No More Learning

This complicated dialectics between analogy and contiguity can be seen to expand in a plurality of directions. First, as the nontropological succession of programmed stages is interrupted, a space of logical inde- terminacy arises: "Tsarism, having entered into complete contradiction with the demands of Russia's social development, continued to exist thanks to the power of its organisation, the political nullity of the Russian bourgeoisie and its growing fear of the proletariat. "15
Second, this indeterminacy is the source of pure relations of con- tiguity that break the possibility of totalizations in terms of either syntagmatically retrievable differences or metaphorically "necessary" aggregations:
Russian capitalism did not develop from artisanal trade via the manu- facturing workshop to the factory for the reason that European capital, first in the form of trade capital and later in the form of financial and industrial capital, flooded the country at a time when most Russian artisanal trade had not yet separated itself from agriculture. Hence the
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appearance in Russia of modern capitalist industry in a completely primitive economic environment: for instance, a huge Belgian or American industrial plant surrounded by dirty roads and villages built of straw and wood, which burn down every year, etc. The most primitive begin- nings and the most modern European endings. (339)
This gap, which interrupts any nontropological succession of necessary stages, but also any metaphoric aggregation of events around a pre- given necessary point, gives proletarian identity in Russia an open character in which contingent displacements, pure events, assume a constitutive role that no a prioristic logic can govern:
I remember an old friend, Korotkov, a cabinetmaker from Nikolayev, who wrote a song back in 1897. It was called The Proletarians' March and it began with the words: "We are the alpha and the omega, we are the beginning and the end . . . " And that's the plain truth. The first letter is there and so is the last, but all the middle of the alphabet is missing. Hence the absence of conservative traditions, the absence of castes within the proletariat, hence its revolutionary freshness, hence, as well as for other reasons, the October Revolution and the first workers' government in the world. But hence also the illiteracy, the absence of organisational know- how, the lack of system, of cultural and technical education . . . (340)
And then the inevitable consequence:
From the viewpoint of that spurious Marxism which nourishes itself on historical cliche? s and formal analogies . . . the slogan of the seizure of power by the Russian working class was bound to appear as a mon- strous denial of Marxism. . . . What then is the real substance of the problem? Russia's incontestably and incontrovertibly backward devel- opment, under the pressure of the higher culture of the West, leads not to a simple repetition of the Western European historical process but to a set of fundamentally new features which requires independent study. . . . Where there are no "special features", there is no history, but only a sort of pseudo-materialistic geometry. Instead of studying the living and changing matter of economic development it is enough to notice a few outward symptoms and adapt them to a few ready-made cliche? s. (339)
Could it be clearer? Historicity is identified with "special features" un- assimilable to any form of repetition. History is a field of contingent dis- placements that are not retrievable by any of the (analogical) figures of the same.
Of course, this field of contingent variations can be more or less ex- tended, depending on the width of the area in which the literal still pre- vails and arrests the tropological movement. Now what happened in socialist discourses, like those we are considering, was that what we have described as a tropological movement expanded ever more and covered wider and wider sections of political life. Let us consider a concept such as "combined and uneven development. " It was intro- duced to refer to the experience of social struggles in Third World countries, in which--even more than in the case of Russia--a non- orthodox combination of developments that should have correspond- ed to successive stages makes more contingent and risky hegemonic interventions possible. In the 1930s, Trotsky drew the inevitable con- clusion: an uneven development is the terrain of all social and political struggles in our time. The only thing we have is an unlimited tropologi- cal movement that is the very terrain in which society constitutes itself. And we see why metonymy is, in some sense, more "primordial" than metaphor (or, as in other of de Man's analyses, why allegory takes precedence over the symbol): because in a situation of radical contin- gency no criterion of analogy is stable; it is always governed by chang- ing relations of contiguity that no metaphorical totalization can con- trol. Metaphor--and analogy--is at most a "superstructural" effect of a partial stabilization in relations of contiguity that are not submitted to any literal principle of a priori determination.
This process of general rhetorization only takes place as far as none of the conditions in which each of the tropoi would become what it lit- erally claims to be can be met. If metonymy were just a metonymy, its ground should be a contiguity that is not contaminated by analogy, and in that case the literal separations within a given discursive space would be fully in control of the limits of the metonymic movement. If analogy dominated unchallenged, a full totalization would have taken place that would make analogy collapse into identity--and the tropo- logical movement would cease. If synecdoche was actually able to sub- stitute the whole for the part, this would mean that the whole could have been apprehended independently of the part. If catachresis could be grounded in a tropological movement that started from total het- erogeneity, it could only take place insofar as the distinction between the homogeneous and the heterogeneous would be established with entire precision. It is as if in some way the conditions for a rhetoric whose tropological movements are going to occupy the terrain of a ground that is not itself grounded are to be found in the impossibility
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of taking the definitions of each of the tropoi at face value, and in the need to stress the logics by which each tends to fade into the other. The same for hegemony: the conditions of its full success are the same as the conditions of its extinction.
