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International Philosophical Quarterly, vol. 43, no.3, no. 171 (September 2003)
“Writing is the anguish of the Hebraic ruah, experienced in solitude by human responsibility.
“Le sens enseveli se meut et dispose, en choeur, des feuillets.” Stéphane Mallarmé,
Introduction
I want to give thought to the inscriptions that remind us of the Holocaust, the
Shoah, in Derrida's writing, reading his texts in a way that lets us recollect it from what
remains: cinders of fire, traces of darkness, shadows on the page. I would like to
demonstrate the peculiar configurations of presence and absence through which the Jewish
Derrida was born in Algeria, born into a Jewish family. Although living far from the
center of the Holocaust, he was deeply affected by it, and suffered certain displacements on
the margins of its terror. "I often feel," he said, once, in an interview, "that the questions I
attempt to formulate on the outskirts of the Greek philosophical tradition have as their
'other' the model of the Jew, that is, the Jew-as-other. And yet the paradox is that I have
never actually invoked the Jewish tradition in any 'rooted' or direct manner. Though I was
born a Jew, I do not work or think within a living Jewish tradition. So that if there is a
Judaic dimension to my thinking which may from time to time have spoken in or through
me, this has never assumed the form of an explicit fidelity or debt to that culture."3 I do not
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dispute this point; but I will show the influence—an influence that continues to increase—
that Jewish culture and Jewish historical experience have had on Derrida's thought and work.
I want to suggest that in fact what we might call his "philosophical project", even the
very categories or vocabulary out of which he has wrought his reflections, may be read as
deriving from his experience as a Jew and as bearing importantly on the past and present
historical situation of the Jewish people. Many of the words in Derrida's work remind us
that the Jews were for thousands of years a people living in exile from their promised land.
Living in dispersal, living in dissemination, living on the margins of cultures, suffering the
sameness, Jews learned to live in a despair mixed with hope, accepting the deferral of the
Messiah's coming. And throughout their years of enslavement and bondage, they nurtured
their love of freedom and their respect for the other, and stubbornly preserved their
I will also suggest that much of what Derrida has to say in his writings bears
essentialism, cultural purity, violence, the obligation to engage hermeneutics and undertake
Derrida makes visible the terrible connections between, on the one hand, the Western
dualism, but also a discourse of humanism and Enlightenment, and, on the other, the history
of nationalism and racism, of states formed in the images of fascism, totalitarianism, and
authoritarianism. I will argue that Derrida accordingly sets out to deconstruct these
3
discourses, to reveal their latent violence, cruelty, hatred of the other and the different, and
that, even in texts not explicitly or directly concerned with the Holocaust—in philosophical
texts, for example, on structuralism—Derrida forces us to face the terror of the Holocaust
and the fate of its victims, weaving the marks, traces, signatures, and shadows that tell of its
As we shall see, Derrida has written about the Holocaust (the Hebrew word is
strategic positions. Sometimes the references are explicit and sometimes more oblique; but
the subject is always approached with a certain hesitation, a certain fear and trembling—as if
neither keeping the silence nor breaking the silence could avoid some terrible indiscretion, or
as if in neither of the cases, different though they are, he could avoid the problem of an
anguished apology. But he knows that, come what may, he must speak: that he owes it to
the spirit, the fire that purifies, sacrificing the other, Derrida draws out the implications of
the fact that the word "holocaust" means "the all-burning" (le brûle-tout), suggesting that the
Holocaust was such an extreme event that it consumed, destroyed, even the possibility of its
own representation, its exemplarity as an essence, its signifiability.4 The Holocaust, he says,
is "without essence, without law," the pure limit of evil, unique and paradoxical, without
further example, perhaps not even capable of exemplifying itself. Thus, writing, as we say,
"about" it is more than difficult, more than painful. In fact, writing about it in the "normal"
philosophical way, and in the normal philosophical tone, is both necessary and out of the
question, morally impossible.5 And yet, we can see that Derrida feels, and recognizes, a
4
discourse. That he writes about it so obliquely, so indirectly, is, however, a matter that
"The Ends of Man" does not mention the Holocaust; nor is the text anywhere
obviously interrupted, disrupted, terrorized or disfigured by the marks, the shadows of the
Holocaust.6 And yet, it is certainly informed by a consciousness formed in the wake of the
deconstructing our beliefs about the "unity of man", the difference between human beings
and animal beings, the relation between human nature and history, and the origins and ends
classificatory schemes that for many centuries have functioned to support social practices
and institutions that have marginalized and destroyed Jewish life in the Western world,
causing Jews to suffer material and spiritual humiliations, poverty, hunger, and forced
conversions, to fear for their lives, and struggle for survival. Probing the prevailing cultural
discourse of human nature, origins and ends, unity, identity and essence, Derrida makes
explicit the social and cultural structures within which the violence of racism and
encouragement; and he deconstructs the various ways, in which "we" have constructed an
other, an outsider, an alien, an enemy, even within the precincts of a concept intended to be
These matters, and the Holocaust itself, are the major subtext of a seminar that
Derrida gave in Paris, the topic of which was "Philosophical Nationality and Nationalism".
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In "Geschlecht II: Heidegger's Hand",7 a lecture drawn from part of this seminar, Derrida
cites Fichte's use of the word "Geschlecht" in his "Discourses to the German Nation" and
pursues his questioning of Western assumptions regarding the essence of "man", the
prevailing cultural definition of "humanity", and the entire project of humanism. Many
questions are broached here, questions made urgent by the Holocaust: What is it to be
human? What is normatively essential? What is a brute? What makes the Holocaust so
monstrous? What turns a human being into a monster? How does a sense of destination give
rise to a nation? Here, too, as in other writings, Derrida problematizes the unacknowledged
Like so many other texts by Derrida, Of Spirit: Heidegger and the Question is an inquiry
set in motion by the need to understand who "we" are, we who call ourselves "human
beings".8 For Derrida, as for Heidegger, the historical discourse of humanism has not
dispelled all the darkness surrounding our understanding of "the human". In fact, they
think, it is necessary not only to consider the possibility that this discourse leaves the essence
of the human unthought—but also to recognize the possibility that it may even be a tragic
obstruction. For the greatest barrier to understanding is often the conviction that one
understands. Of Spirit is moved by the history of a philosophical discourse in and for which
Heidegger, the foremost German philosopher in the time of the Holocaust, have to say
about it? Hearing in the German word for spirit the word for ghost, Derrida tells us: "I shall
speak of ghost [revenant], of flame, and of ashes."9 On the surface, so to speak, Derrida's
text is again a reflection on humanity and the human—on what it is, or means, to be human.
