sovereignty. “The exaltation of the collective festival has the same structure as the general
will of The Social Contract. The description of public joy gives us the lyrical aspect of the
general will: it is the aspect that it assumes in its Sunday best.” 30 The text is well known. It
recalls the evocation of the festival in the Essay. Let us reread it in order to recognize the
desire of making representation disappear, with all- the meanings that converge in that word:
delay and delegation, repetition of a present in its sign or its concept, the proposition or
opposition of a show, an object to be seen:
What! Ought there to be no entertainments in a republic? On the contrary, there ought to be
many. It is in republics that they were born, it is in their bosom that they are seen to flourish
with a truly festive air. [Letter to d’Alembert, p. 1251
These innocent spectacles will take place outdoors and they will have nothing “effeminate” or
“mercenary” about them. The sign, money, ruse, passivity, and servility will be excluded from
them. No one will use anyone, no one will be an object for anyone. There will no longer be,
after a certain fashion, anything to see:
((307))
But what then will be the objects of these entertainments? ‘What will be shown in them?
Nothing, if you please. With liberty, wherever abundance reigns, well-being also reigns. Plant
a stake crowned with flowers in the middle of a square; gather the people together there, and
you will have a festival. Do better yet; let the spectators become an entertainment to
themselves; make them actors themselves; do it so that each sees and loves himself in the
others so that all will be better united. Letter to M. d’Alembert, pp. 224—25 [p. 126]
‘We must note that this festival without object is also a festival without sacrifice, without
expense, and without play. Above all without masks. 31 It has no outside although it takes
place out of doors. It maintains itself in a purely interior relation to itself. “So that each sees
and loves himself in the others.” In a certain way, it is confined and sheltered, whereas the
hall of the theater, wrenched away from itself by the games and detours of representation,
diverted from itself and torn by differance, multiplies the outside in itself. There are many
games [jeux] within the public festival but no play [jeu] at all, if one understands by that
singular number the substitution of contents, the exchange of presences and absences, chance
and absolute risk. That festival represses the relationship with death; what was not necessarily
implied in the description of the enclosed theatre. These analyses can turn in both directions.
At any rate, play is so much absent from the festival that the dance is admitted as the initiation
into marriage and is contained within the closure of the ball. Such is at least the interpretation
to which Rousseau submits, to fix it carefully, the meaning of his text on the festival. One
could make him say quite a different thing. And Rousseau’s text must constantly be
considered as a complex and many-leveled structure; in it, certain propositions may be read as
interpretations of other propositions that we are, up to a certain point and with certain
precautions, free to read otherwise. Rousseau says A, then for reasons that we must determine,
he interprets A into B. A, which was already an interpretation, is reinterpreted into B. After
taking cognizance of it, we may, without leaving Rousseau’s text, isolate A from its
interpretation into B, and discover possibilities and resources there that indeed belong to
Rousseau’s text, but were not produced or exploited by him, which, for equally legible
motives, he preferred to cut short by a gesture neither witting nor unwitting. In his description
of the festival, for example, there are propositions which could very well have been
interpreted in the sense of Antonin Artaud’s 32 theater of cruelty or of the festival and
sovereignty of which Georges Bataille has proposed the concepts. But these propositions are
interpreted otherwise by Rousseau himself, who transforms play into games and the dance
into a ball, expense into presence.
What ball are we speaking of here? To understand that, one must first
((308))
understand the praise of the open air. The open air is undoubtedly Nature and in that respect it
must lead Rousseau’s thoughts in a thousand ways, through all the themes of pedagogy,
promenade, botany, and so on. But more precisely, the open air is the element of the voice, the
liberty of a breath that nothing breaks into pieces. A voice that can make itself heard in the
open air is a free voice, a clear voice that the northern principle has not yet muzzled with
consonants, not yet broken, articulated, compartmentalized, and which can reach the
interlocutor immediately. The open air is frankness, the absence of evasions, of representative
mediations among living spoken words. It is the element of the Greek city, “the great
concern” of which was “its liberty.” The north limits the possibilities of the open air: “Your
severer climates add to your needs; for half the year your public squares are uninhabitable;
the flatness of your languages unfits them for being heard in the open air; you sacrifice more
for profit than for liberty, and fear slavery less than poverty” (The Social Contract, p. 431) [p.
79; italics added]. Once again the northern influence is pernicious. But a northern man must
live like a northerner. To adopt or adapt southern customs in the North is pure folly and worse
servitude (ibid.). One must therefore find substitutes in the North or in winter. The winter
substitute of the festival is our dance for young brides-to-be. Rousseau recommends the
practice: unequivocally and as he himself says, without scruple; and what he says of winter
illuminates after a fashion what he might have said of summer.
Winter, a time consecrated to the private association of friends, is less appropriate to public
festivals. There is, however, one sort concerning which I wish there were not so many
scrupulous doubts raised, that is, the balls for young marriageable persons. I have never
understood why people are so worried about dancing and the gatherings it occasions, as if
there were something worse about dancing than singing, as if these amusements were not both
equally an inspiration of nature, as if it were a crime for those who are destined to be united to
be merry together in a decent recreation. Man and woman were formed for one another. God
wants them to fulfill their destiny, and certainly the first and holiest of all the bonds of society
is marriage. 33
One should comment word by word on the long and edifying discourse that follows. A hinge
articulates the entire argument: the full daylight of presence avoids the dangerous supplement.
One must allow pleasures to “a lively and frolicsome youth” to avoid their “substituting more
dangerous ones” and to prevent “private meetings adroitly concerted [from] taking] the place