This can be shown by a couple of historical examples. The first con- cerns Italy. At the end of World War II there was a confrontation of tendencies, within the Italian Communist Party, about the right strate- gy to be followed in the new democratic environment. There were two positions: one that asserted that the Communist Party, being the party of the working class and the latter being an enclave in the industrial north, had to limit its efforts mainly to creating forms of representa- tion for that enclave; the second, more Gramscian, maintained that the party had to build up its hegemony by spreading its activities to a va- riety of areas, the agrarian Mezzoggiorno included. How was this pos- sible, given the particularistic social and geographical location of the working class? Simply, by making the party and the unions the rallying point of a variety of democratic initiatives in a country moving away from fascist dictatorship. The democratic initiatives postulated by this approach were entirely contingent--their success was not guaranteed by any logic of history--and depending, thus, on the construction of a collective will; but, in a way different from the Sorelian will, they were not aiming for the reinforcement of a purely proletarian identity. They tended, instead, to the creation of a multifarious democratic identity, always spreading beyond itself in directions only graspable through a contingent narration. Togliatti wrote in 1957:
A class may lead society insofar as it imposes its own rule, and to this end the force of arms can also be used. It becomes a national class, how- ever, only insofar as it solves the problems of the whole of society. . . . The proletariat becomes a national class insofar as it takes on these problems as its own and thence comes to know, by the process of chang- ing it, the whole reality of national life. In this way it produces the con- ditions of its own political rule, and the road to becoming an effective ruling class is opened. . . .
We have to spread the activity of an organised vanguard over the whole area of society, into all aspects of national life. This activity must not be reduced to preaching propaganda, to phrase-making or clever tactics, but must stick closely to the conditions of collective life and give, therefore, a foundation, real possibilities and prospects to the movement of the popular masses. . . . Our struggle for the unity of popu-
lar, democratic forces is, therefore, not imposed by tactical skills, but is an historical requirement, both to maintain conquests already achieved, to defend and safeguard democracy, and to develop it. 16
Here we have a tropological space in which each of the figures tends to fade into the other. The different struggles and democratic initiatives are not united to each other by necessary links--so we have metonymi- cal relations of contiguity. The hegemonic operation tries, however, to make the condensation of these struggles as strong as possible--so the metonymics fade into metaphoric totalization. The hegemonic relation is synecdochal, as far as a particular sector in society--the working- class party, in this case--tends to represent a whole exceeding it. As, however, this whole lacks any precisely defined limits, we are dealing with an impure synecdoche: it consists in the undecidable movement between a part attempting to incarnate an undefinable whole, and a whole that can only be named through its alienation in one of its parts. Finally, the heterogeneity can only be a relative one--with the result that the line separating catachresis from metonymy becomes also un- decidable. I think that all the main categories of Gramscian theory-- war of position, collective will, organic intellectuals, integral state, his- torical bloc, hegemony--could be read rhetorically: as circumscribing the space of tropological movement that brings about new strategic flexibility in political analysis.
A comparable discussion took place in the South African context, in the years before the end of apartheid, between the so-called workers and populist tendencies within the liberation movement. The first ten- dency, based largely in the trade-union movement, asserted the need for an immediate socialist transformation constituted around a work- ing class whose protagonist role resulted from its structural centrality in capitalist society. Contingent and particularistic displacements in the search for alliances were reduced to a minimum. The populist camp, on the contrary, based on the principles of the Freedom Charter, made contingent hegemonic articulations the cornerstone of its strategy. As David Howarth and Aletta Norval have asserted,
the Charterists have suggested that the formation of political conscious- ness cannot be exclusively attributed to factory floor experiences, or de- rived simply from the agent's location in the relations of production, but occurs in a much wider discursive context. Instead of positing an ab- stract working class persona analytically separable from the complex set of discourses in which the worker is situated, the working class is
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regarded as a real social force forming an essential component of the na- tionally oppressed people. . . . In this sense, the working class as a real social force engaged in struggle is always to some extent marked by struggles, identities and discourses which cannot simply be reduced to its position in the relations of production; their leadership will only be attained by means of actively introducing socialist discourses into the struggle for national liberation. 17
Although Howarth and Norval have pointed out the limited character of the hegemonic opening that the populist camp was postulating, it is clear that the strategic confrontation was taking place along lines simi- lar to those that we have so far discussed: in one case a principle of analogy by which the South African working class repeats a worker's identity dictated by the abstract analysis of the capitalist relations of production; in the other case, a succession of merely contiguous articu- lations that governs a predominantly contingent and contextualized narrative.
This political argument could, obviously, be extended in a variety of directions beyond the socialist discourses that we have considered here. There is one, however, that I would like to stress. I see the history of democracy as divided by one fundamental cleavage. On the one hand, we have democracy as the attempt to construct the people as one, a homogeneous social actor opposed either to "power" or to an external enemy--or to a combination of both. This is the Jacobin con- ception of democracy, with its concomitant ideal of a transparent com- munity unified--if necessary--by terror. This is the tradition that runs, with very analogous structural features, from Robespierre to Pol Pot. The discourses around which this democratic ideal is constructed are, obviously, predominantly metaphoric--although, for reasons previ- ously mentioned, they cannot conceal their metonymic foundations. On the other hand, we have democracy as respect of difference, as shown, for instance, in multiculturalism or in the new pluralism asso- ciated with contemporary social movements. Here we have discourses that are predominantly metonymic, for although--given the impos- sibility of a pure differential, nontropological closure--some effect of metaphoric aggregation is inevitable, it will be an aggregation that always keeps the traces of its own contingency and incompleteness visible. Within this basic polarity there are, obviously, all kinds of pos- sible intermediate combinations that we can start exploring through the variety of tropoi to be found in classical rhetoric.