between animal being and human being. But there are many currents of thought, many
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overtones and undertones, raging just below the surface. And these currents bring up
matters difficult to face. For Geist is always haunted by its double. What it forgets, ignores,
occludes, denies and opposes always, like a ghost, seems to return.10 Around the word
discourse denouncing racial prejudices based on naturalism and biologism.11 But in studying
the evolution of Heidegger's work, Derrida detected some fascinating and disquieting shifts
in Heidegger's relation to Geist. This is why he began his book, Of Spirit, by saying "I shall
speak of ghost, of flame and of ashes. And of what, for Heidegger, avoiding means."12
Derrida shows that at first, for example in the period of Being and Time, Heidegger
emphasized the need to avoid the word Geist, and used it only within quotation marks,
thereby indicating his reservations about the term and reminding us to be equally vigilant
and wary. But with the emergence of National Socialism, Heidegger threw his caution and
reserve to the winds of "destiny" and not only used the word frequently and with passion,
but used it unmarked, without the endistancing device of quotation. After the downfall of
National Socialism, however, Heidegger was again thinking about Geist and questioning its
meaning and historical significance—this time in the context of his interpretive readings of
Hölderlin and Trakl and his attempt to articulate the relation between thinking and
poetizing, Denken and Dichten. But in this post-war period, the Geist that has caught his
attention is not the "pneuma" of Christian theology; nor is it the "spirit" of the discourses of
humanism and the Enlightenment. And it is even farther from the discourse of ruah,
breathing life into the texts of the Jewish experience. Instead, it is the "spirit" that the poets
of a glorified Germany have inflamed. In "Bread and Wine", spirit is called "fire" and
In words that will inevitably evoke the racially inflamed fires of the Holocaust,
Derrida contends that the last line of Hölderlin’s poem, “Bread and Wine”, "names the
consumption, the burning, fire, or even the cremation or incineration of the Beseeler, of the
one who animates, of the one who carries the soul, in other words, the gift of the spirit.
Hölderlin, the Beseeler, is consumed in fire, close to becoming ash."14 While acknowledging
the Greek pneuma and the spiritus of Christianity burning within the German fire and
flames, but drawing its inspiration from this peculiarly German spirit alone, Heidegger's
thinking moved closer and closer to this holocaustic fire, entirely suppressing, as Derrida
It may be argued that Heidegger was not the first German philosopher to conceive
of Geist in a way that would eventually suggest the "cleansing" and "purifying" fires of the
Holocaust, organized to reduce the entire race (Geschlecht) of Jews to ashes. And it may
indeed be true, as Derrida says, once again evoking the ghosts of the crematoria in Nazi
death camps, that, long before him, Hegel had already "situated the passage from the
philosophy of nature to the philosophy of spirit in the combustion from which . . . Geist, the
gas, rises up, or rises up again, above the decomposing dead, to interiorize itself in the
Aufhebung."16 Still, it cannot be denied that Heidegger's public speeches during the crucial
early years of the Nazi revolution, speeches passionate and inflammatory, helped to ignite
the fires of the Holocaust—and gave them a semblance of public and intellectual
legitimation by making it seem possible to relate these fires to the sublime historical
the question of his moral duplicity, and on his complicity in the "Final Solution". Rather, his
concern, here, in Of Spirit, but also in all the other texts on which we are reflecting within the
8
framework of this paper, is to call attention to the ways in which all the discourses generated
by "spirit", however different they may be, are capable of fuelling the fires of racism, ethnic
There are what I would call "perversions" of the spirit, forces of evil not easily
separated from the enlightenment and benevolence of the spirit. Thus Derrida undertakes
to deconstruct, to unfold, take apart and display the structures of belief, of conviction and
action, that have been constructed around the spirit—not in order to destroy this spirit
altogether, but rather to incite us to vigilance, reminding us of the dangers. As always, his
concern is for the people on the margin, the excluded, the oppressed, the people whose
difference makes them wholly other. For him, if "spirit" means anything, it must mean a
responsibility to think and care for the other. What he does with the Holocaust material—
letting it appear, but only, as if to acknowledge our sense of loss, of absence, and our
In many of his writings, the Holocaust, though not mentioned or implicated in the
way it is in the texts we have been considering thus far, nevertheless functions as an alien
subtext, underlying—or say, rather, haunting—the entire discussion: haunting it, but also at
the same time giving us a sense of what is ultimately at stake in the matter taken up for
thought. We shall accordingly begin, now, to consider some major studies in which the
Holocaust figures only obliquely, only indirectly, only in the shadows, traces, and cinders of a
subtext, hidden appearing only like the writing in a palimpsest, through the operation of
double meanings that play with the textual codes and display their relationship to regimes of
meaning that work by domination. Following this strategy calls for reflecting on subtextual
ghosts in essays such as "Violence and Metaphysics", "Force and Signification", "Structure,
9
Sign and Play in the Human Sciences", and "Signature, Event, Context". It is in these texts,
most of all, that the disfigurations of the Holocaust appear, figured in its cinders, like dust on
the page, figured in mere traces and shadows, double-crossing the surface text. And we
must consider why Derrida's writings let the Holocaust appear so obliquely and indirectly.
