from the absence of a unified meaning, we shall catch at that word. If a metaphor seems to
suppress its implications, we shall catch at that metaphor. We shall follow its adventures
through the text and see the text coming undone as a structure of concealment, reveal-ing its
self-transgression, its undecidability. It must be emphasized that I am not speaking simply of
locating a moment of ambiguity or irony ultimately incorporated into the text’s system of
unified meaning but rather a moment that genuinely threatens to collapse that system. (It
should also be repeated that, although in the Grammatology Derrida fastens upon the word
[signifier, metaphor] “supplement” and related words in Rousseau’s text as his lever, once the
critic’s glance is allowed to play upon parts of words and the spacing of a page, the prising-
lever of undecidability may become much more elusive.) At any rate, the relationship between
the reinscribed text and the so-called original text is not that of patency and latency, but rather
the relationship between two palimpsests. The “original” text itself is that palimpsest on so-
called “pre”-texts that the critic might or might not be able to disclose and any original
inscription would still only be a trace: “Reading then resembles those X-ray pictures which
discover, under the epidermis of the last painting, another hidden picture:
((lxxvi))
of the same painter or another painter, no matter, who would himself, for want of materials, or
for a new effect, use the substance of an ancient canvas or conserve the fragment of a first
sketch” (Dis 397)
I have suggested that Derrida implicates himself in the Freudian procedure of attending to the
detail of a text. Here let me place, beside the metaphors of palimpsest and x-ray picture,
Freud’s own analogy—“though
I know that in these matters analogies never carry us very far”—for the distortion of the
psychic text:
[there are] various methods . . . for making [an undesirable] book innocuous. [Derrida would
transfer the analogy to the “undesirable” grammatological “threat” inhabiting every text.] One
way would be for the offending passages to be thickly crossed through so that they were
illegible. In that case they could not be transcribed, and the next copyist of the book would
produce a text which was unexceptionable but which had gaps in certain passages, and so
might be unintelligible in them. Another way . . . would be . . . to proceed to distort the text.
Single words would be left out or replaced by others, and new sentences interpolated. Best of
all, the whole passage would be erased and a new one which said exactly the opposite put in
its place.” (GW XVI. 81-8z, SE XXIII. 236; italics are mine)
(It is characteristic, of course, that Freud, who put the psyche under erasure, should, at the
same time, use a thoroughly “centric” sentiment to close the passage: “It no longer contained
what the author wanted to say.”)
The sense of the horizon of indefinite meaning, with the provisional anchor of the text never
given up, has led to a handful of spectacular readings. The two most adventurous are “La
double séance” (a reading of Mallarmé’s “Mimique”; Dis 199–317) and “La dissémination” (a
reading of Philippe Sollers’ Nombres; Dis 319–407). Those acts of controlled acrobatics are
difficult to match. Yet the reading of Phaedrus in “La pharmacie de Platon” (Dis 69–197) and
of The Essay on the Origin of Languages (235-445, X65–316), although less playful, seem
equally impressive.
Speaking of the hymen, Derrida emphasizes the role of the blank spaces of the page in the
play of meaning. Analogically, Derrida himself often devotes his attention to the text in its
margins, so to speak. He examines the minute particulars of an undecidable moment, nearly
imperceptible displacements, that might otherwise escape the reader’s eye. Reading Foucault,
he concentrates on three pages out of 673. Reading Rousseau, he chooses a text that is far
from “central.” Reading Heidegger, he proceeds to write a note on a note to Sein and Zeit.
His method, as he says to Jean-Louis Houdebine, perhaps a little too formulaically, is reversal
and displacement. It is not enough “simply to neutralize the binary oppositions of
metaphysics.” We must recognize that, within the familiar philosophical oppositions, there is
always “a violent
((lxxvii))
hierarchy. One of the two terms controls the other (axiologically, logically, etc.), holds the
superior position. To deconstruct the opposition is first .. . to overthrow [renverser] the
hierarchy.” (Pos F 57, Pos E. I. 36) To fight violence with violence. In the Grammatology this
structural phase would be represented by all those pages where, all apologies to the contrary,
the polemical energy seems clearly engaged in putting writing above speech. But in the next
phase of deconstruction, this reversal must be displaced, the winning term put under erasure.
The critic must make room for “the irruptive emergence of a new ‘concept,’ a concept which
no longer allows itself to be understood in terms of the previous regime [system of oppo-
sitions].” In terms of our book, this would be the aspect that “allows for the dissonant
emergence of a writing inside of speech, thus disorganizing all the received order and
invading the whole sphere of speech” (Pos E I. 36).
To locate the promising marginal text, to disclose the undecidable moment, to pry it loose
with the positive lever of the signifier; to reverse the resident hierarchy, only to displace it; to
dismantle in order to reconstitute what is always already inscribed. Deconstruction in a
nutshell. But take away the assurance of the text’s authority, the critic’s control, and the
primacy of meaning, and the possession of this formula does not guarantee much.
Why should we undo and redo a text at all? Why not assume that words and the author “mean
what they say?” It is a complex question. Here let us examine Derrida’s most recent
meditation upon the desire of deconstruction.
Derrida acknowledges that the desire of deconstruction may itself be-come a desire to
reappropriate the text actively through mastery, to show the text what it “does not know.” And
as she deconstructs, all protestations to the contrary, the critic necessarily assumes that she at
least, and for the time being, means what she says. Even the declaration of her vulnerability
must come, after all, in the controlling language of demonstration and reference. In other
words, the critic provisionally forgets that her own text is necessarily self-deconstructed,
always already a palimpsest.
The desire of deconstruction has also the opposite allure. Deconstruction seems to offer a way
out of the closure of knowledge. By inaugurating the open-ended indefiniteness of textuality
—by thus “placing in the abyss” (mettre en abîme), as the French expression would literally
have it—it shows us the lure of the abyss as freedom. The fall into the abyss of de-
construction inspires us with as much pleasure as fear. We are intoxicated with the prospect of
never hitting bottom.