Paul de Man's main contribution to this task lies not in anything that he had to say about politics--something his untimely death pre- vented him from doing--but rather, in two main accomplishments. The first is to have extended the field of rhetoric--or, rather, of rhetoricity-- to the ensemble of language, to have made it a constitutive dimension of language as such. The second is to have deconstructed the dominant tropoi of the Romantic tradition--such as symbol and metaphor-- showing the contingent infrastructure of more humble tropoi on which any totalizing effect is grounded. I have attempted in this essay to show the potential importance of both accomplishments for the elaboration of a theory of hegemony.
NOTES
A preliminary version of this essay was presented at the "Culture and Materiality" conference that took place at the University of California, Davis, on April 23-25, 1998. It was also discussed in the seminar on Ideology and Discourse Analysis, University of Essex, a month later. I want to thank those whose commentaries led me to introduce precisions in my text and, in some cases, partial reformulations of the argument: at Davis, Jacques Derrida, Fredrick Jameson, J. Hillis Miller, and Andrzej Warminski; at Essex, David Howarth and Aletta Norval.
1. Stefano Rosso, "An Interview with Paul de Man," in Paul de Man, The Resistance to Theory (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 121.
2. Paul de Man, "Pascal's Allegory of Persuasion," in Aesthetic Ideology (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 51-69. Subsequent page refer- ences are given in the text.
3. For the full development of this argument, see my Emancipations(s) (London: Verso, 1996), especially the essay "Why Do Empty Signifiers Matter to Politics? " 36-46.
4. Cf. the disagreement between de Man and Louis Maris, as presented by de Man in "Pascal's Allegory of Persuasion," 60.
5. What is important is to realize that these retotalizations do not operate through a simple and retrievable negation. As de Man asserts: "What is here called, for lack of a better term, a rupture or a disjunction is not to be thought of as a negation, however tragic it may be. Negation, in a mind as resilient as Pascal's, is always susceptible of being reinscribed in a system of intelligibility. . . . It is possible to find, in the terminology of rhetoric, terms that come close to designating such disruptions (e. g. , parabasis or anacoluthon), which designate the interruption of a semantic continuum in a manner that lies beyond the power of reintegration" (ibid. , p. 61). But the very fact that there are tropoi which make describable that which is beyond the power of reintegration clearly shows that we are not dealing with a simple collapse of the system but, rather, with an orderly drifting away from what would have otherwise been the conditions of its full closure. It is in the field of this drifting away that the hegemonic logics operate.
6. Paul de Man, "Reading (Proust)," in Allegories of Reading Figural Language
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in Rousseau, Nietzsche, Rilke and Proust (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), 57-58.
7. Paul de Man, Blindness and Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric of Contempor- ary Criticism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1983), 284.
8. Ge? rard Genette, "Me? tonymie chez Proust," in Figures III (Paris, E? ditions du Seuil, 1972), 41-43. Paul de Man finds the use by Genette of the category of diegetic metaphor limited as far as Proust is concerned. Both, however, agree in privileging the metonymic transitions in Proust's text.
9. Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics (London: Verso, 1985).
10. I thank J. Hillis Miller for having called my attention to the need for elabo- rating more the distinction between catachresis and metonymy--a distinction that, as will be seen, is crucial for my analysis.
11. Pierre Fontanier, Les figures du discours (Paris: Flammarion, 1968), 213. "Generally speaking there is catachresis when a sign already linked to a first idea is also linked to a new idea which itself does not have or no longer has a literal mean- ing in language. It is, as a result, any trope whose use is forced and necessary, any trope from which a purely extended meaning is derived; this literal meaning of sec- ond origin, mediating between the original literal meaning and the figurative mean- ing, but which by its own nature is closer to the first than to the second, even though it might have been figurative in the beginning. "
12. With this, of course, the tropological movement would come to an end.
13. Georges Sorel, Re? flexions sur la violence (Paris: E? ditions du Seuil, 1990), 77. "In a society so enfevered by the passion of competitive success, all the actors march straight ahead like true automatons, unconcerned with the great ideas of the sociologists, and none of them considers extricating himself from that condi- tion. It is only then that the development of capitalism is pursued with that rigor which so struck Marx and which seemed to him comparable to a natural law. If, on the contrary, the bourgeois, diverted by the jokes of moral or sociological preachers, return to the ideal of conservative mediocrity, seek to correct the abuses of the economy, and wish to break with the barbarity of their ancestors, then a part of the forces which should produce the dynamic of capitalism are employed in checking it, chance is introduced, and the future of the world becomes completely indeterminate.
"This indeterminacy further increases if the proletariat is converted to social peace at the same time as their masters--or even simply that it considers everything from a corporative perspective--while socialism gives to all economic struggles a general and revolutionary character. "
14. Genette, "Me? tonymie chez Proust," 63. "Without metaphor, says Proust (more or less), there are no true memories; we can add for him (and for everybody): without metonymy, no linkage of memories, no history, no novel. Because it is metaphor that recovers lost Time, which reanimates and sets it in motion: which re- turns it to itself and its true 'essence,' which is in its own flight and its own Search. So here, here alone--through metaphor but within metonymy--Narration begins. "
15. Leon Trotsky, 1905 (London: Allen Lane, 1971), 328. Subsequent page ref- erences are given in the text.
16. Palmiro Togliatti, On Gramsci and Other Writings (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1979), 157-59.
17. David Howarth and Aletta Norval, "Subjectivity and Strategy in South African Resistance Politics: Prospects for a New Imaginary," Essex Papers in Politics and Government, Department of Government, University of Essex (May 1992): 9.
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How Can I Deny That These Hands and This Body Are Mine?
