differance, reserve, supplement, dissemination, hymen, greffe, pharmakon, parergon, and so
on. They form a chain where each may be substituted for the other, but not exactly (of course,
even two uses of the same word would not be exactly the same) : “no concept overlaps with
any other” (Pos F 109, Pos E 41). Each substitution is also a displacement, and carries a
different metaphoric charge, as Derrida reminds us often. He is particularly careful in the case
of “differance.” It is
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not easy to coin a word without seeming to privilege it as a term of final reference. The essay
“La différance” therefore spends a lot of energy on reminding us that “Differance is neither a
word nor a concept,” that it “is not theological, not even in the most negative order of
negative theology. The latter . . . always hastens to remind us that, if we deny the predicate of
existence to God, it is in order to recognize him as a superior, inconceivable, and ineffable
mode of being.” (MP 6, SP 134) Yet giving a definite name is a gesture of control as
authorized by metaphysical practice. At the end of the essay he must therefore caution: “For
us, differance remains a metaphysical name. . . . ‘Older’ than Being itself, our language has no
name for such a differance. . . . Not even the name ‘differance,’ which ... continually breaks
up in a chain of differant [différantes] substitutions.” (MP z8, SP 158–59) Of “hymen,” he
writes: “This word . . . is not indispensable. . . . If one replaced ‘hymen’ with ‘marriage’ or
‘crime,’ ‘identity’ or ‘difference,’ etc., the effect would be the same, except for a condensation
or economic accumulation....” (ED 149–50)
He practices this caution in an unemphatic way. He does not hold on to a single conceptual
master-word for very long. “Arche-writing,” “trace,” “supplementarity,” such important
words in the Grammatology, do not remain consistently important conceptual master-words in
subsequent texts. Derrida’s vocabulary is forever on the move. He does not relinquish a term
altogether. He simply reduces it to the lower case of a common noun, where each context
establishes its provisional definition yet once again.
In the face of a textual energy that sets itself against congealment, I have already offered
approximative descriptions of trace, differance, dissemination, hymen. Derrida’s own remark
to Jean-Louis Houdebine is not coy: “Dissemination ultimately has no meaning and cannot be
channeled into a definition. I will make no attempt at that here and prefer to refer to the
working of the texts.” (Pos F 61, Pos E 37) Keeping that admonition in mind, let us say
briefly that “Spacing . . . ‘is’ the index of an irreducible out-side, and at the same time the
index of a movement, of a displacement which indicates an irreducible alterity.” (Pos F 107-
08, Pos E II. 40) As such it reflects the structure of differance, as does a holding in “reserve,”
and the “entame”—both beginning something and breaking into some-thing, both origin and
trace. The supplement “is” an “addition [that] comes to make up for a deficiency, ... to
compensate for a primordial nonself-presence.” (VP 97, SP 87) The structure of
supplementarity is set forth in the second half of Of Grammatology. The pharmakon is a
Greek word that includes among its meanings poison, medicine, magic potion. It is a word
used to describe writing in Plato’s Phaedrus. Plato describes Socrates as the pharmakeus—
poisoner, medicine man, sorcerer. Yet neither of writing nor of Socrates does Plato use the
related word pharmakosscapegoat. Around this lacuna, Derrida recounts the fable of writing
(and
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Socrates) as scapegoat and welcomes
pharmakon into this chain of substitutions for
“écriture.” Greffe is grafting-work, both horticultural and other wise (Dis 230). Parergon, a
latecomer among these nicknames, is both a frame and a supplementary “addition.”
Perhaps the definition of these nicknames should escape the form of mastery represented by
the copula “is.” In that spirit Derrida writes:
The pharmakon is neither the cure nor the poison, neither good nor evil, neither the inside nor
the outside, neither speech nor writing; the supplément is neither a plus nor a minus, neither
an outside nor the complement of an inside, neither an accident nor an essence, etc.; the
hymen is neither confusion nor distinction, neither identity nor difference, neither
consummation nor virginity, neither the veil nor the unveiling, neither the inside nor the
outside, etc.; the gramme is neither a signifier nor a signified, neither a sign nor a thing,
neither a presence nor an absence, neither a position nor a negation, etc.; l’espacement
[spacing] is neither space nor time; the entame is neither the [marred] integrity of a beginning
or of a simple cut nor simply the secondary state. Neither/nor is at once at once or rather or
rather. (Pos F
59, Pos E I. 36)
This might seem an attractively truant world of relativism. But the fearful pleasure of a truant
world is the sense of an authority being defied. That absolute ground of authority Derrida
would deny. It would be a spurious pleasure for the literary critic to feel that this is a more
literary idiom than the austere propositional language we habitually associate with philosophy
proper. Textuality inhabits both, and the distinction between them remains to be
deconstructed. Once this is grasped, it may be noted that the awareness of the need for
deconstruction seems more congenial to the “irresponsible” discourse of what is
conventionally called literature. “The natural tendency of theory—of what unites philosophy
and science in the epistémè [the accepted description of how one knows]—will push rather
toward filling in the breach than toward forcing the enclosure. It was nor-mal that the
breakthrough was more secure and more penetrating in the areas of literature and poetry.”
(139, 92) The method of deconstruction has obvious interest for literary criticism.
Problematizing the distinction between philosophy and literature, it would read “even
philosophy” as “literature.”
(It is not enough, however, simply to exclaim over the presence of two seemingly
contradictory arguments within a text and declare a text satisfactorily disunified, and one’s
critical approach satisfactorily grammatological. If conventional criticism took pleasure in
establishing the “unified” meaning of a text, this brand of criticism would derive a matching
sense of mastery in disclosing a lack of unity. Such a critical method, relying heavily on
polysemy, would not face the radical playfulness of dissemination. And the critical
conclusions themselves, disclosing opposites, would imply their reconciliation in the text.)
((lxxiii))
Speaking of Derrida and Heidegger, I attempted a brief description of deconstructive
procedure: to spot the point where a text covers, up its grammatological structure. Here let us
expand that description a little.
“The desire for unity and order,” I wrote, “compels the author and the reader to balance the
equation that is the text’s system.” Derrida in fact relates this balancing of equations to the
great circular project of all philosophy in the most general sense.79 Hegel’s concept of the