Fare Well My Loves, Derrida, &c, Cixous. Part I

De Bobine Déjà Derrière

.

…………..

Fare Well My Loves,

Derrida, &c, Cixous

…..

Part I

.

How do weou[1] write the writings of Derrida and Cixous? One dead, one living, as always was.

What do all those words mean? For a hypersolipsistic mew?[2] Does solus or ipse dream of hyper?

Of course theus—&c—do not. Re-fuse splits, thwey writes, yes. Never to be one never which it is.

Should Iwe therefore therefore? Where to start? The naïve is dead and buried.  And living, in fury.

Let us start. As old but not believing in “just being born.” What would this mean?

As old but not believing in “just being born.” What would this mean? For D&C, &c?

Thwey must throw theusselves headlong into the. A the without the without of indefinite article a.

Thenceforward, the definite article might relude its markings as reproposed transcendental index.[3]

§1.   Let meus try writing this study that Iou did. Iou never say that it was not already written; it was. But to represent it; how do wou do that? Let theus say: why talk about an immanent that gets transcendental and a transcendental that gets immanent? Remadental, ‘remadentalism’—rather? The re opens from life and from death, what is so called to look clearer into our blurred phantasies. Why not? The re and the im and the last body of the transcendental. As if it is not enough that Plato talks of hermself, so many do: even Badiou and Deleuze, outspoken so, others inspoken so: Nancy, Rancière, Agamben, Negri, Badiou, and many-many others. And older: old Russell, dead for along: footnotes se said, footnotes to Plato, the wrider╫reater Derrida said, but trying inverting the picture, in hers mailed Postcard. Autobiography/autothanatography, both of which must dance with the other to write this or that “side.”

§ 2.   From his death could he possibly reach Cixous alive by bottle-mail; the impossibility the condition of the possible arrival, so. Always already dead; always already alive, a-live, to life twone would perhaps wridereat. But from where? From already death everywhere, or from a life without sides always immanent staying alive shivering in its loively gressing towards itself? How could wou decide, if not only so by endlessly deferred recisions? Aggressing towards Deleuze’s testament Immanence: A Life; should wou ask where that immanence resides, testified witnessing as it seeks, an a life which by recourse to another dead Charles Dickens testnessing to an a of life that is said to be an index of the transcendental? What would such immanence, if it were, if since there is no way out of the if as of yet and the yet-to-come, say to the between of the love struggle between D and C? Would it not mean that being reached by Derrida’s dead hand Cixous might die, no, already have died, along time ago? Question. And that Derrida did not in fact die if it seemed so to the all of wyeus. Aggress the address. That is that in which both D&C agrees, regrees.

§ 3.   Wou will, therefore, take leave of immanent a life. D&C are not there, but taking note that are is not simply of life or death nor of compossibility of life and death, precisely not. Iou would believe that such is what Iou mean.

§ 4.   So whence do theus wreat? Would not deathD and aliveC—from now on iterated, respectively, Derreath and AliCe—wreat each other from the dream of idealiter, neither life nor death, as commonly understood, and so neither in transcendent nor immanent manners. Even if the banal was it, the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so god help mew, was it, then, meaning the square impossibility of straight death and straight life to interstice, it would not necessitate not doing what wou will overtake here: such banality, if it were the case, would contrafact its impossibility, would make the impossible necessary. If is as vast a thought as it is a life-death; if there is a the it is if: then is putting a halt to, asphalting the the with an n.

§ 5.   Logic is stupid stubborn asphalt: naïve, having just been born time and again, the blank nothing in between hollowed out as if it really happened nothing. Laying itself over what comes and comes, laying down its biblos, having automobiles write very agreeable. It has already started, though, but not in what is named past, perhaps—perhaps, rather that ‘dangerous maybe’ of Nietzsche—neither in what is named future, but rather in what-is-to-come—says DerreathandAliCe, derreathandalice. Out of nothing the nothing in life and the nothing in death come: nothing is never everything, anything, simpliciter, but the impossible possible of everything, anything. Everything is and was a history of error. Writing, when you in fact write, upon a biblion, be it in whatever color precisely, then, that act is evidence of traces of grammas—mourceau, quoting-cutting teeth—of nothing cutting into the bolster of lifedeath, the derreathandalice of lifeath. Black traces, commonly so black yes, but what does matter is the growing through asphalts: “scars,” “wounds,” “non-healable,” never saying: I do not know what a whole is; rather and never saying: it is not whole.

