When he
started using the term ‘deconstruction’, Derrida had not in the slightest
imagined that it would have such an impact – it even became, if we are to believe
Francois Cusset, ‘the most bankable product ever to emerge on the market of
academic discourses. In Derrida’s eyes,
it was a conceptual tool, but not in the slightest ‘a master word’. By 1984, he was already acknowledging this,
in a somewhat negative way: “Were I not so frequently associated with this
adventure of deconstruction, I would risk, with a smile, the following
hypothesis: America is deconstruction. In this
hypothesis, America would be the proper name of deconstruction in progress,
its family name, its toponymy, its language and its place, is principal
residence.’
Jean-Joseph
Goux – who had known Derrida well in France, but then lost sight of him for
several years before running up against him in the United States – was struck
by the contrast between the French Derrida and the American Derrida.
Even physically, the change was very
evident. In the United States, Derrida
always seem to me to be more radiant and imposing. The way he had become a kind of star – which
never happened in France – of course played a part in this. At the start of the 1980s, many departments
had been won over by ‘French Theory’ and
Derrida’s thought. It had all started in French departments, then those of comparative
literature. But architecture, aesthetics,
and law soon became receptive. The ideas of deconstruction, which made it
possible to create bridges between disciplines, aroused immense enthusiasm. This was the period when ‘cultural studies’
really became important. Many professors demanded that their students position
themselves vis-a-vis Derrida. This
became a mandatory first stage, whatever the subject. These sudden crazes are a very American
phenomena. . . The only domain that remained really
hostile to deconstruction was philosophy, a fact that lay behind a certain
number of misunderstandings and false trails.
For access to Derrida’s work was often without the first-hand
philosophical knowledge that was necessary.
Many professors, and even more students, had no previous philosophical
training and approached Plato, Kant, or Heel through what Derrida said about
them.
This is also
the opinion of Rodolphe Gasche, one of Derrida’s first disciples, in his book The Tain of the Mirror. In his view, Derrida’s oeuvre is profoundly
and self-evidently philosophical; if the literary angle is highlighted, in
cannot fail to be distorted. But
according to others, the main contribution of deconstruction is of a very
different kind. This is the position
ardently put forward by Avital Ronell in Fighting
Theory, her book of interviews with Anne Dufourmantelle:
One can’t imagine how whited-out the
acedemic corridor was when Derrida arrived on the American scene. There was really no room for deviancy, not
even for a quaint aberration or psychoanalysis.
Besides offering up luminous works that bore his signature, Derrida
cleared spaces that looked like obstacle courses for anyone who did not fit the
professional profile at the time. He practiced, whether consciously or not, a
politics of contamination. His political
views, refined and, by our measure, distinctly leftist, knew few borders and
bled into the most pastoral sites and hallowed grounds of higher learning. Suddenly color was added to the university –
color and sassy women, something that would
not easily be forgiven […] Derrida blew into our town-and-gown groves
with proto-feminist energy, often, and a great cost to the protocols of
philosophical gravity, passing as a woman.
The alliance
with a new generation of ‘supersexy,
bold, bizarre women who showed up like surfers on the waves of ‘French Theory’
was, in Ronell’s eyes, one of the keys to the movement’s success: they found
this theory was one they ‘could live and breathe, whereas departments of
philosophy – but not only these departments – are relatively unlivable for
women and minorities. One of the first such women was Gayatri Spivak: having
translated and prefaced On Grammatology, she became the founding mother of
postcolonial studies on minorities p- black, Mexican, Asian or ‘subaltern. Her ideas – like those of Drucilla Cornell,
Cynthia Chase, and Shoshana Felman – were of great importance for major
theoreticians such as Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Judith Butler, who created
gender studies and then queer studies, attempting to explore ‘all the
intermediary zones of sexual identity, any place where it became blurred’.
Books like Parages, Shibboleth and Ulysses
Gramophone are demanding works, with a rhythm all their own. They fall neither
within philosophy nor within literary criticism. Most journalists in France said nothing about
them and readers were few and far between. In L’Autre Journal, Catherine David aptly summarized the prevailing opinion:
The rumor is pitiless: Derrida has
gone too far. You can’t read him any more.
Even the philosophers can’t follow him.
