Thus a further deconstruction deconstructs deconstruction, both as the search for a foundation
(the critic behaving as if she means what she says in her text), and as the pleasure of the
bottomless. The tool for this, as
((lxxviii))
indeed for any deconstruction, is our desire, itself a deconstructive and grammatological
structure that forever differs from (we only desire what is not ourselves) and defers (desire is
never fulfilled) the text of our selves. Deconstruction can therefore never be a positive
science. For we are in a bind, in a “double (read abyssal) bind,” Derrida’s newest nickname
for the schizophrenia of the “sous rature.” 81 We must do a thing and its opposite, and indeed
we desire to do both, and so on indefinitely. Deconstruction is a perpetually self-
deconstructing movement that is inhabited by differance. No text is ever fully deconstructing
or deconstructed. Yet the critic provisionally musters the metaphysical resources of criticism
and performs what declares itself to be one (unitary) act of deconstruction. As I point out on
pages Ixxxi–lxxxii, the kinship with Freud’s interminable and terminable analysis, involving
both subject and analyst, is here not to be ignored.
Derrida is now ready to suggest that, in a certain sense, it is impossible not to deconstruct/be
deconstructed.” All texts, whether written in the narrow sense or not, are rehearsing their
grammatological structure, self-deconstructing as they constitute themselves. The single act of
critical deconstruction is as necessary yet pointless, arrogant yet humble, as all
human gestures. “In the deconstruction of the arche, one does not make a choice” (91, 62).
These, then, are the lineaments of the Derridean double bind, deconstruction under erasure,
the abyss placed in the abyss, active forgetfulness. (Here it may be pointed out that one of the
traditional charges against
writing is that it breeds passive forgetfulness (55, 37 and passim). In this respect also,
deconstruction reinscribes the value of writing.) On page xlv I bring a charge of “prudence”
against Derrida. The new Derrida shows us that this “prudence” is also the greatest “danger,”
the will to knowledge as will to ignorance and vice versa. “The ‘knowledge’ of the
philosopher places him among the dreamers, for knowledge is a dream. But the philospher
‘knowingly’ agrees to dream, to dream of knowledge, agrees to ‘forget’ the lesson of
philosophy, only so as to ‘prove’ that lesson. . . . It is a vertiginous movement.”
As Glas will suggest, this philosophical agreement is the reader/writer’s contract (seing) with
the text. Let me add yet once again that this terrifying and exhilarating vertigo is not
“mystical” or “theological.” The abyss appears when Nietzsche, Freud, Heidegger, Derrida lift
the lid of the most familiar and comforting notions about the possibility of knowledge.
V
Of Grammatology is the provisional origin of this Preface. But we have not kept track of the
book’s outline. We have considered instead the im-portance of erasure in Derrida; provided
some ingredients for the computa-
((lxxix))
tion of the intertextuality between Derrida, and Nietzsche, Heidegger, Freud, Husserl; given
some indications of Derrida’s view of Structuralism, especially of the metapsychological
practice of Jacques Lacan; commented on the place of “writing” in Derrida’s thought, hinted
at the chain of its substitutions, given the recipe for deconstruction. Now that we begin the
concluding movements of this repetitive preface, let us make Of Grammatology our
provisional end.
Derrida situates Of Grammatology among his own texts thus:
Of Grammatology can be taken as a long essay articulated in two parts .. . between which one
can stitch in L’écriture et la différence. The Grammatology often refers to it. In that case, the
interpretation of Rousseau [Part II of Of Grammatology] would be the twelfth item of the
collection. Conversely, one can insert Of Grammatology in the middle of L’écriture et la
différence. Since six texts of the latter are anterior, in fact and in principle, to the publication ..
. in Critique, of the articles announcing Of Grammatology; the five last, beginning with
“Freud and the Scene of Writing” are engaged in the grammatological overture. (Pos F 12–r
3)
Although Derrida continues “. . . things don’t let themselves be reconstituted so simply,” this
fable of fragmentation is not without interest. There is a certain stitched-togetherness in
Of
Grammatology.
, and a decided disjunction between the sweeping, summarizing, theoretical
breadth of the first part, and the interpretative, slow, reader’s pace of the second.
Part I is an expanded version of a two-part review of Madeleine V-David’s Le débat sur les
écritures et l’hiéroglyphe aux xvii° et xviii° siècles, André Lerori-Gourhan’s Le geste et la
parole, and the papers of a colloquium en-titled L’écriture et la psychologie des peuples.82
Although the review articles contained most of the material of the entire Part I in their present
order, it is in Chapter 3—“Of Grammatology as A Positive Science”—that their mark is most
clearly felt. Each of the three books reviewed receives a section of the chapter. The first gives
a summary of the moment when grammatology could historically have opened but did not, the
moment of the decipherment of non-European scripts. The second investi-gates the possible
physiological bases for the differentiation between writ-ing and speech and genetic writing as
the determinant of life. The third deals with the implications of varieties of “nonphonetic”
writing. One can-not help wondering if all this overt interest in an account of writing in the
narrow sense—rather than in the interpretation of texts—is not simply due to the regulating
presence of books to be reviewed.
Indeed, in Part I and in the postscript to “Freud and the Scene of Writ-ing,” Derrida speaks
most often of re-writing the “history of writing” in
((lxxx))
something suspiciously like the narrow sense—“an immense field where hitherto one has only
done preparatory work” (ED 340). “Writing” so envisaged is on the brink of becoming a
unique signifier, and Jacques Derrida’s chief care. In his later work, the theoretical
significance of the structure of writing and the grammatological opening remain intact. But he
quietly drops the idea of being the authorized grammatological historian of writing in the
narrow sense. “Writing” then takes its place on the chain of substitutions. In the
Grammatology, then, we are at a specific and pre-carious moment in Derrida’s career.