others except the least interesting things in the world and things that they care least to
understand: sermons, academic discourses. Fragment on Pronunciation (pp. 1249—50)
Political decentralization, dispersion, and decentering of sovereignty calls, paradoxically, for
the existence of a capital, a center of usurpation and of substitution. In opposition to the
autarchic cities of Antiquity, which were their own centers and conversed in the living voice,
the modem capital is always a monopoly of writing. It commands by written laws, decrees,
and literature. Such is Paris’s role as Rousseau sees it in the text on Pronunciation. Let us not
forget that The Social Contract judged the exercise of the sovereignty of a people and the
existence of a capital incompatible. And as in the case of representatives, if it was impossible
not to have recourse to them, it was at least necessary to remedy that evil by changing them
often. ‘Which amounts to recharging writing with the living voice: “Nevertheless, if the State
cannot be reduced to the right limits, there remains still one resource; this is, to allow no
capital, to make the seat of government move from town to town, and to assemble by turn in
each the Provincial Estates of the country” 27 (p. 427) [p. 76]. The instance of writ-ing must
be effaced to the point where a sovereign people must not even write to itself, its assemblies
must meet spontaneously, without “any formal summons” [p. 75]. Which implies—and that is
a writing that Rousseau does not wish to read—that there were “fixed and periodic”
assemblies that “can-not be abrogated or prorogued,” and therefore a “marked day [jour
marqué].” That mark had to be made orally since the moment the possibility of writing were
introduced into the operation, it would insinuate usurpation into the body of society. But is not
a mark, wherever it is produced, the possibility of writing?
The Theorem and the Theater
The history of the voice and its writing is comprehended between two mute writings, between
two poles of universality relating to each other as the natural and the artificial: the pictogram
and algebra. The relationship of natural to artificial or arbitrary is itself subject to the law of
“extremes” which “touch one another.” And if Rousseau suspects alphabetic writing without
condemning it absolutely, it is because there are worse.
((303))
It is structurally but the next to the last step of that history. Its artifice has a limit. Unbound to
any particular language, it yet refers to the
phone or language in general. As phonetic writing,
it keeps an essential relation-ship to the presence of a speaking subject in general, to a
transcendental locutor, to the voice as the self-presence of a life which hears itself speak. In
that sense, phonetic writing is not absolute evil. It is not the letter of death. Nevertheless, it
announces death. To the extent that that writing progresses with consonantic chilling, it allows
the anticipation of the’ice, speech degree zero: the disappearance of the vowel, the writing of
a- dead language. The consonant, which is easier to write than the vowel, initiates this end of
speech in the universal writing, in algebra:
It would be easy to construct a language consisting solely of consonants, which could be
written clearly but not spoken. Algebra has something of such a language. When the
orthography of a language is clearer than its pronunciation, this is a sign that it is written more
than it is spoken. This may have been true of the scholarly language of the Egyptians; as is the
case for us with the dead languages. In those burdened with useless consonants, writing seems
to have pre-ceded speech: and who would doubt that such is the case with Polish? [Essay],
Chap. 7 [p. 28]
The universal characteristic, writing become purely conventional through having broken all
links with the spoken language—such then would be ab-solute evil. With the Logic of Port-
Royal, Locke’s
Essay, Malebranche, and Descartes, Leibniz was one of Rousseau’s primary
philosophic readings. 28 He is not cited in the Essay but in the fragment on Pronunciation.
With as much suspicion as the “art of Raymond Lully” in Emile (p. 575) [p. 425].
Languages are made to be spoken, writing serves only as supplement to speech; if there are
some languages that are only written, and that one cannot speak, belonging only to the
sciences, it would be of no use in civil life. Such is algebra, such was no doubt the universal
language that Leibniz looked for. It would probably have been more useful to a Metaphysician
than to an Artisan (p. 1249).
The universal writing of science would thus be absolute alienation. The autonomy of the
representer becomes absurd: it has attained its limit and broken with all representeds, with all
living origin, with all living present. In it supplementarity is accomplished, that is to say
emptied. The supple-ment, which is neither simply the signifier nor simply the representer,
does not take the place of a signified or a represented, as is prescribed by the concepts of
signification or representation or by the syntax of the words “signifier” or “representer.” The
supplement comes in the place of a lapse, a nonsignified or a nonrepresented, a nonpresence.
There is no present before it, it is not preceding by anything but itself, that is to say by another
((304))
supplement. The supplement is always the supplement of a supplement. One wishes to go
back
from the supplement to the source: one must recognize that there is
a supplement at the
source.
Thus it is always already algebraic. In its writing, the visble signifier, has always already
begun to seperate itself from speech and to supplant it. The nonphonetic and universal writing
of science is also in that sense a theorem. It is enough to look in order to calculate. As Leibniz
said, “ad vocem ref erri non est necesse.”
Through that silent and mortal glance the complicities of science and politics are exchanged:
more precisely of modem political science. “The letter killeth” (Emile, p. 226) [p. 159].
Where should one search, in the city, for that lost unity of glance and speech? In what space
can one again listen to himself? Can the theater, which unites spectacle and discourse, not take
up where the unanimous assembly left off? “For a long time now one speaks in public only
through books, and if one says something in person to the public that interests it, it is in the
theater” (Pronunciation, p. 1250).