Word and Confinement : Subjectivity in "Classical" Discourse
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Title: Word and confinement : subjectivity in "classical" discourse Author: Tadeusz Rachwał Citation style: Rachwał Tadeusz. (1992). Word and confinement : subjectivity in "classical" discourse. Katowice : Uniwersytet Śląski Word & Confinement Subjectivity in ‘Classical’ Discourse Prace Naukowe Uniwersytetu Śląskiego w Katowicach nr 1165 TADEUSZ RACHWAŁ ord & Confinement Subjectivity in ‘Classical’ Discourse Uniwersytet Śląski Katowice 1992 Editor of the Series: History of Foreign Literatures ALEKSANDER ABŁAMOWICZ Reviewer ANDRZEJ KOPCEWICZ Preface ......... 7 PART I: Introductory ....... 21 PART II: Milton’s Temple ...... 44 PART III: From Swift to Pope ...... 60 PART IV: Kit Smart’s Writing . .115 Postscript: (A Conclusion) 150 Bibliography .152 Summary in Polish . .157 Summary in French . .158 The difference between entities (prose and poetry, man and woman, literature and theory, guilt and innocence) are shown to be based on a repression of differences within entities, ways in which an entity differs from itself. (Barbara Johnson — The Critical Difference) reface If it is at last possible to speak of power, of sexuality, of the body, of discipline [...] and about their slightest metamorphoses, it is because, somewhere, all this is already over and done with. (Jean Baudrillard, Oublier Foucault) In writing about discourse, about the irregular network of texts that constitute the archives not only of human knowledge, not only of what people know, but which are also the record of the ways people think and know the world, there are always a number of risks whose reduction is actually unthinkable. In reading a text, in writing about it, one cannot confine oneself to its seemingly safe and unquestionable totality, to the ideal totality of the book as the fullness of the signified — whatever name the signified is given: meaning, intention, reference — and thus to evade the “intrusion” of something from the outside of the text into the reading. Hence the risk of what one might call a “misreading,” of reading “into” the text what is not there.1 The faith that there is some safe and stable space in writing, the faith that the risk of misreading a text can be avoided and must be avoided actually consists in a reduction of the text to its inside, to a pure and simple presence with its beginning and an end. Jacques Derrida, the French thinker whose name will frequently appear in these (but why not those?) pages, calls this faith a “meta physics of presence,” a tendency to treat all kinds of writing as only a means which is controlled and regulated by the truth beyond it. A small change of perspective, however, a certain deconstruction of the obviousness of this 1 Cf. P. de Man, “Nietzsche’s Theory of Rhetoric,” Symposium 28 (Spring 1974), p. 50; H. Bloom, A Map o f Misreading (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975); R. Crosman, “Is there Such a Thing as Misreading,” in J. Hawthorn, ed., Criticism and Critical Theory (London, 1984); F. Lentricchia, After the New Criticism (Chicago, 1980), pp. 185— 186. metaphysics, renders the absolute distinction between the text and its outside, the “main body” and its margins, footnotes and supplements, what there is and what there is not, at least questionable. With the acceptance of this new perspective the risk of the error of misreading becomes a practice o f that error, a practice in the midst of uncertainty. This different perspective is not a simple “relativization” of the text and its truth. To say that something is relative is to necessarily introduce some stable basis of comparison, a something to which the relative something is relative. This is the case, among others, of what is called “subjectivism,” the mode of thinking whose particular readings, or interpretations, are relative, but whose relativity poses at least two unquestionable entities: that of the true meaning of the text which only gets distorted in the act of interpretation, and that of the human subject. In the perspective which accepts misreading, in which all reading is misreading, all the mysterious insides and depths are located on the surface, on the page of the text on which the whiteness of paper, the unwritten, can be read as well as what is written. The margin, “the written’s” other, becomes equally worth looking at as the words, and the space is thus opened where also the outsides of the margins — the margins of the margins — intervene. Within this perspective the totality of the text, of the book, is not so much beyond one’s reach as it is unthinkable.2 This is one of the reasons why I could not decide whether the pages I wrote about above should be “these” or “those.” This is also why to say that “the present text is about...” is not a simple statement