Some of them admit as much with an ambiguous smile. Others wonder what he is getting up to –this thinker
who once set the tone for French intellectual fashion by placing linguistics at
the heart of philosophy and who now persists in losing himself in the thickets
of a disconcerting hermeticism […] His books have always been difficult, but at
least in the old days you knew what he was talking about: philosophy. Since,
let’s say, The Post Card, we don’t
know any more. He claims that philosophy is also transmitted in the form of
love letters, postage stamps, telephone kiosks. He mixes everything up!
Yet for her
part, David was convinced that, while it is difficult to interpret Derrida, he
can perfectly easily be read:
For this, you need to agree to read
him the same way you dream, without any instruction manual, with jumps, drops,
lapses, open questions. Patiently . . . […]
It’s not, as it would be for an ordinary reading, about ‘understanding’. […] It’s
about something else, a meticulous path of thought, a contemplation of the
detail, the letter, the time of silence. […] In this period with its love of
straight lines and short cuts, when common sense has re-established its
dominion over the kingdom of thought, slowness and curves as magnified by Derrida
have become the modern form of philosophical courage.
While nobody much bothered about Derrida in France,
his fame in America continued to grow. After the death of Paul de Man and removal from the scene at Yale,
Derrida’s presence at the Irvine campus of the University of California every
spring throughout the 90s ensured that the Department of Critical Theory became
the most famous in the whole United States, attracting students from more or
less everywhere.
Derrida was
indeed becoming something of a star, but
he was first and foremost a full-time teacher, as attentive as he had always
been. As David Carroll recalls:
He gave an open course to all students
in social science and humanities. Many of
those following his seminar were registered in history or anthropology. Only the people who ran the philosophy department
tried to dissuade their students from going.
Eventually, some did take the plunge, but those who stayed soon changed
subject. Even at Irvine, it was
impossible to do a philosophy thesis if you’d been labeled a Derridean. . .
The seminar
was his laboratory, an opportunity for him to prepare and test out his new
ideas and over the years his discourse freed itself from all academic rhetoric.
Indeed, he would often treat the philosophical tradition in a zigzag way,
indulging in several digressions. In ‘Answering
the secret’, in 1991-2, he focused especially on Bartleby the Scrivener, by Herman Melville, but also referred to “The
figure in the carpet’ by Henry James, Raymond
Roussel by Michel Foucault, Cle
by Annie Leclerc, the Metamorphoses of Ovid, the Book of Job, and the Gospel
According to Saint Mathew – not to mention Freud, Heidegger, and Potocka. The
two following years were devoted to bearing witness to works by Kierkegaard,
Proust, Celan, Blanchot, and Lyotard, with more unexpected excurses ino Hugo,
Hemingway, Antonioni’s Blow-up,
Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah, and the trial
of Rodney King in Los Angeles.
Yves Charnet,
only just twenty when he first came to hear Derrida, had described to perfection the way he was
dazzled:
That voice gently started to weave its
spell – on each of the fervent women and each of the captivated men listening -
, a spell that would remain, for me, as it were, the signature tune of the
shaman of thought. Jacques Derrida would
never cease to turn, for the two hours that each memorable session lasted, to
turn around his thought. And yes, to make thought turn. American men and women,
Japanese men and women, German men and women, young people from all over the
globalized world composed that impressive and enthralled audience. […] I must
insist on the element of personal beauty, of individual splendor, which contributed
to the lightning-bolt effect of those words whose poetic energy pierced
us. That way of centering the pedagogic
space on the body – a body involved in the art of teaching to such an extent
that pupils had the physical impression of living through a passion of the
word.
There was always a big audience; even
his supposedly closed seminar was packed .But this didn’t prevent Derrida from
spending a great deal of time seeing students individually and discussing heir
papers, their theses, and their personal plans with them. He was supposed to be available in his office
six hours a week, but he always spent longer than that so he could give each
student as much time as possible.
Since the end
of the 1960s, the United States had been Derrida’s real stamping ground: the
place where his presence had always been most evident ( first at Yale, then at
Irvine, then Chicago, NYU and on campuses all over the country), and from where
most of his world-wide influence stemmed.
From 1995, thanks to three new works – Specters of Marx, Force of
Law, and Archive Fever – there was
an even greater upsurge of interest for his work. Even though Derrida
registered a certain irritation when there was talk of a ‘political turn’ or ‘ethical
turn’ in his work, there is no denying that new themes now occupied center
stage: justice, witness, hospitality, forgiveness, lying . .
