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In memoriam Robert Mas

Copyrigltl O 192 bt lhr Regenls of tne UniveBitv of Minnea.ra

AU rill]l6 rclerued. No pan or rhis publiccrron may be reproduced. lored in a rdrielal syslen, or rra$milled. in any form or by anv means, elclronici m.charical, photocoprins, recoiding, or othdwke, wnnonr the prior wlitten permisrion

per lo ,luliona e la Chfistina

of the Publishe!

Ubruy of ColCEs

C tlqlng-ln-Plbllctllon D.l.
Cor3es Van Dn

van De. Abbele, corg4. lts\rl ds meiaphor : from lo Rous*au

ltuludes biblioxraDhical EfeRnces and inder.

L Philospbx Frnch-l6tb enlury. 2. Philo$phy, Frcnch-l?th cenlutv 3. Philosophy, Fench-lslh.e.tu.r, 4. TravI, 5. Monraisne, Michel de, l5l31592-virys on travel, 6, De$afles, Ren6, 1596-16t0-views on favel. 7. Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, l7l2-l'778-Views on lrad. l. Tille. Bl80qTr2v35 192 9l-t1248


Kord for

Ihis book is available froo rh. British Library by the Unir(siry ol Minnesta PBs 2037 Unive$ity Alenue Southea$, Mian.apolis, MN 51414 PriDtcd ii! rhe united Sht.s of Ameiiaa on acid-f!e paper

Th. Uni8siry ol Minnesota is an

quahppo(uniry ducaror and enploye.





(Gftm.\ Uanspoft de la personne d'un I'on est, dans un autrc assez iloicnd. On fait Ie yoy^ge d'Italie. On Jait un voyage d Parb. Il laut tous faire une lois le grand voy^ge, Allq ayant le temps de \)otre ddpatt ddposet dans votre tombeau Ia prcvision de
voYA(E, s.m.



(Commerce.) [es alldes & les lenues d'un mercenaire qui tansporte des meubles, du bled & autres choses. On dit qu'il a fait dri voyages, v,nga voyages. ont jugd qu'il


voyrcE, (Educaiion.) les grunds hom es de I'antiquitd n'! ayoit de meilleurc dcole de la yie que celle des \oy^gesi dcole oi I'on apprcnd la diwrsitd de tant d'auttes ies, olt I'on trouw sans cesse quelque noulelle lecon dans ce grund li\)re du monde; & oi le changement d'air avec I'exercice sont prcJitables au cotps & d I'esprit.
-Encyclopddie IvoyAaE, masculine noun (Crammar,) tronsport oJ a pe6on from the place where one b to onother place that is Jat enough awaj. One makes the yoyage to Italt One makes a voyage to Pafis. It is necessa), Jot eyeryone to make the great voyage once. Ahead of ,ow depaftwe time, go depos into low tomb rhe protisions fot lout


voYacr, (Commerce.) the comings and goings ol a mefcenary who transpotls fumishings, wheat and othef things. One says that he has made ten \oyages, lwentt
voYrrcE, (Education.) the grcat men of antiquity judged Nras no berter school fot lik than that oJ voyagesi a school yr'hefe one leams about the diyercily of so man! othef lives, v,'herc one incessantll finds sofie new lesson in that grcat book of the wo d; and wherc the change of ait along with the exercise k of proJit to the

thal lhere

bod] and lo thz mind.l




lntroduction: The Ecodomy of Travel Chapter l. Equestrian Montaigne Circulating in Italy: Trawl Jownal Unbridled Leisure: "Of Idleness" An Accidental Body; or, The Paternal Limit: "Of Practice"



32 39

2. 3.


Roads Lead Back

to Rome:



Cartesian Coordinates Finding One's Footing: Second Meditation wandedngs in Errori Discourse on Method,

48 62 62 't4

Montesquieu's Gmnd Tout A View ftom the Top: Jou e! frcm Otuz to The Hague The Occidental Tourist; or, The Drift of History: The Sqitit of the Lau'ts Pedestrian Rousseau Pedagogy and the Teleology of Ttavdt Emile Oedipal Returns; The Law of Successiont Emile and Sophie; or, the Solitary Ones waiking and wrhing: conle$ions




85 97



"Fall" of

Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Second

l3l t1\








A number of

persons and institutions have encouraged the realization of this book. Initial research on the topic was begun under a Sage craduare

Fellowship at Cornell University. The Andrew Mellon Foundation at Harvard University later gave me leave time rc pursue morc intensive work, Faculty research grants from the University of California at Santa Cruz and from Miami Universi8 in Ohio were also invaluable. william Ray deseryes thanks for first suggesting the topic of iravel to me. Philip Lewis, Richard Klein, Piero Pucci, Jonathan Culler, and Louis Marin were crucial to the elaboration ofthe project from its earliest moments. Further encouragement alld helpful criticisms came from Michel de Certeau, Fred Jameson, Jean-Fran9ois Lyotard, Tom Cor ey, Dan Brcwer, Harry Berger, Tom Vogler, James Creech, and Mitchell creenberg. I wish most especially to thank Peggy Kamuf and Tim Munay for thefu scrupulous and supportive readings of the final manuscript. The University of Minnesota Press was extraordinarily helpful in preparing the book for publication, and I particularly wish to thank Biodun lginla and Terry Cochran for their editorial assistance. Ann Klefstad was an excellent and instructive copyediltr. An early and much abbreviated vetsion of the second chapter was published in Brrli.a 17: Rdcits et imaginairc (Actes de Montrdal) | Q984r, 3-14; and a portion of the third chapter initially appeared in Z rsplit Cftatefi 25 (no. 3: Fall 1985), 64-?4. I rhank these two journals for permission to rcprint.



wish to thank my grandfather Robert Maes, for inspiring me to study French literature, Christina Schiesari-Safron for bringing her exuberance and spirit into my life, and Juliana Schiesari for her conceptual clarifications and queries, her exhaustive srylistic suggestions, and her endlessly caring love.


The Economy of Travel



when one thinks of travel, one most often thinks of the interest

and excitement that comes from seeing exotic places and cultures, Likewise, the application of the metaphor of travel to thought conjures up the image of an innovative mind that explorcs new ways of looking at things or which opens up new horizons. That mind is a critical one to the extent that its

moving beyond a given set



or values also undermines

those assumptions. Indeed, to call an existing order (whether epistemological, aesthetic, or political) into question by placing oneself "outside" that

order, by taking a "critical distance" from it, is implicitly to invoke the metaphor of thought as travel. The following study aims to investigate the rclations between critical thinking and the metaphor of the voyage in th context of French philosophical lirerature from the la(e Renajssance through the Enlighlenmenl. Before considering the specificity of that conte,\t, I would like, however, to reflect upon the travel motif as such at the more abstract level of its general epistemological presuppositions. Despite its association with the interesiing or the innovative, the motif of the voyage counts among the most manifestly banal in Western letters. From Homer and Virgil, through Danie and Cervants, Defoe and Goethe, Melville and Coqlad, Prousi and

Celine, Nabokov and Butor, and on up through the mosi "postmodem" writers, one can scarcely mention a piece of literature in which the theme of the voyage does not play some role. The very image of thought as a quest is a commonplace in the history of philosophy and faturcs

i!li,r;*.-,.. ..,..





prominently in such canonical r;'otks 4s The Republic, The Citf of God, the -Esra/s of Montaigne, Vico's Ne)r Scierce, Hegel's Phenomenologt oJ Mind, Frcttd's Belond the Pleasute P nciple, Heideager's Bei g and Time, Levi-Strauss's Tirter ?opiqler, and Lyotard's The Postmodem Co dition. But if one grants the banality of the genre commonly associated with innovation, the question that neds to be raised is whether th commonplace quality of the metaphor of travel does not at some point constitDte a limit to ihe freedom of critical thought. This question might be rephrased at a still more abstract level in tetms of the relationship between an institutional or ideological framework and that which claims to call it into qustion. What if the critique of a sysrem wer itself encoded as an institutionalizd part of the system? It would seem, in fact, that the ways in which we question our world are themselves products of that world. Should one conclude pessimistically, ther, that critical thought can never escape its entrapment by that which it supposedly criticizes? h is difficult to answer the question when it is phrased in so absolute a form. The hypothesis this study instead attempts to support is that the critical gesture is always entrapped in some ways and liberated or librating in others. The assumptiod, in othr words, is that no liberating gesture, no theoretical breakthrough, is absolute. Rather, there is always a concomitant degree of entrapment, which t suspecr ro be rh condition of possibility for the liberation that does take place. Moreover, the elemenr of enlrapment may evn function in certain writrs as a dsired safeguard that keeps the critical advenrure within certain bounds. Granted this paradoxica, status of the critical act, it is incumbent upon the critic to explore the conditions for critical discourse, ro locate and describe the specific moments where entrapment or radical innovation takes place, The metqp[olf !mv_elqs,!!i!cal trope is at last as paradoxical in its determinations as lhe critical act. If w are obliged to speak of the voyage as the most common of commonplaces in the Western vadition, a topos of the most fixed, conventional, and uninteresting kind, rhen such a formulation is paradoxical to the xtent that a voyage cannot be restricted to or circumscribed within a place unless it is to cease being a voyage-that is, what necessarily implies a crossiflg of boundaries or a change of places. A voyage that stays in the same place is not a voyage. Indeed, the very notion of travel presupposes a movement away from some place, a displacement of whatever it is on understands by "place." For literature then to make of the voyage a commonplace ii to deprive it of its very movement. But then again, if literature returns with such frequency ro this topos (if it can still be considered ro be one), the rhme of rh voyag must not be simply one [lrary theme arnong o(hers bur one rhar in some way or orher raites the qilenion of Lhe \rarus ol Iirerary diqcourse ir\elf.

would sem, moreover, that the very banality or banalizing of travel to be found in literature both veils and unvils its importance for western culture. The voyage is undoubtedly one of the most cherished institutions and banal as it may be, travel is prsistently perceived oi rut new "iuiti""tion, as exciting and interesting, as liberating, and as what "opens up all appeal to lhe molil . toriront.:ft. dearesl nolions of lhe wen nearl) / of Ihe loyage: proSress. the quest ior kno$ledge. lreedom ai lreedom lo mou", seli-u*aren""s as an odyssean enterprise, salvation as a destination lo b' attained by following a prescribed pathwav (typicallv straight and that narrow). Yet if there is such a grat cultural irvestment in the voyage' possibility of appropiation locus oi innertment is nonetheless one whose also implies the threat of an expropriation. The voyage ndangers as much can always go as it is supposed to assur these cultural values: something one' wrong. The "place" of the voyage cannot b a stable ,q.tbssicai appreciation of the problm of travl can be found in the de Jaucou Encfck)pddie arli;le of l?65, "vovage"' written bv th Chevalier to this volume ': This uni*hore opening pu.ueraphs figure as the epigraph uli"-pt to a"fin" *iut one means bv a vovage at the high-water mark.of ift" age of aiscon"rv, at a time when the likes of Cook and Bougainville to circumnavigate the gtob, analyzes lravel accordin to *e." the three ca;gories: grammar, commerce, education The explication of their mutual conjugation concurren;e of th;se three definilions, or rathr to pursue and articulation, should provide an inirial sel oftrms with which philosophical literature' an analysis of travel in early modern French A voyage is initially defined in grammatical terms as the "transport of a person frorn the place where one is to another place that is far enough it away:' Travel is th;s first defined fiom an anthropological perspective: beings, of "a person," from on place refeis to the movement of human io another. To be sur, the agent of this transportation remains unclear: rhe Der'on is rran\porLed. lhe follo$ing Ihree senlence! in this article ale , maljtain eouirnea ;n french Uy the impersonal forms on and il Jaut and as they present three examples of ihis depersonalized anthropology even .fhe fir"t t*o designate a persistent axis of the specifically French uoyagei. .eileition on t.uuet f.oln before Montaigne to after Butor, namely' the axis between ltaly and Paris, one to which I will repeatedly return Th third example brings an abrupt switch from the literal to the figural: "lt is to make the |Jeal voyage at some point:' The .""".ru.y foi "u".yoo" is death is not simply something "one does;'.suh metaphorical voyag that as to ttay, lut *ttat "it is necssary for everyone to do " This ultimale "transport of the person" induces the imperative form of a moral prescription by which ale Jaucourt closes this initial definition: "Ahead of your departure time, go deposit into your tomb the provisions for vour




'voyage." Beneath the anthropological perspective that guides the gram-

of travel lurks a risk and an anxiety, the risk-both necessary and inevitable-that the limit to the motion of the anlhropos is
matical definition

to be found in the limit to the latterls existence: "le grund royaEe." The auiety is an economic one, that of not being prepared on time, of not
having set aside the necessary "provisions." As if to follow up on this economic anxiety, the second definition

by its back-and-forth movemnt some kind of travel. Historically, rh great economic and commercial powers have been tbose most successful at manipulating the means of travel, and vice versa. If there is a great investmenr in travel, it is perhaps because travel models the structure of investment itself, the tdr62r of assets rhat instituies an economy, be it political or

the word is stipulated as "commercial": "the comings and goings of a mercenaty Imercenairel who transports furnishings [merlr/er], whear and other things." If death is a voyage with no return, commerce is predicated precisely upon the going ard coming of movable objects (the etymological sense of me4rles): lurnirure lor the house. $hear lor rhe bod). and so on. In the commercial sense of lravel, it is not so much lhe person that is moved, but things that are moved back .rn.t forth, the lafier being shunted about by a particular typ of person, a "mercenary," a word whose primary meaning at this time was still simply rhat of someone working for monetaty remuneration, His "mercenary" activity or reyerte thus depends upon his return, upon the successful completion of his circular movement, bv which the voyage can be counted as such: "One says that he has made ten yoJages,
posits another kind of increment, oftravel: "The great men of antiquity judged that there was no better school for life than that of yolager. " Here, and in the ensuing paragraphs of the article, rhe great masters of learning (in a long catalogue from Homer and Lycurgus ro Montaigne) are themselves enlisted to support the value bf travel as befter than any actual school, nor unsulprisingly because it brings one ro read the grandest textbook of them all: "that grcat book of the world" wherein "on incessantly finds som new lesson." As the anthropological agent of the voyage is thus secured by the revenu (in profits, in knowledge) of a rerurn, so does the space of


The third definition

of "voyage"

namely, the educational value

that trajectory becom available to be read as the grammar of a topography. And in a claus that impressivly recombines rhe triple definition of the voyage as it brings this paragraph to a close. rravel is statd to benefir the body as wll as the mind: "The change of air along with rhe e,\ercise is of profit to the body and the mind." Th profits to be gained from travel are qji corporal as they are intellectual or commercial. If rravel posits rhe risk and anxiety of death, it also signals the way to healrh, wealth, and wisdom. The triple definition of the voyage thus triangulates its objecr as a zone of potential loss or profir. Bur if one wants to economize on rravel-that is, to minimize its risks and reappropriare any possible loss as profit-one soon discovers that the notion of economy already presupposes that of travel. Fothe exchane of objecrs rhat defines commerciat activity implies

libidinal, "restricted" or "gneral."r Now, if there is an insecuriry or anxiery associated wirh travel, it is that insecurity associated with the menace of irreparable loss. This loss can affect not only one's monetary assets but one's very life or sanity. Or one can simply los one's way, since the possibility of there bing no return is always implied in travel. Every voyage is potentially a voyage into exile, a voyage to the "end of the night." La Fontaine's famous fable ,,The Two Pigeons" providgs an eloquent statement of this negative notion of travel. ln this satire of the urge to travel, one of the two pigeons, ,.crazy enough to undertake / a voyage to some faraway land," suffers one disaster after another in his journey until, "half dead and half limping,,' he decides to return home.4 Voltaire's Candide (1759) takes a similar point of view: after recounting the horrendous series of brDral misfortuns that befall both major and minor characters in their peregrinations around rhe globe, the "philosophical tale" ends wirh the famous didacticism, .,ir is necessary to cultivate our garden," the epitome of sedentariness.r But just as travel poses th danger of loss so also does it propose the possibility of gain (whether this gain be in the form of grearer riches, powet, experience, wisdom, o{ whatevr). Otherwise, there would be no incentive to travel. Semiotic rsearch on tourism has dmonstrated how. in even rhis apparently most innocent and innocuous mode of travel, strong economic and ideological motives are at work: tourists accumulate ..cultural experiences" that then increase their social value within rheir home communities.6 A positive evaluation of rravel likewise occurs when the voyage is seen as an scape either in the banal urSe to ,'get away from it all,, or in the Baudelairean flight from ennui. Perhaps the mosr explicjt-and brutalform of travel understood as opporrunity for gain is to be found in imperialist or colonialist ventures, of which those described in the narratives of the Spanish conqust of the New World offer a particularly forceful rendition.r Both ofthese evaluations oftravel, however, remain circumscribed wirhin an economic point of view Whether the voyage be loss or gain, whar is at stake is a certain prope y, something that cd, be lost or gained. To be able to talk about loss or gain, however, also requires that something in the transaction remain unchanged, something in relarior to which one can register a loss or a gain. In orher words, in order to be able to have an economy of travel, some fixed point of rfercnce must be posited. The





economy of travel requires an ol*o.s (the Greek for "home" from which is derived "economy") in rlation to which any wandring can be comprc,ended (enclosed as well as understood). In other words, a home(land) must be posited from which one leaves on the journey and to which one hopes to retum-whether one actually makes it back home changes nothing, from this perspective. The positing of an orfo.t, or dom6 (the Latin translation ol oikos), is what donesticates the voyage by ascribing certain limits to it The oikos defines or delimits th movement of travel according to that old Aristotelian prescription for a "well-constructed" plot, namely, having a beginning, a middle, and an end.3 Indeed, travel can only be conceptualized in+rms of the points of departure and destination and of the (spatial and temporal) dislance betwen thm. A traveler lhinks of his or her journey in terms ither of the destination or of the point of departure. Whil the oitos is most asily understood as that point from wh;ch the voyage begins and to which it circles back at the end, its function could theoretically be srved by any particular point in the itinerary. That point then acts as a transcendental point of reference that organizes and domesticates a given area by defining all other points in rlation to itself. Such an act of referml makes of all travel a circular voyage insofar as that privileged point or oiftos is posited as the absotute origin and absolule end of any movement at all. For instance, a journey organized in terms of its destination makes of that destination the journey's conceptual point of departure, its point of orientation. Thus, a teleological point of view remains comfortably within this economic conception ol travel. The economic conception of travel thus implies the attempt to keep travel enclosed within certain limits, that of the closed circle of the home, the o,kos. On the other hand, so circumsribed a voyage can no longer be considered a voyage, since it never goes outside the range of the oikos Home, the very antithesis of travel, is the concept through which the voyage is "oikonomized" into a commonplace. Hence, while the voyage can o y be thought through this "economy of travel," the economy is precisely that which conceptually stops or puts an end to th voyage by assigning it a beginning and an end in the form of the oikor. To economize on something, or as the French say, /airc l'dco o ie de quelqu crose, is to try to reduce or.dispense with the object of that economy, to avoid or evade it. The voyase, it would sem, can only be thoueht at its own risk. lf, however, a voyage can only be conceptualized economically in trms of the fixity of a privilegd point (ottos), the positing of a point we can call home can only occur retroactively. The concpt of a home is needed (and in fact it can only be thoushi) only a/,er the home has already been left behind. Int strict sense, then, one has always already left home, since

that is, anterior to the positing of rhat originary position which I have been calling the oitor. What is commonly called ,,tmvel,, is but an afiempt to contain that other prototravel rhrough a kind of reverse denegarion rhat denies travel precisely by affirming it. When I say I am raking a trip, I fel confident in my ability to define it according to an itinerary between points. This "dfinition" is a conrainmenr of travel which allows ir rhen not only to be thoughr but to be thought as a narrative, as a story-rhar is, if we accept the idea that it takes at least two movemnis to constitute a narrative. Thse two movemenrs, according to the narratology of Thomas Pavel, include th "transgression" ofan iniriat situation and its ..mediation', or attempted resolution.e The travel narrative is then one in which the transgression of losing or leaving rhe home is mediated by a movement that attempts to fill the gap of thar loss through a spatialization of time. Thh articulation of space with rime smoorhs that initial discontinuity into the continuity of a line that can be drawn on the map. Through rhis instituted continuity, the voyage is found not only ro confotm ro the rules of a narrative but also to be one of its canonical forms. Michl de Certeau has even gone so far as (o declare that,.every narrative is a rravel
What cannot be shown, however, in the drawing of such a line is the concomitant temporalization of space effected by rravI, so the home that one Ieaves is not the same as that to which one retums, The very condition paradoxically able to provoke the greatest disorientation. One need only cit here the srereotypical image of the rraveler, who, a la Rip van Winkle, returns home only ro find that it (or rhe traveler) has changed beyond all recognition. Such a disorientation at the point of reiurn indicates the radical noncoincidence of point of origin and point of rturn. For the point of retum as repetition of the point of departure cannot take place withour a difference in thar repetition: the detow consritutive of the voyage itself. Were the point of departure and the point of return to remain exactly the same, that is, were ihey the same point, there could be no travel. Yr if the or,tos does nor remain selfsame, how can one fel secure in it, especially given the fact that rhis identity of the oikor is what is ncessarily presupposed by rhe economic view of rravel, the only way we can think a voyage as such? ,Be they real or imaginary, voyages seem as often underraken to restrain movement as to engaAe in it, to resist change as to produce it, to keep from getting anywhere as ro artain a destinarion. The rheorv of an economv of rralel is an aaempr to erplain via recouhe lo an aiternati\e sel oi

hom can only exist as such at the price of its being lost. The oilos is posited aptas-coup. Thus, the voyage has always already begun. Such a voyage, however, is litrally unrhinkable if ir is pre-posirional,

of orientation, the o,to& is


is because 4rd relarion it repeats the voyage by recounring the itinerary in chronological order at the same time qrd rclation (frcm ldrrr, borne or transported) it displaces rhe ropography inro a topic of discourse.,r The result is a mimetic narrative, which is nonerheless instiruted by the very loss of what it claims to bring back, to rclate. The relation de yoyage can only mime and recount (can only mime as it recounts) what is already lost, what has already transpired. Nor everything can be included or even should be. The most thoroughly detailed travel narratives can be the most boring and tedious, At the other extreme, som amount to little more than an

metaphors the paradoxical and contradictory ways in which travel is undersrood and practiced in our culture. The establishment of a home or olkor places conceptual limits on travel, supplies it with a terminus d 4lo and a terminus ad qrrl which allow on to conceive of the potntially dangerous divagation ol travel within assured and comfortable bounds. The economy of rravel thus domesticates the transgressive or critical possibilities implied in the change of perspective travel provides. Nevrthlss, th very activity of traveling may also displace the home or prevent any return to it, thus

undermining the institution of that conomy and allowing for an infinite

tl\e paradoxical play of entrapment and liberation evinced in critical

The problms raised in the analysis of travl also recall those commonly encountered in recent theories of textual analvsis: the blurring of identity and difference, the undecidable effects of repetition, and a structured inability to isolate the object of discours (that is, to talk about either texts or travel without becoming embroild in another text or without embarking

or unbounded travel. This cornplex economics of travel rehearces once more

of dates and place names,rr But if the narrative can be constituted by such a repetition and displacement-that is, if it is as much a tran.rlation as it is a /elarion-the

constitution of that narrative can only take place

on a voyage, be

it only a discursive

one).r' But


one finds the same

anxieties and the same pleasures in both, it is not, in my opinion, because of a mere coincidenc or accident. On the contrary, it is difficult to escape the impression that both problems are part ofthe same problem, ore rooted in the decision of Western metaphysics to privilege presence over absence, voice over writina, and hence the near over the far What I have been calling the economy of travel is but a moment in the history of meaaphysics, which is also distrustful of language and which similarly seks an economy of signification such that the persistent mediation of the sign is reduced 10 a minimum in the conveyance without residue of "full meaning."rz Not only, however, do both text and voyage raise the same set of problems, but one finds with surprising frequency that the problems associated with one are posited or described in terms of the other It is as if the

domeslication or economy of the one proceeded from the other. On the one hand, one finds topological theories of language in which utterance becomes a question of choosing ihe right "route"; on the other, a textualization of topography such that travel requires the interpretation of signs; the ability, for jnstanc, to "read" a map. This interpretation can also be written down in ihe form of travelogues or what the French writers of the Classical period refetred to as relations de yoldg. This latter appellation well denotes the domesticating aim of such \Ntitinl. A rclation de toJdge is what rlates the events of a voyage! it re-lates the voyage, brings it back by way of the narrator's The "relation" (from rckto, to brina back) itself acts as a voyage that brings back what was lost in the voyage. tt insiltuts an economy of th voyaee. If it acts as a voyage, it

taining points ol reference ("reference" frcf;l reIerc, the same word from which "relation" derivet. The idea of a reference point refers back ro the oitor as the transcendental poinr of rference ro which all orhers are referred. We can now add, though, the further qualification rhat this referential economy is of a textual order. In other words, a place can only "take place" within a rexr, thar is, only if ir can be marked and re-marked from the area in which it is inscribed.'6 Only in ihis sense can we speak of topogrupht, for insofar as rhe very perception and cognition of a ^ landscape requires an ffect of demarcation, the latter can only be constj tuted as a space of wriring. This space of writing is borh the preconditjon for the referentiat mastery of rh oiio.r and that which impties rhe inevirable decentering of this referential economy into an endless chain of reference. Such an eventuality, however, implies the loss of whatevr mastery was though! to be gained through the posiring of travet as text, even as it bears unwelcome wirne\\ ro rhe jusrice ol lhat rhesi\.
Conversely, the seemingly irresistible propensiry of theories of language to use topological termsi? suggests again that the relationship drawn between traveling and wriling is not necessarily unwarranred, although once again perhaps it is not the relalionship one wor d like. For whar does Ctassical

alrady a kind of text, that is, if rhere is already in place a differential structure of relationships that allows rhe ,,voyage,, to b cognized or rec, ognized as such. This structurc can be a map or any similar system con-


the voyag is somehow

rhetoric with its network of ropics and its catalogue of tropes pretend to, except, as Cicro declares in rh fopr'cs, a ..disciplinam invendiendorum argumentorum, ut sin ullo errore ad ea ratione et via perveniremus,' [a system for inventing arguments so thar we mighl make our way ro rhem without any wandering abourl,3. The rheiorical treatise presents itself as a kind ofguidebook to the traversal of linguisric space, a discursive Baedeker. The metaphor is literalized, so ro speak, in ihat division of rheroric known



But if the concept of metaphor can be used to effect an economical reduction of tropological difference-that is, if metaphor is to become the prcre,' name for every figural impropriety-it can only attain that status metaphorically, by transporting th concept of transportation to that of the text-such a transportation taking place nonetheless within a text and as a text. Tlavel then becomes the metaphor of metaphor while the structure of the metaphor becomes the metaphor for the travel of meaning.':r And if, as we have sen in our analysis of travel, the identity of the home is breached by the very movement that constitutes it, are w not entitled to ask if tbe metaphorcin of meaning does not have similar consequences for the notion of prcper meaning? In his commentary on Aristotle's definition of metaphor, Jacques Derrida suggests just such an eventuality:

6emor\ (memo a) wherein a prescribed technique to help one remember ^s ooints one wishes to make during one's discourse consisrs ol associaring Lhe ones each of rhose poinls wilh a familiar place One can lhen reproduce places " NeverLheless' arcument by imaginarively traversing lhe designaled lo Lh; hisrory of rheLoric, conslituted by the interminable haggling' down proposed our own day, over the correctness of the divisions and schemata by various rhetoricians, stands as a monument to the failure of its attempt to master language, a failure due not to the particular weaknesses of individual rhetoncians but to the structure of language iiself. Nowhere is this inability to maintain th stability of the rhetorical map more vident than in the problems encountered by theorticians of figural ftinCuage. Agreement cannot evn be reachd on the number of tropes or fig;res to be classified. Now, what a theory of figlral language in principle proposes is a complete enumeration and consequent mastery of the ways in which language can mean something other than what it habitually means' ways in which meaning departs from itself. As Du Marsais writes, "Figures are manne$ of speaking ./isldrced from those that ar not figurcd."'zo The presupposition is that something like the literal or "proper" maning of a woral can b precisely determined, in relation to which all figural meanings can then be underctood, contained, and mastered. For such a system to work. however, the "proper" meaning must be a stable one, an unchanging point of refrence that dominates the field of figural meanings' which can then be grasped as wanderings, deviations, or depaftures from that proper meaning. At this point, the rhetorical problem of figural versus literal meaning is congruent in structure to the conomic problem of travel, with "proper" meaning in the place of the ortor. The very language Classical

rhetoric used to talk about figurcs would itself be bo o\ied from the vocabulary of travel. A more recent theorist of rhetodc has likewise written: "Evry structure of 'figures' is based on the notion that there exist two languages, one proper and one figured, and that consequentlv Rhetoric, in its ;locutionary part, is a table of devialrons of language. Since Antiquity, the meta-rhetorical xpressions which attesi to this belief are countless: in e/ocrtro (field of figures), \\ofis arc 'transpotted,' 'struled" 'deviated' frcfit their normal, familiar habitat."'?r Given such an understandine of figural language as divagation, it is nol surprising that there should have arisen early on ahe possibility of seeing in a particular trope, the metaphot the general form for all figural language' especially if we accepi the Aristotelian definition of metaphor as the "application of an alien name by trunsference (epiphotd).":2 "Metaphorrr comes frcm metaphorcin, to transfer or lranspo . What btter word to denote the transport of meaning than a word whose modrn Creek equivalent' metoforu, .onilmonly rcfers to vehicles of public transport, such as buses?

lMdraplorl risks disrupting the semantic plenitude to which it should belong. Marking the moment of the turn or of the detour Idu tout ou d, ddloutj during which meaning might seem to venture forth Is'aventurctT alone, unloosed from the very thing it aims at however, from the truth which altunes it to its referent, metaphor also opens the wandering Lerrancet of the semantic. The snse of a noun, instead of designating the thing which the noun habitually must designate, carries itself elsewhere Ise poie ailleutsl. If I say that the evening is the old age of the day, or that old age is the evening of life, "the evening," although having the same sense, will no longer designaie th sam things. By virtue of its power of metaphoric displacement lddplacementl, signification will be in a kind of state of availabilily, between the nonmeaning preceding language (which has a meaning) and the truth of language which would say the thing such as it is in itself, in act, properly. This trurh is not certain.zr
Both the homelinss of meaning and meaningfulness of the home can only be constituteal at ihe risk of an infinite detour. In the view of this slippery path leading one back and forth between text and travel, it is my suspicion that what might otherwise b construd as idle statements on travel in a writer's discourse allow on the contrary for the elaboration of a critical discoume of considerable force. And in light of the congruencies between the pmblems of travel, textuality, and critical thinking, the following study aims to discern the role played by the motif of travel in the economy of critical discourse. lt is appropriate that this study should tak place on the terrain of early modern French thought, since in that historical periodthere occurs a remarkable conjunction between the vogue of exoticism and imaginary voyages, on the one hand, and the philosophical trends of skepticism, relativism, and libertinace, on the other.




In exploring, then, the articulation of the discours on travel with the critical tradition leading up through the prrTosoprer, I find that a wdtert sustained recourse to the ligure of travl inevitably points to underlyine concrns with the status of his position, vis-a-vis his own theories as well
in relation to earlier thinkers. Rather than attmpt, howevr, a full-blown historical study of the relation between exoticism and the rise of French free thought,':6 the following study implements a rhetorical or textual approach in order to test the strength of the relationship between theory and travel in the discourse of particular writers of the Classical era. In pursue an analysis of rheir qrirings b) \order ro see how lar one could lollowing the roure indicated by their use ol lhe lolage motif. I have

ever the motif of travel inhabited the would have been in the classical age.1r


criticd spitit or espfit ctitique,

It might well be argued, at this point, that such an analysis would be in no way historical. The figure of travel is so generally implicated in
difficult to grant any kind of historical specificity to the texts or analyses that appropriate thar figure. The deconstructive potential of the voyag would be lodged in rhat figure irself and not in any particular or historical uses of it. Just as the privileging of voice over writing could be said, after Derrida, to define the epochZ ol logocentrism in the West, so the privileging of the oi&os in rhe economy of travel not unsurprisingly undrpins the ethnocntrism and imperialism thar have consistently marked Wstrn thought even in irs best efforrs ro "comprehend" the other.,8 In fact, th very use ofthe terms ..same" and ..other," drawn as thy are from Hegelian dialectics, with irs systematic reduction"sublation"-of differences in the progressive development of th subjecr of absolut knowledge, reinforces rhe problem whenever nonwhites, nonmales, or non-Europeans are designated as "others," a designation that presupposes th poina of view of the white, the male, the European. The former are, of course, no more (or lst "other" to themselves than the latter are "self-same," Another, perhaps less immediately obvious, centrism is also at work in the economy of travel: the phallocentrism whreby the "law of the home" (oikonomia\ organizs a st of gender determinaiions. One need go no further than the prototypical travel narrative thar is the Odlsse/ ro find a modeling ol lhe.e\ual division of labor: rhe domeviilaredl woman. Penelope, maintains the property of the home againsr would-be usurpers while her husband wanders about. Away from home, the latter encounters "other" women, who remair, at least for him, alluring and/or menacing, seductive and/or castmting. The call of the Sirens is a dangerous pleasur only for the sailor not securely lashed to the iixity of his phallic shipmast or whose ears are not made deaf to the cry of women. From the perspective of such a genderd topography, it is not hard to read the unpredictable
Western metaphysics that it becomes

accordingly chosen philosophical writers who also traveled as well as wrot on travel: Montaigne, Descartes, Montesquieu, and Rousseau. Needless to say, the choice of such a corpus is arbitrary to the extent that the problem under consideration extends well beyond the area circumscribed by these particular writers. On the other hand, the names of these writers have been traditionally associatd with the notion of iravel (Montaign has even been christened by one critic the "first tourist":?) as well as the related issues of exoticism and philosophical relativism. As such, their names denote particularly sirong or emblematic moments in the development of prerevolutionary French thought. I have limited myself, then, to a set of xtnded readings based upon what each writer says about travel (whether explicitly in the form of travelogues or implicitly in tbe travel metaphorc used in their nominally philosophical writingo. And if the theme of (ravel is commonly accepted io be at work in all these wdters, my reading intends to corroborate another kind of filiation that binds them together at the level ol what we can call their textual production. In each case, traits linked by the writer to travel trigger an associative chain that inevilably leads to concerns fundamental to the wdting of the text itself, to ihe conomy of its discourse, and to its authorial proprity. Hence, the writert discourse on travel is found ir each case to allow for the elaboration of a powerful metadiscourse opening onto the dconstruction of the writr's claims to a certaln prcpertt (of his home, of his body, of his to\i, of his name). For if the property of th home is put in doubt by the voyage as lhe properness of meaning is by the figurality of discours, it should not be too surprising to find that what is at stake in rhe discourse of our writers is that most fundamental of all properiies, the property or proprness of the proper name, a name whose properness becomes suspect the moment its signature is stamped with the sign of the voyage.


of travl in


of a

male eros both attracted and

repulsed by sexual difference. Whn travel is not explicitly invested with eros such as in the male fantasy production of exotic/erotic enchanted islands such as those of Circe, Cythra, or Tahiti (populated by eagerly willing but fatally attractive womer), desire is displaced onro the land itself ("virgin" territories to be conquered, "dark continents" to b xplored) or onto the very means of transportation: the at once womblike and phallic

of boat,

plane, train,

"penetrate" the landscape. At the same time, such vehicles fosrer mal bonding to the exclusion of women, srereotypically left at home or sought aiter as objects abroad.,, And while there is nothing inherendy or essentially masculine about travel (women have most ceriainly traveled as well as

or carriage that allow the explorer to


written about travel),3o Wesiern ideas about travl and the concomitant corpus of voyage literature have gnerally-if not characteristically -transmitted, inculcated, and reinforced patriarchal values and ideology from one male generation to the next, whether by journeying conceived as the rite of passage to manhood or by the pedagogical genderization of children\ literlrture wbgreby little boys are led lo tead Robinson Crusoe, rhe rovels of Kipling and Verne, or lhat modern corollary of advenrure literature, science fiction. As such, the discoume of travel typically funcrions, to use Tresa de Lauretis\ term, as a "technology of gender," a ser of ,,techniques and discursive strategies" by which gender is constructed.3, The workings of such a technology can be found, for example, in Melanie \Ilein\ psychoanalysis of the case oflitdeFritz, a young child whose attitude
toward motion, as exemplified by his daily walk ro school, vacillates between pleasure and anxiety. Not unsurprisingly, Klein finds at the core of rhis affective dilemma the castration anxiery of an unresolved Oedipus complex, wherein the boy's pleasure in morion, sense of orienlation, and, more generally, his interest in learning are inhibited or motivated by the degree to which the "sexual-symbolic" determinant of these activities as coitus with the mother are rpressed. Situated at rhe home, as what can be lost or regained by the daily excursion to that institutionalizing locus of parernal law that is the school, srands the morher. And, as if to underscorc the

thoroughgoing critiques of the institutional roles and complicities assumed

phallic dimension of the road ro school, the child,s anxiety is especially evoked by its being lined with large and menacing trees. Interestingly, the lifting of the repression and rhe reconversior of anxiely into pleasure are marked by the apparently simultaneous sexualization of rhe ropography as maternal body and of the mother's body as a fantasmaric landscape whose various "entrances and exits" elicit in the child a desire for ,.exploration.,'r, To the extent, then, thar little Fritz is caught between a good and a bad economics of travel, Klin's analysis rhus provides a psychoanalytic recon,

firmation of our own initial insights regarding the economy of travel even as it further elaborates the gender paradigms of th journey in the Western male unconscious. That Oedipal narratives of farhers and sons should accordingly emerge repeaiedly throueh rhe discourse oI1 travel in the texts of the male philosophers analyzed in this study obviously points lss to their escape from than to their enrrenchment within phallocentrism, and therefore to another limit on ih crirical possibilities of their discourse. On the other hand, such a conjunction berween rravel and phallocenrrism also reveals a motif that invites a rereading of these rexrs from more explicitly political, psychoanalytical, or feminist points of view: the disruptive liminality women are represenred as occupying in such texts. The analysis of travel in the writers srudied here is inrended to prepare the ground for such

And here it does seem pertinent to reintroduce a certain historicism into my reading of the problem of travel. There is a particular force to such an analysis whn it is carried out in the context of French Classical thought. A deconstructive opportunity is provided by that era's strong.and insistent represeniation of the thinkr as tl4t'-e-!g! concrtized in such literaiy streotypes as the prtaro, the knight errant, and the prudent navigator, or more abstractly in the Baroque theme of the iomo viatoirr Such representations, as well as the desacralization of the traditional Christian image of the path to salvation (typified in the notion of pilgdmage), themselves take place within the postmedieval crisis of fudal socity, whose institutions, among other things, situate the lord's name as the name of his home, It is in the early modern texts of Montaigne, Descartes, Montesquieu, and Rousseau that we are told the manifold consqunces of setting adrift the .!--_ sisnifying relations that define where one is, who one is, or what is one's own. The so-called age of discovery (roughly spanning the fourtenth through ninetenth centuries) is also the ra during which "economics" itself is discovered by European society and formulated progressively into a discernible objct of knowldg and discipline of thought. The "scienc of wealth" was one that developed by discontinuous reactions to unprecedented and unsettling phenomena such as rapid inflation and sudden devaluation. Only through successive critiques of political economy does there eventually occur (after mercantilist theory, after Colbert, Law, Montesquieu and the Physiocrats, after Smith, Ricardo, and Marx) a theory of the production of value thal is abstracted frcm its simple reprsentamen (money, precious metals) and that is able to explain the unexpectedly disastrous effects of the mer accumDlation of precious metals, effects made manifest by Spain's ruinous importation ofvast quantities of gold and silver from its American empire.ra Concomitant \rith the initial period of European xploration and expansionism is the development and rfinement of the new printing technology, which enabld both vast new liquidities through the invntion of printed paper money and the commodification of knowledge itself in the form of the printed book. As has been amply demonstrated elsewhere, this new phase of txtual objectification triggered an eltirely new set of problms relalive to the property (as wll as propriety) of the book, notably the issue of author's rights and ln the last two decades and in the wake of even newer technologies ofsymbolic reproduction, it has been fashionable to speak ofthe death ofthe author, but this very notion of writerly authority that links name and txt in an author's signature and whose wake we row



celebrate is one bom and circulated during an age that dislodaed the bond between name and land.36 Another,kind of name aggressively figures in preindustrial Europ, the patemal surname! whose instance points to a distinct inflection within the history of Westem patriarchy. If the aristocrat's name is his title (to a piece of land), the prototypical bourgeois surname designates the farher as such, whether it be in terms of his trade, physical appearance, or place of origin. The sumame linguistically consolidates a family unit headed by a father, the king ofthis diminutive body politic, just as the king in post-Renaissance

available to a reading of thir preoccupation with travel as indicative of some larger anxiety, but that reading, gnerallv applicable as it may be, is also precisely what leads us to account for the specificity of these texts. In each case and in each chapter of this study, the same problems and anxieties are traced in a way specific to the text under consideration. Each time, a new point of departure leads to a different point of arrival, although the steps along the way indicate the existence of a set of associations and assumptions common to all the writers studied, a set that, at least in the

political thinking is characteristically designated as the father of that extended family which is the nation.rr Concomitant with the new, public role played by the father was the increased privarization of women's world, \ihat Sarah Kofman (in a transparent allusion ro Foucault,s ,,great confinement lgrand rcnfemementl" of madmen in the seventeenth century) calls the "great immurement lgrand enfememerrl" of womn carried our in the Classical era.ri The same age that saw the birth of nation-srates and thal sent men scouring the four ends of the earth atso shut women up within the home, a historicai coincidence perhaps but one that legirimated the gendered topography of the male imaginary in the very organizarion of daily life. The birth of the modern family, marked by the patrilineariry of the surname, and reproduced on the macropolitical level by the consolidation of the "fathrland" under the royal paternalism of absoluie monarchy, sustained the economics of the home as an ideological comple"\ at a time when the traditional relation to land, concretized in rhe feudal institution ofth fief, underwent a slow but seismic upheaval. That domestic economy headed by an unyielding parerfamilias and typified by rhe productive mode of cottaAe industry casrs an imporlant historical bridge
between manor and factory, berween feudal and capiralist worksites.

limitd context of this study, sketches a tale ol the history of Frnch philosophical wdting as a continual rewiting and retraveling of the text of Montaigne. The belated discovery, in l7?4, of the latter's journal of his trip to ttaly historically closes the period under study here even as the writing of that travelogue pinpoints its beginning. And, as if to underscore this Montaignian frame, it is by citing from the Estals that de Jaucourt closes the Encyclopddie article, "Voyage," with which I chose to begin these
introductory rmarks: The main thing, as Montaigne says, is not "to measure how many feet there are in th Santa Rotonda, and how much the face of Nero on some old ruins is bigger than it is on some medallions; but what is important is to rub and polish your brains by contact with those of others." It is here above all that you have an occasion to compar ancient and modem times, "and to fix your mind upon those great changes that have made each age so different from every other, and the cities of this beautiful country Utalyl, once so populated, now desertd and seeming to subsist only to mark the places wher those powerful cities, of which history has said so much, were."{
The above passage from the EncycbpAalie also demarcates a geographical limit that doubles the historical frame of this book: all four of the writrs studid here traveled to ltaly, and their relation to Italian (especially Roman)

Within this context of a fundamental dislocation of property relations, a dislocation affecting almost everything rhat can be comprehended within the figure of the ortor or home, it does nor seem sufficienr to limit an analysis of the travel motif in early modern French philosophical literature to the mere unveiling of rhe obvious (mis)representations of cultural others such as Montaign's cannibals, Lahonran's ..good savage,,, Montesquieu's Persians, or Diderot's Pacifi Islanders. While rhe critical analysis of such (mis)representations is of crucial import to any undersranding of rhe ideological self-justification for European expansion as wll as of the often suspect development of the discipline of anthropology,se the enrire discourse of travel in these writers can be seen to thematize a fundamental economic anxiety in the widest sense of the word .,economic,', an anxiety whose repression is coincident with modern forms ofsubjectivity: selfhood, authorship, patriarchy, proprierorship. So not only are their texts particularly

culture is particularly charged with intellectual and motional energy. A veritable subgenre of European travel narrative, the voyage to ltaly enjoys an exemplary status among travelogues, as it does in de Jaucourt's text. Not only dos it appear as the first example given of a voyage ("One makes the voyale to ltaly") but the articlet close rcinforces Italy's prestige as a prime locus of historical, asthetic, and moral reflection as well as the stereotypical place to finish ofi a young gntleman's education. The early modem and secular equivalent of the medieval pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the voyage to Italy was a cultural institution that accredited transalpin
travelers (typically but not exclusivly from England, France, and Grmany)

whh a knowledge both exotic and familiar. No longer the religious, economic, or artistic center of Europ, post-Renaissance ltalv became the


continenr\ inrernal,jtller. a place where Norrherners could come ro gawk al the e\ ideiiiE;f Rooun decline. and rhus leel smug in Lhe superioriry of their nationalities, and could acquirc th cultural sensibility to assume positions of power at home. Whence their delight in the spectacle of ltalian decadence, a traveler's commonplace passing itself off as a bit of histodcal wisdom, as in the passage de Jaucourt attributes to Montaigne. Acquiring sone blt of the impefium Italy had lost, these travelers drew a high revenue from the relatively low-risk excursion to the peninsula, and with rarely any other experience abroad these same travlers returned home to help formulate their countris' political and cultural responses to the discovety of vast new lands, peoples, and cultures beyond the confines of Europe. Mbntaigne never visited the America he describes, nor Montesquieu persia, nor Rousseau Oceania, yet their writings are of obvious significance in the history of European colonialism. Critics of the later typically fail to draw the relations betwen these texts and their authors' expriences in ltaly, as well as their powerful fantasy investments in that country as a privileged exotic locale. Countless more French travelers made the trip to Italy than ever set foot outside Europe. By insisring on the dialectics of the relation between home and abroad in the texts I analyze, I hope to rcsituat some ol Lhe gilens in our undersranding of European expansionism. Finally, my reading of theortical or philosophical rexts through rhe play of a certain figure or motif-that of rravel-raises rhe question of the status of those texts as literature. This is especially the case when the figure in question is on that not only permeares the history of lirerature but can even be construed as fundamentally characrristic of literary discourse. This book can be read then as an embarkation upon a poetics of philosophical or theoretical writing. As the very drift of rhese rmarks should demonsrrate, it is difficult to saay in one place when mediraring on the issue of lravel. To talk about travel is inevitably to engage in ir, to mime through the movement of one,s words tiat which one is trying to designate with thos words. Discourse on travel is thus inexorably coniaminated by its objcr. Ir is not sufficienr, however, to conclude that a rigorous analysis of travel is a fundamental impossibility. Rarhet ir should be acknowledged that the voyage (even when it appears to be well rstrained wirhin rhe limits of an ,,economy," or even when it is but an object of conremplation) has a powerful ability ro distodge the framework in which it is placed or understood, ro subject it to critical displacement-although rhat displacement is nor always to where one expects, nor is irs criticism necssarily whar one expecrs to find. The voyage, in other words, always rakes us somewher. The following study can aiso be read as an advenrure to see what some of those ,,somewheres" mishr look like.

Chapter I Equestrian Montaigne

We con'l Essays.

alfotd to lake the horce out of Monraigne's

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Montaigne's Journal de rq)age e ltalie opens with a wound, or perhaps with a couple of wounds, namely those sufferd by an unnamed count in the liminary episode of the journal and those suffered by the "Ior,,ral itself, given that the first page or pages of the manuscript have been lost. we are told in the lext that the count's wounds "were not mortal."r lt remains to be seen what we are 10 make of those suffered by the text. Thanks to them, we find ourselves as readers of Montaigne's Jorrrdl aheady en route, specifically at Beaumoni-sur-Oise and not at Montaigne, ihe presumed point of departure. But even if we could retrieve the missing pages, there is no reason to believe that the writing of the journal begins with th beginning of the journey. We know from other sources that after leaving his home on June 22, 1580, Montaigne went to Paris to present Henri III with a copy of the just-published first edition of the Er.ra],J. He then took part at the king's requst in the siege of HuguenoFheld La Fare before continuing on in the dirction of Italy via Basel, Augsburg, and Innsbruck.'1 Barring the discovery of the missing page(s), there remains, howevet no way to be sure exacdy whn and where Montaigne began to have a journal kepr. The writing could have begun jusi as easily at La Fare, or in Paris, or anywhere in betwen, as at Monraigne. Now, if I sem to belabor this accident suffered by the manuscript, it is because-accident as it is-it nontheless points to a necessity inherent in any travel narrative, namely that such narratives are always fragmentary. A voyage has always already begun; its startitg point can only be dcidad



joumal' upon arbitrarity and after th fact. Even were it intact, Montaignt could only begin a/ler he had set insofar as it is an account of his trip, out. Montaigne's voyage begins in a radical discontinuity, one doubly marked by the accidental mutilation of the manuscript. lt is th possibility of such a discontinuity (accidental or noo that puts into question the vry idea of marking the beginning of a voyage, of inscribing it to contain it' On the other hand, the happy coincidence by which the mutilation of the manuscript makes the text begin precisely with the storv of the count's

wounals tells us not onlv that thse wounds "were not mortal" but that they are the very condition for the narrative\ life. lt is only because a cut has been maale (here o( elswhere, it matters little) that the story can begirri that there can be acorpus ofwriting. It is under the sign ofsuch abeneficent wound that Monlaigne\ discoruse on travel will take place-and will take

place in a persistent relation with a discours on the body A wound, though, even if construed as salutary, implies a crtain loss

of property: of the blood of one's bodv, for instance' or the (at last provisional) loss of one's home, which inaugurates the travel narrativ' Another kind of properly is also at stake in the Joumal, that ol a]Jlhotial prcpriety, for about half of this text att buted to Montaigne is not written
by him but by an anonymous scribe ("one of my men" says Montaign; p. lll). This scribe refers to his master, Montaigne, in the third person, as in the opening words of the manuscript in its current, tatterd condition: "M. de Montaigne." In February, 1581, about midway through Montaigne's first of two stays in Rome, the scrib is mysteriously given his teave (p' lll). No explanation is offered as to why this leave was granted, as 10 whether the scribe left willingly or unwillingly, or whether he had somehow displeased his lord, Montaigne. Noting that the work is "quite advanced"' the latter simply stats the necessity of his taking over the writing of it himself. To the extent ihat Montaigne does noi simply hire a new scribe
the way one would change horss on a long.iourney such as his, and insists

that "whatever trouble it mav be to m,

must continue [the writing]

myself" (p. 111), one is led to ask whether the sudden' uno(plained appropriation of the scriptural task dos no1 point to a desire in Montaigne to appropriate as his own this discourse that speaks of him' and that is "so far advanced" as to constitut a separate work on him, a separate work capable therefore of rivaling his own tssdls. Such a separate work would be separated from him and therefore would not be "consubstantial with its author"r ls it a qustion of cutting off his servant's words at the moment they threaten to cut his own words off from themselves, that is, off from
himself? A manifest impatience with linguistic mediators is alreadv evidenced in Montaigne's most celebrated essay on exoticism, "of Cannibals," written

no earlier than 1579, a few months before the publication of the ts.rals and the departure for Italy.a The essay is framed by its opening critique of contemporary cosmographers, such as Andr6 Thevet, whose descriptions of foreign lands are said to contain more fiction than fact; and by the closing anecdote of Montaigne's convrsation with the Tupinamba tndians he met in Roun, the directness of which is marred by the mediation of an incompetent translator: "I had ar interpreter who followed my maning so badly, and who was so hindered by his srDpidiry in raking my ideas, that I could ge( hardly any satisfaction from rhe man" (I, xrlxi, 214). The interpreter's poor performance of his oral crafr srands in conrrasr wirh the idealizd orality of the Brazilians, whos designation as "cannibals" foregrounds the issue of what is appropriat for incorporation. Not only does their poetry bespeak an eloquence that is "altogether Anacreontic" but their anthropophagic practices remain strictly limited by a rirualisric framework that underscores personal honor and respect for one's ancestors. Such buccal propriety appears far less barbarous than the butchery or "bouchede" carried out between "civilized" Europeans in rheir contemporary religious wars: "I think therc is more barbarity in eating a man alive rhan in eating him dead; and in tearing by tortures and rhe rack a body still full of feeling, in roasting a man bit by bir, in having him bitten and mangled by dogs and swine (as we have not only read bur seen wirhin frsh memory, not among ancient enemies, but among neiehbors and fellow citizens, and what is wome, on the pretext of piery and religion), rhan in roastins and eaiing him after he is dead" (I, xxxi, 209). If erhnocentrism comes down here to a difference of taste ("each man calls barbarism whaF ever is not his own practice,rr I, xxxi, 205), European savagery or "our corrupted tast" (1, xxxi, 205) can be defined in terms of an indigestion that stems from overindulgence: "We have eyes bigger than our stomachs and more curiosity than capacity. We embrace everything, but we clasp only wind" (I, xxxi, 203). The Amrindians interviewed by Monraigne ar Rouen are shocked to discover in France "that there were among us men full and gorged lpleins et goryezl with all sorts of good things, and that their other halves were beggars at their doors, emaciated with hunger Idacharnez de faim) and poverty" (I, xxxi, 214). The exploirarion of one class by another appears as a cannibalism in disguise that eats not the dead but the living. European injustice as pervrse digesrion can also be read along the essay's geographical code, where colonialism is allegorized as regurgitation: "ln M6doc, alongthe seashore, my brother, rhe sieur d'Arsac, can see an estate of his burid under the sands that the sea vomits [vontl4 before itself. . . . The inhabitants say rhat for some time the sea has been pushing toward them so hard that they have losr four leaguesrof land. These sands are ils harbingers [/,"sl; and we see sreat dunes fmortb,?r]


ahead of it and keep conq ering of moling sand thal march hall a league rhe ocean' i*l'ir",?,"i'li;;g rr' r\\i' 204r' rhe imperialisr advance' or i' nor a lhar ii- ,ii" i*"ar"' conoui\tadols reprerent an approprialionrhat threarens Irulv di(g*Ii'a anrhropemv llli"ii .".. .l'iie"i,r* bur a rhe $orld in a pa\lage rhar can be read in i"'T""ri"." ,* rerv boal ol il,i;';;i,;.; runa toii.' or bodies poliric: rleem' rhar rhere are

rhe'e s'|ar ;';i";.;,.: ;;;.",".a1. orhers fveri(h' in the inroad' bodier lcs( 8r4'd5 thar m) river' the \ hen l consider ll"'"1i,*i^ r" oul orn. .*:j:"'::' ,. ;;.';; t"rnr lirerime inro rhe right bank in irs de\cenr' and r' ha. gained 'o much ground and nolen aqav rhe I'Jl"i'i ';;i";';;;: if";;;.",'l or 'everar buirdines' I crearrv see IhaI rhi' is an '*".,' ".",i

"i'.,".;i'^.t aiorts""ce; ol rhe uorld qould be Lurned lopslrurv\ i."'* I" ti.'ft"t". lace
7"-,i) )',

qas ro lor ii ir had al$av' gone at rhi5 rare' oI



lhe e\olic and "i::';#;;i;';; bet$een rralelrhe bodv uplighr'corporeal and prop in".,^f"".'' wriling unscarhed' I'eeping


ijis.tti'on ot tt'' Es-us rh".i': *:rr 1'l:l'l.' i1l:l: rn ltal). it also conrinuer ro make explicjr Ihe rnrer'ecrroni propriery lo

'1" rn., t? wrsael"



204r' whrle rhrr

la'( pa*ag

"rl.'..?,'.,t'. .rl! delimited. ",ri*r.t '

qiLhin the no$ rhe nruarion ol Montaigne s travelogue the writin^g ttit *"tt, we find that the voyage to Italv cuts to 1580' "fr.".f"tt'"1 ii'il'""i"?i,yr-r"i. *" periodsi namelv, the first period from 1571 ftr't I$o i".'"1 r.].rt time Montaigne wrote rhe primiri\e venion ol rhe as rhe " iil i.,,rt ,"r,ar-Montaiene crirrc' rradirronallv rerer ro 1588 oi in ."",".i, "ti ,* *-"d period leadins up to rhe publicationtqo {rhe b ,i.'tnir,i i""* a*t *,it' nurnt'o" addltion' to rhe lir'r \ovage thar Monlaisne s l'',"'-i r, ;i '" ,erm' ol rhis cap occasioned b\an opporrunirv ro e\prain M;"i"ie". i'iii'r''n ha' 'een ;' ;:#':;;'*; '' e*r,i." .r rhe F(ra'vj An opposirion I' rhereb) ih::i;;;rs:';; ir,. l58o Lcrarr and Ihe t588 L"''vs wirh rhe latrer con".rrteii?i**" i'h.';perior bur al'o rhe linali/ed \er\ion or \4onraisne\ il.d ";;;t of .;"1"..," t'." rhal al'o dimini(he' or belillles lhe importanlrcop\' Lhe or iri1.""."' Jai'i."' included b) \4onrarsne on Ihe "Bordeau\" a\ urF ale \een eatlier e'\avr . 'rtarum) According ro this schema rhe rhe orisinalir\" and "penoncompared ro impei,onal at ".i";""r:: ""a the rovage ro lral) rhen become'responsible ( hi: '1.'"e'-l'".'" "ir,""::],t",i ruin in Monraigne inr' i."i r" .t" lhiTl: '''rking wnrcn rs '., \o)age can rhen become rhe melaphor Ih'ougn ization." The qhole: hi' 'long medirarive journev ' a' opu' a' a "?""i u.*"1*". 'l r,l cur in rhe wrirel s producuon occasioned. b) rhe "."r. i,: ir" ""i' ,ft* becoms the beneficent wound that would defin the verv ".""* of his corp s essence

l, *. i.".4.'




The main problem with such an interpretation is not so much that it is wrong but that it does not cut far enough. At the same time, it attribules xo the voyage a value of presence. Montaigne\ voyage would be what takes him away from his tower and his writing to brins him back enriched with experience in the "real" world. While I certainly do not wish to quarrel with the well-documented fact that the observations made by Montaign in his journal serve as material for his later writine and rewriting of the EssaJ.r,3 one of the points I hope to make in the following pages is that a similar logic is at work in both Montaigne's travels and his retreats to the tower, in both his voyaging and his writing, and in both the early and ih late tssa/J (I view the latter, thn, less in opposition to the early E sals than as what renders explicit ihe problems already posed in the arly work). What Montaien brings back from his travels may be what led him away in th first place. Montaigne never published-and probably never intended to publish his Joumal de yolage. The Jounal was not published until its accidental discovery nearly two cnturies later, unless one considrs it to have been by dint of its influence on the later E"ffd.l,s. lndeed, enrire passags from the "/ounal are textually reproduced in rhe,gssols. The Jownal de.rotage can be said to be both inside and outside rhe text of the E'rsc/s to rhe extent that much of what is said in the Jorzal finds its way into the Ersdls while the Jorrndl as a whole is to be distinsuished from Montaigne's major work. In the familiar ierms of Derridean deconstrucrion, the Joumal appears thn as a "supplemenf' to th Essdl.s, an excrescence that is both vital and superfluous to it.q But this is to assume rhat the tssal.r itself can be considered to constitute a complete work, a notion impugned by the very structure of the E sals built as it is on the practice of a ceaseless commentary only ended by Montaigne's dath, and any part of which is indecidably essential and inessential. The E]ssdls is built on a mass of excrescences, on the text as excrescence, a growth that can be cut off anywhere and Such a situation makes it difficult to know what to consider as in or out of th text, and accordingly demands a rethinking of the category of travel, which normally rests on the assumption that one can decide betwen what is inside and outside-of the text, of the home, ofthe body. And ifii is the cut ofacertain rrip thar defines rhe Montaignian corpus, the effects of that cut should be legible in the text whose inaugural scars led us to question the status of wriring and rravel in MontaiAne, the havel journal of his trip to ltaly. A preliminary descriprion of that joumal in terms of its endpoints, the topography traversed, and the foregrofnded modalities of displacement should set our bearings on the symbolic function of travel within the tssars itsetf.




