There is also the shadow of a geographical pattern that falls upon the first part of the book.
The relationship between logocentrism and ethnocentrism is indirectly invoked in the very
first sentence of the “Exergue.” Yet, paradoxically, and almost by a reverse ethnocentrism,
Derrida insists that logocentrism is a property of the West. He does this so frequently that a
quotation would be superfluous. Although something of the Chinese prejudice of the West is
discussed in Part I, the East is never seriously studied or deconstructed in the Derridean text.
Why then must it remain, recalling Hegel and Nietzsche in their most cartological humors, as
the name of the limits of the text’s knowledge?
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The discussion of Lévi-Strauss in Part II, the only genuinely polemical and perhaps the least
formally awkward section of the book, first appeared in 1966, as part of an issue on Lévi-
Strauss of the Cahiers pour l’analyse (IV, September–October, 1966).
Derrida chooses Lévi-Strauss as his subject because, “at once conserving and annulling
inherited conceptual oppositions, this thought, like Saussure’s, stands on a borderline:
sometimes within an uncriticized conceptuality, sometimes putting a strain on the boundaries,
and working toward deconstruction” (154, 105). And he takes Lévi-Strauss to task for
slackness of method, for sentimental ethnocentrism, for an oversimplified reading of
Rousseau. He criticizes Lévi-Strauss for conceiving of writing only in the narrow sense, for
seeing it as a scapegoat for all the exploitative evils of “civilization,” and for conceiving of
the violent Nambikwara as an innocent community “without writing.” If the end of Part I
seems too concerned with writing in the narrow sense, these chapters redeem themselves in
that respect. For in them Derrida repeatedly moves us from writing in the narrow sense to
writing in general—through such “systematic” statements as: “the genealogical relation and
social classification are the stitched seam of arche-writing, condition of the (so-called oral)
language, and of writing in the colloquial sense” (182, 125) to such “poetic” ones as: “the
Silva [forest] is savage, the via rupta [path cut through] is written . . . it is difficult to imagine
that access to the possibility of road maps is not access to writing” (158, 108) .
Perhaps the most interesting reason given for the impossibility of a community without
writing is that the bestowing of the proper name, something no society can avoid, is itself
inhabited by the structure of writing. For the phrase “proper name” signifies a classification,
an institution carrying the trace of history, into which a certain sort of sign is made to fit. Thus
the proper name, as soon as it is understood as such, is no longer fully unique and proper to
the holder. The proper name is always already common by virtue of belonging to the category
“proper.” It is al-ways already under erasure: “When within consciousness, the name is called
proper, it is already classified and is obliterated in being named. It is already no more than a
so-called proper name” (161, 109). Lévi-Strauss knows this, as his discussion of proper
names in The Savage Mind (pp. 226f., Eng. pp. 172f.) demonstrates. But, having nothing but a
restricted concept of writing, he cannot relate the proper name to writing: “The essence or the
energy of the graphein . . . [is] the originary effacement of the proper name” (159, 108) .
This argument does not only serve to undo the anthropoloigst’s re-verse ethnocentrism toward
an “innocent community without writing.” It points to the presence of writing in general in all
the ramifications of the
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“proper —me own, the distinguishing characteristic, the literal, the exclusively clean. It is so
pervasive a Derridean theme that I can do no more than mention it here. In a way, Derrida’s
chief concern might be summarized thus: to problematize the proper name and proper (literal)
mean-ing, the proper in general.
The argument points also to the theme of the play of desire around the proper name: The
narcissistic desire to make one’s own “proper” name “common,” to make it enter and be at
one with the body of the mother-tongue; and, at the same time, the oedipal desire to preserve
one’s proper name, to see it as the analogon of the name of the father. Much of Derrida’s
recent work meditates on this play. I shall quote the beginning of Glas, where Hegel (the
“proper” name) is invoked as the eagle (the “common” name) that the French pronunciation
of his name—“aigle”—turns him into:
Who, he?
His name is so strange. From the eagle he draws his imperial or historical power. Those who
still pronounce it as French, and there are those, are silly only to a certain point: the restitution
. . . of the magisterial cold . . . of the eagle caught in ice and frost [gel]. Let the emblemished
philosopher be thus congealed. (p. 7)
Pages 145 to 151 (97–102) are a theoretical “justification” of what Derrida will come to call
“intertextuality:” the interweaving of different texts (literally “web”-s) in an act of criticism
that refuses to think of “influence” or “interrelationship” as simple historical phenomena.
Intertextuality becomes the most striking conceptual and typographical signa-ture in Glas.
Pages 226 to 234 (157–64)—“The Exorbitant: Question of Method”—are, as I have
suggested, a simple and moving exposition of the method of deconstruction as understood by
the early Derrida.
Rousseau’s place in Derrida’s text is most importantly marked by the former’s use of the word
“supplement”: “Writing will appear to me more and more,” Derrida writes, “as another name
for this structure of supplementarity. . . . It does not suffice to say that Rousseau thinks the
supplement without thinking it, that he does not match his saying and his meaning, his
descriptions and his declarations. . . . Using the word and describing the thing, Rousseau in a
way displaces and deforms the sign ‘supplement,’ the unity of the signifier and the signified. .
. . But these displacements and deformations are regulated by the contradictory unity —itself
supplementary—of a desire” (348, 245). Of the issue of supplementarity itself, abundantly
developed by Derrida in this book, there is no need to speak. Of more interest to me is the
question, how does the word “supplement” signify Rousseau’s desire? Before I attempt to
gauge
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Derrida’s enigmatic answer to this question, I shall digress and point at the rather endearing
conservatism of Chapter 3, Section I: “The Placé of the Essay.”
There is a certain mark of superior academic scholarship in that section that seems out of joint
with the theoretical spirit of the book. Here the philosopher who has written “The outside [is
med kryss] the inside” in Part I, speaks with perfect seriousness about internal and external
evidence, and the thinker of “intertextuality” concerns himself with the relative dating of The
Essay on the Origin of Languages and The Discourse on Inequality. This reader is happy that