediately� contravening� the� literal�meaning� ofthe�melodic�phrase,�Noli�me�tangere,�ÒtouchedÓme.� The� first� event,� which� is� perhaps� alsoÒprimaryÓ� (in� the� analytical� sense� of� somethingtoo� forceful� to� register� for� the� first� time� andtherefore� invisible� until� a� second� and� weakertrauma� and� repression� pass� through� the� samepathways),�comes�to�me�long�before�the�thoughtof�this�writing.�(Although�not�before�another�texton� the� false� gifts� of� writing,� also� touching� onÒtouchÓ�and�Òfecundity,Ó�would�be�handed�overfor� publication.)� The� first� invisible� impression,whose� silent� fecundity� in� me is� revealed� onlyafter� a� delay,� is� left� on� me by� Fra� AngelicoÕsfamous fresco� Noli� me� Tangere,� inside� a� tinymonastic�cell,�the�first�of�eleven,�in�the�dormitoryof�the�Convent�of�San�Marco.�Or,�more�precisely,for�there�is�always�a�text:�a�phrase,�a�word�alwaysfinds� you� and,� taking� you� by� the� hand,� guidesyour�way�to�a�painting,�or�a�fragment�–�ProustÕsÒyellow� patch� of� wallÓ8 –� the� impression� firstinvisibly� traced� on� me,� far� away� from� the� longcorridors�of�the�convent�in�Florence,�would�havebeen�by� a�writing� trait.�So�that�my�unmediatedfirst� encounter� with� the� Òtiny� red� crossesÓ� –

traversing� the� short� distance� in� the� green� fieldseparating� Mary� Magdalene� from� the� just� risenChrist� appearing� to� her� in� front� of� the� emptytomb�–�would�have� been�well�prepared� for�and,in�truth,�comes�second�to�my�first�chancing�upona�text�by�Didi-Huberman,�which�guides�my�eyes,ever� so� accurately,� to� the� same� small� field� andÒcentral� tension�of�the� image,Ó�which�I�immedi-ately�decide�to�travel�to�Florence�to�see.9

Naturally,� Didi-HubermanÕs�writing� does� notturn� (you)� to� what� meets� to� please,� immenselyand�right� away,�the� eye:� the� two� figures,� pastel,stationed�on�the�green�of�a�secluded�garden,�nextto�the�barely�suggested�dark�orifice�of�the�stylizedtomb.�Mary,�with�one�knee�bent�under�a�floatingrobe,� gently� reaches� out� toward� the� figure� ofChrist,�who,�with�his�feet�still�awkwardly�crossed,appears�to�be�almost�imperceptibly�dancing,�levi-tating.� The� green� all� around� them� is� pepperedwith�tiny�red�dots�–�signs�rather�than�representa-tions� of� flowers.� Noli� me� tangere,� the� threewords�that�hold�Mary�at�a�distance�in�the�gospelnarrative� (which� I� will� discover� only� later),� aretranslated� into� a� single� gesture,� says� Didi-Huberman:� Òthe� right� hand� that� distances andsignals at� the� same� timeÓ� (14).�But�he�pays�nofurther� attention� to�ChristÕs� coy gesture� (whoseambivalence� Nancy,� reading� this� time� JohnÕsfounding text of� the� same� scene,� will� note,describing� it� as� Òstrange� and,� from� a� certainangle,�troubling,�suggestiveÓ10).�Instead,�the�trailof�his�writing�leads�directly�to�the�almost�imper-ceptible�movement�and�variation�taking�place,�asif�secretly, in�the�space�between�or in�the distanceseparating the� two� figures:� the� blood� red� stig-mata� of� Christ� seem� to� slide� off� his� feet� and,becoming� indistinguishable� from�the�red�dots�ofpaint�signifying�flowers,�contaminate the�floweryfield� around� his� body.� At� the� same� time�–� notnarrative� time,� which� is� linear,� but� the� time� ofpainting,� which� gives� everything� all� at� once� –three�tiny�crosses�follow�the�trail�of�red�flowers,migrating� across� the� space,� traversing� thedistance�separating�the�two�bodies.�I�will�attemptno� interpretation� of� this� agitation� and� contami-nation,� which� would� take� up� all� my� time,� andmore.� I�will�only� observe� that�no� interpretationcould� avoid� passing� through� the� field� that� isopened� up� by� Nancy� (Òthe� greatest� thinker� of

1 5 2

baross

touch,Ó�says�Derrida,�who�is�writing�for Nancy).In� his� short� essay� on� ÒTouching,Ó� Nancy� putsinto� circulation� a� series� of�questions� that,�whileaddressing�Heidegger,�who�has�just�dismissed�thelizardÕs� relation� to� the� stone� as� touching in� theproper� sense,� point� in� the� direction� of� a� refor-mulation� that� would� not,� at� least� not� a� priori,exclude� the� possibility� that� the� two� bodies� –whose�hands�move�toward�each�other,�yet�are�alsokept�apart�–�come�to�Òtouch.Ó�(ÒWhy�could�notthe�world�a�priori�consist�in�being-among,�being-between,� and� being-against?� In� remoteness� andcontact�without�Ôaccess?ÕÓ;�my�emphasis.11)

The�beautiful� phrase,� albeit� a�translation� andtwice�removed�from�a�lost�original,�and�not�–�notyet� –� the� full� utterance� –� imposes� itself� on� menonetheless,� long�before� the�advent�of� this�writ-ing.�Despite�its�melody,�it�does�not�Òcome�to�myear,Ó� as� it�does� for� Nancy� (whose� text� is�yet� toderail�me,� in�the�second�of�the�encounters� I�amrelating�here);�I�should�rather�say,�incorporatinganother�of�DerridaÕs�phrases�that�my�writing�hascircumcised,� that� it� Òplugs� itself� into� withinme.Ó12 Within� me� but� without� my� knowledge,the� three� Latin� words,� which� already� form� oneimage with� Fra� AngelicoÕs, remain� active,productive.� Not� of� allegories,� analogies,metaphors,� or� translations,� which� would� onlytranspose� meanings� from� one� scene� to� another,establish�equivalences,� impose�Òinterpretations,Óbut� rather� aleatory� associations� that� arrive,� oftheir�own�accord,�from�who�knows�what�distance.(An� image,� according� to�Godard,� makes� not� ananalogy� or� comparison,� but�brings� together� twodistant�realities:�the�Òmore�distant�and�just�theirrelation� [rapport],� the� stronger� the� image� willbe.Ó13)�Traversing�anachronic�pathways�by�incal-culable�movements� that� only�words�can� initiate,yet� still� transporting� the� ÒaffectÓ� or�memory� ofFra� AngelicoÕs� Christ� exhibiting� himself� to� awitness�–�Noli�me� tangere links�up,�within�me,with� a� series� of� Òimages.Ó� It� attaches� itself� toimages�of�exhibitions,� to�a�face�exhibiting� itself:DerridaÕs�blind�and�naked�self-portraits.14 In�themanner� of� a� soundtrack� that� attaches� itself� toan� image,� which� it� instantly� transforms� at� thecost� of� losing� its�own�ÒidentityÓ�as�distinct� andseparate� –� so� does� Noli� me� tangere arrive� totransform� the� autobiographies,� confessions,

memoirs,�journals,�which�it exhibits�as�narrativesarriving�from another scene�of�passion�and�testi-mony.� Narratives,� which� in� as� much� as� testi-monies,� must� say� ÒI,Ó� cannot� but� speak� in� thesingular,�irreplaceable,�and�unsubstitutable�voiceof�the�first�person,�whose�testimony�demands�(ofhim)� that� a� ÒselfÓ� be� exhibited� Òto� the� eyes� ofall,Ó� and� whose� discourse,� therefore,� as� we� willshortly�learn�from�Blanchot,�is�inexorably�linkedto�a�theater�of�death,�or�Òperpetual�suicide.Ó�Thenaked,� unguarded� exhibitions,15 the� tearfulconfessions� (of� Òcrime,Ó� Òpassion,Ó� Òblind� jeal-ousy,Ó�Òblasphemy,Ó�ÒfratricideÓ);�the�shamefulsight�of a�face�immodestly�exhibiting�itself�to�thegaze� of� all –� exhibitions� that� have� alreadywounded�and�embarrassed�me16 –�now�embarrassme� one� more� time:� resound� with� a� murmursaying,�as�if�they�had�been�always�saying�it:�ÒDonot�touch�me.Ó�In�the�course�of�the�transcription,none�of�the�rich�ambiguity�that�is�proper�to�bothÒtouchÓ�(at�once�Òremoteness� and�contactÓ)�andÒprohibitionÓ� (de-negation� of� desire)� is� lost.� Sothat�DerridaÕs�testimonies� and�exhibitions,� testi-monies� by� exhibition,� neither� promise� norimpose� the� immediation� of� false� intimacy,� orcommunicate�a�secret�or�hope�for�the�impossible(that� everything� be� said).17 Instead,� unguarded,they�disarm,� immobilize� the�gesture� that,�reach-ing� out� to� gain� or� claim� Òaccess,Ó� would� onlyobliterate� the� remoteness� and� distance� that,Blanchot�says,�necessarily�separates�us,�in�friend-ship.