§ 6.   Weou have even tried to bolster this fact by inventing terms, small sweet ritornellos, saying, singing, scars, wounds, unhealables, wholes, healing and holes: and truth and nontruth and falseness and veridicality: AND &c. Writing knows nothing of this, never knew, never will: it writes on what weou call either-life-or-death. Kierkegaard knew nothing of this; he never wrote, in this sense. Now weou wreat D&C. Weou have several texts texting this text: for instance: The Instant of My Death—Demeure; The Writing Notebooks; Geneses, Genealogies, Genres & Genius: The Secrets of the Archive; Dream I Tell You; The Gift of Death; Portrait of Jacques Derrida as A Jewish Saint; C.H. for Life, That Is to Say . . . .[4] Iou will ignore idiotic bookronology; why should grammas from nothing do sober caress to successionality, succudere: “go under, follow after,” sing subordinately, succentor-like? The différance of writing knows nothing of succumbing to time or space; rather the spacing, and the temporization, the blank creation out of nothing, the interval of becoming-space of time and becoming-time of space. Neither Book nor Kronos catches up with that, even how much it is tried: now for hundreds of hundreds of years of years. Denegation produces, duces pro, the wooden surface—or the biblos—upon which writing inserts itself, systematized, with these and those and only these and those letters and notations and rules and non else, exercising its hand as the legislative and performative and constative archē of everything. Precisely not anything—which would not even slip out of the GodHand as it never were there to begin with and as it never “began”—but every thing of every thing. Such is a proud but inexperienced hand, still fascinated by its discovery of its possibilities. The hand that discovers that a book may be written from two or more sides matures, perhaps as a “strictured” texture.

§ 7.   Wi will play reverse: turn time again and again; reversibility is not what is at stake here, far from it. Rather the turn iterating, feeding on its possibly always possible to-come. Add: as when C says that the dream wakes her up to take notice and thought of it, wI will play the D&Cdream that wakes yus up just to have it written, the conversation, no, one of the converse mourceaus theus might have to come some the. Now, thoese [thøz] mourceaus will therefore have to be let into the nothing writing right here on enlightened fluids of electronics, so making darkness complete redundant, superfluous, supernumerous.

§ 8.   But let mew start with the The Postcard: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond[5]: the to the beyond might always be to this C. S/he is Beyond—D might just as well wreat. Beyond hirs married in Uncle Sigismundis, the world-Id. S/he wreats that s/he is beyond. So what is beyond in the postcard? Which is Plato and which is Socrates here? Who is dictating from whose back? First for all, for derreathandalice from back from behind is irreducibly irradicalized: it matter not who wreats, as only it is wreatt and insofar as it is not id or it. The pen channels, ducts, nothing in life-as-in-death, lifeath, deafe, irs and errs all roots.

§ 9.   Even if Bobine Déjà Derrière is already left behind it still means not past but what is to come; what amortizes to nothing is not a property of what amortizes but as to the how of weus throwing and threw onto the thorough-nothing, nothing else AliCerreath.

§ 10.   Iou will henceforth dream work through the, namely: the &c that is to come forth from DerreathandaliCe’s nothing-pens.

I burst the sac of waters . And as soon as I burst it

clack – the head came bearing down, that caused haemostasis

It was over there was no more blood

It’s a very simple act, but one needs to know it – (WN, 38)

Haemostasis-Clack—Death—Simple—Know. As D says, C knows death as anybody else—but s/he is for life, without side, accepting no sides whatsoever, siding life. On this side of life there are no longer anymore sides. That is to say: ‘. . ..’ What looks forth from those three dots, the pointed homeostases, from the—the derrière?

§ 11.   AliCe knows what is in life also is death and no more blood. Perhaps even better than anyone else—as Derrida admits, somewhere, anywhere.

§ 12.   The three dots, that is to say, ‘. . . ,’ which is to say, the “dothings.”  The Nothing comes forth, discretely but pointedly—by appointment. Or was it repointment? The point: the easiest iterable measure wou know of—simple, but one needs to know it. Minimum effort from nothing, which is all wou know; how could wou ever believe that we could dam up nothing? Even the question-mark marks a dot of nothing; the u-turn ends, somewhere, giving up, giving in, bending the one so before proud head and capita—“it turned out empty”: pointing in resignation to the nothing-point. It is on earth that one questions, relentlessly. It says: it will be re-signed, it is learned. It is to be repeated—be sure. The dots come recessantly; our Being-and-Truth filters are not water-tight; Nothing slips in, precisely where weou thought weou had said it, satiated the dream of the satiable—the—period: ..