Circulating in




The destination of this voyage is Italy (reached by way of Swiizerland and cermany). Italy, however, is no ordinary spot on the map in the context of French literature. Rather it is the destination p at *cellence. Any attempt to constfuct a list of French travelefs to Italy would be tantamount to compiling a who's who of French writing. In the sixteenth century, a con_ siderable number of writers besides Montaigne mad their way to the pen_ insula, among them Erasmus, Rabelais, Marot, Calvin, Joachim du Bellay, Montluc, Brant6me, and Henri Estienne. A few of the mosi prominent French writrs after Montaigne to make the journey were Descartes, Montesquieu, De Brosses, Rousseau, Sade, Chateaubriand, Stendhal, Nrval, Taine, Zola, Cid, Proust, Butor.Lr To study Montaigne's travel in this context would require a study well beyond ihe scope of this one to discern the significance ltaly holds for French culture in general, and for that of Renaissance France in particular. A few remarks might be ventured, however, for the current purpos. To the xtent that French culture is not only the younger of the two but the one ihat finds its mythical and historical origins in the othet one can detect in the French a desire to appropriate ltaly and to make that other culture their own. This desire can.just as easily take the positive form of what Roland Barths has called an "ilLJlred racisd'r: as that of military conquest (repeatedly attempted from medieval times through Napoleon III) The ambiguity of this desire is demonstrated, for instance, in the article "Voy^ge" of t]lle Encyclopddie. TtHe, what begins as a description of a French traveler\ first view of ltaly evokes and then swiftly gives way to a long development on Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon. After this condensation of tourist and conqueror, the article ends by citing a long passage

taigne's father took part.16 These wars eventually led to the massive importation of ltalian art and artists, the tradiiionally ascribed cause for the spread of the Renaissance into France.r' The contemporaneous revival of interest in antiquity brought about by the Humanists could be shown to display the same ambiguous attitude toward that antiquity as does Frarce toward Italy: a mixture of lov and rivalry, both of which are expressd in the desire to appropriare the Latin orher,i Bearing in mind what we have said about travel to ltaly, let us turn now to the way Montaigne proceds to travel in and describe that already overdetermined landscape. The Jorr"ndl is punctuatd and divided by the names of places where Montaign stayed, and which are placed in the order of

A typical entry includes, after the place name, the amount of distance traveled since th previous place name and some comment on the locality's situation (what Montaigne calls its dsrlel/e, or site) in terms of its political allegiance as well as its topography (characteristically described in terms of the vertical difference betwen plain, vallex and varying levels of mountain heiaht): "CasrELNUovo, sixteen miles, a little walled village belonging to the house of Colonna, buried away among hills
his itinerary.

to our Pyrenees on th Aigues-Caudes road" (p. 135). The travelogue as narative eenre is anchord by what would seem to be the most steadfast referentiality, that of the map. This refrential system, however, only functions as a grid to pinpoint another sel of references, which includes the historical facts, literary reminiscences, and other bits of rrivia by which 'Montaigne grasps the topography he is traversing.', In other words, a complex process of recognilion is set in motion such that the landscape he encounters is a significant one, one that signifies. The literal inscriptions
and monuments encountered by Montaigne only render explicit the semiosis

Imontaiqnetesl in a site lhat strongly reminded me of the fertile approaches

from none other than Montaigne on the educational value of travel to Italy.,3 And if Montaignet visit to ltaly may be seen, therefore, to be xemplary of such voyages, it is not merly because he obliges so manv after him to follow his footsteps. There is also found in Montaigne both a great lover of ltaly (a "reverse racist" driven to seek and obtain Roman citizenship) and a writer whose work was judged even by some contemporaries to be on a par wiih that of the ancient Latin writers. Etienne Pasquier called him "another Seneca."r4 Montaigne's name can be linked then with a victory in the French battle for an autonomous lilerature of equal stature wirh that of ltaly. Perhaps it is here that we are to find the genesis of the unsubstantiated myth of Montaigne's trip to ltaly as a spy mission for the French king, ever intent on conquering ltaly.i5 In any case, Montaigne's joumey rakes place in rhe context of th Italian wars undertaken by Charles Vtll, Louis XII, and Frangois I, wars in which Mon-

implid in the topography. But if the topography turns out to be a sort of text, how then shall one charactedze the activity of travel? At a certain moment, Montaigne seems to lean toward the metaphor of reading: "He also said that he seemed to be rather like people who are reading some very pleasing siory and therefor begin to be afraid that soon it will come to an nd, or any fine book; so he took such pleasure in traveling that he hated to be nearing each place where he was to rest, and toyed with several plans for iraveling as he pleased, if he could get away alone" (p. 6J). Bur if to travel is to read the text of a certain topography on the one hand, it is also to make certain inscriptions in that text on the other: ihe tracks left on the ground, for example, by horse hooves or the "evidences of having been rhere" (p. 68) that Montaigne leaves behind him, such as rhe family coar of arms he has
painted at the baths he visits. The trail ofthe rraveler obliges us ro supersede




'h. ^nnnsirion

much $rirren 2c read which modiries ; :#fi';';";;;;;a 'igns-a' dilferenLial posiin .o.i.-. rt.*h as he modilie' the terrain re\Ian endlessre{r or an inrinile and rhe ""*iJ' ;" i;tt"ire derour or rhe l;;;;.;i

bet\r\een rading and wriLing and

Io underrtand in

iLs sLedd



'. ii"iJ*r'. t.*'1t""r"i'

nrntnecL embraced bv a Montaisne whose potential for

Montaigne had been ff;;:::;'';;i;i';';ih'"i ir von'i'u' a' to Cracow or toward arone sith iil u,t""i"",t rt. *otra rather have gone the pleasure he took Creece bv but iiiJ'*- -"i" irl"'tu." toward ltalt;so sweet as to make him in visitins forsel the ;;;;G' which he found ;;#; not impress on anv or his of his health, he could i,""ir"r, r'L ^t.j a.hed "i.t*uo". -a only lo relurn home tp 65)' *''i: u"a ""r.r. ;;;,"';;;; ;;',;r Ihis diirerenriar networr wrirren b) rhe rra\erer to appeal to a crtain notion of referentialitv' ""eds or an idenriricarion-such a' Ihe rdenrirication ".;;;;;,;.. :"":',;;, ;;';;';i. ;;Jirirv relerence' iili. .r'""i i. " r,i.r' one linds oneselr' ro make aninidenLirlins consuhing rhe acr ol

prove' daunlins ro hh oqn scrrbe and lellow rrav-

to disiinguish from "chez moy." For the sub.iect who occupies this place, the mastery of one\ geography is impljed in the mastry of one's language, and vice versa. kr both cases, we are dealing with the circular structure of a return to the same through th process of identificatio : identity of place, identity of name, idntity ol the subject. We will have occasion to return to the implications of this identification of place with name ir our analysis of the tssals. For th moment, we need to insist upon the fact that an identification does noi go without saying. One can be mistaken about a name as well as about a place. The reference can be lacking or be made with difficulty or
remain doubtful. One cannot always be certain that the walls that surround Rome are in fact vestiges of the ancienr walls (Jorndl, p. 135). Moreovet th referent itself can have changed, as in the case of the ruins encountered


'.ti' "^. tli,rrion thar ]'-""i "...'ii"ti" "'r,ermeneurical schemahe aibrins! one term back ro ot identirication rhi' ,," tt''ouen l': :iil:";;:i;;;; "".'i'ii bacl

to another tbe ir onlv

by Montaigne all along his route but especially at Rome: "An ancienl Roman could not recognize the site of his city even if he saw it" (p. 105). The half-effaced inscriptions ard the monuments in ruin resist as much as they encourage the act of reference. The ruin remains as an index of what it once was at the same time that its very state as ruin blocks the full recovery and rconstruction of that anterior siate. Even if one could reconstruct the monument, it could never b exactly the same as it once was. The inevitability of loss works against the hermeneutic appropriation we have posited as the basis of the economy of lravel. This loss denotes a fundamental alteration that at the limit renders
impossibl any rturn to th same and that alters the voyager as he proceeds on his voyage. Such a conception is also to be found in Montaigne's text, especially in such anecdotes as that of th ltalian become more Turk than Italian merely by spending too much time amons Turks (pp. 163 64) and


ii',i" r".u"..-tr" ,ip*nines near castelnuovo' as we saw' act (that is' a i" ,"..t .f ,rt. famiiiar French Pvrnees Th referential econorn) inlinirlv ..ti"i" .n'*ot.,"in. *r) aims lo inrlirule a 'ignifvingan economy rmplre\ neq 5uch

Ji i.r.'".*.

'h"i; iir"t' iire unLnown baci ro the known' the srranse are understood
the orhel or the

l,it"'i ,*^ it'i o".i,i* "pptopri",i"g a same. to uhich evervlhing and an)4hinscanbe capital (monev' u"-"r. The vovage can then accumulate a certain ."i"i"a -t"o*i"ag", that goes hand in hand with


"'i"-".i'it, i, -*.mporaneous i"."'i.]"". ,r'.". i;,:;;;;. i;;;t;;.


""p-i.*"' i"ai'ra"^ristic,


so on), a process

se lind descrrprions or rand<capes in anrhropo his posilion in the qolld morohic lerm'. lor Renar$ance man concei\ed ol ue'".en him'etr and rhe universe rhar or i;i"iJ;;';;;l;;;,i;;

or anthropocntric ideologv lt should not be q ir h rhe unfoldins ol ruch an ideologv

the story of the young girl transformed into a man after having made a leap (p. 5)2'-an act we can read as ihe ellipsis or ultimate abbreviation of the voyage. In these examples, we find an interpretation of travel as loss of that identity which should have been assured by the economy of referential identif ication. The precariousness of the economy of travel is specially io be remarked in Montaignet auiety about his "colic" aa the baths of Lucca. For his condition to improve and for the mineral warer to purge his body of kidney stones, the amount of mineral warer drunk must be exactly rendered in his urine. Any imbalance between the rwo prompts a state of anxiery rhai drives Montaigne to note down his evry urination and ro check ir against his intake of mineral water. Nor rhar Montaigne is unaware of the comical aspect of such an obsessive norarion: "Ir is a srupid habit ro recounr whar you piss" (p. 165). It is noneiheless Monraigne,s very health thar is ar srake in the ingestion and elimination of a cerlain quantiry of a certain kind of

-l"ro"oa- "nO-u"ro"osm.- The world shich ."*;i",.' ,;';;, ;;J, 'thi' s'ear

voyage aims at such a speculation and

ilill'I"'. , '"""r- ""aer one genu'' i' the "i'o" ansle" rl \\ri ii "i,..ri.' -i '...*o. ouneiie' trorn rhe proper my emphasis).

rome mulriplv rurrher ac in which we must look


t"#-itt" place iav' ttre 6acJ that bears his name' or rather the ;;;;,^il;; tr4onis as fr; which he takes his name. The name' Montaigne' "Mov"much is difficult the name of his proprtv iti*t"t-ot"p"i t"-" it is

**rlarire vo)age i5 Ihe rerurn to rhe beginnine Mon"i,rr"'"i.p.. naontaigne;s trip' as noted in his '/o'l'dl' is




inle'ior Io Mon_ tioujd. a \irculation lhir aim\ al dome{icat:ng 5omelhrng circularion or an errerror ;:];';l'-o*n body. Ihu',he need ro md\rel rhe ro ma'rel I he,. nr..rv in. .i"eral '^ arer' e\rr' onlv in vie$ ol his nced Such a slone of a,*"i""' the growth and movement ".-i"i"i"^ift exceedinglv diliicult 10 master' He mav be able to drink as f.tar"r,i", Somewhere ,iu"fr *u,", ut ft" *unrt but he cannot so easily "make water'" unmasterable inter i. tfr" .i."tr"i.t "f tt"se liquids, something radicallv out of the control * t.a of blockage that places this movement

" "".* subject, Montaigne. of th "ii"r" "i.""L.., *inomies of landmarks and bodv liquids shed light' tech-....r"t. ." Montaiene's fascination with the fantastical hydraulic Tivoli' and elsewhere' ..f"a" ft" t""t in Augsbure, at ihe Praliolino, in ri;ir"i'".'ri t"r". ruirl rh;drearns of an ailing Montaigne than the closed fountain in and out of which circulats water withour loss rtr*r*.f " .otntorium; in other words, rhe figure of an absolute selfir ^ri " o-i"" t ack to the desire for something propcr that would w" ""-. But in the econ"irci*ivi eiuae tfr" it.u"tu.ut ne..ssjty of a lundamntal alienation
oi the monumn!' omies we have been analvrng (rhos of wriring, of travel ' opposition Jiift" rtva-tLi"t "f,n. todv as well as ofrhe fountain)' the verv and disapU.,\v"* ift. apparently contradictory terms of appropriation pr.".i^ir".''.J'i,' . i put in question Montaigne lravels to improve his 'heaittr tut the minerat walers seem !o aggravaie his condition as much as journal


for the appropriation implied bv the wriiing of a l..p *cord oi events, that approprialion is further.subject i" i"ri.L. ".aas we " trave atreadv seen, bv an inrermediarv' a scribe who i. qi"tt;"., ,..-, u, ,i."t ,o l" *,iting under Montaignt dictation and at other times to be writing for himself:l * ii. pt"ti". oi an appropriation that is simultaneouslv a disappropriadecisiontioni, p..ttupt *orr a.u;ari;allv brought into reliefbv Montaiene's lf to mime the progress of i. *.tti-" oi.t;". .r tne Journal ttt ltalian as that spoken in the area itr" uoyug"-tv writing in ihe same language as ir*".*al Ir"t"", rt" .,urns 1o the Frnch languase upon crossing the Alps to master ihe l""t iri" e**" Il bv such a mimetic device he seeks lrom his grasp all rhe more t.a"et".ls .ltuarion, rtt" text noneiheless escapes irt"i"r u".oig." f trving to use a foreign languase which' as he himself *"if "t f,;t co;menlators have pointed out' he manipulaies wilh.con-

"r i".r"'tt"^iirri'l,n- fthis problem is at once effaced and strangelvofmimed i' i" i.iurity ;n e*"ch ;dirions' which replace the halian text Mon"ir i"tt."'lt nf"t*f.t

u. Ouerlon\ French lranslation, daiins liom the '/o'r,d/'s first Publication in 1774.) 'in the means flnarly, anotrra fina of appropriatins devicc can be located rn;de oi which mav be phantasmicallv priv i."*p.""ti.., p-ticular " "r

ileged by the individual travler. Oppositions may be set up between different ways to travel: a modem traveler may consider trains to be good, safe, and pleasant while planes are bad, dangeroDs, and unpleasant, or vic versa. In other words, a certain vehicle of mastery may define the good or economical voyage, as opposed to lhe bad or risky one. ln a well-known passage near the beginning of "of coaches," Montaigne states his preference for horce travel: "Now I cannot lorg endure (and I could endure them less easily in my youth) either coach, or litler, or boat; and I hate any other transportation lhan horseback, both in town and in the country" (III, vi, 900). And once again, the discourse on travel comes under the sign of the body. According to Montaigne, coach or boat travel upsets his stomach and aggravates his kidney stones while horseback riding actually gives him relief (Essd/s lll, vi, 899 901 and III, xiii, 194; Joumal, p. 58).1s The slrength of Montaigne\ feelirgs on the matter can be judged by his choice, upon returning from Rome, io go to Milan by the more arduous land route of Pontremoli rather than by way of Genoa because the lafter would require a sea journey (p.22'7). He does, however, agree to take a barge into Venice, "since the boat is drawr by horses" (p. 73). What is to be feared in the boat is the motion of water (p. 73), for if Montaigne adores the well-ordered and well'masterd flow of founlain watet what he abhors is the unbridled and uncontained water of the sea, the water caught up in a perpetual llux. Such water upsets his stomach, rhar is, it upsets the hydraulic equilibrium of his body. Such a flux means that travel iakcs place as much inside the body as outside of it, with the result that the very notions of inside and outside are jeopardized along with that of the body itself as proper to itself. The horse, on the other hand, is not only what does not leave terta firma but also that mode of transportalion whose movement ideally responds to its master's bridle- Indeed, masrery over the horse exemplifies mastery in genral. Crevarzr is a title ofnobiljty, ihe sign ofone's adherence to a ruling class. lt is to this class that Montaigne belongs. In the Latin alocumenl proclaiming him a Roman citizen, Montaigne is noted down as an eqres, a mmber of the eqDestrian class (lII, ix, 999). And if mounting a horse signifis one's ascension to the rank of the high and mighty, it is also what allows a man of small height, such as Montaigne, to attain arother kind of stature: "Since my early youth, I have not liked to go excpt on horseback. On foot I get muddy right up to my buttocks; and in our streets small mer are subject to being jostled and elbowed" (III, xiii, 1096). Beins in the saddle puts one in a position of borh physical anal political domi nation. Small wonder, then, that Monraigne should say rhar were he allowed to lead the lile he desires, "I should choose to spend ir wirh my ass in rhe saddle" (III, ix, 987). Such is rh kind of life he trjes ro lead in his rrip





',ir*ffiF*t$lffiffitirp,-ffi ;:',i'J::li:lii
as ol merelro^gr nor be cavalierlv dismi'sed



i"*:L:*::;'*rut ;:l'*ll'* oP','#"'i. 'o.iuir* o.

*i::li:,[:T:'L'[.,i:::i"*i$L#*;lx*l;i$::;.it inlestmenr'm '"cf, of The h-*



such an


(ne rer Jor{t al. the insistence ol lhe body' s).rnbolism of Rome'


f#fffi ll dmi::**


where should we

Unbridled Leisur: "Of ldleness" prolilic horse i[ nol in an begin our reading ol lhi<

i]il'rJii *.i"ott"'i'* " "enain Ii'ilji*"- iri. r."rr,"ter' (r. viii, invites such Hli'il:"",|['jJil:: $ell. lt is probablv one o[ rhe earueslei'.1'.]i;," ".i lrr. 1..0. rn.lne-lii'ii'r", well as one o[ Ihe firsr chapters r" ;;.r' ,i. ii,.i *'"v'rr. "'urllrt srgnrlrcanl
of the firsl book More 1,i.' i" ii'J,i

quesrron' per\er<e proulicacv? The essav in

** The

momenl u o"nl"""i"iar*onn" e,sav correspond5 then to a ortr.., discourse whrein he beg,nt 'o.t?'t-un1..1," ,n" nisrory o[ ]rench wflrng.. ol rhe that is rhe key ro the <uccess -n", is. if nor rhe rhis Funhermore. ."""1".a tne fiJst appearance ol lhe horse ln recourse Io lhal figure'3 be a commntarv m beginr wilh whal appears to




-i i merad':'*'1":-i:TTl,;l'l';l'i.",,'r,. r'"i tr

'"i"n".r*" * tL*" r Now il lnere De ;;;;" "" rhe danger" ot 't''r condition be a funclio^n ol qould 'n"",i"i#i idleness. one ltould lhrnk lhar lhis risk would take the rorm anv risk in

iii *-.i'ir," i*"ir"o in such a lrare or repo'e and Monraisn nowqourd carl ennui iiitillil."i 'ii", "'arter rradiriondanger he see\ in idlenes\ i' celtarnrv for the l.llilJ."ii ii."i t'r"riries rar li'Jiili .i.ii!'-'it ; tomestication Raiher' idlene*s' ror" Montaisne' The danger'or ol "agiration ii""i'i.r"" ".tiii 'r t*mobilitv is a srate unmasrerable movemenr' shrcn ro produce an ilil; l,:'i" ;" o,"o'"sirv "And lhere is no mad or idle l^ncv lftvenel catr itself lead to nradnesr: 32) ldreness' ;iil ilil;-i "ff;il;;ns ro'th in this asitation" (r' viii'

despite the connotation of the word, is paradonically what sets one in moiion, but in a bizarre, unsettling kind of motion, a motionless motion or a mad motion that sends the idler or a journey going nowhere'rl Such a voyage raises an economic problem, since it is the oikos itself that is at stake when th home becomes unstable and the familiar becomes unfamiliar. Th need to establish a certain domus or domestication is therefore precisely what is put into relief by the metaphors Montaigne uses to describe the dangerous state of idleness: "Just as we se that idle land, if dch and fertile, teems with a hundred thousand kinds of wild and usless weeds, and thai to set it to work we must subjeci it and sow it with certain produce mere seeds for our service; and as we see that women' all alone, pieces de chai infomesl, shapeless masses and lumps of flesh ldes drdt et but that to create a good and natural offspring, they must be made fertile with anothr kind of seed: so it is with minds. Unless you keep them busy with some definite subject that will bridle and control them lqui les bride et contrcignel, they throw themselves in disorder hither and yon inlo the vague field of the imagination" (I, viii, 32). Althoush' at first glanc, it see-ms possible to understand these examples in terms of the opposition btwee; nature and cultur, a closer rading plays havoc with the distinction, since the state of nature reveals hself to be less a terrestial paradise than a condition chamcterized by a kind of perverse excess. In the first simile, uncultivated land is not marked by sterility or the absence of vegetation but rather by an overabundance of plants. The second simile repeats the same argument, this time in relaiion to women. Women, says Montaigne as if it were an incontrovertible fact, requir the male seed only for the purposes of assuring a "good and natutat offspring;' Without the inter_ veniion of the man. thev would still produce "shapeless masses and lumps of flesh."r'] One sees in both these examples that nothing is more unnatural from the point of view of culture than nature itself. The state of nature (and of idleness) is dangerous, ihen, since it implies an unchecked process of useless and vertiginous propagation. This perverse gelmination man will try to domesticate and cultivate through ;griculture and attention to conjugal duties. Culture can then be defined as ih institution of a certain kind of procreative labor, ihe antithesis of idle perversity, of idleness as perversity So it is a particular kind of activity or motion which is to bring into bounds the mad motion ofidleness' The metaphor used by Montaigne is that of a certain "bridling" of the idle minal, an image that presages a mor elaborate horse metaphor at ihe end of the essay. Here, however, the domestication of ihe horse is the metaphor for domstication itself, th domestication that consists in the bstablishment of a proper domus. what role then does the domesticating bddle play in the institution of this dol rs if not that of ensuring a certain




teleological or proleptic creation, a pro-creation (and it is for this reason that the bridle can be compared to the seed)? In other words, the doa{t is what is pro-created to the extent that the bridle domesticates by keeping the idle mind headed to a particular destination. The movement is mastered by the setting up of a goal: "The soul that has no fixed goal loses itselfi for as ihey say, to be everywhere is to be nowhere" (1, viii' 32). The danger raised by idleness is that of the loss of one's bearings, that is to say, the loss of the property or properness of the oikos This loss takes place because idlness makes it impossible 10 establish any kind of property or differentiat between what is proper and what is not. Even the

jdleness' (orsrvelP) ilselt seems to ha\e lor( any propel meanrng it once might have had save to denote impropriety itself. Rather than connoting such notions as those ofrcpose, ase,leisure, solitude, or immobility, idleness is interpreted in this essay as if by design in terms of agitation, madness, and perverse overabundance. The problem of idleness' as evidenced by Montaigne's ensuing citation of Martial, is that of property itself, of property as the proper habitat: "Quisquis ubique habitat, Maxime' nusquam habitat [He who dwells everywhere, Maximus, nowhere dwellsl"


(I, viii, 32). Itis immediately after this quotation from Martial that Montaigne reveals that the slate of idleness he has been describing describes, in fact, his own
experiences upon taking up his rctreal. The preceding negative description of idleness should not lead us, however, to conclude that Montaigne detests idleness as in itself a pernicious or particularlv damaging vice. Far from e\cluding idleness on moral grcunds, Montaigne often takes pleasure in describins himself as an idle or even slothful person (see, for sxample, II' xvii, 642 43i III, ix, 969, 992). Furthermore, the very reason for which he took up his famous rctreat, or so he says, was to find the kind of rest and tranquillily one would normally associate with a state of idleness But' as

he continues, this was not what he found: "Latelv when I retired to my home lchez motl, determined as far as possible to bother about nothing except spending the little life I have left in repose and seclusion, it seemed to me I could do my mind no grater favor than to let it ntertain itsell in full idleness and stop and sttle in itself, which I was hoping it might henceforih do more asily, having becom weightier and riper with time But I find-idleness always makes the mind distected lvariam semper dant otia menteml-th^t, on lhe contrary, like a runaw ay hotse Vaisant le cheval eschapp4, it gives itself a hundred times mor trouble than it took for others, and gives birth to so manv chimeras and fantastic monsters [er n'enlante tant de chimarcs et monstrcs fantusquesl, one after another, without order or purpose, that in order to contemplate their ineptitud and sfiangeness ll'ineptie et I'estraneetal at my plasure, I have begun to put

them in writing lles mettrc en rclkl, hopirlE in time to make my mind ashamed of itself [&), e'? fairc honte d lut mesmesl" (I, viii, 33). Montaiene sought rpose in idleness, but whar he found was just the opposite: ins;ad of rest, a ceaseless agitation; instead of a mind in peace, ihe frantic pro_ duction of tempestuous thoughts which are compared to ..chimeras and fantastic monstrs." The monstrosity, if there is one. is that idleness rurns inro iLs opposiLes. This monnro.iry is engendered by the idle mind jtselt, which is compared to a ,.runaway horse.,, Ard here, the hors comes back although precisely in the guise of a hotse that refuses to come back. The horse, *hich had earlier afpeared as rha mcr4nh^r of i^6;-the metaphor ^f domination and domesrication, now emrges ui il" a"-_ inant metaphor in a piece of wriring rife with mixed meh;hors. And it is somehow in the positing of rhe problem of idleness as J runaway horse lhar Monraigne is able ro conceptualize his predicamenr. The meraphor of lhe horse definei the dangerous divagaLion of idteness. fhe soluLio;, rhen, if we recall the first part of the essay, should b a certain bddlingBeforc drscussing how this bridling rakes place or why rhe retur; of rhe horse spurs or is spurred b) VonLaigne\ mo\e into selt_rellection. we need to concede that the very desire to bridle the horse implies the persistence of Montaigne,s desire ro be ,,idt." For if Monraigne,s proplt to write seems a reaction against the idleness he atescribes, it is because what he seeks is anoiher idleness, th absolure idleness of pure repose. If the act of putting "en rolle,, (of recording) rhe producrions of his idle mind is supposed to master mental activity by directing ir toward some goal, that goal is nothing other than th repose ofthe mind. The mind will supposedly i stop running like an unbrjdled horse when ir confronts the ,,rolle" or scroil of its monstrous acts, an event ihat will .,mak my mind ashamed of itself.,, Tbe bridling of rhe hors or the rcording of oneh thoughts comes down to a therapeutic project that takes the form of a self_analysis. A dialogue '1 is instituted in which one part of the self, or ..moy,,' strives to domesti;e the other ('make it ashamed of itself',) through a rhetorical strategy that ir i consists of making that other confront its owr babble. This discursive co-nfronralion will. in principle. prcvoke a heighLened sell_awarenes. rhar

, Yl,.llMontaigne ' which !"*, bring

abour peace of mind or rhe iepose of absoture idteness, calls wisdom or ..sagesse... Now. Lhis quesr for repose is not a mere anecdotal derail from Montaigne\ personal liie: it is somethrng tundamenral ro the very basis of ht rhought and a consrant elemenr in it clespiLe the.Essdli ' ofren nored vagaries and vicissirudes. lo tollow Villelf triparrire division o-f Montaigne s ciree..", ue could argue rhar in each period Montargne: $ought is teteoloAicall) focused upon a concepl of repose as tlre summum bonumi rhe rranquillny of rhe sout and rhe catm in rhe face or dearh posied as lirrue in his Stoic period: rhe spiin al rcpose ot atoraxia



after the horse, thereby instituting the regimen of repetition alrady alludeal to. Scondly, the "mis en rolle" follows exactly the same path as the horse only to the extent that it is motivated by the hope of bridljng the hors. If it accepts following the horse, it is only because it counts on eventually being ahead of it, on being ar the endpoint to which the horse will ideally move. The endpoint of the voyage is fie hoped-for (but only hoped"for) moment when the hors stops after having come back to itself, seen what it has produced, and felt shame thereupon. The discunive voyage of the Essd),r is teloloSically closed by the ,ope of teleological closure, of the bridle, of a proleptic creation or "pro-creation" of the self as domrs. The jest here h connecting these terms is nonetheless in earnest. We have already seen the connection at work in the firsi part of the essay. More to th point, what underlies the passage in question is precisely the issue of a certain p,.ogerl,, namely the .,chimeras and fantastic monsters" to which the "runaway horse . . . gives birth.,' Thes offspring are, accordine to Montaigne, characterized by "ineptitude and strangeness,, and invite comparison with the rrshapeless masses and lumps of flesh" Montaigne says women produc when they are wirhout the bridle of the male seed. It is these offspring of which the idle mind should be ashamed. The problem, necessarily stated in terms of hope since one cannot easily predict the nature of one's offspring, would be that of engendring a body that is ,,good and natural." Such a body would presumably be not inappropriate or foreign Iinepte ou dlrungel but proper and one,s own. What kind of body are we talking about? Or more exactly, whose body is it? Following what we know from "Of ldleness,,' we can already deduce that that body is a "body of thought" proper to its rhinker Such a notion is, in fact, not at all uncommon to Montaigne if w remember, fot instance, the long development at the end of "Of the Affection of Fathers for their Childrcn" (II, viil,399-442) in which Monraigne compars the relarion between writers and their books to thar between fathers and their childrer. Moreover, Montaigne privilegs the lormer of thes relations because, so he says, literary offspring are "more our own" (II, viii,400). To support that contention, he adds that "we are father and mother borh in this generation." Elsewher, Montaigne makes claims for his own book that would seem to make it even more proper to him than one's own child: .,a book consubstantial with its author" (II, xviii, 665); ..I am myslf the rMtter of my book" ("To the Reader,,' p. 3). Leaving aside for the moment the question of the validity of Montaigne's claims, we can conclude thar ihe body we are dealing with is a corpus of writina, which is understood to be a body proper to its author. Whether rhat body is the wrirert own or that of his "progeny,' is an issue of lesser importance-once rhe claim

;;;;;;; This aclive t ;;.;;;-i."i ,,,u"1;sn f,J 5e who seeks repose Ihrough acrivirvoI effort Io paradoxrcal to lhe exlent lhar lhe desire I".ri r- ."0.t" i\ the allarnmenl l".j" r.o.ti '"*,i.* "s Ihe immediate obslacle Io Ioward a slate ol thal ol resl lo make a movemenl *..r.. ifi*.tou"fv speakinS. ri motion rhar is to do the oppo'ite or putting ;';;;;;';i;;. o"'-";.'.lr \hould turn oul ;;;;ii;i,.',: And it thar <raLe o[ resr. once attainedbeing condemned one runs th risk of .f agitalion, i."" *"* i. i" " -an needs to for ""* i"l o".o"tJ .*r"" and impossible quest findsrpose' one the more oneslf all when one stops one -ove'in o.a"r o "top, but in motion. --rift"i ft* bcome of our bridle? For if the horse as the dominant

judgment in lhe skeplicism o[ his ro be obtained by Ihe suspension ol as lhe greaLesl value ln llle ln second period: and Ihe praise of ignorance his last or so-called naturalisl period' "'"it'" i""i"otive o*r"ct, the", of "of ldleness" is the prescription for -o"l"tude, or "idleness"' in the mind The Montaigne .u.ift" ""fti""f* a"""tit". rti" thoughts in order to silence them ln other wods' *-tr" *.ii"" hi. thoughts in-order to have no thoughts we are in the

..iaoft., of rfte essay is whal should be lhe meraphor of dominalion il idleness l;J;;;;.t" "", M;nraigne who holds rhe bridle on idleness burleads the tie bridle. It is the horse, in short' who i"f't"itr"fat f-L*"ig* tv just that' a ftopq tiJ*,-""a lft. f"uif" hope to tame that horse remains

"I ;il.;i;c"" prolepticaliv susgests in the last line of the essav:makehave mv in lniting' hoping in time to t"g"" i" i", imv iate dLouehtsl mind ashamed of itself." *;;i;;; also' evidentlv' the
given a retroactive *r" r.,,, ut. r.uaitg. l he thsL parr ol the essav is thus wriling Monlaigne "" Ttre "rotte' n rhe lexr of lhe ErstJs rhe ri"iiii**.. this oi"l"".i-i" tlit t***rs ellorls to alrain a 'tate ol repose Bul again The

Montaigne savs he ftas besun to write is

i'mise en rotte" itself perpetuais the motion it is supposed to restrain Io the exrenr ouiiinn;nro *riring oi rh; idle rhoughrs can onlv masler lhem

ir,*-ii'..o"u't,rt.ri, tu,

the "mise en rolle has besun. one is rolling" in a ;;;"bl'..;"; wav to \top. lr is nei(her an accidenr nor a mere quir\ fi;il.*t. personalitv that he should keep writing and rwriting the ;i;;,"tc."" ". ioi oi ftit-"iar" tftougttts" until his aleath The economv of this textual joumey is thus opened onto an infinit divagation' " IiiL writine is also a "rolling," it is because the function of that writing

Lhis reperirion is simulLaneouslv whar makes lhem

or is to retrac tlie steps of the hoise's itinerary The effort is to describ of the note down the tho;ghts dscribd or traced out bv the movement horse' horse, But if the Essavs then describ the same trajectory as the writing /o//olts ther are at least two differnces to be remarked. First, the





to property has been made. That body is always cal/ed on's own no matter

what shape it takes. If we ieturn once rnore to "of ldlness," we must conclude that if there is a proper body produced there, it must be related to that "mise en roll" of the 'ichimeras and fantastic monsters:' The implication, though, is that the proper body is made out of improper ones. The paradox can be rsolved, at Gasa momentarily, if we remember the exampte of the "idle" women' The "shapless masses and lumps of flesh" they produced became proper human b;dies if they were "worked ovr" Iemrsoigne4 by "another kind of seed lune autre semenc1." The male seed would give form to feminine matter. l:r the case of the shapeless bodies produced by idl thoughts' that other sed must b the writing itself, which forms lhose ideas inio a body of writing. In phallocentric terms, the pen(is) would delne the properness of the lfthe productions of the mind, as they are retraced in writing, constitute ih body of writing as Montaigne's own, what "property" is described or circumscribed by that idle wandering if not the territory proper to Mon_ taigne, namely his domarn of Montaigne? Thus, the lext of the -6srd)J co;sdtutd as a pro-creative journey aims to institute an orkos as the habitat proper to Montaign. This "property" is that topographical body carved ;ut by th text, a mountain or Monta(i)gne in writing.rJ "Montaigne" is the name affixed to that property, whther it be a text, a place, or a body' These thrce terms can ihen function and do function in "Montaigne" as melaphoric equivalents. So if Montaigne describes his text as a body, he can also describe his body as a space, even as a room or building (when it is not the very particular space of the third-story room in his tower where he wdtes surrounded by his library).36 Perhaps no single expression better captures ih flexibility of Montaignian space than the prepositional clause' chez mor, whitch appeats for the first lime in "Of ldleness" ("Lately when I retired to my home lchez moyl . . ."1 ^nd which dsignates an interiority as vasi as the entire surrounding region of Gascony or as rstricted as the innermost core of Montaigne\ private bing, his "back shop lanierebou' tiquel:' l deed, the metaphorics of interiority ihat construct the space of th; self Inoll a place lchez moll reaches its height in such expressions ^s as "As for me, I hold that I exist only in myself lMoy, ie tiens que ie ne sub que chez moy)" (lI, xvi, 626), or "If I am not at home, I am alwavs very near it [Si je r,e rris chez moy, i'en suis louiours bien presl" (III' ii'

would thus appear to be the stroke of the pen(is) or bridle which procreates the proper body of Montaigne by defining the bounds of thar

is the iop of property, its procreation, which nonetheless still leaves a

body to be defined or produced through the writing that delimits or demarcats that textual cotpus. But if Montaigne,s discourse dscribes the limits of his body or his property, the Iimits of that proper body are rhe limirs of his discourse. The body or the properry of Monraigne about which we are speaking is of a textual order. ln other words, ,,Montaigne" is what he sldles himself to be: "Ii is not my deeds that I wrire down; ir is myself, it is my essnce lc'est mo!, c'est mon essencel" (It, vi, 379). Henc. he can add elsewhere that all arguments "are equally good ro me" since ,,every movement reveals us" (I, l, 302). Monraigne,s discourse is rh /6cr^ r, or runnirg through, of his discourse. Anyrhing can be said, then, sinc anything Montaigne says describs him and can be aftributed to him as part of his proper body, the corpus of writing of the Es.rdls. Yet it is at this very point that Montaigne's claims to property begin ro break down, for what could be less his own than the discourse thar delimits Montaigne's property? Carried to the limit, Montaigne,s project, despite what he writes in "Of Repentance" OII, ji, 804-5) would not so much trace th limits of "a particular man," or even those of in general," so much as the limits of discourse itself. The discourse thar claims an irreducible personality tends toward an absolure impersonality. The citational mania of Montaigne thn only exemplifies this problem inherent to his project, namely, the appropriation of a discourse which ro rhe extent that it comes from elsewhre (a sociolect can never be fully called one's own. Or should we say that it can be called one's own in name only, or y by crl,nA ir proper in the assignation of the proper name to it?r'

property. The bounds of the signature, however, only offer the teleological closure for what we can already see to be an autobiographical project. The signature

An Accidntal Body; or, The Paternal Limitt ,,Of Praclice', It should be remembered that if a "proper body" has been procreated, it \ras in order to seek a certajn stability or rcpos in accordance with a
project of self-analysis as self-rherapy. This self-reflexivity in irself poinrs, howevet to a break in the subjecr. Such doubling, in itselfa loss of property since it separates the self from itself, is nonethlss the condition for the engenderment of a proper body, sinc the split altows the subjecr ro be a/ otce "fathr and mother" (or, as Mitchell creenbrg has more accurarety put it, at once fathr, mother, and child).rt Strangly enough, the authorial corpus or proper body is self-engendered by two very improper parents-

8ll). what

the Essal,s of Montaigne seeks to do then is to delimit an anthropomorphic or corporcal topography in and through a text whose economy is proleptically assured by the signature of the proper name' MontaiSne' or the mo, whose name appears right from th title page. The signaturc


EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE 2I only one significant part of its anatomy, the skin. The proper body of the writet is an dcotch6, literally de-limited, shorn of its limit, stripped of its

"another kind of seed." namely, improper, idle thoughis and writing ^s whose body this is, but lt dt it is still remains unclear. we may know The rudiments of an answer are laid out by Montaigne in the essav "Of Practice" (ll, vi), near th end of which he undertaks to defend his work against th charge of another kind of impropriety-that of the self-indulg;nce implicit in ont talking onlv of oneself One passage in this discussion merits attention because it reformulates Montaigne's project in

At the same time, th morbid metaphorization of the textual body as Wo-crcaled lcotchd circumscribes a site of corporeal and rhetorical excess. Curiously, if the textual body has no skin, it is also, insofar as it is but
tll, trucings of th unbridled mind, nothing but the line of the limit it describes in its meanderings. If the limit of Montaigne's self-portraiture is the icotchd, the volu,fie it generates is the effct of an accumulated layering whose depth remains crucially at the surface: namely, the limif of words.

;articularly terms pertinent to this analysis: "I principally poftray my cogitations, a shapeless subject Isubiect informel that cannot be brought into artisanal proaluction. lt is all I can do to couch my thoughts in this airy body of speech lce corys aifte de 1d voinl l expose myself entire: it is a sKElrros wherein the veins. muscles. and tendons are seen with a single glance [d',ne rerail, each part lodged in its place lchaque piece e',.to, siiegel . .Itisnot my deeds that I write alown, it is myself, it is my essence" (ll' vi' 379) we again have the inlercourse of two improprietis, unformed thoughts and linguistic matter, which together produce a proper body: "lt is myslf, it is my essence:'A crucial qualificarion is supplid, though, by the fact ofihat body being a "skletos." we have indeed arrived at a state of repose, the uttimate repose of death. Death defines th body as absolutely proper! it puts evrythiDg "in place" ("each part todged in its place"). But this absolute property is, at the same time, absolutely improper to th extent that the body is a dead one. In other words, it is cut off, separated ftom the subject to whom it is supposedly proper' For if the proper body is one thar can be contemplatd "with a single glance," the distance implied in the possibility of such a vision itself implies a subject disconnected from its own bodx$ a proprietor without his property. The proper body is only proper because it is absolutely improper' One can only have a truly proper body, it would seem, if it is a dead oner or one to which one is dead. Il my somewhat heavy_handed use of the Derridean problematics of the proper is allowed, ahe apparent absurditv of a "proper" that is only proper because it is impropr foltows coherendy from the Montaignian notion of idleness as what is persistentlv turning inio its opposite This inalterable xcitation can only be consined by the delimitaiion of that matter within the formal bounds of the self-definition authorized bv the signature of the mol, the inscription of whose unformed, idle ahoughts is said to be the matter of his book: "lt is myself, it is my essnce." If the proper is what is defined as proper, then dath is the limit case of that definition, the definitive form of a risor mortis: an improper delimitation that takes away the properness of the definition itself. Montaigne's "skeleton" is of a very particular kind; not only is it not to be construed as a mer bone structure, but it is described as a full_fledged cadaver ("wherein the veins, muscles, and tendons are seen with a single glanc") missing

This layering, lik th incongruous sedimentation Montaigne sees in the ruins of Rome,ro is textually rehearsed as the strata of the E sdl.r philologically designated a, b, and c. This effect of volume gives the proper
name its weighr even as that proper name is what gives the layered sediment

of words its profundity. Concomifantly, Montaigne's rheloric of sincerity is thematized as a peling off of layers to reveal the self's intimate and true interior, the naked core of its That the sense of the latter is itself but an ffect of the metaphorics of undressing is emblematized by the limit case of a self-representation as textual skinning. As Montaigne says elsewhere, "We cannot disti guish the skin from the shirt" (lII, x, 10ll). "Of Practice [De I'exercitation]," the essay that closes with the image of the lcorcftl in the course of an apology for the autobiographical content
of th ElJd/s, opens with a meditation on the experience of death, followed by the autobiographical narrative of a near-fatal horse accident that leaves Montaigne "dead" dnd "skinned lescolch1" (ll, \i,373). The sixth ssay of the second book thus further explores the lerrain charred in "Of Idleness," even as its title seems to denote the very opposite of idlenessi in Frcnch, exercitation can mean exercise or activity as well as practice. The unpredictable convertibility of idleness into its opposite, howevet was alrady thematized in the earlir essay. Likewise, th runaway horse of l, viii rturns in ll, vi not as one who refuses to rcturn but as one whose uncanny rturn is nothing short of catastrophic: the danger of idleness, an unbridled horse, scarcely diffrs from the danger of excitation, still a wild and untamed horse. And whil "Ofldleness" is probably earlier with respect to date of composition and is certainly prior in the order of presentation, being near the beginning ofthe first book, "Of Practice" rcounts an event prior to the composition-or perhaps evn to the conception of the Esra/J. Turnina now to the first section in "Of Practice," we asain encounter
the problem of consiructing an anthropological space, a body, whose identity and properness is to be assured by rhe precise demarcarion of the limit btwen its interior and exterior. What seems to be the best way to assure this limit and therby th integrity of rhe space it defines is to ir,




a verb that might translate what Monlaigne varionsly calls dptouver, etpdtimenter, exercer, a\d of course essarer By such an erperience, we determine our own limits and thus'?r.m our soul" (ll, vi,370; my emphasis):

weakness, I had to get used to being there for a week, or for a month. And I have found that in time of health I used io piiy the sick much more than I now think I deserve to be pitied when I am sick myself; and that

That is why, among the philosophers, those who have wanted to attain some greater excellence have not been content to await the rigors of fortune in shelter and repose, for fear she might surprise them inexperienced and new to the combat; rather they have gone forth to meet her and have flung themselvs deliberately into the
test of difficulties. Some of them have abandoned riches to pmctice b,ou s'exercerl a voluntary poverty; others have sought labor and a painful austerity of life to harden themselves bou .re drrcr4 against hardship and toil; others have deprived themselves of the most precious parts of the body, such as sight and the members proper to generation, for fear that thse services, too pleasant and soft Imo4 might relax and softn th firmness lftrmetZ] of their

the power of my apprehension made its object appear almost half again as fearful as it was in its truth and ssence" (II, vi,3'72r. lf imagining the danger is worse than experiencinS it, then imagination is the improper


(II, vi,


These experiences "form," "fortify," "harden" and "make firm" one's "soul" through the contact they provide with some fearful exteriority, the threat of which is somhow preempted by a strategy of direca confrontation. This willed ex-perience defines the inlerior of the soul ("[we] &fm our soul through experience") and appropriates that exterior as part of the very process by which that inierior is defined or delimited. One can no Ionger fear a danger one has already inflicted on oneself. At the same time, this willed experience is that through which the philosopher engenders or procreates himself, since it is what defines and forms his body as something proper to him. ln other words, the movement outwards of expltience, of exercitation, of dprcuve (from ex-ptobdr, to appraise), of the es,tal (from exsgiut ot exagerc, to weigh) makes proper an improper interiority by a movemnt of disappropriation that is construed as an appropriation.i': That one of thes words, essdi, is also the titl of the book suggests that what we are rcading is also to be understood as such an attenTpt, or coup d'essa!, to define Montaigne's proper body through its expropriation or expression

into writing. Ifthe expropriation makes proper, it is because that threat to the integrity of the interior comes not from without, bul from within the inside itself. If the experience forms and defines an inner self, it is because the latter left to its own devices alters and destabilizes itself: "Here is what I experience lesprcur)el every day: if I am warmly sheltered in a nice room du ng a stormy and tempestuous nighi, I am appalled and distressed for those who are then in the open country; if I am myself outside, I do not even wish to be anywhere else. The mere idea of being always shut up in a room seemed to me to be unbearabl. Suddenly, full of agitation, changes and

e\propriation that takes place when on remains "inside," "shut up in a room." On the olher hand, expedence is the proper expropriation that puts th self back in its home, so to speak, by taking il out of it. Montaigne thus radicalizes the Stoic contemplation of dath or the tekne alJpias of the Grek soprros, which rely on a strategy of mastery through the imaginary represntation of th event to be feared.l3 To be sure, Montaigne's critique takes a contradictory formulation. On the one hand, as he says in the very first sentence of the essay, he bases his discussion on an unquestioned opposition between an "impotent" discourse and the "reality" irnplied by experience: 'rDiscourse and education, though we are willing to put our trust in them, cannot be powerful nough to lead us to action, ur ess besides we exercise lexerconsl and lotm Vomorsl ouI soul through experience to the way we want it to go; otherwise, when it comes to the time for action, it will undoubtedly find itself iniibited" (II, vi, 370). On the other hand, we are certainly invited to rad the ,E sdls themselves as a radical experience of the self, by which is formed Montaigne's corpus in the guise of the skinned cadaver found ai the other end of this same essay. lf experience can be said then to define rhe body, it is bcause it does not leave the latter intact. We should not be surprised then if self-mutilation becomes exemplary of the experiential appropriation: "Others have deprived ihemslves of ihe most precious parts of the body, such as sight and the members proper to generation, for fear that these services, too pleasant and soft, might relax and soften the firmness of their soul." Castration emerges as what defines the body most properly by protecting ii against tlre danger of castration itself by assuring a certain "firmness" or "hardness." Castration is thus paradoxically what erects the body, what (im)properly rcnders it proper Expedence is a self-procreation predicated upon the loss of one's procreative faculties, a castration that is not to be denied, but rather affirmed as th only hope of denying castration. ln Lacanian terms, the loss of the penis would b the prerequisite for gaining the phallus by means of an asceticism that scarcely disguises the displaced eroticism of its sublimation.' There is a limit, though, to this structure of expropriation as phallic appropriation, namely, the limii to be found in the definitive definition of death. One cannot "test" or experience death because death forever remains a radical extriority. Death, as we are told by the name of the thid of the



rhree Fates, A-tropos (1he one who cuts the thread of life), is that which cannot be "troped," or brought into a relation, figural or literal, with life. The radical discontinuity of death makes its appropriation impossible. On the other hand, this very inaccessibility of death and the limit it places on the project of experiential appropriation make death a privileged topic of discourse for Montaigne: "Through habit and experience, one can fortify oneself against pain, sham, indigence, and other such accidents; but as for death, we can try lessalerl it only once: w are all apprentices when we come to ii" (tl, vi, 371). The ultimate task of philosophy is somehow to be able to preempt death without being able to experience it The title

of the twentieth essay of the first book says '1hat to philosophize is to learn to die." And if, as has ben often noted, Montaigne should change his mind and contradict himself by first advocating the value of always keeping on\ mind on deaih and then insisting, on the contrarv, tha! one never think at all about death, this change simply rcpresents a change in
tactics regarding the best way to domesticat death (which remains as always

essentially impossible to domesticate).45 There is. nonetheless. at least one way in which an attempt is made to think the unthinkable, one trcpe continually called upon to trcpe the a-


"It sems to me, however, that there is a certain way of taming ourselves to death and trying it out [estdyel] io some extent. We can hav an xpedence of it that is, if not entire and perfect, at least not uselss, and that makes us mor fortified and assured. If we cannot reach it, we can approach it, we can reconnoiter it; and if we do not penetrate as far as its fort, at least we shall see and becomes acquainted with the approaches to it" (II, vi, 372). ln this passage, the radical discontinuity of death is made continuous through the introduction of a topography that places death on its farther side. To die, then, is to undertake a journey, what the E c),_ c/opldtu euphemistically refers to as "the great voyage " As Montaigne says at another point in the ssay, death is like a "passage" out of which thos who enter "have not come back to tell us news of it" (ll, vi,37l).a6 Death is the voyage of no rturn, a radical and irrevocable "dislodging ldesloaemenll of the soul" (II, vi, 371). The image of death as travel is a convntional one in expressions such as "to pass away," "to depart," "trpasser," or {luntrgehen," and in mythological images such as the crossing of rivers (Styx or Jordan). If all ihis is true, though, then the image of death as a

Whn in "That to Philosophize Is to Larn to Die', Monraigne represents a sedes of events in which to contemplate one's own death, the first on the list is the "stumbling of a horse" (I, xx, 86). But if we are to see death in th figure of the horse, Montaigne's equestrianism is what will allow him, in the ensuing narrative of II, vi, to travel right up to the brink of death and to return alive, though not efltirely unscathed. The story of Montaigne's scrape with death begins in a srate of considrable uncertainty that leaves a good deal to be defined: "During our third civil war, or the second (it doesn't quire come back to me which ir was), I went riding one day about a league ftom my hofirc lchez moyl, who am situated at the very hub [qr]i rris assis dans le /rofull of all the turmoil of the civil wars of Franc" (II, vi, 373). Considering the imporrance Montaigne attaches to the ensuing incidnr, it is rather striking that he is nol able to be more specific about the time it occurred. That he cannot even rcmember during whjch ofthe religious wars it took place is surprising in someone who, in the very same sentence, situates his dwelling place at the very hub (nolar) of these conflicls. It is as if he wer not even involved in these events, or as if he were talking about someone other rhan himself, a hypothesis given credence by the impersonal construction of ",? ne me souvient pas bien de cela Ul doesn't quite come back to me which it wasl." If the ,nol is defined at all, it is in trms of the p/ace where it is, namely, "a league from my home lune lieue de chez motl:'But if the rro] first appears as not bel'rg chez mot, the grammatical construction of the succeedina relative clause identifies mol ytith chez. mol.. "my home, which dm situated in the vry hub lchez mot, qui suis assis dans le moiaul;' In othet words, the place where I am rs me. "1" am situated in a particular part of France. To depart ftom chez nor, which is situared in th "noiau," is to depafi frcm oneself. Moniaigne leaves Montaign.43 Such a departure is not without consequnces. To leave oneself does not mear on can retum easily. For Montaigne, ir is pfecisely in returning that he encounters some difficulties:

voyage must inevitably coincide with an understanding of travel as containing within itself the possibjlity of death. According to Freud, "'deparF ing' on a journey is one of the commonest and best authenticated symbols of death."a7 Travel is deadly, and to be fared to the extent that it raises the possibility of there bing no return, bui without the possibility of no return (of death), there could b no such thing as travel.

to which it was not accnstomed, one of my men, big and strong, mounted up on a powerful workhorse [!/n puissant rcussinl who had a desprate kind of mouth and was moreover fresh and vigorous Ivko .erxl-rhis man, in order to show his daring lpon fone k hardtl and gt ahad of his companions, spurred his horse at full speed Id toute bn(lel slj,^ieht into my path, and came down like a colossus on the little man and the little horse, and hit him like a thundrbolt with all his stiffness and veieht Vondrc comme un colosse sut le petit homme et petit cheyal, et le foudrciet de sa .oideur et de sa pesanlerrrl, sending us
horse for a service

On my rturn, when a sudden occasion came up fol me to use this





borh head over heels: so that there lay the horse bowled over and stunned, and l, ten or twelve paces beyond, dead lmof dix ou douze pcts ou delit, mottl, spread out on my back, my face all bruised and skintrcd llout meuftry el lout escorch4, my s\\ord. [esple], which I had had in my hand, more than ten paces away' my bett in pieces Ima ceinturc en pieces), having no more motion or feeling than a stump [sorcre]. (II, vi, 373)
As th highlighted words show, the accident is recounted quite explicitly in terms of a castration scnado (continued in later passages, such as that inwhich Montaigne mistakenly believes that he is the victim of "a harquebus shot in the head" [II, vi, 3?4] or when h desctibes himself as "disarmed" tll, vi, 3751). But if Montaignet fall at th hands of this rather phallic horse is described in terms of castration, that fall is similarly to be under_ stood as the death of Montaigne. MontaiSne does not say that his state is /itre death; he says that h i.t dead: " I, tn or twelve paces beyond, dead." What follows then as Montaign "comes back to himself," is a kind of resurrection: "I came back 1o life lie tirs d re\rivrel and regained my powers" (II, vi, 37?). That we are in fact dealing with a tale of resu ection is strangely confirmd when Moniaigne later fears that he will "die again Vemouri4" fiomthe aftereffects of the fall (II, vi, 3?7) Montaigne's equestrian calvary, however, ends with an arduous iourney to a mountain, for it is in coming back np the hill to Montaigne ("chez mov") after havins fallen down that Montaign "comes back" to himself ("moy"). Not until he has returned home, thoueh, is he fully himselt ln describing this interim' Montaigne nonetheless evinces great dlight in recounting all the movements of his body (and ever of his mind) that transpired without his knowing it. Thes actions "cannot be called ours" given that "they did not come from within me Icftez not\" (11, \i,376). Since "mov" was not "chez mov" when "moy" did these things, they cannot be attributed to "moy." The pleasure in all this lies in being able to appropriate or at least "come close to lavoisine\" (lI, vi, 377) death evn at the cost of one's own utter disappropriation. As in the case of the proverbial piec of cake, Montaigne can thus both have his death and know it too, a situation replicated by the skelelos of the text as dead body, a body claimed neverthetess bv Montaign

death: for the more my illness bears down on me lmep.essem] and bothers me, the less will death be somerhins for me to fear" (tI, xL\vii, 760). The "profit" derived from the stone is in the ceaseless o:dLeat ot dprcuye of death it provides, in th proximity ir brings one to the limit case of expeence itslf.

death. But if the horse not only castrares bur writes, it now seems ro be in a position opposite to that of the horse in ..Of ldleness," which was linked to the idle thinking rhat needed to be formed or cut inro shape through writing. We srill do nor know, afrer having seen rhese wild and improper horses and th consequences they entail, why Montaigne should Iove nothing better rhan to rid horses. Therc musr be still something else at work in Montaigne\ equestrian obsession. An answer mighr be found in that orher casrrating accident that lets Montaigne hold death by the hand-or in his lap. I refer to Monraigne's kidney stone condition, of which, in the final essay of rhe original 1580 edition, he writes as being "of all the accidents of old age, the one I feared the most" (II, DL\vii,759). In the same passage and continuing along rhis line, Montaigne describes his encounter wirh rhe stone precisely in terms of an accident suffered during the course of a voyage, the voyage of his life: "I had thought to myself many rimes thar I was going forward too far, and that in making such a long journey, I woutd not fail to get embroiled in some unpleasant encounter" (II, xxxvii, 759). The ,,accidenl, ol the stone is nothing short of deadly, so deadly in fact that elswhere Montaigne approvingly cites a passage from Pliny rhat mentions the stone as one of only three illnesses rhe evasion of which jusrifies suicide (II, iji, 35J). yet it is precisely because the pire is in many ways worse than deaih thar Montaigne takes comfort in the expetience it offers: ,,I am ar grips with the worst of all maladis, rhe most sudden, the most painful, rhe most mortal, and the most irrmediable. . . . I have at least this profir from the stone, that it will complete whar I have still not been able to accomplish in myself and reconcile and familiarize me Im'occointerl completely with

Th resurrection of the body in the txt, though is that not too the result of an accident, th risk incurred by a certain horsing around? In a passage just a few lines befor the ste/elos appears, Montaigne describes writina as a metaphorical riding of horses: "to fling oneself well out into the pavement Ise jetter bkn avant sut te trcttoitl" (lL, vi,378; ttottoit it

sixteenth-century French mans a place to trot horss). we can no longer look at such horseplay without seeine in it the threat of castration and

Furlhermore, if Montaigne can once again claim to appropriate death in this xperie[e of the stone, that experience of death is, like that in ,,Of Practice," described in terms of castration. Since the stone by irs very formation blocks rhe urethral passage, it effecrively purs an end to any carcs one may have about procreation. Moreover, one of the few cures for kidney stons in Montaigne's tim involved an almost invariably faral operation that required that one ,,have oneself cut Ise fairc taille4,, Il, xxxvji, ?73). At its best, the expulsion of a stone is a source of erotic pleasure ("that dreamer in Cicero who, dreaming he was embracing a wench, found that he had discharaed his srone in the sheers" [It, x).xvii, 7621). Morc



typically, Montaigne complains that "the sharp points press into me Ues aigres pointures me ptessertl" and his stones "diswench me strangelv lme desgarcent estrungemen ll" (II, xxxvii, 762). Finallv, the stonet phallic significance is made explicit when in the course of his trip to Italy, Montaigne claims to have rendercd a stone that had "exactly the shape of a prick"

(Jou al, pp.20'l-8).

The stone points back, then, in the direction of Montaigne's voyage to Italy, where we found Montaigne desperatly trying to master the movement of that phallic stone through his rgimen of mineral water. In a passage of the trsd,t he comments in typically skeptical fashion on the advantags and disadvantages of this use of mineral water: Aperients are useful for a man with the stone because by opening and dilating the passags [pass4ges], they move along Iacheminentl that sticky matter of which the gmvel and the stone ar built and cofivey Iconduisentl downward what is beginning to harden and accumulate in tbe kidneys. Aperients are dangerous for a man with a stone because by opening and dilating the passages, they move the matter of which the gravel is built along toward the kidneys, which, being apl to size it by a natural propensity U)ropension), will hardly fail to stop much of what has ben carried lchaniel Lo them. Moreover, if by chance there comes along some body a little too large to go through all those narrow passages that rmain to be traversed in order to discharge it outside k arsel tor't cas destroicls qui rcstent it fta chit pow I'eryeller au del,o]'sl, this body, being set in motion Iesbrunll by thse aperients and cast into these na ow channels Uetti dans ces canaus ertroitr!, will stop them and expedite la.hemineral a certain and very painful death."

Not for nothing does Montaigne make these extended remarks on his illness in an essay entitled "Of the Resemblance of Children to Fathers" (ll, xxxvii): "It is probable that I owe this stony prcpens.ity lcette qualiri pieteusel lo my fathe\ for he died extraordinarily afflicted by a large stone in his bladder" (Il, xxxvii, 763). Montaiane resembles his father through their common affliction, the pfure. This resemblance beiween father and son becomes all the more intresiing, however, if we take note of the phonic similarity in Frnch btween the words pier'rc and pare, "stone" and "father." li is even more interesting when we recall the name of Montaigne's
father: Piene.50

. I come then to the question of Montaigne's resemblance to his father in their common bearing of the p/e/re. This resmblance, however, allows for
the transmission of something other, namely the name of the father, Pierre, which through the prere takes on substance in the very body of the son.