Inspired by Emmanuel Levinas, but also critical of him, "Violence and Metaphysics"
is a meditation on the violence inherent in the logos, the rationality, of Western philosophy:
a violence that denies difference, denies the meaning of the other, in order to affirm a unity
of origin and end. Formulating questions about the fundamental concepts of metaphysics,
Derrida says that "these questions must be examined unrelentingly, despite the diaspora [la
diaspora] of institutions and languages. . . ."17 Conjuring up, here, as he has also in many
other writings, the history and negative eschatology of the Jews—their numerous exiles and
deportations, their Diaspora, their always deferred entrance into (the meaning of) the
Promised Land, and the theological postponement of (the ultimate meaning in) the coming
and his "theory" of meaning.18 Challenging the "objectivating rationalism and theoretism"
that has prevailed in the discourse of Western philosophy, Derrida suggests that "meaning"
is always contextually relative, that it is never fully present or totally determinate in and by
itself, that it can never be transparently clear, that it cannot be logically private, that it is
ontological consequences, and thus constitutes a part of his critique, and his retrieval, of
theoretically and in principle, to tolerance and respect for all the differences among different
10
people, but which, in putting universal principles into practice, can negate its noble
intentions.
to the "ecstasis" of temporality, and contends that this temporality subverts the possibility of
a totalized meaning and the reduction to sameness of the other, whose separation and
exteriority radically precede the division of Being into inside and outside: it therefore is
"not," he says, and here he agrees with Levinas, whom he quotes, "a transcendence of
theory, but already departure [sortie] from an interior toward an exterior."19 Later in the text,
“deportation”, and asserting that "deportation [déportation] from its own site toward the
Site, toward spatial locality, is the metaphor congenital to the philosophical logos."20
(Derrida here borrows the word “déportation” from Levinas, who uses it, for example, in
“Sans Identité”21 to refer to the appropriation and alteration of my ego-logical identity by the
other’s claim on my responsibility; but Derrida alters its sense, introducing it into a subtext
that recalls the Holocaust.) The "Site" in question, here, is of course the Site of "the Same",
a monstrous sameness that must exterminate whatever is different from the dominant order:
the sameness, for example, that ruled in Auschwitz, obedient to a logic that all Derrida's
Here the Holocaust subtext violently erupts, interrupting the text of a "civilized"
conversation (logos) taking place between two (Jewish) philosophers: tearing into the text of
their reflections on metaphysics and humanism, and on the violence for which, in regard to
the irreducible alterity of the other, these discourses have been responsible despite their
unquestionably good intentions, there are evocations of the Holocaust suddenly confronting
us: images of deportations and displacements, journeys in cattle cars destined for the camps.
11
Western metaphysics and the dimensions of violence toward the other in Western society
and culture. Even if we cannot avoid violence, Derrida argues, we can always use a lesser
violence against a greater: "If light is the element of violence, one must combat light with a
certain other light, in order to avoid the worst violence, the violence of the night which
precedes or represses discourse."22 Thus, our responsibility towards (for) the infinitely other
even entails, as Derrida phrases it—making his point by darkly suggesting a substitution of
the Gestapo for the "brother" whom Levinas wants to see in "the other"—the "necessity to
avoid the worst violence, which threatens when one silently delivers oneself into the hands
of the other in the night."23 Only now are we beginning to discern, darkly reflected in the
philosophical systems that we inherited, the shadows of violent death which have pursued
the Jews, guardians of a tradition of hermeneutics that resists fixities and totalities of
meaning.
forces that are operative in the contexts or situations which first brought the structures it is
interested in articulating into being.24 Thus, the text is a reflection on meaning in relation to
force. But here, too, the Holocaust figures as a crucial subtext, so that the essay becomes, in
effect, a reflection on meaning in the sombre light of the violence of the Holocaust: a
reflection which displays the violence of forces that force us to take them into account,
As he pursues his reflections, Derrida follows, as he says it, "the essential shadow of
the undeclared"—pursues, then, what an exclusive focus on structures occludes from one's
view.25 Continuing to provoke our historical memories and imagination while conceding a
point to the advocates of structuralism, he observes, in an extended simile, that "the relief
and design of structures appear more clearly when content, which is the living energy of
[une ville inhabitée ou souflée], reduced to its skeleton by some catastrophe of nature or
artifice. A city no longer inhabited, not simply left behind, but haunted by meaning and
culture."26 We are reminded, here, of the Warsaw ghetto—and of all the other Jewish
ghettos, towns and villages emptied by the Nazis: “This state of being haunted [Cette
hantise]."27 It is during the "epochs of historical dislocation", he says, with words that speak
not only of the Holocaust, but also of the expulsion from the garden of Eden and the
expulsions from the site of the First and Second Temples, "when we are expelled from the
site [chassés du lieu], that this structuralist passion . . . develops for itself."28 In exile, in
displacement, the victims are tempted by delusions; forgetting that their strength comes
from hermeneutics, they are tempted to dream a structuralism of their own, tempted to
imagine a return to the site of their origin, tempted to imagine a final revelation. In extreme
displacement, they are tempted to dream of a place where all their suffering comes to an end
Here, then, structuralism changes its face: whereas, in the earlier quotation, referring
to the "shadow of the undeclared", structuralism is accused of siding with the totalitarian
enemy and occluding the visibility of forces like the Holocaust, here, in this later quotation,
structuralism becomes the passion, rather, of the victims, those who have been expelled and
exiled. But if, in this surprising twist, structuralism now appears as a "pure" and "innocent"
13
vision, Derrida is quick to remind us of the darker side, the other side of this vision:
this language [the language of the metaphysics of presence] must be attempted."29 With
these words, the dream of the victims is also rendered problematic, and the incipient
violence in its logic is indicted. Today's victims are tomorrow's oppressors. Until the order
that structuralism always proposes is vigilantly resisted, this dialectic will continue.
"proper tone". Thus, too, he writes in a way that compels us to acknowledge the endless
experience: the Diaspora of the Jewish people matched by the end-less dissemination of
meaning, it is necessary, he says, to go into a certain exile, and to "grasp the operation of
creative imagination."31 Because, "in question here," he adds, "is a departure from the world
toward a place which is neither a non-place nor an other world. . . ."32 Is this "place", this
"site", a utopian world of virtually unimaginable freedom and play—or is it, instead, the site
of Auschwitz, where meaning as telos is exiled, mise en abîme, end-lessly deferred—or say,
denied. Can the matter be decided? Are we not once again, as Derrida likes to insist, in a
The structures that establish signification are no guarantee against force. Thus,
Derrida is not very reassuring: "the fraternal other is not first in the place of what is called
intersubjectivity, but in the work and the peril of interrogation; the other is not certain within
the place of the response, in which two affirmations espouse each other, but is called up in
the night by the excavating work of interrogation."33 In the world of the Nazis, the Jews
were precisely this other, called up in the night for brutal interrogation, and then sealed into
trains, in a departure from the familiar world toward a place, a Hell, which indeed was
What can—and should—the philosopher say, now, about this? Putting this question
before him, Derrida begins "Force and Signification" with some words about the "anguish"
against which all possible meanings push each other, preventing each other's emergence",
and a situation "that makes the creativity of the classical God appear all too poor."34 A
palimpsest, a ghostly double meaning, again, for these words not only describe the
phenomenology of speech, which requires, as its condition of possibility, the restriction and
sealing of the passageways for breathing, but also evoke the horror of suffocation in the
cattle cars and the gas chambers of Auschwitz, the unimaginable experience of its victims, all
and more particularly about the regulation, the control of meaning, the Holocaust is an event
that forces us to abandon our fantasies of a universal language of nature, and accession to a
single normative origin and telos for all languages; it is an event that forces us to concede the
Confronted with the Holocaust, our language is shattered, and words break off. The pain of
Derrida closes the essay with a quotation taken away from Nietzsche’s Thus Spake
Zarathustra. But, when transposed into the context of Derrida’s essay, an essay haunted by
the Holocaust, the words assume a radically different meaning, a double meaning, reflexively
exemplifying the very claims that the essay attempts to make regarding force and
signification, meaning and context. The words Derrida steals are these:
Behold, here is a new table; but where are my brethren who will carry it with me to
Where are they, Derrida’s Jewish “brethren”? Where have they gone?
"Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences" is concerned with
many of the same questions and problems. In this essay, Derrida examines the assumption
that the "structurality" of structures requires closure and totality, and must therefore be
governed by (from) an ever-present center. In this essay, too, there is the suggestion of an
allegorical analogy between the historical experience of the Jewish people and the questions
and problems Derrida is exploring in relation to the human sciences. Just as the God of the
unconcealment; and just as the Jewish people were driven away from their center into exile,
denied entrance into the Promised Land and denied the presence of the Messiah in the
present, so the "structurality" posited by the human sciences obeys, and is subverted by, "the
law of a central presence always already in exile from itself."37 Without a Temple as their
center, exiled from their chosen land, the Jews dispersed, finding opportunities for creativity
as well as adversity in the conditions of their Diaspora. Likewise, Derrida argues, structures
in which there is an absence of fixed center extend the play of signification (interpretation)
16
indefinitely, permitting a field, or space, for the creativity of the imagination. According to
Derrida, there is no "natural site" for meaning, no "fixed locus"; and every assumption
regarding arché, telos and eidos can be questioned and subverted by the play of signifiers set
Extending his affirmation of the importance of what he calls the "play" of signifiers,
the implications of his position for our understanding of the relation between European
culture and other cultures.38 Acknowledging that, in some sense, one cannot avoid being
centered in one's own culture and cannot avoid taking this cultural site as one's point of
reference, he argues that one can avoid the most extreme cultural relativism, for "this does
not mean that all ways of giving in to it [the logic of ethnocentrism] are of equal
of the social sciences and a critical responsibility of the discourse itself. It is a question of
explicitly and systematically posing the problem of the status of a discourse which borrows
from a heritage the resources necessary for the deconstruction of that heritage itself."40
Derrida shows how extreme cultural relativism, which begins with our openness to other
cultures, and with the acknowledgement of their claims to meaning and truth, ironically and
paradoxically turns this openness into its opposite, closure to other cultures, since it
Derrida concludes this essay by claiming that there are two possible interpretations,
two possible positions one can take, in regard to the unavoidability of interpretation in the
discourses of the social sciences: the one seeks a truth or origin which "escapes play and the
order of the sign" and "lives the necessity of interpretation as an [unwanted] exile." By
17
contrast, the other, "no longer turned toward the origin, affirms play and tries to pass
beyond man and humanism, the name of man being the name of that being who,
the reassuring foundation, the origin and the end of play."41 ("Play," for Derrida, "is
disruption of presence.")42 Of course, Derrida declares his attraction to the second strategy;
but he admits that he is worried, because, while the order that tries to suppress the
an end may lead to a more repressive regime and come dangerously close to an authoritarian
and totalitarian order, nevertheless, when we leave humanism and its metaphysics behind us,
we are bereft of discourses that still have the power to resist the most extreme oppression,
and we are accordingly left vulnerable to the most "terrifying form of monstrosity."43
once more, on theories of meaning, speech and writing, and attempts, as in the other essays
we have considered, "the disruption of the authority of the code as a finite system of rules"
and "the radical destruction of every context as a protocol of a code."44 Here, too, then, he
John Austin's, denying univocity and permanence of meaning, contesting the absolute
essentialism, insisting on a socially shared responsibility for all meanings, and repeatedly
reminding us of our mortality, of the inevitable absence, and eventual death, of authors,
Each of these points of dispute carries significance in the wake of the Holocaust.
defiance of the established forms of authority, that "double gesture", "double writing" and
18
"double reading" which Derrida wants to encourage.46 Breaking the code involves, here,
seeing the connections between, on the one hand, the logocentrism that Derrida submits to
critique, and, on the other, the signatures, events, texts and contexts that constitute what we
call "the Holocaust". And this involves understanding how Derrida's contention that
sameness always requires otherness not only disrupts classical theories of meaning, but also
and transport, referring, therefore, not only to "meaning", but also, by displacement and
deportation, to the forced removal of the Jews and their internment in death camps. As if
his argument regarding meaning, context, and reference—of “radical destruction”, death,
absences, “future disappearance”. It involves reading the "marks" and "signatures" of which
encrypted references to the Nazi tatoos, the numbers and yellow stars, with which the Nazis
branded all Jews. It involves reading Derrida's references to "grafts" and "grafting"
(“greffes”, “greffant”)50 not only in relation to "meanings", but also in relation to the
medical experiments that the Nazis performed. It involves reading the absence of the
signified not only as a reference to the absence of a fixed or essential meaning, but also as a
reference to all those whom the Nazis murdered. And finally, it involves reading references
meaning, but also in relation to the Holocaust, to the ashes and cinders of the crematoria.
But "writing", for Derrida, is a "disruption of presence in the mark",51 and this is, in
fact, precisely what Derrida's own writing does to the meaning of the Nazi tatoos, the Nazi
grafts, deportations and transports—and to the cinders and ashes that the Nazis left behind,
19
that they could not, in the end, in their end, destroy or conceal from the rest of the world.
