cannot be taken as a homogeneous unit bridging an origin (referent) and an end (meaning), as
“semiology,” the study of signs, would have it. The sign must be studied “under erasure,”
always already inhabited by the trace of another sign which never appears as such.
“Semiology” must give place to “grammatology.” As I have suggested, this move relates
closely to Nietzsche’s “genealogical” study of morals as unending “sign-chains.”
“Writing,” then, is the name of the structure always already inhabited by the trace. This is a
broader concept than the empirical concept of writ-ing, which denotes an intelligible system
of notations on a material sub-stance. This broadening, Derrida feels, is accomplished by
Freud’s use of the metaphor of writing to describe both the content and the machinery of the
psyche. In an essay translated as “Freud and the Scene of Writing,” itself an example of the
rhetorical analysis of “philosophical” texts that Nietzsche spoke of, Derrida traces the
emergence of the metaphor of writing through three texts placed along a thirty-year span in
Freud’s career: “Project for A Scientific Psychology” (1895), The Interpretation of Dreams
(1899) and “A Note Upon the ‘Mystic Writing-Pad’ “ (1925). Through these three texts Freud
had grappled with the problem of finding a description for the content as well as the apparatus
of the psyche. With the 1925 “Note,” Freud arrives at last at a description of the psyche as a
“space of writing.” This is indeed not our empirical concept of writing, for here “script . . . is
never subject, extrinsic, and posterior to the spoken word.” (ED 296, FF 75) Nor is it simply a
metaphor for language. In the Interpretation, the dream-content—a paradigm of the entire
memory-work of the psyche—“is expressed . . . in a pictographic [not phonetic] script.” (GW
II–III. 283, SE IV. 277) In the “Note,” with its elaborate evocation of an actual writing toy, the
question of the place of speech simply does not arise: “I do not think it is too far-fetched to
compare the celluloid and waxed paper cover with the system Pcpt.–Cs. [perception-
consciousness] and its protective shield, the wax slab with the unconscious behind them, and
the appearance [becoming-visible; Sichtbarwerden] and dis-appearance of the writing with
the flickering-up and passing away of consciousness in the process of perception.” (GW XIV.
7, SE XIX. 230–31) In the last two chapters of the Interpretation, meditating in great detail
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upon “The Dream-Work” and “The Psychology of
the Dream-Process,” Freud is compelled, at
the risk of some self-bafflement, to explode the idea of any unified agency for the psyche. By
the time Freud comes to write the “Note,” he has clearly established that the workings of the
psychic apparatus are themselves not accessible to the psyche. It is this apparatus that
“receives” the stimuli from the outside world. The psyche is “protected” from these stimuli.
What we think of as “perception” is always already an inscription. If the stimuli lead to
permanent “memory-traces”—marks which are not a part of conscious memory, and which
will constitute the play of the psyche far removed from the time of the reception of the stimuli
—there is no conscious perception. “The inexplicable phenomenon of consciousness arises
[periodically and irregularly] in the perceptual system instead of the permanent traces.” (GW
XIV. 4–5, SE XIX. 228) There are periods, then, when the perceptual system is not activated
and that is precisely when the lasting constitution of the psyche is being determined. It is only
the periods of its actual activation that gives us the sense of time. “Our abstract idea of time
seems to be wholly derived from the method of the working of the system Pcpt.–Cs. and to
correspond to a perception on its own part [self-perception; Selbstwahrnehmung] of that
method of work-ing.” (GW XIII. 28, SE XVIII 28) In the “Note,” Freud undermines that
primary bastion of selfhood—the continuity of time-perception—both more boldly and more
tentatively; our sense of the continuity of time is a function of the discontinuous periodicity of
the perceptual machine and, in-deed, a perception of nothing more than the working of that
machine: “this discontinuous method of functioning of the system Pcpt.–Cs. lies at the bottom
of the formation [Entstehung rather than origin—Ursprung] of the concept of time.” (G1V
XIV. 8, SE XIX. 231) Thus, within the Freudian thematics of the psyche, perception is an
“originary inscription.” And time, according to Kant the privileged and necessary “form of
intuition,” becomes a mark of “the economy of a writing” (ED 334, FF 112) on the mystic
writing pad of the psyche.
Nietzsche had undone the sovereign self by criticizing causality and substance. He had
indicated our ignorance of the minute particulars involved in a “single” human action. Freud
undoes the sovereign self by meditating upon those minute particulars.
Freud’s slow discovery of the metaphor of writing is so fascinating for Derrida because it does
not have the usual strings attached. In the section “The Signifier and Truth” of the
Gramrnatology, Derrida discusses one curious characteristic of the general usage of the
metaphor of writing: even as it is used, it is contrasted to writing in the literal sense. “Writing
in the common sense is the dead letter, it is the carrier of death [because it signifies the
absence of the speaker]. . . . From another point of view, on the other face of the same
proposition, writing in the metaphoric sense, natural,
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divine, and living writing, is venerated; it is equal in dignity to the origin of value, to the
voice of conscience as divine law, to the heart, to sentiment and so forth.” (29, 17) Because
human beings need to comfort them-selves with notions of presence, writing in the “literal”
sense, signifying the absence of the actual author, must be “rejected,” even when it is
“accepted” as a metaphor. Freud’s use of the metaphor of writing is uncontaminated by this
double dealing. In fact, Freud speculates that the very mansion of presence, the perceiving
self, is shaped by absence, and—writing.
The clôture of metaphysics found the origin and end of its study in presence. The questioners
of that enclosure—among them Nietzsche, Freud, Heidegger—moved toward an articulation
of the need for the strategy of “sous rature.” Nietzsche puts “knowing” under erasure; Freud
“the psyche,” and Heidegger, explicitly, “Being.” As I have argued, the name of this gesture
effacing the presence of a thing and yet keeping it legible, in Derrida’s lexicon, is
“writing,”—the gesture that both frees us from and guards us within, the metaphysical
enclosure.
Freud does not put the psyche under erasure merely by declaring it to be inhabited by a radical
alterity; nor by declaring perception and temporality to be functions of a writing. He does it
also by his many avowed questionings of that same topological fable of the mind that he
constantly uses. It does not seem correct to unproblematize Freud’s different models for the
psychic system and call them “varying ‘points of view’ used by Freud to represent the psychic
system.”44 The point is that Freud uses the dynamic (play of forces) or functional picture of
the psyche almost to annul the topological one; yet gives the topological picture greatest
usage; the typical sleight of hand of “sous rature.” Not only does he write that he will
“carefully avoid the temptation to determine psychical locality in any anatomical fashion”
(GW II—III. 541, SE V. 536); but, he points out that, even within the “virtual” psychical
topography