(II, xxxvii,


what is implied in thepfuffeis a kind ofinner travel that, if not mastered, threatns to dis pt the equilibrium of the body. Exterior travel, a trip to Italy for instance, might be seen as an attempl to master this improper inner divagation.a'Th only way to be rid of that impropriety is to etpel it. Once again, the movement outwatds defines and preserves the inside. Self-castration, as we have aheady seen, insures that one will not be cas trated; witness the deadly operation ol the tdille. The movement of the stone as phallus castrates by delimiting or tearing the skin off of the irrer parts of th body. In other words, that castration is worse than the death by skinning w saw in the case of the dcotchd because the stone does not define the body as a proper interior set off against an improper exterior, Rather the stone suggests something exterior that is at the same time inhrenl to the body's interior. From where does

The earlier interpretation of the pieffe, as something radically exterior that is at the same time somehow inherent to the very interiority of the body, is then borneout. The travelingprerre leaves in its wake a certain patronymic inscription that defines properly or improperly the body of the son. That piere is, ihen, what is both xtrior and interior to the son, what is in fact the origin of the son, what makes him what he is. The pierle contained in the farher's "seed" ("that drop of water lthat] lodgelsl this infinite number of forms" [I, xL\vii,763]) defines the son as a certain property belonging to the father, Montaigne. Procreation as th transmission of the seed-stone maintains the father's property (his name, his body, his land). For this property to remain intact, howevet it must b transmitted by the son to his son and so forth. But if the son has no progeny the father will die: if the prognitor is regenerated through his being incorporated by the son, then the son engenderc the father as much as the father does the son." No simple betrayal ofhis fathet Montaigne's lack of male offspring neds to be reappraised in view of the fact that the very thing the father tmnsmiis to his son to transmit is itself what makes that further transmission impossible.i, Montaigne's p,?rre is not only what proves his filial attachment to his father but also what, in its painfulnss, is equated by Montaigne with death and castration. But if th pr'ere defines (the son as son) as it delimits or castrates the body, then it would seem that to procreate is to castrate. What is castrating, then, if not precisely the way in which the son resembles the father? I1 is reproduction as resemblance then which castrates, for it leaves the son able only to repeat the father and to stand for him as a kind of tombstone or pfule tombale. The metaphor is not uncalled for since the castration of the son, in th Montaignian imaginary, implies the death of the farher. The father

can live only as long as his seed is transmiited.

lf it is the seed itself,



howevet which cuts off the transmission, as in th pr?re Montaigne's father gives his son, then the continuity of the resemblance between father and son which is supposed to assure patriarchal continuity only takes place through a radical discontinuity, the castration of the son, the death of the father. To procreate is to risk death even as that death allows for a certain reincarnation or resu ection. In fact, for thre to be the possibiljty of a resurrection, there must be a prior deaih. One can only live on in drotrgl. bodg as other, as son. If the seed cuts, it cuts both ways; the cut that engenders cannot leave the body intact.

is what defines or delimits an interior it is the ey itself, the ex-cursion, which castrates, as in the ex-pulsion of the stone. Th movemnt of the prere defines the son as son but only at the cost of internal damage. The
body defined by casiration is never intact since rhis defining wound is also a mutilation. Not only is what defines rhe proper self improper (insofar as it is excentric) but its vety movment ensures that that proper is never fully proper. As we saw earliet the inside (of the body, of rhe home) can only be assured through the movemenr outwards which leaves that inside behind, a movement the absolute limii of which is death or the complet loss of that inside. The appropriation that renders the proper proper (or defines the interiority of the inside) is at the same time a disappropriation. yet that appropriation as disappropriation is the only hope of ever having something that is proper, a propeny. To stay inside (.,shut up in a room"), to guard the stone inside ihe body, is to jeopardize the very property and properness of that inside. For Montaigne to stay at home is ro invire the chaos of an utter dispossession, beginning with the dispossession of what one would think to be most one's own. Only rhrough a radical movemenr of expulsion can any claim to property be made: the evacuarion of the stone, the experienc of travel, or for rhat mauer, the externalization of thoughts into writing as excrement.s4 The pro-crearion of his proper body can only take place if he assumes his castrarion, that is, if the sed curs. The home can only be domsticated, "bridled,', if he rides off on a horse. Pushed to the limir, this logic suggests that absolute domesticiry is to be found in an infinite excursion, to Italy and beyond. To repear whar the scdbe of the voyage to Italy writes, if Montaigne ,,had been alone with his attendants he would rather have gone to cracow or toward creece by land than make the turn toward ltaly; but the pleasure h rook in visitjng unknown countries, which he found so swet as to make him forger the weakness of his age and of his health, he could not impress on any of his party, and everyone asked only to return home,, (Jounal, p. 65). \Ne remember that this equestrian excursion is also accompanied by the ,.expulsion" of the stone. In fact, Montaigne repeatedly states that it is on horseback that he finds the greatest relief from rhe storrc (Jouma!, p. 58i Essa/s lII, ix, 974, and III, xiii, 1094). And if rhe rwin phalliciry, ar once internal (kidney stone) and external (horse rravel) to rhe body, is ar work in defining the proper limits to that body through the violent exceeding (excision) of those limits, the saddle iurns out also to be a privileged locus of erctic fantasy, where Montaigne experiences his ,,most profound and maddest fancies and thos I like the besC' (III, \ 876). If our analysis has moveal back and forth between the horse and th srone (even in our first glances at the Ttsvel Joumar, ir is because rhe stone and horse G,ierre arld equem)

We can now retum

to that other petrifying



castration and

resurrcction: Montaigne's horse accident. The collision, we should note, is between tlu horses, each with its ridr. Montaigne's horse is a "little horse" described as "very asy but not very firm"; its counterpart is "a powerful workhorse" that is "fresh and vigorous." While Montaigne describes himself as "litde," the other horseman is "big and strong." The only differences noted by Montaigne are those of size and strength, with the advantage in both thes aras granted to his opponent. In the accident that leaves Montaigne in the described state of castration, the overpowering size and force that hits him is compared to "a colossus" in its "rieidity" and "weight." This colossus of a horse hits Montaigne with the force of a pillar of stone. where does this horse come from? Would we have reason to suspect a certain Pierre? If we consult the language that the father forcibly imposed on the son and in which that son was raised, namely Latin,i we find that the word for horse is eqros and the word for horceman, eques. At this juncture, I do not feel it would be unwarranted to place th signifiers of these words (and even more pertinendy that of the accusative of e4rer, eqrrem) next to the family name of Montaigne's father: Eyquem. To be sure, I am not for a moment arguing thai the man whose horse

hit Montaigne was in empirical or referential terms Montaigne's father. Rathet what our analysis seems to be unraveling is the logic behind a phantasm-and if Montaigne's accident is noi in itself phantasmic, the description of it, with its memory lapses and wordplay, certainly is. Some assurance of the validity of this deciphering of the father's name can be
ifthe play ofthe patronymic will, in turn, give cohrence to our reading of Montaigne. If we reflect on the insistence with which words particularly cherished

by Montaigne begin in e or ex-exercer, experimente\ expdrience, dprcuve, and of course ?ssai and essajer (as :Jvell as exercitation)-^nd on his equestrian obsessions, we can draw some interesting conclusions. The patronym points to a movement outwards, as in the riding of a horse. The ek ot ex of this movement outwards includes in its very movement the thrcat of castration and dath. Insofar, however, as the r. of that movement outwards




play into th same phantasmic expulsion that in its very enactment would obsessively inscribe the father's name into the son\ bodv+ext


Roads Lead BNck

to Rome: "Of Vanity"

Now, this ex'centricity through which the son castrates himself in the name of the father cannot be withoui consequences for the father, the death ot whom is implied in the son's castration For the son to assume his own castration. then. is paradoxically to celebrate the fathert death. Such an

Oedipal dilmma can be found at work in the essay "Of Vanity [D la vanit6l" 0ll, ix), whre Montaigne, in an essay written entirelv a/aer his trip to ltaly, also makes his most xtended observaaions concrning his interest in travel. The voyage as ex-cursus remains massively oedipalized "Traveling hurts me only by its expense," says Montaigne near the beginning of the essay (lll, ix, 949). The only pain in travl is the e-xpense. Sucb a loss is to b discounted, though, continues Montaigne, since he has no male heirs for whose inheritance he would need to provide (III, ix, 949) Already castrated, Montaigne can set out on his travels with no fear of castration. Someone else, though, does stand to lose trom both of Mon_
taigne's losses:

My father loved to build Montaigne, where he was born; and in all this administration of domstic affairs, I love to follow his example and his rules. and shall bind my successors to them as much as I can lautanl que ie pou a!1. lf I could do better for him lsiie pouvois mieux pout luyl, I would. I slory in th fact tha( his will still operats and acts through m. Cod forbid rhat I should allow to fail in my hands any semblance of life that I could [4re Je prrirel rstore to so good a father. Whenever I have taken a hand in completing some old bit of wall and repairing some badly constructed buildins, it has certainly been out of regard more to his intenlions than io my own satisfaction. And I blam my indolence that I hav not gone further toward completing the things he began so handsomly in his house; all the more because I have a good chance of being the last of my race to possss it, and the last to put a hand to it. For as regards my own personal inclination, neither the pleasure of building lce plaisir de bastit), which is said to be so atluring, nor hunting, nor gardening, nor the other pleasures of a retired life, can amuse me very much [n? m peultent beaucoup amuserl. (IIl, ix, 951)
Antoine Compagnon makes much of this passage, in which he justifiablv sees that Montaigne "through a subtle play of dengation . . marks himself off from his father while protesting hjs loyalty."$ Montaigne's ambiguous

attitude toward his father is nonetheless not simply a product of his guilt for having no progeny, as Compagnon would have it. Montaigne says he likes to follow his fathr's example and presents himself as a faithful image of his beloved falher in all respects save on, namely his i,?drlrr, to "build" Montaigne. This inability is underscored by the use of the verb pouvoir, which appears three iimes in the passage. Montaigne says he would encourage his inhritors ("as much as I cfl,") to follow his father's example, an ircnic statement considering Montaigne's precise lack of successors, He then adds thai he would do more for his fathr if he could ("si je pou,rois"\, implying that he is incapable of doing more. Finally, he insists that '1he pleasure of building" and associated domestic pleasures "canlnorl amuse me very much." What is at stake in this inability ro "build" the family chateau? As Compagnon demonstmtes, the word baJtir is also used by Montaigne to denote the act of procrearion.r6 Montaigne is like his father in every respect except in his inability to produce offspring, to maintain the family property. Once again, though, if Monraigne is a castrated, impotent clone of his fathr, his father nonerheless stands to lose on the same count. With Montaign\ death, the Eyquem family will come to an end, and its property will pass into other hands. Morraigne himsetf knows this very well. If Monraigne is thus forced to view his own inadquacy vis-A-vis his fathet he can nevertheless assum that castration and celebrate his father,s demise not only by leaving the home unfinished but also simply by leaving the home. The long passage above is preceded by a long development on the joys of travel, of being elsewhere, of the eroticism of the exotic: "And I seem to njoy more gaily the pleasures of someone else's house lrre maison estrangiercl" (III, ix,95l). ln facr, what is continually asserted throughout this essay is that the home is less of a hom than is its negalion, travel. Only by leaving the hom can Montaisne eer "inside" himself. Montaigne systematically denies all the possible dangerc and inconveniences of travel and reinterprets them as advantages. Travel itself is what is proper insofar as it removs one from an improper, undomesricated home. And since it is proper in itself, or autotelic, the voyage needs no othr goal rhan itself and can thus take th form of an infinite wandering. Before concluding, though, that Montaigne siruares himselfas a nomadic son rebelling against a homebody of a father.5r we should oote that Montaignel willful cutting off of himself from the home still follows the trace of his father's footsteps. For that Eyquem whose name points to the outward movement of th horse was himself a grat araveler, one who in so doing went so far as to jeopardize his health as well as "his life, which he nearly lost in this, engaged. . . in long and painful journeys" (lll, x, 1006). Elsewhere, we are told not only that he wenr to lraly bu1 also rhar, like his



had once held (lll, x, 1005-6). Now, if there be any direction to the wandering of rhe essay "Of Vanity," it is precisely from the bad home of Monraign to irs antithesis, the "only common and universal city" (lII, ix, 997), Rome. Rome fo! Montaigne is more of a home than home itself: "I was familiar whh the affairs of Rome long before I was with those of my own house: I knew the Capitol and its location before I knew the Louvre, and th Tiber beiore the Seine" (lll, ix, 996). At the same time, though, Rome is a city of the dead, a veritable necropolis with its monuments and hisrorical sires, "the tomb of that city" (III, ix, 996). Amazingly, it is among these dead rha( we find Monraigne's father: "I have had the abilitis and forlunes of Lucullus, Metellus, and Scipio more in my head than those of any of our men. They are dead. So indeed is my father, as completely as they; and he has moved as far from me and from life in eiahteen years as they have in sixleen hundred" (III, ix,996). In retracing his sreps, rhe voyage to Rome nds by celebrating the death of the father. Rome, death, the father: "Irs very ruin is glorious" (III, ix,99?). For Montaigne, then, all rcads Iead to Rome, whether ropographical, symbolic, psychological, historical, or literary. If Montaigne is exemplafy of Frnch rourists to ltaly, as we suggested earlier, then rhe ambiguous French attitude toward rhat land is implicitly Oedipal. Ir is ar thjs moment too, howevet that Monraigne chooses ro affirm his casrrarion as a virtue: "l have never thought thar to be without children was a lack that should mak life less complete and less conrented. The srerile profession I'lacation stetileT has its advantages too. Children count among th rhings that are not particularly to be desired" (III, ix, 998). Finally, Monraigne defends his administration of the home againsr his father\ accusations: "He who left me in charge of my house predicred rhat I would ruin it, coflsidering that I was of so unhomely a humour lrnon humew si peu casaniarcT. He was mistaken; here, I am as when I firsr came into it, il not a little bettr" 0II, ix, 998 99). Marking within Montaisne's imasinary the realm of symbolic fatherhood, the ruins of Rome are also described in

son, he kept a journal of his trip there: "[My farher] had raken a very long part in the Italian wars, of which he has left us a journal, in his own hand, following what happened point by point" (II, ii, 344). lt is also worth rcmembering that Montaigne or y decides to return home from ltaly when, during his second stay in Rome, he receives word of his election to rhe mayoralty of Bordeaux (Journal, p. 221\, a position which his father too

would bring more honor and reverence to its memoryi this was nothina but its sepulcher. The world, hostile to its long domination, had first broken and shattered all the parts of this wonderful body; and because, even though quite dad, thrown on its back, and disfigued lmo ,ranye$i et ddfigut6l, it still terrified the world, the world had buried its \ety ttrin" (Joumal, 103-4). If "Of Vanity" imaginatively retraces the itinerary of Montaigne,s trip to Italy, itself a retracing of Pierrc Eyquemt journey there, the traces of the father have been buried under the monumentality of the son. Which is not to say that the old, dismembered, departed Rom does not remain an object of nostalgia, the recovery of whose ancient values is what motivates Montaigneh praise of Amerindian cultures in his essays "Of Cannibals" (I, xxxi) and "Of Coaches" (III, vi). "Of Vanity" ends with Montaigne's citation in toto of a document officially declaring him a citizen of Rome. Interestingly, Montaigne,s name appears on the document without his family name. Indeed, as pierre Villey has noted, "Michel would be the first to abandon definitively the family name of Eyquem to bear only the name of his land."r3 Cutting off part of his proper name, Montaigne denies his father's paternity to set himself up instead as self-engendercd. But the documeni also adds that Montaigne is an "Eques sancti Michaelis [a knight of the Order of Saint Michael],, (lll, ix, 99), an award he covered as a youth (II, xii, 57?). Montaigne has ceased to be an Eyquem in order to bcome an e4rem, unless we should want to read this switch as an attempt to dhlodge the patronymic from its position of domination and to press it inro the service of the son, Michael. Having lft home to cure himself of his "pierre," Montaigne returns home
to Montaigne as Montaigne.r, Rome is also rhe place where Montaigne takes over the wdtine of his journal after dismissing his secrerary. retreat and the finding of a home (be it the final home of dealh: ,,a death all my own" [Il, ix,979]), which for Montaigne must be sought in tmvel, away from the home. lnteriority is attained through the excursion itself in all its castrating dfinitude. It is only because of this Oedipal dtermination of travel, which makes of it the very condition for property, that Montaigne can underwriie so willingly the "expense" ofthe voyage as an incomparable

what is inevitably affirmed in all rhis traveling is the value of inner /, '

r r"

a passage or rhe Jorrral {urillen doqn by rhe.cribe bur said b} hrm ro be rhe \ery $ords ol Monlaigne, ar rhe locus oI a corporedt (and implicirty patricidal) violence, not wirhour srriking parallel in the scene ofMontaigne's horse accident in "Of Practice": ,,Those who said that one at least saw lhe ruins of Rome said roo much. for rhe ruins of so awesome a machine

gain. Th name of the father thus serves as the reference point, or point de rcpirc, that guaranteees an economy in which the more one loses, the more one gains, and the farther off one wanders, the closer one gets to home. Such a perversity (in the erymological sense of a rurning over) makes Montaigne's equestdanism as much a comfort for him as it is a bane for a rationalist like Descartes, for whom, as we will see, rhe horse needs to be kept within strict bounds.



To the extent, though, that this rather carefree assumption of castration

is the prccondition for an always phallic definition of self, the often debated

"liberalism" or cullural rclativism of Montaigne finds its axiomatic pa rameters.60 Th skeptical discours of the tssals deploys a wondrously recuperative machine, orc able to posit maximal diversily to the precise xrenl that diversity is reducible to the same, to the extent ihat the thesis

of proliferating differencs results in indifference (ven as th -EssdJt remain one of the West's greatest clitiqus of such reductionism) Montaigne's criticism, for instance, in "OfCannibals" ofthe "barbarity" of considering all those different from oneself 10 b "barbarous" finds its limit in his simultaneous praise of Tupinamba culture for its replication of ancient values, for its moral proximity to Roman greatness as the Dnsullid youth of the Old World. Favorablv citing a line from Juvenal, he evn finds a precedent for-and hence defense of cannibalism in th archaic Gascon ;ulture from which he himself dscends (I, xxxi, 210). While "of Cannibals" and "Of Coaches" reprsent importani early moments in the defense of autochthonous American cultures, their hermeneutics of analogical recu_ peration (whereby the other's thratening otherness is domesticated by the ;ystematic recoding of cultural differences as veiled similarities) also helped crystallize the alternative myth ol the bon sauvale' a myth whose perni_ ciousness remains masked by its veil of benvolent idealism.6l Likwise, if Montaigne can seem to take an apparently "progressive" position toward women's rights in "On Some Verses of Virgil" (UI' v), that too can be sho n to be in function of a denial of gender difference that veils a fundamental misosvnv. Unsurprising in this regard, given Montaigne's Oedipal scenarios, is the telling absence throughout the tssafs of what one would think to b the significant women in Montaigne's life: his mother, his wife, and his one surviving daughter' No doubi they remain the occluded force of stability, maintaining house and hearth (the menage whose upkeep Montaigne finds wearisome in IIl, ix), while the lord of the "mountain" pursues his lravels abroad or remains ensconced in the phallic to\rer of his library, writing the text of his immortal dcor"c/rL62 Curiously'

upon his return from the famous hone accident, at a time when his thoughts "did not come from withh me" (ll' vi, 376), that his wif makes one of her fw appearances in the text: Montaigne asks, oddly enough considering the conlext, thal she be given a horse because he sees her "stumbling and having trouble on the path' rugged."6r Woman appears' then, only as which is steep Imontueuxl ^nd up the hillv path to Montaigne's height she who cannot walk for herself and is in need of his equestrian assistance. But then horsemanship was already invoked when it was a question of eiving "form" to those shapeless masses ldmar el pieces de chair infomes)

it is in a moment of absence,

produced by women in "Of Idleness.', Unbridled as Montaigne,s thoughr may be, the form it takes js not withour its share of (ar leasr, irnplicir) exclusions even jn thar apparently mosr inclusive and democratic of human, ist truisms: "Each man lromme] bears ihe entire form of rhe human con dition" (IIl, ii, 805). It the lat Renaissance marks the hisroricat momenr when the privatized inner spac of individualism is firsi demarcared, rhat momnt also witnesses the codemarcation of exteriorized zones of otherness (femininity, savagery, madnest that reciprocally implicare the new interiority as exclusivist and limired to rhose empowered by European masculinity. If the assumption of castrarion allows for the demarcation of a privileged psychic interioriry, Monraigne\ .,ruling form Vome maistrcssel,' (tlt, ii, 8ll) as a secure space of selfhood or chez moy (or, ar its limit, a phallic fortress),s the drawing ol rhose boundaries borh requires at Ieast a glance beyond those walls and enables the gazer\ self,confidence in confronting the xterior beyond. Aristocratic largesse could occur because of the priv ileged political and economic starus ir also signified in irs practice. Does not the condition of possibility for the radical skeptical cririque lie in rhe Oedipalized heiehrs of Monraisne, in the securiiy of the iower walts ihar dominate the landscape below?6J h is with a similar confidence or lack ofintimidation before rhe symbolic, then, that Montaigne can conceptualize writing irself in terms ot travel: "Who does not see rhat I have iaken a road along which I shall go, without stopping and withour effori, as long as there is ink and paper in rhe world?,, (lII, ix, 945). To the infinite wandering corresponds an infinite discourse, one whose bounds are nonetheless proleptically secured or preser by the reiNcription of the rext as book of the self. And if Montaigne can not only describe writing and travel in rerms of each other bur also swirch back and forth between thos rwo experiences, going as he does in and oui of his towet would we nor be justified ir assuming that rhey are similarly Oedipalized? What do we find in the ,Assdf,r if not the experience, or er pAre-ience (to rc\fiite the title of Montaignet last essay), of writing as that movement ouiwards that celebrates the fathr\ death in the son's castration? Montaigne's firsr writing experience, his translation of Raymond Sebond,s Theo[ogia naturalis, came in rhe form of something imposed on him by the father, be rhar father described in rhe same breath as rhe ,,the best father ther ever was": .,lt was a very strange and a novel occupation for me lto translare Sebond]; but being by chance at leisur ar that rime, and being unable to disobey any ommandmenr of th best father there ever was ldu meillev pere qui fut onques),I got rhroueh ir as besr I coutd: al $hich he wd\ (inguld'l) plea,ed. and ordered it to be printed; and rhis wa. erccuted after his dearh lce qui fut execurd apfts sa mo l,, (tI, xii, 41O). The "execution" of the writing comnanded by rhe farhr iollows upon rhe


father's alemise, an execution in print that also enshrines the son's 66 in the very act of translating-from paternal Latin to French father's death But if the son's affirmation of castlation consecrates the in the very movment of experienc that reenacts the father's name' some_ thing else is nonetheless procreated in that castration. What is produced, andln this the son pushes to the limit his resemblance to his father, is a castrated son, namelv that definitively defined proper body of the text as ecorchi, ptoper body that as we remember, can only "live" (if that word any meaning in this context) by its progenitor\ dath. This body can have ^ of writing bears a name, though-that of Montaigne, its author' Such a


Chapter 2 Cartesian Coordinates

name, which defines Montaigne, can only be assigned aptas'coup An author's name can only be assigned or affixed if there is olrcad, ^ body of writing, a text. The author's name can only take place if the "author" has a/readl succumbed to the castration and death of writing. Montaigne's Essd,yr finds its or*os in this "name of the author," only if it is conceded that this ultimate point of refrence is found along the Oedipalized paths of writing a5 the ex-cursion that repeats (as it entombs or encrypts) the father's nime. What the Esslllt performs as a death of the body is also, then, ihe birth ofthe author, the proprness ofwhose proper name bespeaks the inauguration of a new historical order, a new set of ploperty relations \rherein the feudal proper name as the name of the land the lord owns gives way to a prccapitalist name, functioning as a dsignatum of individ;aliiy, to be found in the self as locrd of its own production The play of Montaigne's name straddles these two orders by its metaphorization of body, text, and land within a set of equivalences that reinstitute patriarchal law as a nw kind of autarky: having no male offspring, Montaigne ends his familial line even as he. as author, situates himself as the fathr of
French philosophy. headed "Montaigne," where he arrivs on Novembel 30, 1581 (p. 239), but the last line of the preface to the Essa),J had already reinscribed this name, indecidably sig-

In the histoty of thought, Descartes wi!! alv)oys be that French caysliet who set olJ at so JirE a pace. peguy
with the grear era of voyages ot discovery h rhe impres_ :C::.ll_e]leoraneous srve ano perrstenr alignment of lhe motif ol rravel $ith the crilical

The last entrv

in Montaignet travel journal is

ed Greco_Chri*ian paradigmJ synthesis. Augusrine and fhomas Aquinas, had T: m graliing (respecrively) plato ^1Tsucceeded and ArisLotte onlo th; Christian narrarrve ot redemption. fhis redoubling ol the pilgrim,s partr ro sauarion socrat'c quesl for rhe absoture generared lhe gred a egorical journeys :y:: round rn Dante and the various legends of the Arthurian .ycte. iar f-m sereKtng new horizons. though. lhese narratives were organized by rhe fear oflosing onel way. of srraying away fmm the right road, olf inro error aEd

oLhr.cutrures ensased :il,Y^l:T:i :lll""as embedded in sanclifi

moment in French philosophical literarure. In its most positive aspect, the advent


a generalized quesrioning

:l-^T.-,:-r1'1"*. ,,.1. ol medieval


nature and place name, not too long beforc his initial departure: "So farewell. from Montaigne, this first day ol March, fiften hundred and ei}htt IA Dieu donq, de Montaigne, ce prcmiet de Mars mille cinq cens

qualrc vingtsl;'

*,"mond :?:::nr-?!i!! !.:t.;,,;;;-',k,;;#: other **v.. " " "e*pr,i. i"i"r^_ .sebohd and rDarion. irea;;; ;:i,'1Tl'fJ:"?';Tlllil:; behavior pla)s a teadins role in lhe debunking.f,h. W..r;;";*;;;i;;

When travel runs lhe risk of rransgression tellnologically speaking. a crossin or sLepping over), rhen voyages to exoric placei ."n'qui"lif o'p." o-nto. rhe rransgression or ca ing into question of recelvea iaeas in'rle traleler's }omeland. {s ceoffrot {rkinion has shown, criticisms of rra_ drtio-nal theological and philosophical posilions abound in the rexrs Jf,. ,,.r, criricisms surrace ITls:ance e.xelgrer: a"d e.os;;t;;; tmosr dramadcally with Montaigne) in more phitosophicalprose. tn






in the to know. With the Baroque, there even appearc a certain pleasur instabiliLv one's drifrins in r'^iliv, .etl-delusion. and li".*.".ii"t* l..o*at ta" .oral (or morlall danger Io be eladed lhan one s own " " experience ro be lhed and njoled lnstead of i."".""r "'*ra'rc)we have the mordanl ironv of cervanres\ deluded n".i"ll uur oat*"v "rii l.r"'r" .ii""i- s* ii, l"'the wake ol Montaignian skeplicism dnd Ielalivism' guise ol libe inage itr.'uovug" of a;" is whal ailows philosoph! 'in$e ways of thinking' it can or_free t-ftougftt,t to ;avel out of its accustomed -*tt", o,"n, the risk of that philosophical ioumey issuing in a to U" projct is ".f,"a nihltirtl" a.ift It forestalleal bv the verv wav in which the travel into question by iorrn.rtatea. Wnen tn" aesire to call a system of thought lhat ou,tia" i, becomes a recognizable. lopot or conllgld3ce' is nol ".i"" one is supposedly ir.ruJ-enr o,rttnutas lhen what delines the very ;nside t f"**f h this not, after all, the lesson of Montaigne's


"Vr.g -"itr"t.

also confronL u! $irh an inleresling imbricalion o[ lhe (sleplicism, relarivism) with lhe lilerary {spalial metaphors "triioroofri."f iraveinarraritesr. ro, philosophy Io think its way oul of irs oqn scholasof travel' ticism, it would seem to have recourse to celtain figures or mfl'oi is the writing of imagii ine' t"cnnai ot "^oring oulwards," among which ir"rv *otfa. or utopiasi which proliferated in the aftermath of More's .r"ti"-i. "-r. Yet it can be asled to uhal extenl Lhe ulopic lexl can offer generic a'critique rfrar exceeas rte analogical reductionism Ihat describes its the "other world"' for rl.ii, iu" cv.-o de Berserac'i lunar fantasv of inri"n"", *". u" .ual""lly oiher so long as that other world is said to be i:iir" ti. ot""l' s""rt ufiirmations of otherness are simultaneouslv denials bJ of i[, to the extent thai differences are marked only to be neutralized posil this otherness outside ou"a"t"tting t"-"n""r.r In order' however, to to "n itself, philosophy as pure conceptual cogitation must have recourse itself, to what we could outsid that is alrcady inside otft"t,- to "n "norfr"i ttt. ilt"."ty, the figures and uses of language it appropdates to t.." "uti its mental itinerarY. plot ' while the texts of imaginary voyages or utopias are manifestly informed lormal and linguisLic framing ol philosophical r' 'o.iiii.r-" " .o,rtO'ulso be demonstrared in philosophical syslems' \uch as the (heir literariness ".,n,.n .o rtiu.ptt"nr in Creal Brilain. thar $ould deny


lVI, 431), as to skepticism, crystallized in the figure-never named-of Montaigne, the refutation of whose work constitutes the principal alriving force behind the Cartesian opus.6 Yet metaphors and othr figures of speech abound in the writings of this exponent of ,,clear and distinct,, ideas, in particular a prolific use of travel metaphors. The latter have been the object of a magisterial study by Nathan Edelman, for whom Descartes,s obsession with finding the right road to truth is to be understood ar a reflection of his "native uncertainty" and concomitant desire for ,,utmost certitude."t h the following pages, I would like to demonsrrate, by looking first at two passages in the Second Meditation, and then morc generally through the Discowse on Method as well as the Meditationr, how Descartes,s recourse to travel and topographical metaphom not only betrays, as Edelman argues, a fundamental anxiety in Desca es but also, through the presuppositions contained in the use of those metaphors, actively functions to allay that

105). Descartes was as opposed to the writers of utopias, whom he considered seditious ("1 could in no way approve of these turbulent humors,,

Finding One's Footing: Second Meditation A key passage in which the play of spatial metaphors seems to inform Descartes's metaphysical speculations occurs at the very beginning of the Second Meditation, just a little before the truth of the cogrlo is presented. In this passage, Descartes descdbes, in an autobiographical vein, his reaction to the first dayt meditation and comments upon his meditative method:
Ystrday's meditation has filld my mind with so many doubts that it is no longer in my power to forget them. And nevertheless, I do not see in what way I can resolve them; and as if I had fallen all of a sudden into a very deep water lune eau tris profondel, I am so astonishd that I am able neither to find footing on the

" ;; Aill;s

" tliai*oofa-enatf" tfri-

to step out of schotastic obscurantism and formalist p*"i.siv.' r" n**", tfte besi-known advocate of such a "common-sense" have rationatisrn is, of course, Ren6 Descartes, a thinker who claimed to

,run,pur.n.v of signilication and an immediacv ro realitv

bottom nor swim to hold myself up above Ini assuret mes pieds daN le fond, ni naget po r me soutenri dr-l?lsrsl. I shall nevertheless make an effort IJe m'efJorceru4, and I shall once more follow the same path as the one upon which I entered ysterday by distancing myself from all that in which I can imagine the slig:htest doubt, just as if I knew it to be absolutely false; a;d I shall continue always along this path until I have encounteted something ce ain, or at least, if I cannot do anything else, until I have Iearned \rith certainty that nothing is certain in ihis wortd.s Following the dominanr metaphor here, rhe state in which rhe subject is placed after the First Meditation is understood as a loss of footing, the sudden disappearance of the terra firma on which he felt secure in sranding:

"p"t"a;*i"d.*"" l;sophy had obscurely




Uglt into the dark "cllar" into which phiwith Aristotelian scholasticism (Dr:sco'r'te'



he feels as if he had suddenlv fallen into a deep pool of water and can neither touch its bottom nor swim back up to the top The Latin iext is even more explicit in linking the concept of doubt to a metaphorics of disorientation, which is itself oriented according to a
certain topography. The previous day's meditation has "thrown" (cotJ?car'ls .rrm) the meditating subject "into" so many doubts (In tantas dubitationes) that he can neither forget about them nor see a way to resolve them (vll, 23-24). This implied figural dislocation effected bv doubt is made explicit in the second half of the fi$t sentence, which merits being cited in the original Latin: "sed, tanquam in profundum gurgitem ex improviso delapsus, ita turbatus sum, ut nec possim in imo pedem figele, nec enatare ad summum [but, just as if I had unexpectedly fallen into a deep abyss' so am I thrown into such confusion that I am abte nither to place my foot on the boiiom nor swim out to the topl." But even as this abyss is opened up in all its thrcatening vertigo for th doubting subject' it begins to be filled in or out by the very act of iis representation A bottom is placed under this abyss (8urres. a bottomless abyss), a bottom that cannot be touched with the foot, but a bottom nonetheless. The void itself acquires a certain consistency, that of water, in which one can swim even if one cannot swim all the way out to the top, but again there is (now) a top and a way to get there even if one cannot actually get there. And if one cannot get there, it is not even because of any objective timitations but solely because the doubting subject himself is simply unable to do it, as the first person subjunciive, possrr?, (the verb that governs the last two clauses of the sentence in question), indicates. The changing of a single letter is now all it takes to complete this filling of the abyss and to turn the abyss itself into the very bedrock of certainty I refer io Descartes's reprise of the verb "enatare" 0o swim out) as "enitar" lthe futur indicative of enilor, literally "to mount up" or "to climb" and figuratively "to exert oneself" or "to make a great effott"-s'effotcet' as

attempt) the same road as that upon which he had enaered the previous day. Descartes's logic seems to have taken a strange if nor illogical twist: the road that is to rake one out of the abyss is paradoxically the same as tle one that led into it during the previous day's meditation. In other words, the way out is the same as the way in. Nevertheless, a certain ,roglesj, or advance toward a destination, has already been made insofar as we are now dealing with a defined pathway, one that can be recognized as ,r,e same. A, voyage can now be undertakn .,into and out of" doubt where previously the very state of doubt involved the loss of anv kind of firm footing. A Lopograph) of doubt i! now affirmed where p;eviousty doubr had been linked on the metaphorical level with the loss of all possible topological bearings. The abyss of doubt is now somthing that can be traversed in the seatch for truth ard certainty, for the certainty of the truth. This certain truth then becomes the telos of a philosophical journey wherein doubt ard uncertainty are seen as mere detours or obstacles on the path to truth and certainty. And so it is that in following the road of doubr to its very end, one arrives at absolute certainty; again, by following the road that leads into the abyss one comes out of it: ..I will again try out the same path ihat I had entered upon yesterday; removing, that is, all that which allows even a minimum of doubt no less than if I had ascertained that it was wholly false; a d I will proceed onwards until I know either something certain or, if nothing etse, at leasr this itself for certain, that nothing is certain" (Vll, 24). belief in the fiction of a ,,point that is certain and vr.{,hak^ble lpunctum certum et inconcussuml" before it has been discovered. In other words, the very act of positing certainty as a desrination already puts rhe philosopher on fitm ground and keeps him from slipping into rhe ahift of aimless nomadism. To say where one is going is to orient one's position in relation to that destination, to define one's position d,r a position in relation to the destination, toward which one can thn proceed teleologically. Once such a preliminary positioningor pre-positioning has taken place, the philosopher can then proceed with grear assutance (,,pergamque porro donec aliquid certi"). The subjecr of the meditation ,'will proceed onwards" to certainty. He will proceed onwards ro certainty, one mighi add, lrrlr, certainty. The Latin phrase pergamque pono rcveals something else, howevet about this progression or journey to certainty, something effaced by rhe French translation ("ei je conrinuerai roujours dans ce chemin,,, IX-I, l9). 'lhe adverb porro, which I have translated as ..onwards,,' could. in facr. if we follow Le*is and Short't I arin Dictionaty. be transtared here in rhree different ways. The first meaning ofpor.o, that of..forwards,, or ,,farrher on," refers to movement in space and thus corroborates once more the
Such a teleological closure allows the doubt to be methodical, and allows

Descartes's translator, the Duc de Luynes, chose to wriie in the French edition). Thechange ofverb figuratively puts Descartes's feet on the ground, on terra firma. To climb out of something implies that one already has at least a place on which to stand. Descartes can thus assert in the future indicative that he will c/imb orr of what, a moment ago, using a verb governed by the present subjunctiv he said he could not.utim out of: will climb out, nonetheless, and I will again try out the same path as the one I had entred upon ysterday lEnitar iamen et tentabo rursus eandem


viam quam heri fueram ingrcssud." What Descartes will attempt to do in his efforts 10 climb out of the abyss is 10 try out or test out (lerto, lenldre, closer to the vetb essalet as used by Montaigne in the Essa/s than modern French lenter or English



of the voyage so far unearthed in this passage The second mea;ng of polo, "hereafter" or "in the future," rcfers to movement in

time. Ii the passoge under analysis, this second meaning is nonetheless readily reconcilable with the first meaning since a volage, such as that unalertaken by our philosopher, moves forward in time as much as it does in space. Bui porro has another meaning, a meaning found in logic and rhetoric, that of a conjunctive adverb that can be translated as "further_ morej' "moreover," or "besides," in order to indicate a discursive prc_ gression. That the meaning of polo is left indterminate in this passage ircrn the Meditations indicates that the .iourney through hyperbolic doubt is as much a aliscursive movement as it is a movement in space and time' lf it is granted that Descartes's philosophical project is tantamount to a quest fo; shbility and fixity in a post-Montaignian world of "perennial quest takes movement" (Essays lII, ii, 8M), it should be remarked that this meditation, via the place via the discursive voyage of tie metaphysical it:nerary, ot methoitus (a Creek word for a pathway), of methodical doubt' tmplied, ho*ever, in this metaphor of the road is a certain security, the secu ty by which the subject (of doubt, of travel) can map out whele th rcxr (oi his doub0 is taking him, can domesticat the te\t (of his doubt) through a representation of it in spatial or topographical terms But then the mitaphoi of the voyage applies to the text of the meditalion as well as to tht process of doubt. The text like the abyss of doubt (if it is not the abyss of doubt itself) becomes a space to be traversed on the way to (Vll' "what is ce arn anal unshakable lquod ceftum sit & inconcussuml" stable is comparcd by Descartes 24). This search for what is certain and to Archimedes' request for a "firm and immobile" p oinl Qtunclum fimum & immobile), from which place he could move the entire wotld (intecram terram loco ilimovefit t24D What is "certain and unshakable" will be a point Q)unctunl), from which can be mastered the (discursive) space of the course of the meditation will shoq the conditions for such a "point of certainty" will be found in the enunciation of the coSito. "Ego positing sum, ego existo: certum est lt am, I exist, that is certainl" (27). The fol the discursive mean_ of the cogito provides the Cartesian coordinates derings oithe doubting subiect, that is, it provides a transcendental refercnce e point (oikos) in relation to which he can always locate himself ' Once posited, the cogito should allow for the mind to find rcpose after its peregiinations through doubt, which were "upsetting" it so: "conjectus sum," "turbatus sum." Th xpected repose is not to be had, however, as we can see if we turn to a passage a few pages later' after the cogito has been discovereal. Althoush the proof of the coaito has been arrived at' there remains some difficultv in believing its truth: "But I cannot help believing that corporeal thines, whose images are formed bv mv thought

and which occur to the senses, are known more distinctly than this unknowr part of myself that does not fall under the imagination: ven rhough it is

in effect a vry strange thing that those rhings

find doubtful and far

away are more clearly and easily known to m rhan those things which are

true and certain, and which belong to my own nature" (IX-I, 23). The problm here is less that of the mind\ doubring the transcendental reality of the subject as evidenced in th coaito than it is that of the persisience of its desire to belive in empirical reality as being the morc certain and truthful of the two: "BDt I see what ir is: my mind enjoys wandering off Is'dgarcr; abeftorcl, and it cannot yer contain itself within the limits of the truth. Loosen its bridle one more time [RelAchonsJui donc encore une fois Ia btide; laxissimas habenas ei petmittamusl, so thar, after awhile, when it is led back, it will lei itself be ruled more easily" (IX-l, 23, VII, 29-30). The mind will not hold steadfastly to the truth of the cogro because it "enjoys" straying among the suspect objects encounrered in empirical reality. Even though it recognizs th truth, it persists in its rror. Ii knows one thing, but wants to believe something else.1o In an image fraught with the shades of Montaigne, such a perverse persistence is metaphorized as a runaway horse thar refuses ro sray wirhin its assigned limits, those of the truth. The \n^ndetings (s'dgarer abefia4 of this horse are its errors. Error, in other words, is a wandering (dberrare) from the truth. This metaphor is all the more striking given that the Latin text often cannot distingrhh between the two senses of the verb er.o,. to wander or to err. (The French text obfuscates this ambiguity in Descartes's language by translating erro by s'dgaret \rhet its meaning is deemed ro be that of wandering.) What is at stake in this passage on the horse's "error" is the return of the mind to the repose of the cogilo,. rhat is, irs willingness to let itself be restrained within th'rlimits ofthe truth." Th tactic involved is basically that of letting the mind indulge in its "extravagance," ihat is, to let the horse run its course so that after the reins have been brought back in, the horse-mind will allow itself to be ruled or led more easiln What is projected is a circular journey, a wandering ihat is not at all aimless but in fact always already circumscribed such that it must inevitably return to the point of departure. As the Larin text specifies, the reins are onty io be loosened to their laxest (laxissimas habenas\, not let go of entirely. The horse can be allowed to wander as far afild as it likes, to persist in irs "error," because there is no danger of its actually wandering away; the bridle can always be suitably drawn back at rhe appropriate moment (,,after awhile"). All that will happen in rhe wake ol rhis wandering is th^t the cogito will be proven true once again, bur rhis time nor by hyperbolic doubt but, as it were, by a hlperbolic creduliry. Instead of examining what can or



cannot be doubted, we are to see what-if anything-can be believed. The mind will be provisionally allowed io believe whatever it pleases; thai is, to blieve the evidence of the senses ot if one prefers, to believe in the primacy of "external" reality over the "realitv" ofthe subjct. Our passage thus prfaces Descartes's ensuing and famous argumenl about the piece of wax, whose purpose is to demonstrate that the clarity and distinctness of objects does not so much prove their reality as the reality of the mind that perceives them. Extracted from th honeycomb, the wax has a certain color, shape, size, and texture, all of which are altered when the same piece of wax is melted by fire. One believes that the piece of wax remains the same despite contrary evidence frcm the senses. The philosopher concludes that

off on the mind's bridle, and the aesture that would of its truth.

seem to allow for the cogito to be put in question only paves the way for rhe continued affirmation

wax that is "clear and distinct" but the activitv of the mind perceiving that wax, not through the senses but through the understanding (ure1lectr6, enlendement). Havir'g complted this meditative tra.jeciory, Descartes can then conclude, "here am I imperceptibly brought back to where I wanted" (lX-I, 26). The losic of the argumenl, in following the grapplings of th mind in the latter\ effort to understand what it takes to be reality, coms back around "imperceptibly linsensiblementl" to the truth of the cogito. Clearly, this argument presupposes the prior demonstration of the coSito.lLlnded, it is only because the rogllo has already been ensconced that Descartes can feel safe in savins "loosen the bridle." It can be deduced that the wanderings of the horse must lead back to the point of origin' given that the proof of the cogito rests not on objective criteria but on the very fact of the subject\ thinking. For the coSro to be true requires onlv that the subject think (cogitate), whether rightly or wrongly, whether in truth or in error. So whatever enors the mind indulges in, the truth of the cogilo remains unchallenged-so long, that is, as the mind engages in errot' as the horse continues to wander.1'] In oaher words, it is the vety wandering or erring that constitutes the snbject J'erre donc ie s i.t'r But if it is the wandering that defines the truth of the rogito as the certain and unshakable point*the place from which all the instability and loss of grounding occasioned by radical doubt can be stabilized and resolved-then one is led to wonder if this wandering of the mind is still a wandering. What the cogto does, in fact, is to neutralize this wandering, to turn it into nonwandering, to ensurc in short that this wandering will not wander anywhere, that this error not be decisively in error but rather accompanied by the truth What the cogilo provides is an economy of error such that there is nevr anv possibility oflossto th subject, whose mental expenditures can only provide it with surplus valu in the shape of an ever increasing belief in his own autonomous existence. In other words, the more he thinks, or the more he errs, the more he knows he is. There is thus no danser in relaxing or lettins

it is not the piece of

rest. In other words, only certain lypes of enor can be admitted: rhose that allow thmselves ro be undersrood by or within the meraphor of wandering. In this sense, an l{error" is merely a deviation from an assuted truth and not what, for instance, aggressively calls into question the starus of the truth itseli It must be said, however, thar the metaphor of wandering as deviaiion from the truth is the only way to pur the securiry of the cogiro to the test once we have accepted rhe rruth of rhe co8ilo as a topographical point. The calling back into question of the cogito that Descartes claims to be undertaking at rhis juncture of the Meditdtions further supposes rhat meF aphot insofar as we are dealing wirh a certain rransgression of whar has previously been established. in the Meditations. Instead of examining what can or cannot in fact be put in doubt, we are to see what, if anything, can be believed in. But this deviation from the rherodcal strategy of Descartes, as in the case of any such transgtession, is always already framed,
comprehended by some more encompassing bounds that take the very transgression of the bounds into consideration. No notion. in sum. is more circumscribed rhan the noLion ol rransgression-indlet ho\r else can the

standing of that error as "wandedng" implies a topography or space of wandering, which, be it ever so vague, already sets limits to the wandering: veitatis limites, the limits of the truth. The horse,s very field of movement already in itself substilutes a comforting horizontality for the ve iginous verticaliry of the initial plunge into rhe boftomless waters of doubt. The very metaphor of wandering precludes wandering; rhat h to say, it excludes certain radical "wanderings" of the mind thar, for exampler by not respec! ing the spatialization ofthe tmporal continuum the meraphor ofwandering implies, would begin to call inro question the assumptions and presuppositions upon which th cogilo and its attendant aopographical metaphors

Even the very metaphor of the errors and delusions of the midd as the wanderings of an unbridled horse points to rhe containment (in both senses of the word) of the error within 'the limits of truth." For the very under-

of-transgression be understood? Like the error of Descartes. a transgression can only be affirmed or posited as such if it has somehow already been nutralized, conrained, or codified within a certain preestablished structure, and this is the case even when such boundary-crossing is positively valued for its own sake and affirmed in a sincerity. Such is not, to be sure, the ase in Descartes, wher the unbridling of mental .,error" remains heuristically and manifesdy in rhe service of a srrategy to contain or resrrarn such elor. $ander;ng. or transgre\sion.



Descartes's resuscitation of the Christian dead metaphor of / toit chemin, the "slJaight and narow" path. Those that wander off the path are in error, they err in their wandering, like ihe Second Meditation's unbridled horse. At this point in the D6corrse, however, error is still something to be avoided as opposed to something in which one can indulge freely and safely, knowing that that erior will always lead back to rhe truth. ln the Discourse, the problem for Descartes is how to gt on the righr path and stay on it, or evn how to recogniz it when one stumbles upon it. Only by finding a sure solution to this traveleas dilemma can this error or aimless (and by implication both stupid and sinful) wandering be avoided.'5 And it is Descaries's story of how h found a "method" (methodus: an itinrary) to arrive at this solution which we are told ii the Discourse on Method: "l shall not be afraid to say thar I think I have had a lot of luck lnerrl, for since my youth I have found myself on cerlain palLr, which have /ed me to considerations and maxims, out of which I have found a ethodt thtoluEh which it seems to me that I hav th means to increase my knowledge rlep ,/ step" (Vl, 3; emphasis added). Something has happened, however, to the organization of Descartes's topography. Here, the philosopher's position is not merely the resula of a moral and intellectual choice, but it is also an effect of oneh good fortune (/,err). Descartes has merely had the good luck, or bonheur, to find himself on certain parhs and not others, in certain ways of thinking and not orlers. Now, too, differences between peopl are said to be "accidenral": "Only between occidents is there'more' or 'less' and no( between the furrlB, or natures, of indiriduak of lhe safie rpecles" (Vl, 2-3; Descartest emphasis). Civen this revision of the topographical schema, one is always already in error to the extent that one finds oneself on certain paths, good or bad, out of which one must find on's way 1o the "dght" on. Latet in the third part of the ,,isco../rse, while Descartes is developing his "provisionary" morals by which to guide his actions in the world until such time as he can undertake a global and systematic reappraisal of his opinions, th finding of the right ot straighl path (dtoil chemin\ merely bcomes a question of following slraiEht on ot tout droit the path on which one is: "ln this, I would imitare travelers lost llgdrid in a wood! they must not wander about [er.e/] turning now to this side, now to that, and still less must they stop in one place; but they must keep walking as straight as rhey can in one direction lnd]'crel toujouts le plus dtoil qu'ils peuyent yers un meme c6t6l and nor change cours for sliaht reasons, evn if ar the beginning rhir choice was detrmined perhaps by mere chance; for in this way, even if they do not arrive just where they wish, they will at leasr finally ger somewhere where they will probably b beuer off than in rhe middle of a wood,, (Vt, U-25\.^ While the meditations leading up ro rhe dhcovery of rhe coai o require th

preoccupation with the Ar we not also invited to read in Descartes's rniriAr"a rto^" of error the scene of his confrontation with Moniaigne' i;. "..a*"t*, or spirilual falhel, lhe lhinler mosl linked wilh lhe ikep_ I; relule? ln lhe lighr ol sDch an OedipaliTarion''tn n. it


"uri"r'r "ituution ,o Uonr"ig*, improper as that may

'tvi"g t""..


happy than

be lf

Montaignet Er'ror

is what is proper Montaigne cheerfully assumes


"*t"t_i.".r "i_p*l"nce, ft i ,ft" paiental example set by Montaigne' by resorting io the ro lhe "ra-*i ir""".".i ;"'"ii;"", con\lrued as whal is mosL inner and properIo.him irri"ii"i ""tf.,' his own lhoushrs a' Ihev presenr themselves at home -r'a.ntuig* rids off on his horse while Descartes slavs iiui ii each
celebrated po?k or slove-healed loom' it is because -nitu,inn in his inil. o"_. "uv ."*..'tte same claim to lheir o$n property or properness

Descartes seeks instad to deny that castration'

Wanderings in F,rroti Discourse on Method, Meditatio'ts would lead Desca es's economy of error (wherin no wandering or illusion prove lhe cogllo right) t'to.. t"""o." ttt" u"rv tact of its occurrnce would to ttt" nsetett wanderings and rrors he dscribes in ir ir-tft*p ln faci' it is ""*.*, ii"-""i.ii.g*prti"a first part of the,iscotrse on Methotlpoele in order his thai Descartes shuts himself up in u.."ur. or ii't"r" the "tto." "*n"ft paths I ought to follow" (VI, l0) Implicit inrubonfull i" et sa "ft""* iitf" oi,ft" *-t tl;r"o urs de la mdthode pout bie conduire Method for well ,iiriin to ,erii dans les scie ces: Discourse on the on.t Reason and for seeking Truth in the Sciences)' the meF afler "onau"ting .i ,_r'o""ft, ^,*vel appears almosl lrom rhe beginning Right good ot "rtror iir'..r.iru,.a-oo*ine t.*ari uuo,'r rhe equilable di'rribulion;' i".*, iescartes reverts to ttre travel metaphor in order to be able i. l"pf"in aifi...*.t in intelligence: "The diversitv of our opinions does because noi aiise because some men are more rational than others, but only ways ho'?sl and do not we lead tcordariozsl our thoughts along different quantitv same things" (Vl, 2). While vervone has the sam ilgooa ,"nt.," *" utiuse it in different ways, giving rise to the diversity """"ia".ift" oi or patbs oi o,], opiniont. sut ttt"se different ways are also different "ways" of thought in which iuoi"rl, n.""".t." i.plicitly proposes a topography "t each person follows a diffrent itinerary' point outi Bui not all itineraries are good ones, as Descartes is quick to mind may b put takes on his description of the various uses to which the .*""*", "The greatst souls are capable of the greatest vices' as "ifri""i ttt" g.eur""t virtues; and those who walk only verv slowly may *"tl as farther, if thev alwavs follow the straighr path' ihan those J;;";; *ho.un una go u" it" (Vl,2) A certain moral imperative surfaces



probabl as well as the improbable, the moral of this extended analogy is that, in the conduct of one's day-to-day affairs, one should stick mercly to what is most probabl, at least until the time when a true and definitive morals will have been found to replace its provisional counterpart. More generally, what the sought-for method should do is propose a definitive way out of this labyrinthine and stereotypical forest of e or. Part One of the Discorrs? accordingly prcsents the narative of an exemplary education, of the "progress I think I have already made in the search for truth" (vI, 3). To the extent, though, that everyone finds himself elsewhere in the topography of thought and must follow a different itinerary, Descartes can only tell of those paths he himself has taken. The exemplary narrative is also or only an autobiography, the tale of Descartes's personal odyssy in search of truth, "a la recherche de la vrit," an exemplum that, as he is at pains to remind his readers, is not gneralizable.l' The journey is a solitary one. To find his own way out of the Iabyrinth of errot Descartes tries three solutions or paths. The first involves the pursuit of scholarly erudition, a task itself compared to a journey: "For il is almost the same thing to conve$e with men of othr centuries as to travel- It is well to know something about the manners of different peoples in order to judge our own manners mofe sanelv, and not think everything contrary to our own fashions absurd or inational, as do customarily those who have never seen anything. But when one spends too much tim traveling, on finally becomes a foreigner in one's own country; and when one is overly curious about the kinds of thines pursued in ceniuries past, one typically remains very ignorant about those things that are pursued in this one" (VI,6). Reading the scholarly masterpieces of aniiquity is the temporal equivalnt of ttaveling through space. But while Descartes does not want to dny a certain utility to both literal voyages and the figural travl of scholarship, there is a certarn economy in the use of one's time that must always be taken into account. At the time he is writing ihe Discorrse, Descartes believes he has already "given enough time to languages, and likewise to reading"'3 Then, there is the danger of spending too much time on either kind of travel: that of becoming a foreigner in onet own land in the case of literal travel, that of becoming a stranger to one's own time in the case of scholarly travel. The threat would be that of an eror so sweeping as to prevent the very possibility of return. In the case of the overty diligent reader, there is the danger of a Quixotic folly: "Those who govern their conduct by exam_ ples drawn fmm ancient histodes and fables are liable to fall into the extravagances of the paladins of our rcmances and to conceive designs beyond their powers" (VI, 7). rejection

of the

t}le great book of the world, I spent the rest of my youth in travel, in visiting courts and armies, in frequenting people of various dispositions and ranks, in col/eclr,g a wiety of experiences, in testing myself in the

Confionted with the danger of such errot Descarres tells how he abandoned the course of his studies and began to wander literally: ,,Resolving not to seek any knowledge but what might be found within myself or in


books" (VI, 10-11). Following the narrative put forth in the Discorrse, Descartes decides to put an end to both kinds of error in his life (menral and corporeal), first by enclosing himself in the pole, aIId then by embarking upon an introspective meditation rhat will decide once and for all .,which paths I ought to follow" This moment of retreat, out of which we are invited to believe the entire Cartesian system, Gi,nding the rules of the method and the provisionary morals, suddenly sprung forth,,e has all the rrappings of an event, databl to the winter of 1619, at which rime the young Descartes was serving as a volunteer for the Duke of Bavaria in rhe early stages of the Thirry Years' War. Some of his earliest xtant writings date from this period, as well as the occurrence of his famous dream (November 10). for

frorn them" (VI, 9; my emphasis). Suddenly, the topogmphy of thought has becom the map of Europe, and the latter in turn a book, "the great book of the world:' But if literal travel is a figural reading, that reading is unalerstood to be more literal thar its literal equivalenr: ..It seemed to me that I could encounter much mote truth Iplus de y6it6l i\ the reasonings that every man nakes about the affairs that concern him and whose issue will very quickly punish him, if he has judged badly, than in the reasonings of a man of letters in his srudy, about speculations rhat produce no effect" (VI, 9"10). There is an implicit economics that qualifies tlrc "profit" that Descartes dedves from hh ..variery of experiences." The rcasonings he encounters in the book ofthe world hav ..much moretruth.,, thus confirming the latter booki economic superiority orer literat books. For once in Descartes, it is the error of rhe mind which is undone bv rhe error, o( sandering. of the bod). But while rhe prolir derived from lireral travel is said to deliver him..litrle by little from a lot of errors,,(VI, l0), it cannot itself arrive at the assurance of certainty. Consequnily, a third solution is attempted: ,,After I had spent some years studying thus in the book of the world, and in trying to acquire some xpedence, I rsolved one day to study also in myself and ro use all the powers of my mind to choose which paths lcftoisir les cheminsl I ought to follow. This succeeded much belter, it seems to me, than it would have, had I never distanced myself [si / ne me fusse jamais dtoignl] ftom my country or fiom my

circumstances fortune dealt me, and in reflecting evrywhere upon rhe things that prcsented themselves in a way that might enable me to derive some




his da)'iime cogilations successfully attain the security of a method to follow, the opening section of his dream vividly rcpresents the anxiety of dislocation in pointedly theological terms:2o blown about by a powerful wind and enfeebled on his right side, Descaries "turns over onto his leff' and hobbles along, fearful he may fall "a1 every step," until he manages to attsin t]le shelter of a college chapel. As he turns back around to greet a passerby, the wind "violently" pushes him back against the church. He is told that someone has a gift for him, which he believes to be "a melon brought from a foreign country." He also notices that everyone else is standing "straight and firm on their feet" while he is still "benl over and tottedng on the same terrain" (X, 181). The wind dies down, and he wakes up with the uneasy feeling that some "evil genius" has wanted to "seduce" him. Interpreting his own dream, Descartes decides that this wind was nothing other than "the evil genius who was forcefully trying to throw him into a place *here his design was to go of his own wilt" (X, 185). Instead of leading him astray (se-drcere), presumably by allowing movement only along Descartes's left or "sinister" side, this diabolical agent forces him
toward a saintly destination, a church inside a school. Despite the symbolism of the yia si istra, Desca es does end up on the "right" road. What does it mean, though, to be forced to go where one wants to go? Descartes's own interpretation suggests an oneirical refiguration of the rhetorical moves we have already noted in Descartes's meditations: the way out of the abyss is the way back into it, the hype olic doubt is rhe vehicle to certainry, rhe pursuit of error leads to truth. And is it nor by letting himself be "blown away" by the radical skepiicism enabled by the malin gdnie at the end of