Then,� when� the� decision� has� already� beenmade�about�the�genre-defining�title,�there�comesmy�second�and�secondary�chance�encounter�witha�short�essay�by�Nancy,�coauthored�with�Lacoue-Labarthe.� The� title,� ÒNoli� Me� Frangere,Ó� stopsme�cold� in�my� tracks.�The�play� on� the�original(which�brings�together�in�one�single�Òimage,Ó�asGodard� would� say,� the� distant� ideas� of� theÒprohibition� to� touchÓ� and� the� ÒfragmentÓ)makes� the� ÒtouchÓ� (and� touché)� I� suffer,passively,�only�worse.�Could�chance�(tyché)�haverobbed�me�of�my�Ògift,Ó�even before I�conceivedthe�thought�of�giving�it?�(But�who�would�believeme?�Which�makes�me�a�plagiarist,�after�the�fact.)Or� is� it� really� my� ÒfaultÓ?� There� is� no� secret,only�the�repressed�memory�of�a�fecundation�andpregnancy� with� anotherÕs� idea,� discovered� –� as

1 5 3

for�jacques�derrida

always�–�only after the�delivery?�Or�even�worsethan� this� cryptomnesia,� an� even� stranger� dis-chronie:� someone,� Nancy,� had� blindly� Òput� hishandsÓ� on� my� offspring,� before I� could� evenconceive� (of)�it.�(The madness�of�these� thoughtsdoes� not� weaken� the� reality� of� their� force:� foryears�Freud�battles�with�the�question�of�his�ownguilt� regarding� the� ÒtheftÓ� of� the� concept� ofÒoriginal� bisexualityÓ� that� Fliess,� after� FreudÕspublication,� re-claims� as� his� own� Òproperty.ÓEven� more� systematically,� says� Derrida,� Freudavoids� reading� NietzscheÕs� Òguesses� and� intu-itionsÓ�so�that�he�would�not�have� to�discover� asalready� said� the�Òpainfully� laborious� findings� of[his�own]�psychoanalysis.Ó18)

Touched� and� interrupted,� I� read� on� to� findthat�NancyÕs�short�meditation�on�ÒtouchÓ�and�theÒfragment,Ó� or� writing� that� interrupts� itself,breaks�(itself)�off�without�debris,� is�itself�a�writ-ing�interrupted,�and�comes�after,�as�the�offspringof� an�unwelcome� touch� and� interruption� by� themost� impersonal� of� writings,� although� bearingBlanchotÕs� signature.� (ÒCould� it� be� that� TheWriting�of�the�Disaster,�having interrupted [myemphasis]� my� work,� having� touched me� in� thecomplex�way�I�have�been�telling�you�about,�mademe�say�ÔDonÕt�touch�me?ÕÓ�T�274.)

But�having� deprived� me� of�my� Òoriginality,ÓNancy� also� compensates,� amply:� he�puts�me�onthe� track� of� the� original� –� phrase� and� scene� –whose� author� and�metteur-en-scène,� John,�alonementions�it,�and�who�alone�from�among�the�evan-gelists�puts�Mary�Magdalene� alone� on� the� sceneto�witness�the�unwitnessable.19 (ÒNo�one�testifiesfor�the�witness,Ó�cites�Derrida�from�CelanÕs�verseon�the�occasion�of�meditating�on�another�Òinstantof� death.Ó20)� The� unwitnessable� is� not� theinstance�or�aftermath�of�a�resurrection�that,�tran-scending� time� (Zeitligkeit or� Òbeing-in-timeÓ),surpasses� and� overcomes� the� absolute� limit� ofinfinite� finitude,� death.� The� impossible,� glori-ously�mad�scenario�that�unfolds� in�JohnÕs�gospelas� stage� takes� place� right� on� the� limit,� on� thethreshold –�of�the�empty�tomb,�but�also�of�time,of�death�–�where�Christ�appears�to�Mary�(so�thather� first�vision� of�him�would� be�blurred� by� thelight�outside;�for�such�is�the�staging�of�John�thatshe� would� not� recognize� him� standing� on� thethreshold� right�away,�not�before� she�would�hear

him� speak� her� name:� ÒMary!Ó).� And� yet� thisapparition� on� the� threshold� of� the� (in)visible,while� already� soliciting� the� common� experienceof�time,�is�not�–�not�yet�–�the�pure�ÒeventÓ�thatwill� breach� the� Innerzeitlichkeit� of� time, theintra-temporality�of�(being�in)�common�time�thatmakes� possible� to� speak� of� the� simultaneity� of(our)�events.�This�comes�later,�almost�at�the�veryend�of�chapter�XX,�verse� 17,�of�what� is�a�shortnarrative.� (For�who�would� dare� to� speak� of� theeventÕs�time?�Who�could�say�of�it,�for�how�long?By�what�measure�of�time�could�we�measure�time,this time?)�When�it�happens,�the�threshold�of�thefirst�order,� the�albeit� intangible� but�all�too�visi-ble� curtain� of� light,� which,� as� one� imagines� it,draws�a�sharp�line�on�the�sandy�ground,�delimit-ing�the�tombÕs�dark�cavity� in� real�space,� redou-bles� to� mark� a� limit� and� threshold� that� isimmeasurable,� unmeasurable� by� it� and� incom-mensurable�with�it.�It�all�happens� in�an�instant,such� is� the� power� of� the� full� enunciation� byChrist,�who�appears�before Mary�of�Magdala�andto�her�alone,�before he�would�appear�before�andto� anyone� else,� including� the� ÒFather.Ó� By� nomeans� full� speech,� it� will� nonetheless� throweverything�out�of�kilter:�Òdo�not�touch�me,�for�Ihave�not�yet�ascended�to�my�Father.Ó

Perhaps�no�amount�of�time�would�be�sufficientenough� to� reflect� on� the� vertigo� that� suddenlyovercomes�the�scene�on�JohnÕs�stage�–�until�thenmysterious�but�firmly�set.�(The�vision�of�the�twoangels� in� white� inside� the� tomb� –� a� visionperfectly�clear�–�causes�not�the�slightest�wobble.)The� extreme� lability� could� only� in� part� beaccounted� for� by� the� ambivalence� imported� bythe� phrase� ÒDo� not� touch� me,Ó21 which� makeseverything�vacillate�between�contraries:�desire�forproximity� and� for� distance,� to� desire� and� toprohibit� desire� (whose� ambiguity� is� perfectlycaptured�by�Fra�AngelicoÕs�depiction�of�ChristÕswhole� ÒsuggestiveÓ� body).� Even� greater� is� ourvertigo�when�we�turn�to�the time�and�the timingof�this�enunciation:�after�death�(which�arrives�inan� instant,� even� if� following� three� long� days� ofagony�and�passion)�but�before appearing�(in�time)before� (the� face� of)� the�Father;� in� other� words,before�the end�of�dying,�before�death would�havebeen� completed� or� accomplished (in� the� resur-rection� properly� witnessed� by� Thomas,� before

1 5 4

baross

others,� who� are� urged� to� touch� the� body.)� Nowonder� that� John� does� not� allow� a� third� party,Òterstis� as testis,Ó� to� be� present� to� witness� theevent,�to�witness�MaryÕs�witnessing�of�the�event.For� his� unique� testimony� as� to� the� vertiginousjustification�for�the�prohibition�–�Òfor�I�have�notyet�ascended� to�my�FatherÓ�–�breaches� the�veryorder�of�time,�interrupts�its�flow,�opens�the�abyssof�an�interval�that�divides,� splits�open,�the�indi-visible:� the� instant of� death,� which,� unlike� anyother�–�Òinstant,Ó�Òmoment,Ó�or�ÒnowÓ�–�is�notconstitutive� of� timeÕs�continuous� flow,�does� nothold�Òtime-together-within-itself� as�a�whole,Ó�byvirtue� of� stretching� the�singularity,� the�point� ofthe�instant�without�dimension,�in�both�directionsof� time.22 Yet� our� vertigo� is� not� caused� by� thesimple� extension.� The� word� instant,� as�Derridawill� say,� already� signifies� a� semantic� spectrum,stretching�between�Òimminence�and�deferralÓ�(D46),� or� as� Heidegger,� who� follows� AristotleÕsstruggle� to� capture� time� by� a� definition� of� itsnature,�shows:�the�ÒnowÓ�at�once�Òarticulates�andbounds�time�with�respect�to�its�earlier�and�later,Óthe� posterior� and� the� prior,� the� Ònot-yet-thisnowÓ�and�the�Òno-longer-nowÓ�–�so�as�to�consti-tute�the�phenomenon�of�time�as�the�same contin-uous� and� irreversible� flow� (248).� In� this�uniquecase�of�sur-vival�and�after�life,�the�extension�itselfis�vertiginous,�stretching�as�it�does�the�instanta-neity of�death,�infinitely,�from�the�instance�to�anindefinite� and� open� future� that� is� unending� –Ònot� yetÓ:� ÒI� have� not� yet� ascended� to� myFather.Ó