§ 13.   See ‘See-ee-ee-ee’; what happens to myour mouth and what not, untranslatable?

§ 14.   The ‘period,’ a going around, as they say, a rounded surface. Of course we have wanted to round up “the whole thing.” The period is a ‘.’ and a Greek vase, rounded around a void. With a ..

[…History is the history of Nothing the dots and all the other grammas write. As wou write incessantly, writing on Being and such, Nothing writes even more insistent never to be subdued. Derrida dreams about Husserl’s parallelisms as if the great parallel empirical-transcendental constituted all hirs writing, dreams that the parallel has no substance, is no thing, approaching a certain nothing. What separates our thought and experience is nothing. He says so in A Taste for the Secret. There is also a certain parallelism here: the more we write against nothing the more nothing gets realized—and not only in linguistic writing. Being insistent on Being is the biggest, fastest catalyst for Nothing coming forth as such, that is the Dream I Tell Wou… We have simulation machines now, virtuality, and what separates or parallels is a certain nothing, a nothing that denegates denigrates the Nothing of Anything, installing Homo Iteratiens in a bubble to save it from itself—so to speak. Nonetheless, virtuality co-constitutes writing as such.]

§ 15.   And so wou think that to mark that period it would be wise to chose the smallest thing possible to say the period and the periodized period—because it seems they come in waves, always flowing in; after all not everything was said after all. The airplane is no different from the dot from distance:

A niece two years something says into Skype.com, today:

Hur går det med er på flygplanet? [How are you doing in the airplane?]

Wou fell of the air-bed slept on, flying

Every night before sleep s/he requires her mother to tell the news from us in the US

S/he tells hirs Kindergarten-friends that she got SMS’s from the US

s/he can not understand; it is in English wou know s/he tells

S/hwe are sending SMS from US, each and every night; wou live there, somehow, an SMS-plane

[Bobine Déjà Derrière, p.]

. . .  . . . . . .     . .   .    . . . . . .    . . . . . . . .   . [smile holes, those around . . .    . . . . . . . . . . .    . .      . . . . .

. . .    . . .   . .  .    . . . . . on both sides of the lips and the mouth]   .   . . . .   . . . . .    . . . . . . . . . .   . . . . . .

§ 16.   “See him wondering to himself, I mean running after, pursuing himself, a runner on two tracks turning in opposite directions in this internal inadequacy that tears him apart, divorces him from himself, caught between I-don’t-believe-so and I’d-like-to-believe-what-I-don’t-believe, torn, I say, but not decided. Divided, to his immense distress but not dogmatic, and hence not irreparable. Between him the subtle fabric of textuality tenders its thinking network, holding the lips of the wounds together by means of signifying subterfuges. He tries to catch up with himself, he runs after himself he brings relief, he is the hero and thinker of contretemps,” writes Portrait of Jacques Derrida as a Young Jewish Saint (40)—a very condensed portrait that has traits of truth to it. But does one really need to be reparably distressed when ones name is Derreath, not being able—however much one “would that it might”—to believe in life for life such as AliCe? Not only does one not need to; one could also affirm life and anything just as much and also more and also more or less as she believes she does.

§ 17.   But I would be reticent with the claim that since he is not dogmatic his distress and division is not irreparable; as Derreath writes Nothing, it seems to me that there is an irreducible irreparability in his thought, that no thing might tender—the word-wounds is never hold together by no lips and what not; it is there—here—plain to see: see, here. And Derreath got right about his belief in non-belief; he died ten eighth. 10/8. [Auto-immunity?] And Derreath got right about his belief in non-belief; vividly he is still vividly read, in life. And so there is the absolute nonlipmouth as he wrote, performatively, afformatively, no firm ground, none lips, firmament.

§ 18.   After Derreath died he proved his point; now he is split to an even greater extent, ever more irreparably so—and this he know and lives and dies and wreats. There is no reparation except for its re-paration: the impossible reparation repeats itself in the re-paration of any reparationability, and this is what keeps it going saying yes yes. In this sense he has never talked of anything other than what wou call life and living, re-spect(er)ing it like few else.