Descartest raiionalist contemplation within the poAk, a locus curiously unmentioned in the same Cogitationes ptivalde that contains the dream. But if the positing of the coAr?o is what will ventually allow Desca es conceptually to contain or comprehend error and in fact to derive further proof of the cogilo from the latter, the entire practice of meditation leading up to the cogito was called for precisely because the problem of error had inserted itself so pervasively not only in Descafies's writing and thinking but also in the text of his life. As if to recapitulate Part One ofthe Discorffe in an utterly elliptical way, the very first paragraph of the Medilations, published four years later, once again states the necessity of a rctrcat into oneself in order to undo all the "false opinions" acquired in the course of one's life (IX-I, t3; VII, 17-18). The tim for this meditative exercise is given as "today" (hodie, vll, l?), rot the "one day" or "all day" (vI, 10. 11) of a November long past. Nonetheless inscribed within the same trajectory of a self-extrication from error via a conscious deliberation over the right path to follow, the mtaphysical meditation is thus paradoxically at once a voyage of discovry, a refusal to voyage, and a quest for the proper way to voyage. It is a journey undertaken to find onh bea ngs so that the voyage can be undertaken with assurance, so that the movement of error can be definitively mastred. As in the unbridling of Descartes's horse, the travel metaphor seems to be invoked not as the occasion for a critical appraisal, but as precisely the move that reaffirms what has previously been supposed. Strangely, it is by indulging in error that one hopes to do away with it, by pursuing a kind of travel that one hopes not to
The labyrinthine topography of error in its threat of an

the first meditation that he is brought, via the indubitability of his necessarily being something, no matter how fooled he is by this almighty trickster, to the "rational" proof for the existence of cod, itself based on
the intuition of a being more perfect thar he? The question of which way to go is repeated later in the dream when Descarts finds himself before a book, an anthology of Latin poetry entitled the Coryus poetatum, vhich he just happens to open up to a verse from Ausonius: "Quod vita sectabor iter? [What path of life shall I follow?]." Oddly, this question of where to go is esteemed by Descartes to be "the good advice of a wis person, or even Moral Theology" (X, t82-84). The "wise" prescription is the question itself, the relentless pursuit of which, in turnt provides the answer. The dreamwork with its symbolism of left and right thus presages the lesson of the meditation, that wandering in error does not fail to lead back to the truth. In the rendition given some eighteen years later in the Drrco ^e (1637), no mention at all is made of this dream, and whaiever insights may have been aleaned nocturnally are credited to the diurnal intensity of



figures Descartes's predicament as one that is inextdcably textual. Conftonting this predicament, Descartes has rccourse to the supremely logocentric gesture of lhe cogito, of a scientific method grounded in innate ideas and intuition; in th declaration, that is, of the subject's unmediated and pure prcsence to itself as thought, an insight made scure by what he poetically calls "natural light." That the problems of travel! or errorr and of the text are construed by Descartes as facets of the same problem is evidenced by the metaphors noted earlier in Part One of the D,rco,/6e. the danger incurred by working too much with te,\ts is that of a certain estrangement that is "almost the same" as the estrangement that comes from too much travel. And in the case of tmvel, errors are corrected through onet wandering in the book of the world. But these errors are only corrected "little by little" through the slow, painful work of intrpretation. Although Descarts does not say it in the Drsco!rue, th danger, which he witl reckon with it the Meditations, is that th interpretation will be infinite, that is, an infinite wandering to undo an infinite number of errors. Such a prospect


such changes, and


is suggested by the imperfect tense of rhe verbs Descartes uses: ,,I was learning U'apprcnokl not to believe anyrhing too firmly"; "ihus I was delivering myself [./e me dlliyrdis] lirlle by litlle from a lor of errors" (VI, l0). Descartes does not want to gel involved in rhe kind of ceaselss balancing and weighing of issues marking, for example, Monraigne's thinking in the EssdJ,r. Such an infinite wandering would also be an infinire squandering, a squandering, that is, of Descartes's mental and physical rsources lor a doubLlul "prolir." The metaphysical meditation must, therefore, also answer an economic imperative, and in fact the purpose of hjs "merhodical', doubr is to avoid the "infinite labor" eniaild in examining every issue case by case to derermine i(s trulh or talsehood: "I shall apply myself, seriously and freely, ro the task of destroying all of my former opinions. Now, in order to arrive at this end, it will not be necessary ro prove that they are all false, a rask I would probably never bring to an end...there is no need for me ro examine each one in particular, which would be an infinire labor bur, because the ruin ofthe foundation necessarily brings down wirh it the whole remainder of the edifice, I will firsi auack the principles upon which all my former opinions were set" (Firsl Meditation, IX-I, 13,14; VII, l8). Here as in the second patt of the Discowse (ll l4), Descartes uses an architectural metaphor, representing th economic value of leveling the entjre edific of one's thought at once rather than rrying to rebuild it piecemeal. And it is by sucn a claim ro conomy that Descarres continues to ward off or plug up the infinities that reDearedly rhreaten to intrude on his discourse, to lad it astray, to lead him into an infinite e/ro[ In the following passages alone, taken from the Second Mditation, Descartes upholds his resistance to being snared by a search thar would be infinite and rhus inconclusive: But what is a man? Shall I say "a rational animal"? Cerrainty not: for then I should have to go on to ask wha! an animal is, and what "rational" is, and so from a single question, we would tall imperceptibly into an infinity of oiher questions thar would be more difficult and cumbersome, and I would not wanr to waste that small amount of r;me and lisure that remains ro me, by using it to unravel subtleties of this kind. (lX-I, 20)



cannot run through this infinity in my


And so many other things arc encountered in th mind itself, which may contribute to clarifying its nature, rhat rhose which are derived from the body scarcely merit cotrnting Ine mifitent qussi pa5 d'ew nombftesl. \lx.l, 26)

cin conclude, then, that error appears in its most threatening form as infinity, whether as infinite wandering or infinite text, and that it is rhe broad purpose of the Cartesian project (including not only the coSito itself but also the provisional morals, the rules of the method, and even the invention of coordinate geometry), ro comprehend and contain that infinity.rl It is interesling rhat the infinite error rhat Descartes seeks so vigorously to avoid resmbles closely whar Kant calls in the Citique of Judgment the "mathematical sublime"r:-with the qualification that such a mathematical infinity appears to Dscarres as anything but sublime. The sublime does appear in Descartes, howevr, and in conjunction with a recLrrence of the notion of infinity, specifically in that sublim infinity evoked by Descartes in his proofs for the exisince of God. For what is Descarres's Cod if not a positive infinity that guarantees rhe Cartesian sysrem against the bad or negative infinity of errot a "good genius" set over and against the evil genirus ot malin gdnie? Cod can do this because He is not only an ,,infinite snbstance" (Meditations, IX-I, 35) but also because He is the firsr cause not only of "me who thinks" and rhe rest of the univrse bur also of Himself. He is at onc the guarantor of rhe cogilo and of ih workings of the universe.:r God is at once incomprehensible, because infinire, and absoWe

I assure myself of having the least of all rhe rhings I have here above attributed to the nature of a body? I stop to ihink about it attentively, I review and review again all these ihings in my mind, and I encounter none rhar I can say is in me. There is no need for m to slop and enumerate them. (IX-I, 21)

it noi that I imagine the wax being capable of passing from a round to a square shape, and lrom a square to a triangular one? Certainly nol, since I conceive it capable of receiving an infinity


lutely comprehensive, once again, because infinite.:a But the proof of an infinite and perfect Cod, far from laying to rest the problem of error, only puts it inio greater relief. For after rhe long Third Mdilation proving the existenc of God, Descarres is obliged in the Fourth Meditation to explain why, given the infinire perfection of cod, the phenomenon of error, on the basis of which the entire Cartesian system seems to have been built, should exist ar all. Suddenly, the notion of cod, which should have put an end to error, now needs ro be defnded and protected from error. To maintain the perfection of Cod and the perfection of His cralion, Descaraes is constrained io deny the existence of errcr even in the faculty of human understandin9 (intellectus, entenclement)i ,,For through the understanding alone I neither assure nor deny anything, but I only conceive the ideas of things, which I can neither assure nor deny. Now, in thus considring it precisely, one can say that no error is ever found in the understanding, provided one rakes the word, error, according



to its propr meaning" (45). Acting as if it went without saying' Descartes offers no explanation as to what he thinks the "proper" meaning of the word "error" is. a semantic problem whose solution, as our reading suggests, is far from being "clear and distint." In fact, if th word "error" ;an be said to be naming anything in Dscartes's discourse, it is the lack or loss of what is supposed to be proper: epistemological impropriety, a wandering from the proper path Like Montaigne\ "idleness," the ambiguity of Cartesian error (im)properly names the deferral of the proper' itrere is neuer any error if one underslands the word in its "proper" signification, but that is to say that there is never anv error if there is a proper signification for it. There are no "proper" errors. Thre will only Le error if it is improper. And it is as a certain kind of impropriety that error will be undrstood. Such a conclusion will only come' however, once Dscartes has atso xcluded error from being a problem proper to the will (volrrlar): "From all this, I recognize that the power of willing, which I have rceived from God, is not in itself the cause of my errors, for it is very ample and perfect in iis kind; nor yel is it the power of understanding or conceiving: for since I concive nothing save by means of thal power Cod has siven me to conceive, there is no doubt that whatever I concive' I conceiv it as il must be. and it is not possible for me to be deceived in

this" (lX-1, 46). But if error has been judgd proper neither to the understanding nor to the will, where dos error com from if not from their inieraclion?:r "Whence then are my errors let o.ed born? It can only b from this one thing lnempe ex hoc uno qubdl lhe scope of the will being ampler and wide; t/dlirsl than thal of the understanding, I do not contain it within

the same limirs Inon intru eosatem limiles contineoT' b\tt I extend lextendol it also to thinas I do not understand, which things being indifferent io the will, it easily turns away b'egcre, defleditl and takes evil for goodnss, or falsehood for truth. And so ii is thai I make mistakes and that I sin peccol" (lX-I, 46i VII' 58) lque je me trcmpe et que ie pAche; & falor & Given that the will holds over a wider (/arlrs) domain ihan does the under standing, they cannot be contained within the same botnds (non inlra eosdenl limites contineo) Error occurs when instead of reducing the exercise of the will to the compass of the understanding' one "extends" one's judgments beyond the realm of the understanding to objects one does not understand. Once this happens, it is easy for the will' as it is indiffernt to what it pronounces upon, to "turn away" (deflectit) from the true and the good. This solution to the problem of error, which Descartes offers with great confidence (nempe ex hoc uno 4rdd), is curious in a number of ways, Once again, there occurs a convergence between the moral and th concptual similar to what happens at the beginning of the Discourse

ties-takes on the air of a sin, and more particularly of the sin of hubris: "Forit is surely no imprfeciion in God that He has given the freedom to judge or not to judge upon certain things of which He put no clear and distinct percepiion in my undrstanding; but it undoubtedly is an imperfection in me not to use this freedom well, and recklessly to makejudgments about things which I only conceive obscurely and with confusion" (IX-I, 48). An error is therefore an incontinence, a transgression, or an overslepping of the bounds of propriety. Descartes seems to have defined one sense of the word "error" by another; that is, a mistake is the result of a wandering (of the faculties), it is the inability to keep (them) within certain limits. We do not need to repeat our previous argument about how the very metaphor of a topography of error is itself a way of containing that notion of error, a notion lhat, nonetheless, keeps intruding into Descartes's discourse even after so many attempts to do away with it once and for all.']6 The struggle could be followed right up !o the final sentence of the sixth and lasr meditation: "But since the necessity of things to be done oftn obligates us to make determinations before we have had the leisur to examine these things carefully, it must be conlessed that the life of a man is subject to many errors lest sujette d lai it fott souven, saepe erroribus esse obnoxiam) in particular matters; and it is ultimately ncessary to recognize the infirmity and weakness of our nature" (lx-l, 72; Vll,90\. In the course of this narative of error, ther is nevertheless one particular type of enot which is foregrounded and designated as '.the chief and commonest error"r "Now the chif and commonest error [erol] that is to be found consists ir my judging that the ideas which are in ne len mot resemble, or conform to, things which ar outside me lhots de moil: fot if I were to considr ideas only as certain modes or manners of my thinking without rferring them to some othet external thing Isans les vouloi rupporter d quelque autrc chose d'extArieur; nec ad quidquan aliud teJeffenl, they could hardly give any occasion for etrot loccasion de Jailtit; ena di mateiaml" (Thitd Meditation, lx-l, 29; VIl, 37). The error is that of
establishing l.esmbldnces between what is inside the subject (his ideas) and

and in the dream. In the remaining pages of the Meditation, thecommitment of an errot that is, the making ofjudgments on matters beyond the capacity of the understanding-an act implying a misuse of our God-given facul

what is oulside (things). These resembla[ces are furthermore understood as equivalences: one errs in believing that one\ ideas not only conform but also apply to things, coincide with them. More than a simpl relarion of comparison, then, this structurcd error, as the positing of resemblances mislakenly perceived as idntities, corresponds to the figure of a metaphor. Metaphor would be the "chief and commonest" error. But again, to pursue



this denunciation of metaphot Descartes is obliged to use metaphors, spcifically the spatial metaphors that allow him to speak of wbar is..inside', or "outside" him. Within this metaphorical scheme, metaphor itself is defined, true ro its etymological sense of transferral (meta-phorar, as the movement between inside and outside, an act of "referral" ("rapporter nes id6esl a quelqu autre chose d'ext6rieur" [IX-I, 29]; "ideas . . . ad qridqram aliud reIeftem" IVII,37; my emphasisl), that is, a bringing or carrying back over (re-le//e). This referral or exchange between inside and outside is also a. materiam erfondi, an occasion for error or wandering, Efiot is the wandering ovr the border, the going ovr from one side to rh othe\ the metaphorcin between self and other. The eradication of error or meraphor seeks to establisb a self-sufficient economy of the self, one that does not borrow from or engag in an exchange with what is brought over (metaphorcin) from the other. But to instirute this ideal economy, ihe self must mark itself off from all lse, trace a clear and distinct line of demarcation between itself and what is other. The tracing of such a divider, howevet already
implies its lransgrssion. To define an inside is by rhe same srroke to define or delimit an outside as whatever is nol;nside. Therefore, one who defines himself as an inside apart from that outside is, in rhe ad of thal definition, both inside and outside (or, if one prefers, neirher inside nor oulside, since one posits oneself as ihe origin of that opposition, rhar is, as what precedes it). The situation recalls the pun that is the title of Maurice Blanchor's book Le pas au-dela, in which the "step beyond" is raken ar the same rime that it is denied (the "not beyond").:r ln order to secure the innr sancruary of the cogto, the subject must already be in "error." Having failed to eradicate th problem of error rhrough rhe literalizarion of the metaphor in his itinerant existence, does Descartes not, by enclosing himself in the mythic space ol the poAb,28 come to perform a curious enactment of the pas au-deh? The self-enciosure is simultaneously the inaugural step of another journey: through the mraphysical meditation he wanders from the cogiro to the infiniry of cod, whose relationship to Descartes does not xclude that of resemblance: "But from the mere fact that God has created me, it is highly worthy of belief rhat He has in some way produced me according to His image and likeness, and rhat I conceive of this resemblance, which includes the idea of Cod, rhrough the same faculty as enables me to conceive of myself" (IX l,4l). And is there nol also a ceraain resemblance betwen th spatial metaphors by which the sub.,ect is understood as an "inside" opposed ro all that is "outside," the Cartesian separation of mind and body, and rhe situation of Descarres in the poele, wherein he has closed himself off from the "outside"? And ro what is the Cartesian anatomy, wirh irs curious rheory of rhe circularion

of the blood as generated by the heart's production of heat, comparable if not the radiant warmth of the stove?'ze Is lhe poCle not a foundational metaphor as well as the physical and historical frame for the Cartesian invention of subjeclivity? But the very establishment of such a metaphor
already puts the inside of the subject into a rclation with its outside, already

it a mate am errqndi, without which it could not constitute itself


"inside," as self. In the opening section of Part Four of the, the process of methodical doubt implicitly empties out all of the errors or unjustified "opinions" that *e inside Descartes (",n my belief len mq ci.ddncel," "the things that had entercd into my lx.ind lles choses . . . entrdes en I'esptitl: Vl, 31-32; my emphasis), but ir is rhe very acr of emptying the container that the mind is, that is, the very activity of doubting, or thinking, that constitutes the indubitable first ground of the truth for the So if the positing of an outside ihrough the unbridling of the horse of error is allowed only in order to secure ihe inner truth of the subjct of the cogiro, the prior establishment and delineation of that inside necessarily presupposes an outside inherent to that inside.r'To do without effor, one must indulge in it, Reemerging from his pole Descartes's subsequent travels could, ihen, appear to offer the prospect of a methodical flight from eror: "Winter had not quite ended before I began again to travel. . . . during this time I uprooted from my mind all the errors which had been able to slip into it beforehand. Not that I imitated in this the skeptics, $ho doubt only for the sake of doubting and affect to be always undecided; fot on the contrary, my whole aim was to find assurance, and to cast aside loose earth and sand so as to feach rock ot.lay" (Discou6e, V[,29).3, While left unnamed, Montaigne figures here as a negative model, as precisely he whose doubting practices Descartes is rot imitating. Unlike his skeptical prdecssor, whose movement would end up in something resembling quicksand, Descartes's travels allow him to r'uproot" his errors but in such a way as to locate the solid bedrock below Chief among the post'pole joumeys, and as if to e"\acerbate the parallel with Montaigne, was Descartes's trip to ltaly, projected for as early as the end of November 1619, in the very aftrmath of his dream and groundbreaking meditations. Seeking divin assurance, he hoped to gain in particular the aid of the Virgin Mary by unalertaking a pilgrimaee to her shrine in Loreto, a site visitd not forty years earlier by Montaigne. Delayed for over thre years, Descartes or y left for the peninsula in 1623, _after having sold off his inherited wealth.' As far as we know, Descartes kept no journal, and what little information remains to us about his trip has to be gleaned principally from allusions scattered throughout his correspondence. While th outline of his itinerary oeaving France via Basel and Innsbruck; passing throueh Venice, Florenc, and



climate: "I don\ know how you can lov so much the Italian air, wirh which one so often breathes in ihe plague, where the heat of the day is always unbearable and the cool of the evning unhealthy, and where the darkness of the night gives cover to thefts and murders" (1, 204). On more than one occasion, he actively dissuades his friend Mersenne from a projected trip south of the AIps: "Your trip to ltaly worries me, for it is a very unhealthy country for Frenchmen; above all one must eat parsimoniously there, for their meats are too rich. .. . I pray to Cod that you may return from there contentedly" (November t3, 1639; II, 623). Following rhe skeptic\ footsteps in the saindy destination of Loreto (although no proof exists that Descartes ever actually accomplished his pilgdmage rhere, once again in contrast to the elaborat painting of his family wirh rhe Virgin left behind by Montaigne as a votiv offering and memento of his visit ITroyel Jowndl, l4l 421), Descartes finds ltaly hot, unsafe, and unhealthy. Far from seeking the assimilation of Roman citizenship, Descartes takes up nearly permanent residence (broken only by three brief trips to France and the final. fatal move to the cou of Sweden a few months before his death) in Holland, a country that stands in virtual opposition to ltaly
psychogeography. Not only is the Dutch climate deemed "healthy" by Descartes bul, as he explains in the letter to Balzac, it is also the home of th philosopher's favorite heating device: "lf you fear northern winters, tell me what shade, what fan, what fountain can as well preserve you from lhe discomforts of th heat in Rome, as a stove-heated room IpoCIel a\d a grcat lire .an keep you from being cold here?" (I, 204). The land of the poele is a healthy one lor the body of this thinker, whose own theory of the body, as we have noted, describes the circulation of ahe blood as an effect of heat transfer emanating from a central source, the heart. As ihe local from which the drift of error can be mastered and converted inio truth, the secure solitude of the poele also pinpoints a high land (Holland) within the Lowlands, a Dulch oven of self'hood where Descartes seeks a refuae in which to write and from which to mas(er the presentation of his public persona (first unveiled whh the inirial, anonymous publicarion of the Discourse in 1637). Resolving to "distance myself from all places where I might have acquaintances" (riscor^e, VI, 3l), Descartes discovers a land of comforting reversals where th hyperbole of constant warfare asymptotically attains a state of perpetual peac, and where the very fact of the population\ crowded overabundance enables supreme solitude: "The long duration of the war has led to the establishment of such an ordet that the armies that are kept up there seem to be used only in order io

Rome; returning by Torino and Susa) would roughly replicate Montaigne\ passage,r4 Descartes's impressions of ltaly are decidedly negative. In a letter to Guez de Balzac (May 5, 163l), he vocifrously complains about rhe

within his

make the enjoyment of the fruits of peace all the more secure; and amidst rhe masses of this greal people, extremely industrious and more concerned with their own businss than curious about othr people's, while I do not lack any conveniences of the most frequented cities, I have been able to live a life as solitary and retired as though I were in the most remote deserts Idans les ddsetts les pl[s dcdrlds]."rr we should not be surprised if, having found a proper home in a foreign place, Descartes should inscribe his signature into the last few words of this passage, which closes the third of six pa s and thus stands at lhe very heart or hearth of Descaries's first published work, appearing eighteen years after his intial retreat into the poe[e: "dans les Drserts les plus 6cARTEs." Des-Cartes, as his biographer Baillet spells his name, would seem to be born again (Re-n6) as authorial persona from the mapping of ce(ain spatial relations (Holland, the poAle) that delimit a warm and privileged interior from which the exterior can be progressively, methodically, appropriated as on's own. Such is, of course, the narrative of Cartesian science announced in Part Six of the D/icorlse, a narrative by which the systematic acquisition of knowledge that is ceriain will "thus make us as the masters and possessors of nature" (vI, 62). Descartes's metaphorical economy of "inside" and "outside" thus both posits and denies (or conlains) the outside. And if rhe figure of travel neutralizes the other that philosophy posits for itself or prevents that other from posing any serious threat to the philosophical system, recourse to such a metaphor also necessarily draws philosophy into a complicity with the literary, that is, with a radical other within itseu. For the philosophy thal represents itself as a voyag of discovery, or as a meditative journey

from the obscurity of error into the light of truth, th risk is not that it will be called into question by what it discovers but by rolr it discovers, by the discourse it is obliged to use to discover what it discovers, by the very representation it gives of itself as a narrative of discovery.r6 The philosophical may be safeguarded by the literary, as Cartesian "error" confirms by leading back to thetruth (ofthe cogilo), butthis shoring up ofphilosophy implicitly converts philosophy into a (literary) discourse among others: a parlicularly successful (and timely) story for a European age of newly found and putatively self-generatd wealth at hom and relentless expansionism




Chapter 3 Montesquieu's Grand Tbur

We burn u'ith the desite b rtnd a stuble place and a final, constant base upon h,hich to build a btrct ising to infiniry, bur ow entire foundation splits and the eofth opens onlo the abyss.


A View from the Topi


ftum Gruz to The Hague

ln 1638, a year after the publication of Descartes,s Discouqe on Method, there appeared another dhcourse, one writien by a certain Yves Dugu6, the Discows de la fianiAre de vologet. As Normand Doiron has argued in a recent article, the appearance of this text (itself but a vulgarized translation of a Cerman work) signals rhe rise of a subsenr drivd from the perception in seventeenth,century France of travel narrative as an accreditable genre of writing.r This new genr, acrually a metagenre, whicb Doiron calls the "art of travel," would lake rhe form of a didactic treatise ourlining the rules by and manner in which one should travel. Such treatises would prescribe who should travel and when, what baggage one should take along, the company one should or should not keep, and the goals one should sr.r Just as Descartes's method would indicate the sreps to rake in pursuit of on's mental itinerary, so thewriters ofrhese "arts of travel" would sripulale the rules by which io move ont body in space. The domestication of effol thus becomes the ommon goal of travl literature and philosophy. Crounded in the foundational security of a method (ot meta-hodos, what is alongsid a road), solutions found in the one could have pertinence for the other. Yet in the course of traditional literary history, travel journals, like diaries, notebooks, or letters, seem predestined to the ancillary role of support or background material for the comprehension of a wrirerh accred,

ited masterpieces. Rare is the critic who would argue the superiority of Montaigne's Travel Journal ovet lhe Essals or who would re d The Char tefiouse of Patma h ord.r better to understand the Menoirs of a Tourist. Mor commonly, the text of a travelogue is treated as an unproblematic document, a source of apparendy empirical information with which to explain a wdter's major production. Concomitantly, the claim that such writing was not destined for publication or does not match the aestheric quality of a "finished" \rork is used to deny the possible validity if not the frank necessity-of interpreting such material in terms of the text that it indeed is, whether finished or not, published or not. Such is the temptation for that collection of notes and observations written a century and a half after Montaigne's rrip to haly by another Bordeaux nobleman, Montsquieu, and Dosthumously published as his Zolage de Cntz d lo Hale.r Initially leaving Paris for Vienna in April 1728, Montesquieu traveled through Austria, Italy, cermany, and Holland until his departure for England in late October l?29, whre he resided unril his spring 1731 return to France. As for the extant travelogue, a good threfourths of it describes Montesquieuh stay in Italy, with only a few scattered notes rferring to his passage through other countries. Commencing abruptly in August 1728 and ending just as abruptly in October 1729, the sequence of notes chronicles neither the rrip\ beginning nor its end. Hardly the juvenalia of a gentleman's fomation, this manuscript was written well after the publication of the Persian Lette6 (1121, and Le Tbmple de Cnide (1725) and prior to the composition of the Considerutions on the Causes of the Crandew and Decadence of the Romans (l'734), The Spitit o.f rhe Laws (l'748), and the Essai sw le gott (175?). Chronologically separating Montesquieu's literary production from his later rheoretical and political works, the voyage can be seen to bring about the transition frcm belles lettres to political theory, from youthful frivolity to mature seriousness,. a view that conveniently forgets about Montesquieu's early scientific essays for the Acad6mie de Bordeaux, on the one hand, and such late literary eflorls as A6ace et Ismdrfu (written sometime between 1734 and 1?54), on the other hand. Some eren credit the travel experience with effecting changes within Montesquieu's political thinking, such as a heightened skepticism toward the rpublican form of government or even the origin of his rheories concerning the influence of climate on society.r The literal voyag doubles as intellectual odyssey, the empirical experience of which is deemed suf, ficient to explain a Derceived change in style or thought, a change rhat could be emblematized by a text Montesquieu is reputed to have wrifien during his voyage, th Riflexions sur les habitantr de Rome, whose ostensible dhcussion of th contrast between ancient Roman "intemperance" and latter-day Roman sobriety seems to double rhe Prsident\ putative life



change on the occasion of his peregrination, Montesquieu's travels io various forign lands become lhe sociological quivalent of so many laboratory experiments, whose data then bcomes systematized in the later political writings as the putativ "triumph of the experimental method" in social scince.6 While it would be foolish to discount the manifest reprise of Montesquieu's on-the-road observations in his ulterior writing, such a crilical perspective does nonetheless neglect the possibility that thre may

critical discourse practiced by Starobinski insofar

as he supposes the


of a unity or totality of the work; thal is, that everything in the work coheres through a kind of organic logic. To find the possibility of such a
totalizing view alrady inscribed in Montesquieu's text would thus legitimate Starobinski\ critical perspective. we can then see in the image, which Starobinski develops at great length, of Montesquieu's all-encompassing view from the tower an image of Starobinski's own totalizing vision in his capacity as a readr of Montesquieu's nrire discursive production. But whatever one may feel about the pertinence of Starobinski's applicaaion of the passag from the travel journal to the wider work, his reading has the great merit of signaling Montesquieu's "desire to see" as a motivating force throughout. In the context of a travel journal, such a desire to se interestingly corroborates recent work on the social insrirution of travel in its most cultivated form-tourism, a practice whose visual dimension is rendered explicit by jts synonym, "sightseeing." As opposed to the discoverer or the adventurer (who collects experiences)! the tourist is a collector of sights seen. To sightsee is to see sights, to se what there is to be seen. As sociologist Dean Maccannell argues, sightseing implies a semiotic aciivity whrein the toudst arrives at the tourist attraction via the

already be a theory or method that orients the practice of Montesquieu's traveling, that is, thal there is an intrpretation of the voyage in Montes_ q,rien's Voyage which iniersects with other interpretive practics of the That there is a method to Montesquieu's peregrinations is signaled aboul halfway through the manuscript whn he writes: "when I arrive in a city, I always go up onto the highest steeple or the highest towet in order 10 . see the entire ensemble lle tout ensemblel" (1,671\. ln a bold move that effectively levls the hierarchical relation between travel journal and political treatise, Jean Starobinski has read in the totalizing gaze from th tower a metaphor of Moll!9lqqieu:s Be,lilLoL4q,lbCQIELin relation to his object of sttrdy in The Spitit of the ldlts, namely the "entire ensemble" of human institutions. For Starobinski, the vrtical perspective from on high implies both that "everything holds together, everything is connecad" and that "the order ofthe demonstration matters very little."'Whence the elebrated disotdet of The Spirit o.f lne lalrr, a disordr ihat, according to Starobinski, is but "the expression of ihis vrtical gaze." The disorder is thus only an apparent one, Starobinski's project being to restore the texds hidden otder, something that he can do by positing the contradictions in Montesquieu's text as the differnt moments of a dialectic.3 And although such a dialectic implies a narrative through which a concept is arrivd at, it is precisely this narrative aspect of thought that is denied by the totalizing gaze from above: "Montesquieu sees everything ftom the height of his tower; his gaze knows the distance from on point io another without having to follow out any pathways lsans avob aucun chemin d parcouirl" (p. 40, emphasis added), Apparently, Montesquieu\ dialectic is to be understood as so totalizing in its embrac that it neulralizes or annuls the very temporality of its movment through what Starobinski calls "a massive simultaneity"

intermediary of "markers." These are anything that point 1o the tourist attraction: maps, road signs, advertisemenas-signifiers to the sight's signified.r0 More significartly, th act through which the sight is seen implies an intrpretive gesture whereby the tourist places every sight into a relation with the other sights seen as well as with ihe point of dpartur. lt is through the consiruction of an imaginary univrse that revolves around him that the tourist finds himself reintegrated inio th society from which he left to go on his tour. As Maccannell writes, this integration requirs "only that one attraction be linked to on other: a district to a community, or an stablishment to a district, or a role to an establishment. Even if only a single linkage is grasped. . . this solitary link is the starting point for an endless spherical system of connections which is society and ihe world, with the individual at one point on its surface" (p. 56). But if sightseeing thus implies an interpretiv construct, it also becomes difficult to distinguish between such a vision of the world and a aheory,
especially when one recalls lhat the etymological sense ofthe word 11theory," from Creek rfteola is that of a vision or spctacl. Theory, insofar as it assumes the rendering presnt to oneself of a conceptual schema (we say that we "see" something \rhen we understand it), becomes a kind of sighG seeing. Both theory and tourism imply a dsire to see and to totalize what is seen into an all-encompassing vision, an ambirion simulraneously served by an Enliahtenment epistemology embedded in vhual metaphors and rhe
contemporaneou^s social

(p. 39).
To be sure, the belief in such a total vision is metaphysical to the extnt that it remains blind to the narrativity of vision (what Louis Marin has called the "trajectory of the aaze lparcou$ du rcgardl"l'In order to view the "ntire ensemble," one musl not only move one's eyes but also turn one's entir body around-or else risk missing part of the surrounding panorama. Now, this metaphysics of total vision is implicit to the kind of

ritual of rhe "8rand rour.!'ri

'L,. ,. - r,,.r:c..r .t






tover The best perspecrive on the city is the one that is lirerally superior. But the superiority of the view does not necessarily mean that its perspective is a sufficient one, that everything is seen fron rhe vantage point of this ultimat rorlls/e. A wider glance at the passage lrom Montesquieu, of which I, after Starobinski, have only cired the firsr halt, reveals, however, that it is nor a quesrion of a single, all-embracing view but rarher of a vision consrituted in reperirion: ,,When I arrive in a city, I always go ui iinto the highest sreeple or the highest rower, in order to see the intire nsemble, befor. seeing the parts; and, upon leaving the city, I do the same thing, in order to fix down my ideas.,,There are ar leasr three differenr views of the city: (l) the initial, elevared view of the .,entire ensembl,,; (2) the sighr of rhe..parrs" seen up close and one at a rime in rhe order of a tourist's itinerary; (3) the repetition of rhe first view in order to ,,fix down [one's] ideas." Instad of a single perspecrive, Monresquieu,s tourisric method deploys a pluraliry of poinrs of view. Strictly speaking, there is never an absolut point of perspective from whici everyihing can be seen. Every perspective is necessarily limited, mediated, and consriruted by a certain opacity or distance of vision thai can, at the limit, annihilat rhar vision. This distance consrirutive of sighr is exemplified by the position of Montesquiu on the tower. Here, it is o;ly by seeing less-rhrough the acr of moving away from the object of vision in the ascent to the top of the tower-that one can see more. the lientire ensemble of rhe area.urrounding rhe toqer. the atent.tu.s dc Io tour. fhe mediation rhrough this perspctive which is esrablished is rhus a kind of voyage, insofar as ir involves a movemenr away from the object of sight.

To return ro Montesquieu, we find him practicing a very methodical form of sightseeing, his own brand of tourism requ;ring noi only ,,un tour,, (a tour) but also "une tour" (a tower). Montesquieu,s ,,tourism,,involves a vision both all-encompassing and from on high, from the top of the tall,

he rules back in Persia. The novel's fillal sequence of letters, detailing rhe brutal suppression of a revolt in the harem, and culminating in the eloquent anger of Roxane's suicide missive, rcmains unanswered by the globe-trotting pdnce to whom thy ar addressed. The empowering mobility of the latter's gaze thus finds iis correlative in the veiled and immobilized status of the women kpt back home. lnded, one of the earlist forebodings of trouble

in the seraglio occrlrc when the harem women go out on a trip into the countryside, where they say "we hoped to have greater freedom" (1, 196). Caught by a suddn storm whiletraversing a rivet they face a choice between drowning or the dishonor of being seen ourside the veiled boxes in which they are transported unseen and unseeing. Concludes Zachi, aurhor of rhis letter, "What troubles journeys cause for women! The only dangers rhat men ar exposed to are those which threaten their lives; while we, ar every moment, are in fear of losing our lives or our virtue" (I, 196-97).,a The
Usbek turn out to be as inescapably (or castration, to follow the other thein the P?rsia, telle by rhe figure of he tries unsuccessfully ro impose upon hh subjects. As Montesquieu will later wrire in the preface to The Spitit philosophical insights aleared by predicated upon his own blindness matics of self-limitation reaisired the eunuch) as upon the blindness
oJ the

Laits, "it is not I6claift1" 0t,23o\.

a matter of indifference that rhe people be enlightened

To return to the scene from his travelogue, ir can be seen that the dialectic

of vision hnd displacement remains a persistent concern of his. For if ro

ascend the tower is to se less in order to see more, one must by the same logic descend from the towet that is, see less in order ro see even more.

exploited in the Persian Lefte\, published in 1721. Seeing and knowin! refer to the same problem:,, rhat of taking a disrance sufficie]rt to constituti the "proper" perspecrive on a given objct of study. Th truth the persians are supposed ro see is a ,truth,, revealed as a function of their foreignness ot if one prefers, of their extreme (culrural) disrance from the Fiench. They notice, says Montesquieu in the preface io the persian Lefte&, ,,things which, I am sure, have escaped many a cerman who has traveled througih France. " lo pursue rhe.ame loeic, lhough, blindness $outd be a funcli;n ol culLural pro\imi(). The same philo.ophic U5bet who so tucidlr debunk. all manner of Werrern mores i. reloturet) incapabte of percei\in; ht oqn role as desporic oppressor of rhe womn and eunuchs lept in ;e harem

Moreovet the play of perspectives articulared by travel can Ue seen to found an pistemology in complicity wirh exoricism, a complicily already

torr cannot do withoui a cerrain de-rour. It cannoi do without the inferior parrial vision from down below of he who has descended from ihe tower to see the "parrs" of the city because one cannot, in fact, see everlthing ftom the top of rhe tower. The detour into the city wjll, in any case, not b aimlbss, since it is already regulated by the preliminary sight of the "entire edsmble" fiom the rower. The view from on high should accordingly be ihe /irsr view of rhe ciry: "When I arrive in a city, I always go up onto the highest steepl or ihe highest tower, in order to see the entire ensemble, beforc seeing the parts.,, The tower odents the traveler's movements, frames them and gives them a certain sense or rerr (a meaning as well as a direction, whar French tourisr attractions designate as the.rens de la risile). One could argue here rhar rhe view from the towfl is of all the possible views of a ciry, the one that cannot be the first view, for one does not simply arrive in town perched on rop of a tower. One must first enier a city by the ,,parts," that is, one must lose oneself down below, beior one can even find the tallesr rowr or steeple-something not always as asy as all rhat.
Th towering vision from the



Assuming, though, that such a monument can be located, ibe space of the city will be oreanized around the tower aurow de la tour. There will b no fears of being lost in the detours as long as one's coordinates can b situated in relation to that privileged point of rcference that is the highest tower. The tower is the orios that economizes the tourisas itinerary 10 the extent that the latier is bounded by an inevitable relour to the tour As such, the foreignness ofthe tenain can be apprcpriated or rendered familiar through a glimpse whose elevated perspective is especially conducive to appraising the layout of a town's tortifications, an observation Montesquieu rarely fails to make on his This "visionary conquesl" of Ilaly seems hardly innocent for someone who aspird at the time to a high diplomatic appointment and whose scanning activiiies proved suspicious enough for at least one French consul to wdle back to Venailles, asking if Montesquieu were not a spy sent oul on a foreign mission.r6 Even the combined vision of the entire ensemble and of ihe parts is not enough, though. Something exceeds this totality, something MontesquieLl calls his "ideas," and wh;ch he needs to fix down l/ixerl before leavine the city by viewing it again from the tower's initial vantaAe point. These ideas are themselves the product of the tourisl's detour into the city, the return on his ambulatory inveshenl. That intellectual r.ereare renders inadequate the inaugural view of the "entire ensemble," so that upon relurning to the tower, we are not at all daling with the same "eniire ensemble." That these ideas need to be "fixed down" tlls us that thy are neithr stable nor precise. Presumably, this rendering precise will occur through the repetition of the initial gaze, which will superimpose the new matedal of ideas over th previously scanned lopography. These ideas are thus affixed to the landscape in an operation reminiscent of the merroria of ancienr rhetoric, a practice we have alrady sen to be itselfrooted in a projection oflanguag
as topography.rl Throush the stereoscopy ofa superior vision constituted out ofthedoubl distance Gpatial and temporal) enabld by a second view from the tower, Montesquieut touristic method gives rise to a literal theory, whose signified is the ensmble of ideas (what the mind's eye has seen), and whose signifier is the contour ot the landscape (what the physical eye has sen). And here indeed can be found a striking parallel wirh th theoretical practice of flre

Spitil of lhe Laits, for in that work, Montesquieu's aim is not merely to construct an abstract theory of law bul also to produce an exhaustive and methodical dscription of aciually existing political systems. In other words, the illustration of Montesquieu's theoretical principles does not take place throueh the then traditional construction oi a utopia in the style ot a More, a Campanella, or even a Fenelon, bul through th projection or reprojection ol rhe lheor) back onro rhe world. The re(ulr i, a kind ol polilical lopog.

polilics o{ topography, maps were added to the text begjnning with the second edition (1749). The map of the world becomes the sisnifier for the signified of theory and is thus, nor surprisingly, nrirled ..Carte pour I'intelligenc du livre intitul6 De I'esprit des /or.', On should be able to undersrand rhe theory on the basis ol the map. What i.imptied in ruch a cartography, howe\rer, is rhar the pariitioning of rhe world is not innocent; on the contrary, ir takes on a considerabl political significance. Every geographical demarcation-coastlines, mountain ranges, rivers-has untold political consequencs. Indeed, the very size of an area delimited by topographical factots has a determining influence on the nature of that eovernmnt: as Montesquieu concludes in book VIII, chapter xx, large areas suppose despotism, medium,sized ones monarchy, and the smallesr ones republicanism (ll, 365). Republics are accordingly ro be found in the ancient city-states of Greece and lialy; monarchies in rhe contemporary narionstates of France, England, and Spain; and desporisms in the vasl empires of Persia, Turkey, and Russia. Montesquieu's formal systematicity in this regard is so inflexible thar he is constrained, in the final chaprer of book VIII, to argue the despotic character of rhe Chinese governmenr over and against the Sinophilic tradition of rhe Jesuir missionaries, whose leters had spawned the popular contemporary stereotype of the ..Chinese sag.,,i! Moralily itself is inscribed by Monresquieu inro the landscape, firsi in terms of the climatic opposition between cold and har, bul then even more egreaioudy by the opposition between north and sourh: .,In northern cli mates, you shall find peoples who have few vices, a sufficienr number of virtues, and a lot of frankness and sincerity. Draw near the sourhern couniries, afld you will think you have lefr morality irself far behind: the liveliesr passions proliferate crimes; each person seeks to take advantage of everyone else in ways that favor these same passions" (tt, 477).,e Other conceprual oppositions spring from this same moral ropography. tn rhe north can be found activity, work, courage, masculiniry, and fredom; in the south, one finds passivity, laziness, cowardice, femininity, and servirude. I doubt thai there ;s any need here ro insist upon the markedly ethnocentric and racist character of the geogmphy proposed by Montesquieu-who undoubtedly considered himself to be a northerner ensconced in a superior laritude.d We need to add, however, rhar it is precisely by projecring hjs political onto this torography ahar Moaiesquieu is able ro indicate the ^{ategories p'iffiL;i ea.h kind of sovernmenr. Asia is thus found (o be the place where despotism is ,.naturalized" (II, 296). Consequemty, every exisring government is the righr one-including those thar are desporic. The implication is that nothinA should be changed, since things are as rhey

raphy made most evident in the celebrated passages on climate as an influence on social customs and forms of government, As if io underscore this



should be, a manifestly conservative thesis. As Montesquieu srares in the pteface to The Spirit of tie ,d}'s, "every nation will here find rhe reasons on which its maxims are founded" (II, 230). Montesquiut putative impartiality does not keep him from granting great pdvilege to what is near (the theorist\ homeland) as opposed to what is far. Everything is organized around the plac where the theorist is foundperhaps we are now no higher than the tower of his home, the chateau of La Brtd, near Bordeaux. This is to say that The Spit of he Laws can llbe rad in terms of a touristic theory insofar as it is a question of "fixing" ila crtain number of ideas to precis topographical references (which them selves only have value in rela(ion to an ultimate point of reference, the oitor of a tower or the place of one's castle). If the elaboration of this theory takes place, it is because we are not at so high an altitude that everything below becomes undifferentiaied, but at a medium altitude where only what is far away remains undifferentiated (Monresquieut desporism, for example, is characterized both by its being far away-or "Asiatic"

I -

and "uniform throughoul' lII, 2971).,r The siiuation of an intermediary height allows us to read a certain partiality in Montesquieu, a partiality seen in his distrust of the lowly populace who must be kept from taking '1oo much the upper hand" (ll, 291). ln his Norer srl I'Anglete e, he also cautions that if'1he lower chamber became supreme" in England, that country would lose jts freedom (I, 884). As for the election of parliamentary representatives, "all citizens, in the various districts, ought to have the right of voting at the election of a representative, except such as are in so low a state] that they are reputed to have no will of their own" 01,40O). And if it is in the highr latitudes-that is, in the norththat all positive values, including liberty, are found, we should not be too surprised to learn that liberty "reigns" more in mountainous rgions rhan in the plains (ll, 532), the lowly plains being a terrain mor associated with despotism. Despotism is noa only the lowest form of government, it is also what is down below: "Th danger is not when the state passes from one moderate to another moderate government, as from a republic to a mon, archy, or from a monarchy to a republic; but when it falls and is prec;pitated Iquand il tombe el se pftcipil?l from a moderate to a despotic government" (II,356). Despotism is effectivelythat into whjch one "falls" ifthe principles of a moderate government are not respectd and begin to erode: "The\rivers hasten to mingl iheir waters with the sea; and monarchies lose themselves in despotic power" (II, 364). While rhe valueladen opposition between "high" and "low" is, of course, a widely sanctioned and banal ,opor of Western thought, Montesquieu's systematic recourse to a scale of vrtical value in passages such as these indicate the direction and force of rhe political discourse 1o be read in the theoretical fallout of his rorism: "One

only looks at the parts Ipdrriesl in order io judge the enlire ensemble ltorl ensemblel:' he \ nites in rhe prface ro The spiit of the Laws (ll, 230).,, Such corroborations of the homology between theory and tourism lead us back to Starobinski's vision of a theory in which everything is literally in p/ace, fixed by the fiction of an all-seeing eye. But what are these ideas that Montesquieu brings back up to his tower? The expression "to fix down my ide s lJixet mes iddesl" is a curious one, laconic, which points to the ambiguity of a double pun. For in addition to the literal explication I have already proposed, the French verb rirel is not infrequently employed (in a usage already attested in ihe eighteenth century):r as a verb ofvision usually translated as "to stare." Moreovr, the etymological sense of the word, "idea," from Greek dea, is that ofsomething "seen." An alternative reading of the exprcssion /rrel mes iddes might be "to see whar I have seen." In returning to the top of the towet Montesquieu can see what h has seen. And it is in revising The Spitit of the Laws for a later edition, that is, "by fixins down my ideas yet again len.fixa encore plus les Mdesl: that Monlesquieu is able lo shed more light on hjs topic, to give "a new daylight upon all these lhjn9s lun nouyeau jour d toutes ces chosesl" ("Avertissement," Il,228). The tourist's itinerary is only complete when he has seen not only the sights but also the seeing of rhe sights. It is not difficult to se that what will consrirurively elude rhe gazer\ sisht is the sisht of his own gaz. Everything could concivably be seen except for the sight of onself seeing, and the attempt to catch up with that sight always leaves mor to se. Interesringly, the bulk of Montesquieu's travel manuscripl (remarkably devoid of vents one could class in the realm of personal adventures") is made up of the enumeration of sights seen, whethr thy be public monumnts, famous or noFso-famous persons,,5 or those visual objects par excellence, works of art.,6 As Pierre Barridre has notd, "the great and master word is 10 see' [vor4,", and the mosr predictable sentence order begins with ihe anaphoric j'at vl/. la is as if the fact of the seeing prevailed over whalever was seen. A particularly significant moment occurs when Montesquieu revisits the city of Verona, stating that "I had the curiosity ol seeing again whal I had aheady seen in order to see the differnt impressions" (p. ?98). What the repetition of the gaze reveals is differenc, whether thought of as "ideas" or as "impressions." Hence, Montesquiu can write of his subsequent desire to see Paris again,
have flot yet seen it."I But that incremntal difference, which prevents the acomplishment of a fully synoptic closure between a siaht and its seeing, is in itself engendered via the spalial and temporal displacement that is travel, an aclivity that eludes a proper perspective. The sight of th voyage cannot do without a voyage of the sight, since on can only take a perspective on th voyage

"for I




by taking a crtain distanc from it, a disrancing thar presupposes rhe

continuation ofthevoyage, ihe prolongation of irs course. This prolongation of the voyage can itslf only be included in the perspective rhrough recourse to another prolongation and so forth. The ariiculation of disrance and repetition that gives ris ro rh rourist's rheorerical mastery of thc landscape cannot itself be masterd. The repetition of the view is already a repetition of what happens elsewher, and, in fact, everywhere ir Montesquieu,s journey, if it is true, as he says, that when he arrives in a town, he goes "ah,als up onto the highest steeple or the highst iower." Each town becomes the displaced repetition of every other. Ir is the 10 / irself (the supposedly immovable reference point or orkor upon which resrs the economy of rravel as touristic theory) which begins to travel or go ..on rour', which is displaced in its repetition, repeared in irs displacemenr. This ,,rour,, ol the tout engnders an infinity of perspectives, none of which can claim rhe superiority of an all-embracing view over the orhrs. There is no rallesr tower. Montesquieu's travel nots have no clear beginning or end: there is no trminus to his wanderings, no way ro enclose rhem within the comfortable circuit of return signaled by a continuous narrarive. The text remains a collection of disconnected fragments, often repetirious, full of inexplicable Aaps and even capable of such chronological illogicaliries as his arrival in Heidelberg on August 26, 1729, and his departure rhe day before.,e Such a loose textual conglomerate is further exploded by Montsquieu's habir of writing his observations sometimes in his travelogue bur at orher rimes in o(her notebooks such as Mes Pensies, Sptu7age, or the special one he uses to describe Florentin art 0, 923-65).r Narratively disordered, rhe very plurality of perspectives even seems ro depersonalize the writing subjeci, as the J? of lhe observer often dissolves inro rhe or? of a merc point of view A case in point occurs when Montesquieu describes a visit to the Vatican (I, 686-93). The autobiographical narrative evoked by the opening, "l went today to see rhe galleries of the Varican," a sentence whose announcement is bizarrely repeated for no discernible reason some six pages later, yields only an impersonal itinerary wherein rhe or, who ,,passes', frcm one gallery to the next merely enumerates the arlworks and orher curiosities to be seen there-by an, passing observer. Carrying to an extrem rhe Cartesian grounding of subjectivity in the Archimedean poinl of rhe cogilo, the traveling subject is here reduced ro rhe impersonal ascriDrion of a mere

It is surely no coincidence that Monresquieu should lay out his tourisric method during that parr of his text rhar perrains to his lengthy srey in Rome. For ol all lhe ciries !isiled by \4onre(quieu, Rome rs rhe one most clearly not dominated by some cenrral carhedral spire or other rall monument. The city of the seven hills offers a number of differenr perspectives,

nearly half his yarlong halian adventure in Rome (from January 19 rhrough July 4, 1729), a stay broken only by a three-wek excursion to Naples, Montesquieu's touristic theory cannot grasp Rome: "One is never finished seeing [Or? n'd jdmais fini de wn1" L 695). And as Montesquieut authorial persona is scattered through a prspeciivism such that while abroad, he says, "l attached myself there just as to what is my own" (Mes pelsler, I,976), so Rome's multiplicity englobes all nationalities: "Everyone lives in Rom and thinks to lind his homeland therc" (Vorage, l,676\.The statment echoes the words w tlen nearly 150 years earlier by that other Gascon nobleman who pursued a similar itinerary and who even went so far as to acquire an official document granting him Roman citizenship. The echo ol Montaigne's charactrization ol Rome as "the only common and universal city" (ErsdJs lll, ix, 997) alerts us once again to the fact that Montesquieu's trip is alrady th rpetition of many a French trip to Italy, a veritable lopos spanning the history of th litrature, from Du Bllay on up to Stendhal, Nerval, Gide, and orhers. ln Montesquieu's entury, among the most noteworthy travelers were Misson, Deseine, Montfaucon, Silbouette, Labat, De Brosses, Lalande, as well as Burnet, Addison, Gibbon, Smolleu, and of course, Goethe.' Since "all roads" are proverbially said to lead there, Rome is everybodyt home, and everybody wants to go ther. The superimposition of itineraries mans thai one is also always seeing what others have seen, making Rome, the sight of so many sightings, the tourist attraction par excellence. lt is truly rhe "eternal city" (1,676), as Montesquieu can only say aftr (and before) so many others. The history of famous visitors to Rome produces a cul(ural sedimentation on a par with the traditionally mentioned seological sedimentation that physically superimposes the Rome of one historical period over another,r4 Rome is what one can never finish seeing because ever new layers of sedimentation covr over the layers below even as thy point to the existence of those layers. The cily is on the move, building upon itself in an upward direction as jf to catch up with the tourisl on his hypothetical tower: "One can make conjectures about how much the ground of th city has risen in Rome by the Colosseum, the Arch of Severus, the Tullian Prison (which is underneath a church), th Column of Trajan, that ones sees sunken into the ground by lweniy feet. ln general, all cities are moving upwards [toures /es yil/r idrsserll: streets are paved over ancient pavement. Thus, in Rome, ancient pavjng stones are lound twenty or thirty feet underground" (1, 706). Or is it that the tourisls path, in adding a further layer to rhe strata of so many visits to Rome, also makes him a part of the city's history, a bit of the sediment itself? Whence the universality of Roman citizenship, a condition Montesquieu frely assumes and appropriates, in contrast to Montaignek

none of which is manifesdy superior to the others.r: Even though he spends



anxious quest for the oflicial document formally grantins him civic status in lhe etrnal In her lerers to him, Mme. de Tencin, for instance, addresses Montesquieu as "my dear Roman.',r6 As for Montesquieu's desire ro see, rhe endlessness of rhings to see
endlessly maintains rhe pleasure of seeing by denying the ulrimate satisfaction of the desire ro see everyrhing. This is rhe aestherics later formulatd in his Essai sw le Coitt (Essdt on Taste, 175?) and epitomized by none

strayed from the economy of a theoretical vision that sees everything from

of the soult "sphere of presence." Und;sruprd by any of the displacemen; or repetition required by the limired vision of rhe tourisr in his iower- this appropriarve ae\rherics ol visual pted(urc geomerrica y describe5 rhe (asymptoiically unattainabl) ideal of a pure, unobstrucred view in every direction and with every poinr along iis circumfernce equidistant from rhe ocular ol&or of its center

other than the sight of Sainr Perer's in Rome: ..As one examines it. the eye sees it grow bigger and th astonishment increases,' (lI, 1256).r? Not unsurprisingly, the basic premise of Montesquieu\ aesrhetics, first published in the article "Coit" in the Encyctopldr'e, Iies in rhe desire ro see more: "Since we love to see a great number of objects, we would like /o errrd out sighl, to be in sereral places, to truterse more space,.in short, our soul flees all confines, and ir would like, so ro speak, to erlerd rhe sphere of our presence: it is thus a grcat pleasurc fot it to set its sight in the distonce,, (ll, 1244, emphasis added). The aestheric experience is underslood as a travl of lhe gaze, whose pteasure is guaranteed by an indefinire extending

The Occidental Tourist; or, The Drift of History: The Spirit of the Laws But this same pleasure can jusr as easily be reversed jnto rhe anguish poignantly expressed in the later books of The Spiit of the Laws by an agina Montesquieu gone blind from roo much reading and painfully aware of the ways in which his vasi subject mafter-the roralitv of laws and human insrirurions-ex(eed. rhe pur!'ew ol hts rheorelrcal gd/e. lntere\tingly enough, the theodst's dilemma is themarized, once again, in rerms of tourism: "l am like that anriquarian who set out from his own country, arrived in Egypt, cast an eye Ljeta un coup d'oei\ on the pyramids, and returned home" (II, 865). tn this passage, rhe theorisr sees himself as a tourist in the pejorarive sense of someon who undertakes a great voyage only to take back a partial, superficial view of what he has seen. What he 5ees wirhour really Jeeing {,ince ir is onlv a glance, ot coup d.opih is seen aL Ihe co\r ol a grear etlort. ol an e\pense rhar ludicrousty erceedi the rvenue. It is qually to be remarked that rhis partial view is a view that looks out at ihe monumental height of the pyramids fron below. We haye

th height of its tower The imaae of the theorist as tourist returns a few pages later: "When one casts one's eys upon the monuments of our history and laws, it seems that it is all opn sea ltout est 1erl, and that this sea does not even have bounds. All these cold, dry, insipid and hard writings must be read and devoured" (ll, 894-95). Here, the touristic vision sees not too little bu( too much, a situation voking the disorientation of being set adrifi in a boundless sea. which is none other than ihe infinity of text in which the theorist finds himsell lost and engulfed. The vision is not only excessive, but its very excess is lurned back against the spectator and erodes his position, so much so that in seing too much he ends by seeing too litde. The movemnt or travel of th vision no longer "fixes" anything down; rather, it is what erodes any possible point of reference, what undermines the economy of travel as method. This radical estrangement within erudition, warned against by Dscartes in the rrscorrse on Method, is also signaled by the egregious mixing of metaphors in this passage. The casting of one's gaze upon (he material to be read in Montesquieu's research on the laws oddly converls that maierial into a dauntingly boundless sa. The sea of erudition isthen described as what must be not merely read, but "devoured." That this feat of oceani orality is as inhabited by the ghost ofindigeslion as the vadous mouths in Montaigne's "Of Cannibals" is made clear by the mythological allusion made in the passage's final clause: "All these cold, dry, insipid and hard writings must be read and devoured, in the same manner as Saturn is fabled to have devoured the stones." Montesquieu misreads the ancient myth. What Saturn devoured was his children, until his wife Cybele saved one of them, Jupiter, by substituting a stone for the child's body. The eating of this one stone (not the plural stated by Monresquieu) meanr rhe subcequenl ri\e of a powerful progeny who $ould one day overthrow Saturn and send him into exile in, of all places, Italy. Progent in fact, is vry much at issue in a work \tthose epigraph, prclem sine matre crcatam, celebrats an "offspring created without a mother." Circumventing the maternal, Montesquieu's authorial self-generation stems not, as in the case of his literary forefather Montaigne, from the expulsion of the pfure but from its ingstion. Not only must the tssa),r count among the aextual monuments the ardthot of The Spitit of rfte tdlrs has to "devour" io write his opus, but the placement of the passag thai expresses the tourisi's digestive disaster in the penultimate book (XXX) bespeaks Montesquieu's anxity, and his personal invshent in lhe concluding topic of The Spirit of the Laws: the historical origin of the French aristocracy in the innovations in Roman and Gallic law that helped organize the handing down of fiefs along patrilinal lines, eventually determining the privilged




hand, a history rhat would remain identical to irs orjgin would nor be historical, would not be hisrory.{) In rhe eighth book ol The g)irit of the Za)rq Montesquieu is thus obliged ro propose anorher kind of hisrorical force, a sociopolitical clinamen referred ro as the .,corruption" of th founding principles, by which one form of governmenr would ,,tall,, into another The exact source of such corruption remains somewhat unclear in Montesquieu and presents him wirh a number of rheoretical problems_ His dilemma is most acute in the case of despotism, which is a government defined as "by its nature corrupt" (II, 35?), for how can whar is already corrupted become corrupr?a, More generally, the paradoxical consequence of the concept of corruption is that rhe pivoral founding principles are themselves rcvealed as fragile, precarious, and in need ol preservation. The qustion raised ar rhe end of the eighth book, rhen, is, how ro conserve these principles. Montesquieut answer is thar order to prserve the principles of the established government, rhe srale must be mainrajned in the size it already has; and that the spirit of this srate will alrer in proporrion as it contracts or extends irs lirnits,, (It, 365). To change rhe size ol a country is to change rhe principles of its government. Ir is to change everything given rhat rhe size of a country is one of rhe founding condirions

status of a landed noblman-such as Montesquieu-born inro herediiary wealth and power ("Our farhers, who conquered th Roman Empire," It, 380). Perhaps the infiniry ol perspectiv derives from the observer's positionirg within his own fild ofvision, an unlocalizable locarjon thar undoes the iixity of an assured or objective pojnt of view. The continuum of h;srory blurs the putatively objeclifying dis(inction between the wriring subjecr and the geopolitical map set forth in The Spitit of the Lolrs, and siruates rhe spectator of govrnmental forms lritii, what he is observing. Indeed, the category of hisrory is precisely \rhat erodes all kinds of boundaries in The Spirit of the Lavts. However one considers rhe spatial setup of political possibiliries, the diachrony of history is whar inevitably must disrupt the pure synchronicity of th geographical projection, and if Montesquieu can be seen, in the eyes otmany acrilic,rs to have..discovered" history, this discovery takes place through a concomirant denial of history. When Montsquieu speaks of history, what is mosr ofren implied is a kind of immaneni teleology: the history of a nation is rhe unfolding or developmenl of what is already inscribed wirhin the founding condirions, or "principles," of {hat The end of a nation is rhus atready found in its origin: "I have laid down the firsr principles, and have seen th particular cases bend to them as if of rheir own accord; rhe histories of all nations are merely the consequences of rhese principles" (II, 229). Theortically, everything one needs ro know abour a country should accordingly be deducible, in a manifestly Carrsian manner, from its map. On rhe orher

of the state. To change the government is to change the map, and to change the map is to change the government. Ceography is political and politics geographical. The map begins to move, but it is no longer the same map. A country changes its borders, bul it is no longer the same country The diachronical geography that is historical chang also provides the conceptual apparatus underpinning the entirely of Montesquieu's earlier Considerutions on lhe Couses of lhe Crundeur and Decadence of the Ron dr?s (published in 1734, soon after his relurn from abroad), where it is argued lhat the very expdrsto, of Roman power abroad is what triggered the demise of the Republic and precipitated the despotism of lhe Empire. As a cause of the fall inlo despotism, excessive expansion thus provides a spatial correlativ for the temporalized "corruption of pdnciples." As MontesquieD states in thai work, "lt was solely the great size of the republic that did it in" (II, ll9). Rome's shifting frontiers thus propel it throusl all three of Monlesquieu's governmental "natures," a historical metamor_ phosis thal makes of it lss th explicative paradigm of politics than its vanishing point, the unfathomable sourc of leeal and social history, as inexhaustibly in need of interpretation as the traveler's Rome is of seeing: "One can never leave the Romans: thus still today, in their capital, one leaves ahe modern palaces to seek out the ruins; thus, ih eye, after resting upon flowery meado$'s, loves to se rocks and mountains" (ll, 414).1: But if history redraws the map, then hisiory-at least since the demise of the Roman impetium-ca\not be understood to be internal 10 one country (as if one could even begin to speak about the history of a nation without speaking of its relations with oiher countries)."r Hislory can only be conceived as the history of the relationships bellree, nations, as the tracing of the lines that dercribe the map. It could probably even be shown that the notion of a nation-state is complicitous with that of its cartographical representation, to the extent that each is conceived as a positiv ntity and not as defined negatively by what is outside it.r'One needs to understand history as the writing and rewriting of th map. What happens on the border exceeds the spalial entity that is defined by it (the fixity of the map, th "natural boundaries" of the nation-state). what ihen iakes place on ihe border? we can answer this question if we turn to that book of fhe Spitit of the Zalts for which the map is supposed to serve as a reading aid, book XXI: "Of the Laws in Terms of their Relation to Commerc, Considered According to the Revolutions It Has Undergone in the world." what is proposed is a history of commrce, a history Montesquieu defines as follows: "The history of commerce is thal of rhe communication of peoples. Their various destrucrions, and the flux and reflux ol populations and devasrations, form its greatest events" (ll, 604). Obviously much more than a simple dialogic exchange betwen two




societies, each of $hich conceived as a distinct entit, Montesquieu's "communication of peoples" describes the very ebb and flow of the border that separates them and defines them as separate entities. What Montesquieu

it as what tries 1o map out or comprehend the voyage. The voyage defines and delimits the map by its rrace at the same time that the
and produces map retroactively appears as what defins or contains the voyage within the limiis it imposes. Th map is whar frames rhe movement of travel, giving it the legibility of a linear inscription within the longitudinal and latitudinal parameters set forth by the map. At the same time, the very stablishmenl of the carrographic frame is ihelf an effect of the travel that plottd its coordinates, and rhar replots thm wirh every succeeding -ioumey. In other words, the voyage always exceeds the map, and by extension, exceeds any theory conceivd in spatial rerms as a map. The privileging of navigational technology is also in keeping with whar we have seen to be the preponderance of aquatic imagery to represent the dislocating effects of history. The popularion movements that make and unmake societies are compared to tides and floods. The corruption of monarchies into despotism is described as the flow of rivers inro the sea.
Even Montesquieu's mosi srructural theory of hisrory, that ofthe progrcssive unfolding of founding principles, cannor sem to evade the liquid metaphor: he concluales book I wirh rhe boast that if he can establish the principle of a governmnt, "the laws would then be seen ro flow as from their

calls commerce involves the "flux et reflux" of peoples, their intercommunication, in th sense that one speaks of the communication of liquids. Populations intermingle and flow into one another in a perpetual rosion of national distinctions. Thus Montesquieu can speak of the barbarian "inundation" of Rome (ll, 526,709, and Persian Letters, I, 335). But this communication is also what defines new social entities as it is a question of the "flux and rcflnx" of populations. Beyond the chronicling of mercantile laws announced by the title, Montesquieu's history of commerce, undrstood as the communication of peoples, takes as its object the very creaiion and dstruction of nations, a history whose "greatest events" are rothing lss than the vast migrations and transformations of societies. This history of commrce is, therfor, indistinguishable from history in general, with "commerce" or "communication" as its driving force. What, then, dos Moniesquieu tell us in this history of commerce, which presents itself as a history of the world? What are we told about in book XXI? Boats. We ar told all about them. Page after page is devoted to rcounting the advantages and disadvantages to be found in various ways to build boats. We are told, for instance! that two boats, each of a different speed, do not accomplish their journey in a time proportionate to their relative difference in speed; {hat boats made out of wood tmvel faster than those mad out of reeds; that boats with a wide and round bottom are slower than those with a deep and narrow hull that makes them lie low in ihe water; that large boats survive tempests with greater ease than small ones. Admitting the obsessiv pull tbis ropic has on his imagination, Montesquieu w tes: "I cannot leave this subject" (ll, 610). He then goes on to list the technical accomplishmenrs achievd through boats, namely the voyages of discovery undertaken by the Greeks, rhe Romans, the Phoenicians, and The inflation of the history of commerce into a history of the world to have dellated into a mere history of navigation. Need we take this conclusion, that history is contained in navigation, seriouslyl To the extent that it is consequnt to a topographical theory of Ia\ yes. For how

can one understand the relationship between two geographically determined entities without having recourse to a certain concept of travel? Navigation would be what esrablishs this relationship, what puts it inlo a rlation.