An�Òunbelievable� tense�and�timeÓ�(temps),�aswe�may�say�with�Derrida�who�speaks�of�anotherinstant�of�death:�Outside�every�time,�it�is�impos-sible�to�re-appropriate�or�fold�back�to�the�flow�oftime.�And�I�speak�here�not�only�of�the durée ofthe� event� as� unmeasurable� and� immeasurable,given�that�the�only�way�we�can�count�time�is�bytime� itself,� but� also� of� the� time� in� which� thisdurée,�this�duration�of�time�takes�place:�a�zone�oftime� where� death� is� delayed,� suspended,� inter-rupted,� and� unaccomplished.� Starting� from� theinstant,� time� hollows� out� and� heterogenizes� aswithin� its�flow�there�opens�up�a�zone�of�an� infi-nite� extension� that� is� discontinuous� and� non-communicating� with� every� other� time.� Inside,already�at�an�infinite�distance�from�Mary�at�mere

armÕs�length�from�the�glorious�body,�death� is�atonce� suspended� and� incompleted,� or� is� dying,unending.� (The� innumerable� resonances� withDerrida,�whose�reading�of�another�ÒinstanceÓ�inBlanchotÕs� The� Instant� of� My� Death itselfresonates� with� HeideggerÕs� meditations� onAristotleÕs� definition� of� time,� which� I� cite� herebriefly,� will� have� to� remain� as� just� that� –� reso-nances,�insistent�murmurs,�rumors�of�a�cryptom-nesia� that� haunt� but� remain� untranslated� intoÒmyÓ�writing.)

As� mentioned,� Mary� hears� her� name.� Onlynow�recognizing�Christ,�whom�she�mistook�for�agardener,�she�answers:�ÒRabbuniÓ�(ÒMy�teacher!Óor�as� in�some� translations�of�the�Aramaic�word,ÒMy�Lord!Ó),�while� at� the� same� time� (which�wenow�know� is�divided,�heterogenized� time)�reach-ing� out� to�him,�only� to� be� immobilized,� as� oneimagines,� by� the� same� voice� that� pleads� orcommands�her:�Noli�me�tangere.�Her�instinctivegesture�to�touch�him�–�which�as�response�comesin� answer� to� the� appellation,� even� appeal,ÒMary!Ó�–�would� be� impossible� to�mistake� for�atactless�intrusion� that,� in�order� to�gain�access�tothe�otherÕs� corpus,� would� take�advantage� of�theunguarded� exposure,� of� self� and� of� body,� thattestimony� ineluctably� is.� (For,� ironically,� speechwill�not�accomplish�the act�alone,�testify,�that�is,without�calling�on�the�body.)�Much�like�the�otherhand� that�Fra�Angelico� imagines� as�Òsignaling,ÓMaryÕs�also�gives�a�sign:�of�recognition,�or�moreprecisely,�of�the�recognition�of�recognition,�whichfurther� signals� –� for� this� is� not� a� ÒcognitiveÓexperience� –� that� she� has� been� moved andtouched by the�recognition.

But�the�story�of�touch�does�not�begin�here.�Forwould�she�have�been�moved�to�touch�had�she�notalready been� touched� by� Christ,� as�Rabbuni –teacher� or� lord,� that� is,� someone� who� leaves� animpression� for� life,� interrupts� permanently� theother�in�his�or�her�path�and�passage?�(We�recallthat� Nancy� abandons the� composition� of� acompletely different�text�following�the�encounterwith� BlanchotÕs� Òfragmentary� exigency.Ó)� Butmy� concern� here� should� not� be� with� the� ethicsof� the� masterÕs touch,� unforeseen� yet� alwaysexpected,�expected�as�unforeseen,�as�unexpected.The�relation�being� irreversibly� unreciprocal,� theÒinfinite�distanceÓ�Blanchot�stipulates�as�separat-

1 5 5

for�jacques�derrida

ing�teacher�from�disciple�is�not�the�same�distancein�each�direction.�The�touch�of�Rabbuni belongsto� a� different� order� and� register.� Perhaps� itarrives,�like�a�sentence�or�a�thought,�transportedby�one�or�the�other,�from�the�Outside.�And�so�myquestioning�should�not�stray�here�from�the�ques-tion�of�the� relation,�which� is�mine,� of� the�disci-pleÕs�to�a�Òcorpus.Ó

Before�I�(re)turn�to�the�corpus�(but�have�I�everleft�it?),�one�last�observation�is�in�order.�Whetherwe�hear�it�as�command�or�supplication,�Noli�metangere� cannot� arrive� from� a� living body� orcorpus.�Nor�is�it�a�last�missive�indelibly�inscribedin�the�scene�of�death�and�prohibiting�access�to�aglorious� body,� immortal� because� dead.�Arrivingfrom�the�threshold,� the�words�speak�–�in�excessof�very�ordinary�meaning�and�common�significa-tion�–�of� a�death� arrested,� suspended,� deferred,at�once�survived� and� in-completed�–�by�force�ofthe� utterance itself� (or� of� the� writing� of� thefuture),�which�alone�is�responsible�for�the�breach-ing�of�time.�For� the�speech� act�does� not�simplytake place,� take� up� space,� in� some� ex-orbitant,heterogeneous,�as�the�always�already�there�of�time;rather,� it� itself� opens� up� that� ÒunbelievableÓregion� of� time�where�dying� is�unending.� Wheredying�would�become�indistinguishable�from�writ-ing,�or�what�amounts�to�the�same,�writing�wouldbe� dying,� watching� over� its� own� disappearance,keeping�vigil�over�its�own�Òarchive�feverÓ�erasingits� own� path.� Yet� at� the� same� time� (but� whichÒtimeÓ� is� this�same�time?),� it�is�not� that� speechor�writing�would�be�always�already�in�commandof� death.� Death� itself� must� be� arrested,suspended,�deferred�every�time,�so�that�the�utter-ance may�take�place,�so�that�its�missive�and�testi-mony may�arrive�to�address�us�from�who�knowswhat�distance,�from�the�other�side�of�an�interval.Infinitely�close,�yet�at�infinite�distance.�As�NancyÒsuspectedÓ� and� as� Fra� Angelico� Òimagined,Ónothing�could�be�more�unequivocal�than�Noli�metangere, which� does� not� impose� distance� andseparation,� but� rather� inaugurates� distance� as� arelation.

III

But� (how)� could� a� corpus,� or� a� corpse� for� thatmatter,� plead�with�or� command� the�other: Noli

me�tangere,�Do�not�touch�me?�(We�can�now�seehow�other�translations�from�the�Greek�–�ÒDo�notcling� to� me,Ó� ÒStop� touching� me,Ó� ÒDo� notfollow� meÓ� –� would� have� taken� us� along� quitedifferent�paths�to�other,�if�neighboring,�domains.Perhaps� to� friendship.� ÒThis� relation� withoutdependence.Ó)�As�concerns� the�postmortem� fateof� the� remains,� insofar� as� they� remain� in� thehands�of�the�other,�friend�or�stranger,�the�subject(Montaigne,� Derrida)� is� invaded� by� ambiguousfears,�solicited�by�disquieting�questions,�arrivingfrom�who�knows�what�distance,� from� the�depthof�what�dream:�Who�will�touch,�lay�hands�on,�mycorpse?� –� should� I� die� abroad,� on� voyage,� faraway� from� those� I� love?� (ÒTant� que� mon� corpsreste�entre� les�mains�de� lÕautre,�et�sans�défense,et� sans� même� pouvoir� répondre� de� lui-même� ˆson� corps� défendant,� il� peut� lui� arriver� millemorts.Ó23)

