• Let us not begin at the beginning, nor even at the archive. But rather at the word "archive”
o It is both commencement and commandment
• The concept of the archive shelters in itself, of course, this memory of the name arkhe. But it also shelters itself from this memory which it shelters :which comes down to saying also that it forgets it.
• Archive comes to it from the Greek arkheion :initially a house, a domicile, an address the residence of the superior magistrates, the archons, those who commanded. The citizens who thus held and signified political power were considered to possess the right to make or to represent the law
• It is thus, in this domiciliation, in this house arrest, that archives take place. The dwelling, this place where they dwell permanently marks this institutional passage from the private to the public, which does not always mean from the secret to the nonsecret. (It is what is happening, right here, when a house, the Freuds' last house, becomes a museum: the passage from one institution to another.
• Documents are kept and classified as archive by virtue of a PRIVELEGED TOPOLOGY
o They inhabit this unusual place, this place of election where law and singularity intersect in privilege. At the intersection of the topological and the nomological, of the place and the law, of the substrate and the authority, a scene of domiciliation becomes at once visible and invisible.
• His hypotheses
o The hypotheses have a common trait. They all concern the impression left, in my opinion, by the Freudian signature on its own archive, on the concept of the archive and of archivization, that is to say also, inversely and as an indirect consequence, on historiography.
o We are saying for the time being Freudian signature so as not to have to decide yet between Sigmund Freud, the proper name, on the one hand, and, on the other, the invention of psychoanalysis: project of knowledge, of practice and of institution, community, family, domiciliation, consignation, “house” or “museum,” in the present state of its archivization. What is in question is situated precisely between the two.
• Exergue
o 1. Printing
Freud admits his work is lot of ink and paper for nothing, an entire typographical volume, in short, a material substrate which is out of al proportion, in the last analysis, to “recount” (erzihlen) stories that everyone knows. He will have to have invented an original proposition which will make the investment profitable.
Here he stages archivization
But how feigned: he knows all long that what he has is not hypothesis, but rather an irresistible thesis, namely the possibility of a radical perversion, indeed, a diabolical death drive, an aggression or a destruction drive: a drive, thus, of loss.
The death drive is invincible necessity, irresistible and must be named
And yet It always operates in silence, never leaving an archive of its own. tworks fodestroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own “proper” traces—which consequently cannot properly be called “proper.” Itdevours iteven before producing it on the outside. This drive, from then on, seems not only to be anarchic, anarchontic (we must not forget that the death drive, originary though itmay be, isnot a principle, as are the pleasure and reality principles): the death drive is above al anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic. Itwill always have been archive-destroying, by silent vocation.
Even when ittakes the form of an interior desire, the anarchy drive eludes perception, to be sure, save exception: that is, Freud says, except if it disguises itself, except if it tints itself, makes itself up or paints itself (gefdrbt ist) in some erotic color. This impression of erogenous color draws a mask right on the skin. In other words, the archiviolithic drive is never present in person, neither in itself nor in its effects. It leaves no monument, it bequeaths no document of its own. As inheritance, it leaves only its erotic simulacrum, its pseudonym in painting, its sexual idols, its masks of seduction: lovely impressions. These impressions are perhaps the very origin of what is so obscurely called the beauty of the beautiful. As memories of death.
But, the point must be stressed, this archiviolithic force leaves nothing of its own behind. As the death drive is also, according to the most striking words of Freud himself, an aggression and a destruction (Destruktion) drive, it not only incites forgetfulness, amnesia, the annihilation of memory, as mnémé or anamnésis, but also commands the radical effacement, in truth the eradication, of that which can never be reduced to mnéemé or to anamnésis, that is, the archive, consignation, the documentary or monumental apparatus as hypomnéma, mnemotechnical supplement or representative, auxiliary or memorandum.
There isno archive without aplace ofconsignation, without atechnique ofrepetition, and without a certain exteriority. No archive without outside.
Let us never forget this Greek distinction between mnémé or anamnésis on the one hand, and Aypomnéma onthe other. The archive is hypomnesic.
The archive always works against itself
The death drive threatens every principality, every archontic primacy, every archival desire. It is what we will call, later on, le mal d’archive, archive fever.
Archivable meaning is also and in advance codetermined by the structure that archives.
o 2. Circumcision
If the archive demands memory be placed on some substrate and in some exterior place: is circumcision an archive?