Judith Butler
I remember a sleepless night last year when I came into my living room and turned on the television set to discover that C-Span was offering a special session on feminist topics, and that the historian Elizabeth Fox- Genovese was making clear why she thought women's studies had con- tinuing relevance, and why she opposed certain radical strains in femi- nist thinking. Among those positions she most disliked she included the feminist view that no stable distinction between the sexes could be drawn or known, a view that suggests that the difference between the sexes is itself culturally variable or, worse, discursively fabricated, as if it is all a matter of language. Of course, this did not help my project of falling asleep, and I became aware of being, as it were, a sleepless body in the world accused, at least obliquely, with having made the body less rather than more relevant. Indeed, I was not altogether sure that the bad dream from which I had awoken some hours earlier was not in some sense being further played out on the screen. Was I waking or was I dreaming? After all, it was no doubt the persecutory dimension of paranoia that hounded me from the bed. Was it still paranoia to think that she was talking about me, and was there really any way to know? If it was me, then how would I know that I am the one to whom she refers?
I relate this incident to you here today not only because it fore- shadows the Cartesian dilemmas with which I will be preoccupied in the following paper, and not because I propose to answer the question of whether sexual difference is only produced in language. I will, for the moment, leave the question of sexual difference to be returned to another time. 1 The problem I do propose to address emerges every
time we try to describe the kind of action that language exercises on the body or, indeed, in the production or maintenance of bodies. And we do tend to describe language as actively producing or crafting a body every time we use, implicitly or explicitly, the language of discur- sive construction.
In the consideration of Descartes's Meditations that follows, I pro- pose to ask whether the way in which Descartes posits the irreality of his own body does not allegorize a more general problem of positing that is to be found in various forms of constructivism and various criti- cal rejoinders to a constructivism that is sometimes less well under- stood than it ought to be. The name of this paper that I have already begun, but not yet begun, is: "How Can I Deny That These Hands and This Body Are Mine? " These are, of course, Descartes's words, but they could be ours or, indeed, mine, given the dilemmas posed by contem- porary constructivism.
The language of discursive construction takes various forms in con- temporary scholarship and sometimes it does seem as if the body is cre- ated ex nihilo from the resources of discourse. To claim, for instance, that the body is fabricated in discourse is not only to figure discourse as a fabricating kind of activity, but to sidestep the important questions of "in what way" and "to what extent. " To say that the line between the sexes, for instance, must be drawn, and must be drawable, is to concede that at some level the stability of the distinction depends on a line being drawn. But to say that we must be able to draw a line in order to stabilize the distinction between the sexes may simply mean that we must first grasp this distinction in a way that allows us then to draw the line, and the drawing of the line confirms a distinction that is somehow already at hand. But it may mean, conversely, that there are certain conventions that govern how and where the line ought or ought not to be drawn, and that these conventions, as conventions, change through time, and produce a sense of anxiety and of unknow- ingness precisely at the moment in which we are compelled to draw a line in reference to the sexes. The line then lets us know what will and will not qualify as "sex"; the line works as a regulatory ideal, in Foucault's sense, or a normative criterion that permits and controls the appearance and knowability of sex. Then the question, which is not easily settled, becomes: do the conventions that demarcate sexual dif- ference determine in part what we "see" and "comprehend" as sexual difference?
It is, you might surmise, not a large leap from this claim to the notion that sexual difference is fabricated in language. But I think
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that we may need to look more carefully before either championing or reviling this conclusion.
The language of construction risks a certain form of linguisticism, the assumption that what is constructed by language is therefore also language, that the object of linguistic construction is nothing other than language itself. Moreover, the action of this construction is con- veyed through verbal expressions that sometimes imply a simple and unilateral creation at work.
Language is said to fabricate or to figure the body, to produce or construct it, to constitute or to make it. Thus, language is said to act, which involves a tropological understanding of language as perform- ing and performative. There is, of course, something quite scandalous involved in the strong version of construction that is sometimes at work when, for instance, the doctrine of construction implies that the body is not only made by language, but made of language, or that the body is somehow reducible to the linguistic coordinates by which it is identified and identifiable, as if there is no nonlinguistic stuff at issue. The result is not only an ontological realm understood as so many ef- fects of linguistic monism, but the tropological functioning of language as action becomes strangely literalized in the description of what it does, and how it does what it does. And though de Man often argued that the tropological dimension of discourse works against the perfor- mative, it seems here that we see, as I believe we do in de Man's discus- sion of Nietzsche, the literalization of the trope of performativity.
I want to suggest another way of approaching this question that re- fuses the reduction of linguistic construction to linguistic monism, and which calls into question the figure of language acting unilaterally and unequivocally on the object of construction. It may be that the very term construction no longer makes sense in this context, that the term deconstruction is better suited to what I propose to describe, but I con- fess to not really caring about how or whether these terms are stabilized in relation to each other or, indeed, in relation to me. My concerns are of another order, perhaps in the very tension that emerges as the prob- lem of discursive construction comes into tension with deconstruction.
