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scribe all languages in general. It gains in universality, it favors trade and makes
communication “with other people who [speak] other languages” [p. 17] easier. But it is
perfectly enslaved to language in general the moment it liberates itself from all particular
languages. It is, in its principle, a uni-versal phonetic writing. Its neutral transparence allows
each language its proper form and its liberty. Alphabetic writing concerns itself only with pure
representers. It is a system of signifiers where the signifieds are signifiers: phonemes. The
circulation of signs is infinitely facilitated. Alphabetic writing is the mutest possible, for it
does not speak any language immediately. But, alien to the voice, it is more faithful to it and
represents it better.
This independence with regard to the empirical diversity of oral languages confirms a certain
autonomy of the growth of writing. Writing may not only be born earlier or later,
independently of the “duration of the people,” slowly or at one stroke; 24 in addition, it
implies no linguistic derivation. This is truer of the alphabet, bound to no particular language,
than of other systems. One may thus borrow graphic signs, make them safely emigrate outside
of their culture and their language of origin. “But though the Greek alphabet derives from the
Phoenoecian, it does not fol-low at all that the Greek language derives from the Phoenoecian”
[p. ao].
This movement of analytic abstraction in the circulation of arbitrary signs is quite parallel to
that within which money is constituted. Money replaces things by their signs, not only within
a society but from one culture to another, or from one economic organization to another. That
is why the alphabet is commercial, a trader. It must be understood within the monetary
moment of economic rationality. The critical description of money is the faithful reflection of
the discourse on writing. In both cases an anonymous supplement is substituted for the thing.
Just as the concept retains only the comparable element of diverse things, just as money gives
the “common measure” 25 to incommensurable objects in order to constitute them into
merchandise, so alphabetic writing transcribes heterogeneous signifieds within a system of
arbitrary and common signifiers: the living languages. It thus opens an aggression against the
life that it makes circulate. If “the sign has led to the neglect of the thing signified,” as Emile
26 says speaking of money, then the forgetfulness of things is greatest in the usage of those
perfectly abstract and arbitrary signs that are money and phonetic writing.
Following the same graphic, the alphabet introduces a supplementary degree of
representativity which marks the progress of analytic rationality. This time, the element
brought to light is a pure signifier (purely arbitrary), in itself nonsignifying. This
nonsignification is the negative, abstract, and formal aspect of universality or rationality. The
value of such a writing
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is therefore ambiguous. There was a natural universality of a sort in the most archaic degree
of writing: painting, as much as the alphabet, is not tied to any determined language. Capable
of reproducing all sensible being, it is a sort of universal writing. But its liberty with reference
to languages is due not to the distance which separates painting from its model but to the
imitative proximity which binds them. Under a universal appearance, painting would thus be
perfectly empirical, multiple, and changeful like the sensory units that it represents outside of
any code. By contrast, the ideal universality of phonetic writing is due to its infinite distance
with respect to the sound (the primary signified of that writing which marks it arbitrarily) and
to the meaning signified by the spoken word. Between these two poles, universality is lost. I
say between these two poles since, as I have con-firmed, pure pictography and pure
phonography are two ideas of reason. Ideas of pure presence: in the first case, presence of the
represented thing in its perfect imitation, and in the second, the self-presence of speech itself.
In both cases, the signifier tends to be effaced in the presence of the signified.
This ambiguity characterizes the evaluation that all metaphysics has imposed upon its own
writing since Plato. Rousseau’s text belongs to this history, articulating one of its remarkable
epochs. More rational, more exact, more precise, more clear, the writing of the voice
corresponds to a more efficient civil order. But in so far as it effaces itself better than another
before the possible presence of the voice, it represents it better and permits it to be absent with
the smallest loss. Faithful servant of speech, it is preferred to writings used by other societies,
but as a slave is preferred to a barbarian, fearing it at the same time as a machine of death.
For its rationality distances it from passion and song, that is to say from the living origin of
language. It progresses with the consonant. Correspond-ing to a better organization of social
institutions, it also gives the means of more easily doing without the sovereign presence of the
assembled people. It tends to restore natural dispersion. Writing naturalizes culture. It is that
precultural force which is at work as articulation within culture, working to efface a difference
which it has opened. Political rationality—the rationality of fact, and not the rationality whose
principle The Social Con-tract describes—favors writing and dispersion at the same time and
in the same movement.
The propagation of writing, the teaching of its rules, the production of its instruments and
objects, are considered by Rousseau to be an enterprise of political enslavement. That is what
one also reads in Tristes Tropiques. Certain governments are interested in having languages
muzzled, thus ensuring that one no longer speak to the soverign people. The abuse of writing
is a political abuse. The latter is rather the “reason” of the former:
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language, perfecting itself in books, is corrupted in discourse. It is clearer when one writes,
duller when one speaks, syntax is purified and harmony is lost, French becomes more
philosophic and less eloquent day by day, soon it will be good only for reading and all its
value will be in libraries.
The reason for this abuse lies, as I have submited elsewhere [in the last chapter of the Essay],
in the form that governments have taken and which results in our having nothing to say to