§ 19.   I think this is where DerreathandAliCe met at that café Balzac? Now, AliCe also writes about ‘wounds’ and ‘immense distress’ in the double(d) long-distance runner Derreath. But are wou really granted that there are wounds here? Would D ever say such? When deconstruction and the motif of différance got written nothing were more far away than wounds, being wounded; no, Derreath writes of the most intense and affi/ormative enjoyment, the very life of writing, its keeping on its grammajoy. Is not the very term ‘wound’ too heavy, too burdened with a certain metaphysics, burdened by a nostalgia of the Golden Age: something whole got lost, and falled, and failed—as with the Greech [gr-speech] ēpimētheia and promētheia, or, or else you may prefer what Genesis you would like to. This sentimentality is still with modernity when it imagines—mēkhanē—itself, always gazing at Zeus: “modernity is the so far gravest inflictor of wounds, and art, literature, science, philosophy, and politics witness this.”

§ 20.   And AliCe also writes about ‘signifying subterfuges.’ Weou must read that as carefully as possible. A ‘subterfuge’ composes the ‘subter’—below, in secret—and the ‘fugere’—2flee, take flight. Wi are really not so sure that this is the, are wI? The Comprehensive says about ‘subterfuge’: “That to which one resorts for escape or concealment; an evasion of an issue; a plan to avoid censure; a false excuse.”[6] How can C put such into the dream work and work dream of DerreathandAliCe, how? How does “life” wreat “death” in this way?

§ 21.   Is this the lifeath, deafe?: Eathde-—-felif – – – defe -—-ifeath. Myour objections will have to be parenthesisized.

§ 22.   C must wreat D otherwise than this, must C not? But preliminary let it be said this much: but as the lifeath-deafe tells of language’s ways, its impossibility being one, so perhaps we should wreat C’s DC? What is hirs derream? Would she find there Derreath’s belief in the parallel of nothing, or would she feel haunted and killed by it, two jaws from an utterly split GrizzlyUniverse smacking its teeth? Would C’s whole-non-sided-life be that? Feeding the Grizzly?

§ 23.   I dreamember once a big bear I tried to escape. There was a huge wall, too smooth, not to climb on, and certainly not to get by on its sides as I not even dreamed of that, not to climb on, then, as if I even could fathom where it ended up there high up in the sky, and a tiny window high up perhaps big enough to bring me through. There it was. I ran having my heels snapped at by that furiously raging bear. I jumped up got a hold on the window frame climbed in almost there, it was little, only a fraction big enough for my body. Then. I woke up touching my face, because I remembered so vividly that while in the midst of the window wondering with face first how not to smash my face in the landing the bear all of sudden mysteriously appeared in front of me on that other side of the wall putting my whole head inside its jaws and teeth piercing my head.

§ 24.   Was the window the parallel, the impossible passage, the Nothing? For C we must ask: How does life approach death and how does death approach death? Surely not symmetrical. Derrida says death is life; Nietzsche said life was an odd and utterly rare exception of the anorganic and the dead. D says in-life that death is in life, inseparably integrated, not even integrated since such an operation implies former more original atoms: no life without death, as when no meaning, ideality, is separable from absolute absence, death, dissemination, general iterability. C says death is, but not of life for life in life. As for D’s death and life wou cannot even say ‘integrating’ or ‘sharing’ or something of the like, implying as it does an original separateness; wou have to think what is thought to be ‘the-two-of-them’ as neither two nor one, and that they never were such, that they never will be, and two as structural resistance in search of the Monarch of a Transcendental Signified Dignified to structural différance, this resistance being there from the beginning, the originary naivety that makes all other naiveties untenable, impossible.

§ 25.   Weou have to try think, therefore, lifeath-deafe/deafe-lifeath. Weou see here that language by its very structure—e.g. in terms of its structural irreducible sequentiality: a, b, c,—makes D’s thought impossible, the experience of the impossible; spacing, e.g., is necessary for language to be language, but it structures language in ways that invariably is sequential, e.g., therefore making it impossible to actually write différance, but equally, by dint of structural irony, I think, this very structure in the end writes the impossibility of both one and two; so the-more-and-less than one is written anyway, then, with a discrete smile on its lips, that always come through to mew, and is surely not a writer that writes this; it is insuppressible nothing smiling trough every grapheme: like this smile: smile, through the italics even—a systematically tilted smile, towards right, leaning on something there, invisible, in or on the biblos, to the right of the grammas, to make sure the sureness of style and vocation and character and decision.

§ 26.   Now, this is a difference of innumerable dimensions between the two of D&C, derreathandalice. And this is the general element of their discourse. This is how the nothing “writing” in mew see this anyway, inevitably, whether wou like it or not, smiling like no other. Always changing its smile, due to laws of general iterability. The structure of writing—and even the great metaphysician Husserl admitted that writing is the condition without which there can be no ideality, no meaning, no science, idealiter, etc.—makes the im-possible of what Derreath wrote-writing-tried-to-write-still-writes.

