No More Learning

For Mme de Vercellis immediately succeeds Maman in the narrative, the same year, the year he turns sixteen. She succeeds Mme de Warens, whose acquaintance Rousseau had made several months earlier--and who had also recently converted to Catholicism, like the Calvinist Jean-Jacques.
It is, moreover, soon after this meeting that he travels on foot to Turin and finds shelter at the hospice of the Holy Spirit where he ab- jures. (This episode is told at the beginning of the Creed of a Priest of Savoy--a text that we ought to reread closely, in particular because it contains, at the end of its seventh chapter, an interesting comparison between the respective deaths of Socrates and Jesus, who both grant, but differently according to Rousseau, the first his blessing and the sec- ond his forgiveness to their executioners, the first conducting himself as a man, the other as a God. The conclusion of the book recommends the wager of remaining in the religion of one's birth. Yes, the wager, in the quasi-Pascalian sense of the machine, because it is the best calcula- tion, in case of error, with which to obtain the excuse or the forgive- ness of God. Here is the argument, in which I underscore the lexicon of excuse and of pardon or forgiveness:
You will feel that, in the uncertainty in which we find ourselves, it is an in- excusable presumption to profess another religion than the one in which you were born, and a falsehood not to practice sincerely the one you pro- fess. If you wander from it, you deprive yourself of a great excuse before the throne of the sovereign judge. Will he not rather pardon the error in which you were reared than one which you dared choose yourself? 7
I return now to my question concerning the substitution among all these women, who are more or less mothers and Catholics by more or less recent confession. )
If one supposes that there is nothing, as de Man notes, "nothing" positive in the text to suggest positively this substitution, "nothing" in the content of the accounts, what is the meaning of the mere juxtaposi- tion, the absolute proximity in the time of the narration, the simple linking of places, there where de Man says that "nothing in the text [what does "in" the text mean here? ] suggests a concatenation that would allow one to substitute Marion for Mme de Vercellis in a scene of rejection" (moreover, I don't see the reason to speak here of rejec- tion: there is no more a simple rejection of one than of the other)? The mere concatenation of places, the sequential juxtaposition of the two accounts is not nothing, if one wanted to psychoanalyze things. The juxtaposition of the two accounts, even if nothing but chronological succession seems to justify it, is not "nothing in the text," it is not a textual nothing even if there is nothing, nothing else, in the text. Even if there were nothing else that was posed, nothing positive, this topology of sequential juxtaposition can have by itself a metonymic force, the very force that will have suggested to de Man's mind the hypothesis of the substitution that he nevertheless excludes. In order to exclude it, it still has to present itself to the mind with some seduction. It still has to be tempting. And the temptation suffices. We are talking here only about temptation and forbidden fruit. So even if there were nothing in the text of these two accounts, the simple topographic or sequential juxtaposition is "in the text," it constitutes the text itself and can be interpreted: it is interpretable, I don't say necessarily in an Oedipal fashion, but it is interpretable. One must and one cannot not interpret it; it cannot be simply insignificant.
Two series of arguments could confirm this interpretability. One concerns this time the content of the two accounts; the other, once again, their form and their place, their situation, their localization. I will not insist on the content; however, a very large number of traits that you would not fail to recognize, stretching over many pages, de- scribe the at once amorous and filial attachment that Rousseau feels for Mme de Vercellis, whose appearance succeeds the meeting with Mme de Warens in the second book of the Confessions. Mme de Vercellis, a widow without children, as he repeats several times, suffered from a "cancer of the breast," which he also comes back to innumerable times. This illness of the maternal breast, "which gave her great pain,"
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he writes, "prevented her from writing herself. " Jean-Jacques becomes, by reason of this infirmity, her penholder; he holds her pen like a secre- tary, he writes in her place; he becomes her pen, her hand, or her arm, for "she liked writing letters. " On the scenes of letters and testaments that follow, we could offer infinite glosses, before coming back to a topography of the border, of border substitution at the border, of par- ergonal composition in which we find once again in passing both the memory of the abjuration (thus the frontier "Protestantism- Catholicism" as passage from childhood to adulthood in a sort of in- ternal history of the confessions, of the confession) and what I will en- title the last word of the other and of self, the double silence on which the double episode closes: that of the theft-lie that wrongs Marion and that of the death of the stepmother, the childless widow, the death of Mme de Vercellis. Rousseau praises Mme de Vercellis even as he speaks ill of her. He also criticizes her insensitivity, her indifference, and more precisely her lack of mercy [mise? ricorde], of "commisera- tion": as if she had no mercy, no heart, or, for a mother, no breast. She is, moreover, going to die from that, from the illness called, and that Rousseau also calls literally, "cancer of the breast" and that will have eaten away her breast. What good she does, she does mechanically, au- tomatically, out of duty and not from the heart ("She always seemed to me to have as little feeling for others as for herself; and when she did a kindness to anyone in misfortune, it was in order to do something good on principle, rather than out of true commiseration" [84]). More- over, the breast is the heart and the place of commiseration, especially for Rousseau. A few pages after these allusions to the "cancer of the breast" and to the double expiration of Mme de Vercellis, who lacks commiseration, Rousseau writes this, in which I underline a certain "not even":
Nevertheless I have never been able to bring myself to relieve my heart by revealing this in private to a friend. Not with the most intimate friend, not even with Mme de Warens, has this been possible. The most that I could do was to confess that I had a terrible deed on my con- science, but I have never said in what it consisted. The burden, there- fore, has rested till this day on my conscience without any relief; and I can affirm that the desire to some extent to rid myself of it has greatly contributed to my resolution of writing these Confessions. (88)
Twice a last word, I said. A double silence comes to seal irreversibly an end. Here, first of all, is the first last word:
She liked writing letters, which diverted her mind from her illness. But they put her against the habit, and got the doctor to make her give it up, on the plea that it was too tiring for her. On the pretense that I did not understand my duties, two great louts of chairmen were put in my place. In the end they were so successful that when she made her will I had not entered her room for a week. It is true that after that I went in as before. Indeed I was more attentive to her than anyone else, for the poor woman's suffering tore my heart, and the fortitude with which she bore it inspired me with the greatest respect and affection for her. Many were the genuine tears I shed in her room without her or anyone else noticing it.
