of the world, or supplement with philosophical investigations the uncertain chronicles of
history, we shall not find for human knowledge an origin answering to the idea we are pleased
to entertain of it at present. . . . Their evil origin is indeed, but too plainly reproduced in their
objects. [Cole, op. cit., p. 131.]
•
It is easy to see the allegory in the fable of Prometheus: and it does not appear that the
Greeks, who chained him to the Caucasus, had a better opinion of him than the Egyptians had
of their god Teuthus (p. 12) .
The Supplement of (at) the Origin
In the last pages of the chapter “On Script,” the critique, the appreciative presentation, and the
history of writing, declares the absolute exteriority of writing but describes the interiority of
the principle of writing to language. The sickness of the outside (which comes from the
outside but also draws outside, thus equally, or inversely, the sickness of the homeland, a
home-sickness, so to speak) is in the heart of the living word, as its principle of effacement
and its relationship to its own death. In other words, it does not suffice to show, it is in fact not
a question of showing, the interiority of what Rousseau would have believed exterior; rather
to speculate upon the power of exteriority as constitutive of interiority: of speech, of signified
meaning, of the present as such; in the sense in which I said, a moment ago, that the
representative mortal doubling-halving constituted the living present, without adding itself to
presence; or rather constituted it, paradoxically, by being added to it. The question is of an
originary supplement, if this absurd expression may be risked, totally unacceptable as it is
within classical logic. Rather the supplement of origin: which supplements the failing origin
and which is yet not derived; this supplement is, as one says of a spare part [une pièce], of the
original make [d’origine] [or a document, establishing the origin.]
((314))
Thus one takes into account that the absolute alterity of writing might nevertheless affect
living speech, from the outside, within its inside:
alter it [for the worse]. Even as it has an
independent history, as we have seen, and in spite of the inequalities of development, the play
of structural cor-relations, writing marks the history of speech. Although it is born out of
“needs of a different kind” and “according to circumstances entirely independent of the
duration of the people,” although these needs might “never have occurred,” the irruption of
this absolute contingency determined the interior of an essential history and affected the
interior unity of a life, literally infected it. It is the strange essence of the supplement not to
have essentiality: it may always not have taken place. Moreover, literally, it has never taken
place: it is never present, here and now. If it were, it would not be what it is, a supplement,
taking and keeping the place of the other. What alters for the worse the living nerve of
language (“Writing, which would seem to crystallize language, is precisely what alters it; it
changes not the words but the spirit of language . . .”) has therefore above all not taken place.
Less than nothing and yet, to judge by its effects, much more than nothing. The supplement is
neither a presence nor an absence. No ontology can think its operation.
As Saussure will do, so does Rousseau wish at once to maintain the exteriority of the system
of writing and the maleficent efficiency with which one singles out its symptoms on the body
of the language. But am I saying anything else? Yes, in as much as I show the interiority of
exteriority, which amounts to annulling the ethical qualification and to thinking of writing
beyond good and evil; yes above all, in as much as we designate the impossibility of
formulating the movement of supplementarity within the classical logos, within the logic of
identity, within ontology, within the opposition of presence and absence, positive and
negative, and even within dialectics, if at least one determines it, as spiritualistic or
materialistic meta-physics has always done, within the horizon of presence and reappropria-
tion. Of course the designation of that impossibility escapes the language of metaphysics only
by a hairsbreadth. For the rest, it must borrow its re-sources from the logic it deconstructs.
And by doing so, find its very foot-hold there.
One can no longer see disease in substitution when one sees that the substitute is substituted
for a substitute. Is that not what the Essay de-scribes? “[Writing substitutes] exactitude for
expressiveness.” Expression is the expression of affect, of the passion at the origin of
language, of a speech that was first substituted for song, marked by tone and force. Tone and
force signify the present voice: they are anterior to the concept, they are singular, they are,
moreover, attached to vowels, the vocalic and not the consonantic element of language. The
force of expression amounts only to vocalic sounds, when the subject is there in person to
utter his
((315))
passion. When the subject is no longer there, force, intonation, and accent are lost in the
concept. Then one writes, one “substitutes” in vain “accentual marks” for “accent,” one bows
to the generality of the law: “In writing, one is forced to use all the words according to their
conventional meaning. But in speaking, one varies the meanings by varying one’s tone of
voice, determining them as one pleases. Being less constrained to clarity, one can be more
forceful. And it is not possible for a language that is writ-ten to retain its vitality as long as
one that is only spoken” [Essay, pp. 21-22].
Thus writing is always atonal. The place of the subject is there taken by another, it is
concealed. The spoken sentence, which is valuable only once and remains “proper only to the
place where it is,” loses its place and its proper meaning as soon as it is written down. “The
means used to overcome [suppléer] this weakness tend to stretch out written language and
make it elaborately prolix; and many books written in discourse will enervate speech itself.”
But if Rousseau could say that “words [voix], not sounds [sons], are writ-ten,” it is because
words are distinguished from sounds exactly by what permits writing—consonants and
articulation. The latter replace only them-selves. Articulation, which replaces accent, is the
origin of languages. Alter-ing [for the worse] through writing is an originary exteriority. It is
the origin of language. Rousseau describes it without declaring it. Clandestinely.
A speech without consonantic principle, what for Rousseau would be a speech sheltered from
all writing, would not be speech; 35 it would hold itself at the fictive limit of the inarticulate