Whatever it might be, the movement of the retreat of the signifier, the perfecting of writing,
would free attention and consciousness (knowledge and self-knowledge as idealization of the
mastered object) for the presence of the signified. The latter is all the more available because
it is ideal. And the value of truth in general, which always implies the presence of the
signified (aletheia or adequatio), far from dominating this move-ment and allowing it to be
thought, is only one of its epochs, however privileged. A European epoch within the growth of
the sign; and even, as Nietzsche, who wrenches Warburton’s proposition from its environment
and its metaphysical security, would say: of the abbreviation of signs. (So
((287))
that, let it be said in parenthesis, in wishing to restore a truth and an originary or fundamental
ontology in the thought of Nietzsche, one risks misunderstanding, perhaps at the expense of
everything else, the axial intention of his concept of interpretation.)
Repeating Warburton’s and Condillac’s statement outside its closure, one may say that the
history of philosophy is the history of prose; or rather of the becoming-prose of the world.
Philosophy is the invention of prose. Philosophy speaks prose, less in excluding the poet from
the city than in writing. In necessarily writing that philosophy in which the philosopher has
long believed, not knowing what he was doing, and not knowing that a most convenient
writing permitted him to do it, and that by rights he could have been satisfied to speak it.
In his chapter on the “Origin of Poetry,” Condillac calls it a fact: “At length a philosopher,
incapable of bending to the rules of poetry, was the first who ventured to write in prose” (Sec.
67) [p. 229]. He is writing of “Pherecydes of the Isle of Scyres ... , the first we know of who
wrote in prose.” Writing in the colloquial sense is by itself prosaic. It is prose. (On that point
too Rousseau is different from Condillac.) When writing ap-pears, one no longer needs
rhythm and rhyme whose function is, according to Condillac, to engrave meaning within
memory (ibid.). Before writing, poetry would in some way be a spontaneous engraving, a
writing before the fact. Intolerant of poetry, philosophy would have taken writing to be a fact.
It is difficult to appreciate what separates Rousseau from Warburton and Condillac here, and
to determine the value of the rupture. On the one hand, Rousseau seems to refine the models
which he borrows; genetic derivation is no longer linear or causal. He is more attentive to the
structures of the systems of writing in their relationship to social or economic systems and to
the figures of passion. The appearance of forms of writing is relatively independent of the
rhythms of the history of languages. The models of explication are in appearance less
theological. The economy of writing refers to motivations other than those of need and action,
under-stood in a homogeneous, simplistic, and objectivistic sense. But on the other hand, he
neutralizes what is irreducibly economic in the system of Warburton and Condillac. And we
know how the ruses of theological reason work within his discourse.
Let us approach his text. To the technical and economic imperatives of objective space,
Rousseau’s explication makes only one concession. It is in order discreetly to correct
Warburton’s and Condillac’s simplism.
It is a matter of
writing by furrows. The furrow is the line, as the plough-man traces it: the
road—via rupta—broken by the ploughshare. The furrow of agriculture, we remind ourselves,
opens nature to culture (cultivation). And one also knows that writing is bom with agriculture
which happens only with sedentarization.
((288))
How does the ploughman proceed?
Economically. Arrived at the end of the furrow, he does not return to the point of departure.
He turns ox and plough around. And proceeds in the opposite direction. Saving of time, space,
and energy. Improvement of efficiency and reduction of working time. Writing by the turning
of the ox —boustrophedon—writing by furrows was a movement in linear and phonographic
script. 17 At the end of the line travelled from left to right, one resumes from right to left.
Why was it abandoned at a given moment by the Greeks, for example? Why did the economy
of the writer [scripteur] break with that of the ploughman? Why is the space of the one not
the space of the other? If space were “objective,” geometric, ideal, no difference in economy
would be possible between the two systems of incision.
But the space of geometric objectivity is an object or an ideal signified produced at a moment
of writing. Before it, there is no homogeneous space, submitted to one and the same type of
technique and economy. Before it, space orders itself wholly for the habitation and inscription
in itself of the body “proper.” There still are factors of heterogeneity inside a space to which
one and the same “proper” body relates, and therefore there are different, indeed
incompatible, economic imperatives, among which one must choose and among which
sacrifices and an organization of hierarchies become necessary. Thus, for example, the surface
of the page, the expanse of parchment or any other receptive substance distributes itself
differently according to whether it is a matter of writing or reading. An original economy is
prescribed each time. In the first case, and during an entire technological era, it had to order
itself according to the system of the hand. In the second case, and during the same epoch, to
the system of the eye. In both cases, it is a matter of a linear and oriented path, the orientation
of which is not indifferent and reversible in a homogeneous milieu. In a word, it is more
convenient to read than to write by furrows. The visual economy of reading obeys a law
analogous to that of agriculture. The same thing is not true of the manual economy of writing
and the latter was predominant during a specific era and period of the great phonographic-
linear epoch. The fashion outlives the conditions of its necessity: it continued till the age of
printing. Our writing and our reading are still largely determined by the movement of the
hand. The printing press has not yet liberated the organization of the surface from its
immediate servitude to the manual gesture, and to the tool of writing.
Rousseau, therefore, was already astonished:
At first they [the Greeks] adopted not only the characters of the Phoenicians, but also the
direction of their lines from right to left. Later it occurred to them to proceed as the plowman,
that is, writing alternately from left to right and right to left. Finally, they wrote according to
our present practice of starting