Finally we lost her. I watched her die. She had lived like a woman of talents and intelligence; she died like a philosopher. I may say that she made the Catholic religion seem beautiful to me, by the serenity of heart with which she fulfilled its instructions, without either carelessness or affectation. She was of a serious nature. Towards the end of her illness she displayed a sort of gaiety too unbroken to be assumed, which was merely a counterpoise to her melancholy condition, the gift of her rea- son. She only kept her bed for the last two days, and continued to con- verse quietly with everyone to the last. Finally when she could no longer talk and was already in her death agony, she broke wind loudly. "Good," she said, turning over, "a woman who can fart is not dead. " Those were the last words she spoke. (85-86)
Here now the second and last last word. After this fart, this last breath, this agony, and these "last words she spoke" like a double ex- piration, a fart and a testamentary metalanguage on a next-to-the-last breath, here is the last last word, right at the end of the account of the ribbon that itself follows without transition the double expiration of Mme de Vercellis. After it was said of her "Finally . . . she could no longer talk," she still farts and adds a living, surviving gloss, the fart, to this after-the-last word. Here, then, is the absolute last word, after the respect due to Marion will have been, like the young girl herself, violated both by the theft and by the lie, that is, by the perjury, by the false testimony accusing Marion to excuse himself. I read this conclu- sion beginning with the allusion to age, which shows clearly that, even if Rousseau, at least at this point, does not say, like Augustine, "I was sixteen years old," he underscores the element of his age as an essential feature of the story, a feature that both accuses and excuses him, accus- es and charges him, condemns him all the more but clears him of guilt by the same token, automatically.
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My age also should be taken into account. I was scarcely more than a child. Indeed I still was one. In youth real crimes are even more repre- hensible than in riper years; but what is no more than weakness is much less blameworthy, and really my crime amounted to no more than weakness. So the memory tortures me less on account of the crime itself than because of its possible evil consequences. But I have derived some benefit from the terrible impression left with me by the sole offense I have committed. For it has secured me for the rest of my life against any act that might prove criminal in its results. I think also that my loathing of untruth derives to a large extent from my having told that one wicked lie. If this is a crime that can be expiated, as I venture to believe, it must have been atoned for by all the misfortunes that have crowded the end of my life, by forty years of honest and upright behavior under difficult circumstances. Poor Marion finds so many avengers in this world that, however great my offense against her may have been, I have little fear of carrying the sin on my conscience at death. That is all I have to say on the subject. May I never have to speak of it again.
He will speak of it again, of course, as if he had gotten a second wind in his turn in the Re^veries. And there again, he will call Marion "poor Marion" (74).
On the subject still of this age of sixteen years, what must one say? Although, of course, Rousseau does not indicate his age at the moment of the story of the ribbon, he proliferates to a really obsessive degree remarks about his age in the first two books of the Confessions. Apropos, since we are talking about substitutions (Marion for Mme de Vercellis, Mme de Vercellis who succeeds Mme de Warens--and the logic of the a`-propos is also a logic of substitution), some months earli- er in the same year, 1728, in April, a few months before the death of Mme de Vercellis, therefore before the theft and the lie of the ribbon, Rousseau meets Mme de Warens. This is the beginning, as you know, of his singular passion for the one he called Maman. Well, almost in the very sentence in which he notes the first meeting with Mme de Warens, like Saint Augustine he makes note of his age, sixteen years:
"Finally I arrived and saw Mme de Warens. This stage in my life has been decisive in the formation of my character, and I cannot make up my mind to pass lightly over it. I was half way through my sixteenth year and, without being what is called a handsome youth, I was well- made for my modest size, had a pretty foot, a fine leg . . . (54-55)
The same year, the year he was sixteen, decides his life twice. And in the same second book of the Confessions, this decision is distributed over a single sequence of metonymic transitions; one sees the succes- sion there, all along the same chain of quasi substitutions, before "poor Marion," the Catholic Mme de Warens, and the no less Catholic Mme de Vercellis, Marion and the theft-lie of the ribbon. I will not exploit this Marial chain of three women to whom a desire without desire links him as to the breast of a virgin mother. I will not exploit the name of poor Marion so as to recognize the diminutive figure in a scene of passion and martyrdom. But who could deny that Jean- Jacques puts himself on a cross, even as he seems to de-Christianize the Augustinian confession? "Sooner or later," "dans les sie`cles des sie`cles," as one says in Christian rhetoric, people will know he has suf- fered and expiated as an innocent martyr for all men, and at the hands of the wicked men who do not know what they do. And God the fa- ther is not to be accused of it. 8
II
Over three pages, toward the end, the second book of the Confessions multiplies the ends, its own ends. It divides them and doubles them. Two ends, and two times a last word: first, the double expiration of Mme de Vercellis ("Those were the last words she spoke"), then the very last word of the chapter, the end of the story of the ribbon ("May I never have to speak of it again").
The first "last words," attributed to the dying woman, belong to a sentence in the constative form, in the past: this is what she said. The last last word, however, forms a performative sentence, at once a wish, a promise, a commitment, or a prayer in the first person: this is what I myself say, now, for the future. Although its grammar is such that, at least in French, the first person is not a subject, the "I" reappears in the English translation ("Qu'il me soit permis de n'en reparler jamais"; "May I never have to speak of it again").
These two occurrences of a last word sink into the abyssal depths of a palimpsest. "Within such limits," we will not have time to reinscribe them in the endless archive of last words that are not words of the end: from Socrates' last word in an apologetic scene in the Hippias Minor to Blanchot's Le dernier mot, passing by way of Austin's "A Plea for Excuses"--this address that speaks to us also of machines and of a "complicated internal machinery," even as it explains in passing that, although ordinary language is not the last word, it is in any case the
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first ("ordinary language is not the last word: in principle it can be sup- plemented and improved upon and superseded. Only remember, it is the first word"; the question of "ordinary language" is perhaps, apro- pos, the real question of "A Plea for Excuses"). 9 At a certain moment, Blanchot's Le dernier mot (1935) takes the figure of the French expres- sion "il y a. " I would have been tempted to relate this moment to the long meditation by Levinas on the "il y a. " For this problematic of the "il y a" (in ordinary, which is to say untranslatable, French) has a per- tinence for our conference. But I must leave this for another time.
One could also reread the whole de Manian interpretation of the purloined ribbon as the displacement of a "last word. " The last word of the Confessions on this subject, the ultimate decision which he would like never to have to go back on ("May I never have to speak of it again," "Qu'il me soit permis de n'en reparler jamais"), was, accord- ing to de Man, only the next-to-last. Rousseau will have to reiterate this confession many years later, in the Re^veries, which delivers the last last word. One of the many interesting and original things about the de Manian analysis is that it takes into account this difference between the very last word and the next-to-last, and it mobilizes what seems necessary in order to explain the history and the mechanism that trans- forms the last into the next-to-last.
