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Derrida i'Ll Have to Wander All Alone

Derrida i'Ll Have to Wander All Alone

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Published by Gonzalo Garcia

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Published by: Gonzalo Garcia on Oct 01, 2012
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11/30/2012

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I'll Have to Wander All Alone by Jacques DerridaToo much to say, and I don't have the heart for it today. There is too much to say about what hashappened to us here, about what has also happened to me, with the death of Gilles Deleuze, with adeath we no doubt feared (knowing him to be so ill), but still, with this death here (cette mort-ci),this unimaginable image, in the event, would deepen still further, if that were possible, the infinitesorrow of another event. Deleuze the thinker is, above all, the thinker of the event and always of this event here (cet evenement-ci ). He remained the thinker of the event from beginning to end. Ireread what he said of the event, already in 1969, in one of his most celebrated books, The Logic of Sense. He cites Joe Bousquet ("To my inclination for death," said Bousquet, "which was a failure of the will"), then continues: "From this inclination to this longing there is, in a certain respect, nochange except a change of the will, a sort of leaping in place (saut sur place) of the whole bodywhich exchanges its organic will for a spiritual will. It wills now not exactly what occurs, butsomething in that which occurs, something yet to come which would be consistent with whatoccurs, in accordance with the laws of an obscure, humorous conformity: the Event. It is in thissense that the Amor fatiis one with the struggle of free men" (One would have to quoteinterminably).There is too much to say, yes, about the time I was given, along with so many others of my"generation," to share with Deleuze; about the good fortune I had of thinking thanks to him, bythinking of him. Since the beginning, all of his books (but first of all Nietzsche, Difference andRepetition, The Logic of Sense ) have been for me not only, of course, provocations to think, but,each time, the unsettling, very unsettling experience - so unsettling - of a proximity or a near totalaffinity in the "theses" - if one may say this - through too evident distances in what I would call, for want of anything better, "gesture," "strategy," "manner": of writing, of speaking, perhaps of reading. As regards the "theses" (but the word doesn't fit) and particularly the thesis concerning a differencethat is not reducible to dialectical opposition, a difference "more profound" than a contradiction(Difference and Repetition ), a difference in the joyfully repeated affirmation ("yes, yes"), the takinginto account of the simulacrum, Deleuze remains no doubt, despite so many dissimilarities, the oneto whom I have always considered myself closest among all of this "generation." I never felt theslightest "objection" arise in me, not even a virtual one, against any of his discourse, even if I did onoccasion happen to grumble against this or that proposition in Anti-Oedipus (I told him about it oneday when we were coming back together by car from Nanterre University, after a thesis defense onSpinoza) or perhaps against the idea that philosophy consists in "creating" concepts. One day, Iwould like to explain how such an agreement on philosophical "content" never excludes all thesedifferences that still today I don't know how to name or situate. (Deleuze had accepted the idea of publishing, one day, a long improvised conversation between us on this subject and then we had towait, to wait too long.) I only know that these differences left room for nothing but friendshipbetween us. To my knowledge, no shadow, no sign has ever indicated the contrary. Such a thing isso rare in the milieu that was ours that I wish to make note of it here at this moment. This friendshipdid not stem solely from the (otherwise telling) fact that we have the same enemies. We saw eachother little, it is true, especially in the last years. But I can still hear the laugh of his voice, a littlehoarse, tell me so many things that I love to remember down to the letter: "My best wishes, all mybest wishes," he whispered to me with a friendly irony the summer of 1955 in the courtyard of theSorbonne when I was in the middle of failing my agregation exam. Or else, with the same solicitudeof the elder: "It pains me to see you spending so much time on that institution (le CollegeInternational de Philosophie). I would rather you wrote..." And then, I recall the memorable ten daysof the Nietzsche colloquium at Cerisy, in 1972, and then so many, many other moments that makeme, no doubt along with Jean-Francois Lyotard (who was also there), feel quite alone, survivingand melancholy today in what is called with that terrible and somewhat false word, a "generation."Each death is unique, of course, and therefore unusual, but what can one say about the unusualwhen, from Barthes to Althusser, from Foucault to Deleuze, it multiplies in this way in the same"generation," as in a series - and Deleuze was also the philosopher of serial singuarity - all theseuncommon endings?Yes, we will all have loved philosophy. Who can deny it? But, it's true, (he said it), Deleuze was, of 

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