those marks of traditional scholarship were not unstitched. It is engrossing to watch the bold
argument operating in the service of a conventional debate. For the burden of the proof lies on
“the economy of pity”—the supplementarity of pity in both Rousseau texts—and intertextual
practice does emerge as the two texts are woven together: “From one [text] to the other, an
emphasis is displaced, a continuous slid-ing is in operation. . . . The Discourse wants to mark
the beginning... . The Essay would make us sense the beginnings. . . . It seizes man . . . in that
subtle transition from origin to genesis. . . . The description of pure nature in the Discourse
made room within itself for such a transition. As always, it is the unseizable limit of the
almost” (358, 253). I do not believe that Derrida ever again devotes himself to this sort of
textual scholarship. Here, too, the reading of Of Grammatology gives us the taste of a rather
special early Derrida, the young scholar transforming the ground rules of scholarship.
The book ends with Rousseau’s dream, the supplementary desire that I refer to above. Such an
ending is a characteristic Derrida touch, criticism giving up the idiom of expository mastery in
the end and taking on the idiom of the fabulist. “La pharmacie de Platon” ends with the scene
of Plato in his pharmacy, “White Mythology” with the heliotrope stone. Examples can be
multiplied.
Rousseau, that famous masturbator, has a philosophical wet dream: “Rousseau’s dream
consisted of making the supplement enter metaphysics by force” (444, 315) .
But is not that force precisely the energy of Derrida’s own project?
Is this not precisely the trick of writing, that dream-cum-truth, that breaches the metaphysical
closure with an intrinsic yet supplementary violence? At the end of Derrida’s book on
Rousseau, Rousseau is set dreaming of Derrida. Perhaps the book does end with its author’s
signature.
It is customary at this point to say a few words about the problem of translation. Derrida’s text
certainly offers its share of “untranslatable” words. I have had my battles with “exergue” and
“propre.” 84 My special worry is
((lxxxvi))
“entamer.” As we have seen, it is an important word in Derrida’s vocabulary. It means both to
break into and to begin. I have made do with “broach” or “breach,” with the somewhat
fanciful confidence that the shadow-word “breach” or “broach” will declare itself through it.
With “entamer” as well as with other words and expressions, I have included the original in
parenthesis whenever the wording and syntax of the French seemed to carry a special charge.
To an extent, this particular problem informs the entire text. Denying the uniqueness of words,
their substantiality, their transferability, their repeatability, Of Grammatology denies the
possibility of translation. Not so paradoxically perhaps, each twist of phrase becomes at the
same time “significant” and playful when language is manipulated for the purpose of putting
signification into question, for deconstructing the binary opposition “signifier-signified.” That
playfulness I fear I have not been able remotely to capture. Even so simple a word as “de”
carries a touch of play—hinting at both “of” and “from.” (I have once resorted to “from/of,”
where the playfulness seemed to ask for special recognition [page 269].) But that sort of
heavy-handedness cannot punctuate an entire text where “penser” (to think) carries within
itself and points at “panser” (to dress a wound); for does not thinking seek forever to clamp a
dressing over the gaping and violent wound of the impossibility of thought? The translation of
the title, suggesting “a piece of” as well as “about,” I have retained against expert counsel.
I began this preface by informing my readers that Derrida’s theory admitted—as it denied—a
preface by questioning the absolute repeatability of the text. It is now time to acknowledge
that his theory would likewise admit—as it denies—translation, by questioning the absolute
privilege of the original. Any act of reading is besieged and delivered by the precariousness of
intertextuality. And translation is, after all, one version of intertextuality.85 If there are no
unique words, if, as soon as a privileged concept-word emerges, it must be given over to the
chain of substitutions and to the “common language,” why should that act of substitution that
is translation be suspect? If the proper name or sovereign status of the author is as much a
barrier as a right of way, why should the translator’s position be secondary? It must now be
evident that, desiring to conserve the “original” (De la grammatologie) and seduced by the
freedom of the absence of a sovereign text (not only is there no Of Grammatology before
mine, but there have been as many translations of the text as readings, the text is infinitely
translatable), translation itself is in a double bind (see pages lxxvii–lxxviii).
And, from quite another point of view, most practically and rigorously speaking, both Derrida
and I being very roughly bilingual—his English a cut above my French—where does French
end and English begin?
((lxxxvii))
I shall not launch my philosophy of translation here. Instead I give you a glimpse of
Derrida’s:
Within the limits of its possibility, or its apparent possibility, translation practices the
difference between signified and signifier. But, if this difference is never pure, translation is
even less so, and a notion of transformation must be substituted for the notion of translation: a
regulated transformation of one language by another, of one text by another. We shall not have
and never have had to deal with some “transfer” of pure signifieds that the signifying instru-
ment—or “vehicle”—would leave virgin and intact, from one language to another, or within
one and the same language. (Pos 31)
“From one language to another, or within one and the same language.” Translation is a
version of the intertexuality that comes to bear also within the “same” language. Ergo .. .
Heidegger’s deconstructive (or “destructive”) method is often based on consideration of how
the so-called content of philosophy is affected by the exigencies of translation. Derrida writes
of this in “La différance” and “Ousia et grammè.” (MP 3–29, SP 129-60; MP 31–78) In the
latter example there is a double play: Heidegger laments the loss for philosophy when the lone
latin “presence” was pressed into service to translate the many nuanced Greek words
signifying philosophical shadings of the idea of presence. Derrida engages in the parallel
lament—how translate the many nuanced Heideggerian German words signifying
philosophical shadings of the idea of presence through the lone Romance “présence?” Der-
rida goes on to use the business of “mistranslations” as an effective deconstructive lever of his
own. The most sustained example is “La pharmacie de Platon,” where he appropriately asks:
why have translators obliterated the word “pharmakon” by providing a collection of different
words as its translated substitute?