"Disruption" is also what Derrida practises in relation to the theories of meaning that have
been hegemonic in the West; and his strategies of deconstruction have certainly interrupted,
if not also indeed disrupted, the discourse of metaphysics, a conceptual vocabulary and way
of thinking on which Western humanism and Western Enlightenment have depended and
of respect for the otherness of the other. In terms of politics, deconstruction translates into
a formidible opposition to all totalitarian and authoritarian regimes. And, for Derrida, this
means opposing regimes of meaning in which the sovereign power of a permanent, univocal,
and central meaning dominates the field of interpretation. Words, he knows, are institutions
In "Racism's Last Word", Derrida points out that "there is no racism without a
language. The point is not that acts of racial violence are only words, but rather that they
have to have a word. . . . [R]acism always betrays the perversion of a man, the 'talking
space in order to assign forced residence or to close off borders. It does not discern, it
Perhaps, as Derrida suggests, one cannot entirely avoid doing violence while living in
this world and on this earth. Perhaps, most uses of language are violent, for a "speech
produced without the least violence would determine nothing, would say nothing, would
offer nothing to the other. . . . There is no phrase which is indeterminate, that is, which does
20
not [at least] pass through the violence of the concept. Violence appears with [every]
articulation," and "only a language of pure invocation, pure adoration, proferring only proper
nouns in order to call the other from afar," could avoid all violence.54 Perhaps—but perhaps
not even in these. Still, it is necessary, and possible, as Derrida points out, to distinguish
different degrees, and perhaps different kinds, of violence, fighting greater violence with
Thus, even if it is necessary to acknowledge the violence that takes place in all
writing about the Holocaust—all survivor testimonies, all documentaries, all historical
how, language has the power to evoke, to call, and in a sense, to make present.
saying enough, I also say too much."56 What can and should a philosopher say about the
Holocaust when even one word is, in a sense, too much, and yet no multiple of six million
words could ever be enough? The philosopher must give thought to this event, must speak,
must write, however difficult, however painful. Because we must never forget—and never
encouraged by the tradition of Talmudic interpretation, Levinas observes that: "It all
happens as though the multiplicity of persons . . . were the condition for the fullness of
'absolute truth', as though each person, through his uniqueness, ensured the revelation of a
unique aspect of the truth, and that certain sides of it would never reveal themselves if
certain people were missing from mankind."57 Suppose that we think this point in relation to
the Holocaust. For each person murdered, a unique perspective on the truth was silenced,
lost irretrievably, irrevocably, forever. Nothing that we, the living, can do will erase this loss.
21
And yet, by our writing, our speech, we can at least keep the memory of this loss alive
among us, breathing life into the still glowing embers, and making even the cinders speak
their horror. It is in this spirit, then, that Levinas tells a story about Rabbi Haim. It seems
that Rabbi Haim of Volozhin, Lithuania, living in the eighteenth century, was asked to
interpret a passage from The Sayings of the Fathers in which rabbinic commentary was
compared to "hot embers". The Rabbi then offered this explanation: "The embers light up
when one blows upon them; the intensity of the flame that thus comes to life depends on
Perhaps, for those among us who feel themselves to be in closest communion with
survivors of the Holocaust, writing is, as Derrida suggests, "the anguish of the Hebraic ruah,
experienced in solitude by human responsibility."59 But writing may also be, despite its
anguish and its violence, its inevitable violations and transgressions, a gesture, not entirely
futile, that brings back, before the eyes of the world, and for all eyes to read, to see, the
telling traces, the shadows of evil deeds—all that is left, now, all that remains: inscriptions in
black ink, letters silently shrouded in the black of mourning.60 "I would prefer ashes,"
Derrida says, "as the better paradigm for what I call the trace—something that erases itself
totally, radically, while still presenting itself."61 Ashes, then, or cinders: "I understand that
the cinder is nothing that can be in the world, nothing that remains as an entity. . . ."62 The
Holocaust shatters all the ontologies with which the discourse of philosophy has been
satisfied. It ends the conversation—in both senses of the word "ends", for it calls into
question the intentions, the existential commitments, the very lives of those who continue, in
the wake of the Holocaust, to speak and write, to continue the conversation.
II
22
Why, in so many of his philosophical texts, has Derrida relied on cinders, traces and
shadows as a way to remember the Holocaust? Why has he avoided writing about it in the
"normal" philosophical mode? Why has he written about it only to deny its representability,
exemplarity and essentiality? Why has he preferred to weave it into philosophical texts that
are not in any obvious way "about" the Holocaust? Why has he insinuated it so obliquely, so
indirectly, so cautiously, and one might say hermeneutically, rendering it, not in the canonical
form of assertions and statements, but rather in traces, shadows, and evocations of cinders?
With Walter Benjamin's writings in mind, I would suggest that Derrida's subtexts set
impossibility of any identity, unity or adequation between image and concept, word and
thing, meaning and reference.63 For Derrida, there can be no adequate representation of the
meaning of the Holocaust: its all-burning nihilism creates an emptiness, a silence, a space of
horror so dead, so inimical to life that not even allegory can reach and retrieve it.
The anguish that overcomes anyone who attempts to write about the Holocaust in
the genres of literature also overcomes anyone who attempts to write about it in the
discourse of philosophy. No such anguish interferes with the task of writing in the human
sciences. Other problems, very different problems, confront those who want to inscribe the
meaning of the Holocaust in the texts of our history, sociology, political science, social and
clinical psychology, anthropology, economics, biology and medicine. But what is there for
the philosopher to say? In the discourses of the social sciences, this question, at least, does
not arise.
If, in the anguish of this question, the philosopher chooses silence, the evil is silently
accepted. If, however, the philosopher speaks out, whatever is said will never be enough—
23
and yet also, it will always be too much. Too much, precisely because whatever is said will
necessarily attempt to inscribe the Holocaust in a coherence, a logic, a rational order that
negates its singular horror, the monstrousness of its evil. Derrida understands this. He
understands that there is, with regard to philosophical writing about the Holocaust, a certain
thinking continally effect. Derrida's texts are always, and end-lessly, deconstructive: written
in such a way that they instance, reflexively, the impossibility of total interpretive control,
—But there are other ways of answering the question about his use of "indirect
communication": his subtexts, his encrypting, his "trace-work" in shadows and cinders.