If I insist on this paradoxical instance of the "last word," it is be- cause forgiveness or pardon, the excuse, and the remission of sin, ab- solute absolution are always proposed in the figure, so to speak, of the "last word. " A pardon that is not granted with the assurance, the promise, or in any case the meaning of a last word, or an end of his- tory (even if it is according to the virtualizing logic of the "sooner or later"), would that still be a pardon? Hence the disturbing proximity the pardon maintains with the last judgment--which nevertheless it is not. A pardon does not judge; it transcends all judgment, whether penal or not. Foreign to the courtroom, it nevertheless remains as close as possible to the verdict, to the "veridictum," by the irresistible and ir- reversible force it has as, precisely, "last word. " I forgive you has the structure of the last word, hence its apocalyptic and millenarian aura; hence the sign it makes in the direction of the end of time and the end of history. We will later get around to this concept of history that de Man wants to link not to time ("History is therefore not a temporal notion," as he will say in "Kant and Schiller")10 but to "power," to the "event," and to the "occurrence. " I have tried to show elsewhere that what I call "le mal d'archive" has to do with the fact that the archive,
which is always finite and therefore selective, interpretive, filtering, and filtered, censuring, and repressive, always figures a place and an in- stance of power. 11 Destined to the virtuality of the "sooner or later," the archive produces the event no less than it records or consigns it.
After having analyzed two long series of possible readings, de Man explains, then, these two times of the end: after a certain failure of the confession in the Confessions (begun in 1764-65, the second part com- pleted at the latest in 1767 and the whole in 1770), after this first last word, Rousseau was to write the Fourth Promenade (in 1777, there- fore at least ten years later). The last word of the Confessions would thus have marked a failure. After the avowal, the vow ("May I never have to speak of it again") does not succeed in sealing an authentic last word signing the end of the story or of history. According to de Man, this failure, this becoming next-to-last of the last is what motivated, compulsively, the writing of the Fourth Promenade and the return, let us not say the repentance, the rewriting of the confession in the form of excuse.
But the text offers further possibilities. The analysis of shame as excuse makes evident the strong link between the performance of excuses and the act of understanding. It has led to the problematics of hiding and revealing, which are clearly problematics of cognition. Excuse occurs within an epistemological twilight zone between knowing and not- knowing; this is also why it has to be centered on the crime of lying and why Rousseau can excuse himself for everything provided he can be ex- cused for lying. When this turns out not to have been the case, when his claim to have lived for the sake of truth (vitam impendere vero) is being contested from the outside, the closure of excuse ("qu'il me soit permis de n'en reparler jamais") becomes a delusion and the Fourth Re^verie has to be written. (286)
How is one to understand this incessant passage that transports and deports beyond the last word of excuse, from the Confessions to the Re^veries, for example? De Man himself here calls upon a logic of sup- plementarity to explain the relation between excuse and guilt. Far from effacing guilt, far from leading to the "without-fault" or the "without- defect," excuses add to it, they engender and augment the fault. The "plus de faute," "no more fault" (innocence), becomes right away the "plus de faute," all the more fault (endless guilt). 12 The more one ex- cuses oneself, the more one admits that one is guilty and the more one feels guilt. Guilty of excusing oneself. By excusing oneself. The more
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one excuses oneself, the less one clears oneself. Guilt is thus an in- effaceable inscription, inexorable because inexonerable (this will be de Man's lexicon). The written excuse produces guilt. The inscription of the work, l'oeuvre, the event of a written text generates and capitalizes a sort of interest (I won't be so bold as to say surplus value) of guilt. It overproduces this shame, it archives it instead of effacing it. I under- score effacing or exonerating, and inexonerable guilt, for two reasons of unequal importance. Here first is the passage where all of these threads are knotted together in the most visible and tightly wound fashion:
Excuses generate the very guilt they exonerate, though always in excess or by default. At the end of the Re^verie there is a lot more guilt around than we had at the start: Rousseau's indulgence in what he calls, in an- other bodily metaphor, "le plaisir d'e? crire" [the phrase occurs at the end of the Fourth Promenade], leaves him guiltier than ever. . . . Additional guilt means additional excuse. . . . No excuse can ever hope to catch up with such a proliferation of guilt. On the other hand, any guilt, includ- ing the guilty pleasure of writing the Fourth Re^verie, can always be dis- missed as the gratuitous product of a textual grammar or a radical fic- tion: there can never be enough guilt around to match the text-machine's infinite power to excuse. (Ibid. )
The "text-machine" has just arrived on stage. We will let it wait for a moment.
I announced two unequal reasons for underscoring the verb exoner- ate (which is translated in French by effacer, to efface or erase), but also the figure of an ineffaceable guilt that the excuse, instead of effac- ing, aggravated, tattooed in a more and more indelible fashion onto the body of the archive. The first reason is objective; the other is in some way, for de Man and for me, if I may say, autobiographical. The objective reason first: de Man will have wanted to show that from the Confessions to the Re^veries, the guilt (with regard to one and the same event, of course, the theft of the ribbon) has been displaced from the written thing to the writing of the thing, from the referent of the narrative writing (the theft and the lie) to the act of writing the ac- count, from the written confession to the inscription of the confession. The second time it is no longer the theft or the lie, as the thing itself, the fault itself, the perjury itself, that becomes guilty; it is the writing or the account of the thing, the pleasure taken in inscribing this memory, in archiving it, setting it down in ink on paper. The sin of this pleasure
cannot be effaced because it is reprinted and rewritten while it is being confessed. It is aggravated and capitalized, it overproduces itself, it be- comes pregnant with itself by confessing itself. De Man writes: "The question takes us to the Fourth Re^verie and its implicit shift from re- ported guilt to the guilt of reporting, since here the lie is no longer con- nected with some former misdeed but specifically with the act of writing the Confessions and, by extension, with all writing" (290). The excuse does not merely accuse; it carries out the verdict: "Excuses not only ac- cuse but they carry out the verdict implicit in their accusation" (293).
One must hear the weight of this sentence as carried by the "carry out," this execution of the verdict, this performance of the judgment and its application, its "enforcement. " There is not only accusation and judgment in the confession or in the excuse itself; there is already the executioner, the carrying out of the sentence--but here of the sen- tence endured in the very pleasure of writing, in the ambiguous enjoy- ment, the terrible and severe jubilation of the inscription--of the trace left now for the "sooner or later," but enjoying now already, virtually, the retrospection of the "sooner or later. " One steps up to the cashier right away to collect interest on a capital that will assume value only "sooner or later," perhaps after my death, in any case, in my absence.