The voyage institutes a relationship between two geographical entities, which, to the extent that they are thought through the differences of a distance in spae, only exist in the wake of the voyage. In other words, there is no map before the voyage. lt is the voyage that produces ihe map-

(II, 238). Phrases such as "inrermediate channels thrcugh power flows" (ll, 247); "the force of rhe principle draws everything which along with it lentruine tout)" (11,357), and "everyrhing flowed from rhe same principle" (lI, 361) punctuare rhe elaboration of his polirical ideas.a, In the penultimat chapter of book XXI, the tidal forces of commercial history acquire the catastrophic dimension allegorized by one of Montesquieu's favorite examples, one already discussed at length in his "Consi, derations sur les richesses d I'Espagne" (1728) and in chapter xvi of "R6flexions sur la monarchie universelle" (1734), namely, th paradoxical impoverishment of the Spanish economy by its very acquisition of gold from overseas. For Montesquieu, the problem lies in a lundamental miscomprehension by the Spaniards about the nature of wealth: ,,Gold and silver are a wealth based in fiction or signs. These signs are very durabl and Iittle subject to decay, as suirs their natur. But the more they ar multiplied, the more they lose their value, bcause they reprcsent fewer things. The Spaniards, after rhe conquest of Mexico and peru, abandoned the natural riches in pursuit of riches in sign, which degraded by themselves" (II,646). Hence, ihe more gold rhey import, rhe more rhe Spanish exacerbate the inflationary spiral triggered by the explojtarion of the American colonies: "Th Indies and Spain are rwo powrs under the same master; but the Indies are the principal, while Spain is only an accessory. . . rhe Indies always draw Spain roward themselves" 0t. 648). Furrhermore. this bad weallh found overseas is not gratuilous: ir mu\r be paid tor: ..To e\tracr

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR 10 give il rhe requisire prepararions, and io transporr it to Europe, necessiiated a certain expense', ( , 646). This expendirure is that of taking rhe gold out of American soil and bringing il to Europe namely, the cost of transportation. This extra expenditure means, though, that the Spanish suffer nor only from the effects of inllarion but also from an incremental loss of profit. Since rhe real cost of transportation remains the same while th value of gold depreciates, rhe percentage of profirs losr through the cost of lransportation will necessarily increase unril the mines bcome unprofitabl (this loss of profit having nothing to do, ot course. with the empirical amounr of gold conrained in the mine).




gold from ihe mines,

I am running a long course IJe courc une longue caffiArcl: L am overwhelmed with srief and iedium. (ll, 584)
The following subjects deserve to be treated more extensively; but the nature of this work will not permit it. I would like to flow down a gentle rivet but I am carried away by a torrent. (ll, 585i this is the opening paragraph of book XXI, on commrce and
navigation) When one casts one's eyes upon the monuments of our history and it seems that it is all open sea, and that this sea does no1
even hav bounds.




The Spanish economy is an economy of travel (which precisely does not succeed in economizing on that travel), in which naurical voyages are under taken to bring wealrh back ro ihe homeland, ro rhe oilos. The reperirion of this travel, the insistenr circljng of irs circular rrajeciory beiwen Spain and the New World, eniails an incremental loss sfch rhat ihe rravel that once seemed profitable brings about nor just some financiat losses but eventually and inexorably the loss of the o,kos itself, ihat is, the loss of the home ar home. The underminine of rhe economy brought aboui by travel instigates the rravl of the o,tos, set afloar in a continenral drift of cataclysmic proportions: "ihe Indies always draw Spain roward themselves." Th;s setting adrift of ihe Spanish ship of state bespeaks a catasrrophic end

Whal cosls most to ihose whose minds float amidst a vast erudilion is to seek out their proofs in places rhar are not foreign to the topic. (II, 898)
So if, ai the beginning of The Spitit of the Laws, the theorist positions himself at the source or fountainhead of the laws, that is, metaphorically in the high mountains, what springs or flows from this source ends by sweping him right down into the sea. As opposed to Descartes's conversion of the watery depths of doubt into the firm ground of the Second Meditation, Montesquieu\ method seems progressively to uncover more water below the apparent terra firma of his principles (history as er.rorl). The theorist's high ground is eroded until its submersion in the boundless sea of erudition is desperately brought to a close by his rcalling an earlier, perhaps more epic, nautical journey to every French philosopher's preferred

to the world history wriuen in book XXI, a ftoundering manifestly in

ebb and tlow of history. This erosive drift ofhistory ultimately must implicate th writer himself.J, Noi only, as we have noted, is Montesquieu,s name and class status a residual effect of the barbarian ,,inundarion" of Rome that Ieft the feudal system in its wake, bur th very narrarion of the principled flow of polirical events also eneulfs ils would-be author:

ll, 1435-36). The voyage makes and unmakes economic prosperity, rhrough a movmenr rhal is as unmasterabl as the drifr of conrinenrs in the erosive

contmst with Roman srability: "Rome was a ship hetd by rwo anchors, religion and rnoraliry, in rhe midsr of a furious rempesl" (II, 361). Whence lhe ambiguity of Montesquiu\ appraisal of the Europan explorations: al one moment, he writes that the grear voyages ol discovery have led Europe to "arrive at so high a degre of power rhat nothing in hisrory can be compared wirh it" (11,644), and ar anolher, thar rhese same voyages have broughl about a decentering such that',Iraly was no longer the center of the trading world" (II, 642).6 And in a completety different context, he evokes the possibility of an eventual dmise of rhe arts and scierces in Europe concomitanr with their reestablishmenr in America in imitation of the revival of letters in Europe afier their fall in ancient Creece (Spjcilege,

desllnation: "Italiam,

Italiam...l finish my treatise on fiefs at a point


wher most authors commene theirs"

The final lines of The Spitir of the Laws thus evoke the comforting ,opos of the end of the book as the end of the voyage, signified by the citing of the shout of Aeneas's shipmates upon spying the ltalian coast, their place of destination. A telling note in the Pleiade edition of Montesquieu naively or inadvrtntly qualifis this shout as taking place "al the end of their long voyage" (ll, 1540), an rror all the more curious siven that MontesqLrieu himself provides the book and vers number in a footnote (Aeneid lII,523). Far from marking an end to the rravels and hardships of Aeneas and his company, the sailors' shout of joy is laden with irony, as the sighting ol lhe ltalian coast marks only a stage in Aeneas's voyage, not its end.4 W are, afier all, still only in th third of the ,4ererd's twelve books. Moreovet ihe very repetition by the sailors of the name of their destination ("lraliam, ltaliam") already points ro the biiter disappointment of its loss at the very moment of its sighting, and more generally to the loss of any kind of finality 1o or exit from the rgimen of repetition thal structures th voyag narrative as an unending seris of episodes. And while





author's own finitude.a, But wirhin the framework of Montesquieu,s parriarchal concerns. a cer_ tain shore has indeed been sighred: fre SprirT o-f the Laws ends its tegal history at the momenr fifdoms become herditary. No longer a mere rec ompense lor political or military service, the fief began ro be considered a "genre" of commercial good and hence fell under the jurisdiction of civil law' The category of history, so erosive of Monresquieu,s psychogeography in the central books of his opus, could at rhe work\ close have led to a new ground on rhe farrher side of the ,,boundless sea," not rhe high ground of an all-encompassing or encyclopedic gaze bur rhe assurance of a "descent" rooted in rhe proper transmission of a plot of land trom father to son: the baronies of La Brade and of Montesquieu. In keeping with the onomastics of Western feudal nobiliry, rhe proprjety of rhe proper name has as its enabling condirion the property of rhe land, a property rhat is also a patr;mony. Indeed, Montesquieu\ personal attachmenr to his name and patrimony, far from being the,.very si y thing ltt.:s sole chosel" he calls it in Mer Persles (1, 989), was so srrong that in oder ro preserve ii younger daughtet Denise-said ro have been unwilling_ro marry an elder cousin of his: "What I had principally in view was ro have heirs ro my nam."rr In laci, rhe very last legal detail discussed in The Spilit oJ the Za)r.r concerns the right of feudal lords io control rhe jnheritance of their territorial holdings by deciding rhe marriages oi rheir offspring: ,.Marriage contracts became in respect to the nobiliry both of a feudal and civit regulation" (Il, 995). And here, at the end of Monresquieu's long textual peregrination down from the heighr of the theorerical sprinshead whence flow his principles and across the sublim expanse of historicat drift, a new

or of an end to wandering, the very acr of ciiing that tine from Virgjl as that which is ro denot rhe end of rhe texr only ends the iext by conrinuing it, by referring us ro the rext of Virgil and an even wider jnrertext. Th; lext is only closed by its opening onro more texr. Such a maneuver is. in racr, $har happens in rhe clo,ing $ords of lre Sptit oJ the La\s: *t l;nish my treatis on fiefs at a poinr where most authors commence rheirs,,(lI, 995). While the line bespaks a triumph over rivals, it also places Mon tesquieu's work in relation to the others: the continuation of rhe hisrorv ol leudali\m i, ro be found rhe\e other t\rilers. Noq, uhile rhis conrrnl 'n uation might seem secondary;n relarion to Montesquieu's work, it is also that which, as Montesquiu says in rhe penulrimate paragraph, !,1 do not have the time to develop." The other wrirers, wrirings are at once whar is comprehended by or within Montesquieu's superior grasp of the subjecr and what cannor be includd in The Spirit of the aalrs because of the

the context of the shour does nor exactly connote rhe ideas of a safe rerurn

height is achieved in the solmn rilual of rhe marriaee contraci. which positions the lord's gaze at an altirude from which he can securely watch over his descndants: "In an act of this kind, made under rhe eyes of rh

lotd Isous les te x du selgrerr], regula!;ons wer made for the succession, with the view []rel thal rhe fief would be serviced by rhe hejrs,' (It, 995). And if one of Montesquieu's principles is the axiom rhar ,'the laws are rhe eyes of the prince" (ll, 315), then given the srakes of such a patriarchal suneillanc! La Brede may not b all that far from Usbek's harem, whose proprietor incidentally remarks on rhe "bizarreness" with which the French "have preserved an infinjte number ot things from Roman law rhar are useless, or worse, and they have failed ro preserve the power of farhers, which it afiirmed to be the firsr legitimai type of authority" (t. 323-24). The error of history would be contained by a fidelity ro Roman law under the walchful eye of patriarchy and its anendant narrative of genealogical
descent. In Mes Pe,sd?s, Monresquieu anricipares his descendanrs not being able to look back up at him, immortally nestled in the monumenral height ol his repulation: "Ir will require all of their virrue for them ro acknowledge m; they will see my tomb as the monument ol rheir shame.... t will b the eternal slumbl;ng block of ilaftery and I will cause embarrassmenr to

and to "reestablish our family which is fall;ne,"so he arraneed for his

their courtiers. Twenty rimes a day, my memory will be uncomfortabte, and my unhappy ghost shall incessantly rorment the living,, (t, 1292). Unless, of course, such a phalli domination from beyond the srave would risk the same castrating selflimirations and blindness that it does in rhe Persian prince, or in the tour;st on rop of his tower-rhai is, the inexorable necessity ol one's separarion from "rhe parts down below',; or the specrre of the family that "falls" for lack of progeny, with or wirhou! arranged marriages: "I can believe thar rhey will nor destroy my tomb wirh rheir own hands; but undoubtedly, they would not raise il back up aeain if ir fell ro earth."5r But if the predicament of political rheorist or feudal patriarch is thematized in terms of the quest for perspective, then our inaugural passage hom \4onresquieu\ Vo))age i. nol merely anecdotal, bur rarher eneases persistent concerns ihroughout Montesquieu's work, wilh probtems ofvision and positioning as meraphors of dominance (whether texrual, theoretical, political, or fam;lial). Whar lhe passage does is dramatize th;s concem by proposing the image of rh appropriate place for Montesquieu to mo\nt his eyes, a Montes )eux, if you will. And rhe fantasy of a rowering theoretical vision could thus be read as the insisrenr inscription of rh writer,s proper name. Th tourislic method would operate as a kind of signature over the landscape, through which, as the framing process enacted by ihe organization of perspectives already suggesrs, rhe slrangeness of the foreign land is rendered farniliar. As Monresquieu writes in Mar persls, ..when



traveled in foreign lands, I a(ached myself there just as to what is my own" 0, 976). But if he "attaches" himself to the foreign country as if it

Chapter 4 Pedestrian Rousseau

were his own, could

it be that the foreign land is appropriated,


proper to him, through a praclice thar mimes, in a distorted but rebudike

fashion, the proper name of Montesquieu? That proper name, though, derives from th place name of the property or piece ofland whose ownership ce(ifies the nobleman\ aristocratic status. What is the place called "Montesquieu" l According to the etymology pro posed by Robert Shackleton, Montesquiet would mean a "wild or barren mountain."i Esqrrerr, however, is also an adjective from Old French, which, according to Godefroy, qualifies something as what has been either taken from or forbidden to someone. A montesquieu would be a forbidden mountain, forbidden for instance to agriculture and rhereby barren, or forbidden to travelers because of its inaccessibility and therefore wild. ,,Montesquieu,, would be a forbidden heiehi, rhat is, both the heighr dd its to(biddenness: the "monl des yeux" of which one is deprived or the "monr-esquieu" of thory as an impossible vision, as an inaccessible position. Would the heights of Montaigne, his compatriot and intellectual farhet be too grear

What setves to deceive othets v,as


me the pathwa)

to trulh.

n, Emile and Sophie: ot, The Solitaty Ones



Or is the very failure to achive such an all-encompassing vision from on high not the condition of Montesquieu's success as a critic of human institutions?5. In seeking to establish rhe fixity of the political landscape, he ends up demonstraling its historical changeabiliry, and hence the po.rslriliry of its being changd by those who become not mrely the subjects but also th agents of history. lr is in this sense that a provincial patriarch and noblman, nosralgic for rhe preabsolutisr glory days of the feudal aristocracy, could have become the father of modern social science and a precursor of the American and French revolutions, evenrs whose radical newness was as often as not thematized by the return to Roman garb and custom immortalized in the paintings of David.J5 Would not the proper name of Monresquieu then designate an improper place, orc not readily appropriated? The scene of appropriation takes place elsewher, in another place, in a foreign land-Italy, for example. The traveler is as at home abrcad as he is away at home. This is the dilemma played out throughout Montesquieu's work and life and with myriad permutations and combinations along the twin paths ofexoricism (in his travels and literary works) and internal emigration (the retrear from public life into the long solitude of his chateau), neither of which can lead to any absolute or final, much less definirively elevated, perspeciive. To repear the lesson of Rome, "one is never finished seeins."

Pedagogy and the Tleology

of'Ir'yeb Etuile

One of the most consistent themes of travel literature in the Age of Discovery is that of the pedagogical value of voyages for those who undertake them. At least since Montaigneh "Of the Education of Children" (ElJltJJ I, xxvi), travel has been grasped as literalizing the etymological snse of education as an e-ducarc, a leading out from receivd prejudices and customs. The act of travel becomes pedagogically justified as "pleasurable instruction."i The correlation is massively underwrilten by the Lockeian epistemology of understanding gained through accumulated sensory perception, by the cultural practic ofthe young gentleman\ "grand tour," and by various strands in the emergence of the novel, such as the picarsqte, the Eildungsroman, and aurobiography, which tend to posit wisdom as a function of accumulatd experience and to prescribe th formation ofthe individual through his progressive contact with social, sexual, and cultural others. The edu-

cational value of voyaging, which, according to Montaigne, should take place "at a tender age" (EssdJs I, xxvi, 153), becomes so pronounced in Enlightenment thought that lhe Enctclop4die "Voyage" fatures a ^rticle special subsection devoted to the particular "educational" sense of the word Gee the lntroduction). As I have argued throughout this work, howevet any such "accumulative" theory of travel must posit a privjleged point ot refernce in relation to which the increment of profit (here, wisdom) can



be measured. The educational voyage is thus especially dependent upon its completion, upon the rctum home of the neophyte who sets out on th grand tour; otherwise, the value of its formative lessons may be lost or reduced to naught. ln this regard, th self-discovery of Descartes in the wake of his wanderings is to be preferred 1o the ambiguous percpective of Montesquieu/Usbek, just as the conlinuous narrative progression toward clarity must prevail over a discontinuous set of insights, whose peak lucidity

character toward its bent, and finish making a man good or bad,' (IV, 832). Traveling merely completes a !.natural" tendency, makes one,s char_ acter definitive, defining therefore what has already been defined, although

not definitively. How is this possible?

Rousseau begins by arguing rhat th quesrion of the value ofrravel should not be posed in terms of whethr or nor voyages are good. Insread, he proposs that on think in rerms of wherher or not it is good rhat one l?are traveled. Thh immediately changes the issue from that of the value of the activity of the voyage to that of irs end resuh. Value can onlv be obrained lrom rravel once lhe tflp i\ o!er. the implication being rhar rra!el can onty be judged in teleological terms. One of the objecrs of this discourse on voyages will thus have to be the delineation of the proper telos of any

always risks a corollary fall into prsonal blindness and civic decadence. It is against this background that one can measure ihe rather different view of travel set forth in the era's most influential pedagogical treatise: Roussear's Emile (1162\. Th final section of that work is headed by the title: "Ofvoyages," and once again, the concerns uttered undr that rubric evince a dmonstrable prtinence to other aspects of Jan-Jacques's varied and disparate opus, and more spcifically, to that economy of critical nostalgia that circulates throughout it as the desir for an impossible return, as well as to his longstanding need as perpetual wanderer for some point of fixity.: As such, a close reading of that section should point in the directio:r of what underlies ciiizen Rousseau's ambulatory concerns. Concludins the presentation of Rousseau's pedagogical ideas, the lopos of education acquired through travel is thus the final phase of Emile\ educaiion; it is what is to complete his education before his final reunion with Sophie. Yet this last step in Emile's ducation is made io sem inesseniial. The voyage is only undertaken, in fact, after Emile has already ben sufficiently educated so that the voyage will only have those effects intended by Emile's tutor Emile's education is what allows him to unde ake a voyage, at the same time as that voyage is all that rmains for his education to be completed. On the one hand, if, as Rousseau tells us right at the beginring of Emile, '1he first education is the one that matters the mosl,"i then we might conclude that the final lessons arrived at through Emile's trip must be those that matter the least. On the other hand, th deferral of the voyage until the last possible moment suggests rhe difficulry and seriousness of the lesson and attachs a certain importance to it, since Emile must be thoroughly prepared before engaging on this last leg of his schooling. This ambiguity of the voyage's place within the pedagogical hierarchy is reinforced by an ambiguity in the moral value of traveling, an ambiguity beyond the lutor's ability to control unless it is put off until the last possible moment. The section entitled "Of Voyages" begins, in fact, by taking note of this problem in considering the voyage's ability to do ither good or ham to the traveler, the very statement of which complicates ^n ^lternative the traditional pedagogical value of travel as an unquestioned benefit. Rousseau will finally corclude, though, that "voyages impel one's natural


But instead of moving roward rhis end, Rousseau immediately embarks upon a deiour that moves the ropic of discussion from the value of trips to that of books: "The abuse of books kills knowledge" (Iy 826). The world of books is opposed, as in Descarres, to th book of the world, the latter neglected as a result of the proliferation of the former: ,'So many books make us neglecl the book of rhe world" (Iy 826). Bu( in the particular case of travel narrarives, this obfuscarion is exacerbared bv a double mediation or veiling of rhe rrurh: is too much, in order ro arrire ar rhe truth, to have to pirce through the prejudices of rhe authors as we as our o\rn....This would be true in the situation wher all travelers ar sincere, only rell whar rhey themselves saw or whar rhey believe, and rhar they disguise the trurh only rhrough rhe false colors it takes in rheir eyes. But how must it be when you furrher have ro unravel rhe truth from their lies and bad faith!" (IY 82?). Rather than spurring an inquiry irro rhis
complex pistemological problem, however, such an exacerbated mediation leads Rousseau to dismiss ihe entirc gnre of rravel literature with the rather unsatisfying conclusion that "in rhe mafier of all kinds of observations, one must not read, one must see" (IY 827). He then drops the subject and returns to his iniiial question regarding rhe value of voyages in ihemselves

aftr a pariing shot at the decadence of contemporary society: !!Let us thn leave the vaunted resource of books to those who are made to be contented by them. . . . Thar resource is good tor training fifteen-year-old Platos ro philosophize in circles and for instrucring company in the customs of Eglpt or the Indies, on rhe faith of paul Lucas or Tavernier" (tV, 827). Exotic knowledge gleaned from travel books oike wisdom in ihe Third Reverie) seems principally used tor oyenrarron. whelher ir be rhar of rhe wrirer \^ho wanrs ro tell a good \Lory or rhe reader sho can rete rhe \ror! in polire company ro his or her own credit.


Why this detour then, through the value of writlen accounts of voyages? Why should the pedagogical justification of travel entail a critique of travel literature unless there is some possibility of confusion between them? why should the problem of travel immediately come up against a problem of texts? Perhaps it is because what is at stake is the ability to read a particular text, the "book of th world," which can only be read through travl (otherwise, "evryone keeps to his leaf" [V 826]). Travel, to pursue the metaphor, is what allows one to "turr the pages," an ability essential io any reading. But if travel is a typ of reading, then rading travel literatur only serves to superimpose another rading, which would get in the way of one's journey to "arrive at" the t.uth 0V, 827). This superimposition of texts, moreover, would make it difficult to distinguish between the two; or rathet to be precise, the reader of travel literature runs the risk of forgelting that what he or she is reading is but the text and not the trip itself.

We rejoin one of the persistent fears of Emile's teachet that of the confusion between sign and rcferent: "In whatever study it may be, without the idea of represented things, the representative signs are nothing. Nevertheless, childrer are always kepi to these signs without any of the things they represent explained to them. In thinking to teach a child a description of the earth one only teaches him about maps lqu'd connolqe des ca es); he is taught the nams ofcities, countries, and rivers that he doesn't conceive of existing anywhere else than upon the paper where they are shown to hin" (IY 347). To know only about maps ("des cartes") would be to fall into an epistemological error (that of Descarts?), for in contradistinction to the Cartesian grounding of truth in the self-evidence of intuition, Rousseau's pedagogy stresses an experientially oriented meihod of learnine through the presentation of the thing in question, while deferring as long as possible the child's encounter with signs in genral and with writing in pariicular. But we should not forget that in the above passage, the example Roussau uses to illustrate the suspension of the referent is drawn from cartography, a field whose pretension is to th utmost precision in rcfer

purpose while continuing to indicate that they do have a purpose. That they do have a purpose, though, keeps them from being "pure" aesthetic objects in th Kantian sense-that is, havina a purposiveness without a purpose.4 Perhaps that is why maps, like archeological artifacts, are usually considred lesser aesthetic objects, and ar placed in museums less often to be seen in their own right than as backdrop to "pure" works of art. But if the structur of the map allows for the possibility as well as the eventuality of the suspension or undoing of its referential function, the s^rne is a fottiori the case for travel narrativesr with their proliferation of strange names and places. If travelers are or have been accused of lyingand this is not to excuse them of it-it is because the account of an exotic place suspends as it names ias referent, bcause its implicit claim to veracity cannot be verified.s The names are empty signifiers, indefinitely available to whatver significations are chosen,6 And it is because accounts of voyages are potentially unverifiable thar rher is such an artempt to verify them. One trip to the North Pole or the moon demands anothet and each must

you will, but a collection of points of of references, that is, empty signs, unless the user of the map is able to attach some other bit of information to it, whether it be from having seen the place, or pictures of it, or whatever. The map can only become meaningful if one already has some idea of that to which it refers. On the other hand, ;f one does not already know what the refernt is, then the reference point loses its capacity to carry out fully the semiologi,ral funciion that cartography ascribes to it. The map becomes an aesthetic object in the same way as the tool missing its handle in Kantt famous example: bolh have ben cut off from their ntiality. map is nothing,
referencs, and yt thy remain just poira.r


bring back more "authentic" documentation of irs itinerary by way of photographs, geological samples, and so forth.r But as this attempted ver, ification takes place on the one hand, th voyage's potential unverifiability shunts the account of it, on the other hand, in rhe direction of the lilrary. Even basically believable or verifiable travel sro es come to be read as literature (Xenophon, Marco Folo, Bougainville, Cook, and more rccently Lvi-Strauss, to name only an obvious few). It is easy to see, then, why Rousseau should extend the same negativ.a criticism ro travel stories that he persistently addresses to literature. In the corrupt realm of culture, all recounted facts inevitably become tainted by rhe corosive ffects of fiction. The educator's principle, consistent then with the larger view of pedagogy in Emile as a resistance to the corruption that is societal culture, is that the knowledge to be glaned from travel, if there is any, must be acquired dirctly and alone. Hence, Emile is to Iearn his way around not through maps but through the prsonal experience of his wanderings with his teacher Guch as their famous outing to Montmorency). ln the same way, if voyages are to be ofvalue, it must be through one's own voyaging and not vicariously through another's account. So much for the mode, but the contenr of what is to be studied through travel remains as yet unclear, ln "Of Voyages," Rousseau rephrases his initial question in such a way as to make the end of travel clear: "ls it sufficient that a well-educated nan know only his compatriots, or does it mattr that he know men in general?" (IV 827). Knowledge of humankind in general means surpassing one's particular perspective. The pedagogical function of travel has to do, it would seem, with overcoming ethnocentrism, and with the corresponding establishmenl of a general anthropology. But


necessity and who cannot do without earing men, the interests


while Roussau says that it is not necessary to know every man in order to know man in general, he also assefis that evry nation has its "proper and specific character" (IY 827), and just as this "proper character" can be deduced through the comparative observation of individuals, so can the character of man in general by obseNine diffrent nations. There ensues a comparative study of the way various nations travel and whal they gain or lose from it. Rousseau proposes that just as "the least cultivated peoples are generally the wisest, those that travel the least travel the besf' (IY
828). This is because, less concerned with "cjui fiivtjlous inquiiies" and "our vain curiosity," they pay attention only to what is "tr!y useful" (lY 828). In contemporary Europe, only the Spanish so Rousseau says can claim this expertise (or lack of it), while rhe ancienrs are considred rhe masters at knowing how to profit from travel. This mastery is immediately qualifid, howevr, by the assertion that "since the o Ainal characters of nations are being effaced from day to day, they are becoming for ihe sam reason more difficult to grasp" 0Y 829). If the ancients wre btter ethnographers, it would have been because national characters were more sharply delineated in the past. On the other hand, the blurring of nation alities occurred precisely because of the act;vilies engendered by and related to travel:

As races become mixed and peoples fused into one another, one ses disappear little by little these national differences which once struck the observer at lirst glance. FormerlI each nation remained more enclosed within itself, there was less communication, less traveling, less in th way of common or opposed interests, less in the way of political and civil liaisons berween nations . . . great sea voyages were rare. (IV 829)B
But then again as intersocietal distinctions were lost, anthropological observalion was done "more negligently and more poorly" (lY 831) becaus rhe instruction (in the study of man) drivd from voyages became of less interest than the "object" of their mission: "When this object is a philosophical system, the traveler only sees what he wants to see: when th;s ob.ject is personal interest, it absorbs the whole artenrion of those who give themselves over to it. Commerce and the arts, which mix and blend peoples, prevent them from studying each olher When they learn the profits that can b reaped from each othet what more do they need to know?" (lV, 831). Modern travel is condemned by Rousseau because it has become only self-serving. Whreas "primitive" man, who is sufficient in himself and neds no one else, "does not know and does not seek to know countries other than his own" (IY 831), modern man in his dependency on others

to a kind of cannibalism: "But for us to whom civil life is a

frequenting rhe lands where one finds th most men. That is why evrything flows inro Rom, paris, or London. Human blood is always sold ar a buer price in capital cities. Thus, only the great nations are known, and the grat nations all resemble each another" (ly 831). The invention of travel has resulted in the establishment of commetce as a cannibalism that destroys all national disrinctions. Such a formulation can easily be rearticulated into the more received Rousseauist theses conceming the opposition betwen nature and culture, with travel clearlv on the side ol cukure. ln addition. Rou\(eau ha5 exrended lhe Montaig;ian cririque of imperialism as a higher,order cannibatism onto that paragon of modern cultur, the urban commercial center (ihe first example of which is none other than Montaigne's and Montesquieu's beloved Rome). Yet Rousseau is not prepared to dispense entirely with travel: ..There is quite a difference between traveling to see other lands and traveling to see other peoples. The prior object is always chosen by curiosity seekersi the other object is only ancillary for rhm. For h who would philosophize, it ought to be just rhe opposit. The child observes rhings until he can observe men. Man must begin by observing his leltow men, and then he observes things jf he has the time" (IY 832). The philosopher's journey is opposed to that of either the curiosiry seeker or the child, and ir alone is capable of making travel useful or valuable, because it is the only one correcrly cntered on the study of man: "It is bad reasoning to conclude thusly that travel is useless because we rravel badly" (IY 832). Traveljng can be profitable but only for a particular kind oftraveler belonging to a sort of moral elite: "lvoyages] are suitable only to men firm enough in themselves ro hear the lessons of error without leuing rhemselves be seduced by them, and to see the example of vice without being dragged into ir" (Iy S32). The prerequisite for travel is a cerrain inability to travel: one must be stable or "firm" enough in oneself not ro be ,,seduced', or carried away by the lessons of error, just as is the Ulysses who remains unmoved by Circe,s charms in the frontispiece plate for book V in the first-edition printing of tmile. The Cartesianlike self-groDndedness ofthe would-be traveler rejoins Rousseau's earlier comments in the long tnth note to the Discource on the Origins and Foundations of Inequality among Me, (1755), where he suggests that only trained philosophers should be voyagers (III,213ff.). For Rousseau. insread of tralel being an access ro philosophicat \ irdom, as it $a\ tor MonLaigne or Descafles. ir i. rhe status of phitosopher lhar makes one qualified to travel in a manner profitable ro both self and society.e Were we lo study a ne$ world rhrough rhe erpe eles of philosophers .,we should learn rhereby ro know our own world. { I. 2ttr. tn the ..happy times" of antiquity, ordinary people neirher traveled nor engaeea in phi_

of us is served by

of each one



losophy, leaving both tasks to "a Plato, a Thales, a Pyrhagoras, [who,] impelled by an ardent desire for knowledge, undertook ihe most extensive voyages solely to instruct themselves, and travled far in order to shake off the yoke of national prejudices."lo Through the comparative study of cultural differnces, philosophers are abl to "learn to know men by their resemblances and their differences, and to acquire a universal knowledge which is not that of one century or one country exclusively, but being that of all times and all places is, so to speak, the universal science of the wise
Ila science commune des sdgsl

."r' So, if the Second Djscourse coroborates

the anthropological aim st for travel in Emile-namely, the establishment of a common concpt of man-it further qualifies that intellecrual pursuit, not as a wisdom common to all, but as a knowledge common to but also reserved for "the wise." ln short, the value of travel rests upon the proper training of the philosopher, that is, upon a question of pedagogy, which brings us back to Enile, wherc we remember that "voyages impel one's natural character toward its bent, and finish making a man good or bad" (IY 832): Whoevr returns from running around the world is upon his return what he will be the rest of his lif; more of them retum wicked than good, because more of them leave inclind to evil rather than goodness. In their voyages, badly raised and badly led youth contract all the vices of the people ihey frquent, and not one of the virtus with which these vices are mixed: but those who are fortunately born, those whose good natural character has been well ultivated and who travel \rith the true design of instructing themselves all return better and wiset than when they left. Thus

of the urban cannibal. The proper lelos of travel that Rousseau then pro poses is the study of one's ivil relations with others, a surveying, after Montesquieu, of the political landscape, including the nature of the government under which one was born: "Now after having considerd himself in his physical relations with other beings, in his moral relations with other men, he still has to consider hirnself in his civil relations with his fellow citizens. To do this, he must begin by studying the nature of govemment in general, the va ous forms of governments, and finally th particular government undr which he is born in ordr to know whether it is suitable for him to be livjng under it" (IV,833). Behind the disinterested study of various political systems that ensues in the next few pages lurks a motive of slf-intrest: the search for the most advantageous place to live. The purpose of embarking on the journey is thns to find a home. Emile is to leave home to find a home-the loca{ion of which, however, has already bn determined, if the tutor has successfully implemented the preepts of "negative education": "Either I am decived in my method, or he ought to answr me more or less in the following manner: 'To what do I fix myself? To remaining what you have made me be"' (lY 855). Emile rplies that he wiu fix himself by being fixed to nothing. The tutor elaboratesl "Freedom is not in any particular form of government, it is in the heart ofrhe free man; he bears it everywhere with him" (IY 857). For the runaway from Geneva with a plebeian name,i': freedom is irrespective of one's localion within Montesquieu's tripartite topology oi republics, monarchies,
and despotisms-wherver the fre man happens to be; home is defined by on's current "coordinaies." Yet, despite this disjoining of the feudal link between surname and place name, another kind oflink to place is introduced by way of the "attachment" for onet place of birth, an attachment taking the form of a "duty" owed to one's birthplace: "So do not say: what does it matter where I am? It matlers that you be where you can fulfill your duties, and one of these duties is an attahment for the place of your birth. Your compatriots protected you as a child, you must love them as an adult" (lV, 858). This politics of the birthplace as oitos conforms to the choice of religion suggested earlier by ihe Savoyard vicar in book IV of Emre.' although religious experince is said to be particular to every individual, one should practice the faiih into which one was born.'r A curious privileging of the home is effected: it is best to stay home, although one must be equally prepared to lave it without regret. Emilet voyage is circular; he decides to stay where he is and to do what he is doing. The voyage succeeds in immobilizing him, in making him to stay at home. One sees why, for Rousseau, the value of voyages is not a question of traveling but of having traveled.ra

will my Emile travel. (IY


If travel merely completes one's ducation and moral upbringing, albeit definitively, then only those who ar well educated should travel. The well educated, though, are those who see the voyage as a way to continue their education ("who travel with the true design of instructing themselves"). The next paragraph qualifies, howevr, this ideal of pure self-instruction: "Ever)thing which happens according to reason must have its rules. Taken as a pari of education, voyages must also have their rules. Traveling for the sake of traveling is to wander [c's1 erel], to be vagabond; traveling for the sake of instructing oneself is still too vague an object: instruction which has no set Boal is nothing" (ly,832, emphasis added). Now it seems that it is not enough to pursue one's education through travel. For Rousseau, to wander, erei: would be an error. It does not suffice to be a lover of knowledge, a philo-sophr, or even a lover of "Sophie" herself, such as Emile. Travel as ducation, like Montaiane\ idleness, must b teleologically determined, although probably not as much so as the self-interested travel



Emilet trip is thus quite obviously a rit of passage; ir completes his education and dfines hin as a full member of society (in his accepting the rights and obligaiions entailed in living within that society). It is rhrough his trip that Emile acquires manhood. But this trip is a guided one, in which the tutor lakes care that Emile does rot spend too much time in cities ("where a horrifying corruption rcigns" [Y 8531) or run the risk of debauchery in the company of women. The tutor leads Emile on a guided tour designed to make sure he will stay at home. "If there be happiness on arth, it is in the refuge lazilel wherc we live that one must find it" (tV, 867). But this tour is itself only the final step in that other, more
comprehensive guided tour which is Emile's education under the tutor's panoptic guidance and which is designed to keep Emile "natural." Travel thus names the risk of an excursion outside the pastoral patriarchy envisioned by Rousseau's tutor, a risk, however, that cannor be circumventd if the pdagogical project wishes not only to check on its own efficiency but also merely to claim the status of an education, One of the principal strategies of the negative education is to keep the child "natural" by keeping him as close to the home as possible. Hence the importance of the mother as the only wet nurse and of the father as the child\ teacher. What is considered "natural" in Emile is what is asso, ciated with the home or the principle embodied in it Gelf sufficiency, independence, innocence, etc.), when the subject makes himself his own home. But if the "natural" education ensures the p macy of the home, it is not surprising that travel should be restricted. To underwrite this avoid, ance of travel, however, requires recourse to its language. Very near the beginning ofthis voluminous work, a meraphorical topography is delineated thai obliges the teacher to choose betwn th "route" of nature and that of its other (humaniry, society, culture, art, etc.). Emil's education is seen as an altrnative journey (one that stays "within" or does not stray '{outside" the stat of nature), or as a nonvoyage, th natural route being one in which the traveler stays put, anchored against th imprceptibly coF rupting crosscurrents of cultural drift: "To form this rare man lthe man of naturel, what do we have to do? A lot, undoubtedly; ir is a mattr of preventing ant'thing from happening. When it is a question only of going against the wind, you change tack; but if the sea is strong and you wish to stay in place, you need io cast anchor. Watch out, young helmsman, that your cable doesn't pay out or that your anchor doesn't drag along the bottom, and that the ship doesn't drift before you notice it" (IY 251). A problem nsues, though, for this reactiv travel, to the xtent that it is still a question of "forming" this "natural" man that is, of entering into a temporal process, which, if any educational practice, even a negative one, is to succeed, must b negotiated in such a way rhat the srudenr knows

more afterwards than before. There is no ned to insist here on the ineenious

manipulation of Emile's character undertaken by the tulor to keep Emile "natural."rJ Rather, what I would lik to point out, keeping in mind the topographical model of the educational situation, is that a ciriain traveling i5 nedd-in order lo maintain-irs e\clusion, thar a certain accommodation with the outside must be made to preserve the inner domesticity of the

Emil\ first geography lessons cnter on the position of the home (IY 434-35). The location of one's home or of oneselfalready demands a ceriain
depa ure from home, from self. One can only learn what home is by knowing what it is not. Even earlier, one of Emile's firsl lessons involved learning the disposition of objects and distances around him, a lesson that can only be learned through on's movement in relation to them: "Only through movement do we larn that there are things which are not us, and only through our own movement do we acquire the ideaofspatial extension" (lY 284). Travel occurs as part of a stratgy designed to dny it, the explicit purpose of the liteml voyaeins at the end of Emile's ducation. The "natu(al" education involves a succession of voyages, then, each of which involves a return lo home. An economy of travel is establ;shed that would seem io allow for the possibility of a more adventurous journey al each succeding outing in Emile's education. The riskier voyages are not taken, however, until there is some certainty that their roule will lead back to the home. It is not surprising, then, that the last two of these figural excursions should involve women and literal voyaging, the "transporls" of eroticism and the jorissarc of travI. These only occur when all else is "in place" and the strategy ilself of leav;ng the home to find it can be made evident $irhour risk. Ihere would 'eE6 ro be a prescr ibed succe"'ion ro the sequence of thes voyages such that should one fail in its aim, all the succeeding ones would fail too, assuming, that is, that they could still take place at all. Such a hypothesjs is borne out by Rousseau's statemenr rhat the first lessons are the most important, since they determine everything that follows, and again by his assertion thai voyages do not change a percon's moral character bu( only confirm and reinforc what is already there. If the first steps are taken properly, all the rest follows, which of course recalls Rous seau\ insistence that the mother be the child's wet nurse and the father his tacher. That neither of these prerequisites to the natural education is mi by Emile already indicates that that "natural" education is a fiction, sinc not even in its exemplary case, that of Emile, can its conslitutive conditions be met. The student is always already "urnatural," always already out of the home. Even were its cond;tions fully met, though, the "nature" in question is less natural than cultural, namely, th soc,a/ institution of the family, here



in srructure. The security of the home is assured by its conjojning of patriarchal pedagogue, nursing mother, and male child. an arrangement whose beneficerr pastorality is elaborately played out in the fourth part of Roussau's novI, Julie, ou ta nouyelte Hdlolse (t't6}\, h,y the idyllic triad of Wolmar Julie, ard Sainfpreux (rhe childishness of whom is, of course, not a function of age but of his excessive sentimentality and narcissistic self-indulgenc). Now if the value of travel lies in the comparative study of "man" and his insrirutions (which leads the son ro realize that there is no better place to be than the parriarchal home), ihe danger of Irdvel is linked lo contact wirh women. who epiromire lor Rousseau that urban corruption and "cannibalism,' whose metaphorizarion also evokes the phantasmic specter of the yalina dentala. The anxiety of rravel, underscored by the need for rhe tutor's lireral .,guidance," is lundamentaltv
already nuclear

a diqplacemenr of Rou\\eau s deep-rooted and we documented an\ieri

about women and sexualiry.,6 Women figure rhe potential disruprion of the hom and of its fundamenial dyad of father and son, the preservation of which is indeed the ultimat aim of rhe..natural" educalion; hence, and despite the excoriarion of mothers who do not brast-feed thir children. the virtual disappearance of the mother herself, or evn of any surrogates of her, from Emileh early trainins. And at the other end of the pedagogical itinerary is found the perfect gjrl for Emile: the uneducated, decorporeatized, and domestically enclosed Sophie,l? the sense of whose name further bespeaks her allegoricat reducibility to the abstracr "wisdom" Emile is supposed ro have acquired from his education. Even so, Emilet encounter with her is carefullv mdiated by mulliple cominS. and going\. who.e dangers are themset\e. curbed by rhe ad!enr ol Sophie as rhe pri!rleged object ot lhe,tudenr'5 allection\. This double domesticarion, issuing in the final apotheosis ofthe patriarchal home blessed by wife and child, provides rhe narrative backdrop for Rousseaut pedagogical ruminarions in book V We first spy Emile and his teacher returning from Paris, whre they had thought ro find Emile,s future wif. This being the obvious place rol to find her given Rousseau,s aniiurban prejudice, the quesls failure ar rhis poinr reddunds io the pedagogue,s benefit as he inveighs against rhe ciry as the the very locus of vice: ,,Farewell then, Paris, you famous city, ciry of noise, smoke and mud, where women no Ionger believe in honor nor men in virtue. Farewell parh, we seek love, happiness, innocence; and we will never be far enough away from you,' (IY 691). Sophie is predetermined to be a counrry girt, and ir is onty afrer teacher and pupil have urterly lost theil way vallys and in mountains where no path is perceived" (tY ?73) rhar rhey find her, in a ptace so remote that it reminds Emile "of Horner\ time [when] one hardly traveled, and travelers we.e well received by all,, (IY 774). Setring up rheir residence

at a half-day's foot journey away, the iuror is able to fine tune his pupil,s affective investment by a carefully controlled schedule of visiaation privileges. When, after several months of courtship, wedding proposals are finally made, the tutor whisks Emile off on a rwo-year long grand tour! the ostensible purpose of which, as earlier noted, is to help Emile decide on his civic status by "dciding" to sray in th land ofhis birrh, an outcome all the mor predictable, of course, rhanks to Emile's amorous as well as civic attachment (see IY 853-55). His desire to return home ro his beloved Sophie also preserves him from the temptarions of the ciiy and of orher, less innocent women. As for Sophie, she does not accompanv her husbandto-be on this trip or on any of his pregrinarions, but awaits his rerurn home, as the desexualized keeper of his hearrh and intended mother of "his" children (the "proper destinaaion" of women, writes Rousseau, Iy 698). Only in this way can the oifos be preserved from the detour or ,,perversion" that women signify in the Rousseauian universe. As such, Rousseau's celebrated desire for a return to nature is perhaps less a yearning for some pre-Oedipal marernity rhan a desire for that t)ltjmate point de rpale, the fathet for whom Sophi is but ar imperfect stand-in, one whose precarious substiturabiliry can be seen ro follow whar Derrida has described as the "logic of the supplement."'3

Oedipal Returns; The Law of Succession: or, The Solitary Ones

ile and Sophie;

lf the pedagogical logic ofsuccessive voyages can be consrrued as a srraregy to master the dangerous detour of otherness emblematized by women,
another kind ofsuccession is equally iargeted by the turor's method, namely, the son's succeeding to the father's place as ruler of the home. At rhe same time that Emile is able to go voyaging ard gains the righr ro accept or renounc his citizenship, he also gains the righr to accept or renounce ,,his father's succession" (Enile, lV, 833), the rnunciation of which can be carried out simply by leaving the home and not coming back. The succession of travel in Emile leads ro Emile's righr of succession, thar is, ro rhe establishment ofhis own patemiry, consecratd in rhe child he begers. Emile will then face the task ol educating his child according to the preceprs of Emile, all of which means thar his own educalion is complered by his becoming a simulacrum of his father/teacher.Le Falherhood is futfitted hv making one s son another larher. thu, e\tabli,hing a ,rructure ot repet ition superior to and hasjurisdiction over the tarter (the son), the rlaiion rmains more what th text irself calls ..succession,,, a term implying nor ihe dis_ continuity of repetition bur a remporal conrinuity achieved by the posiaing

altlough to the extnt that ihe anterior term (rhe father) is considered



of a first trm

as the cause

or precondition for the

his maturity or manhood. This maturarion is accomplished precisely through the son's imitation of his father,s voyages. Tl6maque musr become worthy of his father by undergoing a series of advenrures reminiscent of those in the lliad and the Odlsse]. Ttmaque borh gains wisdom in exchange for his pains under rhe tutelage of Minerva, the goddess ofwisdom diseuised as Mentor,r, and learns to valxe his own father and homeland through the contrast provided by orher farhers (kines) and counrries. But

implied in the firsr rerm. A resutt of this relation of succession is rhe sonh father Emile still neds his turor,/farher at the end of Emile as an advisor and as a model to imitare: ..Stay the masrer of the young masters. Advise us, govern us, we will be docile: as Iong as I tive, I will need you, I need you more than ever, now that my functions as a man ar beginning. You have fulfilled your functions; guide me so thar I may imitate you, and rake a resr, i1 is rime for rhal, (Em,/e, IV. 868). These are the linal $ords ol lhe te)\r ol Enile. A, re rha see in rhe sequei. disaster arrives when the father abandons the domls (to the ion). The father, therefore, incarnares the good economics of rhe home as orio.r.,o Hence, it is nor surprising that travel abroad should be seen as a denial of the father concomitart with a seduction bv \romen. And if ihe righr lo royage i, conculenr qirh (he nghr ro ren;unce Lhe tarher, rhe accomplishment of th voyage wirh the rerurn home aflirms in a positive fashion the son's relarion to his father. The return home makes the son worthy of becoming a farhr in his own right, rhat is, of succeedins th father. The succession of farher and son rhen plays jtself out through the narrative of the prodigal son. It is surely no accident ihat the only two works of literature th ruror allows to become a parr of Emile,s educarion, nobinson Crusoe and Ferrelon's TAemaque, borh confront the question of the father in terms of rhe voyage. The slory of Rorinson Crusoe (1718) explicitty relates travel to rhe rejection of th fathet for the hero's misfortunes ar sea leading up to his shipwreck on the famous island whre he remains a castawav for rwenrviour years are consequenr ro his disobeling his tarher\ advice and commands not to travel. This disobedience of rhe paternal law of rhe oitos is construd as sinful. It is only through establishing and maintainirg a home on his island, by domesricaring ir, thar Robinson Crusoe is able ro redeem himself in God's eyes (through his conversion) anal to learn the lessons of the father. Robinson Ctrsoe is thus easily read as an allegory of atonement for sins against (cod) the father. Fenebnt Tdldnaque (1699) offers ih story of a voyase rhat is simultanously a sarch for rhe father and th means by which rhe son acquirs
dependency on th

same time, the second term is seen to build upon or add to what is already

second trm.




the end of Tlmaqu's travails is to make him a worthy successor to Ulysse through th establishment of a mimetic relation between them, what is F6nelon's work if not a text that attempls to be a worthy successor to the Odfsset by miming it (a mimicry, though, that also opens rhe texr up to the long tradition of its parody, from Marivaux's Le Tdlimaque trovesli 11736l rhrough Aragon's Les aventures de Tdlimaqre [966])? This mimetic vertigo is further xacerbated by Rousseau's describing ihe voyage of Emile and his teacher as jtself an imitation of Til'moque, one whose itinerary can accordingly be supplied by th reader: "So I ke hill:. tead Tdldmaque and follow his route: we seek happy Salentum and the good ldomeneus made wise by dint of misfortDnes. Along the way, we find many Protesilas and no Philocles. . . . But lt us leave the reader to imagine our travels, or have them undertak these rravls in our place, a copy ol Tlldmaque in


hand" (lV,8a9). To make matters brief, in thse texts, and on several diffrenl levels within these texts, the resolution of the son's relation to the father is effectd through the former's imitation of the latter. The destiny of Emile is in emulation.r: Emile's negative education is thus predicated upon a law of parental succession, which is itself a law of resemblances that nonelheless mainlains a hierarchy of the resmbled (father) over the resembling (son). The son can only succeed ihe faiher iI he can establish a relation of resemblance between himself and his father. But this states the necessity for the son of makirg himself like the father, of making what distinguishes the father parl of himself, of internalizine his fatherliness. Thus the institution of the law of the father in such a way rhar ir makes rh son worthy of succeeding him, that is, of becoming a fathr in his own turn. And yet, this metaphorical process of internalization or incorporation, this institutiomlization of the father through such ceremonies as rites of passage and tests of lineage, must take place without the father.:r lt is up to the son to prove himself worthy of succeeding the falher, because it is only if the
son succeeds in resembling the fathr that he can be the son. Paradoxically, one must move away fuom the father in order to come near him, and here we begin to return to the problem of travel in Emile. just as one must tum oneself into one\ home, so must one rurn oneself into (ihe image of) one's father, but both of these transformations can only be effected by leavine home and father. The succession to fatherhood has th structure of a voyage (as the succession of places defining an itinerary to or from a home) insofar as the father becomes the point of reference (olkor or home) for the stabilization or domestication of family relationships. The succession of travel can or y take place because (or b understood if) there is a home; the law of parental succession can only be carried out if a father is posited as a porrt of reference. The educatjon of Emile altempts 1o ensure a smooih



succession in both by maintaining (he privilege of home and father even if it mans that one must assum for oneself rhe role of home and father. We need 1o considr, though, whar happens in the absnce of home or father. ln Emile's moral topography, the self-sufficient and parriarchal home in the country is opposed to the perverse, annibalistic, and feminine inrerdependence of city life. Self-sufficiency and enclosure characrerize the ideal

of the


to the point that the (male) subject must be willing and able


of lmile rurns our in the sequel ro be itturcry and p,ecariouJy fragile. tt takes little more than the rutor,s absnce and Emile and Sophie,s move to the city for all the peace and security gained through rhe',natuml,, education to be lost. On the most general level, one could resume the plot of Emile and Sophie as follows: because Bmile ard Sophie hav left the paradise of home, thy fall into a series of misfortuns rhat leaves Sophie
prcgnant by another man and Emile a vagabond who eventually finds himself a slave in Algiers. The denial of home, of rhe reachings of En i/e, of onet origins, of rhe fathet lead to disasrer morally, economjcally, polit, ically, and even physically. One can easily read onro this narrative the typically Rousseauisr plot of the fall of man from nature as it is elaborated

assume that oi&onomr'\. self-sufficiency in himself should the dom6 be lost. The sequel to Emilq the unfinished novel tmrle dnd Sophie; or, The Sotitory O',er can be read as an allegory of the loss of the orfo.t, Thtsuccess storv

most explicitly in the rwo Discourses. Ifon were to follow rhe aitegorizarion of lhese narratives as voyages, on would be tmpted to conclude that the economy of travl in Rousseau would be one of loss; such an assertion would seem to be borne onr by the negative pedagogical principles of Emrk which would try to presrve rhe ..nalural man,, from such loss and therefore from travel (even if it means undertaking voyages as a means of keeping them from taking place).

A closer reading of the function of trayet ir Emite and Sophie rcveals something more complex, however; for it is the strucrural ,ecrsit, of rravel that is nol considered in this first reading ofthe novet, which only considers
the voyage as a contingenr or accidental fall (that is, as an unwise but essentially urmotivared decision). Why do Emile and Sophie leave paradise in th first plac? A combinarion of circumsrances: the departure of the tutor, the death of close family members (Sophie,s father, mothet and dauAhtr). In short, rhe Edenic happiness of the home has been losr. Home is no longer quite home, and whar stands jn its place serves onty as a

reminder ofits loss: "All rhe objects which reminded Isophiel of lher tamilyl worsened her sorrows" (lY 885). The onty way to prese e home is to leave it, so Emile resolves to "remove [d/oianer] her from these sad places,' (IY 885). The home is to be conserved by its denial, a movement suesestive

Hegelian Aufhebung by the negation of the home leading to its ,',-t dialectical resolution at a higher level, that of travel as home. Nevertheless, the voyage away from home does not lead in this novel to a dialectical resolution of the problem, as the denial of the home does not succeed in preserving it bua only provides the momntary illusion of preservation: the home away from home tums out to be even less of a home than its ptedecessor, and the flight to the city only triggers new and more irreparable disasters. These disasters in turn occasion new alights, new voyages on the part of Emile. We can thus detect the basic narrative structure of Emr'le and Sophie: the rccuperation of the o,/<o.r through the flight away from it, a recuperatjon whose success is at best ambiguous. The loss of the home is denied by the affirmation of its loss, an affirmation the very enunciation of which is supposed to relocate or reinstate the home. It is as if by casting oneself out of the home one were casting oui of th home whatever was interfering with its homeliness. The problem is that it is still oneself who is being cast out. As such, this narrative structure of mediation through flight is not simply infinitely repatable; it implicitly requires that it ,e infinitely repeated as each loss (of home) can only be repaired through a strategy entailing a further loss, which in turn leads to further loss and so forth. Thus the voyage that is supposed to rgain the home only leads to greater and greater losses (from Sophie's initial sorrow over deaths in the family to Emilet final captivity), even if all these losses are supposed ro be recovered in the final proposed reunion of Emile and Sophie "in a desert island lune tle ddsettel;',a Emile's ex-ile is to be brought to a close by the rcovery of the home in the form of a utopic insularity that can already be read in his proper name: Emile. Such a conclusion would assert a redemptive return that closes the spiral of loss. It is ahe positing of such a circular movement thar allows for the undertaking of the journey as an economic bid for the recovery of the oifos. On only sets out on the voyage because ther is some assurance of recovedng what one has lost or will have lost. Jean Starobinski speaks of a "joy of return" in Rousseaut work wherein the grief of departure is accepted insofar as it is a step or detour toward the pleasure of return or reconciliation.'zs While this hypothesis may be corrct on the level of theme, it ignores a more complex structure in the economy of travel as circular completion, as what is asserted \n Emile and Sopire is rh paradoxical notion of dparture as an arrival. Such ar assrtion disrupts any possible economy of travel by an uncontrollable proliferation of departures and arrivals, and therefore inevitably states the impossibility of coming to any

final destination, and hence of completing the stotyt Emile and Sophie
remains an unfinished (and unfinishable) novel.