Regarding�his�literary�remains,�the�author�can,of�course,�always�write�a�testament,�bequeath�hispapers� with� Òdeath� on� his� lips,Ó� dictate� testa-mentary� instructions� such� as:� Òburn� my� manu-scripts,Ó�Òno�posthumous�publications,Ó�Òno�oneshall� see� my� letters.Ó� But� as� the� long� andcomplicated� history� of� Òtestaments� betrayedÓtestifies�to�–�from�Kafka� to�Freud,�from�Arendtto� Foucault� –� this� last� text� or� utterance,� likeJohnÕs� testament� (already� a� transcription),� andthe� rest� of� the� corpus,� will� be� handled,� tran-scribed,� archived,� translated,� and� interpretedby others� –� witnesses,� legatees,� heirs,� executors(NietzscheÕs� sister,� Max� Brod,� Anna� Freud,Daniel�Defert).�Worst�of�all,�after�every�scrap�ofpaper�with�writing� on� it�has�been� collected� (seethe� latest� posthumous� editions� of� BenjaminÕswork,� making� public� every� one� of� his� failedattempts� to�write),� the�testament� prohibiting� itspublication� will� itself� be� included� in� theComplete�Works�of�the�Òeverything-said.Ó24

Perhaps� more� than� anyone,� Blanchot� knowsabout� the� spirit� Òinquisitive,� painstaking,� insearch�of�documents,Ó�taking�hold�of�a�ÒdeceasedwillÓ� (volonté� défunt)� and� turning� into� knowl-edge�its�own�take�on�what�has�fallen to�Òinheri-tanceÓ� (tombé� en� héritage).25 So� of� and� byBlanchot,� after� Blanchot,� there� would� be� noremains,�no�ÒdebrisÓ�(the�fragment�breaks�with-out� debris26),� left� for� others� to� put� their� hands

1 5 6

baross

on,�dispose� of,�manipulate� at�their�will,�good�orbad� –� except,� of� course,� this� will� and� volonté,already�speculated�about,�that�nothing�fall to�theinheritance�of�the�otherÕs�will.27 From�Blanchot,no� journals,� no� letters� sharing� confidences� orconfessions�(of�a�wish�misspent)�to�come�in�writ-ing.�No�interviews,�no�or�almost�no�photographsof�Blanchot,�whose�name�redoubles�as�the�sign�ofthis� radical� reserve:� an� invisible� planet,� mostdistant,� most� Òglacial.Ó28 (ÒCombien� de� degrésdans� le� blanc?Ó�asks�Edmund� Jabès.�ÒDu�blancglacial� des� sommets� au� blanc� chaud� du� feuilletgardé�en�réserve�pour�son�nom.Ó29)

As�for�the�reserve�itself,�it�appears�–�not�as�theresidue�or�trace�of�a�presence,�but�as�the�Òenergyof� disappearing,Ó�maintained,� put� to�work.� Butthen� BlanchotÕs� Noli� me� tangere is� not� amessage,� request,� or� command� sent� in writingbut� a� strategic� projectile:� a� fragment� of�writingthat� in� and� of� itself� commands� ÒDo� not� touchme.Ó� (When�asked� by� the� agency�Vu to� send� aphotograph� of� himself� for� an� exhibition� aboutwriters,�Blanchot� demands� that� the� letter� refus-ing� the� request� appear� in� the� exhibition� in� theplace� reserved� for� the� photograph� itself.30 Andwhen�Yale�French�Studies asks�him�for�a�text�onthe�topic�ÒLiterature� and�the�Ethical�Question,Óthe�letter�he�dispatches�declining�the�invitation�isnonetheless� a�Òsending,Ó�an�ÒenvoiÓ:�a�fragmentand� a� stammer� that� not� without� justificationopens� the� volume� as� his� contribution� to� theÒquestionÓ�that�his�missive�–�ethical�insofar�as�itstammers� and� breaks� itself� off� –� answers� byexhibiting�its�own�fragmented�body�as�testimonyto� its� being� unanswerable,� ÒinépuisableÓ andÒintraitable.Ó31)

ÒNothing� can� be� done� with� the� fragment� assuch,Ó� observes� Nancy� in� his� own� ÒNoli� MeFrangereÓ�(266).�Do�not�touch�me�is�an�instance,an� exemplary� example,� of� writing,� protective� –not�of�a�(dead)�monument�–�but�of�the future�tocome from� writing.32 The� disappearance� of� theauthor,� the� withdrawal� of� his� ÒpersonaÓ� frompublic�view�–�not�in�order�Òto�exalt�his�booksÓ�butto�avoid� the�appearance� of�an�author�pretendingto� have� a� Òproper� existenceÓ� –� may� accompanybut� will� not� accomplish� the� disappearance� fromthe� writing� of� the� writer,� who� could� alwayspretend� to� retain� the� initiative� over� words.� The

writing�of�the�future�that�shall�not�be�touched�andcannot� be� mis-appropriated� by� anyone� is, para-doxically,�writing�that�already�belongs�to�no�one,is�always�already�posthumous,�anonymous.33 Andto� write� is� to� effectuate� this� movement towardanonymity,� to� accomplish,� in� the� writing,� thismost� radical� death� of� the� author.� Its�withdrawalor� disappearance� into� Òinexistence.Ó� To� write,Blanchot�says,�Òis�to�pass�from�ÔIÕ�to�ÔheÕ/ÔitÕ�butÉ�ÔheÕ/ÔitÕ�when�substituted�for�ÔIÕ�does�not�desig-nate�another�meÓ�(IC�380).�The�narrative�of�ÒitÓÒunseats� every� subject� just� as� it� disappropriatesall�transitive� action� and�all�objective� possibilityÓ(IC�384).�To�write,�then,� is�to�set�in�motion� thisunworking� of�author-ity,� this�disappropriation� ofwriter�and�subject� as�bearer�of�speech�or�will,�ina� ÒsacrificeÓ� that� is� almost� a� technical� matter,without�magic�or�ritual,�that�is�to�say,�is�an�imper-sonal� writing� operation� whereby� writer,� author,speaking�subject�–�having�relinquished�the�powerto�say�ÒIÓ�–�Òfall(s) into�a�relation�self-noniden-tificationÓ�(IC�384).

Impersonal� despite� the� signature� ÒBlanchot,Ó(de)realizing�a�body�that�no�one�would�know�howto�claim�as�property�by�saying�Òmoi,�mon�corps,ÓBlanchotÕs�fragmentary�writing�returns�us�to�theinsupportable� site�of�DerridaÕs�corpus� (Òthe� lefteye� transfixed� and� horrible� to� behold� in� themirrorÓ�[MB�32],�the�face�nakedly�exposing�itselfÒto� the� eyes� of� allÓ�–� just� like� the� blind� manÕsface�on� a� street� corner� in�Toledo,� although� thisone,�we�suspect,�only�pretends�to�be�blind).�Thepresence�of�a�ubiquitous�ÒIÓ�in�the�text,�the�over-exposed�first�person,�the�(multiple)�exhibitions�ofa�ÒmoiÓ�in�self-portraits,�memoirs,�journals,�post-cards,�dialogues,�interviews,�and�photographs�(aschild,� with� and� without� mother,� as� young� man,on� voyage,� in� Moscow,� at� home� abroad� inCalifornia�É)�solicit�the�other�–� to�the�point�oftrembling�–�demanding�who�knows�what�answerto� intimacies,� confidences,� and� confessions� (Òleplus�secret�et�plus�sacréÓ�15),�which�also�arrive�byway� of� what� is� most� secret� and� thus� the� mostunguarded� –� (day)� dreams� and� fantasies.� Toomuch� to� endure,� they� now� compel� the� other(reader�or�witness?)�to�plead:�Stop!�I�beg�you.

I� need� to� avail� myself� of� another� translationfrom�the�Greek,�ÒStop�touching�me,Ó�in�order�togive�voice�to�the�response�that�once�again�follows

1 5 7

for�jacques�derrida

the�path�of�a�powerful�impulse,�but�this�time�asksfor� separation,� begs� for� the� interruption� ofcontact.