Goes on to talk about the machine in memory
It accumulates so many sedimented archives, some of which are written right on the epidermis of a body proper, others on the substrate of an “exterior” body. Each layer here seems to gape slightly, as the lips of a wound, permitting glimpses of the abyssal possibility of another depth destined for archaeological excavation.
It has, in appearance, primarily to do with a private inscription. This is the title of a first problem concerning the question of its belonging to an archive: which archive? that of Sigmund Freud? that of the psychoanalytic institution or science? Where does one draw the limit?
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s handsome book Freud’s Moses. Judaism Terminable and Interminable.
To read, in this case, requires working at geological or archaeological excavations, on substrates or under surfaces, old or new skins, the hypermnesic and hypomnesic epidermises of books or penises
Analysis of the inscription written by Freud’s dad in his Bible. First sentence mentions circumcision.
• Def of impression
o 1. Scriptural or typographic: that of an inscription which leaves a mark at the surface or in the thickness of a substrate
o 2. To the rigor of the concept, I am opposing here the vagueness or the open imprecision, the relative indetermination of such a notion. “Archive” is only a notion, an impression associated with a word and for which, together with Freud, we do not have a concept. We only have an impression, an insistent impression through the unstable feeling of a shifting figure, of a schema, or of an in-finite or indefinite process.
o 3. “Freudian impression” also has a third meaning, unless this is the first: the impression left by Sigmund Freud, beginning with the impression left in him, inscribed in him, from his birth and his covenant, from his circumcision, through all the manifest or secret history of psychoanalysis, of the institution and of the works, by way of the public and private correspondence, including this letter from Jakob Shelomoh Freid to Shelomoh Sigmund Freud in memory of the signs or tokens of the covenant and to accompany the “new skin” of a Bible.
• The question of the archive is not, we repeat, a question of the past. This is not the question of a concept dealing with the past which might already be at our disposal or not at our disposal, an archivable concept of the archive. It is a question of the future, the question of the future itself, the question of a response, of a promise and of a responsibility for tomorrow.
• Back to Yerushalmo’s Monologue with Freud
o We must come to the moment where Yerushalmi seems to suspend everything, in particular everything he has said and done up to this point, from the thread of a discrete sentence. One could be tempted to take this thread to be the umbilical cord of the book. Everything seems to be suspended from this umbilical cord—by the umbilical cord of the event which such a book as this represents. Because on the last page of a work which is entirely devoted to memory and to the archive, a sentence says the future. It says, in future tense: “Much will depend, of course, on how the very terms Jewish and science are to be defined”
o “Professor Freud, at this point I find it futile to ask whether, genetically or structurally, psychoanalysis is really a Jewish science; that we shall know, if it is at all knowable, only when much future work has been done. Much will depend, of course, on how the very terms Jewish and science are to be defined.”
o This is a dramatic turn, a stroke of theater, a coup de thédtre within a coup de thédtre. In an instant which dislocates the linear order of presents, a second coup de théitre illuminates the first. It is also the thunderbolt of a love at first sight, a coup de foudre (love and transference) which, in a flash, transfixes with light the memory of the first. With another light. One no longer knows very well what the time, what the tense of this theater will have been, the first stroke of theater, the first stroke, the first. The first period.
o The question of the archive remains the same: what comes first? Even better: Who comes first? And second?
o When a scholar addresses himself to a phantom, this recalls irresistibly the opening of Hamlet. At the spectral apparition of the dead father, Marcellus implores Horatio: “Thou art a Scholler, speake to it, Horatio.” I tried to show elsewhere that though the classical scholar did not believe in phantoms and would not in truth know how to speak to them, forbidding himself even, it is quite possible that Marcellus had anticipated the coming of a scholar of the future, of a scholar who, in the future and so as to conceive of the future, would dare to speak to the phantom. Of a scholar who would dare to admit that he knows how to speak fo the phantom, even claiming that not only does this neither contradict nor limit his scholarship, but will in truth have conditioned it, at the price of some still-inconceivable complication which may yet prove the other one, that is, the phantom, to be correct. And perhaps always the paternal phantom, that is, who is in a position to be correct, to be proven correct—and to have the last word.
o This monologue is heterogeneous to the book, in its status, in its project, in its form; this postscript of sorts retrospectively determines what precedes it.
o “In what is at issue here, indeed has been so all along, we both have, as Jews, an equal stake. Therefore in speaking of the Jews I shall not say ‘they.’ I shall say ‘we.’ The distinction is familiar to you”
By definition, because he is dead and thus incapable of responding, Freud can only acquiesce. He cannot refuse this community at once proposed and imposed. He can only say “yes” to this covenant into which he must enter one more time. Because he will have had to enter it, already, seven or eight days after his birth.
