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Derrida
Derrida
Abrams, 1912-)
Critical philosopher and cultural historian. Abrams received HA, MA and Ph.D. from
Harvard and has taught since 1945 at Cornell, He is known for the editorship of The
Norton Anthology of English Literature, for his contribution to literary history
and history of ideas in The Mirror and the Lamp (1953) and, to the delight of the
literature students, for A Glossary of Literary Terms (1971). Abrams writings
display well his breadth of knowledge, as exemplified in the following essay
(1971), a response to "a tendency in contemporary American criticism toward
ideological monism as well as to deprecating the usefulness of knowledge of the
intellectual tradition of East and West (the socalled canon) and questioning the
virtues of pluralistic humanism. "
It is often said that Derrida and those who follow his lead subordinate all
inquiries to a prior inquiry into language. This is true enough, but not specific
enough, for it does not distinguish Derrida's work from what Richard Rorty calls
"the linguistic turn" which characterizes modern Anglo-American philosophy and also
a great part of Anglo-American literary criticism, including the "New Criticism,"
of the last half-century. What is distinctive about Derrida is first that, like
other French structuralists, he shifts his inquiry from language to ecriture, the
written or printed text; and second that he conceives a test in an extraordinarily
limited fashion.
By this bold move Derrida puts out of play, before the game even begins, every
source of norms, controls, or indicators which, in the ordinary use and experience
of language, set a limit to what we can mean and what we can be understood to mean.
Since the only givens are already-existing marks, "deja ecrit," we are denied
recourse to a speaking or writing subject, or ego, or cogito, or consciousness, and
so to any possible agency for the intention of meaning something ("vouloir dire");
all such agencies are relegated to the status of fictions generated by language,
readily dissolved by deconstructivc analysis. By this move he leaves us no place
for referring to how we learn to speak, understand, or read language, and how, by
interaction with more competent users and by our own developing experience with
language, we come to recognize and correct our mistakes in speaking or
understanding. The author is translated by Derrida (when he's not speaking in the
momentary shorthand of traditional fictions) to a status as one more mark among
other marks, placed at the head or the end of a text or set of texts, which are
denominated as "bodies of work identified according to the "proper name' of a
signature." Even syntax, the organization of words into a significant sentence, is
given no role in determining the meanings of component words, for according to the
graphocentric model, when we look at a page we sec no organization but only a
"chain" of grouped marks, a sequence of individual signs.
It is the notion of "the sign" that allows Derrida a limited opening out of his
premises. For he brings to a text the knowledge that the marks on a page are not
random markings, but signs, and that a sign has a dual aspect as signifier and
signified, signal and concept, or mark-withmeaning. But these meanings, when we
look at a page, are not there, either as physical or mental presences. To account
for significance, Derrida turns to a highly specialized and elaborated use of
Saussure's notion that the identity cither of the sound or of the signification of
a sign does not consist in a positive attribute, but in a negative (or relational)
attribute — this is, its "difference," or differentiability, from other sounds and
other significations within a particular linguistic system. This notion of
difference is readily available to Derrida, because inspection of the printed page
shows that some marks and sets of marks repeat each other, but that others differ
from each other. In Derrida's theory "difference" — not "the difference between a
and b and c..." but simply "difference" in itself — supplements the static elements
of a text with an essential operative term, and as such (somewhat in the fashion of
the term "negativity" in the dialectic of Hegel) it performs prodigies. For
"difference" puts into motion the incessant play (jeu) of signification that goes
on within the seeming immobility of the marks on the printed page.
What Derrida's conclusion comes to is that no sign or chain of signs can have a
determinate meaning. But it seems to me that Derrida reaches this conclusion by a
process which, in its own way, is no less dependent on an origin, ground, and end,
and which is no less remorselessly "ideological," than the most rigorous of the
metaphysical systems that he uses his conclusions to deconstruct. His origin and
ground are his graphocentric premises, the closed chamber of texts for which he
invites us to abandon our ordinary realm of experience in speaking, hearing,
reading, and understanding language. And from such a beginning we move to a
foregone conclusion. For Derrida's chamber of texts is a sealed echo-chamber in
which meanings arc reduced to a ceaseless echolalia, a vertical and lateral
reverberation from sign to sign of ghostly nonpresences emanating from no voice,
intended by no one, referring to nothing, bombinating in a void.
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