And�yet,�is�the�reaction�of�the�other�justified?Or� is� it� only� symptomatic� of� a� forgetting,� theforgetting�of�Òdeconstruction,Ó�which,� paradoxi-cally,�would�have�been�fostered�by�the�tropologi-cal� devices� that� the� writing� itself� so� skillfullydeploys,� following� a� long� mimetic� tradition� ofself-portraits� and� confessions?� Of� this� readingerror,� Bataille,� who� himself� speaks� of� himselfwith� a� Òfreedom� without� restraint,Ó�writes�withresignation:�Òmost�will�read�what�I�write�as�if�ÔIÕvulgarly� had� written� it.Ó34 If� so,� the� forgetting,which� is�not� an� error,� is� in�need� of�deconstruc-tion.� For� what� (other)� response� could� possiblyanswer� the� solicitations,� disturbances,� provoca-tions� arriving� from� these� texts?� What� responsecould� be�commensurate� with�the�power�of�theirforce,� if�–�as�is�my�hypothesis� here�–�it�exceedsthe� ÒcorpusÓ� of� deconstructions?� If� the� distur-bances�arrive�from�the�writing�of�the�future?�Forif� so,� their� power� and� force� are� irreducible� to,perhaps�even�heterogeneous�with,�the�Òscandals,Óthe� political,� philosophical,� and� ethical� disloca-tions� and� decenterings� that� deconstructivediscourses� have� brought� to� disciplines,� intellec-tual� traditions,� discourses,� and� institutions.� Butmore�importantly,�as�coming�from�the�writing�ofthe� future,� the� disturbances,� and� our� distress,will�not�be� apprehended� by�or� folded� back� intothe�Òalready� saidÓ�of� deconstructions:� the� state-ments,�enunciations,�concepts,�analyses,�in�short,ÒdeconstructionsÓ� of� the� whole� complex� tropo-logical� field� of� autobiography,� memoir,� self-portrait,� confession.� These� will� neither capturenor reproduce� the� force� or� the� source� of� ourdistress.�And�despite� the�wealth� of� analysis� andthe�rich�complexity� of� the� literature,� the�decon-structive� locutions,� theses,� postulates� regardingÒtropological� substitutions,Ó� Òspecular� struc-ture,Ó� Òautobiography� as� defacement,Ó� the� irre-ducible� yet� inseparable� relation� of� ÒrealÓ� toÒfiction,Ó�Dichtung� to Wahrheit,�fiction�to�testi-mony,�or�the�infinitely�open�process�of�ÒdivorceÓbetween�ÒActorÓ�and�ÒselfÓ�É�will�remain�insuf-ficient�to�account�for,�and�powerless�to�replicate,the� force� that� the� cry� ÒStop� touching� me!Óreflects�back�to�us,�as�if�a�mirror.

But� so� it� should� be� –� if� deconstruction� is� tohave�a�future,�if�DerridaÕs�is�(the)�writing�(of)�thefuture.�If�his�writing�sur-vives�the�(a)logic�of�thegenerative� grammar� of� his� corpus,� which� itcontinues� to� in-complete� by� writing� Òunpre-dictable�thingsÓ�that�DerridaÕs�own�writing�couldnot�Òrecognize,�name,�foresee,�produce,�predictÓ(JD�31).

Yes,� we� have� known� for� some� time� that� wecould�never�know�Derrida�(other�than�this�workof� in-completion,� division,� multiplication):� forsome� time� now,� our� readings� have� followed� thetexts� vertiginously� turning� between� fiction� andtruth,� the� fiction� of� truth,� the� fiction� of� fiction(Òcela�mÕest�vraiment�arrivé,�Catherine,�qui�seraitobligé�de�me�croire?�Et� si� ce� témoignage� restaitune�fiction�littéraire?�Je�vous�jure�que�cÕest�vrai,pourtant,� I� swear,� vous� me� croyez,� nÕest� cepasÓ35);�we� have� followed� the�writing� as� it�vigi-lantly� observes,� and� itself� reproduces,� withoutend,�the�pathways�whereby�any�presumed�bearerof� the� discourse� is� fragmented,� divided� (Òentremoi�et�moi,�entre�plus�dÕun�moi,�entre�moi�et�mesr™lesÓ36);�we�have�watched�the�writing�fold�backover�itself�to�become�the�self-portrait�of�the�self-portrait�itself�–�until�the�point�of�exhaustion�É

And�yet�confessing�this�negative�knowledge�ofa�radical�undecidability,�or�Òdifférance,Ó�will�notdo� as� a� response.� It� is� not� that� this� negativeknowledge� is�not�enough� knowledge.� The�weak-ness,�which�is�double,�lies�elsewhere.�First,�inso-far�as�this�writing�on�(for�that�is�what�it�is)�couldname�and�recognize�only�what�is�said�and�known,it�would,�as�we�said,�deny�the�writing�its�future.Second,�to�recognize�in�or�subtract�from�the�textsany� general� grammar� or� law,� logic� or� alogic� –could�only�vulgarize�it,�in�other�words,�reduce�theÒinstanceÓ� –� the� unique� and� singular� event� ofDerrida� writing,� of� DerridaÕs� writing� –� to� acommon�case�or�condition.

Once� again,� it� is�Blanchot�who� comes� to�ouraid,�with�a�fragment�(which�Derrida�will�also�readwith� the� greatest� of� care� while� closely� watchingover�another�of�BlanchotÕs�texts,�The�Instant�ofMy�Death,�which�has�solicited�us�from�the�start).The� fragment� comes� from� the� same� impersonalWriting�of� the�Disaster that� interrupted� Nancyin�the�act�of�writing.�Here,�it�helps�to�re-establishthe�link�with�Noli�me�tangere�as�missive�arriving

1 5 8

baross

from� the� double� scene� of� testimony� and� death,where�testimony�is�inexorably�linked�to,�so�as�tobecome� indistinguishable� from� dying,� in� whoseextension� and�dimension� it�delivers� its�truth�forand�before�a�witness.

For� reasons� soon� to� be� apparent,� I� begin� byciting�the�French�original�followed�by�one�of�thetwo�translations�we�have�in�English:

ƒcrire� son� autobiographie� soit� pour� sÕavouer,soit� pour� sÕanalyser,� soit� pour� sÕexposer� auxyeux� de� tous,� ˆ� la� façon� dÕune� Ïuvre� dÕart,cÕest�peut�être�chercher�ˆ�survivre,�mais�par�unsuicide� perpétuel� –� mort� totale� en� tant� quefragmentaire.�SÕécrire,�cÕest�cesser�dÕêtre�pourse� confier� ˆ� une� h™te�–� autrui,� lecteur�–� quinÕaura�désormais�pour�charge�et�pour�vie�quevotre�inexistance.37

To�write� oneÕs�autobiography,� in� order� eitherto� confess�or� to� engage� in� self-analysis,� or� inorder� to�expose�oneself,� like�a�work�of�art,�tothe� gaze� of�all,� is�perhaps� to� seek�to�survive,but� through� a� perpetual� suicide� –� a� deathwhich� is� total� insomuch� as� fragmentary.� Towrite�(of)�oneself�is�to�cease�to�be,�in�order�toconfide� in� a� guest –� the� other,� the� reader� –entrusting�yourself�to�him�who�will�henceforthhave�as�an�obligation,� indeed�as�a�life,�nothingbut�your�inexistence.38 (My�emphasis)

These� words,� as� Blanchot� himself� admits� inanother�fragment�of�the�same�text,�take�us�to�yetanother� threshold� and� limit:�the� (in)comprehen-sible,� the�unthinkable.39 Having� almost� reachedthe�end�of�my�offering,�I�will�proceed�from�hereon� with� the� greatest� caution,� taking� only� thesmallest� of� steps.� As� one� cannot� fragment� thefragment� (which� is� Òradically� unquotableÓ� WD37),� I� shall� instead� circumscribe� some� barelyperceptible�mobilities� in�BlanchotÕs�text�effectu-ated�by�words�that�of�their�own�accord�link�up�tofurther� destabilize� the� fragment� by� making� themeaning� oscillate,� indeed� reverse� itself,�betweentwo�poles�–�host�and�guest,�survival�and�suicide,to� suicide� before� another� and� to� confide/toentrust�oneself�to�another.

host/guestTo�write�(of)�oneself�is�to�cease�to�be,�in�orderto�confide�in�a�guest –�the�other,�the�reader�–entrusting�yourself�to�him�who�will�henceforth

have�as�an�obligation,� indeed�as�a�life,�nothingbut�your�inexistence.�(My�emphasis)

True,� the� other� –� Mary� Magdalene,� witness,reader�–�arrives�by�invitation;�her�presence�at�thescene,�which�has�been�prepared� for�her� arrival,is� by� appointment,� for� she� is� a� ÒguestÓ� whosecoming� is� itself� an� answer� to� a� prior� address,appeal,�even�appellation�to�witness.�The�transla-tor� of� BlanchotÕs� text� nevertheless� errs� byrendering�the�French�h™te�as�guest,�thus�givingonly�one�half�of�the�wordÕs�perpetually�reversingdouble.�For�it�is�along�the�axis�guest/host,�as�weknow� also� from� Derrida,� that� ÒhospitalityÓendlessly� deconstructs� itself� following� an� alogicand� movement� that� is� analogous� to� Paul� deManÕs� famous� tourniquet:� as� if� caught� in� thewings�of�a�revolving�door,�the�host�becomes�theguest� (and� hostage)� of� a� guest� becoming� host.Yet,� at� the� threshold,� where� perpetual� suicideand�survival�enter�into�a�relation�of�inseparationand� irreducible� difference,� so� that� one� accom-plishes� itself,� as�unending,� by�way�of� the�otherincompleting� itself�–�at�this�threshold,�the�turn-ing� itself� is� arrested,� extended,� infinitely:� thehostÕs� confidences,� confessions,� testimonies,memoirs�are�ÒentrustedÓ�to�the�guest,�who�mustbecome�the�host�in�order�to�receive�them, in�themanner� of someone� receiving� a� guest� as� hercharge,� and�as someone�who� is�charged� for� lifeand� is� answerable� for� it� with� her� life� (for,� asDerrida� reminds� us� again,� citing� the� biblicalexample,�the�ancient�law�of�hospitality�demandsthat�Lot�shelter�the�two�strangers�under�his�roof,even�at�the�cost�of�sacrificing�his�own�daughtersÕlives).