A particularly strong example of this indeterminacy of departure and arrival occurs when Emil sets out on his journey away from Paris after Sophie's confession ofinfidelity. There it is that Emilecomes back to himself (revena A moi IIY 8981) whil leaving. The departure is a return to the self, in this case to the Emile formed by the lessons of the tutor, an Emile botb more "natural" and morally superior to the one putatively depraved by city living and female infidelity: "l quietly /e/t the house resolved never to go back. Here ends my lively but brief madness, and I came back into my sood sense [./? renlldi dans non bon sensl" (IY 894, emphasis added). Eschewing madness by reentedng the "good sense" Descafies claimed no one ever found wanting in oneself, Emile is able 10 regain both meaning and direction in his new existence thanks to the "force" of the education given him by the tutor At the same time, it allows him io return to a moral purity associatd with that period in his life. Thus his voyase is also an allegorized moral journey in which he finds goodness and truth aftr the detour of error. But this is to forget that th dtour is constitutive of th rturn, as error is of truth. lt is only because one has set out on the journey that one can return, and so the flight from home or self becomes a necessary moment or movement in finding either one. But ifthe departur is paradoxically an arrival, then arrival calls for the perpetual departure emblematized in Emile's subsequent vagabond existence. On the other hand, if one leaves ilt order io arrive where one supposedly already is, then the departure has already taken place before one leaves. One is neither at the point of departure nor at the point of arrival, and so one needs to affirm a departure and define a point of arrival in order to maintain the economy of the damrs and of the voyage, of the voyage domus. To repeat a point already made, Emile and Sophie only leave ^s home when hom has left them (the dparture of the lutor and the demise of Sophie\ parents and child their dparture, that is, on '1h great voyage" that is death). Emile complains of a "repose worse rhan agilation" (Y 894). As in the case of Montaigne's idlness, what one thought was rest turns out to be anoiher motion, and one all the more thratening because it takes place in the supposed place of rest, ihe home. According !o the logic we have rpeatedly seen, that motion in the home can only be immobilized if one affirms th motion of travel by leaving the home, by embarking on a voyage. To affirm travel is to eive oneself th illusion that the motion (of travel) is caused by and therefore under the domestication of the traveler-with the implication rhar one is also apable of stopping thaa movement entirely. But this logic can easily be reversed to sbow that if rest is to be atlained through travel, thn the notion of rest is only an aftereffect of the movemenl of travel. It is only because one is already in motion that

\nhomelike (unheimlich) in the home, something that could be called a "repose worse tban agitation;' \Nhat Emile and Sopiie enacts is the prob, Iem, only surreptitiously posed in Enile, of rhe inherent instability of rbe home. It is as if the home could nor itself even be irself. It needs to be dfended and protected (i.e., maintained as home) through whar we saw in Emile to be a theory of parriotic dury.:6 Bur if the home is weak and cannot be depended upon to fulfill its very function of being home, rhen Emile's tutor is right ro insist thar Emile be able to survive even without the home. Whar does the home Iack such that it cannot be depended upon or cannot even surviv indepndendy as home? An answer mighr be found if we turn back for a moment to the place in Emle where rhe student recounts to his tutor what he has learned in his voyages: In my travels, I searched if I could find some corner of earth wher I could be absolutely mine; but in what place among men does one no longer depend upon their passions? All thinga considered, I found that my wish was irself contradicrory; for had I nothing else ro hang onro, I would at leasi hold onto rhe land in which I had fixd myself: my life would be attached ro rhis land as the land of the Dryads was attahed to their trees. I have found that power and liberty were two incompatibte words; I could only be the master of a thatched cottage by ceasing to b master of myslf. (IY 856)

rest can or need be posited as a goal. What Emile dos nor realize when he speaks of taking "a grear step toward repose" (IV, 905) is rhat any step in that direction must involve a step away from it: ro move roward a state of rest means that one has moved away from it, since on is now more than ever in a state of motionWhat I would like to suggst is that even if the don could be preserved in its domesticity, rhre remains something inherenrly 'ls undomesticatable or

An opposition is drawn here btween mastery of the home G)oh,er, mastet of a thatched cottage, and of the self (frcedom, mastet of mlsetk. Each of these tasks precludes the other. A home needs ro b maintained as home, and thus demands a certai[ "atrachment,, that ties the subject to it, impairing his liberty. lt is only a home ro the exrent to which it is matle to be one. On the other hand, any instability in the home means rhe same for the subject dwelling in it. Witness Sophie's infidelity. The home is unreliable because it maks the sub.iect dependenr upon it, rhat is, upon something else besides himself.,? Like the women enclosed within it or encounrered outside it, the home itself becomes a rreacherous detour in the economv of a {male) sell. desirou\ ol an absoture immediac} and auronom}. Th solution would seem to be for rh subiecr ro declare himself his own home, which means rhar he becom5 hi\;", In**. t-or Rouiseau,





this is clearly the morally suprior goal, which Emile achieves paradoxically only at the moment he loses his civic freedom. "I am freer than before," he concludes while locked in a Barbary prison (Enile and Sophie, lv,916). This conclusion is sustained through a Stoic morality, which accentuates the difference between self and world by leveling all external influences or coercions to the same "law" or "yoke" of necessity: "From these reflections, I drew the consequence thai my change of state was more apparent than real, that if freedom consisted in doing what one wanted, no man would be free; for all are weak, all are dpndent upon things and upon harsh necessity; that he who most knows how to want what necessity commands is the freest, since he is never forced to do what he doesn't wanf' (IV, 917). Such Stoicism, patterned aftr Montaigne and the third rule of Descartes's provisional morality, allows the self to assrt its auton_ omy at the very momeni it accedes to all that it cannot master. lt is a mere question of desiring what is alrcady the case, a logic already implied in Emile's desire to travel as a way to mastef a movement already underway. That such a logic shoutd become so clearly formulated at the time of Emile's captivity may seem ironic, yt it is nonetheless a proposition characteristic

nontravel. ln fact, travel can no longer be rigorously understood when all lands become one's homeland: "Everywhre I passed for a native inhabitant" (lY 913); "In breaking the knots that attached me to my country, I extended it to include the whole earth" (IV, 912). Ii is inreresring rhar rhe gap between the self as home and th entire world as home should be so small. It is as if the self being assured, all else could be domesticated. Rousseau thus follows the itinerary charted by Montaigne, Descartes, and

of the

on the island

Rousseau who requested that he be kept in "perpetual captivity" oi Saint-Pierre. and who stated elsewhere that he could be free and happy even were h locked in the Bastille.:3 The advantage of the

morality of self-domestication is that it can adapt to any coniingent cir' cumstances while claiming that contingency as willd: "The time of my servitude was that of my reign, and never had I such authorily over myself as when I bor th fetters of the barbarians" (lV, 917). This servitude gives rise to a pedagogical experience rivaling that of the tutor himself: "Their deviances were for me livelier instructions lhan your lessons had ever been, and under these rough masters, I took a course in philosophy much mor useful than the one I took with you" (lY 917). why is this education "more useful" than the first, if not because it is not dependent on another's instruction? Emil leams philosophy by attaining the ideal of the autodidact. After this apprenticship, he begins his rise in Algerian society as a parvenu, using only his owr wits. Everything is to the subject's credit, his los5es as sell as his gains. The same stance allows for a leveling of all geographical and cultural differences: Emile's adaplability is creditd with making him "a man who feels in his place everywhre" (IY 906). Emile is everylvher at home because he is his own home. The qualification of always being "in mv place" corroborates this thesis: "Thus, I was always in my place" (IY 913); "What did I do in being born if not commence a voyage which should only finish with my death? I perform my task, I stay in my place ld ma placel" GY, 914). This last citation clearly states the paradoxical economy of travel as

Concomitantly, though, the problem of rhe self has become a topo, graphical one: "ln order to know the universe in every way that could interest me, it sufiices for m to know myself; wirh my place assigned, all is found" (IV, 883). If the assignation of one's place founds self-knowledge, which in turn suffices for knowldge aboul the universe, rhen all knowledge devolves from the answer 10 the question "v)herc am l?" (as opposed ro "who" or "what am Il")-" But if one finds oneself (to be at home) anywhere and everywhere, one only finds onself whrever one looks. The self reduced to locating itself by its topographical position is a solitary one. No one lse is there when one is everywhere. Prhaps this is the sense of th story's subtitle, The Solitary seems that for Rousseau, to find or refind oneselt;s to find oneself alone, and it is this solipsistic implication of the topographical understanding of the self thar is descrjbed most srrik, ingly in the strange world of the Reyeljes of a Solitary Walkea \\hich begins, "Here am I, then, alone upon the arth" (I, 995). The bleak world in which the narratot Emile, finds himself al the beginning of Emile and Soprfu thus prefigures that of the Firsr Reverie. Both describe the world around the narrator as a nowher in which it is difficult, if nol impossible, to find one's bearings. The nartutot of Emile on /t Sopr,e describes himself as being in a "land of exile" (lY 882); in the First Reverie, the narrator says that he is "on this earth as upon a foreign planet" (1, 999). But if in th First Reverie, this disorientation would seem to be domesticatd through a recentering of the discourse onto the speaking subject, in Emile ond Sophie lhe only point of reference the narrator can find is his old tutor, whom he addresses as both "master" and "father":

But you, my dear mastet do you liv? Are you still mortal? Are you still in this earthly land of exile lcette tere d'dxi4 with your Emile, or do you already with Sophie inhabit the fatherland of just soi'rls IIa pattie des ames jrslesl? Alas! wherever you ar, you are dead for me, my eyes will never see you again, bul my heart w;ll incessantly be preoccupied with you. Never have I betrer known the value of your caring as after harsh necessity had so cruelly made m feel its blows and had taken evryrhine from me except me. I am alone, I have lost everything, but I remain to mvsetf, and



despair has nor overwhelmed me. These pages will not reach you, I cannor hope rhar_rhey do. Undoubtedly, itJy *ttt p..i.f, ,n."!. jy' an) man: but ir doe\ nor ma er. rhey have been wrirren, t collare lhem. I bind them. I continue to $rire them. and it is to you that I address rhem: ir is to you thar I wanr to trace rhese pre;ious memorie. rhat nouri,h and break m) hea : ir i, ro )ou thar I wanl to gi\e an account ol mysel. ot my leetings. of m] behavior, ot thrs hea,l thar you have given me. rlV. 882)

If Emile is lost in a ,,land of exile,', thar is, away from the istand or ,,ile,, he would love as "aime-ile," the tutor is either also in this land of exite (in which cas he is srilt .,wirh,, Emile and can be invoked), or already in "thr larherland ofjusr.out\, a tor heaven. But it rhe t;ror rs deacl and in heaven, he r. also in lhe ..lalhertand of lhe juql,.. whfre a\ falher he justly belongs. civen rhat the morality of the tutor cannot be put into question at the level of Emile,s comprehension of him, and given thar the turor is called'.my father" by Emile, rhen rhe tutor,s locatiin in "the fatherland of jusr souls', becomes a rautology to rhe exrenr thar the just father is wher he belonas, in the farherland oi the just. So if the tutor is dead and cannor be reached by Emjte,s discourse, it is because he is in his proper dwelling place, rhe safe home or isle of refuge which is ort of (or not in) th ex-ile. The farher is ar hom, where the son would like ro be but is not. But then, in a surprising move, it suddenly turns out thar it does nor maiter to the son where the farher is: ,'Wherever you are, you are dead
for me, my eyes wiu never

word. never reach lhe tutofi..These pages $ill nol reach you, I cannor hope rhat lhey do. Undoubledty. rhey wilt pcrish unseen by an, manj bul rl does nor mdller. rhe) have been sri en. Icollare (hem, I bind lhem, I conlinue ro srile lhem. and it i\ to you lhar I address them: ir is ro lou rhar I want to rrace rhese prcciou, memories... The tarher ir rherefore ontv lhere ro lill rhe di(curcire po,ilion ol addre.see. U nerner rne me*age e,e'r reachf\ lhe rece'ver or nor i. of le,s impoflance rhan rhar rhe me"sage be addre$ed ro hin, in other words. that the enuncia on ot rhe discou,,e take place. In addressing rh farher, who as far as the speakr is concrned ("you are dead for ne") h oul of exile and back ar lhe home to which rhe speaker has no hope of returning, rhe speaker's task seems less thar of attempting a hopeless communication rhan of finding a point of reference toward which the discourse can be addressed and around which it can be arliculared. Ih .pealer: predicamenl. a\ rerruat a. ir Lopographrcat, ljnd5 issue in rhe po.iting ol a cerlain o/*oj llhe {arher a. inredocuror;, a /ol,er around which the discourse can be domesricared within rhe safe con_ fines ol a communicarive act produced by and under the mastery of rhe

you again.,,


does not even mafter

if Emile,s

speaker. The father, then, is the fatherland in rlation to which the speaker's discursive wandering cari take place without fear of loss or infinirude. In other words, because there is an addressee, there can be an addressor who sends a message to him. The speaker can speak because rhere is someone to speak to. Rousseau's grounding of the possibility of discourse in the determination of the ddd,,esse would thus seem to rcverse Descartes's discursive grounding in the place of the dddressor'. This formula(ion of the problem suggests another, however, in which rhe sub.ject of the discourse entirely eludes the necessity of an interlocutor for the constitution of his own subjectiviiy by positing the addressee as a fictior, albeit a necessary 11 is this fictionality ofthe addrssee, of rhe father, ol rhe oikos, that Rousseau's texi demonslrates at the very momeni that thos principles are invoked as origins. It seems to mafter less ihar rhese terms exist than that they be posited as such, as poinrs of reference in relation to which all else can be placed and thereby mastred. At the same time, such rccessary or theoretical fictions pose what seems ro be an insurmountable dilemma: How can th fiction be recognized as borh necessary and fictive, for the fiction would only fulfill its function of domesricarion if it were denied as fiction, that is, if ir were accepted as truth? ln other words, one must act ds y' the fiction were true in order to make it workA necessdry fiction cannot be posited as ficrion. . . and yer rhis is precisely wha( Rousseau's text works to do whether that fiction b called nature, origin, home, or To make of the fathet such a necessary fiction cannot be without consequnces, though, for the law of succession that posits the father as rhe sont ultimate refernce point. lf it is up to the son to become the father in the latter's absence, does this not mean that the son either makes himself into the father or himself maks the father (a problem of self-engendermnr not unlike that posed by the autobiographical project of Moniaigne)? Is ii not the son who, in the rite of succession, defines the law of the faiher not by defining himself as son but by defining his father as father? But if the father is only defined as such so that the son can constitute himself as son, then at the same time that the father is privileged (as origin, as law) he is denouncd as a fiction engendered by the son. The son turns out to be the father of the father, but to say this is to upser ahe very law of succesion set up by th son as the rule of the father. Somehow, for the paternalistic pedagogue thai is Rousseau (whose own farher had abandoned him before he, in turn, had notoriously abandond his children ro a public orphanag), the father must not be denied the authority and anteriority attributed to him by the son, for it is those attribures thar define him as father. Nor must the father appear as a fiction of the son, and yer this is what happens iL Emile and Sophie, borh when Emile addresses his tutor




as his father (since we know from Emle that the tu(or is nol Emile\ fathet and when he addresses him regardless of his being alive or dead, or of his being able to receive the message or not. At the same lime, however, that the rule of the faihr seems to become in Emile's discourse only a fiction

enabling that discourse to take place, Emile\ invocation of his "father" takes on a note of pathos as Emile credits his own abilities to withs(and misfortuns to the pdagogical work of his "father." The relation of succession thus implies both a nostalgia or desire for the an(erior term and an assertion of its loss. ln terms of travel, a desire for a rclurn (to the home, lo nature, to the origin) is u(ered at the same time as the impossibility of the return, In lerms of Rousseau's pedagogical project, the "natural" education, as he himself admits, is "from its first steps already outside

nature" (IY 259).

Walking and WJiting:. Confessions

To recapitulat, the placement of travel within the succession of experiences that make up Emilet educatio! not only bespeaks the latter\ larger itinerary as being itself a voyag; but also reveals in its successive displacements the workings of an Oedipal nostalgia, of an impossible desir ro rerurn to a (paternal) home that, like naturc in the Second Discoune, no longer is. and no doubt never was, because ii can only be posited after the fact and in the wake of its loss. This logic or movement of succession. which retroactively posils a first term (origin, nature, father) as the cause or temporal precondition of a second one (history, culture, son), is endemic not only to Rousseau\ pedagogical and political theories but also to the gnre of

autobiography practicd (or even, some would say, invented ) by him.rz Rousseaut Corlessior?s differ from the kind of self-portrajr exemplified, for example, in the tssals of Montaigne by the desire to explain his life through the rccounting of its events in the order in which rhey rook place. The notion of succession allows, then, for the hypothesis that because a particular evenl took place in one's youth or childhood (the mother's death in childbirth, a broken comb, a stolen ribbon) any subsequent misforlunes are but the inevitable consequence of that event.I (Such moments are marked in the Confessio s by the refrain, "Here begins the tale of my misfortunes," whose vry repetitiveness begins to deconstruct the posl l?oq

2/opler ,oc fiction of succession.) The first of these "misfortunes" Roussau describes in the Corlessior.t is his birth itself, which brings about his mother's death, but the resultant motherless hom also remains a marvelous object of nostalgia for a Jean Jacques who remembers the warm closenss of a father whos sentimental bond to his son was grounded in th latter's resemblance to his lost wife

joint reading of novels until lale at night. This wondrously idyllic symbiosis between father and son is brokn when Rousseau senior, embroiled with a French olficer and threatened with iime in prison, is obliged to flee Ceneva and "expatriate himself ls'arpolrier] for the resi of his life" (1, l2), leaving his son to the tutelage of his brother-inlaw, who pensions the young Jean-Jacques in Bossy with the Lambercir family. The succeeding events of book l, culminating in the famous closing of the city gates of Ceneva on the hapless adolescent out for a walk "not even dreaming of returning" (1, 4l), progressively distance Rousseau from Ihe paternal home, thus expatriating him inlo (\ 'hat he considert greater and greater misfortune. The subsequent books of the Corlesslors can thus be seen to constitute a vast journey, roughly broken between the vagabond years of his youth (books II Vll) and th unending series of flights from "persecution" in the aftermath of his sudden rise to celebdty as the author of the Dlscorlse of l75l (books Vlll-XIl). Book II already plots out a psychogeography that enframes in general Rousseau's iiinerant existence ("my ambulatory mania", [, 54]) and that is commensumte with what was found inEzile. Pursuant to his expatriation from Ceneva, Rousseau wanders abour U'errdl until he meeis the woman he will later so affectionately call "Maman," Mme. de Warens, living in Annecy amidst the Savoy mountain peaks and vallys, not unlike the terrain where Emile finally locates Sophie. Noi only does this Alpine terrain connote a maternal and rural innocence (erotically evoked ;n such images as his fanrasizing "vats of milk and cream on the mountain sides" [, 58]) but it inviaorates the young Jean-Jacques with an almost literal sense of supedority: "For me, it seemed lovely to cross the mountains at my age, and to rise superior In'dlevet au dessusl to my comrades by the full height of the Alps lde toute Ia hautew des alpes\" (t,54).ra This sense of elevation continues as Rousseau crosss over on foot ;nto ltaly, a traversal he cannot resist describing \vith the kind of imperialistic allusion typical of French travelers to the region: "To be traveling in Italy so young, to have seen so many countries alrady, to be following in Hannibal's footsteps across the mountains br,ivre,4rnibal i lruwts Ies nonsl, seemed to me a glory above my yea$ Iau dessus de mon aqel" (1,58). lndeed, the entire experience is said to explain one of Rousseau\ lifelong passions: "This memory has left me the strongest laste for everything associared wirh ir, for mountains espcially and for traveling on foor lles wyaqes pedesl/sl" (1, 59). Roussau's Alpine epiphany is brought ro a sudden halt, however, by his arrival in Turin, the great city ar the beginning of the Northern lralian plain carved out by the Po rivr. Il is here thar ihe young Swiss runaway has ben sent in order formally to abjure his Calvinisr faith in favor of Roman Catholicism. A most powerful ser of boundaries is thus already
and solidified by their




and Milan,rr Rousseau undergoes one perverse misadventure after another (leaving him, as h says, "not my virginity, but my n idenhead Inon ma l,itginiri, mais mon pucelogel" tI, l08l), from his being the objecr of a homosexual passion, to his unconsummated adultry with Mme. Basile, to his exhibitionist antics, ro rhe inception of his onanism. It is also during this time that he falsely accused the servanr girt Marion of having stolen the ribbon he had himself pilfered, and so commirted the heinous deed that would forever weigh on his conscience. And years tater, during his soiourn in Venic, Rousseau's view of Catholic Italy as urban depravity was no doubt reconfirmed by his disastrous advnrure with the courtesan Zuliena, the sight of whose malformed or "blind,' nipple (tdton boryne) leaves Rousseau impotenr, as if the blinding absence of the maternal nippte triggered a return of his repressed fear of women: ..I saw as clear as daylighr that instead of ahe most charming person I could possibly imagjne I held in my arms some kind of monstr" (I, 322).16 It is in Venice roo that

sketched out as country meets city and mountain encounters ptaint with the difference between religions redoubled by the difference belween rhe French and the Italian languags. Small wonder rhat a high hill overlooking Turin should have provided the setting for rhe moralistic injunctions ser fofih by Rousseau in the Profession of Faith of a Sayofard Vicar (lV, 565), or that his spirited defense of that work against the attack spearheaded by Jean-Robert Tronchi,n's Leures dcrites de la campagne (1761) should have seized the moral high ground with its rejoining title of Lettres dcrites de Ia montagne (1764). But if for the Iikes of Montaigne, Descartes, and Montesquieu, th Alps could only represenr a nuisance, a geographical obstacle to be overcome on their way to cisalpine adventure, for Roussau they are that from which there is literally nowhere to go but down: ..Mv regret at reaching Turin so quickly was tempered by the pleasure of seeing a great city and ihe hope of soon cutting rhere a figure worthy of myself. For the fumes of ambition \rcre ising to m), hedd, and already I regarded myself infinitelf aboy my old position of apprentice. I was far from ^s foreseeing that in a very short time, I should fall considerably ,e/olr it" (I, 59; emphasis added). And indeed in rhis land of piemonre, situared at the foot of the mounrains, Rousseau only finds what he views as base and ugly. To his horror, he finds himselflodging with both cultural and religious others ("Jews and Moors," and all kinds of Catholic Itatians) and sexual others (homosexuals, couriesans, '|tthe greatest sluts and most villainous whores" [I, 60]). If for Montaigne rhe charm of lraly was not far removed from a blissful morbidity, Rousseau's peninsular experience is thar of a fearful and perverse sexualiry, which he discovers in himself as well as in othrs. Residing in Turin at the very same rime as Monresquieu, who saw it as a rathet dull town in comparison to the tudic excitement of Venice

Rousseau claims to have gotten the idea for making Emile fatl in love


to his departure on the grand tour,

whose streotypjcal destination was Italy. The governor of a young Englishman would have prevented the latter's corruption at the hands of a Venetian lady by the lad's prior engagement wiih an English woman, news of whom would have kpt him true to her

(Enile, lv,


Georges May's celebrated analysis of Rousseau's relation to women as split between asexual blonds and ove(ly sexual brunettesrr would thus seem to find a gographical corollary in the opposition between Switzerland and Italy. The third country in which the peregrinations described in the Con/esrrbns occur is France, where there is a conjugation of the two poles, rural tranquillity and Parisian decadence, blonds and bruntts, Mme. de Chnonceaux and Mme. de Larnage, Threse Levasseur and the Comtesse d'Houdtot. The Cor?2ssior,.s end with Rousseau's dpartur for England, a country wher no women at all figure in Rousseau\ imaginary; there he was uniquely preoccupid by his shifting relations with powertul men such as David Hume, James Boswell, and even King George III.TB What one could call Rousseau's "Carte du Tendre" is again amply played out in Nouvelle Heloiie, where the rural sanctity of Clarens contrasts boih with


of a Paris dominated by "loose women" and \rith Milord Edouard's erotic misadventures in Rome. More sianificantly, the moral purity and "goodness" of that Swiss lopos is secured by that sternest oi Roussauian father figurs, M. de Wolmat who panoptically stands behind the ethereal and blond Juli as the unquestioned ruler of Clarens and guarantor of the home.r! That this ultimate return to the patriarchal home can only lake place in or as a fiction reconfirms the logic oI succession adumbrated by rhe traveling in Emile and its sequel. To understand the Conlelsiors as a kind of ex(ended voyage narrative nonetheless also requires accounting for another kind of return. Rousseau's autobiography is not a travelogue, like those written by Montaigne and Montesquieu, whose notations were compiled while on the road or shortly thereafter; it is a narrativized sequence of recollections, written years later, that mimes the succession ofvents in Rousseau's life, their return in writjng as the accumulated exprince of the book's signaiory. If travel, pursuant to the logic of succession, simultaneously posits a desire for a return and the impossibility of its realization, then in terms of autobiography, the dread detour of travel would correspond to what risks not coming back to the autobiographer's memory, to what escapes his consciousness: the moment of forgetfulness that is the temporal precondition for the remembrance of a memory to occur as an event. This dilemma is explicitly discussed in a passage of book lV of the Conle$iors in terms of Rousseau's regretful failure to write a travelogue: "In thinking over the details of my
the corruption




life which are lost to my memory, what I mosi regret is that I did not keep journals of my travels,' (I, 162). Because his travels were nor written dow; at the time they took place, they can no longer be remembered. But if travel takes place outside of memory and wriring, one thing is remembered: "Never did I think so much, exist so much, live so much, be myself so much-if I may speak in such a way*as in the journeys I have taken alone and on foot." Roussau's voyages imply a momenr of plenitude (of intel_ leciion, of being, of selfhood) thar no Ionger exists. Hence the nostalgic desire to remembff them and the frustratior at not being able ro. Not having been put inro writing, these moments of epiphany can no longer be recollected except for rhe mere fact that they were momenrs of epiphany,
and as such, deserving to be rcmembered.a0 On further derail does srand our, tholrgh-these voyages were of a spe_ cific kind, namely "alone and on foot.,, The celebrated image of Rousseau as promeneur solitaire (solitary watker) surfaces in rhis passage and impures


traveled on foot only in my prime and always wirh delight. Duries.

horses and carriages has replaced rh childt pleasure in walking, ir is because the immediacy of the lafer has given way to the mediatory injunctions of the former, which tums transportation into a mere means to an all-consuming end. This kind of tleology, already denounced by Rousseau in th "Of Voyages" section of E'/rile is what the tutor rsists when traveling with his young pupil:
We do not travl then as couriers bur as travlers. We rhink nor

business and luggage to carry soon forced me to play the gentleman and to hire carriages; then gnawing cares, rroubles and anxiety climbed in with me, and from that moment, instead of feeling as once had only rhe pleasures of being on the road, I was conscious of nothing but the need 10 ardve at my destination" (Confessions, 59). If the aduh world of


a powerful immediacy ro the act of walking alone: travel wirhout the mediation of a means of transportation or even of companionship. Lacking the cultural as well as the physical etevation and chivalric ease a horse ca; give, or the protctive enclosure found in boats and carriages, walking is the last socially presrigious mode of transportarion, the most plebeian way to get around, bur ir is also the most independent and least rliani upon some vehicular means of propulsior rhat could bring about the rravetert downfall or standsiill: I can conceive of only one means of traveling thar is mor agreeable than going horseback, and that is ro go on foot. you leave when you want, stop at will, do as much or as tittle exercise
as you

only of the two endpoints, but also of the inrerval rhar separates them. The journey itself is a pleasure for us. We do not underrake it grimly sitting and as if imprisoned in a little, tightly closed cage. We do not travel with the ease and comfo of women. We do nor deprive ourselves of the lresh air, nor rhe sight of the surrounding objects, nor the convenience of conremplating them ro our liking when it pleases us. Emil never entered a posGchaise, and scarcely travels post-haste unless he is rushed. .. . When all you wanr to do is to arrive, you can dash in a posr-chaise; but when you want to travel, you must go on foot. (IY 771-73) The nostaigia for walking bespeaks the subject\ insertion wirhin a social symbolic whose idology of "arrival" is viewed by him as imprisoning, feminizing, suffocating, blinding, unhealthy, and disruprive ofthought. Bur if this horsedrawn world thus encodes a meraphorics of castrarion, it also evokes that period of hurrid carriage flights from arrest and persecution, when the urgent "need to arrive" ar some safe place drove Rousseau aftet 1762 across wide stretches of France, Swirzerland, and England. This also, interestingly enough, corresponds to the period of his dressine up in "Armenian" style, whose loose-fitting robes inscribed a certain femininity into his attire even as they allowd asier access for rhe catheter he needed to treat the urinary retention from which he suffered. Long convinced, up until the medical examination urged upon him by the Duke of Luxembours, that he suffered frcm gallstones (Confessions, t, 571-72), Rousseau could also no longer stand to read his philosophical forebear and that lover of horse travel, Michel de Montaigne."' In contrast to this world of sickness and melancholy, wherein one brings on's woes along with one's baggage, the youthful ambjance of walking appears healthy, emorionally uplifting, and morally tiberatina: .,How many differcnt pleasures one brirys rogrher by this pleasant way to travel! Nor

{ant. Yon see the whole country; you turn off on rhe right, or on the left. You examine everything that plases you, you st;p at every Iookout poinr. If I norice a river, I coasr bv it. A rhick;r? lgo under ir! shade. A Bro o? I virir ir. A quarry? I e\amine lhe stone. Wherever it plases me, I stay. The moment I am bored, I leave. I depend neither on horses nor on postilion. I have no need to choose finished roads or convedent rours. I pass wherever a man may pass; I see all that a man can se, and since I depend on no one other than me, I enjoy all th freedom a man can mjoy. (Emite, IV,771-72\
slow, and exposed but utrerly self-reliant, the walker,s apparent \rould seem ro make him an ideal image for the autotelic fiction of an absolute rerurn ro oneself, for the positing of oneself as home, which is able to sidesrep even the already very limited derour rhrough fatherhood. Such unmediared bliss is nonetheless placed inevocably in the pasr by rhe Roussau of the Corlssrons..
dependence on no power other rhan his own





to mention firmer health and a more pleasant humor. I have always sen those who traveled in good, soft carriages to be distracted, unhappy, scolding or suffering and pedestrians to be always gay, lighthearred and conrenr with everything" (]q/rrle, lV,1'73). ln the Confessionq Rousseau adds: "The sight of the countryside, the succession of pleasant views, the open air, a sound appetite, and the good health I gain by walking, the free atmosphere of an inn, the disappearance of everything that makes me teel my dependence, of everylhing thal recalls me to my situation-all this serves to disengage my soul, to lend a greatr boldness to my thinking, 10 throw me, so lo speak, into the vastness of beings, so that I might combine them, select them, and appropriate them as I will, withour fear or resrrainf'(I, 162). We have here an enumeration of the positive qualities of walking: the successive contact with the aesthetic beauty of nature, improved respiration and appetite, good health, fredom, and the feeling of one\ own independence. Basicatly, these can be broken down into three qualitiesaesthetic pleasure, corporeal well-being, and self-sufficiency which are gained through this type oftravel. Freedom, independence, and good health are linkd with a sense of the self's autonomy before a "natural" world reduced to an object of aesthetic pleasure. Th stroller's sense of self sufficiency, which throws him into the "immensiry of beings," allows his soul to be released ("all this servs to disengage my soul") and his rhoughrs io become more "bold." Walking is further linked to th producrion of philosophical ideas (and (herefore io ihe walker's status as a philosopher): "Walking has something that animates and enlivens my ideas: I almost cannot think when I stay in place; my body neds to be in molion lor my mind to be there." As opposed to the corporeal stability required for Descartes's meditative iournys. Rousseau's locomorion of rhe mind can only be triggered by that of the body: "I can only mediiate while walking; as soon as I stop, I stop thinking, and my head goes only with my feet" (t,410). In fact, the philosopher has his finest hour in Rousseau as a contemplative walker: "To travel on foot is ro rravel like Thales, Plato, and Pythagoras. I have difficulty understanding how a philosopher can bring himself to travl any other way and to iear himself lrom rhe inves, tigation of the riches that he tramples underfoot and thar ihe earrh lavishes for his gaze.. . . Your salon-dwelling philosophers lphilosophes de ruellesl study natural history in their studies; they have all sorts of fancy goods, they know names and they haven't got an idea about nature. But Emile's study is richer than those of kings; this srudy is th whole earth" (Emr'le, lV, 772r. The recurrence in this passage of the same three philosophers whom the Second Discourse named as examples of the kind of philosophical xpertise travlrs sho'rld have ,/ore stting out on iheir travels begs the question of what it takes to be such a philosophr, if it is not alrcad) Lo

engage in a particular mode of travel, rhar is, walkine. Would it not be the very immediacy of the walker within rh walking environment and his all-encompassing view of it-"You se the ,o/e country.. .. You examine ewrtthinS that pleases you; you stop at 41l the lookout points" (Emi1e, 772; emphasis added)-that ultimately brings home the lesson that one does not have very far to go, that home is where one is and that one's task is to retirc into oneself (as in the Rousseauist refrain of "to go back into oneself lrenqet en soi-me el\ than vainly artempting to arriv at something beyond it? Rejecting the equine world of rhe symbolic, Rousseau



flees irto the imaginary world of the solitary pedestrian, the impossibility of whose retum to the pleasures of hildhood is circumvented by the tri, umph of his fictional autonomy. lmaginarily "popularing" this world with "beings after my own heart," as he writes in the rhird Lerter ro Maleherbes, Rousseau locates the source of his fictional works as well as of his philosophical ideas in the practic ofwalking.a, As he writs in th Corfessiors.' "I dispose of all nature as its master. My heart, as it strays from one object to another, unites and identifies itself with those which soothe it, wraps itself in pleasant imaginings, and grows drunk on feelings of delight. If, in order to fix them down, I amuse myself by describing them to myself, what vigorous brush strokes, what freshness of colol what expressive energy I bring to them!" (I, 162). The charming objects and delicious feelings encounterd during the walk through natur are thus "fixed" through an inner description ("describing them to myself"). Horizontalizing Montesquieu's visual "fixing" of the landscape by postulating its movement not as up to down bua as outside to inside, Rousseau also implies an aesthetic efficacy to this "fixing," that is, to the subject's ability to produc a faiihful represenlalion to himself of the charming objct through his recourse to metaphors of painting (brush-strokes, color). The teprcsentation is faithful (true to life) insofar as it renders present the life of the object (vigorous, frshnss, energy) evn though that presentation of the object's life is crdited to ihe subjecfs demiurgic masrry: "What expressive energy I bring to them." ls it not ihis vitalistic powr of representing the world to oneself, of "fixing" internally whar is percived externallx that is the source of the subjecl's pleasure in his solitary walks and what he later graces by the

appelation "reverie"? This power of representation is lurther stared

Jean-Jacques's writings: "All this, I am told, people have found in my works, although they have been w uen in my declining years. Oh, if only they had sen those of my early youth, those I sketched du ne my travels, those I composed but never wrote down.',"i Whatever rh expressivity or vivaciousness of Rousseau's wriiings, rhey are neverrheless said to lack rhe


be characrerisric of

vitality of his travel thoughts as old age lacks the vigor of yourh. tn



accordance once again with the toAic ofsuccession rhat privileges the earlier but also irrecoverably lost term over its successo., tfre ea.lie.-,,"o.npos"a; but unwri en works are con\idered superior to lhe taLer and pub_

The text of- the voyage depends upon rhe absence of *.iirg in.t_.*i. and even of rhe inrenrion Lo wriLe. The ptume as pen pre\ents rhe u5e ol the p/4me as feather in-themelaphorical flrghr ol rhe subjecr.s reverie, and rhus arso prevents the fulfiltment of ir. inscriprional luncrion d( pen- The charm of the walk cannot be writen down ;ithout a writing i"ri;;;; but it cannot even occur if there is so much as rhe threat of writing: ,.Ii I had thouglr of al thar, norhing would have come to me.,,6 The s;bject cannot foresee thar ideas will come to him. It is, in facr, not up to hi_ to produce fictions or ideas, to charm himself; rather, it is the ideas or ficrions rhaL.come ro him ..when the) pleare. noL when please! me,.. lhat rs, rr r\ ror him to be chatmed. So rhe walter does n61 ge ro his reverie; the latter comes to him. All rhat he can do by his watk is ," p"; ;il;;ii in a position of receptivity vis-i-vis rhe revrie. Contradjcring hi; asserrions that his idas are animated by his walkins, th" ."ul p..-"";" ort t;;l;; when the promeneur has stopped moving: ,,The movement which joesiot come ftom withour, then, is made within us,,(Reyer,ies, I. 1048). Suc; js

alt *,at, *ould h;u! "othiog to me. t did not foresee rhat I would have ideas. Thei arrive when they please, nor when it pleases me. Either they do not uU, ., rhe),come_in a swarm, oler\hetming me wirh rheir .,,""g,h " ".-" ;;;-;;.,; numbers. Ten votume! a day would nor have been enoughi {1. t62_61).

matter to me, or a public, or the whole world, while I was soarina in the skies?" , Bur there is another red\on Rousseau gi\es in lhis same pa\\age trom the Contctsions [ot nor $riling rhe walleas relerier aij t carry paper wirh me, or pens? It I had thoughr of

pleasure in his ficrion is thar of the sense of U. o*n uutooo_y, be a solitary pleasure. If the pleasure h to be maintained, the fiction m;;; be left uncommunicared. but rhen rhe pteasure of the licrion is such thaL ru mares qhatever remains outside of it inconsequential: _What did readers

"rirren lrshed ones, even as lhe tormer impt;cirl' appear ar irrerrierable ai rtre .'Why do laller arc paler and less inspired: I nor qrire lhem, you $i ash? But why should l?. I reply. \\ h) rob mylelf of rhe presenr charm ot rherr enjoymenr. to tellotheru lhal lenioled lhem once? WhaL did readers malrer to me, or a public, or the whole world, while I was soaring in the skies?,,a If the unwrinen works were not wdfien, it is lecause tne writing oi ifrem would have desrroyed their obviously autoerotic ctu.rn. fo,tut" tnJ.uU;""i;. enjoyment would be to do away with ir. As Rousseau notes in the Fifth Reverie. one can ne\er sa) one i\ happy qithouL ptacing onesetf ourside lhe slate ol happiness (t, 1046r.r Furthermore. insotar as rhe,ubjecl5

the lesson of the Fifth Reveie, which attempts ro prescribe the conditions for the occurrence of a reverie: "It is true that these consolations cannot be felt by all souls, nor in all situations. lt is necessary thal rh heart should be at peace and that no passion should come to trouble the charm.

Certain dispositions on th part of the man who experiences rhem are necessary; it is also necessary in the getting rogether of the surroundirg objects. Ther is needed neither an absolute rpose nor too much agitation"




and when the reverie occurs, it is overwhelming, as the Con"fessions note: "Either lideas] do nor come at all, or they come in a swarm, overwhlmirg me with their srrength and their numbers. Ten volumes a day would not have been enough" (1, t62-63). Instead of roo few ideas. there are now too many.rr This situation in which th influx of ideas or the production of fictions is ovrwhelming in force and number turns the problem of writing into one of adequation. So even if the subjecr wanted to write down these unwritten but composed works, and even if his intention to write and the availability of writing insruments did not prevenr the thoughts from being triggered, there would srill be nirher time nd place to write everything down: "Where could I have found tim to write them? When I arrived, my only thought was for a sood dinner. When I set out. I thoDght only of a good walk. I felt rhat a new paradise awaired me ar the door; I thought only of going out ro find it', (1, 163). The success of writing depends upon the sdentary just as the succss of rhe promenade demands th lack of writing. So, it on rhe one hand the Rousseau of the Corlessiors rgrets his not having written down his travel experiences so that he could remember them, on the orher hand he explains how rhose experiences could never possibly have ben wriften down, or even have taken place had an attmpt been made to \rrite them down. Once again, and following the same logic as evinced in Roussau's rhoughts on travel in En i/e, the nostalgia for these momenrs of pleasurable insight is posited at the same time as the impossibility of rheir being retained.4s In any case, th urgency ofretaining the lost charm of foot tMvel surfaces throughout the autobiographical wotks, for no maner how overwhelming the reverie may be said to be, it is nonetheless understood as having a value of presence: "Never have I thought so much, existed so much, lived so much, been myself so much" And ir is nor only the subject,s presence to himslf and his sense of mastery that are concerned. tt is also essentiat to the philosopher bcause the reverie provides him wirh a stock of ideas that then defines him ar a philosopher: ',I never do anything except during my strolls, the countryside is my study" ("Mon portrait,,, l, 28). Bui if rh walk provides th philosopher wirh ideas, rhen he is dependent upon the continud vitality of th walk's charm. This viialirx however. is on the





decline, as evidenced by Rousseau's asserrion rhat his currenr experiences do not compare with "those of my early yourh." Civen his logic of suc, cession, that "vitality" or "presence" is no doubr always alrady on rhe

decline, incomparably blow th heights Turin.


his yourhful Alpine hike to


"Fall" of Jean"Jacqus

Rousseau: Second Promenade

h the Reyeties, written at the very nd of his life, Rousseau is especially haunted by the far thai these charming experiences will disappear altogether,leaving him with no possibility ofconsolation. Doffing his Armenian
in 1767 and then reestablishirg his in Paris in t7?0, the sexagenarian Rousseau begins io assume his final identity as the r'solitary walker," as if in a desperate reprise of the youthful strength and innocence he would have had prior io his ,,fall,, into $,riting and celebrity and prior to th forming of a "universal conspiracy,, against him. It is at this moment too that Rousseau decides to ,,fix down in writing" th "charming contemplations" thar have filled his daily walks (1, 999). An attempt will be mad to reconcile the irreconcilable categories of writing and walking, an attempt morivated by the economic desire to save those charming moments of reverie so that they car be reused by him for his own plasure: "Each time I rerad them will give back rhe pteasure I had."a' This attempted economy of plasure will be the Reyeties of o Solitaty Wa[ker: "In order to fulfill the ritle of this collection, I should have bgun it sixty years ago: for my whole life has hardly been more than a long reverie divided into chaptrs by my daily promnadesJ, (,{Ebauches des Raver,?s," I, 1163). So if, on the one hand, th state of mind produced by walking, rhat is, the reverie, is the origin of the philosophert discourse and the condition that makes him a philosopher or "contemplarive soul,,'on the other hand, the only writing that can adquately retain thos stares would be one that thinks of itself rs a "reverie" or a "promenade," borh of which names have been used indiscrimimtly by tradition to rfer to rhe divisions or chapters of the Reve es of a Solitaty Walket lRAveties du promeneul ror'tarel. Each of these would accordingly take the form of a revrie or a promnade, a sort of excursion in or through writing, at the same rim that it is supposed to bring back or preserve for future use the pleasure of the But this double recuperation (mimtic and mnemonic) of the reverie in writing makes ir difficult to distinguish between text, reverie, and promenade, since ach term would refer to the othrs as well as to itself. The Second Promenade or Reverie being rhe only one in which a single promenade or reverie is rcounted (as opposed to being evoked in the
garb upon his return from England

frequentive mode: his "reveries" on the island of SainFPierre in the Fifth Reverie, his walks through Paris in the Sixth and Ninrh Reveries), rhar texr should offer an exemplary articulation of the relations between txt, reverie, and promenad, or if on prefers, between wriring, thinking, and walking. To th extent that th Second Reverie also bears an uncanny rsemblance in both thme and structure (o Montaigne's essay "Of Practice," irs analysis should also allow us to reach some conclusions on the specificiry of Rousseau's plac in the economy of travel, . The first paragraph of the Secord Promnade resumes and elaborates upon some of the same themes as those fould in Emile and i the Coz/essrions. The "reveries" thar "fill" Rousseau's prcmenades solitsircs *e associated with his beirg "fully myself and for myself, wirhout diversion, without obstacle, and where I can truly say I am that which narure wantedJ, (I, 1002). The rcverie is understood as a momnr of plenitude, of selfpossession, of the abolition of all differences in rhe self or between the self and itself, and it comes therefor to be associared with being in tbe state of naturc, The thought that takes place in the reverie, insofar as Rousseau states, "l leave my head enrirely free and ler my ideas follow their bent without resisiance and withour rrouble,' (I, 1102), would be rhe natural state of thought (as opposed to rhe painful or anal),tical rhinking from which the walk would provide an escape).,1 Once again, there sutfacs the desire to kep a written record or ,,register" of the walk, so that, as Rousseau says, he can describe to himself "the habitual state of my soul in the mosr srrange position in which a mortal can evI find himself" (1, 1002). Bur rhe stakes involved in this recording of one's idle thoughts turn out to be considerably higher rhan that of self-analysis (for either a narcissistic or an analytical knowledge of the self) since it is the self's very exisrnce that is at stake jn its ability to contmplate itself. Civen the subject's temporal predicament, ro conremplate oneself means to rernemrer what one was like in one,s ..tru" or ,,natural" state, that is, to rmember the (earlier) reverie. At the limit, the self would prolong its existence by remembering itself: ,,I would exisr only ihrough

(I, 1002). The necssity of sustaining oneself rhrough one,s memories is occasioned, we are told, by a "dcline,' in the revede,s strength associated with the loss of ont vitality. Thus the rcvetie as the creativiry of the imagidation Guch as it was dscribed in rhe Corlessio,s) gives way to the reverie as rcmembrance (of former reveries).,: lt is rhis qualitative change in the revede that now simulraneously allows for and renders useless the writing down of the rcveri: "How kep a faithful register? In trying to recall to myself so many sweet reveries, instead of describing them I fall back into them again. It is a slate which irs memory brings back" (I, 1003).
memories" The problm is no longer that the moments of writine and daydreaming




are incommunicable but that their communication takes place through a shorFcircuit which makes that communication superfluous. The mere desire to remmber the rverie so that il can be written down for later remembrance is sufficient to plunge the subject back into the reverie. The desire to write the reverie is what brings it back, an effect that thn makes the writing of it unnecessary. The reverie can now be remembred at will, if it is not
remembrance itself.

of the self to itself exemplified in the

Rousseauist injunction,

"Go back

What is implied in this revision ofthe reverie is the possibility ofachieving a full self-sufficiency, since, as we have been told, the self can survive on memories alone. The olher, earlier reverie as imaginative production still required a convergence of different factors ("Certain dispositions on th pa of the man who experiences them" and "the getting together of the surounding objects" lReve es, I, 10471) in order to take place Now, the self is dependent only or its own memories, that is, on itself. These memories are said to constitute a store of "wealth" and "treasures" (1, 1003), the capital for one's self-prpetuation through reveries. This self-sufficient economy or autoerotic autarky is also described through an alimentary metaphor: "Losing all hope here below and finding no mor food for my heart upor arth, I accustomed myself little by liltle to nourish it with its own substance and to seek all its pasturag within myself" (1, 1002). And in the famous proration to the Seventh Promenade, the practice of collecting flowers is revealed to be an specially efficacious mans of perpetuating ihe self through memory, Rousseau's own version of the /oci of ihe c73:ssic^l d6 memoria: "All my botany excursions, the different impressions of the locality of obiects which have struck me, the ideas which they have called up in me, the incidents which are mixed up with them-all this has left me impressions which arc rcnewed by th aspect of plants gathered in the same places. , . , but now that l c4n no more tmverse those pleasant lands, I hav only to open my herbariu{n, and soon I am transported there The fragmenrs of plants whicii I hlive collected there suffice to tecall to me th entirety of that magnificnt spectacle" (I, 1073). Hre, the memorv is fixed down by uprooiing the plant that was fixed in the soil where the walker trod and by affixing it to a pag in the herbarium, whose perusal in turn allows the reader to travl once more through all the times and places literally anthologlzed (ftom anthos + /ogi4 a collection of flowers) within it.rr What such a local memory makes possible is a self{ransporting for a henceforth immovable or sdentary self, a transpo ing of the self to itself, that is, to what is found in th places that are recalled by the flowers: the selfitself. As J.-B. Pontalis has astutely observed, "for Rousseau, places are so many fiaures of himself."ra Whether self-sufficiency is metaphorized as herbarium, as treasure chest' or as autocannibalism, what is implied is a return to ihe self, the rturn

into yourself," which appears in the Second Reverie as "the habit of going back into myself" (1, 1002). Such a reentedng into oneself posits the self as the identifiable space of a home, whose temporal continuity is assured by the revede's function as ranembrance: the self can define itself as alile as long as it can live off its memories, that is, by a perpetual return unto itself. But if what defines the selft existence can be reduced to the functioning of a struclure of return or autosuccession, thn we see implied a notion of the self as the aftereffct of that structure, even though it must also proclaim itself the origin and end of the cycle of return. Such a definition of the self is structurally indistinguishable from the notion of a transcendental home or oitor. This congruence of the notions of self and home can be seen to organize the ensuing narrative of Rousseau's walk and accident, and to provide retrospective confirmation of the ethics proposed in Emile of the self as home. Insofar as it is a narrative or ftcit, lhal account of on of Rousseau's promenades is the return in writing of a memorable event in Rousseau's life: an accidental and nearly fatal collision with a dog during a walk in the outskirts of Paris, near M6nilmontant, on October 24, 1776. To the extent that what is remembered is the trip back home after the accident, what the text recounts then is not.iust a return, but the return o/a return, which itself4l]a return (rerorr) requires that there be a prior detour (ddtorl): "I took a detour to return via the same meadows by another path" (1, 1003). Another kind of detour is presaged by Rousseau in regards to the effect this event has on his thinking: "An unforeseen accident came to break the thread of my ideas and to give them for some time another direction" (I, 1003). The txt, moreovet places a detour before the descriplion of the accident itself, a detour givn over to recounting the pleasures of return. Among thes, we might count th collecting and recognition of flowers ("whose aspect and classification, which were familiar to me, neve heless still gave me pleasure" II, 1003-41); Rousseau's refinding despite his accident ol his rarc cerastium aqualicum "in a book which I had on me" (I, 1003); the remembrance of the past ("I recapilulated the movements

of my soul since youth" II, 10041); as well as an exlended analogy between the aDtumn landscape and his own situation "at the decline of an innocent



lif" (I,


In this last case, the entire topography becomes a metaphor of the self such that Rousseau can see himself mirrored in whal he sees. This metaphorizing of the landscape by bringing the "ensemble" of observed phenomena back to himself is also what effects rhe return to himself of himself,

unlike the elision of the self that occurs in Monresquieu's ropographical vision. Th explication of the analogy betwen himself and rhe landscape





brings Rousseau\ lhoughts back to himself. It is then that he recapitulates "the movements of my soul since youth, and during my matDre age, since I have bee sequestered from the soiety of men, and during the long retreat in which I must finish my days. I returned wfuh pleasure over all the affections of my hearf'(1, 10M). Th movement of the reverie is that of a return to the self (through the detour of the contemplation of nature) which constitutes that self as a single entity, which can be grasped in all of its multifarious manifestations both metonymically (in relation to the different moments or temporality of his existence) and metaphorically (in relation to th external world, which is reduced to a specular image of himself). The self produced by such a totalization would seem to be the very image of self-sufficiency (since literally e\)erything is inchrded in it), but this entire production is itself to be retained by the self for later use as Rousseau prepares himself to remember his reveries "sufficiently to describe them" (I, 1004). Th whole experience, like the collecting of flowers, is brought back to the self, back lo the home, \rhere it will be rserved for the time when th self's imagination will have declined and ii will have to subsist solely or its memories. lt is in his latter situation that we find th narrator at the beginning of the Relerler, he is now precisely returning to what was stored up at the time the reveries took place. In other words, the Rousseau pictured in the narrarive of th reverie, who sees himself in the autumn of his years, is one who is stodng up for the analogous winter, in which we presum ihe narrator already is. So Rousseau returns from his foraging expedition, like a successful hunter: "l was returning very content wirh my day" (1, 1004). But this lasl return is to be delayed by another detout whose repercussion will not be felt, as Rousseau says, until "I cam back to myself [,ie revrrr ii moil." ln other words, the detour cannot be grasped as such until it has been brought back in or by the movement of the retum. Cognition will only take place as recognition, a play on words warranted by the gap in the story between the moment prior to the accident and Rousseau's return

The gap betwen paragraphs acts as a sign poinring to th gap in Rousseau's consciousness, the gap that functions as the absent center of his narrative_ the !:|and rrcu at rhe center of hi\ not-so-grand ro4r.. The purpoqe ot the narrative is then to fill in rhar absence by returning to it (by remembering it or /eciting it as a rlcir), by placing it within the successive movemenr of the return. Bur this is to forget that rhel.lct is itself rhe rlcir of a return, the exemplary return of Rousseau ro himself, which, as it happens; and lrue to the shades of Montaign, is parallel to the return of himself ro his home. The "I came back to fiyselt Lje reyins d moil" is curiously replicared in a came back home lie lerins chez mojl.,, This replication, howver, is not a contingent mirroring or metaphorization of one return in the other. Rather, the return ro self and rhe return home are rcad as beinl the some rc/rrr. Forgetting who one is and where one is sem to be conflatd into the sam problem: did nor know who I was nor where I was lri 4aj j'dtois ni oit j'6toisl" (I, 1005). Similarly, it is rhrough the esrablishment of topographical reference poinrs rhat both the home,s location and rhe



to consciousness aftef wards:

I judged that

the sole means that I had to avoid being thrown down to earth was to make a great leap, so that the dog should pass under me while I was in the air. This idea, more swift than lightning, and which I had not even the time to reason out or to execute, was the last before my accidenl. I did not feel the bloq nor th fall, nor anything of what followd, up to the momnt when I came back to myself loi je rc\rins d moil. lt was almost night when t regained consciousness l4rdnd is rcpns connaissancel. L toos')

self's name can be rediscovered: ..They askd me where I lived; it was impossible for me to say. I asked wher I was; they said, ir la haute bome; i1 was as if they said to mei on Mount Atlas, lt was necessary for me to ask successively th country, the city, and rhe nighborhood where I was. Still this did not suffice for me to recognize myself. Ir was necessary lor me to walk the whole disrance from there ro the boulevard in order to recall my home and my name" (t, 1005-6). Refusing ro rake a cab for fear of catchina cold and rrue to his ambulatory preference, Jean,Jacques is brought back to self and home under the assured self,propulsion of his legs, the suprmely self,rerrieving ai of walking. It is tempting to read the parriculars of this event as a virtual parody of Montaigne's horse accident.J5 Whereas Montaigne is hit by a ,.powerful workhorse fpri$drt ror$rn]" (II, vi, 373), Rousseau is knocked over by a large dog in the rerinue of a carriage, whose horses are just brought to a halt before they would have trampled on the writer's body: ,,The carriage io whih the dog belonged followed immediately, and would have passed over my body ifthe coachman had not reined in his horses upon the instant', (1, 1005). But if a srrong rug on the bridte saves Rousseau's life, the impacr of th dog, whose designarion as a ,,huge crear Dane" (I, 1004-5) already invites comparison with a smatl hors (especially for someone on foor such as Rousseau, as disrinct from the mounted Montaigne), sends him flying literally head over hels. Unabl ro find his footing, in a reverse image oi the submerged Descartes at the beainning of rhe Second Meditation, Rousseau finds solidiry again, nor at rhe rocky bottom of a warery abyss out ol which he can rhen climb. but in rhe roush paving flone upon which he lands head firsr. specificalty sirh his uppe, jawr ..The dos...had leapr




upon my two legs, and striking me with its mass and speed, made me fall had foremost; the upper jaw, bearing the whole weight of my body, struck upon a very hard pavement, and rhe fall was the more violent because, the road being downhill, my head was thrown lower than my feet,, (t, l0O5). Th severity and extent of the fall are said to be aggravared by Rousseau's aheady proceeding downhill ("on the descent from M6nil,montant"), although when he does land h is said to be at a place c lled la haute borne, fignratively speaking, the upper limit. Bur he had already seen himself "at ih decline," as we remember, when he had conlemplated his life in the landscape seen from the iop of '1he heights of M6nil,montant', (1, 1003), a place at that time jusr outside the Paris ciry walls and roday incorporated into the city's 20th arrondissement, a place whose name means "the house uphill." lndeed, the locarion of Rousseau's outing situales him in the hills overlooking Paris from rhe northeasr, in rhe viciniry of the
soon-to-be iounded cemetery

1005). While plenitude and pleasure ar sustained in this primal indifferentiation, what appears to Rousseau in this moment of self-presence and rebirth, of the absolute return to home, is a part of himself not thouahr of as belonging to himself. This expropriated part of himself is a stream of blood, a rur:r.tea, de song, ftom which we can drive the phantasmic signature of a "rcuge rnisseau" or "rousseau." What is most proper to Rousseau (whethff his blood or his proper name) is not seen as proper.


