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48 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
'How are you holding up? ask those who are intrigued by twenty-six years of the graft. The question is not idle. Natural ageing is modified both for better and for worse. Without the intruder, I would have lived twenty-six fewer years—and it's not completely finished. But with it, and with the biochemistry everywhere grafted onto my biology, there is no lack of complications.’
'The grafting of a heart is but a still distant image or manifestation of what in every "being a self" (of a person, of a country, of a language, of a thought) implies a host of intrusions. Without these intrusions nothing would take place, nothing would begin to individuate or identify itself.'
‘A heart that only half beats is only half my heart. I was already no longer in me. I'm already coming from somewhere else, or I'm not coming any longer at all. A strangeness is revealed "at the heart" of the most familiar but "familiar" hardly says it: at the heart of something that never signalled itself as "heart." Up to this point, it was strange by virtue of not being even perceptible, not even being present. From now on it falls, and this strangeness binds me to myself. "I" am, because I am ill. ("Ill" is not exactly the term: not infected, just rusty, tight, blocked.) But this other, my heart, is done for. This heart, from now on intrusive, has to be extruded.’
‘Since the time of Descartes, at least, modern humanity has transformed the longing for survival and immortality into an element in a general program of "mastery and possession of nature." It has thereby programmed the growing strangeness of "nature." It has revived the absolute strangeness of the twofold enigma of mortality and immortality. Whatever religion used to represent, humanity has carried it to a level of technical empowerment that pushes back the end in every sense of the phrase. By prolonging the term, it extends the absence of an end: prolonging what life, with what aim? To defer death is also to exhibit it, to underscore it.’
'(Someone will say: there is always the brain. And the idea of a brain transplant certainly makes it into the papers now and then. Some day, no doubt, humanity will raise it again. Meanwhile, we acknowledge that the brain does not survive without a remnant of the body. Conversely, and dropping the subject for now, it might survive with a whole system of foreign body grafts...)'
'A ‘proper’ life, not to be found in any organ, and nothing without them. A life that not only lives on, but continues to live properly, under a strange, threefold rule: that of decision, that of an organ, and that of sequelae to the transplant.’
‘I end/s up being nothing more than a fine wire stretched from pain to pain and strangeness to strangeness. One attains a certain continuity through the intrusions, a permanent regime of intrusion: in addition to the more than daily doses of medicine and hospital check-ups, there are the dental repercussions of the radiotherapy, along with a loss of saliva, the monitoring of food, of contagious contacts, the weakening of muscles and kidneys, the shrinking of memory and strength for work, the reading of analyses, the insidious returns of mucositis, candidiasis, or polyneuritis, and a general sense of being no longer dissociable from a network of measures and observations of chemical, institutional, and symbolic connections that do not allow themselves to be ignored, akin to those out of which ordinary life is always woven, and yet, altogether inversely, holding life expressly under the incessant warning of their presence and surveillance. I become indissociable from a polymorphous dissociation.’
‘—Claire Denis did not adapt my book; she adopted it. (And in fact, her film does address adoption.) The relationship between us is not the relatively "natural" one presumed of an adaptation (a simple change of register or instrument) but the kind of extra-natural relationship that, without evidence of kinship, depends solely on its symbolic elaboration. That this, in the final analysis, is the truth behind all kinship is perhaps one of the lessons of the film, just as my book suggests that in the end there is no 'real body' and this "just as' is already enough to engage the complex and delicate system of correspondences, of 'inspirations', or contagions between us.'
These are people who are asking to enter a homogeneous space. And who hope at the same time to be able in this space to hold on to what one calls an identity, but an identity that ought to be able to avoid the assumption that it is intrusive… but that ought to be able to be heterogeneous within the homogeneous, nonetheless.