And� so� Derrida,� under� certain� conditions(Òthe�surviving�in�suicideÓ)�will�call�autobiogra-phy ÒhostobiographyÓ�(D�44).

survival/suicide

Once� again,� survival� or� survivance shares� nocommon� space�or�boundary�with�life�eternal,� orwith�writing�that�would�become�its�own�timelessand�untouchable�monument.�The�writing�that�issurvivance arrives�from�another�time-space,�fromthe� other� side� of� an� interval,� and� is� indistin-guishable� from� the� dying� that� is� writing� (of)oneself�–�without� abolishing� the�distance� that� is

1 5 9

for�jacques�derrida

infinite,�without�bringing�the�guest/host�into�theimmediate�presence�of�a�self�unconcealed.

Obeying� a� similar� logic,� the� death� of� theauthor,� le� saut� mortel� de� lÕécrivain,� does� notfeature�in�the�exposition�Òto�the�gaze�of�all.Ó�Tocommit�suicide� by� auto-bio-graphy� is�not� to�diein�public,�in�the�book,�in�the�last�book�that�wouldannounce�THE�END�of�writing�(as�the�end�of�afilm� is� announced� in� the� cinema).�Nor� is� it� thequestion�of�writing�an�epilogue� that�would�reca-pitulate�everything�said,�or�worse,�explain�every-thing� that� has� been� said,� and,� by� putting� lifeÕschaotic� affairs� into� order,� deprive� the� whole� oflife�of�its�future�past,�convert� its�events�into�theforeseen.

Perpetual� suicide� or� the� unending� disappro-priation�of�ÒexistenceÓ�(in�and�behind�the�booksthat� one�writes,�which� inevitably�perpetuate� theillusion� of� an� existence)� is� writing� that� comesfrom� an� infinite� distance,� which� infinitelydistances� itself�–�from�an�ÒauthorÓ�whose�inexis-tence�it�delivers,�but�also�from�the�other�whom�itinterpolates�as�witness�and�custodian,�but�only�ofa� body,� which,� just� as� a� corpse,� no� one� wouldknow� how� to� reclaim� as� property,� by� sayingÒmine.Ó

suicide/se�confier

To�write�(of)�oneself�is�to�cease�to�be�in�orderto confide� in� a� guest/host� [translationaltered]40 –�the�other,�the�reader�–�entrustingyourself�to�him�É�(My�emphasis)

The�confidences made�come�at�the�cost�of�a�deaththat�is�total�insofar as�it�is�fragmentary:�completein� its� in-completion,� without� remains� or� virtualextensions�potentially�or�virtually�completing�it�–as�a�missing�hand�would�complete� an�arm.�Thisself-exhibition� is� always� already� outside� thedouble� and� specular� structure� of� narcissism,coming� as�it�does�only� after� the� logic�and� econ-omy� of� every� possible� form� of� narcissism,� inwhich� the� self-portrait� is� always� already� caught,has�been�exposed,�exhausted,�used�up,�worked�todeath.

Autobiography� as� hostobiography� traces� notthe�spiraling�movements�of�a�frenzied�narcissismthat�could�only�exhaust�itself�in�blindness,�or�endin�a�violent� plunge� to�death,�without� (need� for)

witnesses.� Instead,� the�writing�(of)�oneself� turnsto�and�interpolates�the�other,�but�only�insofar�asit�divests�the�self�of�a�proper�existence.�Insofar�asit�is�suicide.

In�the�end,�the�writing�can�give�nothing�to�theother.�The�only�gift�and�confidence�to�come�fromit� is� that� in� order� to� confide� to� the� other� oneenters�the�zone�of�dying,�passing�on�nothing,�nomaterial� existence� or� body� toget� hold� of� or� to� touch.� Noteven� the� memory� of� oneÕs� life,only� its� withdrawal,� its� disap-pearance,�now�–�because�of�writ-ing�–�all�the�more�inexorable.

notes1�“In�Memory�of�M.B.,”�Poems�of�Akhmatova 93.

2� Geoffrey� Bennington� and� Jacques� Derrida,Jacques�Derrida 27.�Cited�as�JD�in�the�text.

3�“Elle�se�trouve�seule�sans�le�savoir,�sa�solitudeest�radicale�parce�qu’elle�ne�sait�rien�…�rien�de cequ’ils�savent�et�de�ce�qu’ils�savent�…�[E]lle�est�lesujet� soumis� (l’objet� étendu),� le� support� ou� lesubjectile�de�leur�savoir�mais�non�du�sien.”�[“She[Psyche]� finds� herself� alone� without� knowingit,� her� solitude� is� radical� because� she� knowsnothing� …� nothing� of�what� they� know� and� thatthey�know�…�[S]he� is�the�subject�subjected�(theobject�spread�out),�the�support�or�the�subjectile�oftheir�knowledge,�but�not�of�her�own.”]:�Le�Toucher,Jean-Luc� Nancy 27.� We� know� that� translatingDerrida,� in�whose�writing� the� idiomatic�and� thephilosophical� are� indissolubly� linked,�presents� analmost�insurmountable�obstacle�in�every�instance.In� the� present� case,� the� danger� of� a� “technical”error�becoming�a�transgression,�an�offense�ratherthan�an�offering,�is�even�greater.�For�this�reason,when�no�“authorized”�English�translation�exists,�Igive� my� own� transposition,� but� only� with� thegreatest�reluctance� and�hesitation,�not�as�substi-tute�or�supplement�for�the�original,�but�rather�asan� inadequate� first�approximation� for�the�alwaysmobile�and�irreducible�polysemy�that�is�being�putinto�play.

4� So�as�not�to�be� suspected�of�cryptomnesia�oroutright�theft,�I�must�acknowledge�right�away�thedirect� inspiration� and� provocation,� not� only� forthis�gift�but�also�for�an�earlier�essay�on�the�(false)gifts�of�writing:�an�early�version�of�Le�Toucher,�“LeToucher:�Touch/toTouch�Him,”�which�appeared�in

1 6 0

baross

Paragraph in�1993�(16.1).�My�desire�here�to�writefor�him�echoes�and�was� implanted� long�ago�by�afragment� of�one�of�Derrida’s�own� lines:� “what� Iwanted�to�write�for�a�long�time�now for Jean-LucNancy”�(123;�my�emphasis).

5�For�a�discussion�on�the�gifts�of�writing� see�myessay�“The�(False)�Gifts�of�Writing.”

6� I� cite� here� one� example� from� The� Post� Card,concerning� the� mishandling� of� Freud’s� termAbbauen that� “certain� French� Heideggeriansrecently� have� translated� as� ‘to� deconstruct’� …[O]ne� manipulates an� after� effect� [l’après-coup]precisely�in�order�to�assimilate�…�One�puts�one’shand on� a� mark� and� re-applies� [it]� everywhere”(267;�my�emphases).

7 Fundamental�Concepts� of� Metaphysics,� cited� byJean-Luc� Nancy� in� “Touching,”� The� Sense� of� theWorld 59.

8� There� is� always� a� text.� As� Derrida� writes� ofdrawing:� “des� morceaux� de� mots� le� parasitent”[“fragments�of�words�parasite�it/interfere�with�it”](Mémoires�d’aveugle 44).�One�never�comes�to�theimage�directly,�or�encounters�its�lure�naked,�face-to-face.�Words� swarm� about� an� image,� and� thenoise�of�their�interference�screens�for�us�and�fromus� an� image.� One� day� it� is� Didi-Huberman’sphrase,� on� another,� Derrida’s.� When� Vaudoyer,the�critic,�writes� in�L’Opinion�of “a� little�patch�ofyellow�wall,”�the�effect�of�this�mere�scrap�of�writ-ing�will�be�strong�enough� to�raise�Proust,�who�isalready� gravely� ill,� from�his�bed� one� last�time,� inorder�to�visit�Vermeer’s�View�of�Delft�on�loan�fromThe�Hague�for�an�exhibition in�Paris.�The�experi-ence�of�being� “seized�by�a� terrifying�dizziness”�–Proust� survives� and� turns� into� another� piece� ofwriting,� which� now,� forever,� “parasites”� –� feedson,� intensifies� and,� as�noise,� interferes� with� ourrelation� to� the� painting.� On� which� it� producesforever�more�writing.