§ 27.   Only futurist causality can make C&D appear as dreaming each other in those texts. C is the ever-coming life of futuricity; D the futuricity as death and absence and nothing. Here it seems that we approach something that is before both life and death. Before, but always in the sense of coming, whether it actually comes to pass or not or never; the ‘who could know?’ is what clears open up that possibility and necessity of there being admitted that figure of the never-to-come. And only this can effectively recognize chance, dedefeatism, difference, eleation, event, change, luck, justice, responsibility, politics, hospitality, future, etc. Derridadaicity.

§ 28.   There is nothing but writing, in a certain sense, but writing uses a space a blank space, an ignorant biblion, bibliophoros, what carries letters; it has to space in order to be in the writing of its writing. The blank space is also the fortress buttressing, then by spacing writing all it can, against the Nothing that Derreath traces in Husserl but that just as well might be directly related to writing written here as Iou have wrote.

§ 29.   There are at least six things to remember here: first the almost immediate Nothing in the very banal concreteness of the blank, the spacing, and the grammas; second the Nothing that the writer faces faced toward the paper and screen; third the Nothing between the intended writer and the intended reader; fourth the Nothing the reader faces looking into those spaced grammas; fifth the Nothing that ships texts out with no possible addressee; and sixth that Nothing that says that total death and absence is the very condition of possibility of there being decipherable texts.

§ 30.   Wou can tattoo, dance, run and swim, make love, kill, type, write, whatever you do: it all has to face these Nothings. In view of this wou we see how even the notion of a parallel does not simply exist, does never exist, is a dream of resistance against what in its very principle affirms all resistances! In Derreath there is erring, error, irring, irradix, just to affirm, not life, for life is not all itself by itself as if such a thing could ever be imagined by us the dreams of the DerreathandaliCes, but death and all that it gives no matter how much the wreader tries to have gifts of death refused and frightening.

§ 31.   Refusal of dneathing makes its gifts frightening; there is a not paranoid wreating that writes on the fringes of the Parallel Nothing Deafe. It writes, thearing tears of joy, a mouth without lips marginalizing—this is what the Nothing is. The blank spaces and the spacings and temporizations—the split “parallel” of différance—do not in the least indicate lipping, quite the contrary. It is not even open, beyond any door of oikos and economology, beyond that hospitality which implies doors, steps, windows, borders and such. It is not even affirmative—if by ‘affirmation’ wyou means something that requires there to be something, in advance, already there, to be grasped retrospectively and radically, to be affirmable, deserving it, or not, depending on this or that context and motivation.

To be continued…


[1] ‘Weou’ is whatever might be between we and you.

[2] ‘Mew’ is whatever might be between me and you. And so on it goes. Without any ism of monarchic etceterism, still. With an univocity that is irradically precarious.

[3] What comes in this text will break some rules, but only so for affirming and celebrating its iterable resourcables. It will breach and conjunct, as /she/he/it/, or shit, pleases. Try writing write mew.

[4] J.D., The Instant Of My Death—Demeure: Fiction and Testimony, trans. Elisabeth Rottenberg (Stanford University Press, 2000[originally published 1998]), hereafter abbreviated D; H.C., The Writing Notebooks, ed. and trans. Susan Sellers (Continuum, 2004 [or. pub. 2004]), abbreviated N; J.D., Genes, Genealogies, Genres & Genius: The Secrets of the Archive, trans. Beverley Bie Brahic (Columbia University Press, 2006 [2003]), GGGG; H.C., Dream I Tell You, trans. Beverley Bie Brahic (Columbia University Press, 2006 [2003]), DITY; J.D., The Gift of Death, trans. David Willis (The University of Chicago Press, 1995 [1992]), GD; H.C., Portrait Of Jacques Derrida as a Young Jewish Saint, trans. Beverley Bie Brahic (Columbia University Press, 2004 [2001]), PJD; J.D., H.C. for Life, That is to say…, trans. Laurent Milesi and Stefan Herbrechter (Stanford University Press, 2006 [2000]), HCL.

[5] Jacques Derrida, The Postcard: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond, trans. Alan Bass (University of Chicago Press, 1987).

[6] Webster’s Comprehensive Dictionary (Trident Press International, 2003), p. 1250.

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