Pere Lachaise, whose spectacular view

the entire city was to be illustriously rendered by Balzac in the famous concluding scene ftom Pite Gotiot.56 Rarher than "fixing" his ideas on the city from that height as Montesquieu might have done, Rousseau could see only himself in the autumnal ambiance of fatling leaves and declining
Perhaps it is this pre,Romanric collapsing of rhe disrinction between subject and object (or more precisely, rhe reduction of all objecriviry to an absolute subjectivity whose self-sentienr autonomy exudes a feeling of one nss with the world) that allows Rousseau ro experience his iniurious fall as a genuine rebirth, and not, as it was for Montaigne, an appropriation


of the liminal


of death. Like Monraigne, though, and unlike

Descartes, Rousseau's utter disorientation in the wake of his accident is seen to be a plasurable experienc: "I perceived the sky, some stars, and a little grass. This first sensarion was a delicious moment. I did not feel anything except that of being there. I was born in rhat insrani to life,, (1, 1005). What is "delicious" is the sensation of firstness (,this firsr sensa iion"), of origin, or birth, yet whar gives pleasure to Rousseau is less rhe originality or firstness of this moment of birth than the sensalion of being in a stat prior to the distinction between selfand oiher, and prior io sparial and temporal distinctions, a state, in sum, prior to difference: seemed

to me that I filled with my lighr ex;stence Ima lAgirc eristencel the ^ll objecls I perceivd. Entirely aiven up to the present moment, I did nor remember anything; I had no distincr norion of my individuality, nor the least idea of what had happened to me. I did not know who I was nor where I was. I felt neither evil nor fear, nor worry. I saw my btood flowing as I might have looked at lcomme j'aurcis w couler un ruisseaul, ^btooklet without even dreaming rhar rhis blood in any way belonged ro me" (t,

ofihe self is simultaneously understood as the greatest self-appropriation. Nevr is the self more itslf than when it is not, than in the aftermath of this catastrophic walk.53 Roussau's greatesi loss is his greatest gain, what is most (im)proper to him. But if Rousseau's pleasure is in this state of indifference (the indifference, for inslance, with which he is able to watch himself bleed), then the return of difference would imply a loss of pleasure even though it is, as we have seen, only through the reintroduction of spatial, temporal, and linguistic differences that Rousseau can indeed rcturn to self and home, or even remember his name, To speak, then, of a pleasure of return (a la Starobinski) becomes highly problematic in relation to a discourse like the Second Promenade (ot as we saw earlier, the sequl to r'le), in which different rctums are at stake '.n such that a return somewhere is a departure from somewhere else. ls Rousseau, in other words, more "himself" and more "at home" in the wake of his accident or upon returning to his domicile? Without an easy answer to this qustion, one must conclude either that not all returns are pleasurabl or that rturns are not all that pleasurable. For Rousseau, as for Montaigne, the narntive of the return home is succeeded in the text by the writer's reflection on th imas of himself as already dead, a reflection that ultimately bears upon the question of th property of his text as well as ofhis body, upon the question of his signature. While Montaigne appears as dead to himself in the image of the text as lcorcrd,re Rousseau discovers to his horror that it is olrers who consider him dead: "PDblic rumor had it that I was dead of my fall; and this rumor spread so rapidly and so obstinatly, that over two weeks after I learned about it, it was being spoken as certain fact by the queen and the king himself" (I, 1009). The literal disfigurement of his face on account of the accident ("Four teeth were bent back in the upper jaq the whole of that part of th fac which covreq it extremely swollen and bruised" [, 10061) is less distressing than the story's mutilation in the mouths of others: "In a few days, this story spread about Pads, so changd and disfigured lddlgwee] lhat it was impossible to recognize anything of it" (I, 1006-7). As th story travels through the city, Rousseau's pleasure in not being able to recognize th distinction between subject and object jn the rouge ruisseau of his blood turns to dismay at having to recognize not only his subjectivityt
Yet this expropriation




lack of autonomy bur also the derermination by others of what seems most his. Not only is he pronounced physically dead by,,public rumor." but th subsequent announcemenr of a subscriprion fund for rhe publication of hjs posthumous works reveals the expropriaiion and disfiguremenr even of his texiual production: "A subscriplion had been opened at the same time to print the manuscripts which might be found in my house. I understood by this that a collection of fabricated writings were being kepr ready expressly for the purpose of attriburing rhem ro me afrer my death; because to rhink rhar anyone would prinr faithfully any of those which would be acrually found, was a stupidity which could nor enter into the mind of a sensible man" (I, 1009). While rhe postaccidenr bliss of indifferentiation and rhe pleasurable reverie may offer the triumph of an imaginary that can reduce or "fix" all externaliay into a meraphor ofthe inreriorized setf, the symbolic

of her book, to which was appended a compromising flote about kings and aheir ministers whose inclusion in the volume cre^ted a succZs de scandale. Reflecting upon Mme. d'Ormoyt visits, Rousseau concludes that '.all this had no other goal than ro dispose the public to atrribute rhe note to me, and consequendy the censure that it might draw down upon its author" (I, 1008). Fearful of the appropriation of his name by a woman who was not merely urban and seductive but also a writer, Rousseau decides to
to Mme. d'Ormoy whose incipit was none other than his name: ..,Rousseau,

"destroy the rumor" about the appended note by himself writing a note

not receiving any author at his home, thanks Madame d,Ormoy for hr kindness, and prays her not to honor him any more wirh her visits," (I,

authority of the external!-that is, the sociat-world would sem to have "fixed" Rousseau\ image ahead of time and beyond any possibiliry of self, determination on his part. For Jean-Jacques, his return .,home,, from his accidnt on his way down inro the corruption of ihe city, after having found .ioy in the height of ihe counrry, only underscors rhe extenr of his exile from the very society he inhabits. His texr, as well as his body, can onty survive (or so jt would seem, and once again following in rhe steps of Montaigne) at the cost of its disfiguration. Ever the validity of his signarure, that inscriptional act that would seem to authorize on's text as one,s own, as whole, and as proper to its author,s intrt, is called into qustion by Rousseau's postaccidenr dealings with Mme. d'Ormoy. Bearing a name that uncannily juxraposes weahh (o/) and sell rmo./r, Mme. d Ormo) was rhe author ol Let matheuts de ta icun? Enelic. pour senir d'in\rru.tion aux dam?' ver!ueuses er \ensibte, \t17j), a book written, she would have told Rousseau, for !.rhe reestablishment of her fortune" (1, 1007). Obviously inspired by Rousseau,s Emite, Mme. d'Ormoyt book was also, whether winingly or unwjttingly, conrrary to the view of woman portrayd in the formet nor only for its rrearment of women's education but also for its being writren r) a woman. In book V of Emile, Mme. d'Ormoy could'have read: ,,I would a hundred rimes stilt prefer a simple and coarsely educared girl, than a knowledgeable and witty girl who would sr up in my house a lirerary tribunal of \rlich she would make herself the presiding judge. A woman of wit and jnte igence is rhe scourge of her husband, childrn, friends, srvanrs, and of everybody. . . . Every lettered girl will remain an old maid her entire life, ,vhen there are only sensible men upon the earrh,,(IY 768). And in response to her gifts, visits, and requesrs for support from him for her novel, Rousseau could only remain unmoved: '.I told her what I rhought of women aurhors,,
(1, 1007). His suspicions about her were brouehr home upon the pubticarion

Once again, the detour of woman as embtematized by the episode wirh Mme. d'Ormoy is negotiated by a relurn to the father, but this time, wrote Rousseau, "I went further lj'a ai plus loinl', (I, 1009). By hyberbolizing the universality of the conspimcy against him, he takes irs direction out of the hands of any parricular men or mere mortals and attribures its (to his mind) prodigious efficacy to the will of none other than cod the Farhr Himself. Cod acts, then, as the final referent, the haute bome that prcvides an upper limit to the delirium of paranoid interprerarion: ,,This idea, far from being cruel and lacerating io me, consoles me, calms me, and helps in resigning myself IA me rdsienerl" (I, l0l0). The notion of Cod allows for repose from lhe movemenl of interpretation, which was constantly having to explain away {{so many bizarre circumstances" or "the singularities of this epoch" (I, 1007), since it allows for rh explanarion of all possible contingencies or singularities, rheir return into a comfortable and comforting order. As such, the positing of Cod as the ultimate explanation of his woes puts an end to Rousseau's discourse,'composirionally bringing the promenade to a close: "Cod is just, He wills that I should suffer and He knows that I am innocena. Ther is the motive of my confidencej my heart and my reason cry out that ir will never deceive me. Let men and destiny do what they may; Iet us learn to suffer without complainr; everything must in the end return to order, and my turn will come sooner or latet ltoul doit A h fin rentrcr dans I'odre, et non tout viendru tot ou tarc\" (1, l0l0r.If God is jusi, ;t is because he exercises just /erriburion; that is, He is the guaranior of a just economy in rhe circulation of human

But if Cod guarantees the rturn to ordet it is because He is nolhing more in Rousseauh discourse rhan lhe principle of rerurn irself. God as the patrnal law of return srates thar 'leverything must in the end rlurn to order.!' In ahis ulrimare grand rour of the divine escharology, Rousseau's turn (mo, tor./r) will come "sooner or later.,,




The telos of the traveler's journey is rhus proleprically secured, not by the instructional prophylaxis set forth in Emilq but by th divine order of a predestination. Such a Christian allegory can also do for Rousseau whar his narrative of the historical fall from nature into culture could never donamely, engineer the return of the innocence and happiness that was lost, As both absolute origin and absolute end, as th fundamental oitos from which alt divagation can be measured, Cod allows for a way around the logics of succession and supplementarity that lead Rousseau ever furthet away from himself, and humanity evr further away from the state of nature. As Julie writes to SainFPreux, Cod is "the Being for whom time has no succession nor space any distance" (La Nou\)eIe HAbise, 11,613). Yet if God turns out to be the \ltimrte point de rcpirc in (his discourse which talks of nothing but return, that point of absolute return can only be posited through an act of faith, a "profession of fairh" if you will. 11

His faith affirmed that there will be a return, Rousseau can then rrresign himself" to whatever further misfortunes may befall him: "This idea, far from being cruel and lacerating to me, consoles me, calms me, and helps
in resigdng nyself [ane ftsiqnet]" (1,l0l0). To resisn oneselfto something,

though, is to giv up one's claims to mastery or ownership, to deny one's

authorship. To r-sign is paradoxically not to sign. The Rereries ofa Solitar! ,/r/ter remains an unsignd work, one not bearing rhe wdter's signature, not simply and contingently because of the death of its author prior to the work's completion, but because its publication and concomitant ascription of a signatur could only take place henceforrh, within the wrirer\ imaginary, as an act of God.6l Having already signed in blood on the pavement ol la houte bonq Rousseau would seem to find more solace in the return io indifferentiation, or in the indifference that is resignation, than in what for him are the

is an act of faith because the positing of rhis rranscendental point of rcference, to the extent that it is governed by rh deonric mod^l devoit, cannot assure that there is such a place of rcturn, only that there ought ao be one. In more general trms, for there to be any such thing as a point of reference or of return, that point can only funcrion in its referenrial capacity if and only if it is not immediately prseni, rhar is, if ir is not
here and not now. One's barings can only be set by something spatially and temporally distant. That one can refer 10 a point of reference alrady states that it is far away or in the past or in the future. There is a refereni but it is always already absnt. Such an absent referenl is Rousseau's God,

undoubtedly "cruelet" more "lacerating" (dichirunte), and disfiguring effects he suffered from signing his name in ink and on the cover of books. Either way, howevr, the affixing of the name as rhe mark of appropriarion implies a simultaneous expropriation, a disappropriation. While the gain of presence is paradoxically acquired through the loss of blood and con-

a principle of return situated at an unspcilied moment in the futurc: "Everything m$l in the end return to order, and my turn will come sooner or later." The return can only be had on faith, on rhe faith that there will
be a rctum. On the other hand, a rcferene point is not merely a fiction, since it does in fact exist by reason of its being posited. A point of reference exists the moment reference is made to it. Ii exists bcarse it is referred to. A reference point is then paradoxically both real and a ficrion, borh found and lost. What Rousseau\ Cod points to is rhe theological character of all points of reference, of the ortos (whose gods, the penates, as we rcmembet wer rescued from burning Troy by Aeneas in order to assure the return of the home in another place, the New Troy that he would found in Rome).o But if the believr must then be said to creat Cod by his very blief in Him, then God plays the same ambiguous role (a progenitor who is the "progeny" of ils progeny) as ahat of rhe fathet in Emi[e and Sophie. Cod is Cod the Father, the \tltinate point de rcpare and a necessary fiction, a suprme addressee who hars the viclim's every woe and whose invocation grounds the writer in his text, giving him rhe securiry of an ullimate end and purpose to his discursive meanderings, a ropo,r oi solace and return.

of authorship is haunted by the limjtless fear of deceit and betrayal. Even when the ensuing paranoia is put to rest by faith and trust in God, the promised return to normalcy is offered only in exchange for one's "resignation," as if one could be for oneself only by being for another. One can only be present (or absent) to oneself as other, when one is not "chez soi" through the deferral of memory or writing. Likewise, the return home can never be fully sure of its point of arrival, whether it be Ceneva, the lsland of Saint'Pierre (srene of the idyllic Fifth Rverie), Mnilmontant, his residence in the rue Platriare of Paris, or Ermenonville (the place of his death a few weeks after his final relocation).6, In other words, the promenad can nevr t//), return as reverie, which, in turn, can nevr Jirll return as text. Each return implies a disappropriation that takes away as much as it gives, making the assignment ofthe o,kos an inescapably retrospective and fictional gesture, one caught in the endless revisionary process of what Freud calls Nacftlra;git keil.6r As such, and despite the best efforts of Emile's tutot there can be no final end to wandering, no ultimate destination or telos to travel.
scjousness, the fame

Such revisionism also marks, however, Jean-Jacques's differences from the other philosophical writers studied in this volume. Despite following in their footsteps, Rousseau rejecls the trope of philosophical wisdom as an accumulated effect of foreign travel in favor of the apparently moF elitist notion that only those already in possession of philosophical knowledeebe afowed



to undertake voyages. To the xtent, though, rhar rhis expertise is acquired not ihrough book-learning but through the simple experience of walking, which places a suitably sensitive subjctivily in a relation of immediacy with the world he traverses, Rousseau dmocratizes thq philosopher's tour by implicitly allowing anyone who stumbles while out for a walk ro claim great thoughts. Certainly this is the legacy of Rousseau as it was appropriated by the Romantics, whose generation also saw the invention and rise of the word "tourist," applied not to the aristocratic followrs of rhe grand tour but to the new breed of bourgeois adventurers in sentimentality such as Srendhal (whose 1838 Mdmoies d'un toutiste fiJst gave legitimacy to the word in French). As such, it is not the equestrian Montaigne, as Charles Ded6yan would have it, bui the pedestrian Roussau who should be called


the first tourist. In revising Montaigne, Descartes, and Montesquieu, Rousseau also marks his debt to them, emulating, for example, Montaigne much as Emil does his tutot or Tlmaque Ulysse, or Monraigne his father For thir accidents to offer such similarities is not just a bizarre coincidence bur also the sign that for neither Montaigne nor Rousseau can that moment of utter self-(dis)possession be construed as one's own. No doubt Rousseau rad Montaigne's text and was consciously or unconsciously informed by ir in constructing the narrative of his own accidenl, yet the fact of such an influence is complicated when the consiirutive detour that is travel is inversely undersiood-as il is ftom ihe watery depths of Descartes ro the airy heights of Moniesquieu, on horseback with Modtaigne and on foor with Rousseau as determinant of filiation irslf. One cannot simply say, for instance, that Rousseau is the successor of a tradition of the voyage, lhe father of which iradition would be Montaigne, without making of that very tradition precisely th kind of voyage of filial succession described in the writings of Montaigne, Descartes, Montsquieu, and Rousseau, Moreovet the question of inten{ual appropriation is not an innocent one when the travel narrative assures th transitional smoothness of a patrilinear succession whereby the son can evenlually come to occupy the place of the father. lf the signature that is the writer's particular mode of iravel would seem to converi ihe banal trop of the voyage into somerhing he can call his own, the anxities associated with that signature, as rcvealed most ovrtly in Rousseau, poinr to the dread detour rhat the detour of travel is meant to circumvent: namely, woman, whose difference is as unmasterable for the male philosopher as the oitos is unsrabilizable for rhe lraveler As such, even th names (as)signd to the texts of Montaign, Descarres, Montesquieu, aod Rousseau can be shown ro be caught in the drift of an appropriation that is, at some point and ar some time, also and inevitably a disappropriation.

Introduction: The Economy of Travel

ln fact, the vry movenenl belwen tie voyage and ofier ropoi it sel I sussesr s a Eading history ol herarure as a voyase. For one ot rhese rdpoi or sloppjng places on thn itinerary ro be wbal sisniffs rhar journey as a whote cannot be without consequences, As we will s*, rhe notif of the voyase h an eremplary locus ot titerary self{flerion. 2, Loun d Jaucoun, "voyage:' Enclcbpedje o, dictiohhane ruietn'.tes yiacd, des a.ts et .les tuetie6 pat une e.iata de s",r de lerlEs (NeufchaEl I Sanul Fautche & Conpasnie, r?51-65), XV ,4?6. 3- Extensions of th concept ol econohy have been a key tearure oi nuch recent Flench criical dncoursc, since at leasr Georges Batait:te, Ld part naudite (pa'is: Minuit, 1949), especially the secrion enlnFd "La norion de dpense," inirialy pubtished in 1933. For an incisive ahalysn of Baraille\ nolion ot economn sft aho Jacques Derrida, ..Fron Resticred to Cenml Economyl A Hselianism withoul Reserve,,, in wtuinC and DifJqence. t, At^n Ba$ (Chicago: University of Chicaso Pre$, t9?8), 25t ?z Amons others in this t.adition, see especially: Jean Joseph 6o!x, Stnbotic Economi*: Alet Malx and Frcud, rL Jeonitet Cudiss Gare (lthaca, N.Y,: Cornell Univenity P.ess, t99O), and L6 onnayeu' d, tdnpape iPc'iJ Caliltr. rs34ri lean-Frr'ncoF Llotard. t.ononp tibidtntte \ptti:: Minuir, lo-4) ,;d D6 disposnils pulsionneh (Parisr Union Cendrale d,Ednions, l9?t)j Jean Baldrillad, ao.


ol lhe









o ctitiqLe oJ the Political E ononr oJ the sisn, f cha.les Levin (st. Lout. Mo_: Telos Prc$. l98l); Gilles Deleuze and FClix Cuatrari, ,-1,r:Oedrlr6, tr. Robc Hurley, Mart Seen, and Helen R. La.e (Minneapolisr Univexiry ot Minnesola pre$. 19831 A fhousand P/z/?ara t Brian Massuni (Minneapolis: Unilersity of Minnesota pres, ^nd t989), ln a more sociolosical vein, see Pierc Bourdieu, Disru.rioh: A Socia! O4itrue oJ the Judeenetu a.f Arra rr. Richard Nice (Cambridse, Mas.r Harvard University press, t984it and in rcsards to lirerary hnrory, Marc Shell, fhe Econon! oJ Lherutu.e (Balrimorer Johns Hopkins Uni le6ity Pre$, r9?8), and Mo,e!, LoUuaEe, anl Thought: Lnerury ord phitosophiet Ecoh onies ftutu the Medietol to the Mo.le Eru (Betketey. Universiry oi C.litornia prcss, 1982). 4. Jean de La Fontaine, Les deux piseons,, Oe,y/es.oupL.,eslparis: SeDit, 1965), t4O. Tnc poem was tust published in 16?9. 5. F.an9d-Marie Arcuer de votane, Co"di.le, ou I optinisne in Otuvres conplates, ed. Loun Mohnd iPaihr Carnier Frercs. l3?7 85), XXl. 137-218. 6. Dean Maccannell, The Tottist: A New Theo.j of the a?6!re C/ass (New yor*l Schocken Books, 1976); see also Jonathan Culler, .,The Seniolics of Totris6;' Atudican Joulnul of Seniotis t,no, | 2 (1981), 12? 40, a.d oy,.Sichtseers: The Tourht as Theorist,,, D,i,..trics l0 (Winter 1930), I 14. For nore prcperly ethnographic discussions oi rhe journey as a mode of culruralj or elen politicat, ehpo*ernent, see Clalde Levj Strauss. Trisler I/olrtqr4, tr John and Doreen weishrnan (New York: Arheneun, r97l),26 l4; and Mary w. Helms, Utsrr'5a/t ,,1, Ethnosruphi. Odlse! oJ powt, Knovledee, and AeoEruphi. Disra,c (Princeton: Princeron Lhivesity Pres, 1988). 7. The nost celebrarcd accounl of the Spanhh conquesr is Barlobne dc Las Casas. Revissina rclacian de ]a desttu]cion de 16 rrdi6lse\i|e, 1552). For the influencc exened on early European liberal alrirudes toward colo.ialkm by Las CasaCs hodiyins desriprions of Spanish arrocities, sce MichCle Ducheri /,/r.opolosie et histune du sidle .Jes tunjares, rd. ed. (Paris: Flamnarion, I971J,91 95, t49 54. See also, on the ,.dhcovery' ot lne -Ne*Worltl, Edmundo O'Corna., rre Inwntjon ot Anetiu: Ak Inquiryintothe Histo.jcat Nature oJ the Ner wo d antl the Meunins oJ hs Historr lgtoodinston: rndiana Univesiry press! t t)t I.H.Elliolt,rheOt.l tlo dandtheNew 92 16J0 (Cambridse: Cambridee Unive6iry Pie$, l9?0)l Tzvelan 'fotlotov, The Conquesl aJ Anetua: rhe
Ricnard Hosad (New Yorl: Harper and Ro$, 1984), and Mary B. camDbelt. The llitness and the Othet Wo d: Etotic Eurcpear Ttavel w lins, 100-ldoo (rihaca, N.y: Cornel Unj ve(ily Press, 1983), especially 165 266. A .rucial reconrextuatizins of Las Casas and rhe subsequent nolorjery of thc Spanish conquesr can be found in Roberto Fem6ndez Reranar,s brillia.t and novine "Asainsr ihe Btack Lescnd,, in Calrban and Othet Essars, tt, Ed*a*l Baker (MinNapolis: Unilereity oi Minnesota Press. 1989). 56 ?3. Untike othei crnics or r as Casas, Retamar is le$ inreresred in dnpurine lhe numerical accuracy ot de arrociries alleeed by Las Casas than in exposins the racism lhar has insDired his no nern Eurcpean radesr who lail to peEeive tbar rhe eartien cdticisn oi Spanish cotoniahn qas nselt Spanish in o gin. On the oiher hand, rhis opposnionat voice turns our ro be vnruaUy absent fiom lhe perhaps quieter bur no less efficient genocide carisd our in America (and etsewhcE) by Eoelish, FEnch, and Dulch colonialisrs_ On ar1y French colonialiso and rcacrions to the Spanish conquests. see Charres Andr6 Jutien, Hribne de l'upansion d de to cotoiisation

constituting a journey becun by rhe very lirst funcrion, tbe depanure ol someone iron rhe home, and endins wben all the conplicarions surroundins ihe he.o\ rcturn home are resolled: Motpholosr of the Folktale, n. L, Scou, rd. Loni A- wasner (Austin: Universnv oi Texas Press, 1968). A herary hnrorical arsumenr co.cerning the Elarion between the early nodern vogue lor favel literarure and the rise of that mosr elabo(are of narradve cenres, rhe novetj is made by Peict Adams in Tnwl Literctu.e and the Ewlutiok of the Nowl \Lditston: Universitt Press of Kenlncky, 1983), ll. No doubt lhe nost eloquenr exDe$ion of rhe imbricarion between rexr and riavel remains Micnel Butor\ "Le voyaae s I'ecrnuE," in tqerteroi.e lv (Parn: Minuit, 1974), 9-29. Sinilar i.siehts ca. be sleaned iron Loun Marin, Utopiqu*: Jeux d *pace {paris. Minuit, 1973); Nornand Donon, rarr de voyase.: Pour u.e ddtinirion du rcil de voyage a l'dpoque cla$ique," Poiri4!? 73 (1988), 83-108, and ,.De l,epFuve de I'espace au lieu du xlel le rdcit de voyase comme senre," in Bernard Beusnor, ed., Volases: Raciis et inasinaire, Biblio t7 ll (lga$,15 3lt also, Beroard Beugnot's preiace to rhis same volume, ix xvi; cilles Deleuze, ProlJl ard Sisnr tr. Richald Howard (New Yorki Biazitler, lt2); Roland Barthes, 5/2,1r. Richa.d MiUer (Nes Yorl: Hill and Wans, l9t4), 105; Michel de Certeau,l- twuro,
12, Such a cririque ol menphysics n the one offered by J&ques Derida, and fte entire coDus of bis tro* could be cited in lbis rccad. In eference !o the arsudent I am lryins 10 nake here, suflice n to mention in panicllar O/ C/znuzlo/oa:/, rn caydri Chakralorty Spilal (Balrimore: Jobns Hopkins Unilersiry Pres, 1914), and Speuh and Phenotnena ond Othd Essays on H6y ! Th?o., o/ Srsru, ri David Allison (Evanstoni Northwesern Uni-

Linrention du quotidien I: A s de Jdirc (Patis.l0/la, t980),206- while de Cerreau,s oa, sound exce$ive out ol context, one can iind considerable suppon for hh hyporhesh i. tbeorelicians or natrarive, who almosr invariablt draw on rhe loyase as enher tne model nafative or rh model for nararile. witness Ceors LukAcs br whom fie novel is the form rhat expreses "transcendensl homele$ness (Tteoty olthe Novel. t. A. Bosto.k Icanbridse, Ma$,: MIT PEss, l97ll,4l and passim). As lor lhe systen olcharacrer luncrions put foith by vladinn Propp, ir is possible io read fte emne sequence oi fDncrions as

eaesti.n of the Othet,


d" rcr,ae h rhat of the voyage throush letres. in lhe votaser's itinerary are brousht back or .elated to tbe addressc (steF otypicatly positioned at the traveler! point ofdepairlre) in the concEle forn oirhe missives Hee, the

ll. A lariant oi tbe rela?io,

narked by rhen .hansins dates and place nanes. The dareline lhus designars its addEsso.'s prqress elen as il neasuies rhe dhsnce tbe letter nself nust refiace on ir way back to the addre$ee. La Fonraine! Relation d un blaEe de Patis en Llnorrt (1663) and Mne. d'Aultty's Relation du vorage .l'hposre (1691J eqloit thn po$ibiliry, as do, albeit in a !e.y

frdtcdip I:

Les wlases de dao,ye e e1 les pteni.ts ttoblisen,rs (paris: pUF, 1948)r and Ton Conlex "Montaisne and rhe New world,,'firiz,i. /$res 4 (1989), 225 62. 3. The Poetics ofAtistotle, ed. a.d trans. S. H. Butcher (London: Macmi an, 1936),3r. 9, La srntrye hatati,e des taca(ties de corneite \patis: Ktincksi(k, t9?6). See ako his morc r*enl Poeti.s oI Plot tMinneapolis: Universjty ot Minnesota pre$, ,985) and F/i1ro,a/ ttlo/1dr (Camb dee, Mass.: Harvard Unilenity pre$, 1986).

diferenr re8istcr, de aets ddrrantes et .ulieuses de Chine (l?02 ?6), conpiled and edited by Jesuil nissionaries. The dflice is also widely qploited p.ecisely to ohraih an (oien tacile) etiect of cultural and eeocraphical alienarion in sucb eighteentb-centlry eroric novels as MonFsquieu\ p.ra,6 (l?21), Poullain de Saint,Fo\x's Leftrcs turqta (t13()), and Mne. de Craftignyt l,?t/s d une Plwienne (t141), 14. On the translarion or trandornarion of topocraphy into topic as n rebtes to the constitution of narative, see Louis Maiin, "Du corps au rexre: proposirions mraphysiques
sur I'orisine du i&n,'Aprn 4I (1973), 913-28. 15, Such a minimal voyase naoalive k tbe one lelt behind by Jean Jacques Rou$eau a "Road Norebook," dat;d 1754, uhose texl can be cned in toro:
Dined Sunday on lh sras close to Hermaoce. Slepr ar the chaFau oi




Dined Monday on tbe s.ass close to Ripailles.



ar Bex.

Di.ed ar Pisse-Vache.

Saint Maurice.

passim. or rhe auem to esrabhh a hierarchy or fopes, see Hans (eltner, ..The Inflatable Trope as N.narive Theory: Slructure or Altesory?i, Dr?.riri.s (Sprins l98l), l4-2s. 21. On lhe complerity of the probleos posed by such metaphore of metaohor. se Richard Klein, "Srraisht Lines and Arabesques: Metapho^ or Metaphor,,, yate French Studjes 45 (1970), 64 86.


Filgal oeal offEd oul oi hospiraliry.

ls lherc not sonelhi.s Hoderic aboul my voyage? Di.ed Tuesday al VilleneuveDined Wed.esday

.r Cuilli.

Dined TDesday and slept at Morges. Dined Friday at Nion and slepi at Eaur Vives. The place nanes for meals and olernight re s descdbe an itinerary around the nost celeb.ated of Swns lates, an a.!4rs whose circle can be closed by lhe addirion ol rhe implicit poi.t ol departure and returni lhe ciry ol 6ene!a. The odly nondesis.ative senrence raises lhe qDeslion of a Honeric allusion putarilely capabte ol dignifying fiis nodes ouling. This text, ii it can be called ode, is rhen placed back inlo the literary radirion olepic rravel, coniortably anchored in 1he name of its inausural Doet, 4en as Rousseau3 Alpine odyssey b nes him back hone to the liviq sareri' (Eaux-Vives), .ol ol lrhaca. but oi Ceneva. 16. Such a narking Nould qt.nd elen 10 so,called unmrked places, which are nonetheless marted as u.darked. Ct. Barbara Johnron, "Quelqu.s consdquences de la difiFnce anatooique des iqtes: Pour une thaoiie du poCne en prose," Poehue 28 11916), 465. 17. The lopolosical conceplion of laosuase can be as erphn as in LDdNis Winsensrein\



la.sua8e as a cit\ (Philasophi.ol lrrestieotiotu,


ed. retr, trans. C. E. M.

Anscombe [New Yorl: Macnillan, 1958], 3) or as inplicit as the sparial metapho$ endenic 10 sbucrural deoiies of lansuaee Nitb their horizonlal and lerlical qes ol sisnitjcarion, posilions oi the speakins subjN! and synchronic proj{rions. hdeed, the very norion of lansuase as a strudure inplies its conccpiualiation as a space. 18. Cicerc, Iopt4 tr H- M. Hubhell (Canbridee, Mass.: Harlard Universiry press, and londor. He'nem,nn, l9o0r. r8)i rrdnJarion mod.ried. 19, For a derailed discussion oi rreuol,a as well as ol $e use oi topography as a memory ai.l in sen.ral, see Michel Beaujott, Mircirs d etcre: Rhetotique de l'autoporttait (P^tis, Seri]L. r98O), 79-.168; and Fiances Yares's classi.. The o.f Menory (Chicaso: Uoilesiry otChicaso

24. Derida, "Wiitc MyrholoBy," 241. 25. An arsunent simild to the o.e I halc nade concrning rhe anbisuous entrapmenl liberalion in tralel and in crirical rhoughl could also be adlanced in rlation to tbat poliricat docrrine which came to fuu iiunion sirh the Enliehtennent, namely, Iiber.tkm. The liberah position has lradilionally bftn thar of the bad fairh otsurpolring prosressive retorm only to the ertenr rhat such relbrm does noi jeopardize his or her own privilesed natus. O. the olher hand, liberal lae$e must at leas make the genure of whar ii clajms to be doing if it is nor to be inmediately unmasked as hypocrnical imDosrurc. To an exlenl thai .emains ro be delernided, the liberal nu suppon the very retorns he or she dreads, .nd o.e nisnr oiter by way of an emblem rhe famous nisht of Ausust 4, t789, when the French nobles ih rhe N.tional Asembly vied with one anolher to gire up as ma.y ot then fendal privileses as possible- There is rood heE lor a nudy ot the historical relalio.s berwen crnical rhousht, tralel lite.arure, and liberalism, On the evnrs of Ausnst 4, se Jean,piere Hirsch, ed., !a nuit du 4 aoiil (Patis: Aallinard/lulliard, t9?8). 26, The importance of rhe litemru.e ot exploration for the developnenr of Frncn (itical thinkin8 has been variously aigued since Clstave Lanson! infllenrial e$ax ,.Le r6te de I'experie.ce dans la fornarion de la philosoDhie du xvrl" sidcle en France..,Revre d! Mod (1910), 4-23 and 404 29, tpt. in Essais de ndthod. de.tnique er d'histoire lrtdtdi.e, ed, H. Plye (Paris: Hachene, 1965); see also, in this radirion, ceoffro! Atkinson. rr" Extraotdinar! yolase jn Fre,.h Lne.oture BeJote t7O0 tNN \oik: Coludbia Univesny prc$, 1920), The Extruodinar! yoJd,e in Frcnch Lremture Frcn t70O to t72O (p^ti! Chanpion. 1922), and Les aouwaux hotizons de Ia Renai$arce Jrancais? (plrisr Droz, t9l5)t Gilben

China , L'etishe atniri.oin dans la litutoture lruncais ou X/t srit/" (paris: Hachelle, tgttj, and L AhAnque et te re|e etique dons la tit&ruturc.ftuacuik au Xt4r,et au XV ! s,a.& (Paris: Droz, r9l4)r Paul Hazard, Lo ctise de la .onscien e eurcpenie, t6t1 t7t5 (Paris: Boilin, l9l5), especiauy chaprer one: ..De la srabitre au noulenent,', j-25t Ren6

20. Csar ChesneaD Du Ma6ais, Ttaitd des napes ot da dtfletents sens daB lesqueb on p.ut prendre un nade not dons une nene bb, e (Patis: Le Nouleau ConmeEe, 197?), 7, ny enpnash. Cf. Quintilian: A liope h rhe advantageous removal tnulariol ot a *od or a discourse frcn its proper sishiiication over to anorhei.... Now a.ane or a wod is rra.sferred fron thai place in wbich it prcperly is lex eo lo.o ih quo p.optiun 6tl ima anofier place, wbeE either the proper nane h in defauh or an improvemenl is oade upon the D(oper lerd as a resujt ol rhis lenolal lr.a/ar!u1." 1,s/itutio otdtotia 8,6.1 8.6.6, ed. M. winterbouoh (Oxlod: Clarendon Press, 1970), ny rantarion and emphases. 21. Roland Barthes, "The Old Rhetoric: An Aide-Mnoire;' in The Seniotic ChallenEe, tr Richard Howard (New Yorl: Hill and wans, 1988),33, Banhes\ emphasis. 22. Aristolle, Poerln ed. and ri Blrcher, ?7 Ci. lacques Derrida, ..whire Mytholoer,i' i. Mdtci"s oJ Philosophr, t. Ala. Bass (Chicaso: Universily ol Chicaso, t982), 2lt and

vi anea, e.l. F. Amelinckx and J, Meeay (Ano Arbor: Socily of Spanish and SpanishAnerican Studies, 1973),7 23. On rhecorElarion berw*n scjentific prosress and theaesthetic gue as aniculaled in early nodern rravelogues, see Barbara Maria Suffortl, ,/o),asp rro Substa,.e: A/t, Science, Notute, and the lttastnted ftotet A.ctunt, t760-184o t:^6btid1e. Mass,: MIT Press, ,984). For a rendition inat insisrs instead upon rhe function ot voyase literarure as an erpression of bourseois cla$ consciousnes, se Erica Hatth, I.leoto!, and Culture in Seeeiteenth-Century Frcr.e ltthaca, N.Y': Corne| Unive(ity pEss, 1933), 222 309. Other recent criri.s sho liksise insisr on the id@logical compbcnies berseen tra*l narrarive and the leeirifiarion ol colonialisr aspnations includ e t richite Dtchet, Ant hropotoEje et histoireau sii.te des Irhidres; Micbel.te Cedean, .,wririna vs. Tioe: History and Anrhropolosy in rhe works of Lafirau," tr J. Hovde, yote Fre,.h st/dia 59lJgaq,3/-64, d ^ The Wrniry oJ Hittorr, t.'tom conley (New Yorkr Colunbia Unirmiry press, t98s), l-5, 2r5 48, and pasin; and Ceorses Benrctassa, ae .or.e,r&ue et I exce\ttique: Mary* des L,hiies (Pais: Payot. 1980), 9l-153, 2tl-24, 239-34i and, of course, Ed*aid Sai<t\ non umehral o/ie,ralnu (Ncw York: Randon House, 1973).

Pomeau, "voyage d lumidEsdans lalitrerature rrancahe du siecte:' Studir on volone and the EiChtienth Cenlury 57 (1967), 1269-39; Hen.i piyre, iiRflecrio.s on ihe Lneralur ol'liavel:' in rtay.l, Quest. oad PilBinaee as a Literutr 'rhene: Sttdies in Hoiot of Reino


NOIES TO PAGES xxiv xxviii

27. CnarFs Dddyan, E$at 15,215.





totnal d.

wraEe de Mo,td?ae (Pais: Boivin, n,<t.),


Also see Peesy Kahul, Sienatu.e Pieces: On the tnstnution ofAuthotship (tth^c^,
Piess. 1988),

28. Anong man! possible danples, se Dedidas deconsfucriod of the ethnocenfisn thar lies benedh Leli Srau$'s puratively benevolent alirude ro{ard tbe Nanbikwara ln.tians he sfidies Qf Atunnotoloe', l0l 40). The of nisrorical possibiliries for the cririqDe ol westerd repEsentalions of otbeme$ can be eaused by a nunber of recenl wo.ks whose various subject malte( span the ganut fron lhe ancienl 10 the modern worldr Francois H^ttoE, The Minot oJ Herodotus: Replesentations of the Othet in the wrning o! Histot! (Berteley: Universily ol California Pess, 1988); Mary Canpbell, The witaess ard the Othet tt'otl.l: E@tic tawl witing, 100 16A0i'fzyetan Todotd, The Conquest o! Aneicdi and Nous et les tun6: La ftldion ftancaise su/ la diyeBiti hunut (Parn: Seuil, 1989)i Edward Said, Oze,ra./tsu; and Christopher L, Miuer, A/a,k Du.k es: Afii.anist Discou6e in Fretch (Chicrso: Univesily of Chica8o Piess, 1985). 29. ln the case ofAmerican liteiature. at leasl one c.itic has explicily connecred the theme ol lhe voyase with the evasion oi squality: Tne fisure of Rip Van Winkle pEsides over rhe birrh ol the Anerican imasination . . . the typical male protagonisl of our ficlion has ben a man o. rhe run. haried into fte forer and out ro sea. down rhe riler 6r inr. c.nh,ranywheE to avoid 'cililization.' which n ro say, tne confronration oi a dan and a wonan uhich leads to the fall irlo sex, nafijage, add responsibihy" (Leslie Fiedte\ Loee and Dearh in the ican Novel lttew ydt: Crilerion Books, 19601, xr xxi), 30. The bes.known French woden trrite.s ol tralel lirerarure are An.e-Loune Cermaine Necker, Mme. de Stael (Colinne, ou l'kalie IlA0'l and De I Allenasne lrat'l), ad Flot^ 'liistan (Pddsnnations d tne pdia lla33) and Prcnendd5 darr aordr 118401). For lhe Cla$ical period, one should aho especiauy note Marie de t,tncarnation (a nun vbose expe dences in QDebec aE recounred in het Relations spitittela 11653l),,Catherine Junel de Berneville, Mme, d'Aulnoy (Relation dt yotage d Espas,e 1169ll), and Marie-Anne Le Pase, Mme. Du Boccage (Ia Colonbiade, ot la loi po/t4e at Nouveau Monde lr1s6l and Lettres srt l Atsletene, la Holande et I'Italie 11162l), I L 'tercsa de Lauretis, ranz,loEies oJ Aen.lel: Esols on Th@.r, Filn and Fiction 181006ineton: Indiana UnireFi.J Pres, 198-r. l8 and pa,.im. 32. Melanie Klein, 'Eady Analysis," ad<l "Th Role of the School in the Libidinal Developoenr oide Child,li in toya Auir, and Repsntion, and Other Essars, I92t t945(Lo don: Hosartb Pre$, l9?5), 59-105, especi.Uy 92-100. 3l- Ci Louis van Delft, a?,oruliste ctassique (Aenevat Dloz, 1982), 173-91; and Jnrsens Hahn, Ihe Orleins oJ lhe Batuqte Concept oJ "Pereeitarir" (Cbapel Hill Unilemity of Nortn Caroli.a Press, l9?3). 14. The delinitile study of the problem is, ol course. Pie.F and Husuetre Chaunn's

N.Y: Co.nell Uniledilv


ol absolurist nonarchy, the key sudis are Ernst H. Kanlorowicz, Ire,(t a! Iro aodtus (Princelon: Piiocerod Universny Press, 1957); Louis Marin, Le pottroit du toi lParn: Minuit, l98t), and Le /ecil est ui piace (Patis: |Iinnir, I9?8)r a.d Jean Marie Aposlolldas. Le mi nachite (Par\s: n1inuit,l98l). More properl! psy choa.alytic i.sishb aE dra{n by Norman O. Brown, row3 Aody (Nev York: Random House, 1966), especially 3-ll; a.d by Mitchell GrenbetC, Coheile, Classi.isn, and th? Ruses oJ Slnuet] (C^mbridse: Cambridge Unilersity Pres, 1986). On rhe importan! iela dons betven theaficalit! a.d royal power, see Stephen Orsel, The llusion of Powr: Political Theatq in the English Aeralsrarc. (Beikeley: Universily ol Calilornia PEss, l9?5)r $d
On the symbolic dimension

rinothy Mrt6y.


Theatncol Lqitination: Alleqones oJ Aenius ih Serenteenth-Century Erylond and Fnn.e (Nee \ot*: Oxlord Univelsily PEss, 198?). 18. Sarah Kolman, a? respe./ derledaes (Paft: Calilae, 1982), especially ?l-83- Since Friedrich Eneels, The OnCtu o! the Faditt, Pri,at? tuopen, and the State (1894), hisrories ol the laoily and oi the division of labor under preindustial pariaichy have burseoned. Amons recent work, see especiauy loan Kelley, "Family and State;' in her womei, Histot! ard Zrory (Chicago: Universiry of Chicago Pre$, 1984), tl0-5J; Eli Za.ersky, Cdprdrr-, the Fonily, ak l Petenal LiJ., rev. ed. (Ns York: Harper and Rov, 1986); Lonis Tilly and loanScou, Wohen, Work and Fz-it(NewYork: Holt, Rinehart and winsbn,l9r8)i Philippe Atias, L'aJant et la tielo iliolee6I Arcien Ragitue (Patis: Suil. 1973)i Ja.qles Donzelo!, Lo poli.e des Janilles lPatis. Minjit, 1971). 19. ln addition to the pEviously nentio.ed Dublicadons by Duchel, de Certeau, and Canpbeu, also sce rhe anicles collecred in Hisro@s de / anthtupoloeie: Xvl XIX sia.les, ed, Brita Rupp-EisenEich (Paris: Klinc*si{k, 1984); Maryater Hodgen. Earlt Anthtupoloet the Sixteetth ond Serenteerr, Ceutr,?s (Philadelphia: univereny of Prnsylvania Prss, 1964); and ClaDde Levi-Srauss, "Jean-Jacques Rousseu, fondateur des sciences de I'honne," in AnthapoloEie sttu.lutale ll (Parh: Plon, l9?3), 45-16. 40, De Jaucoun h either cning fron nenory or abbEvialing and altering ft passage fion Montaisne. vhich can be iound in "Oi the EdDcarion of ChildEn," a6 Essis de Michet de MoataiE e, ed. Pieire villey,3ft1ed. (Pads: PUn l9?8). I, xx!i, l5l. As for the last sen&nce of rhe quotation, i! is nor to be found in Monlaiene and is itber de Jaucourfs i.venrion or taken from a text I hare so far bee. nnable 10 identify.


1. Equ$trian Montaign

monune.tal eishr'lolume Slville a I Anattique: 1504-ft5o (Pais: Arnand Colin, 1955 59). 15. See Lucien Febv.e a.d Henri-Jeao Martin, I/p Coui,s ol lhe Book: The lnpact of Ptiktihe, 145A-1800, tt. David cerard (London: New Lei Books, 1976), esp@ially 159 {6; Henri'Je.. Ma in, Ztvre, pouwits et sociAi a au Xtl.rsiade 2 voh. (Cen4al Drozi 1969)j John Lou8h, wrilet ar.l Public in Frunce (Oxlord: Clarendon PFss. l9?8): Elizgbeth Eisenstein. Th. Ptintins tuess os an Ageht oJ ChanEe: Con unicatio8 and Culturul ta6Jomatioa i4 Ea r Moden Eurore (Canbritlce: Cambridse Univereiry Press, l9?9)r Roberr D^tnto , 1'he Brsin4s oJ Enl\htenrent: A Publishins Hhtorr oJ the Encyclopedie {Can bridge, Mass,: Belknap Pre$, l9?9), and The Literutr Undeqrclnd oJ the Old Reein. (Canb.idse, Mas.: Harvard Univesity Press, 1982), 36- The lem dath of the aurho." derives iron Rolan.t Barlhes! iamous article of tb same name. in Inqe-M6ic rext, tr Slphe. Head (New Yorkr Hill and Wans, l9??),


Jolrnol.le eorase a lalie pa. ta Sujse et I Aqetudghe en 1580 ed. M, Rat (Paiis: Garnier, n,d,), l. Unlss olherwise noted, all subsequenr pase references are ro lhis edition. Erulish tralslations, rilh sone nodificalions, are laken lrom Donald M, Frane, Montaigne! Tluwl Jou al \l9'1i tpt. San Fmncnco: North Poinr Prs,


Michel de Montaisne,



2. Maurice Rat, "lnlroduclion" ro ,lou.nol de voydae ea halie bv Monraigne, ed. M. Ral (Paris: Carnir, n.d.). iii'if, Cf. also Chanes DadCyan, Esai sut le Joumal de wlaae de MontaiEn , (P^tis: Boivan, n-d.) 27-12, 93-99; P^rl Bonnefon, Montaiane et ses amis (Paris: Arnand Colin, I898t rpt- 6eneva: Slaltine, 1969), Il, l-46; Louis Laurrey, "Inliodnction" to Joumal de voraE? by Monraisne (Parh: H&herre, 1906), I 5l: Donald Frane, Mohtaisne! Discowt o! Ma : The Hunoiization oJ a H4nz,dt (New York: Columbia Universny PE$, 1955), ll0 20i and Donald Ft^me, MontdEne: A rtosruprl (N4 Yotk: H.rcour!,.Brace and world, 1965), 201-22.


NOTES TO PAOES 5-7 B, Brush, "The E$ayisr ls Larnedr Montaiene!


L So do6 Monraisne de$rib his.elationshjo lo rhe E.ssarr jn .,OfCivi.s rhe Lie,,,Za Esais de Mi.hel .le Monta)s,e, ed. piere vj ey, td ed. (paris: pUF, t97s), U, xviii, 66;. Unless orhcr*ise noted, all slbsquent Fhrences ro the tszr are ro rh6 ednion anl wil be indicated by loluoe. chaprer, and pase nunbers onlyi Enslish translarjons, wnb some modilications, ar iron fte Coapkre Estu|s o! Moitoisne, t{ Donald M. Frafre tsranr.rd Unner!r) Pre\. t9r3t. tor a Lnr(at etdm,ndUon o, rhe !e!rerar!.\ rotc rn.he prodr.r,on oi tbe journal, se especiatly Crais S. Brusb, ,.La composirion de Ia preniaB padn du 'Journal de Voyase' de Monraiene:, Reete./ Histone Liudtdne de lu Ftonce 1t tr91lj. 369_ 84j and Fausra Caravini! inrroducrion to ner edition oi rhe Jounat de volote lpa:ls: Fotio. l98li. 7 ll. One cr,r.!. P e-re o f.pezet. in hr. ednion ot rteJ"z.a,/(pari.:( re oe, Ltr.e. l9ll),
Cl- rmbrie Bufiun,


Fnne ,n VontaiqF?\ Dt.tovet! oJ Man. Fo, tmbre Blrun tt httutn.p du \-!qp de MontaiE"e stu les Essais), rhe Irip ro haly exptains an entne ser of opposirional reveruls in Monraigne\ opus: irom bootnh leami.s to lived experience, rrod impersonalily ro pe6onalily. from solitude ro society, riom the c!ftique oi cunons ro their detense. from ,.dive6n!., 'j' ,"ill. "l Io'r!'nrqueor rhe -cvotlr.ondry. dpproach ro rhe L\ Rarnond C. La Charitd, ..Monraisne\ Earty personat Essays,,, Roaa,l? Reviek 62 (r9?r): and more rtren'ly- llk BrodJ. ac,,rrp. de Montogn? \t e\nlton. XJ., I .ench to,um. I{82, see aho Richard L. Recosin, .,Recent Trends in Montaisne Scholarship: A post,strucrurathr peF spe.tive;i Renoisance Qta etttT (1984), j4 54tand Steven Rendell,..Readins Monlaiene,,, Dri./ri.r 15 (no. 2r Summei 1985), 44 j3. '1. Ftane, Montaiehe\ Discovety oJ Man, 163, . 8. Se especially Buffun, L inlren.e dt,o!ase; DeaCyan, Essai su te Jormat, t24 5tl \,1dt.p letel.'t^r,nat dc votas. pn ltahp ot te. t.\rr. LrLde d r.,$Lahre,.. rn Ftold Gray and Marel Teier. eds_, Texta d irtettdt\: Etud.s st te Xt/t. siacle pout AU;e.t C/u,r?r (Paris: Nizer, l9?9), I ?l 9l I and Mo,ra,sr? (New york I Tway.e, 1974), ti4 l6j irais

Tourist Papets tLondo Ronrledge, foihconind. 6. Such is the rhesis initially advanced by pieire vi ey in his monumenral t"r et t'awlation .les Esais de Mo,rar?(paris: Hachetre, l9O8)and further .tevetooed bv Donatd

lo litftrutrre .tdhcaise a, Xyr, siech (Paris: Hache , I9ll), 201. 5. The term cones from Ctaude Levi-strauss\ dislinclion berween rvo types of socjeties: "rhose which practice anrhropophasy that is, *bich regard tne abso.ption ;i cerlain indi viduals posessing danserons pose6 as rhe onty neads ot neuhMins tbose pow*s and even ofrurnins then to prollt an.l rhose $hich, rikeour own socieiy, adopr whal hisht be calted $e pacti.e ol anthrcpent (kom lhe Crek lh?t, to vomit); faced Nith thc sa;e prcbhm, lh lalter type olsocietyhas chosen theoDposiresollrion, which consists in eFctinsd;ns ous individuah fton tne sociat body and tecping then lehporarily or permanenrty ; isoLtion, away lron all contacl rnh lhen ie ows, in establhhnenr speciauy intended tor rhis puryose. Most of tne socierGs shich we ca p miive soutd reca.d rhis cu om wnh proroun; h;rrori ir vould make us, in rhen eyes, guilry of the sane harbadty of,hich we are inctined lo accusc then because of thei symnetlically opposile behavior,, (r/r/eJ Zopiqre, tr. John and Doreen Weishtnan INew York: Arhenetrm, t9?31, 4.12). For a more philosophicat analysis ofcannibalisn and culruml appropriation in retarion lo Monlaigne! aurobiosraphicatprcj;d, .Of Ca.nibalism and Autobiosraphx,, see Jean Marc Blanchard. MZN 93 (i9?S), e5a 76l as well as hn mor rccent Tmis po rars de Montaisre: Esoi su/ td rep4ehtation d i i",a&ra,.e (Paris: Nizer. 1990), cspsialy pD. lO?-202, And on cannibalim as a misosynjsl lrcpe in anthropologjcal dkcourse, see Dean Maccanncll, iicannibalisn Todax,,in h; rr?

nceroo: privarely printed, 1946), 149. 4. Cilbert Clrinaid, L exotishe anAricoin dans

has even offered rhc rarher bizarre sussest ion that ihis secrerary was Montaiene himself, du wruce de Montaisne sur /es tsdrs, diss., pri;ceton, t9.r2


Jo!r,a/ d? t/oyake .t the E tuis_- Rohahi. (19?l)t Lino Peiile, "Monraisne in rtaliar Ar1e, rcnica ^ scienza ttal.rorzalasli e Eseis, SaBEi e Ri.etche di Lefieratutu Fruncae 12 ttgtj), 49-92j Claude Blud, ..Montaicne, aclivain du voyas.. Notes sur I'inasinane dD loyage A Ia Renaissance," in Franqok Moureau a.d Rend Bernouilli, ,4rlorl tlu Journot de wroce de Montaisne, tSSO-t980 (Aenq^ Paris: Slatkine, 1982), I ll, ^nd 9- The relerence is ro Jacques Denida, Of Clannototoly, t. Cayat.i Cbatmvorty Soivak (Baldmore: Johns Hopkins Universiry Pres, t9?4), l4t 64. l0- On prolific commentary as a discu$ive practice in the Renaissance, see Terence Cave, Th. Cornucopiah Tdt: Pmbtens oI wdins in tue Frcnch Raa,lsarce (Oxtord: t9r9). Also see Anloine Compaanon, la s..orde aah (Parn: Seuil, r9?9); LawEnce Kiirzman, Dprr,. tiot/Decoutprte: LeJonctionnenent de td Aotiqu dans lesEssais de Mo\taiane (Le\in$o\ xI l Forum. ra8o,: Fr ancoi. P.icotot . t ? ta lp dp to Rent,,da, e De: RhaonC"eu, . 'ench d Montaisne (C.nda. Drcz, \982); and Andrd Tourno., MontaiCne: La gtose.t t'.sai (Lyon: PFsses UniveisitaiFs de Lyon. 1983)Il. while, to my knovledge, rhre exists no conplere bibliosraphy of Frnch to llalx help can be fou.d in lhe bibliography oi fo.eisn votase.s 10 rraly placed ar the end ot Alessandro D'Anconat edhion oi Monraignet Jolrrat: L,tlatia ala Jin. del secoto Xtt: Aio.nale del eiogqi. di Michele de Montaicre in Latia lcittA di Castellor S, Lapi, 1895), as weu as in the bibliosraphies of Ludvis Scbudt, Latialeisen in tZ uhd IB. Jahfiunden (viennaand Munich: Schroll, l9s9) and Hermann Harder,l,e prdsident de B.os6 et le woce a ltdlie au dix-h,itiane siitk (Ceneva: Slalkine, t98t). The nain problem wirh rhese bib liqraphies, bowser, is that rhey are complere only rill rhebegin.ins ofrhe nineteend century. Furthei help can rhen be found in cian Carlo Me.ichelli, Vjapsiato l,anc6i reati o i maginati nell ltalia del ouocenta (Romer Edizioni di Stoda e Leueratura, 1962). See also Enite Pnor L?s Frubcais ilalidnisants au Xyl. sii]cle (patis: Cnampion, t9O6). 12. On ichoue roujours a parler de ce qu on aine,, ?/ Orcl 85 (Aurunn, l98O), 33. Il. The relevant pa$ase is as follows: ..There n in particular on counfy, beyond rhe Alps, rhat deserves tbe curiosity of all rhose whose educadon has been cultivated throusn leues, Barely is one on the Callic iiohrier along the road betwen Rimini and Cesena than one linds ensraved in narble, that fmous sedatus consulrum shich consigned to the eods belos and dclared ro be sacriligious and padicidat anyone vho crossed rhe Rubicon, now called rhe P;sarl1,, wilh an army, leeion, oi cohort. rr is on the edse ot this river or $ean thar Caesar stopDed awhile, and rheie irftdon, shich was aboul ro expire under his arns, srill cost hin a bit ol rcdorse. lf I delay cro$inc the Rubicon, he sai.l ro his head otiicerc, I an losti and if I cross it, how many unhappy people I shalt maLet Then, after havina reflecred on rhh a lew moments, he llings hinseli inro th litte river and c.osses ir, shoutins (as haplrens id rnky enrerprises) the followinsi .Think no noF ot il, rhe die is ca .' He arrives in Rinini, takes ovei Unbria. Ernria and Rone, dounts tbe throne and pe.ishes soon after b! a tuBic dealh" (Louis de Jaucourt, ..Voyaee," Encntopedie X\ t. 1j). 14, Ci1ed in Villey\ ednion oi ihe E$ar, 1208. 15, Ddeyan, $di s,. /e Jo,nal de votaEe,30,9a tos. More sugsestively. Marcel Tetel ( Montaisne e1 Le Ta$e: hlertexte r voyage,, jn pierre Michel, Francois Moureau, Robert Cranderoute, and Clande Blun, eds., Mohtoilne et t4 E*ais, .6dO /980 lparn: Chanpion and cenfla: Slattine, 19811,306-19) nas shown now Monraisne\ obsenarions on rralian curture co.srirure a srructured .esponse lo Torquato Tasso! pa&gore del,halia alta Flancia (1572). The dvalry betNeen thc iwo culrures is dus doubled by Montaisne! rivahy as a witer qith his ckalpine contenporary.


16, 6ssaj,s

Il, ii,



Cf. Jules Michelet. *ho besins the lolune on the Renaissance in his Histoire de Fnnce vlll\ inlasion ol ttaly i^ t494 (Oetvtes cohptat.s, ed. P viallaneix lParis: Flannarioo, l97l-821, VIl, 113fi.). 18. As wiu be seen below, this anbiglous relationsbip can be shosn ro be eninnlly

witb Charles

19. Pie.r Michel ("Le pa$ase de Montaisne dans l'est de la France," in Mourea! and Beno$lli, Autout dt Joumol de Waee.le Montaighe, 13) suegesls rhat sone oi Monraigne\ de*riplions ol snes vhied may have ben le$ inlormed by dir{t observatio. than by literary

Eninnences oi conrenporary seo8raphical suide books such as Cha es Z" Clri?e d6 .henins de F.ance (Pais, lJ52) or Sebaslien Mnnsler's CornoEruphie univekle \Pais, lt52), a copy ol whicn we know Monnisne owDed. EheNhere, his srcntary cpo s hotr Montaighe makes up for de los of a FEnch sDide in Rone by readine up hinself on the ciry to the point thar "i. a iew days he could easily cuided hn guide" (./o,.rdl, 103). Likely candidates anong 1he books studied by Montaigne in Rode include Lucio Mauro, ,e antichiti dello .iiit di Rond (Venice, 1542), a.d navio Biondo, Roar zitaurata et Laia

Moztau"r A Bioeraph!, 3-2a: Ihaoohi| M^l\ezin, Mi.hel d. Mo"taisne: e lBodeaux, 1395: rDi. Geneva: Slarkine, 1970); Paul Bo.nion, Mo, taicne et ses amis, t, 2t , and Roset'tttnqter, La jeanese de Montaisne: Ses otisines Jan iliales, son enJarce et ses aud6 (Pa.n: Nizet, 1972). 2?, while nuoerous critics have mentioned the liimpodance" of rhn essay, only a very lew hav sivn nore than passinc atention !o thh text crucial to rhe cenesn ol the 6rsu./s in iis specitically dis.!6tw aspecr. The culprit no doubt n rhe (to my mind) exaege.ated enphash placed by oainstrean Montaisne criricism on lhe psychobiographical origins of the Esrars as a nourning for lhe lo$ of rhe authort friend. Esrienne de La Boetie, Anone the iN ex.epiio$ are Jean Starobirsri. Mohtoiehe.n nouvenenl (Parkr callinard, 1982), rll6i Richard L. Regosin, Ir? Mauet ofMr Book: Mottaighe\E*an 6 the Book o! the Se[ (Berkeley: University ofCarilornia Press, l9?7), 105-6fl; and AlynP. No on,MontoiEneand
be found in Fmme,

Sot otieire,



tor exanple, E, M. W. Tillyard, The Elizab.than wo d Pkturc lNee fotkl Ra on House, o,d,)i Mikhal B^*htln, Rabelais atd His wold, r, H,lswolsky (Camblidse, Mass.: MIT P.ess, 1968), especially 303-436j Michel Foucauh, a"s ddu.r /es c/orer. Ure archloloCie .les sciences htnater (Parn: Callinard, 1966), 32 59r Louh Marin, "Les corps ubpiques rabelahiens, ' rtrirarlp 2l iFebruary 1976), 35-51 , rpt, in La parcle nanEie \Pais: Meridia.s Ki.cksieck, 1986), 89-120; lohn C. O'Neill, Five Bodi6: The Hunan Shope oJ
20- See,

nta \venice.


Mddr, Sdcpry (ltbaca, N.Y: Cornell U.iversity P.ess, l98J). 21, This srory is retold in &ra)r I, rxi, 99. 22. Ci. Monlaisne\ final, ne8arile judemenr on the prope.lies waler: "Only fools ler lhenselves be persuaded lhat rhn hard, solid body lhat is baked in our kidneys can be dissolved by liquid conc@rions. Therelore. once it is i. molion, there is nolhine 10 do but sive il pa$ase; for il wiu take tbis pa$age a.y*ay" (ut, xiii, 1094). In regards to Montaigne! self rherapy and lisns b majoi European spas, see Alain Marc Rieu, "Monlaiene: Physiolqie de la ndmone et du lanaase dans le 'Journal de !oya8e,"' in Moureau and Berno$lli, Autout dt Joumal de |oNge de Mottaigre, 55 66; Jea! Claude Carron, Leclurc dt,loutnal de VoraE Ae Moalaiene: L'ria.ce thrapeutique de I'e$aytu," in Michel el al,, eds., Montaig e et 16 Essais, 271 ?8i and Irda S. Maje., "Monraisne's Cure: Slones and Roman Ruins,'MZN97 (1982), 958 t4. 21, Cf, Caralini, Brush, "La conposnion de la pFoiere partie," and Ddd6yan, E$?ts. 24. "An idiom thar I could.eirher bend nor tlrn out orits common course" (IlI, v,873). Nunerous c tics have alluded, gleefully as it were, lo Montaisnel poor connand of lhlian: Dedeyan, Esrar', 162 64i D'Ancona, LLata,4l9i Fta6e. Montaign: A Biogtuphy,219. Nverthele$, sone attenpt has ben nade to a.eue rhe opposite by Aldo Rosellini, "Quelques reoarqles sur I italie. d! ' du loyase' de Michel de Monraighe, zeitsthrtll Jtt
rcna"ische PhiloloEie

the Intruspective Mind ('the Ha8ue: Mouton, 1975), 25-28. 28. lf one discounts lhe b and . srata wiitten later, only one rierence ro a home appears before I, viii. While I do nor have the space to commenr on rhh pa$age, I can reoaik brieilx lookin8 forward to th rcsr oi my analysis, that it is nor withou! sisnifica.ce thar the home appears in rhe conrqt of an exemplary dearh: "[Captain Bayard] havinc fousht as lons as he had stlenslh, and feeli.g himsell fainr and slippinc iron his horse, oideied his sreward to lay bim dorn at lhe foot of a tree, bur in such a way that he should die wirh hh lace turned toward the enemyt as he did" ll. iii. l8). 29. This lradition soes back, ol couse, !o the Classical wdte6 Montaicne knew so well, anons whom idlene$ iordr) vas borh an i.leal ro be arrained and a state whose realization as oite. as not cojncided *ilh a paradoxical exac.rbation or lhe woes ir was slpposed to pur to res. Some roucn$ amone Roran srites include CalullDs, 50 a.d 51, Horace, Ozl"t 16, and Seneca's D? Tra,4uillitdte Anini and De Otio, Cf. J. M. AndrC, rR?.lel.les totirn rohain, Ahhales de ltkiveBite de BNncon, 52 (Patist aelbs Lenres, 1962). On



Monkigne\ relario.ship to the Larin noralns .orion oi o,t!d, rats,e, ir. R. Rolini (Parisr Callinard, 1968), 269.


Hugo Frjedrich, Mo,-

Tbe essay,

al <1961), 3ar4Oa. "Of Coaches," also offers

Montaisne's stronsest crili<lue


as an

coloniahn in tbe New Wodd. lnteresrinslx the ho6e asain witbin this critiqle

30. The vod.lyp.ta as here employed by Montaisne in rhe sense of foolisbne$ or sorrr? should not be confused wirh ils no.lern F.ench cqnilalent, neanine a lrance or daydleao, On rhe chansine senses ofthis*ord, sec Arnand Tripet, aa /evetje littini.e: Essaisut Routeou (Cenelal Droz, l9?9),7 13; and Robe J, Mooissey, Za'd Rousseau: R<herches sut un topas litdaire (Lexi.8ton, Ky.: French Forun, 1984). 31. Madness as r tind of notion, dorio. as a kind of madness, is this nor what we find cry allized-prccisely ar tbe tine ol the Rnaissance in rhe Branrian figure of the Nore, s.rtl or ship of fools? Ci. Michel Foucault, lttstoirp d /a Jolie n l'ase clasnque, 2nd ed. (Parisr Gallimard, I972), ll-55. 32. ln aU probabiliry. Montaiene lound rhis piece or information in Plltarch! "Precepts ol Madace," available b him in Anyoas Fnnch rranslation, The relevant pan of the rexl is as follows: "No wodan has ever produced a child all alone and wnnour the company oi man, bur there have been wooen who ploduce nases lackins tbe form of a.easonable 'odeed searue ldes onas sans Jome de oeat re rcisonnablel, and ftsenbling a lunp of flesh [pie.e de .hditl:' r@ notales de P/,rarq!e, Jacques Amyor, ed. E. Clavier (Pa.n: Cussac, 1802).

unlair adlanrase lor rhe conquisndors, "mounted on sreat unknown fonsterc, opposed to nen who have never seen...a home" (ul, vi, 909). Tne v.ry lasl lin of lhe e$ay aho desfibes the iau both heral and figlral of the last king of Peru at the hands or "a ho6enan" sho "pulled hio ro fie ercund" (lll. vi, 915). Cf. Tom Conley, "C.taparalysis," Drb.rtrtr 3 (Fall l9?3), .11-5q 26, The tnle Nas boushl by Mo.taisnet srcar-srandfalhet Ramon Eyqueh, only a lnde over lifiy yean belore Mo.laisnet binh. Relevanr i.fomaiion o. Monlaisnet ancestry can




13. virley, Zer sorE4 et l4wfutio, des Essais de Montohne, On rhe 'theiapeutic" underpinnings oi Montaisne's ihon8ht, see Philip P Hallie. 7ne Scat oJ Montaisne: An Essa! in Pdtunal Philosoph! \Middlerown, co.n.: wesleyan University Pres, 1966).