For my purposes, I think it must be possible to claim that the body is not known or identifiable apart from the linguistic coordinates that establish the boundaries of the body without thereby claiming that the body is nothing other than the language by which it is known. This last claim seeks to make the body an ontological effect of the language that governs its knowability. But this view fails to note the incommensura-
bility between the two domains, an incommensurability that is not pre- cisely an opposition. Although one might accept the proposition that the body is only knowable through language, that the body is given through language, it is never fully given in that way, and to say that it is given partially can only be understood if we also acknowledge that it is given, when it is given, in parts; it is, as it were, given and withheld at the same time, and language might be said to perform both of these operations. Although the body depends on language to be known, the body also exceeds every possible linguistic effort of capture. It would be tempting to conclude that this means that the body exists outside of language, that it has an ontology separable from any linguistic one, and that we might be able to describe this separable ontology. But this is where I would hesitate, perhaps permanently, for as we begin that description of what is outside of language, the chiasm reappears: we have already contaminated, though not contained, the very body we seek to establish in its ontological purity. The body escapes its linguistic grasp, but so too does it escape the subsequent effort to determine on- tologically that very escape. The very description of the extralinguistic body allegorizes the problem of the chiasmic relation between language and body and so fails to supply the distinction it seeks to articulate.
To say that the body is figured chiasmically is to say that the follow- ing logical relations hold simultaneously: the body is given through language but is not, for that reason, reducible to language. The lan- guage through which the body emerges helps to form and establish that body in its knowability, but the language that forms the body does not fully or exclusively form it. Indeed, the movement of language that appears to create what it names, its operation as a seamless perfor- mative of the illocutionary persuasion, covers over or dissimulates the substitution, the trope, by which language appears as transitive act, that is, by which language is mobilized as a performative that simulta- neously does what it says. If language acts on the body in some way, if we want to speak, for instance, of a bodily inscription, as so much cul- tural theory does, it might be worth considering whether language lit- erally acts on a body, and whether that body is an exterior surface for such action, or whether these are figures that we mobilize when we seek to establish the efficacy of language.
This leads to a converse problem, namely, the case in which lan- guage attempts to deny its own implication in the body, in which the case for the radical disembodiment of the soul is made within language. Here it is a question of the way in which the body emerges in the very
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language that seeks to deny it, which suggests that no operation of lan- guage can fully separate itself from the operation of the body.
Language itself cannot proceed without positing the body, and when it tries to proceed as if the body were not essential to its own op- eration, figures of the body reappear in spectral and partial form with- in the very language that seeks to perform their denial. Thus, language cannot escape the way in which it is implicated in bodily life, and when it attempts such an escape, the body returns in the form of spectral figures whose semantic implications undermine the explicit claims of disembodiment made within language itself. Thus, just as the effort to determine the body linguistically fails to grasp what it names, so the ef- fort to establish that failure as definitive is undermined by the figural persistence of the body.
The way in which I propose to show this chiasmic relation is through a reconsideration of the opening Meditations of Descartes, the ones in which he seeks to bring the reality of the body into question. Descartes seeks to know whether he can deny the reality of his own body and, in particular, the reality of his limbs. Suspended and inscrutable limbs reemerge in de Man's essay "Phenomenality and Materiality in Kant" in ways that suggest a metonymic relation to the problem that Descartes poses. For de Man, the body within the third Critique is understood, if we can use that word, as prior to figuration and cognition. In Descartes, it emerges as a particular kind of figure, one that suspends the ontologi- cal status of the term, and this raises the question of any absolute sepa- rability between materiality and figuration, a distinction that de Man on some occasions tries to make as absolutely as possible. I hope to make this chiasmic relation between those two texts clear toward the end of my remarks.
For the moment, though, I want to suggest that Descartes's ability to doubt the body appears to prefigure the skeptical stance toward bodily reality that is often associated with contemporary construction- ist positions. What happens in the course of Descartes's fabulous tra- jectory of doubt is that the very language through which he calls the body into question ends up reasserting the body as a condition of his own writing. Thus, the body that comes into question as an "object" that may be doubted surfaces in the text as a figural precondition of his writing.
But what is the status of Cartesian doubt understood as something that takes place in writing, in a writing that we read and that, in reading, we are compelled to reperform? Derrida raises the question of whether
the Cartesian "I" is compatible with the method of doubt, if that method is understood as transposable, one that anyone might perform. A method must be repeatable or iterable: intuition (or self-inspection) requires the singularity of the mind under inspection. How can a method be made compatible with the requirements of introspection? Although Descartes's meditative method is an introspective one in which he seeks in an unmediated fashion to know himself, it is also one that is written, and that is apparently performed in the very tem- porality of writing. Significantly, he does not report in language the various introspective acts that he has performed prior to the writing: the writing appears as contemporaneous with this introspection, im- plying, contrary to his explicit claims, that meditation is not an un- mediated relation at all, but one that must and does take place through language.
As I presume my readership knows, Descartes begins his Meditations by seeking to eradicate doubt. Indeed, he begins in an autobiographical mode, asking how long it has been that he sensed that many of his be- liefs were false, these beliefs that he held in the past, that appeared to be part of his youth, that were part of his history; he then seeks to "rid himself" (de? faire) of his former beliefs. 2 First, he claims, "I have deliv- ered my mind from every care," and that he is, apparently luckily, "agi- tated by no passions," free to "address myself to the upheaval (destruc- tion) of all my former opinions" (F:26).
His task is the dispassionate destruction of his own opinion, but also of his own past, and so we might understand the onset of The Meditations to require performing a destruction of one's own past, of memory. Thus, an "I" emerges, narratively, at a distance from its for- mer opinions, shearing off its historicity, and inspecting and adjudicat- ing its beliefs from a carefree position. Whatever the "I" is, it is from the start not the same as the beliefs that it holds and that it scrutinizes, or rather, the "I" appears to be able to maintain itself, at the level of grammar, while it calls such beliefs into question. To call such beliefs into question is apparently not to call the "I" into question. The one, the "I," is manifestly distinct from the beliefs that this "I" has held.