WITH PHANTOMS AND WITH NEWBORNS, ENTERING COVENANTS PRECLUDES RESPONSE, SIGN OR COUNTERSIGN.
In this deliberately filial scene which Yerushalmi has with the patriarch of psycho- analysis, the apostrophe is launched from the position of the father, of the father of the dead father. The other speaks. It is often thus in scenes the son has with the father.
Why call it a MONOLGUE WITH? MONOLOGUES CANNOT BE ‘WITH’…. Because more than one person speaks? Undoubtedly, but there is more than the number. There is the order. Because if the signatory of the monologue is not alone in signing, far from it, he is above all the first to do so. He speaks from the position of the other: he carries in himself, this mouthpiece, he bears the voice which could be that of Jakob Freud, namely the arch-patriarch of psychoanalysis.
He ends by asking Freud of Anna, in one letter, spoke from herself or in the name of her father
• As if he doubted that a daughter, above all the daughter of Freud, could speak in her own name, almost thirty years after the father’s death, and above all as if he wished, still secretly (a secret which he says he wants to keep, that is to say, to share with Freud, to be alone in sharing with Freud), that she had always spoken in the name of her father, in the name of the father:
It seems to me that Yerushalmi’s thesis advances here while withdrawing itself. But it is a thesis with a rather particular status—and a paradoxical movement: it posits not so much what is as what will have been and ought to or should be in the future, namely that psychoanalysis should in the future have been a Jewish science
It goes without saying, if one could put it this way, that Freud’s phantom does not respond. That is at least how things appear. But can this be trusted? In promising secrecy for a virtual response which keeps us waiting, which will always keep us waiting, the signatory of this monologue lets it be understood that Freud would never say in public, for example in a book and in what is destined to become public archive, what he thinks in truth secretly, like the monologist who says “we,” namely, that, yes, psychoanalysis is indeed a Jewish science. Is this not incidentally what he has already, in private, so often suggested? Is this not what he has already murmured in remarks, entrusted to letters, consigned in a thousand signs which Yerushalmi has inventoried, classed, put in order, interpreted with unprecedented vigilance and jubilation? But at the end of the book, the monologist who says “we” says he is ready to respect the secret, to keep for his personal archives the response which the phantom, with its own mouth, could murmur in his ear in private.
fictive and effective, taut, dramatic, as generous as it is implacable, this “Monologue” does not deprive the other of his right to speak. Not without injustice can one say that Freud has no chance to speak. He is the first to speak, in a certain sense, and the last word is offered to him. The right to speak is left, given or lent to him.
How can he claim to prove an absence of archive? How does one prove in general an absence of archive, if not in relying on classical norms (presence/ absence of literal and explicit reference to this or to that, to a this or to a that which one supposes to be identical to themselves, and simply absent, actually absent, if they are not simply present, actually present; how can one not, and why not take into account unconscious, and more generally virtual archives)?
o Is it possible that the antonym of ‘forgetting’ is not ‘remembering’, but justice?”
o Does one base one’s thinking of the future on an archived event—with or without substrate, with or without actuality—for example on a divine injunction or on a messianic covenant? Or else, on the contrary, can an experience, an existence, in general, only receive and record, only archive such an event to the extent that the structure of this existence and of its temporalization makes this archivization possible? In other words, does one need a first archive in order to conceive of originary archivability?
• It is known that Freud did everything possible to not neglect the experience of haunting, spectrality, phantoms, ghosts. He tried to account for them. Courageously, in as scientific, critical, and positive a fashion as possible. But in this way, he also tried to conjure them.
• THESIS 2:
o the archive is made possible by the death, aggression, and destruction drive, that is to say also by originary finitude and expropriation. But beyond finitude as limit, there is, as we said above, this properly in-finite movement of radical destruction without which no archive desire or fever would happen.