I am not forgetting that each time I call him, designate him, paradigmatically by this name of Derrida, I make as if I knew whom I was talking about or what whereas not at all, I know so little, and in the instant there is one of them, another one, there are so many ones in him that are dissembled beginning with resemblances that ephemeral but vivid but tenuous, and each one uniquely him. 'You know me a little' he says.
9.29.2023 Reread. Equally enjoyable second reading. I liked Cixous placing Derrida as history’s preeminent reader of Freud. She also placed Derrida as being initially uncertain or perhaps mistaken in the nebulous fields of Heidegger.
Original review:
This was such an astonishing journey. Should we begin with the title, which was Derrida's puny punny name for Cixous? Emerging with similar origins and faiths, both were allowed to simmer and saunter over a lifetime: aside from the predilections, there were/are forces at play which allowed (encouraged?) this philosophical conspiracy. This book straddles elegy and eulogy and somehow escapes the sum. It is constructed with imagined dialogues, stream-of-conscious prose poems and excerpts from texts. It offers the shadow of an altar (alter?) but Inister is only a dream's punch line. This is a haunting text: as it reveals it circles back to an always already appreciation, keeping that impossible distance. I feel fortunate to have spent a day with it.