9 Fra�Angelico,�Dissemblance�and�Figuration.

10�“Noli�Me�Frangere,”�Birth�to�Presence 275.�Citedas�NMF�in�the�text.

11�“Touching,”�The�Sense�of�the�World 59.

12� “This�discourse�must�have� immediately� founditself�plugged� into�within�me�a�system�of�anticipa-tions,�interests,�hypotheses”�(The�Post�Card 502).

13� Jean-Luc� Godard,� JLG/JLG:� autoportrait� enDecembre (1994).

14�“But�unable�to�see�himself�properly�and�directly…�he�also�blindly�contemplates�himself,�attacks�hissight� right� up� to� the� exhaustion of� narcissism,”Derrida�will�write�in�his�Memoirs�of�the�Blind:�Self-Portraits�and�Other�Ruins 69.�Ostensibly�on�draw-ings� of� the� blind� (“double� genitive”� as� he� willsay� with� his� customary� precision),� the� writingredoubles�several�times�over�the�self-portrait,�tobecome�the�self-portrait�of�the�self-portrait�itself(the� confession,� testimony,� self-exposure,� self-incrimination)� that� at� last� exhausts� –� uses� up,works� to�death� –� the� economy� of� narcissism� inwhich� the� self-portrait� will� have� been� alwaysalready�caught.

15�Exposing�a�naked� face,�as�Derrida�himself�willwrite�of�the�self-portraits�by�Fantin-Latour:�“with-out�attribute,”�“without�glasses,”�“without�a�hat,”“without� a� blindfold”� (Memoirs� of� the� Blind:� Self-Portraits�and�Other�Ruins 69).�This�image�of�nakedexposition� instantly� recalls� in� me� another� visionand�visage,�Derrida’s�own,�as�he�stands�next�to�thepodium�on�the�stage�of�the�largest�auditorium�onthe�Santa�Barbara�campus�in�California:�blinded�bythe� floodlights� as� he� is� waiting� for� the� lengthyintroduction�–�or�is�it�a�eulogy?�–�to�end,�his�eyesare� half� closed� in� a� squint� as� he� tries� both� toprotect�them�from�the�light�and�also,�by�directlystaring�into�them,�to�seek�out�the�gaze�of�the�largeaudience,�which�paying�the�barest�attention�to�thewords�of�introduction,�stares�at�him,�and�enjoyingits� “right� of� inspection,”� freely� scrutinizes� himfrom�beyond�the�protective�veil�of�the�same�lightsthat�blind�him.

16� Several� years�ago� in� a�yet�unpublished� text�–which,�if�I�dare�believe�Derrida’s�brief�but�gener-ous� note,� “touched”� him� –� I� wrote:� “there� isalways�my�shame�at�the�sight�of�your�immodesty…�there�is�always�my�embarrassment�at�the�sightof�your�nakedness,�which,�like�the�empty�socketsof� the� blind� man’s� eye,� solicit�my� gaze.”� For� “ifthere� is� a� risk� in� offering� your� face� withoutbandage,�shade,�prosthesis�of�sight�to�hide�it�–�thenthere�is�also�the�risk�of my embarrassment�at�thesight�of� your� immodesty� as� I� come� face� to� facewith�your�self-portrait:�naked,�vulnerable,�defense-less�–�blind.”

17� Here� I� am� (not)� reading� Derrida� against� thegrain.�The�dream�to�which�he�confesses�as�havingnever� abandoned� him,� in� a� dialogue� that� ispublished�after�the�fact�under�the�confessional�title“À�voix�nue”�[“In�naked�voice”],�is�not�the�dreamof�preservation;�instead,�it�is�caught�in�the�move-

1 6 1

ment�of�mourning�that�writing�itself�is:�“S’il�y�a�bienun�rêve�qui�ne�m’a�jamais�quitté�…�c’est�d’écrirequelque� chose�qui� est� la� forme�d’un� journal.� Aufond,�mon�désir�d’écrire�est�celui�d’une�chroniqueexhaustive� …� Comment� écrire� assez� vite� pourque�tout�ce�qui�me�passe�…�soit�gardé?”�[“If�thereis�one�dream�that�has�never�left�me�…�it�is�to�writesomething�that�takes�the�form�of�a�journal.�Deepdown,� my� desire� to� write� is� for� an� exhaustivechronicle� …� How� to� write� fast� enough� so� thateverything� that� happens� to� me� [passes� me� by]would�be�guarded�[saved]?”]:�Sur�parole 18.

18 The�Post�Card�263. For�further�discussion�on�thepainfully�protracted�affair� that�will�end� their� longfriendship,�and�on�the�(im)possibility�of�the�theft�ofwriting,�see�my�“The�(False)�Gifts�of�Writing.”

19�Of�the�several�translations�and�commentaries�Iconsulted� for� chapter� XX,� verses� 1–18� of� TheGospel�According� to� John,� I�make� references� inthe�paper�to�Raymond�E.�Brown,�The�Anchor�Bible;John� by� John� Calvin;� and� René� Kiefer,� Le� mondesymbolique�de�Saint�Jean.

20 Demeure:�Fiction�and�Testimony 61.�Cited�as�D�inthe�text.

21�Different�translations�into�English�of�the�Greek“me�mou� aptou”�–�“Do�not�cling� to�me,”� “Stoptouching�me,”�or�even�“Don’t�follow�me”�–�wouldtransport� us� to�quite�different� domains� than� theLatin�translation�“Noli�me�tangere.”

22� Martin� Heidegger,� The� Basic� Problems� ofPhenomenology 236.

23� Catherine� Malabou� and� Jacques� Derrida,Jacques�Derrida:� la�contre-allée 47.�Cited�as�CA� inthe� text;� [“As� long� as� my� body� remains� in� thehands�of�the�other,�and�without�defense,�and�with-out�even� the�power� to�answer� for� itself�despiteitself� [à� son� corps� défendant],� a� thousand� deathscould�happen�to�it.”].

24� The� four� posthumous� volumes� that� gather,with� the� exception�of�his� books,�everything� saidand�written�by�Michel�Foucault�(“publiées�aussi�enFrance� qu’à� l’étranger:� préfaces,� introductions,présentations,� entretiens,� articles,� conférences”[“published� in�France�as�well�as�abroad:�prefaces,introductions,� presentations,� interviews,� articles,conferences”])� –� include this� testamentaryprescription:�“Pas�de�publication�posthume”�[“noposthumous� publication”].� It� is� inserted� into� theeditors’�“Présentation”�under� the�pretext�of� theclaim� of� having� respected� it� to� the� limit,� “à

l’exhaustivité.”�Michel�Foucault,�Dits�et�Écrits,�vol.1,� “Présentation”� signed� by� Daniel� Defert,François�Ewald�and�Jacques�Lagrange�13.

25�Maurice�Blanchot,�“Friendship,”�Friendship 290.Cited�as�F�in�the�text.

26�Maurice�Blanchot,�The�Infinite�Conversation 307.Cited�as�IC�in�the�text.

27� Prompted� by� a� secret� invitation� to� writeBlanchot’s� biography,� Dennis� Hollier� playfullyspeculates�on�the�absence�of�materials�that�couldservice�the�biography�of�someone�who�refuses�tosay� “I.”� Yet� the� (un)timeliness� of� the� proposalitself,� as�well� as� its� secrecy,� betrays� a� publishingfantasy�that�perhaps� the�most�discreet�one�of�allwould� have� written� a� “journal,”� or� would� leavebehind� stacks�of�photographs�at�once�document-ing�and�revealing�the�secret�of�his�life.�“Timelinessand�Timelessness,”�Yale�French�Studies 93� (1998):99–113.

28� Did� Levinas� betray� a� living� will� by� releasingshortly�before�his�death�a�photograph�of�Blanchotas� a� young� man?� Does� not� Derrida� mishandle aprivate� confidence� left� in� his� hands� by� citing� theone�line�from�Blanchot’s�letter�to�him,�even�if�its“content”�had�been�in�the�public�domain�since�theMadness�of� the�Day?�These�perhaps� minor� trans-gressions�of�the�will�of�Blanchot�appear�to�violate“Blanchot”�as�the�name�of�a�radical�reserve.

29�[“How�many�degrees�into�the�white?�From�theglacial�white� of�summits� to�the�hot�white�of�thepage�kept�in�reserve�for�his�name.”]

30�Antonie�de�Gaudemar,�“Blanchot�et�ses�faces.”

31� “Enigme,”� in� “Literature� and� the� EthicalQuestion,”�Yale�French�Studies 79�(1991):�5–10.