We must then, as readers, in order to follow this text, imagine an "I" who is detachable from the history of its beliefs. And the grammar asks us to do this prior to the official beginning of the method of doubt. Moreover, the very term that is generally translated as "belief" is "opinions" and so implies a kind of groundless knowing from the start, a form of knowing whose groundlessness will be exposed.
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Descartes seeks the principles of those former beliefs, and finds that relying on the senses produces deception, and argues that nothing that once produced deception ought to be trusted again to furnish anything other than deception in the future. And yet, sometimes the senses fur- nish a certain indubitability, as when the narrator relays the following famous scene: "there is the fact that leads Descartes to say, I am here, seated by the fire, attired in a dressing gown, having this paper in my hands and other similar matters"(145/27). Let me call attention to the fact that the "I" is "here," "ici," because this term in this sentence is a deictic one, and it is a shifter, pointing to a "here" that could be any here, but that seems to be the term that helps to anchor the spatial co- ordinates of the scene and so to ground, at least, the spatial ground of its indubitability. When Descartes writes "here," he appears to refer to the place where he is, but this is a term that could refer to any "here" and so fails to anchor Descartes to his place in the way that we might expect it to. What does the writing of his place do to the indubitable referentiality of that "here"? Clearly, it is not here; the "here" works as an indexical that refers only by remaining indifferent to its occasion. Thus the word, precisely because it can refer promiscuously, intro- duces an equivocalness and, indeed, a dubitability that makes it quite impossible to say whether or not his being "here" is a fact as he claims that it is. Indeed, the very use of such an equivocal term makes it seem possibly untrue.
What I seek to underscore "here," as it were, is that Descartes's very language exceeds the perspective it seeks to affirm, permitting a narra- tion of himself and a reflexive referentiality that distances the one who narrates from the "I" who is narrated by that one. The emergence of a narrative "I" in The Meditations has consequences for the philosophi- cal argument Descartes seeks to make. The written status of the "I" splits the narrator from the very self he seeks to know and not to doubt. The "I" has, as it were, gotten out of his control by virtue of be- coming written. Philosophically, we are asked to accept an "I" who is not the same as the history of its opinions, who can "undo" and "de- stroy" such opinions and still remain intact. Narratively, we have an "I" that is a textual phenomenon, exceeding the place and time in which it seeks to ground itself, whose very written character depends on this transposability from context to context.
But things have already become strange, for we were to have start- ed, as Descartes maintains in the "preface," with reasons, ones that persuade, and that give us a clear and distinct idea of what cannot be
doubted. We were about to distrust the senses, but instead we are drawn into the certainties that they provide, the fact that I sit here, am clothed, hold the paper that I do by the fire that is also here.
From this scene in which indubitability is asserted and withdrawn at once emerges the question of the body. Descartes asks, "how could I deny that these hands and this body here belong to me? " (F:27). Consider the very way in which he poses the question, the way in which the question becomes posable within language. The question takes, I believe, a strange grammar, one that affirms the separability of what it seeks to establish as necessarily joined. If one can pose the question whether one's hands and one's body are not one's own, then what has happened such that the question has become posable? In other words, how is it that my hands and my body became something other than me, or at least appeared to be other than me, such that the question could even be posed whether or not they belong to me? What is the status of the question, such that it can postulate a distinction be- tween the I who asks and the bodily me, as it were, that it interrogates, and so performs grammatically precisely what it seeks to show cannot be performed?
Indeed, Descartes begins to ask a set of questions that perform what they claim cannot be performed: "how can I deny that these hands and this body are mine? " is one of them, and it is a strange, paraliptical question because he does give us the graphic contours of such a doubt, and so shows that such a doubt is possible. This is, of course, not to say that the doubt is finally sustainable, or that no indubitability emerges to put an end to such doubt. For Descartes to claim that the body is the basis of indubitability, as he does, is a strange consequence, if only because it appears to appeal to an empiricism that sustains an uneasy compatibility with the theological project at hand. These ex- amples also seem to relate to the problem of clothing, knowing that one is clothed, for he claims to be sure that he was clothed in his night- gown next to the fire.
The surety of this claim is followed by a series of speculations, how- ever, ones that he imagines others might make, but that, in his imagin- ing, he himself makes: indeed, the writing becomes the occasion to posit and adopt narrative perspectives on himself that he claims not to be his own, but that, in adopting, are his own in the very mode of their projection and displacement. The other who appears is thus the "I" who, in paranoia, is circuited and deflected through alterity: what of those who think they are clothed in purple, but are really without
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covering, those others who are like me who think they are clothed, but whose thinking turns out to be an ungrounded imagining. Descartes, after all, is the one who is actively imagining others as nude, implying but not pursuing the implication that they might well think of him as nude as well. But why? Of course, he wants to get beneath the layers that cover the body, but this very occasion of radical exposure toward which The Meditations move is precisely what threatens him with a hallucinatory loss of self-certainty.
Indeed, it appears that the certainty he seeks of the body leads him into a proliferation of doubts. He is sure that he sits there clothed: his perspective, as sense perception and not pure intellection, is in that sense clothed or cloaked; thus this certainty depends on a certain dis- simulation. The nudity he attributes to the hallucinatory certainty of others constantly threatens to return to him, to become his own hallu- cinatory certainty. Indeed, precisely as a sign of radical certainty, that nudity undermines his certainty. If he is clothed, he is certain of what is true, but if he is not, then the truth has been exposed, the body without dissimulation, which leads to the paradoxical conclusion that only if he is deluded about being clothed can his own utterances be taken as indubitable, in which case hallucination and certainty are no longer radically distinguishable from one another.