Perhaps, I suggest, to register the magnitude of the loss; to convey his sense of irremediable
absence; to acknowledge the concealments with which we need to defend ourselves against
the unbearable and unimaginable horror; to interrupt the comfortable and familiar normality
of discourse by an act of violence; and out of respect, too, so as not to profane or defile the
memories of those who suffered and died, citing/siting the events of the Holocaust
"outside" the categories and genres of familiar discourse, where they cannot be so easily re-
inscribed within the discourse of essence and accident, cause and effect, the exemplary, the
existential inwardness and freedom of the other—the one being addressed.64 For Derrida,
indirect communication is a way of showing respect for the dead. But it is also a way to
shock, to ambush us, his readers, catching us off guard and exposing us, in our moment of
This reading is suggested, I think, in Cinders, where Derrida worries and asks: "If the
all-burning [Holocaust] destroys up to its letter and its body, how can it leave or keep the
trace of itself and breach/broach a history where it preserves itself [precisely] in losing
itself?"65 How is one to find any words to "tell of the all-burning, otherwise called, in
German, the holocaust and the crematory oven, in all the Jewish languages of the world?"66
Can he find a "word, unfit even to name the cinder in [the] place of the memory of
something else, and no longer referring back to it . . . ?"67 Indeed, "how can a word ever
present itself? The word, like the cinder, similar to it, comparable to the point of
hallucination. Cinder, the word, is never found here, but there."68 Away, beyond—there.
What can the philosopher say about ". . . the remains of a body, a pile of cinders . . .?"69
What can the philosopher find to say, as a philosopher, to the survivors of the death camps?
What can the philosopher find to say in commemoration, find to say to the living, that a
In writings that set in motion complex interactions between a surface text and a
of Western thought (assumptions which he critically examines in the surface text) and the
repression and violence that have shaped Western history (events which he weaves into a
subtext). This strategy makes three points: [1] It correlates the metaphysics of Western
culture with the historical suffering of the Jewish people, suggesting questions of complicity
25
and responsibility. [2] It draws an allegorical analogy between the story of the Jews
fulfillment) and the story he wants to tell about meaning and language. And [3] It lets the
interactions between surface text and subtext—especially the subtextual interruptions and
freedom he wants to encourage, demonstrating by his own practice, and not just in theory,
how to think and write without following the rules of an authoritarian and totalitarian theory
of meaning.
Into a text conveying his reflections on Heidegger's “Es gibt” ("There is", "It gives"),
Derrida weaves the shadows and traces of the deportations from the Jewish ghettos,
violently interrupting, breaching, but without himself adopting an apocalyptic tone, the
impersonal, dispassionate serenity of the philosophical work, which still today fancies itself
sub specie aeternitatis: "The night," he writes, "passes. In the morning, knocks are heard at
the door. They seem to be coming from outside, this time."70 Outside: outside the Jewish
home, evoked as if in the present—our own time! And outside the philosophical text, which
can no longer build walls high enough nor define disciplinary matrices strong enough to
This is Derrida's own violence: the violence of a philosopher, one who recognizes a
events.
the crucial fact that he was not—is not—a witness. It is a way to speak without speaking, to
speak with a certain silence, to let those who have a moral claim on us—those who died in
the camps and those who somehow survived the horror—communicate without his
26
of the Holocaust by, and within, the discourse of philosophical thought. For there is, in
thinking, a deep resistance to feeling; and our philosophical tradition has not merely
acquiesced in this resistance, but has constantly reinforced it, giving it codification and
legitimation in the "rhetorical" norms that, for centuries, have regulated the discourse.
Derrida's indirectness is a way for him to subvert the discursive operations of this resistance,
this repression. The interruptions effected by the subtext, the suddenly audible overtones
and undertones, the startling shadow cast by a shade of meaning for which the reader was
commodification at work in the discourse. Derrida's subtextual strategies enable him to fight
the forces of repression, within philosophical discourse, that are always attempting to
dominate the subject—in this case, the Holocaust. Derrida's indirectness defies
inevitable work of trivialization much more difficult, because there is nothing "substantial"
can give to the victims of the Holocaust is something that can figure only in the shadows of
print cast, like dust, or like ashes, over the silent whiteness of the page, there is also a certain
recognition of what Benjamin once called "that irredeemability of things, that recalcitrance,
that heaviness of things, indeed of beings, which in the end allows merely a little ash to
A singularly deep sense, I think, of mourning thus figures in Derrida's way of writing
the Holocaust into the timeless discourse of philosophy. Mourning is both a making-present
and therefore a denial of death, and also, at the same time, a letting-go, a letting-die, an
27
acceptance of death. Finally, therefore, I would suggest that Derrida's indirectness is a way
of recognizing both the impossibility and the necessity of mourning. Subtextual indirectness
is thus a way of subverting the work of cultural repression that encloses the process of
mourning, the tendency to totalize and essentialize the meaning of the Holocaust deaths, an
bare, animal life that must be destroyed to save the German “race” and the “spirit” of its
“culture”. Indirectness is the philosopher’s way of inscribing the Holocaust into his texts,
letting them be touched, but not destroyed, by its all-burning and all-consuming fires, fires
Writing about the function of allegory in Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels, Benjamin
asserted that "Unmitigated evil exists only in allegory, is sheer allegory, means something
other than what it is. Namely, the non-existence of what it presents."72 Like the recurrent
nightmare that interrupts a deeply peaceful sleep, the Holocaust repeatedly interrupts, and
disrupts, Derrida's philosophical writing, breaching the assumed securities of the text and
always forming itself precisely at the blind-spot, always when and where it is bound to be
most disturbing, most likely to create anguish, a double bind. Open and vulnerable,
Derrida's writing allows itself to be breached, disturbed, so that, whenever they are
repressed, the ghosts of the Holocaust may return. Derrida's philosophical writing is thus a
writing inflamed by a deeply spiritual sense of responsibility. But it is also a writing haunted
by ghosts, the always invisible faces and voices of the dead, gathered by the words of the
spirit. It is a writing that lets these faces haunt its surfaces, compelling us, his readers, to face
an otherness we are. It is a writing that lets these echoes of these voices, and the other
sounds of the Holocaust, interrupt the high tone, the monotone of the philosophical
register.73 But the interruption is oblique, out of respect for the dead, for the victims, for the
28
irredeemability of their suffering and absence, which our gestures of remembrance, however
In Derrida’s work, we are faced with a writing in palimpsest that encrypts traces of
the Holocaust in subtexts of double meaning. His texts are a weave of memory and
mourning, a writing that uses the dark alphabet of mortals to remind us of the absent ones,
departed to fire and smoke, spelling—and at same time en-graving—the disaster that still
smoulders in the ashes, each sacred name glowing like a star in the night.74 Thinking in the
eerie light of the Holocaust, conscious that the memory-work of mourning is both necessary
and impossible, Derrida has let his writing shatter and open, taking on the anguish of a
ghostly writing.