.there was no real break, as there was in Wittgenstein or Heidegger, but
it is difficult not to see a series of
inflections and slippages. The de Man affair had probably helped him overcome
his reserve.
I am simply trying to pursue with some
constancy a thinking that has been engaged around the same aporias for a long
time. The question of ethics, law or politics hasn’t arisen unexpectedly, as
when you come off a bend. And the way it is treated is not always reassuring
for ‘morale’ – and perhaps because it asks too much of it.
The triumph of “French Theory’ and
deconstruction sometimes had its downsides. As if he were a victim of the
effects of his own thinking. Derrida
found himself accused of being too conservative and insufficiently
committed. Avital Ronell emphasized this
aspect: ‘He was male, a white, a seducer, a philosopher: all potential flaws
that might lead him to being seen as on the side of traditional power. He was
starting to become a victim of his own categories, his own war on
phallogocentrism.’ His alliance with
several radical women seems, in this respect, to have been a valuable plus.
At New York
University, throughout the last years, Ronell and Derrida gave seminars
together. She introduced the session,
going back over elements that had struck her at the previous sessions and
adding a few references. After Jacques’s
paper, she took over and asked a few questions to get the discussion started.
Everywhere else, Derrida was the sole
master of his seminar. But at NYU, he
was, so to speak, my guest, and he accepted my way of doing things. The situation was very different at Irvine,
where he carried on with the seminar he had started at the Hautes Etudes. At New York, he was presenting new material
and his approach was still very open.
One year, he’s chosen as his title the single word ‘Forgiveness’; I didn’t
much like this, and I changed it to ‘Violence and Forgiveness’. When we met
just before the seminar, I told him I’d changed the title, since ‘Forgiveness’
by itself didn’t work in English. He was really not very pleased: “Look,
Avital, how could you take a decision like that without consulting me? It’s just not on.’ But at the start of the session,
he said completely the opposite, explaining that the word ‘violence’ was
absolutely necessary. I said I had tried
to drop it, and that I was completely wrong to do so. There wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice.
And all I could do was explain to the audience why I’d wanted to drop the
word. In the final analysis, each of us
had committed a violent act on the other, but this had enabled us to move
forward and produce thought . . . In the last years, he felt that I was
overtaking him ‘on his left’ and sometimes this made him nervous. One day, he told me that he didn’t feel at
ease having my book Crack Wars in his luggage when he crossed the border. He
said he’d be arrested as a dealer – it’s true I was born in Prague! – and this
kind of publication could wreck his American career. ‘At all events,’ he told me sometimes, ‘they’ll
hold me responsible for this kind of language, saying that it all comes from
me!”
Throughout his long life Derrida
became increasingly aware that he was practicing philosophy more and more as an
artist, feeling closer to writers, painters or architects than to academics
“Let us read (Derrida’s works) lightly, with a
nimbleness that is, if possible, as subtle as his own, simply, guided by the
playfulness of the words, as the full sense of his sentence tremble sweetly and
and bears it on towards the next. The usual coarse dynamism that leads a
sentence to the next seems in Derrida to have been replaced by a very a magnetism, found not in the words, but beneath
them, almost under the page.” For Jean
Genet it was important to ‘read gently. Laugh gently as [Derrida’] words make
their unexpected entrance. Accept above
all what is offered to us in good grace: poetry. Then the meaning will be handed to us, in
reward, and very simply, as in a garden.'
Roland Barthes also paid tribute to
Derrida, in a short letter to Jean Ristat:
I belong to another generation than
Derrida and probably his readers; so Derrida’s work has had its impact on me,
in the middle of life, of work; the semiological enterprise was already fully
formed in me and partly achieved, but it risked staying imprisoned, enthralled
by the phantasm of its scientificity: Derrida was one of those who helped me to
understand what was at issue (philosophically, ideologically) in my own work:
he knocked the structure off balance, he opened up the sign; for us, he is the
one who unpicked the end of the chain.
His literary interventions (on Artaud, on Mallarme, on Bataille) have
been decisive, and by that I mean: irreversible. We are indebted to him for new
words, active words (and in this respect his writing is violent, poetic) and a
sort of incessant deterioration of our intellectual comfort (the state in which
we feel too comfortable about what we think).
Finally, there is in his work something that is kept silent, and
fascinating: his solitude comes from what he is going to say.
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