This is not any nude body, but one that belongs to someone who is deluded about his own nudity, one whom others see in his nudity and his delusion. And this is not simply any "one" with some charactero- logical singularity, but a "one" who is produced precisely by the heuris- tic of doubt. This is one who calls the reality of his body into question only to suffer the hallucinatory spectrality of his act. When he sees oth- ers in such a state, nude and thinking themselves clothed, he knows them to be deluded, and so if others were to see him in such a state, they would know him to be deluded as well; thus, the exposure of his body would be the occasion for a loss of self-certainty. Thus, the insis- tence on the exposed body as an ultimate and indubitable fact in turn exposes the hallucinations of the one who is nude, nude and hallu- cinating that he or she is fully clothed. This figure of the indubitable body, one that only the mad might doubt, is made to represent the limit case of the res extensa, a body that cannot be doubted but that, com- prised of the senses, will be held to be detachable from the soul and its quest for certainty.
If one were to imagine the body instead as an earthenware head or made of glass, as Descartes puts it, one would be doubting what is
true. But notice that here the very act of doubting seems bound up with the possibility of figural substitutions, ones in which the living body is made synonomous with its artifactual simulation or, indeed, with glass, a figure for transparency itself. If the body is certain as res exten- sa, what is to distinguish the human body as res extensa from other such instances of substance? If it must, by definition, be separable from the soul, what is to guarantee its humanity? Apparently, nothing can or does.
After all, Descartes not only reports that others perform such hallu- cinations, the report constitutes the textualization of the hallucination; his writings perform them for us, through an alienation of perspective that is and is not exclusively his own. Thus, he conjures such possibili- ties precisely at the moment in which he also renounces such possibili- ties as mad, raising the question, is there a difference between the kind of conjuring that is a constitutive part of the meditative method, and those hallucinations that the method is supposed to refute? He re- marks: "I should not be any the less insane were I to follow examples so extravagant [si je me reglais sur leurs exemples]. " But what if he has already just ruled himself on these examples, followed these examples, asked us to follow them, in the sense that to write them is to follow them, and we are clearly following them as well in reading him as we do. The doubt he wants to overcome can only be reenacted within the treatise, which produces the textual occasion for an identification with those from whom he seeks to differentiate himself. These are his hands, no? but where are the hands that write the text itself, and is it not the case that they never actually show themselves as we read the marks that they leave? Can the text ever furnish a certain sense of the hands that write the text, or does the writing eclipse the hands that make it possible, such that the marks on the page erase the bodily ori- gins from which they apparently emerge, and to emerge as tattered and ontologically suspended remains? Is this not the predicament of all writing in relation to its bodily origins? There is no writing without the body, but no body fully appears along with the writing that it pro- duces. Where is the trace of Descartes's body in the text? Does it not resurface precisely as the figure of its own dubitability, a writing that must, as it were, make the body strange, if not hallucinatory, whose condition is an alienation of bodily perspective in a textual circuitry from which it cannot be delivered or returned? After all, the text quite literally leaves the authorial body behind, and yet there one is, on the page, strange to oneself.
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At the end of Meditation I, he resolves to suppose that God is not good nor the fountain of truth, but some evil genius, that external things are illusions and dreams and, accordingly, he writes, "I shall consider myself as having no hands, no eyes, nor any senses, yet falsely believing myself to possess all these things. " It would seem, then, that the task of the Meditation is to overcome this doubt in his own body, but it is that doubt that he also seeks to radicalize. After all, it is Descartes's ultimate project to understand himself as a soul, as a res cogitans and not as a body; in this way, he seeks to establish the ulti- mate dubitability of the body and so to ally himself with those who dream and hallucinate when they take the body to be the basis of cer- tain knowledge. Thus, his effort to establish radical self-certainty as a rational being leads within the text to an identification with the irra- tional. Indeed, such dreams and hallucinations must be illimitable if he is to understand that certainty of himself as a thinking being will never be furnished by the body.
He writes that "the knowledge of myself does not depend on things not yet known to me. " And it does not depend on "things that are feigned or imagined by my imagination [celles qui sont feintes et inven- te? es par l'imagination]" (42). 3 The Latin term--effingo--can mean, ambiguously, "to form an image," but also, "to make a fact," which means that the knowledge of himself does not depend on forming an image or making a fact. Inadvertently, Descartes introduces an equivo- cation between an imagining of what is not a fact and an imagining or making of what is a fact. Has the same imagining wandered across the divide between delusion and reality such that it is at once what Descartes must exclude as the basis of self-knowledge and what he also must accommodate?
If knowledge does not depend on things that are feigned or imag- ined or facts that are made, then on what does it depend? And does his dismissal of imagining, invention, and factual making not undermine the very procedure of doubt that he uses to gauge the falsifiability of his theses? Indeed, at another moment in the text, he insists that imagi- nation, even invention, serves a cognitive function, and that it can be used as the basis for making inferences about the indubitability of sub- stance itself: "I would invent, in effect, when I am imagining some- thing, since imagining is nothing other than contemplating the figure or image of a corporeal thing. "4
The imagination is nothing other than the contemplation of the fig- ure or image of a corporeal thing. The proposition foreshadows the
claims that Husserl will make about the intentionality of the act of imagining, suggesting that objects appear to the imagination in some specific modality of their essence. If this is so, then the imagination does not merely invent bodies, but its inventiveness is also a form of referentiality, that is, of contemplating the figure or image of bodies in their essential possibility. The sense in which the imagination is inven- tive is not that it produces bodies where there were none. Just as refer- ential suggestion of the term effingo complicates the problem, tying imagining to fact making, so Descartes's notion of the image as relay- ing the object in some specific way ties imagining to objects of percep- tion, but in both cases the link is made not conceptually, but through a semantic equivocation. Indeed, if the method of doubt involves sup- posing or positing as true a set of conditions that he then seeks to doubt, it involves conjecturing what is counterintuitive, and so central- ly engages the imagination.