Structurally, ineffaceable guilt no longer has to do with this or that misdeed, but with the confession itself, with confessional writing. The first and last fault would be the public mise en oeuvre of the self- justification, of the self-disculpation, and of the shameful pleasure that the body finds there--still or already. Guilt is no longer effaced because it has to do with the body of the confession, with its literal inscription, with that which is meant to confess the fault in writing--contradicting or disavowing thereby the avowal at the heart of the avowal. 13
The second (minor and autobiographical) reason for which I under- score the lexicon of the inexonerable as ineffaceable is the archive of a dedication, of an "inscription," if I dare to cite it, of Allegories of Reading, dated November 1979: "Pour Jacques, en ineffac? able amitie? , Paul" ("For Jacques, in ineffaceable friendship, Paul"). This "inscrip- tion" in ink was followed, in pencil, by two last words: "lettre suit. " Yes, "letter follows. " You know at least something of the rest, the posthumous continuation. De Man dies four years later, in 1983, leav- ing us with the now-notorious legacies for a virtually indeterminable "sooner or later. " Letter follows: this was also the continuation of a history in which certain people believed they could reproach de Man, not so much for having done this or that, but especially, or even solely,
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for having dissimulated, for not having admitted what he ought to have admitted, for not having publicly confessed what he had one day written, precisely, during the war. For his fault will have also consisted in writing. This is enough to make one dream aloud--about the "soon- er or later" of archives, about machines in general, and about confes- sion machines. We know quite well that there are machines for making people confess. And there are those who like these things. The police, the Inquisition, and torturers throughout history are very familiar with these machines for extracting confessions. They also know the jubila- tory pleasure to be had in the handling of these machines, in the forced confession, in the forcing of the confession more than in knowing what is true, more than in knowing to what the confession, or so one sup- poses, refers. In this familiar and ageless tradition, those that manipu- late these confessing machines care less about the fault committed than about the pleasure they take in requiring or extracting the confession. What they realize only rarely, however, and what de Man in any case knew (it is one of the themes of his text), is that confession, for the addresser as well as the addressee, is always in itself, in the act of its inscription, guilty--more and less, more or less guilty than the fault being confessed. The confession, in a word, on both sides, is never in- nocent. This is a first machine, the implacable and repetitive law of an undeniable program; this is the economy of a calculation inscribed in advance and that one can only disavow.
A moment ago, we met up with the expression "text-machine. " The whole of this demonstration is played out around the text-machine, around the work, the oeuvre of a writing-machine. The concept of a textual machine is both produced by de Man and, as it were, found, discovered, invented by him in Rousseau's text. (One also speaks of the invention of the body of Christ to designate the experience that con- sists in discovering, in an inaugural fashion, to be sure, but all the same a body that was already there, in some place or other, and that had to be found, discovered, invented. Even though it unveils the body of what was already there, this invention is an event. ) De Man invents the text-machine by discovering and citing, so as to justify his expres- sion, a certain passage of the Fourth Re^verie that speaks in fact of a "machine-like effect," an "effet machinal. " But there are also, in Rousseau, many other examples of machines--both prosthetic and mutilating machines. We will keep them waiting as well.
All this must be placed in a network of relations with the whole work of de Man, with his style, and with the axioms of what he calls,
after "Blindness and Insight," in the essay "Excuses" and elsewhere, while insisting on it more and more, a "deconstruction. " The latter always implies the reference to a certain mechanicity or rather machi- nality, to the automaticity of the body or of the automaton corpus.
The allusion, in this same essay, to Kleist's marionettes refers us back to other references to Kleist (for example, in "Phenomenality and Materi- ality in Kant," in Aesthetic Ideology). "Excuses (Confessions)" is also the theater of Rousseau's marionettes:
By saying that the excuse is not only a fiction but also a machine one adds to the connotation of referential detachment, of gratuitous im- provisation, that of the implacable repetition of a preordained pattern. Like Kleist's marionettes, the machine is both "anti-grav," the anamor- phosis of a form detached from meaning [somewhat like the neutral, anonymous, and insignificant "il y a" in Blanchot and Levinas] and ca- pable of taking on any structure whatever, yet entirely ruthless in its inability to modify its own structural design for nonstructural reasons. The machine is like the grammar of the text when it is isolated from its rhetoric, the merely formal element without which no text can be gener- ated. There can be no use of language which is not, within a certain per- spective thus radically formal, i. e. mechanical, no matter how deeply this aspect may be concealed by aesthetic, formalistic delusions. (294; emphasis added)
Why this resemblance ("is like")? And why "ruthless"? Why would a text-machine be ruthless? Not mean but ruthless in its effects, in the suffering it inflicts? What relation is there between the ruthlessness of this "text-machine" and what de Man calls, at the end of the trajectory, the "textual event"? This is another way of repeating my initial ques- tion: how is one to think together the machine and the event, a machine- like repetition and what happens? What happens to what? To whom?
De Man speaks only of excuse, never, or almost never, of "pardon" or "forgiveness. " He seems to exclude the specific problem of forgive- ness from his field of analysis (and first of all because both Rousseau and Austin, who are here the guiding references, also speak massively of excuse rather than forgiveness). Unless he considers, perhaps like Rousseau and like Austin, that whatever one says about the excuse is valid as well for forgiveness. That remains to be seen. I have two hy- potheses in this regard.
First hypothesis: de Man sees no essential difference between for- giveness and excuse. This argument can be made but it leaves aside
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enormous historical and semantic stakes. The very possibility of this distinction is not problematized. I therefore set it aside.
The other hypothesis would concern as much Austin as de Man: the only pragmatic or performative modality that interests them is what happens on the side of the one who has committed the misdeed, never on the other side, the side of the victim. What they want to analyze is the act that consists in saying "I apologize" rather than "I ask forgive- ness," "I beg your pardon," and, above all, "I forgive" or "I pardon. " Rather than the possibility of forgiving or even of excusing, both of them are interested only in what one does when one says, in the perfor- mative mode, "excuse me" and more precisely "I apologize. " They be- lieve they can consider only the modality of the excuse and that the rest is beyond the limit of the field of their analysis.