What this writing shows is that not even ashes can entirely conceal the traces of an
almost unimaginable evil, nor escape the judgement of history—a redemptive history that we
must continue to write, a history, however, that we are still learning to write, breaching the
defenses of a memory that time and again takes refuge in a historicism of the present which
petrifies the past, thereby denying a future yet-to-come for its persistent and still unrealised
promise.75
29
1
Jacques Derrida, “Force et signification,” L’Écriture et la différence (Paris: Éditions du Seuil,
1967), p.19; "Force and Signification," Writing and Difference (Chicago: The University of
Chicago, 1980), p. 9.
2
Stéphane Mallarmé, Oeuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1961), p. 372. I translate: "The
buried meaning moves by itself and arranges, like a choir, the pages."
3
Richard Kearney, Dialogues with Contemporary Thinkers (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 1984), p. 107.
4
See Derrida, Glas (Paris: Éditions Galilée, 1974), pp. 265-71. He asks: “S’il détruit jusqu’à
sa lettre et son corps, comment le brûle-tout peut-il garder trace de lui-même et entamer une
histoire où il se conserve en se perdant?” (op. cit., p. 267) Perhaps we should read Feu la
cendre as something of an answer to this question. For the English translation, see Glas
(Lincoln: The University of Nebraska, 1986), p. 243ff. Also see “Nazism and the ‘Final
Solution’: Probing the Limits of Representation”, the second part of “Force of Law: The
‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’”.
5
See the essays in Berel Lang, ed., Writing and the Holocaust (New York: Holmes & Meier,
1988) and an excellent book by James E. Young, Writing and Rewriting the Holocaust: Narrative
and the Consequences of Interpretation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). Also see
Steven T. Katz, Post-Holocaust Dialogues: Critical Studies in Modern Jewish Thought (New York:
new York University, 1983); Alan Rosenberg and Gerald Meyers (eds.), Echoes from the
Holocaust: Philosophical Reflections on a Dark Time (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988);
and Jürgen Habermas, “On the Public Use of History,” Aus der Geschichte lernen: How to Learn
from History (Bonn: Blätter Verlagsgesellschaft, 1997) and his earlier essay with the same title,
“On the Public Use of History,” in the collection of his works edited by Shierry Weber
Nicholsen, The New Conservatism: Cultural Criticism and the Historians’ Debate (Cambridge: The
6
See Derrida, “Les fins de l’homme,” Marges de la philosophie; “The Ends of Man,” Margins of
Philosophy.
7
See Derrida’s lecture at Loyola University in 1985, “Geschlecht II: Heidegger’s Hand,”
published in John Sallis (ed.), Deconstruction and Philosophy: the Texts of Jacques Derrida (Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 1987), pp. 161-96.
8
Derrida, De l’Esprit: Heidegger et la question (Paris: Éditions Galilée, 1987); Of Spirit: Heidegger
and the Question (Chicago: The University of Chicago, 1989).
9
Ibid., p. 1 in the English, p. 11 in the French. These are the opening words of Derrida’s
intervention in the conference: “Je parlerai du revenant, de la flamme et des cendres”.
10
Ibid., p. 40 in the English, p. 66 in the French.
11
Ibid., pp. 39-40 in the English, pp. 65-66 in the French.
12
Ibid., p. 1 in the English, p. 11 in the French.
13
Ibid., p. 81 in the English, p. 128 in the French.
14
Ibid, p. 81 in the English, p. 129 in the French.
15
Ibid., pp. 100-2 in the English, pp. 165-67 in the French.
16
Ibid., p. 99 in the English, pp. 161-62 in the French.
17
Derrida, “Violence et Metaphysique: Essai sur le pensée d’Emmanuel Levinas,” L’Écriture
et la différence, p. 118; “Violence and Metaphysics,” Writing and Difference, p. 79.
18
Ibid., p. 145-46 in the English, pp. 213-15 in the French.
19
Ibid., pp. 88-9 in the English, p. 132 in the French.
20
Ibid., p. 112 in the English, p. 166 in the French.
21
Emmanuel Levinas, “Sans Identité,” Humanisme de l’autre homme (Montpellier: Fata
Morgana, 1972), p. 91.
22
Ibid., p. 117 in the English, p. 172 in the French. Also see pp. 130-1 in the English, pp.
24
Derrida, "Force and Signification," Writing and Difference, pp. 26-27; pp. 43-44 in L’Écriture
et la différence, the French original.
25
Ibid., p. 4 in the English, p. 11 in the French: “l’ombre essentielle du non déclaré”.
26
Ibid., p. 5 in the English, p. 13 in the French.
27
Ibid.
28
Ibid., p. 6 in the English, p. 14 in the French.
29
See ibid., pp. 26, 28 in the English, pp. 43-44, 46 in the French.
30
Ibid., p. 28 in the English, pp. 46-47 in the French.
31
Ibid., p. 8 in the English, p. 17 in the French.
32
Ibid.
33
Ibid., pp. 29-30 in the English, p. 49 in the French.
34
Ibid., p. 9 in the English, p. 18 in the French.
35
Ibid., p. 3 in the English, p. 9 in the French.
36
Ibid., p. 30 in the English, p. 49 in the French.
37
Derrida, "Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences," Writing and
Difference, p. 280; “La structure, le signe et le jeu dans le discours des sciences humaines,”
L’Écriture et la différence, p. 411.
38
Ibid., p. 282 in the English, pp. 413-14 in the French.
39
Ibid.
40
Ibid., p. 282 in the English, p. 414 in the French.
41
Ibid., pp. 292-93 in the English, pp. 426-27 in the French.
42
Ibid., p. 292 in the English, p. 426 in the French.
43
Ibid., p. 293 in the English, p. 428 in the French.
44
Derrida, “Signature, événement, contexte”, Marges de la philosophie (Paris: Éditions de
Minuit, 1972), pp. 375-76; "Signature, Event, Context," Margins of Philosophy (Chicago: the
University of Chicago Press, 1982), p. 316.