32�The�paradox�that�the�determination�not�to�letanything�fall into�posterity�is�in�the�interest�of�thewriting’s�survival� is�perhaps� best�made� visible�byBorges�and�his�unique� strategy,�devised�to�main-tain,� and� this� is� Blanchot’s�phrasing,� the� “unpre-dictability�[that�is]�introduced�to�[the�work]�by�thestrangeness�of�the�end”�(F�260),� after�the�end.�Inan� operation� that� is� incomparable� to�Blanchot’s,but�that�instantly�subverts�the�logic�of�the�posthu-mous,�Borges� takes� charge� as� editor�of�his�ownComplete�Works,�of�which�he�produces�several.Of�the�successive�Obras�Completas and�the�ŒuvresComplètes of�French�translations,�no�two�versionsare� completely�the�same,�or�complete.�They�are

for�jacques�derrida

1 6 2

baross

comprised,�rather,�of�different/differing�selectionsof� texts,� contain� different/differing� versions� ofsome�of�the�“same”�texts�–�producing,�in�effect,�byvirtue� of� a� negative� and� technical� operation,� an“occult�zone”:�works� repressed,� difficult� to� find,perhaps� only� rumored� to� exist.� The� editorialoperation�effectuates�an�active�and�mobile relationamong� the� incomplete� parts,� which� frustratesevery� last� breath,� “uniform� monument,”� and“exhaustive�publication.”�It�also�gives�new�meaningto� the� command Noli� me� tangere,� which� nowreverses� itself� to�an� invitation,� indeed� incitation:do� not� interrupt� writing� (me).� For� the� ObrasCompletas and�Œuvres�Complètes, in�their�in-comple-tion,� incite� more� and� new� Complete� Works(which� would� only�maintain� the�work� of� incom-pletion).� Each� new� compilation� asks� for,� or� isindeed�already,�a�new�writing,�a�revised�history�ofthe�works,�a�rewriting�of�their�author.�And�so�theprodigious�corpus,�and� the�Borgesian� story of� thewriting,�continues�to�be�written�under�the�imper-sonal� sign� of� “Borges,”� by� hands� other� thanBorges’s.� (For� a� further� discussion� on� Borges’seditorial�work,� see�Annick� Louis,�“Borges�visibleet�invisible.”)

33� The� postscript� to� Blanchot’s� The� InfiniteConversation reads:�“I�would�like�to�state�that�thisbook,� in� its�articulated-inarticulated� mobile� rela-tion�–�that�of�its�play�–�brings�together�texts�…�Itake� (to� be)� already� posthumous,� that� is� to� say,regard�them�as�being�nearly�anonymous.”

34 Inner�Experience 116.

35�CA�104;�[“this�has�happened�to�me,�Catherine,[but]�who�would�be�obliged�to�believe�me?�And�ifthis�testimony�were�to�remain�a�literary�fiction?�Iswear�that�it�is�true,�yet,�I�swear,�you�believe�me,don’t�you?”].

36�Jacques�Derrida,�“Lettres�sur�un�aveugle,�punc-tum�caecum”�in�Jacques�Derrida�and�Safaa�Fathy,Tourner�les�mots;�au�bord�d’un�film 75.

37� Maurice� Blanchot,� L’écriture� du� désastre 105.Cited�as�ED�in�the�text.

38 The�Writing�of�the�Disaster 64.�Cited�as�WD�inthe�text.

39�“Pourquoi�ces�mots�–�et�l’éxperience�inéprouvée�ilsse�réfèrent�–�échappent-ils�à�la�compréhension?”�(ED110);�“Why�do�these�words�and�the�experience�towhich� they� refer� [the� inexperience]� –� escapecomprehension?”�(The�Writing�of�the�Disaster 67).

40�Elizabeth�Rottenberg,�who�translates�the�samepassage� when� it� appears� in� Derrida’s� text,Demeure:�Fiction�and�Testimony�(44–45),�gives�bothhalves�of�the�inseparable�double:�guest�and�host.

bibliography

Akhmatova,�Anna.�“In�Memory�of�M.B.”�Poems�ofAkhmatova.� Trans.� Stanley� Kunitz� with� MaxHayward.�Boston:�Little,�1973.

Banki,�Peter.�“La�discretion,�la�reserve,�et�le�lieu�dela�literature.”�Ralentir�travaux 7�(Winter�1997).

Baross,� Zsuzsa.� “The� (False)� Gifts� of� Writing.”New�Literary�History 31:3�(2000):�435–58.

Bennington,�Geoffrey�and�Jacques�Derrida.�JacquesDerrida.� Trans.� G.� Bennington.� Chicago:� U� ofChicago�P,�1993.

Blanchot,� Maurice.� L’écriture� du� désastre.� Paris:Gallimard,�1980.

Blanchot,� Maurice. The� Writing� of� the� Disaster.Trans.�A.�Smock.�Lincoln:�U�of�Nebraska�P,�1986.

Blanchot,�Maurice.�“Enigme”�in�“Literature�and�theEthical�Question.”� Yale� French�Studies 79� (1991):5–10.

Blanchot,�Maurice. The�Infinite�Conversation.�Trans.S.�Hanson.�Minneapolis:�U�of�Minnesota�P,�1993.

Blanchot,� Maurice.� Friendship.� Trans.� E.Rottenberg.�Stanford:�Stanford�UP,�1997.

Blanchot,�Maurice.�The�Instant�of�My�Death.�Trans.E.�Rottenberg.�Stanford:�Stanford�UP,�2000.

Brown,�Raymond�E.�The�Anchor�Bible. New�York:Doubleday,�1970.

Calvin,�John.�John. Nottingham:�Crossway,�1994.

Defert,� Daniel,� François� Ewald� and� JacquesLagrange.� “Présentation.”�Dits�et�Écrits.�Vol.�1.�ByMichel�Foucault.�Paris:�Gallimard,�1994.

Derrida,� Jacques.� Positions.� Trans.� Allan� Bass.Chicago:�U�of�Chicago�P,�1981.

Derrida,�Jacques.�Mémoires�for�Paul�de�Man.�Trans.C.�Lindsay�et�al.�New�York:�Columbia�UP,�1986.

Derrida,�Jacques.�The�Post�Card.�Trans.�Allan�Bass.Chicago:�U�of�Chicago�P,�1987.

Derrida,�Jacques.�Mémoires�d’aveugle:�L’autoportraitet�autres�ruines.�La�Réunion�des�musées�nationaux,1990.

1 6 3

Derrida,�Jacques.�Memoirs�of�the�Blind:�Self-Portraitsand�Other�Ruins.�Trans.�P.-A.�Brault�and�M.�Brass.Chicago:�U�of�Chicago�P,�1993.

Derrida,�Jacques.�On�the�Name.�Trans.�D.�Wood�etal.�Stanford:�Stanford�UP,�1995.

Derrida,�Jacques.�Sur�parole.�Paris:�L’aube,�1999.

Derrida,�Jacques.�“Lettres�sur�un�aveugle.”�Tournerles�mots:�au�bord�d’un�film. By�Jacques�Derrida�andSafaa�Fathy.�Paris:�Galilée,�2000.

Derrida,� Jacques.� Demeure:�Fiction� and�Testimony.Trans.�E.�Rottenberg.�Stanford:�Stanford�UP,�2000.

Derrida,�Jacques.�Le�Toucher,�Jean-Luc�Nancy.�Paris:Galilée,�2000.

Didi-Huberman,� Georges. Fra� Angelico,Dissemblance� and� Figuration.� Trans.� J.M.� Todd.Chicago:�U�of�Chicago�P,�1995.

Dufourmantelle,� Anne.�Anne�Dufourmantelle�inviteJacques�Derrida� à� repondre. Paris:� Calmann-Lévy,1997.

Gaudemar,� Antonie� de.� “Blanchot� et� ses� faces.”Liberation 9�July�1998.

Heidegger,� Martin.� The� Basic� Problems� ofPhenomenology .� Trans.� A.� Hoftstader.Bloomington:�Indiana�UP,�1982.

Hollier,� Dennis.� “Timeliness� and� Timelessness.”Yale�French�Studies 93�(1998):�99–113.

Kiefer,� René. Le�monde� symbolique�de� Saint� Jean.Paris:�Latour-Mauburg,�1989.

Louis,�Annick.�“Borges�visible�et�invisible.”�Critique635�(Apr.�2000):�335–45.

Malabou,�Catherine� and� Jacques�Derrida.� JacquesDerrida:�la�contre-allée.�Paris:�La�Quinzaine,�1999.

Nancy,� Jean-Luc.� The� Birth� to� Presence.�Trans.� B.Holmes�et�al.�Stanford:�Stanford�UP,�1993.

Nancy,�Jean-Luc.�The�Sense�of�the�World.�Trans.�J.Librett.�Minneapolis:�U�of�Minnesota�P,�1997.

for�jacques�derrida

Zsuzsa�BarossCultural�Studies�ProgramTrent�UniversityPeterboroughOntario�K9J�7B8CanadaE-mail:� [email protected]