So, unless I am mistaken, de Man almost never speaks of forgive- ness, except in passing, as if it were no big deal, in two passages. One concerns what is, he says, "easy to forgive" since "the motivation for the theft becomes understandable. " But here as well, de Man keeps to the side of the one who excuses himself and thinks that it's "easy to forgive":
The allegory of this metaphor, revealed in the "confession" of Rousseau's desire for Marion, functions as an excuse if we are willing to take the desire at face value. If it is granted that Marion is desirable, or Rousseau ardent to such an extent, then the motivation for the theft becomes understandable and easy to forgive. He did it all out of love for her, and who would be a dour enough literalist to let a little property stand in the way of young love? (284)
The other occurrence of the word forgiveness is found in a passage that carries the only reference to Heidegger, whose designation of truth as revelation-dissimulation remains determinant in this whole strategy. De Man inscribes in fact his deconstructive gesture and his interpreta- tion of dissemination--these two insistent words, deconstruction and dissemination, are everywhere and foregrounded in this essay--in a highly ambiguous double proximity: proximity to a certain Lacanianism, readable in what is said both about repression as "one speech act among others," and about desire and language, and even in the re- course to the truth according to Heidegger. But there is the proximity as well, despite this Lacanianism, to a certain Deleuzianism from the pe- riod of the Anti-Oedipus, in what links desire to the machine, I would almost say to a desiring machine. How is one to sort out all these
threads (disseminal deconstruction, Lacanianism, and Deleuzianism) in de Man's original signature? That is what I would like to be able to do, without being sure in the least that I will manage it today.
Here is the allusion to the guilt that is "forgiven":
Promise is proleptic, but excuse is belated and always occurs after the crime; since the crime is exposure, the excuse consists in recapitulating the exposure in the guise of concealment. The excuse is a ruse which permits exposure in the name of hiding, not unlike Being, in the later Heidegger, reveals itself by hiding. Or, put differently, shame used as excuse permits repression to function as revelation, and thus to make pleasure and guilt interchangeable. Guilt is forgiven because it allows for the pleasure of revealing its repression. It follows that repression is in fact an excuse, one speech act among others. (286)
Unless I missed something, these are the only borrowings from the lexicon of forgiveness, in what is a strong genealogy of excuse and for- giveness (here put in the same boat) as economic ruse, as stratagem and calculation, either conscious or unconscious, in view of the greatest pleasure at the service of the greatest desire. We will later get around to the complication of this desire, of its writing machine as a mutilating machine.
If there is also a proper eventness and of a performative type in the moment of the avowal but also in the moment of the excuse, can one distinguish the avowal from the excuse, as de Man attempts to do? Can one distinguish between, on the one hand, the confession as avow- al (namely, a truth revealed-dissimulated according to the revisited Heideggerian scheme) and, on the other, the confession as excuse? For, at the beginning of his text, he proposes clearly isolating from each other the two structures and the two moments, with regard to referen- tiality, that is, their reference to an event--extraverbal or verbal. The distinction that is thereby proposed is alone capable of accounting for, in his view, the divergence, within the repetition, between the two texts, the Confessions and the Fourth Re^verie, which, with a ten-year interval, refer to the same event, the theft of the ribbon and the lie that followed it. But they refer to it differently. The avowal "stated in the mode of revealed truth" has recourse to "evidence" that is, according to de Man, "referential (the ribbon)," whereas the "evidence" for the avowal "stated in the mode of excuse" could only be "verbal. " This is the beginning of a difficult analysis, which often leaves me perplexed. I am not sure, for example, that, if there is reference to an avowal that
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admits a misdeed, this reference consists here, as de Man asserts very quickly, in "the ribbon": "the evidence . . . is referential (the ribbon)," he says (280). The reference of the avowal, the fault, is the theft of the ribbon and not the ribbon, and above all, above all, more gravely, the lie that followed, and the verbal act that accused "poor Marion. " Even if de Man is right to recall that "To steal is to act and includes no nec- essary verbal elements" (281), the reference of the avowal is not only to the theft but to the lie that followed.
De Man thus proposes here a distinction that is at once subtle, nec- essary, and problematic, by which I mean fragile, in a process that, at any rate, is of the order of event, doubly or triply so: first, by reference to an irreversible event that has already happened; second, as produc- tive of event and archivation, inscription, consignment of the event; third, in a mode that is each time performative and that we must clari- fy. The distinction proposed by de Man is useful but also problematic. For if there is indeed an allegation of truth to be revealed, to be made known, thus a gesture of the theoretical type, a cognitive or, as de Man says, epistemological dimension in the confession, the confession is not a confession or avowal except to the extent that it in no case allows it- self to be determined by this dimension, reduced to it, or even analyzed into two dissociable elements (the one de Man calls the cognitive and the other, the apologetic). To make known does not come down to knowing and, above all, to make known a fault does not come down to making known anything whatsoever; it is already to accuse oneself and to engage in a performative process of excuse and forgiveness. A declaration that would bring forward some knowledge, a piece of in- formation, a thing to be known, would in no case be a confession, even if the thing to be known, even if the cognitive referent were otherwise defined as a fault (e. g. , I can inform someone that I have killed, stolen, or lied without that being at all an avowal or a confession). For there to be a confessional declaration or avowal, it is necessary, indisso- ciably, that I recognize that I am guilty in a mode of recognition that is not of the order of cognition, and it is therefore necessary that, at least implicitly, I begin to accuse myself--and thus to excuse myself or to present my apologies, or even to ask for forgiveness. There is doubtless an irreducible element of "truth" in this process but this truth, precisely, is not a truth to be known or, as de Man puts it so frequently, revealed. Rather, as Augustine says, it is a truth to be "made," to be "verified," if you will, and this order of truth (which is to be totally rethought) is not of a cognitive order. It is not a revelation. In any case, this revelation, if
one insists on that term, does not consist only in lifting a veil so as to present something to be seen in a neutral, cognitive, or theoretical fashion. A more probing and patient discussion (for I admit that I don't see things clearly enough here) would therefore have to focus on what de Man calls "verification," which allows him, if I have under- stood correctly, to dissociate the confession of the Confessions from the excuses of the Re^veries:
The difference between the verbal excuse and the referential crime is not a simple opposition between an action and a mere utterance about an action. To steal is to act and includes no necessary verbal element. To confess is discursive, but the discourse is governed by a principle of ref- erential verification that includes an extraverbal moment: even if we confess that we said something (as opposed to did) [and this is also what happens with Rousseau, as I recalled a moment ago: he confessed what he said as well as what he did], the verification of this verbal event, the decision about the truth or falsehood of its occurrence, is not verbal but factual, the knowledge that the utterance actually took place. No such possibility of verification exists for the excuse, which is verbal in its utterance, in its effects and in its authority: its purpose is not to state but to convince, itself an "inner" process [this is an allusion to Rousseau's "inner feeling"] to which only words can bear witness. As is well known at least since Austin, excuses are a complex instance of what he termed performative utterances, a variety of speech acts. (281-82)
This series of affirmations does not seem to me always clear and convincing. The "inner process" can also be, it is even always the ob- ject of a reference, even in testimony; and testimony is never simply verbal. Inversely, the determination of the "factual" and of the factual occurrence of something that has actually taken place always passes by way of an act of testimony, whether verbal or not.