32
45
Ibid., p. 376 in the French, pp. 315-6 in the English.
46
Ibid., p. 392 in the French, pp. 317, 329 in the English.
47
Ibid., p. 392 in the French, pp. 328-9 in the English.
48
Ibid., pp. 368, 375-76, 392 in the French, pp. 310, 316, 321, 322, 329 in the English.
49
Ibid., p. 381 in the French, p. 320 in the English.
50
Ibid., p. 377ff in the French, p. 317ff in the English.
51
Ibid., p. 390 in the French, p. 327 in the English.
52
See Berel Lang, "Language and Genocide," in Alan Rosenberg and Gerald Myers (eds.,),
Echoes from the Holocaust, pp. 341-361.
53
Derrida, "Racism's Last Word," Critical Inquiry, vol. 12 (Autumn, 1985), p. 292.
54
Derrida, “Violence and Metaphysics,” op. cit., pp. 147-8; “Violence et Metaphysique,” op.
cit., p. 218 in the French.
55
Ibid., p. 117 in the English, p. 172 in the French.
56
Derrida, "Force and Signification," op. cit., p. 9; p. 18 in the original French.
57
Emmanuel Levinas, L'au delà du verset (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1982), p. 163.
58
Emmanuel Levinas, Nine Talmudic Readings (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990),
pp. 135-6.
59
Derrida, "Force and Signification," op. cit., p. 9; p. 19 in the French.
60
See Derrida, Feu la cendre (Paris: Des femmes, 1987), especially pp. 27, 41, 46; Cinders
(Lincoln: The University of Nebraska Press, 1991), especially pp. 53, 55 On p. 27 of Feu la
cendre, Derrida reflects that perhaps “the best paradigm of the trace” is “la cendre (ce qui
reste sans rester de l’holocauste, du brûle-tout, de l’encendie l’encens) . . .” Mute cinders,
which one can see but not hear, are, I think, somewhat like the “la” and the “là” in the
phrase “il y a là cendre”: the difference between these two little words can be seen in their
written form, but not heard. The living voices of the dead, the victims of the Nazis, are
33
reduced, now, to mute traces of print on the page. But are the ashes dead? Can ashes still
speak? Can they still tell their story? Are these traces visible on the page really inaudible?
61
Derrida, "On Reading Heidegger: An Outline of Remarks to the Essex Colloquium,"
Research in Phenomenology, vol. 17 (1987), p. 177. Also see Cinders, p. 43.
62
Derrida, Cinders, p. 73.
63
See Walter Benjamin, Origin of German Tragic Drama (London: New Left Books, 1977).
The more accurate translation of the title of this work would be The Origin of the German
Mourning-Play. This work points towards an important motif in Benjamin’s later work, viz., a
process of mourning for the failure of revolutionary movements to achieve social justice and
redeem the utopian promise hidden within the dialectic of history.
64
See Sören Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1941), transl. D. F. Swenson, pp. 232 and 247. Concerning the communication of
inwardness and the inwardness into which an existential communication is to be received,
see p. 232: "The direct expression of inwardness is no proof of its presence; the direct
effusion of feeling does not prove its possession, but the tension of the contrasting form is
the measure of the intensity of inwardness. The reception of inwardness does not consist in
a direct reflection of the content communicated, for this is echo. But the reproduction of
inwardness in the recipient constitutes the resonance on account of which the thing said
remains absent. . . ." (Note the reference to the absence of the said.) Concerning the
importance of indirectness, see p. 247: "To stop a man on the street and stand still while
talking to him, is not as difficult as to say something to a passer-by in passing, without
standing still and without delaying the other, without attempting to persuade him to go the
same way, but giving him instead an impulse to go precisely his own way. Such is the
relation between one existing individual and another, when the communication concerns the
65
Derrida, Cinders, p. 44; p. 28 in the French: “jusqu’à sa lettre et son corps”. I have
somewhat modified Ned Lukacher's translation here. On the topic of "cinders", see Herman
Rapaport, "Time's Cinders", in David M. Levin (ed.), Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision (Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), pp. 218-33. On the question of mourning,
see Derrida’s remembrance of his friend, Paul de Man in his Wellek Library lectures at the
University of California, Irvine, published under the title Mémoires: For Paul de Man (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1989) and also The Gift of Death (Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 1995) and The Politics of Friendship (New York: verso, 1997). Also see
Rebecca Comay, “Materialist Mutations of the Bilderverbot”, in David Michael Levin (ed.),
Sites of Vision: The Discursive Construction of Sight in the History of Philosophy (Cambridge: The
MIT Press, 1997), pp. 337-78 and my own essay, “Keeping Foucault and Derrida in Sight:
Panopticism and the Politics of Subversion,”op. cit., pp. 397-465 in that same collection.
66
Derrida, Cinders, p. 57, p. 41 in the French.
67
Ibid., p. 71 in the English, p. 55 in the French.
68
Ibid.
69
Ibid., p. 77 in the English, p. 61 in the French: “un corpus, un tas de cendre”.
70
Ibid., p. 58 in the English, p. 42 in the French.
71
Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, p. 157.
72
Ibid., p. 233.
73
See D’un ton apocalyptique adoptée naguère en philosophie (Paris: Éditions Galilée, 1983),
translated into English as “Of an apocalyptic tone adopted recently in philosophy,” in
Robert Detweiler (ed.), Derrida and Biblical Studies, Semeia 23 (Baltimore: The Society of
Biblical Literature, Scholars Press, 1982. This is Derrida’s reading of Kant’s critical essay on
the apocalyptic tone he heard in the speculative metaphysics and ethics favoured by many of
his contemporaries.
35
74
See Stéphane Mallarmé, "L'alphabet des astres", Quant au livre, p. 370 and "Igitur", §5, p.
443, Oeuvres Complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1983).
75
For more discussion of the problematic of time, see my essays on “The Invisible Face of
Humanity: Levinas on the Justice of the Gaze” and “Justice in the Seer’s Eyes: Benjamin and
Heidegger on a Vision out of Time and Memory,” in David Michael Levin, The Philosopher’s
Gaze: Modernity in the Shadows of Enlightenment (Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1999), pp. 234-335 and 336-407; reprinted in paperback by Duquesne University Press, 2003.