It is fascinating to study the changes and interpolations made in the text of the review articles
as they were transformed into the book. (The text is genuinely enriched as the appropriate
“difference”-s are changed to “differance”-s.) Most of the changes make the philosophical
ground of the argument stronger. The superb discussion of the proper name (136-37, 89–90) is
a case in point. So is the long footnote on the psychoanalysis of writing (132-34, 333–34), and
the insertion of the remarks on the radical alterity necessarily inhabiting the sign. (69, 47) So
is the cautionary addition on page 125 (84). (The original version ran: “It [genetic script] is a
liberation which makes for the appearing of the grammè as such and no doubt makes possible
the emergence of ‘writing’ in the narrow sense.” [Crit II. 46] In the Grammatology Derrida
annuls the possibility of the grammè ever appearing as such. He adds the following
parenthesis after “as such”: “[that is to say according to a new structure of nonpresence],” and
goes on to add the following sentences: “But one cannot think them [the structurations of this
grammè] without the most general concept of the
grammè. That is irreducible and
impregnable.”)
From our point of view, what is most interesting is that the theme of “sous rature” is given its
development almost entirely in the book rather than in the articles. As I have mentioned
above, Derrida never discusses “sous rature” at great length. But in the articles all we have is
a mention of the practice (Crit I. 1029) as it is to be found on page 38 (23) of Of Gram-
matology. The use of the crossed lines on page 31 (
19), the discussion of Heidegger’s notion
of Being between pages 31 and 38 (19-23), the putting of “experience” under erasure on page
89 (6o–61), of the “past” on page 97 (66–67), and the “originarity of the trace” on page 110
(75) are all pas-sages only found in the book.
On the other hand, and curiously enough, the argument for historical necessity seems also to
have been emphasized as the review articles were turned into the first part of the book. The
first tiny change—from “the phoneticization of writing dissimulated its own history while
producing it” (Crit I. 1017) to “the phoneticization of writing must dissimulate its own history
while producing it” (11, 3)—sets the tone for all the small
((lxxxi))
but weighty changes that will be made. They are not many, but they are unequivocal. Most of
them, naturally enough, are confined to Chapter 1, “The End of the Book and the Beginning
of Writing.” The paragraph beginning “these disguises are not historical contingencies” (17,
7; the article had only the first two sentences) is a representative example. The repression of
writing, and its recognition today, are seen as historically necessary events. In a text where he
elaborately launches a theory against teleological patternings of history and thought, where he
delivers the notion of the play of necessity and contingency, why does Derrida fabricate so
strong an argument for historical necessity? Why is the opening chapter—“The End of the
Book and the Beginning of Writing”—full of a slightly embarrassing messianic promise? If
we really do not believe in “epistemological cut-off points,” or in the possibility of stepping
out of the metaphysical enclosure by simply deciding to, or in the linearity of time, then with
what seriousness can we declare a different “world to come,” a world where the “values of
sign, speech, and writing,” will be made to tremble? (14, 5) How reconcile ourselves with this
break between the world of the past and the world of the future? It seems an empiricist be-
trayal of the structure of difference and postponement, and any deconstructive reading of
Derrida will have to take this into account.
(We have seen that Derrida will not call grammatology a psychoanalysis of logocentrism. On
page 20 [9–10] of the Grammatology, there is the merest hint of a psychoanalytical patterning
of the history of writing that Derrida does not pursue: “This situation [the role of writing in
the naming of the human element] has always already been announced. Why is it today in the
process of making itself recognized as such and after the fact [après coup]”? Making itself
recognized as such. Derrida makes an attempt on that page at answering that part of the
question in terms of the development in ways and means of information retrieval,
phonography, and cybernetics, all join-ing forces with anthropology and the history of writing
—the sciences of man. But elsewhere in the book, as we have seen, he emphasizes that the
situation can never be recognized as such, that we must surrender ourselves to being inscribed
within the chain of future deconstructions and decipherings. It is therefore the après coup that
seems more interesting here. That is the French word for Freud’s “Nachträglichkeit”—
translated into English as “deferred action.” As we recall, at the time that a stimulus is
received, it goes either into the perceptual system or into the Unconscious and produces a
permanent trace. That particular trace might be energized into consciousness (as Freud
reminds us over and over again, this topographical language must be used with caution) long
afterward—nachträglich, après coup. But it never comes up
as such; in fact, as Derrida
argues, following Freud, the trace [die Bahnung] itself is primary. There is no “thing” there in
the
((lxxxii))
Unconscious but simply the possibility for this particular path to be energized. When the track
is opened up, and we have the après coup perception of the originary trace, the impulse in the
Unconscious is not exhausted. Unconscious impulses are indestructible. Now before the
remarks about theoretical mathematics, information retrieval et alia on page 20 [9–10],
Derrida slips in, immediately after the sentences we are examining, the fol-lowing words:
“This question would call forth an interminable analysis.” “Interminable analysis.” The words
themselves recall Freud’s late essay “Analysis Terminable and Interminable.”83 The impulses
in the Unconscious are indestructible, après coup they come up into consciousness in-
terminably, and thus constitute the subject. A neurosis can never be analyzed to the full—the
analysis would in fact, be interminable, if the practical analyst did not terminate it. Is the trace
of the repression of writ-ing in some indeterminate historical Unconscious “coming up” to our
consciousness at the present historical moment, après coup? Derrida himself is clearly not
willing to assume the responsibility for what might seem a psychoanalytic schema. This again
is an undertaking for a future deconstructor. Yet there is, no doubt, a strong sympathy between
Freud’s notion of the theoretical impossibility of a full analysis and Derrida’s polemic of the
need for the perpetual renewal of the grammatological or deconstructive undertaking. In fact,
that is what all of Derrida’s work on “writing” has presented—although it seems to be
receiving articulation today, variations of previous articulations have existed throughout
history and the complex will have to be confronted perpetually as the language of con-
frontation, obeying our will to power, adapts to and is retrieved by logo-centrism, or, as Freud
would say, with a little help from Heidegger, as “the ego treats [recovery med kryss] itself as a
new [danger med kryss] [GW XVI. 84, SE XXIII. 238; erasures mine] It seems quite
plausible, then, to ask: if “the Freudian discourse—its syntax or . . . its work” were delivered
from “his necessarily metaphysical and traditional concepts” [ED 294], would one be able to
decipher a psychoanalytic schema in the obstinate historical pattern of Of Grammatology? )