I am all the more troubled by these passages inasmuch as de Man seems to insist firmly on a distinction that he will later have to suspend, at least as regards the example he considers, Rousseau, but in my opin- ion throughout. The distinction is in fact suspended, thus interrupted, by the "as well" ("performatively as well as cognitively") that de- scribes, de Man says, "the interest of Rousseau's text"--I would say the interest of Rousseau period, and even, by radicalizing the thing, all "interest" in general: "The interest of Rousseau's text is that it explic- itly functions performatively as well as cognitively, and thus gives in- dications about the structure of performative rhetoric; this is already
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established in this text when the confession fails to close off a discourse which feels compelled to modulate from the confessional into the apologetic mode" (282). Yes, but I wonder if the confessional mode is not already, always, an apologetic mode. In truth, I believe there are not here two dissociable modes and two different times, which create the possibility of modulating from the one to the other. I don't believe even that what de Man names "the interest of Rousseau's text," there- fore its originality, consists in having to "modulate" from the confes- sional mode to the apologetic mode. Every confessional text is already apologetic, every avowal begins by offering apologies or by excusing itself.
Let's leave this difficulty in place. It is going to haunt everything that we will say from here on. For what de Man calls "the distinction between the confession stated in the mode of revealed truth and the confession stated in the mode of excuse" (280) organizes, it seems to me, his whole demonstration, whereas I find this distinction impos- sible, in truth undecidable. This undecidability, moreover, is what would make for all the interest, the obscurity, the nondecomposable specificity of what is called a confession, an avowal, an excuse, or an asked-for forgiveness. But if one went still further in this direction by leaving behind the context and the element of the de Manian interpre- tation, it would be because we are touching here on the equivocation of an originary or pre-originary synthesis without which there would be neither trace nor inscription, neither experience of the body nor ma- teriality. It would be a question of the equivocation between, on the one hand, the truth to be known, revealed, or asserted, the truth that, according to de Man, concerns the order of the pure and simple con- fessional, and, on the other, the truth of the pure performative of the excuse, to which de Man gives the name of the apologetic, two orders that are analogous, in sum, to the constative and the performative. By reason of this equivocation itself, which invades language and action at their source, we are always already in the process of excusing our- selves, or even asking forgiveness, precisely in this ambiguous and per- juring mode.
Following a path whose necessity neither Austin nor de Man failed to perceive, we may say that every constative is rooted in the presuppo- sition of an at least implicit performative. Every theoretical, cognitive utterance, every truth to be revealed, and so forth, assumes a testimo- nial form, an "I myself think," "I myself say," "I myself believe," or "I myself have the inner feeling that," and so forth, a relation to self to
which you never have immediate access and for which you must be- lieve me by taking my word for it (which is why I can always lie and bear false witness, right there where I say to you "I am speaking to you, me, to you," "I take you as my witness," "I promise you," or "I confess to you," "I tell you the truth"). This radical and general form of testimoniality means that wherever someone speaks, the false wit- ness is always possible, as well as the equivocation between the two orders. In my address to another, I must always ask for faith or confi- dence, beg to be believed at my word, there where the equivocation is ineffaceable and perjury always possible, precisely unverifiable. This necessity is nothing other than the solitude, the singularity, the inacces- sibility of the "as for me," the impossibility of having an originary and internal intuition of the proper experience of the other ego, of the alter ego. This same necessity is necessarily felt on both sides of the address or the destination (on the side of the addresser and of the addressee) as the place of a violence and an always possible abuse for which the apologetic confession (to use these two de Manian notions that are here indissociable, always indissociable) is already at work, a` l'oeuvre. And not only in Rousseau. But this is also why Rousseau is interesting, as the one who endured in an exemplary fashion this common fatality, a common fatality that is not only a misfortune, a trap, or a curse of the gods; for it is also the only possibility of speaking to the other, of blessing, saying, or making the truth, and so forth. Since I can always lie and since the other can always be the victim of this lie, since he or she never has the same access that I do to what I myself think or mean to say, I always begin, at least implicitly, by confessing a possible fault, abuse, or violence. I always begin by asking forgiveness when I address myself to the other and precisely in this equivocal mode, even if it is in order to say to him or her things that are as constative as, for example: "you know, it's raining. "
Which is why, in the last phase of his interpretation, the one that is most important to him and that concerns the leap from the Confessions to the Fourth Re^verie, when de Man evokes at that point a "twilight zone between knowing and not-knowing," I feel so much in agreement with him that I believe such a twilight does not obscure only an initial clarity or cover only the passage from the Confessions to the Re^veries. This twilight seems to me consubstantial, already at the origin, with confession even in that element that de Man would like to identify as purely cognitive, epistemological, as a moment of revealed truth. De Man argues, in the following lines, for the necessity of the passage
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from the Confessions to the Fourth Re^verie. But this seems to me al- ready valid for the Confessions. If I am right, that would make it diffi- cult to maintain the allegation of a change of register between the two, at least in this regard.
But the text offers further possibilities. The analysis of shame as excuse makes evident the strong link between the performance of excuses and the act of understanding. It has led to the problematics of hiding and revealing, which are clearly problematics of cognition. Excuse occurs within an epistemological twilight zone between knowing and not- knowing; this is also why it has to be centered on the crime of lying and why Rousseau can excuse himself for everything provided he can be ex- cused for lying. When this turns out not to have been the case, when his claim to have lived for the sake of truth (vitam impendere vero) is being contested from the outside, the closure of excuse ("qu'il me soit permis de n'en reparler jamais") becomes a delusion and the Fourth Re^verie has to be written. (286)
If "the closure of excuse," at the end of the avowal in the Confes- sions, later "becomes a delusion," it is indeed because it already is there, in the Confessions. And it will remain a delusion after the Fourth Re^verie. But let us leave all that.
III
Let us return to the value of event, of affection by the event that affects and changes things, and especially the past event, inscribed or archived. Irreducible eventness, to be sure. The event in question, which, then, must be retained, inscribed, traced, and so forth, can be the thing itself that is thus archived, but it can also be the event of the inscription. Even as it consigns, inscription produces a new event, thereby affecting the presumed primary event it is supposed to retain, engram, consign, archive. There is the event one archives, the archived event (and there is no archive without a body--I prefer to say "body" rather than "matter" for reasons that I will try to justify later) and there is the archiving event, the archivation. The latter is not the same thing, struc- turally, as the archived event even if, in certain cases, it is indissociable from it or even contemporary with it.