"Je supposerai"--I suppose, I will suppose, I would suppose--this is the strange way that Descartes renders his doubt in language, where the term supposer carries the referential ambiguity that plagues his dis- cussion. After all, supposer means to take for granted, to accept as a premise, but also to postulate or posit, to make or to produce. If the "I" is not a corporeal thing, then it cannot be imagined.
When he writes "I suppose," he offers appositions that suggest its interchangeability with the following formulations: I persuade myself, I posit, I think, I believe. Then the object of that supposing and think- ing takes the form of a different fiction than the one he has just per- formed: what he supposes or believes is "that body, figure, extension . . . are nothing but fictions of my own spirit. " Here there appears to be a doubling of the fictional going on, for he is supposing that the body, among other things, is a fiction of his own mind, but is that supposing not itself a fictionalizing of sorts? If so, is he then producing a fiction in which his body is the creation of a fiction? Does the method not allego- rize the very problem of fictive making that he seeks to understand and dispute, and can he understand this fictive making if he continues to ask the question within the terms of the fiction from which he also seeks to escape?
Supposing, self-persuasion, thinking, believing, work by way of posit- ing or, indeed, fabulating, but what is it that is fabulated? If the body is a fiction of one's own spirit, then this suggests that it is made or com- posed of one's own spirit. Thus, to posit is not merely to conjecture a false world or to make one up, but to invent and refer at the same
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moment, thus confounding the possibility of a strict distinction be- tween the two. In this way, "the fictions of the spirit" for Descartes are not in opposition to the acts of thinking or persuasion, but the very means by which they operate. "Positing" is a fiction of the spirit which is not for that reason false or without referentiality. To deny the fictive aspect of positing or supposing is to posit the denial, and in that sense to reiterate the way that the fictive is implicated in the very act of posit- ing. The very means by which Descartes seeks to falsify false belief in- volves a positing or fictionalizing that, homeopathically, recontracts the very illness it seeks to cure. If the falsification of the untrue must take place through a counterfactual positing, which is itself a form of fiction, then falsification reintroduces fiction at the very moment in which it seeks to refute it. Of course, if we could establish that what is fictional in supposing is not the same as what is fictional in what is being supposed, then we would avoid this contradiction, but Descartes does not offer us any way of doing precisely that.
I hope that I have begun to show that, in imagining the body, Des- cartes is at once referring to the body through an image or figure--his words--and conjuring or inventing that body at the same time, and that the terms he uses to describe this act of supposing or imagining carry that important double meaning. Hence, for Descartes, the lan- guage in which the body is conjectured does not quite imply that the body is nothing other than an effect of language; it means that conjec- turing and supposing have to be understood as fictional exercises that are nevertheless not devoid of referentiality.
When we consider Descartes's efforts to think the mind apart from the body, we see that he cannot help but use certain bodily figures in describing that mind. The effort to excise the body fails because the body returns, spectrally, as a figural dimension of the text. For in- stance, Descartes refers to God as one who inscribes or engraves on his soul, when he writes, for instance, that he will never forget to refrain from judgment of what he does not clearly and distinctly understand "simply by [God's] engraving deeply in my memory the resolution never to form a judgment on" such matters. Descartes's mind is here figured as a slate or a blank page of sorts, and God is figured as an en- graver. "God deeply engrave(s) [grave? ] a resolution in memory not to judge. "
Similarly, Descartes appears to imprint a thought on his memory in the same way that God engraves a resolution on the will: he refers to his own human and frail capacity to "forcibly impress [imprimer]" a
thought on his memory, and so help in the process of building up a new memory where the old one had been destroyed. 5 Meditation now appears as a particular kind of action, one that, he claims, must be re- peated, and that has as its goal the forcible imprinting (imprimer) of this same thought on the memory, an imprinting that is as apparently forceful as God's engraving is profound: indeed, both convey a certain formative violence, a rupture of surface, as the effect of writing.
Indeed, "the engraving" is thus the means by which God's will is transferred to Descartes, a peculiar form of transitivity that the trope of writing helps to effect. His memory becomes the object in which God engraves a resolution, as if Descartes's memory were a page, a surface, an extended substance. But this is clearly a problem, since the mind is supposed to be, as we know, res cogitans rather than res exten- sa, but is figured here precisely as an extended surface and substance. Hence, the memory in some ways becomes figured as a kind of body, extended substance and surface, and we might well read here the resur- facing of the lost and repudiated body within the text of Descartes, one on which God now so profoundly engraves a resolution; indeed, the metaphorical stage is now set for Kafka's "In the Penal Colony. "
Indeed, it makes sense to ask whether the writing of The Meditations is precisely what guarantees this soldering of the memory to the will. The extended writing of The Meditations acts to imprint a new knowl- edge on his memory. To the extent that the page substitutes for memo- ry, or becomes the figure through which memory is understood, then does that figure have philosophical consequences, namely, that intro- spection as method succeeds only to the extent that it is performed in writing on the page?