of a text’s aim or content, but a statement dictated by a certain silence, by the silent and uncritical assumption that there is a presence. To write that “the present text is about ...” is also a gesture in which one mistrusts what one actually wrote. Such a statement promises, and simultaneous ly summarizes, what there is in the text, but it also assumes the possibility of there being an error in the language of the text, in the writing which might fail to properly render the “real” thought of its author. The author knows that his language might fail him, but he also confidently believes that there is something that in fact speaks by itself; some unique truth he really wants to communicate. Error is thus relegated to the sphere of potential absence, to the sphere of something corrigible and adjustable to the requirements of a truth or of a meaning. This error is something to be eradicated and never to be positively affirmed. With the change of perspective, with its deconstruction, it is not error in opposition to truth that is being embraced, but error inscribed within any idea of totality, within any presence or completeness pure and simple, and discernible upon the erroneous surface of writing, of the signifier, of the word. “There will be no unique name,” says Derrida, 2 “The idea of the book is the idea of a totality, finite or infinite, of the signifier, this totality of the signifier cannot be a totality, unless a totality constituted by the signified preexists it, supervises its inscriptions and its signs, and is independent of it in its ideality.” J. Derrida, O f Grammatology, trans. G. Spivak (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), p. 18. even if it were the name of Being. And we must think this without nostalgia, that is outside the myth of a purely maternal or paternal language, a lost native country of thought. On the contrary, we must affirm this, in the sense in which Nietzsche puts affirmation into play, in a certain laughter, and a certain step of dance.3 The nostalgia for a presence, for a meaning as natural as the human voice, dematerializes all human expression, expels, or erases, writing from the realm of the primary human concern as the secondary system of signs. For Terry Eagleton it is in this refusal of the materiality of the sign, the uneradicable nostalgia for a transcendental source of meaning anterior to, and constitutive of all sign systems, that Derrida finds the Western tradition most deeply marked by idealism. The speaking voice [...] opens a passage to the equivalent “naturalness” of its signata — a passage blocked by the materiality of script, which (for this lineage) is thus destined to remain external to the spontaneous springs of meaning.4 The whole history of philosophy, “from Plato to Nato,” renders philosophy as a struggle against its necessarily being written. “Philosophy,” as Richard Rorty notices, “is a kind of writing which would like not to be a kind of writing [...] philosophers would like not to write, but just to show.” 5 Writing about discourse, writing about writing, about word and its confinement one cannot avoid writing about philosophy, about confinement to truth. One cannot thus write the truth of this confinement, but can only trace the history of its truths, the history of the ways in which the error of writing was censored, paradoxically, by and in writing, in texts and books which now must be looked at without the silent assumption that they are texts or books about something obvious and easily classifiable — philosophy or literature — without the assumption that they can speak to us only as wholes classified into proper genres. This history cannot thus be a history of philosophy, or a history of literature because in what this history looks at all such categories must be questioned — not in order to be denied, but in order to trace how their existence has become thinkable. Discourse is thus not a stable object of one’s gaze, an object within which such categories as philosophy, literature, politics, truth, fiction, etc., have been established once and for all, but it is a space upon whose surface there is something more. This “more,” according to Michel Foucault, can be made available if we no longer treat discourses as 3 J. Derrida, Margins o f Philosophy, trans. A. Bass (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1984), p. 27. 4 T. Eagleton, Walter Benjamin, or Towards a Revolutionary Criticism (London, 1981), p. 13. 5 R. Rorty, “Philosophy as a Kind of Writing: An Essay on Derrida,” New Literary History. 10 (1978), p. 156. groups of signs [...] but as practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak. Of course, discourses are composed of signs, but what they do is more than use these signs to designate things. It is this more that renders them irreducible to language (longue) and speech (parole).