In his reading of Rousseau, de Man is concerned with what he him- self calls a "textual event. " An admirable reading, in fact a paradig- matic interpretation of a text that it poses as paradigmatic, namely, Rousseau's confession and excuse, whether one considers them to be
successive, as de Man wants to do, or as simultaneous and indissociable in both their moment and their structure. A double paradigm, there- fore, paradigm on paradigm. For if de Man's reading is exemplary, and from now on canonical, because of its inaugural character as the first rigorous elaboration, with regard to this famous passage, of certain theoretical protocols of reading (in particular, although not only, of a theory of the performative whose Austinian complications I had fol- lowed and aggravated elsewhere), such a reading itself declares that it bears on a "paradigmatic event" (these are de Man's terms) in the work of Rousseau:
We are invited to believe that the episode [of the stolen ribbon] was never revealed to anyone prior to the privileged reader of the Confessions [this privileged reader, this original addressee of the confession and of the scene of excuse would thus be neither Marion nor any other living person, neither a priest nor God but an anonymous reader and still to come] "and . . . that the desire to free myself, so to speak, from this weight has greatly contributed to my resolve to write my confessions. " When Rousseau returns to the Confessions in the later Fourth Re^verie, he again singles out this same episode as a paradigmatic event, the core of his autobiographical narrative. (278-79)
Right away, in the second paragraph of his introduction, de Man uses the expression "textual event," an expression that will reappear on the last page of the same essay. He continues: "The selection [of the theft of the ribbon and the lie that followed as paradigmatic episode] is, in itself, as arbitrary as it is suspicious, but it provides us with a textual event of undeniable exegetic interest: the juxtaposition of two confes- sional texts linked together by an explicit repetition, the confession, as it were, of a confession" (279; emphasis added).
That this selection is held by de Man to be "as arbitrary as it is sus- picious" is a hypothesis that must be taken seriously, even if one is not prepared to subscribe to it unreservedly. For it subtends in a definitive way de Man's whole interpretation, notably his concepts of grammar and machine. At the end of the text, he will speak of the "gratuitous product of a textual grammar" (299), or yet again, still apropos of this structure of machine-like repetition, of "a system that is both entirely arbitrary and entirely repeatable, like a grammar" (300). Once again I underscore this "like. "
The expression "textual event" is found again in conclusion, very close to the final word--not only of the chapter but of the book since
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this is, in de Man's corpus, the last chapter of the last book he will have published and reread during his lifetime. Now, it both is and is not the same "textual event" in question at the beginning of the text. It is the same, to be sure, because it is still a matter of what happens with the paradigmatic passage of the Confessions; but now it has been ana- lyzed, determined, interpreted, localized within a certain mechanism, namely--and we will come back to this later--an anacoluthon or a parabasis, a discontinuity, or, to quote de Man's conclusion, "a sudden revelation of the discontinuity between two rhetorical codes. This iso- lated textual event, as the reading of the Fourth Re^verie shows, is dis- seminated throughout the entire text and the anacoluthon is extended over all the points of the figural line or allegory" (300).
How does this "textual event" inscribe itself? What is the operation of its inscription? What is the writing machine, the typewriter, that both produces it and archives it? What is the body, or even the materi- ality that confers on this inscription both a support and a resistance? And, above all, what essential relation does this textual event maintain with a scene of confession and excuse?
Since we are getting ready to speak of matter, or more precisely of the body, I note in the first place, and, as it were, between brackets, that de Man, very curiously, pays almost no attention (for reasons he doubtless considers justified and that in my view are only partially so) either to the matter and body of the ribbon itself, or to its use, because he holds it to be "devoid of meaning and function," circulating "sym- bolically as a pure signifier" (283), like the purloined letter, at least as it is interpreted by Lacan--to whom I objected that if the content of the letter appeared indifferent, it is because each of the protagonists, and each reader, knew that it signified at least perjury and betrayal of a sworn faith, just as I would observe here that the ribbon is not such a free or undetermined signifier: it has at least the sexualizable significa- tion of ornament and fetish; and by the same token it has perhaps sev- eral others.
De Man is not interested either in the intermediary paragraph be- tween the account of the death of Mme de Vercellis from a cancer of the breast (her double expiration, her last word) and the beginning of the confession of the misdeed that afflicts Rousseau with the "unbear- able weight of a remorse" from which he cannot recover any more than he can ever console himself for it. The paragraph neglected by de Man describes nothing less than a scene of inheritance. It is a question of the will left by Mme de Vercellis, of whom de Man nevertheless says,
as you recall, that there is no reason to "substitute" Marion for her ("nothing in the text," he says, suggests such a "concatenation") and thus a fortiori no reason to replace her with Mme de Warens--of whom de Man speaks only once in this context, and concerning whom I recall that Rousseau had met her for the first time the same year, a few months earlier, their meeting coinciding more or less with their common abjuration, their almost simultaneous conversion to Catholicism. This scene of inheritance seems to me significant, in this place, for countless reasons that I will not develop because they are too obvious. By essence or par excellence, and like every scene of inheri- tance, this one is a scene of substitution (and thus of responsibility, guilt, and forgiveness): substitution of persons and things, in the do- mains of the law governing persons and the law governing things. For one must not forget that the ribbon belongs more or less clearly to this scene and to the patrimony of things and valuables left as legacies. Even if it is a thing without value, as we will see, an old and used thing, its exchange value is caught up in the logic of substitution constituted by the inheritance. And we will once again have to reckon with more than one substitution--those of which de Man speaks and those of which he says nothing.
So that this may be more concrete in your eyes, here are the lines that seem not to interest de Man:
She had left one year's wages to each of the under-servants. But not hav- ing been entered on the strength of her household I received nothing. . . . It is almost inevitable that the breaking up of an establishment should cause some confusion in the house, and that various things should be mislaid. But so honest were the servants and so vigilant were M. and Mme Lorenzi that nothing was found missing when the inventory was taken. Only Mlle Pontal lost a little pink and silver-colored ribbon, which was quite old [un petit ruban de couleur de rose et argent de? ja` vieux]. (86)
These two little words "quite old," "de? ja` vieux," are also omitted by de Man, I don't know why, in his quotation of this phrase, which he extracts therefore from its context and without having cited the pre- ceding paragraph that I would call testamentary. No doubt the in- ventory in the course of which the disappearance of the ribbon was remarked is not the moment of the inheritance itself, but it is some- thing like its inseparable continuation; and Mlle Portal, who "lost" (per- dit) the "little ribbon," had received six hundred livres in inheritance,
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twenty times more than all the servants who had each received, in ad- dition, individual legacies. Rousseau inherited nothing and he com- plains about it. These scenes of inheritance and inventory, which de Man does not evoke, are not the scenes that Rousseau describes before recounting the death of Mme de Vercellis, in a passage where it is al- ready a question of legacies (the entourage of Mme de Vercellis, al- ready thinking about the legacy, had done everything to get Rousseau out of the way and "banish [him] from her sight," as he puts it). No doubt it is to this paragraph preceding the account that de Man refers in the note that had surprised me somewhat ("The embarrassing story of Rousseau's rejection by Mme de Vercellis, who is dying of a cancer of the breast, immediately precedes the story of Marion, but nothing in the text suggests a concatenation that would allow one to substitute Marion for Mme. de Vercellis in a scene of rejection"). It is this sub- stitution that de Man curiously does not believe should be credited. Curiously because, inversely, his whole text will put to work in a deci- sive fashion a logic of substitution. In a later passage, which is not, it is true, his last word on the subject, he talks abundantly of a substitution between Rousseau and Marion and even of "two levels of substitution (or displacement) taking place: the ribbon substituting for a desire which is itself a desire for substitution" (284). Summing up the facts, he writes: "The episode itself is one in a series of stories of petty larce- ny, but with an added twist. While employed as a servant in an aristo- cratic Turin household, Rousseau has stolen a 'pink and silver-colored ribbon'" (279).
Why does he cut the sentence, mutilating it or dismembering it in this way, and in such an apparently arbitrary fashion? Why does he amputate two of its own little words before the period: "quite old," "de? ja` vieux"? I have no answer to this question. I say mutilation, am- putation, or dismemberment, or even arbitrary cut to qualify the opera- tion by which a phrase is thus deprived of two of its little words and interrupted in its organic syntax. I do so both because, first of all, that's the way it is, no doubt, and the phenomenon is as strange as it is re- markable (it is indeed an apparently arbitrary amputation and dissocia- tion),14 but also because the general interpretation by de Man of the "textual event" in question will put to work, in a determinant fashion, these motifs (mutilation and dismemberment) as well as the operation of a machinery, as we will see. Moreover, and so as to anticipate things at a somewhat greater distance, among the significations that will later structure the de Manian concept of materiality or material inscription--
although the words matter and especially materialism never occur in "Excuses (Confessions)," a certain lodging seems to be made ready for the welcome de Man will extend to them later)--one finds once again, besides the significations of mute literality and body, those of disconti- nuity, caesura, division, mutilation, and dismemberment or, as de Man often says here, dissemination. Whether one is talking about the body in general, the body proper, or, as in the example of Kleist's Marionetten- theater read by de Man, of the linguistic body of phrases and words in syllables and letters (for example, from Fall as case or fall to Falle as trap),15 these figures of dismemberment, fragmentation, mutilation, and "material disarticulation" play an essential role in a certain "ma- terialist" signature (I leave the word materialist in quotation marks) that insists in the last texts of de Man. How does the concept of ma- teriality or the associated concept of "materialism" get elaborated in the later texts ("Phenomenality and Materiality in Kant" and "Kant's Materialism," both in Aesthetic Ideology)? This is a question we can keep in view in the interpretation of Rousseau. We can also keep in view a certain concept of history, of the historicity of history, so as to trace its intersection with this logic of the textual event as material in- scription. When it is a matter of this structure of the text, the concept of historicity will no longer be regulated by the scheme of progression or of regression, thus by a scheme of teleological process, but rather by that of the event, or occurrence, thus by the singularity of the "one time only. " This value of occurrence links historicity not to time, as is usually thought, nor to the temporal process but, according to de Man, to power, to the language of power, and to language as power. Hence the necessity to take into account performativity, which defines pre- cisely the power of language and power as language, the excess of the language of power or of the power of language over constative or cog- nitive language. In "Kant and Schiller" (a lecture delivered at Cornell the year of his death, in 1983, and collected in Aesthetic Ideology on the basis of audiotapes), de Man speaks of thinking history as event and not as process, progress, or regression. He then adds:
There is history from the moment that words such as "power" and "battle" and so on emerge on the scene. At that moment things happen, there is occurrence, there is event. History is therefore not a temporal notion, it has nothing to do with temporality [this hyperbolic provo- cation, in the style of de Man, certainly does not negate all temporality of history; it merely recalls that time, temporal unfolding, is not the
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essential predicate of the concept of history: time is not enough to make history], but it is the emergence of a language of power out of a lan- guage of cognition. (133)
De Man distinguishes the eventness of events from a dialectical pro- cess or from any continuum accessible to a process of knowledge, such as the Hegelian dialectic. No doubt he would have said the same thing of the Marxist dialectic, I presume, if at least the heritage and the thought of Marx could be reduced to that of the dialectic. He also specifies that the performative (the language of power beyond the lan- guage of knowledge) is not the negation of the tropological but re- mains separated from the tropological by a discontinuity that tolerates no mediation and no temporal scheme. It remains the case that the per- formative, however foreign and excessive it may be in relation to the cognitive, can always be reinscribed, recuperated is de Man's word, in a cognitive system. This discontinuity, this event as discontinuity, is im- portant for us if only because it will allow us to go beyond the excuse and come closer to the event of forgiveness, which always supposes irreversible interruption, revolutionary caesura, or even the end of his- tory, at least of history as teleological process. Moreover, one may note with equal interest that, in the same text ("Kant and Schiller"), de Man constructs his concept of event, of history as the eventness of events rather than as temporal process, on the basis of two determinations that are equally important for us: that of irreversibility (forgiveness and excuse suppose precisely that what has happened is irreversible) and that of inscription or material trace:
When I speak of irreversibility, and insist on irreversibility, this is be- cause in all those texts and those juxtapositions of texts, we have been aware of something which one could call a progression--though it shouldn't be--a movement, from cognition, from acts of knowledge, from states of cognition, to something which is no longer a cognition but which is to some extent an occurrence, which has the materiality of something that actually happens, that actually occurs. And there, the thought of material occurrence, something that occurs materially, that leaves a trace on the world, that does something to the world as such-- that notion of occurrence is not opposed in any sense to the notion of writing. But it is opposed to some extent to the notion of cognition. I'm reminded of a quotation in Ho?