14.WhiletheEnglishpunon"pen"and"penn"nunjustifiableonrhelevlofMoniaianes text,l naintain its usenee bcause ol its explanarory power to desisnate in shorthand,



lhc phauooatically sanctioned analogy manilesrly operative in "Of ldlene$



es o r




phallic acrilily and tbeori

senerarion enabled bv

a sendered

opposition bet{ee. iorn and malter 15. The pun is warranred by the iact thar do,i,!B,e was a common spellins or do as, in rhe sixleenlh ce.t!ry, For sone considerarions on how Monbigne Dllys upon the meanins ol his nane, see Ton Conley, Caraparalysis," D? Capr,lo aorapj L*ture de Montaiene, 'De trcis commerces,' I & Cri,rerr 28 (no. I: Spring 1988), 18-26; a.d Franaois Risolo!. ''La Perre dD tepentir': Un exemple de remolivalion du sisnifiant dans les tsa/j de Montaisne," in Donald Frane and Mary McKinlex eds., Colr/bia Mohtajqne Cor,fertnce Pape6
French Forun, l98l), ll9 14, iii, 821. Many critics nale connenred on Monlaisnek use ol 36, Cf, l, xxxix, 241; spatial neraphors. The most ambirious an.l systenalic in lhis regard are Resosin, Ire Mauer oJ Mt Book, and Rlody, Lecturcs de MontaiEne. especially 28-54: as well as Rigoloi, La Pp,/p du tepentir,"' and Conley, "De Capsula Totae." 3?. l. his study on herary seltportairute, Mnoi$ d dct : Rhetotique de I auhpoltlait, (Pads, Seuil, 1980), Micnel Bcaujour aques thar sucb a pata<loxical reversal ol personality inlo impersonahy is a dntinctive lmir of the cenre in que$ion. The very atrempt to rcp.esenl the self in langlage conse(ales the loss of thal self. as that rcpresenlation can onlt occur throush recouse to a set ol coded, impeGonal schenara whose foundations Beaujour h able to locate qlne convincinsly in lhe topics ol ancienl rherodc. Literary sell-portraitud then srucrures itsell as an encyclopedic dlr.!/sm ot those ropor or conmon, that h, as a rnnnins throush ol rherorical posibiliries- As opposed to auiobiqraphy (Dnd.rerood as a narradre structuE recounting lhe $riter\ life chrcnoloeically), self-podrailure would pEsuppose a tpace,r'or topoloay, oltnesubject in la.suase. FurrhermoE,lhh topoloey is orienred by an eonony which n thal of the [uriteasl body" (334). dus phrases rhe rert as a toDosraDhical body, 33. Ddo,ts oJ Desire: Studies it the Fterch Barcque (Co nnbusr Miami Univeisity/Ohio Srate University Press Joinr lmprint Series. 1984), 57-58. 19. Loun Marin has also insnted on rhe inposible vision ol the ske./er6 in his readinc

nryer rcduce by irself. Experince is always the relationship wirh a pknnude, whrher it be sensory simplicitt oi the infinite presence ol Cod. Even up to Hegel and Hu$erl, one could sh@, for this very reason, thecomplicityolaceitain sensationalho andolacenain theolosy, The onio{heolqicat idea ofsensibility or qperience, rhe opposnion of passilily and actilily, constitute a profou.d homoseneity, hidden under the dive6ily ol neuphysical sysFnt (O/

6rd4drrolosr, 281; Dctrida! emphasn). 43. Cl.PietrcP\cci,The violence oJ Pn| ih Eutipedd

(Lqinglo.. I<x:


Medea (ldaca, N.Y,, and London: Cornell Unive6iry Press, 1980). l-l:, 34-85. 44. On rhe distinclion between penis and phauDs, see Jacques Lacan, "The Signilication of the Phallus," in E rr$ ,4 Se/edi.,, tr. A. Sbeddan iNev Yotk: Norron, 1977), 281 91. Useful commentaryon the penis/phallus distincion can be found in Fredric Janeson, "lmaginary and Symbolic in Lacan: Marxnn, Psychoanalytic Crnicnn and the Problem ol the Subject;' yale Flench Sttdi4 55/56 (197?), 352-53; !^ne A^l|op, Readi4q Lacln \tthra, N.Y.: Cornerl Univesity Press, 1985i, 133 56; Ellie Rasland-Solliwn, Ja.ques Lacan and th. Philosoph] o! PsJchoatubds (Urbana and Chicaso: Unilersily ol lllinois Press, 1986),26?

45. rn an inportant chaprer ot his Lecttrcs de Montaisne on "Monlaiene et la norl," Jules Brcdy has finally demonnrared rhe coherence oi thn say, tradnionally seen in lsms ol lhe "conlradiclior" bet*een lhe early and the late Montaisne (93 144). 46. Cl. william Shatespea.e, the undiscove4d counfy fron shose bourn no traveler

returns, Ha-lel

Sicnnnd Freud, The lhlerpretatior oJ Dteans, 5.E., y, !85-

lll, i,

?9 80,

ol "De lexeicitation'l Le lonbeau de Monlaiane." in La wit eontuuhide: Estuis.le ndnoire lPatis: Aai|Ge, l98ll, 133-56)- Ci. also Tom conley, "Un test de sryle," Oazyler

40. Jout4al, t01 5. Montaigne\ descdprion, irsell inspired by Joacbim Du Bellay\ ,6 A"ti.luitas de Rore l.t'saj, models a lons series of such neditations on the Roman iuins, not rhe least significant ol Nhich is Freud! exlended netaohor of rhe unconscious as rhe uninasinable sinulta.eiry of all rhe histoical Romes coprsenrd in their completion (Si8mund Freud, Ciu/iiation an.l lts Dis..ntents, The Standatl Edition oI the Con plete Psrcholqical Wotks lhsealrer releired to as S.E.l, rr, J. Srlachey ll-on.ton: Hosarth,

Melancholic Relarions and rhe Sites

Ctitiquesvttt (t-2:943), t95-209i and Timothy Murrax "Translating Monlaiene\ Cryprs: of Altarbiosraphy," fotrb.oming in Bucknell Review.

48. Bolh Marin ("Le tombeau de Montaiane," l.1l) and Conley ("Un resi de nyle," 199) similarly conmenl upon Montaienet overdelemined use ol fie Nord nord, in rhk contert. 49- Cf. Alain-Marc Rie!\ i.fisuins hypothesh of Montaicne\ mrel as a cure ror nel rnchob in hi. "Vonraisne: phJlolosie de la namore. i0. Since I firn wrote tnese lines, bo.h lrma S. Majer ("Montaigne\ Cure, ) and Antoine Conpasnon (No!s, Michel de Montaiqne lParis: Seuil, 1980]) have made nucn ol these conneaions between Piere, piere, and pre. For Compacnon, rhey mark the point at which what he calk Monraisnc s "unre$rained noninalism" (1,13) is checked by a realGn which posns aunilcnal in rhe father's nane: "Now, there is o.e.ame for which Montaigne manases a sincular lrealdenti a nane vhich is an dception ro his rheory ard which rends 10 be granted a substance r, ?. Thh uhique nanej always thesame, wbich Nould escape the universal inco.sisrency ol the /ar!s rocir of the wind and voice, is nol in futh rhe name of just anylhins nor, moreover, ofjusr a.ybody: n is fie vely naoe of nalter itsell and furlhernore,
tho name

oilhe father {l",ou dr A!re1, Piere" (}71). Compasnon docunenrs how rhc word

1955-73) XXr, 69-70).

as tbe p.ivileged neraphor ol sincerity is also explicirly linked by Montai8ne tendencies righl from lhe openinc "To tbe Radea': "Had I been placed anons those naiions which are said to lile still in rhe sweet freedon of nature! tusl laws, I asDre you I should lery sladly have poitrayed nyself here enrire and wholly naked," On lhe theme native nudity" in Renaissa.ce tavel literature, see Ceorrroy Arlinson, ar

41. Nakednes

lo hh primililist


Nou|eout Hotizo$ de lo Renuisan.p Jnncoiy \Patis: Dtoz, l9l5), 62-73, 329 31. 42. As Dedida has arsued, rhe caresory oi experience, despne (or rather b{ause or) irs claims 10 anainins a concrete empnicism, does nol ioi rhal mauer escape rhe meraphysics ol prsence: 'iThe nolon ordperience, qen rhere one would like io use it to deslrcy metaphysics or speculation, continues to be, in on. or anorher point or its runcrio.ins, lundamentally inscribed wirhin onto theolqy: ai lean by the value of p.s",c", whose inplication ir can

prelB is repeatdly used to Eier to substance or mauer itselfNhile rhe name Pr' is employed, in example airer exanple, as "rhe canonical lorename, th forenade ol ioFnanet' (l?l). Thus, at the stony subsfiatlm oi the Esrarr is lound a rock or ptrz of slabilily upon which can be buill an ontolqy ol rhe soed" (184), which na*es oi iathelhood irself a univesal. Thanks to rhn onrology of rhe seed, we aE allowed to "so beyond rhe alrernatile bct$een lile and death," to "resolle rhe fundamensl stare of disconlinuny and ro i.tesrate ride" (182), Such a conlinuitr is achieved bv the consenalion ol the fader-borh in nis name and in the materiality oi nis body-in the son, a conservation lireralized. as Conpasnon poinrs ou1, in fte practice of cannibalisn, which Monlaishe desfibes virh rne urmosr fascinarion. Ir, in the fire1 noment, oothing seens mor horiible to Monraicne 1han eatinc one's father, in a seond noment, this dh8un ir reversed into a revercnrial ddgrrrarrou {hich dakes of 1he son\ body'1he most worthy and nonorable sepu h uie. lthe sons]lo4ins within themselves and, as ir were. wirhin their marow the bodies or their ia1he6 and then .emains. brineinr then in a say back to lire and reBeneratins theo by transmliarion ihio rheir livins rlcsh by


NOTES TO PACES 36-33 60. Sone in rbe debare over Mo.laigne\ polirics aR Frieda S. Brcwn, Fe/,ato6 and Co8ervotisn i" the Ess ts ol MohtaiBne (cenevar Droz, 196r); Friedrich, Montaisne, 195.210, Fencis le nton, MontaiEne par luinane eatis: Seuil, n-d.), 62 ?4i Jefirey Meblmann, "La Boeliet Montaisne," O4fotd Littatr Reriev 4lno. l: 1979), 456lt Tidothy Rehs, "Montaisne and the Subject or Politr." in Paricia Parkcr and David Q\tnt, eds., Litdary Theory/Re,arnrar.e I48 (Balrinore: Johns Hopkins Unilersity Pre$,

nea.s ol dice ion and nourhhment" (ll, xii, 531). Thh incorDoration by lne so. ol the lader conserves the laner ("E generates" hin) in bolh nane and body. Thh incorporation


rhe iarher qune cleany recalls Freud's analysis in Toten ahd Taboo, S.E Xlll, a wo.k ep frcm this theory of the tha! surprhingly n nevei nentioned by Compacnon. lt n only fathe!! re incarnarion in rhe son to the positinc ofa unile6al law in Essars ll, xxxliiaccordin8 to which sons Benble their lathe6. 51, Conpagnon can rhus read Monraignel inabihy ro naintain his rather\ property (he chateau and domain of Montaisne) and his nore serious inabilily to prcduce a male hen as a kind oi befayal ol rhe lather. On the other hand, Montaisne a$ures his own innortaliry rbrough anolher rind ol pro.Eation, rhat of wririns. lnstead of the .ane ol rhe falher, we have the name oi rhe aurhor, Michel de Monlaigne, instituted ale. r/t /4.r as "a lornal Eality" al once univereal and Da iculd (229 30). Thus the solurion oflered bt lhis d'a,re!.aho, accoiding ro Compasnon, allows Montaisne to superede lhe opposition belw*n Ealism and nominalisn, 52. The continuiry postulated bt Codplgnons ontoloBy oi lhe sed" would then requne a ce ain dkcontinuity thal hales il virtually indisrinsnishabl from lhe me.eoloeical" ontol-


49r Maniied (itlsch , Recht und Mrcht bei Montdisn : Ein BeitruE

d4 Gturdlacen

Staot lhd Recht (Berlin: Duncker and Hudblot. 197.1); Anna Maria B^rlist^, Alle ofti"i del pensien politico tibe iho: Montaiahe e Crdron (Milan: A. Ciuffrt, 1966); Max Eorkheiner, "Monraisne und die Funtlion der Skepsis," ir Kritische Theotie: Eine Doktheatation (Franklnr! S. Fischer, 1968), ll,201-59; Sratobioski, Mottaighe en
61. Ct Tzveran Todorov, "Uerre er liaure," rr. Piede Sainr-Anand, yole French Studies 64(1983),11344;and"TheMoralilyofConquest,"tr,JeanneFerguson.Diogeresl25(1984), 89-102- Orher .rilics resnuaie lhe rductionism Todorov sees by ironizins or orher{he conplicatinc tbe vay analoay works in Montaisne: Michel de Cerleau, The l/ritins oI Historr, tr Tom Conley (Nes York: Columbia Univesity Prc$, 1988), 209 4liand "Montaisne\'Ol Cannibars': The Savage'l':'in Het{oloeies: Diyourse oh the Othe, rr, Brian Masumi (Minneapolh: Univesny ol Minnesota Press, 1936),67-?9i crard Delaux, "Un cannibale en haut de cha!$es: Montaigne, la difiCrence er la losique de l'iderlit," MrN 9? (1982),


.ut EtarchunE



Ci. Ar4,s l, rxei. lTli ll, {vii, 619; lll, ii, 810! lll, ix, S96-97 54. Here you have, a bit more decendy, some excrenent ol an aged mind, haid, sonetimes loose, and always undicened' (lll, ix, 946).


Montaigne\ adical noninalism.


55. Conpagnon,

56. 57. Compacnonk conclusion, 198.

Norr, 198. Compag.on, ll5 and passin.


Lavie et I'oeuvre de Montai8ne," in Aszys, x!ii. Cf. Mal\ezin, Michel d.Montaighe,

59. The afterellects or rhjs palronynic displacemenr Bmain almost hagiocraphically insfibed in the reeionalropoeiaphy. Sainr Michel, rhe vjllaEeadjacenr ro rhc Eyquem chaleau, n tnown today by the nane oi ils proudest son: Saint Michel de Montaisne. I find myself in disaeremenl with Majer's intenrelation f'Montaisne\ Cure") sheEby Monraicne\ rip to Rome would "cure" him ol an unresolved Oedipal rivahy wirh the fdlher lo the e{tent tbat Rode would synboli?e the mothei lt seems to me, howeler, thar Montaienc\ Ocdipal nake-up is considerably moe probledatic. RefeFnces lo his mother in rhe Esrarr arc no more present afler hn trarels than before, and while some arite( nay have inagined Rome as naiernal, I see Do evidence rhat Moniaiene did. On rhe conrrary, Monlaig.e\ Rome h an eminently masculinized one, peopled by bis lavorite Ronan herces, rhe shade or his taiher,

919-57; Jean Marc alan.hard, "Oi Cannibalism and Autobiography," MIN 93 (19?8), 654?61Sreven Rendell, "Dialecrical StructurcsandTactics in Montaiqne s Des Cannibales, Prcific Coast Philolos! t21t917), s6-6lt Marcel Bataillon, "Montaisne e! Ies conqDranc de I'or," Stutli Flahcesi (1959),153 67; Frank Lesl ncanr, 'Le Cannibalisme des Cannibales,"' letir.lelaSociltidesAnisdeMoaloiEne9l0anlll 12 (1982),27 40. 19 38iTon Conley, "MontaiBne and the New world," Itispani. /s&er 4 i1989), 225 62, For nore seneral considerations of the ro, sa,vase myth, sec Hayden White, "The Noble Savagc Thene as Fetich," in Freddi Chiappelli, ed., F^t IhaE6 of Anerica: The Inpd.t of the Nev Wotkl on the O/d (Berkeleyi Unilesiry ol caliiornia Pre$. 19?6), I, 12l 35 i Michale Duchet, .4 rrn@polaaE et histoite tu siicle des luniires, rov. ed. (Paris: Flammarion, 197?), 62. O.e ol ine nost endearine nomenrs or Michel Buloas Asatr /er E$a6 (Parn: Gallimard, 1968) is no doubl ihe inasinary dialogue he stases beiw*n Monlaicne and his wife, who wants 1o know whal n is her husband spends all bis tine doins in the seclusion



and even as Dororhy Cabe Colemen bas shown (Ire Oal/o-Ronan MUR: Aspe.ts of Ronan Litetary Ttaditian in Sixteenth-Century Fnnce lcambridse: Cambridee Unive6ity Pre$, 19?91. 156 5?), ihe shosr ol lhe long lost and eve.mourncd La Botic. wlrile Monraisne was in rivaliywith his farhcr, tlrcrewasalso an inrcnsedesne lor hin. As lorhisnother. Antoinelte de Louppes, rhe biosraphcs inlorm us nor only ihar shc ouilived hcr illusrious son bur also that uDon rhe dearh or Pietre Eyquem in 1568, she became the oificial cxe.uror of hk eill and nanased the household aiians oi rhe Montaigne chiteau unlil abou! 1587, sben she leir lhe domai. permanenily. Thc rcasons lor this depa ure remain unclear, but strile between her and Michel seems Do$ible. ln any case, iaiher ihan aoing ro lind de mother in Rofre, it seens nore likely ihat Monraigne left hone precisely ro get away from hk molher and ro refind his tather in the eternal ciry. On Monraisne\ norher, see Cecile lnsdorf, Mo,/d,? z,z/ I'.ui,tsr (Chapel Hill: North Carolina Studies in lhe Romance Lansuases and Literarures, r9?7), 43 41t Ftame, Montaisne: A Biosraphr, t6 28: Malrezin. Michel de Montaisne: 'tdnqtet, La de Montaiane, s9.

olhhlibrary.OnMontaisne\aditudesrowardwoncn,selnsdott,Montais@an.lFqinis, and Abrahan C. Keller, Monraiane o. women," ih wollg nE Lei^e\ ed,, Ot.e no velles dtud6 sur l'inace de la lmne dans la litteratu.e Jnncdip du.lix-septiine sid.le (lnbincen:
Ounler Narr and Paris: Jean Michel Place, 1984),



Ersa)r ll, vi,




64. On tbe relation between sieger.ft and ego-conslructio. as elaborated in terms of rhe texluar Drodlction oi cla$ical France, see Joah Delean, Litem! Fottili.ations: Rotseat, ta./oJ, Szde (Princelon: Princebn Universily Prcss, 1984), 65. Rigolol sees lhe ensconcenent ol Monraigne in ihe heishr of hn nam and doninion as tbe coddilion ior the very writine ol rhe Esdrr aod the reason lor lhen slf-deprecatory mannel "li h becausehe n'perched'up onlopolhis mou.iain'-lilerally and fisurarilely tbar he can...embra.e'a lile thal h los ahd withour lu$er'and learlessly proclain the of bis discouse" ("La P,re du rcpenrir," 112), 66. Such an Oedipal ambicuily can, ol coDse, be called upon ro explain Moniaignek synemdic undercuui.g or Sebond (and, for that marer, ol rheological discoume in seneral) i. esay ll, xii, which claims to be an apolo8y" ror hh iather\ ialorir tbolosian. On rhe issue ol Montaisne\ relarion ro his rather, the vast currenr of Montaisne criricism has taken


NOTES TO PACE 39 at face value Montaigne\ desc.iprion ol him as 'lhe bes iarher iheE ever was," A rew ecent c.nics, ho*e!er, bale begnn to analyze the posibilities oi Odip.l dval.y: Frde.ic Rider, fhe Dialectic oJ Se[hood in Mo,tats,? stanford: Slaniod Uniledly Pft$, 1973); Antoine Comlasnon, No!s, Mt lel de Mortorsre, Mirchell CEnbers, "Monlaisne at rhe Crossroadsi Texrlal Connndruns in the E{sais, ' tn Detou* oJ Desire. 4r-59, and "L 6cho de Monraisne," Oeueres et CtitiquesA6os. r-2: r98l), llJ-25; Denn goliet, "Le siaee," Oava et Cdiqtes 8(nos.l-2:1983),45 58i and Francois Risolor, Purloined Letlets," vale 9rdt6 64 O983), 145-66. While rhese cirics tend to insht. quile isbtly, on Monraigne\ slruduied inadequacr vis-;L-vn his real iather as *ell as his synbolic or literary lalhere (Sociates, Plurarch, the Larin doralisls), this is to iorget lhe obviols, the nistorical lriumph of Monraisne oler his fatne(t. In tbe leminolosy advanced by Harold Bloom (ar? 'l,riely ol Iifluence lo\fotd: Oxfot.l Universn! Pre$,19?31), Montaiene h a ttrons" wriler, easily able ro overcooe his various Dredecessos, Aiter all, nearly all we know of Piere Eyquen cones frod shat hh son, Micnel de Mo.taigne, says abonl bin.


Coiinshan, Rober! Sloolhof, and Dusald Mur.locb (Cambridse: Cambridee University prcss,


2. Cartesirn Coordin.tes l. Les Nouveaux Hon.ons de Ia Renakerce Jnh|aik lPatis: Droz, 1935), 254-61, 4025. a parlicular favodte for ridicule, in rhis regard, was Augustine\ contention thai lile in the antirodes was impossible: Amons Chrntians, those who deny thal the eaith is rolnd, believe ii impossible and aeainst nalure to be able 10 Nalk Nitb one\ head belo* and onet leer above: even Ladantius and Saint Ausustine believ this because, anons other rcaso.s, rhy iound no mention ol ir in Scriprure.... Nvertheless, evn though the Nord olCod does nol clarify this for us, il does nor follow that rhe Anripodes do not exist- For, as it is inpious to sek rhe a icles of one\ faith ehshere, so ir is aho a sreal superstnion ro believe and to considr lrue only what n expr$ed in lhe Sfipturet' (Henri Lancelot Dn Voisin de La Popeli^iare. Les tais nondes lParis, 15321; cited in Atkinson,259-60). In a 1588 addition


to the Apoloer lot Ralnont S?rdd, Mohtaisne lolloNs sun: ft rould hat ben Pyr rhonizins, a rhousand yean aao,lo casl in doubt the scince olcosmosraphx and lhe opinions thar were accepred about n by one and all; il sas heresy lo adoil rhe exisre.ce ol the Antipodes. Behold in our century an inli.ire extent oi reira inma. ... which has just been discorered" Itssa)s ll, rii, 571 ?21, Should we be surprised, then, ir thh sane .ritical ropos resurfaces in Desartess oien hanshty respo.scs to obj{rions mad asainst himl "One should believe asi.slepeson wbosays, with no intention oflying, rhat he has sen or understood somelhing nor rhan one ought to believe a rhousand othe^ who deny tbis only because rhey have nol been able lo see or undestand ilr jus! as in the discovery ol the aniipodes we bave believed the reports of a iew sailoG who have cncumnavisared tne slobe ratber than lhousands or pbilosophers rho Elused to believe thar rbe earlh was round" (Ren Descanes. Lexre M. Cle*elier, Januaty r 2, 1646, in Oeuetes de Descanes, ed. Charles Adan and Paul Tannern ev. ed,, IParisr vrin, l9?l 821, lX l, 210). Cf, 'Rponses aux Sixiames Objections," lX l. 221,229, vt[.124,126, All stbsequnr relercnces b Descartes Nill be to rhh edilion and will be narked direcrly in the terl only by page nunber and, where necessary, by rhe rnb and tbe volume number or lhe work ci&d. Since I will reiei ro fie Latin only as nsessary ior tbe sake of enphasis or to underscore significant depaitures irom the French, refercnces to lhe Laln rxr will he indicated Nith lolDme a.d pase numbes in boldface. For the sane reason, and bsause the leadins EnslGh lra.slations inelnably rely on a mix ol tbe Frnch and Latin versions, all Enelish rranslations of Descaites (whetber from French or frcm Latin) are my ov.. I have, how.ver, careiully consuhed rhe lollowina tanslarions: D6.a.resr P,r,i/ osophnal WtuinC' i, and ed, Elizabeth Ansconbe and Peter Thooas Geach, E!. ed. (Indianapoh: Bobb$Merrill, r91t). The Philoephical wntinEs oJ D*a es,2 !oh., tr. John

2. On the libertin movenenl in Fr.nch letrrs, see J_ S. Spink, Frch.h Free Thesht Ftotu Cossedi to voltaire (London: Arhtone, 1960); and Ren.1 pinta'd, Le tibutihase dt;dit dans la preniale hoitiA d, d*-ypri?r" sD./e (pads: Boivin, l94t). On its literarv mnifi!,rion..,ee loan Delean.l/,e inp Srotqie\: Ftpp.tod aar! the \opt n sewhAenti-centu a'aa. p rcolumbus Ohio Srare I nnelny Pres, 198r,. 3- Savidin d Cyrano de Beryetet LAtne Mon te, ou tes esto,s et enpiw de ta lure ia Oeuvrcs conplat5, ed. teq\es Prvot (paris, Belin, l9?7), 359, ny enphasn. Cf, Oe.a.d Cenerte, "funilers rvesible:' in F,s!rer / ipais: Selil, 1966), t8 20. The progressive lamilia.izarion of a putatively other world h also srrikidsly denonstraterl by Desca es in his The World as well Patt Fiye ol the Discoure on Method. "rhere, fie accumularine Neatth ^s of detail add ever-s@rer particularity of descriplion i.elitably disclose thn ..ticrion,, of a puEly deductive physics iand physiology, in tne ensuins Treotise oa Mdn) as t systenaic *plication of rre wond in which we live. Similarly, rhe Orients ro be founrl in vohane! tales or Montesquie!\ P".sta, Ie0e6 do not succeed in beins anythina norc rhan. as Rola.d Barthes puh ir, 'tome kinds of enpry boxes, nobile silns wnh no conrent of then osn. dee?e /fl05olhuncn \. shrch one qu( v r.e. ro,igniI one,etr,. ( on. tude. Bar rhe., ..rnF n rhe paradox olrhe Voltanian votaee: ro naniiesr ad innobitiry" (,.Le rlernier des erivains heueur," in tsaiJ crriq,6 [Pa!is: Seuil, 1964], 98-99) 4. O. the nodon oi neutralizario. in utopic discouse, see Ldis Maon, Utapiq,6: Jeux d'eae (Paris: Minnit, l97l). Aho see Fredric Janeson, ..Ot Islands and Trench.s: Neu tlaliarion and the P.oducrion of Uropiad Discourse,', Dia.r/,,.s ? (no. 2: Summer t9?7), 2 21, Other inponanr recent wor* on tb question oi utopias can be founrl in ciues Lapouee, Utapie et citilisation (Paris: Flammarion, t978)j Alexandre Cioranescu, a,zwrr d, parsa Utopi. et liilraturc \Patist caltinard, t9?2); Raynond Tro\ssoa, VaNCes au pars d; nuk pott: Histoire littdnhe de la pe6@ rtopique (F'issets. publicatiohs de la Facujrd de phjlosopbie et Lerrres, l9?5); Mau.ic. de Candillac and Catherine pircn, eds., Le discous utopique (Pads: u,A.E. l0/t8, l9?8); Pierie Fuier and Carard Raulet, eds., de l'utopie lPatn: Calile, l9?9); witheln Vosskanp, ed,, Utopieioschuns: rntetdjzilinare Studia .v aer.enli.hen Utopie (Sruugari: J. B. Melzler, 1982)i pelei Ruppert, Rp;der d a Sttunae Lmd: The Activnt ol Readinc Lnent! Urdl,r (Atbens: Unilereily of Ceoreia
5- An exeoplary Eadins thar brings oul the underpinninss id a key rert oi tbe B.itish iradition, John Locke\ E$a]] o, A,uoa Undqstandinp, can be found in paul de

Meta]\o-: ..h at tnqun).,.o i Adunn t9-8J, It_10 t ol discu$ion ol rhe ways in wnich a parlicutar metaphor (lhe oculai) has informed lhe hislory olnodern philosophy in Creat Brnain as well as on tne Codtinenr, see especiauy Richard Rorty, Prilosoprl and rhe Mnrct oJ Naturc (p:nncetonr pridceton Universitv pre$.
r 4e

r p,.remolosy or

a wide rangins

Richard H, Popki., Ire t/,rol.), of Skept;.kn.ltun Ehshus to Stiroza (Berkeley: Univerity ol Calilomia Pre$, l9?9), r72 213; Atan M. Boae, The Fo ures af Montoisn : A Histo;) o! the Esqs k Frurce,480-1669 (London: Metbuen,t93t. 209 j?i Benjani; woodbride;. '''the DiiouB de la nethode aod the Spnn of rhe Renaissance:, Rononic Rerie|| 25 (\s3.1),

6. To be precise, exactly one instance of Montaigne\ .ame occurs in rhe entne Caftesian coryus: in a letter ro Ne*castte (Novenber 23, t6.16), Descarles mentions Montaisnet name amona rhose of philosophere who axribure ftousht and nhderstandins 1o aninals, a view often lamhasred by Descartes in his idfanous rheory of animals as mere ..automatons.,, On the dhcreer bur decisive iniluence ot Montaisne on Descartes, see, anonc otbers, Leon Brumchvicg, D.sarer er P6el, teckuE de Montai,ne (Neuchalel: La BaconniiE,rg45);





136..421 Gilbed Oadoflre, "Le Dirouts .te ta nAhode et 2 (19.18), 301 14 iAlerandie Koyt4, Ehtrelids sur

t histone Iirtdraire," Frer., Srrdtes

(New York and Paris: Brenrano, 1944)i Francois Para, Descartes et Montaigne, autobiosraphes;' Etu.les lntunires t1 ltgAq, 381 94; PhiliDpe Desan, Nahsance.le ld t athod? (Parh: Nizet, 1987), espcially ll5-s9. Finallx much on rhe rel.rion betteen Descane! and Monraig.e can be lound in Erienne Oihon's ertensive comnenranes in his edilion ol the Dis.ours de la ndthode lPat\s: vtin, 7. Nalhan Edeldan. "The Mixed Metaphor in Desca es," Rodaric ,gevret 4l (1950), 1At tpr. io The Ele o! the Beholder: Esats in Frcnch l,t"rarr.., ed. Jules Brody (Bal linorer Johns Hopki.s University Press, 1974), 107-20. While Edelnan is not lhe lirn to have noticed Descanes's nelaphorical pEierences, he is, at leas! as iar as ! can tell, the firs! to have argled lor rhc decisile influence oi such elemenls in DescaneJs syle on lhe derel opne.t ofhisrhousht. Aho see, on this sahelopic, Th, Spoeiii, "La punsance maaphorique de Descarles, in M. Cuerouh and H. Couhier, eds., Des.ai4 (Patis: Minuit lcahiers de Royaunonl, Philosophie No. 21, 195?), 273 87; C. Nador. MClaphores de chemins d de rabyiinrhes chez Descanes," Rewe Philosophique.Je lo Fnn.e et de IdtlahCet t52 (t962J,


19341 l, 299n), Cr. Henri Couhir's renarks on rhe diflerence berweh pe,tuasio (Ld pensee hetaphlsique de Deya eJ lParis: vrin. 19671, 9t-95rf). ^nd ll. Cl- Guroult, Dar.o.ler' PrlTosopr).. "Tbe analysis of th. pi*e ol wax has appeared .s a d*isile and brillianl verificadon of the conclusions imposed by the o.der ol reasons '

of Minnesota Prcss,





37-5rl and Pierre'Alain Cahne. Lh outre Desca ?s: Le philosophe.t s.n lotE$e \P^tis: vrin, 1980), espcially 166 71. Olher, noreiecenr works stressing lhe inportance or Desca es\ use of langlage that have subsranrilely inlorned my Eading ol Descattes include: Jean'Luc, Eao rr, (Paris: Flamoarion, 1979)i Mi.nel Foucauh,,rtdrone de lo folie n !'43. c/asri4,a znd ed. (Paris: Callinard, l9?2),56 53,581-601i Jacques Derrida, "Coeiro and rhe Hislory oi Madness," in Witins and Dilletehce, rr, Alan Bass (Chicaco: Universily of, l9?8), ll 6li Jea. Frangois Bordron, La fonction slructurante,'i in S/.u.?!res
de lo signi,ficatioh, ed. F. Nel (Brussels: Editions Complexe, 19?6), l10-42. Alonc similar lines, also see Sylvie Ronanowski, ZLl&slon.rez D?s.a es: Lo structurc.t, .livo B cadisien lP^tis: Klincksieck, 19?4)t Timorhy.J, Rehs, "Cartesian Dncourse and Cla$ical ldeolosy," Dla.rlio 6 (no. 4r winlet 1976), 19-27; a.d The 'Concevon' Moli I in Desca es," in L Van Baelen and D. L, Rubin, eds., Lo cohireh.e intitieur: Etad6 sut to littlnturc lroncaise du XVll.siacle pftsent'es en hohinose a Judd D. Hubplr (Paris: .,ean Michel Plac.,

subject! conlinued qisrence is co.linsenl uDon Th a.sumenl is based on rhe lollowjns line fron rhe Second Medilarion: "Thn prcposirion: / /ft, 1 sdr, is n{essarily u!e, every rine rhat I pro.ouce it, or thar I conceile it in ny nind' (lX I, t9). Tne &nporal problem ol the cost,t conlinuity or disconrnuity is. ofcourse, oDe offte tradnional aeas of debate anons Eade( ol Des@rtes. As his own lirsr rader, Descartes was himself awarc ol the problen: "lt micht ju$ nappen that if I ceased to think, I would at tne sane rime cease to be or to exisa' (lX l, 418). Early and eloquenl refonularions of this dilnna are fou.d in Ddvid H\mes Tteatie of Hunan Na,z.e, ed, L. A. Selby,Bigge (Oxtortl: Cla.en.lon, 1888) and Kanrs Clniqte oJ Pure Re6or, ed. and t. N. (, Sbilh (New Yort: 51. Marlin\, 1929), 341-44. In the sake of Jeko Hiotikka\ inne.sely infhendal .n<l fircely co.lested article, ''CoEno, EtEo Inierence or Pellormancel" lPhitosophiet Rei.w 1t 11962l, t 23), cu.Ent debates 'un: issue have rended ro quesdon rhe tnndanental Carresian dictum in on rhh terns ol perfoibadve utlerance, tn a sinil.. bnl more rigorously sediolic vein, Bodsn (..La fonction stiuclurante") has analyrcd lhe .ogto in terns ol a slippase bersen Cror.r'ar,o, ind i,o,.d. Eve. moie rcentlx Jean,F.ancon Lyorard has arcud the nee$ity ol th subject,s proper nade to p.ovide a solution of conrinuiry betwee. the not nfteserily identical p.odouns ol I think and I an (fhe DifJqen.l: Phtues in Dispute lMinneapolis: Univedily ol Minnesota
1nat the

Cf, Nancy! clain in Eso s/u



co,rtled enn.ciario. of



:r lno.2:

ior Trurh), x,512: Such seneral doubts uould lead us straight into the isnorance olSofates or rhe uncerlainry or the Pyrrhonist. Tbese are deep walers, whre it seens io me rhat one nay lose on\ iooting." 9. Cl. The Search Ju Ttuth, X, 515: lor iron lhis unirersat donhr, just as if !tutn o Ji*d otu innoeobte point l|eluli d Jixo innobilique pun rol, I shall deriv the knowledge of Cod. ot vou vouroelf. and ol all rhe dinas in the Norld." ,0. AccordinsroMa ialcueroujt, this dilenma poin$ to a sysre@tic opposition lhrcushout Descartes\ opus berw*nrhe peGuasiveand rheconvincing: "The liNn a deep agreemenl and close acquiescnce, eirher with sensations o. habits, orNilh the fundamnral .equnenents of our nindr lhe second h an external con$rainr iD Nhich will, far from beins seduced, sees ns conseni torn lrom n by the torce ol reasons, \Jr'hen conviction encounrer a persuasion opposed io it, ir can be broughl to move asain nself *ith dittic\ny" (Desca es Phit6oph! Inte.preted o.cordins to the Oder o/R?arorr, ri Roser Ariew e1al. lMi.neapolis: unilersilv

l9?r),201-22;JohnLyons,'TbeCartesianReaderandtheMelhodicSubjecl,"Esp,rC.dar4l Summer l98l). l? 47r and "Subiectivity and lmilation in rhe Disouts de ld nAhode," Neophilolosus 66lno. 4: ocrober 1982), 508-24; Jcan-Joseph cour, "Descades ei la pe6pective," tsptr Cri,re"r 25 (no, l: Spring 1985), l0-20i Dalia Judovitz, Srrie./ivty ond Reptesentdion: The Otisins oJ Modem Thousht in Devortes lc^mbridse: Cambridge U.ilcreiiy Pre$, 198?). 8, Medilationson Fi6t Phitosopht lX \la 19. Ct. La recherche d? /a vlrld (The Search

13. Ou formulalon oi an erq araa s,u turhs out to be not too tar kom 6e anbulo, e.8o rrd, whose validily Descanes denies in bn esponses to Pierre Cassendi\ daleriatisr oblecdons 10 the.osro, naneln thal any oi ode! acrions, wherher inrelletual or corporeat, n sufficient to prole one's ex istence ( " Fifth O bjecri ons," VU, 259-61). P.ediclablx Descarts's rbuttal is rbat a proposnion svn I |'alk, the.eJore t od is only certain insofar as / ^s rhat I am walking, since I could irosine myself walking de. donsh I nay be only dreamins, As a resuh, aU thar can be infered is the qisrence oftbe mind thal rbi.ks itselfto be waltins and not rhat of rhc body thar is in notion (Vit, 152). Descarres's rcsponse rhus aheady calh inro action lhe ni.d/body splir not qplicitly daeloped unril rhe Sixth Mediration ro ward oil cassendi s objecrion as a naive enpiicism- Such a Fjoinder could no! so easily dispos. ol the fisurarively in.lecidable e./o, rao slu ro the exte.i thal lne idt or ero. necessarily pEcedes any dnri.dion betwee. mind add body. The very confusion of the catesories could only rejnforce the proposniont validity. 14. The Dledurcs of the iahous Cartesian pole were aneady res&d by Montaisne during hh trip thrcugb soutbem Cermany on his $ay Inly. His secrelary rores reactions: 'Monsieur d Montaisne, who slcpr in a rcom wnn tn it ldans un poite). prahed it hiehly for feeli.s aU nighr a pleasa.t and noderare ^ warntb of aji Ar lea$ you donl burn your iace or yoDr boots, and you are frc froo lhe smote you set France" (Joumol, U,, LaI{,6 rhe Esrr, Montaigne compares the rladve merits ol FEncn chimney and Cernan poe&i "A pleased me al Augsburs by arackins the disadvanlases of ou tueplaces l,orloryeal by the sane a.sune.r we odina.ill use 1o condemn rheir stoves lporlerl. For in lrulh, that illins heat, and the smell or rhar naterial they are made of when n sets hot, gives most ol those who .re nol used ro theo a headahe; not me. Bur airer all. since rhn neal is ven, conslant and genral, snhour flane, snoke, or th wind thar rhe openins ofour chioneys bdnss us, n has what n bkes i. orher rcspcts lor conparhon *ith ouri' (lll, xiii, 1030). In line, horaer, witb nis predictable Ladn afrinilies, both modes or








neatins aE considered sDbservient to a highly ove.detemined rhnd: 'Why do.t w inirate Rona. archnedure? For they say lhat in ancient rines rhe lire was made only outside deir houses, and ar the toot of themi Nhehce rhe heat was brcarhed into tbe entire dwellinc by pipes, contrived in rbe rhicknes ol the waUs thal surrounded the rooms thal were io be warned. This I have sen cleady indicaled, I donl know whee, in Seneca" (ibid.). As for t be horse, ir dranalically rcap pea rs in one of Descar test most notable successors, Ci a nb at thra vico, who resorts to n precisely for the pliposes ol dilierentiarins himself fion Descartes: "we shall nor here feisn vbat Rena Descanes crafiily leigned as lo lhe nelhod ol his studies simDly in oder to exalt his ow. philosophy and narhenatics and degrade al1fic other studis includd in divine and hunan erudition. Rather, with the candor proper to a historiad, *e - shall m.rale plainly and step by si.p rhe enlire se.ies olvicissituds. in order lhal the proper and naluial causes of his lvico'sl pa.dculd developnent as a nan of letles be tno{n Jusr as a hisb-spirird horse, lone and well rained in war and long afleNards let out to pasture at will in rhe filds, if he happens to hear rh sound of a trumpet feh again rne martial apperire rise in him and is eager to be oolnled by rhe cavakyman and led inlo banler so Vico, rhousb be bad wandered lrom rh raisht course of a well disciplined early youth tas soon spurrcd by hh senius ro take up again fte abandoned pafi, and set off again on his *^y" {rhe Autabiosruph! of Aiatubsuisn vico, $, Ms Harold Fnch and Thodas Coddard Bergin lhhaca, N.Y.: Cornell unilemity Pres, 194,1]. ll3 l4), vico\ ievision ol Descartes\ autobiosraphical rbetoric has beencdtically er.minedby Juliana Schiesari in an as ye! unpub_ rhe Modern lished paper, "Hnirory: vico\ Aulobiosiaphy in the Thnd Pron," Languase A$ociation conle.iion in December 1988. 15. Whib n is sorth norine thar Descanes nkes thn metaphor fion medieval theolocical auesory vhere it h iampanr (cf. Nador, MCraphoEs de chemins,'19-41), it n rhe pculiarny oi his discouse 10 link the allesoical ioagery or moialiry with rhe basis ol "scieDtiiic" inquny- The intelligenr dechion would seem to be lor Desca.les iddislinguishable lron the noraUy corEct one, a slippage queried by no.e oder than the Jansenist Anrcine Amauld in thc "Fourth Objeciio.t'(tx-I, 167-68). ln Kandan leros, there would be.o dislincdon in Descades belween pure and practical leason. But il lhe road 10 God and tbe road to trurh arc fte sahe road, and if the destinaiion is 10 be eached tbrcugb a nolal ralio.alily or a ralional morahn rhen one can alEady see the possibility as wll as thenecessily lor Descartest provins Cod! *isteoce by rational proof alo.e.

has insisted on a slow, lillons proce$ of oaruration in De$aies's philosophy. He consequendt !iuses 10 Ead any inklings ol the laler No.ks in the earlier, 10 th point or claimins fiar ine .oEiro of ihe DtscorBe n nor yer the 'lrue .oat , ' whose prcpr rormulation must await ft pubricario. ol the Me.titations \La dicouvette nataphlsique de l'honne chez Des.arr"r re!. ed, IParis: PUR 19661, ll3il). othefs, such as Ceorses Poulet ("Le sonse de Des.^ttes:' in Etuds sut le renps huhain IP^t\s: Plon, 19491, I, 6l-92); Bertram D. Lewin lDreahs and the Uses oJ Rearc$ior lNe* Yo*: l.lernarional Univesits Pre$, l9s8l): and, to a lesser exlnr, CEsor Sebba lThe Drcah o.f D.scanes lcarbondale and Edwardsville:


16. Tne dark *ood of erof is, of couise, a lonsstandins lilrary ropdr celebtated qanples of whicb can be fouod in lhe openins canros ol Danret , and Spenser3 Fael,. q!e"re. A nod{n, paodh velslon of it cah be found in Samuel Bckelt's Mol1or, tr Patick BoNles(NewYorr: GrolePress, 1955), in which rhe he.o Ejecls Descanes s advice of iollosing a srraisbt line and seeks inslead ro cra*l oul ol the wood wnhin which he is enlrapped by movins in an spiral ( I l5 24). Despi& tne efiorb of Ruby Cobn (sanre1 a.kellr the Conic Aantt INN Wtnswick. N.J.r Rliaers unive.sily Prcs, 19621, 10-16) and Hugh y& ner (Santel Bdkeo: A Ctitial Studr lNew York: Orove Press, 19611, espcially the chapter on "The Carlesian Centaur," ll7 l2), nol much seems to have been done i. terns

Sourhein Illinois Universily Press, 19871), see rhe entnety ol Descaies's pbilosophical projd inscribed in the early reieiences to the dEan- Needless to say, betwen the two exrenes, innumerable lariations and posnions *nt. For sohe ove.vie*s ol th. crnical rerraln, see Geneliive Rodis-Lesis, Z'o?lvte .le Dd.ades (P^ri! \tin, l9?l), 45-59, 448 5,1. 20- While rcfrences to the dftam occur i. fte Costarior?r P.irara. (X, 216-18), {harevei tert Descanes nay hare wrirten has disappeared- Scholas aie thus obtiged lo tollow fie veBion civen by Adien Bailler i^ \is Vie ./e Monsiet Des-Carr?s {lPais: Hortbenels, l69li .p1. Ceneva: SIalkine, 19701, I, 8l-86), rcprodlced by Adan and Tanhery, Oe0B, X, l?988. Baillefs texl can be civen considerable credence, howse., since whal conld be called nis biqraphical nelhod often consn$ mercly i. the verbatio lifrins of phEses fron DescarteJs wrnin8s, including now-lost nanuscriprs ro whicb Bailler had access. ln f.ct, Baillefs biog, raphy could be said, in general. to retran*ribe rhe autobiosraphical passages in Descalres frcn tu$ to third pe6on. Tqtual Droblens notwithsandins, Descanes! diean nas drawn parricular, Poulel, "Le sonce"; SeblJ^, Drean; considerable imerprelive auendon. See, Lesin, Daar, Sigmu.d FFud, Brielan Ma:ioe Le.oy itber ci.em Traum des carresius," in Cesdnnelte Werke (Londoni lmaso, 1948), xtY 558,60; M^rine Le Roy, Le philosophe tu hosqu. (Pais: Rieder, 1929), l. 79-96; Jacques Marilain, ae ro,s de DeJ.arteJ (Pads: Cotrea, I932)i Henri Couhier, Les PrcniAres Pe6aes.te D6carr"s (Paft: Vrin, 1958); Stephen Schijnbeiser, "A DEam of Descanes: Reflections on rne Unconscious Delerminanrs of rhe Sc\e ces:' atiohol Jou.not ol Psr.holost 20 \lanEty 1939), 45-5?; lago Calston, De$ cartes and Modern Psycbiarric Thouehr." /sd 35 (Sprins 1944), I 18 28; J. O. Wisdom, ,,Thre Dreams of Descartes," ,Lrel,ationat Jounal o! PsrchodnarrB 23 (194?), ll8 28i L, Feuer, "Tbe DEam of Descarres," ,,lnqi.ah hoso 20 lr9s9), a-26: Ben-Ami Scharhein, ,.De! caneis Dreams," Philosophicol Forun I (1963-69),293 317; Robrta Recht, The Foundations of an Admnable Science': Desanes! Drcams of l0 November 1619. IJ!@r,/ks ir Joci.rr 4 (nos, 2 3, Sprins Summer l98l), 203-19; Jacques Barchilon, "Les sonses de D$ cartes du l0 novembre 1619, er leur inrercretarion, Papels on French Serententh-C.nlut!



ol Bctett

as a fnical reader ol Descartes. Nor only is Ca.lesianisn a pershrehi sublexl of his noveh and plays, but his first published wor*, "whorcscope' (Pa.n: Hours Pre$, I9l0), was a piize Ninnins poen about Descanes, and ne did exlensive rcsearch on Desca.les for hh ma$er's desree while servinc as a visirins l*tuEr at the Ecole Normale Suprieure in
17. 18, 19.

Cf. Nancx teo

D6.oure, vl,6,




The hhlorical veracily of Descartis accoun!


nis ovn philosophical developmenl

has drawn serious eservarions lrom rve.lith-cenlury

dirics. Ferdinand Alquie, in Danicular,

Litercture t\ lno.20: 1934), 99.-rl3; J&k Rochiord Vrcom n, Rend Desca es: A Biosnphr (New York: Putnam, l9?0), 45-67t Marie-Lou& lon Fnnz, Dd Traun .|es Desca es, in Zeiloe Doktnente .les SeeL (Zurich: Rascher, 1952), 49 ll9i Karl Stern, Th. Flisht frcn ,/oda, (New York: Fa.rar, Stranss and Gnoux, 1965), ?5 105. 21. Here, I rind nyseli both i. asEedent and at lariance {irh Lucien Coldman's undeF andinc ol Desca es as he who opens uD lhe infinite sp&es inar alaln Pascal (ae D,e! crcha: Etude su ta ision tnsiqLe dans la Pensaes de Pdscal et dans le hiAne de R@ihe IParis: CaUinard, 19591, 16-45). while ny rcadi.c cotroboraFs such a discovery of infinny in Descartes\ Nriring, ir aho naintains rhal a denial oi this iniinny is already or sinuitaneously undeNay rlrere. In ras, I would.go so far as to areue that lhe denial of infiniry or .,eror" is a defining ceslure of Ca esia.ism itseli. Even in nis pbysics, rhe imDlicil Doslularion of the infiniry of the universe is ledlced to tbe merely ,.indefinne, as Alexan4re Koyra has sho*n, through the 'identification ol exrnsion and ma er" lFnn !h? ctosed world to lhe Inlinite Uniwre lB^ltimarct tohns Hopkins Press, t95?1, to,it), To explain the exisrence oi movemeni Nithi. this voidless wo.ld, Desca es is obliged to rcsort to his inianous theory






ol votries ltoutbilons, cl. Le

VIU-I, 49



tA 2lt Ptihciples oJ Philosoph,

lX 2.11-44:

in its atlenpts to apprehe.d" thal objsl

86-99 21, As Descanes slates h4here, Notld" (Le Monde, Xl, 46).

62), by which the novement of one objecr nece$aiily displaces anothet, *hich in rum displaces anorher and another, unlil we return lo the oriBinal object set in notion As such, the hop ola llea would nece$arily be fell around the world. Thn ab sol ule .o snoloe ical economy of rravel n euaranted, of couree, by Cod, who is lhe tust cause" of lhh notion Nnose parhsays desribe perfecr circles a.d Nnose quanrily Enai.s consranl throusholl the univeN (PrD.ipG lX-2, 81 84; VIU-I, 58 62), 22. An ohjcl of aesthetic contenDtation h "marhemarically suhline" if ils siz n so gteat thar fie imasinationcan no longer "comprhendi' il as a whole den qhile thal lacuhy persisls

rnnannel Kanl, Criti4r o/JzrlEnent, ft-

thrcugh a pr@e$ ol sequenlial apprcximarions l. H. Beinard (New York: Hatner Press, l95l),

cozine$ of de hearlh tbus helps consr.ncr an illusion of imoediacy conducive to the r{'s peslasive poNei Even hh nole to Holland n jnsdftd by rMt country\ prolilic use or the porle (cf, rhe lerer to Balzac oiMay 5, 163t, analyzed belov). The prilare space or the warn loon could be said, fteEfole, !o supply the Ep.esentalional paranerers for the subjecr as individuahlic consciousness. In this respecr, Leibn'zt concept ol the monad, which has "no windoss throncb Nhich anylhing could enler or depait," is b!1 a cooled-do*n lelsjon of tbe Ca esian locus ol subjecrivity (The Mohadotost lt1r4l, in Pap.6, ll, 1044 4sfi} The proxirotems of Beins in rhe Carlesia. syslm is also coeendy dored by Hegel: "The dena.d vhich rsts at the basis of Desca(esh rhns n lbat whal is recosnized as true should be able to oainlain tbe position ol having rhe tbouehl therein d noue wt,

ruef...The tbinkins subjct

sane thing as


as the simple immediacy of ,eins-at-hmevith ne is the wty is called Beins. ... Thouehl, rhe Notiod, rhe spirnlal, the seli-conscious,

"Cod alone is rhe anlhor of sery movenenl in rne

24. "Tne idea of infinity as conprhe.dine aU or bein8, conprenends all ol whal is lrue in rhines," A. Clerselier (April 23, 1649), v, 155-56. Cl. AlqniC, La de.ouw e, 218 38, ^od Rodis-Lewis, Loeurre de Desca es.28611. 25. A lons and imFlicirly pu.itanical ldilion bas Dlaced the sole source olCarresian efor in rhe faculry ol the will: irom at least Spinoza (Pa.ts 1a".t lI ol Desanes\ Ptinciples ol Pllilosophy Denonstnted in the Aeodenic Marnea in Colecled works af Spinoza, ed- Edsin curley fPinceton: Princron U.ilersil] Pre$, 19851, 256-60) rhrcugh Rodis Lewh, ,bezvlp de D.scofls, 3ll ll, and Slsan Boido (Irp F/,sht to Objttitiry: Esals on Ca.tesianisn zld C!/trre lAlbany:SUNY Press, 198?1,73-82). Nonetheless, il seeds !o me rhat Descartets analvsis merely poinrs, in a ssonelrically insDnd fashion, to a zone ol noninleredion belween two God-siven, hence pe.fcl, facuhies: "Since God is not dceitful, th facllly ol k.osi.s tnar H gave us cannol fail, ,ot ewn the J@tltr oJ the dll" lPlihciples, tx-2, 4a: fll-t, 2ti my enphasis). As a Esult, to follow Alqui, L d4.o!rerle, "1he Fourlh Meditarion did not conplerelt dculpate Ood, nor did it lully sround mn\ r6ponsibility" {236). As for hh objcdons to the Mldt,tio,r, the ever-rerlcit.a Cassendi ta*es rhe opposite lack: "The tauh seems ro li les wnh tbe will io( nor judgins cotrectly lhan with lhe understandins foi not indicarins corecrly" (vll, 311)- Ci also Cotlfied wilhelm Leibniz, "l do not adnil rhar eiios are no.e dependent upon the will than upon rhe" ( ThouEhts on the Cenetul Pa of the P ciples of Des.o es 11692l, in L. Loenker. ed., Philoephi.dl Papes and Lette5lchi.aEo: Chicaco Unive$ity PE$. 19561, ll, 6l7lf). 26, Amone those ciirics Nho read Descades's*ork as more driven by the need-negativelx as ir weE-to conrain eiior than by the posidve desire ro stou.d t.uth as crtnude, s* especially Ron.noNski. a1l/rr/bn, 159, 186, and passinr and Altnie, La de.ourerte, r'1-31, and h ahovolth norins tnar 1ne najor wo.k of Descartes! mo$ prominenl successor in Fnce. Malebranche\ a, chet.he de la ftti6, is fnd^renlally orsanizd as a reflection on $ay. o o\e-cone rh. .h,ef oblacle ro rurh. erro.
28, while rhe or'sinal 1619 poAk experience nay have had lilde ro do (ar lea in lhe eves ol some critiqncs, most.orably thal ofAlqui6) wnh Descarles's subsequent nednalons cadied out in Holland after 1628. ofrhe stw-healed rcon recure as the narrative 6e Meditotioa, as when Descarles has some touble selrins lor borh ths Dkcou6e ^nd doubtins lhat he is "hre. sndns close to the tue. dtessd in a housecoaa'(lx-I. 14! vrl, r8), or whn he demon mres tbe meltin8 of tbe Nax pi*e by putling i1 near the iire 'eeen while I am speakins ld,u /o4rol1" (lX-I, 23; Vlt, 30i cr. Ch^ttes Adam, vi. et odva de 130). The D6ca es: Elude histotique, in Oewres d. D.s.arta. ed. Adam and'tbnnery, 2?. Maudce Blanchor. ,.par r!-deA (Parisr callinard, "Pas:' etunnd 14 (1976), rrt-2r'.

i6e6 and ns opposir n conraioed in whar is qtended, spdial, separaled, not at home wifh itself" (Ceorg Wilbeln Fridricn ttese, Lqtures on the Histot! of PhilNopht tt, E. S, Haldane and F.a.ces H. Simson INew Yort. Hunanites Press, 19551, lll, 226, :29. 244; my enphasis). 29. Ci DricorBe Fifrh Parr, vt,16 54i Tl.otise on Man, XI, 123-30. As meisleiially denonsrated by Erienne Cihon, the tnernodynamic deory of rh cirulation dnti.guishs Descartes borh tom scholasric and fron thos ol his contemporarx Willian Ha.vey (Etud6 su. le de la pas@ nidiarale .la6 la Jomation du srstetue co/Esie, lPa(n.
is shar is ar rom? wnh



Se aho Jacqus Dedda,

Da.aia' P,tiloropr, l, 30, ?3, 99-100, and passin. The netaphor ol nthodical doubt as the emprying of a containe. is irsell lurther elabomted by Descartes as lhe overtu.Dinc of a baskelful ol apples 10 separate the good fron fte rotlen ("Seventh Objecrions wnh Notes by tbe Aurhor," VlI, 481, 512). This procdurc is also exte.sivly analyzd hy Bordo F,srr lo Objaltvi0 flom a iemini pempetive in of a purificadon rirual, whose uhimate hisro.ical horib. n $e "nasculidization of thoughf' enacted by rhe sevnEenth centur, discouBe of objeclive scienc (16-i? and pa$im). ll. Once asain, we iind ourselles 1o be lephiasing rhe sist ofCassendi's objecrions, namely thar sinc "all ideas come Lon wnhour," the laculty that conceiles lhen, "not beins outside oi itself, ca.not tansmit ns oN. species into nseli, nor consequendy can n bring forth any notion of irself" (VIl, 279-80, 292 and passin). 32. In rhe lace of Pare Bolrdin\ objeclions lhat Cartesiar doubr dsks unde.mininc all possible knowledse, Descartes ar sreat len8th a.d wirh consider.ble hunor inshts upon the ,e!r6/t qualily of hn doubl by elaboratin8 rhe oelapbor of dcavatinc onet way do*n lo lhe bedrock ( Sevenlh Objetions," VIl, especially 544-6r). On the other hand, it indeed rcnains a. open quesrion as 10 *hether Desca.test inaueural monents of stepticism do or do nor ove6hadow the touied srability ofhis subsequnr, ioundational principles. Cf. Edelman, "Mixed Meraphor, r?4 ?6i Pophin, Histot| oJ Skeptikn, 193-213; and Hen.i LefebvE, Derca.tes (Paris: Hier d Aujourd'bui, 1947). 13. On this sale, see fte letle.s to hh elder b.orher (ADril 3, 1622) and to his rarher (May
10. Cl. Gueronlt,





22, 1622r. Cl. B^illet, lie t, tt6 11, Adan. vie, 63. 14. While @rly biographers, such as Baillet (I, ll, l8) and rhe ooq discrcdned Pierc Borcl (vitue Renati Ca esi, Sunni Phitosophi, Co wndium lParis: 16561) and even Eliabeth H^ld^ e (D.{artes: His LiJ. and rmes llondon; John Murray, 19051, 89 95), blithely send
Descartes throush aU sorts olpoinr on rhe lralian peninsula and nale him qperience various adventDres in sreat derair, nore scrupulous *hotars (such as Adam, vie, 63-67: ytoonan, Rera D*ca es, 69: H.nti corhie\ Preniats Pensees, 1c.4,-E, Le R,oy, Le phit$ophe, I,


t8; and Cuslav. cohen, Ec.tvains rancais e, Holtande ddre Lt peniarc noitia du xvlt !?./e [Paris: Champion, 19201, 412-13) are left Nith prcions litde to go on, erce ror the




fas rhai Descarles did indeed travel ro ltalv in 1622 Perhaps a tavelogue such as Monlaigne\ exisr and has yd to be discolered. ln anv case, Monlaisne\ J,"r,r/ was not ver known in Descadeis tine and so could have had no iniluence on him save lhroueh the allusions nade

olClinate, Rev,ptt.mationale.lephilosophierasc.r-4(1955),31739;andMicheHaris. 'Le sjour de Monresqnicu en Italie (aont Ir28 jlillet l?29)i chronolosie et commenranes, ' S vEC 127 (19?,1), 190 96.

line Fort


1644, 164?.

and 1648, For derails or tbese trips. see Baillet /i?

30, 318-50; Adam,

17. Which


215_48 321_ 432 75: and Cohen, E ridins ltuncais sl9 85.635-47


aU lo inply thar Descaites hinself h unaware ol ihe problemr lr n nor lhe MedtlurD,s, nor elcn the comedv he wrote lor Chrnrina or Sweden nor rhe Dtr.ozrsp (see Xl, 66r-62), not his ficlional di^logte. The Seorch lot Ttrth 6!i the Prirciples of Prlosopr], the mosl purely philosophical ol hn rvorks and a work *ritten in the lradirional style ot the trealne, which in his 1647 prelace ro the French lranslation he enioins his reader ro read 'in ns entirery jun as ir n weE a ,oEl (lx-2, ll; mv cmphasis) Cl. the renark anribured ro Pascal by Anloine Me.jol: "The lateM Pascal caued Cartesianhn the Ronance of Nattrre, sonelhins tike the storv ol Don Quirote " (PP,sd.t ed L Laflma' t' A J' Krailshimer {Harmoodsuorthr PenBUin, 19661, 356)

16 Discoue, \1.31.

h nor at

6. Joseph Dedieu, Mo,rerqr,eu: L honne et I oeuerc (Patis: Boilin, l9'r3), 68 ?. Jean Starobinski, Monr?squieu pat tui-nane eatis, Se\it, t953), 19 8. Thn dialectical approach is exemplified bt Slarobinski's exlended dhcussioD oi the conrradictions in Montesquieu3 concept of liberty (ibid., 60 ll3). 9. Louis Marin, Erzlpr riu;,/os,qrd (Paris: Klinc*sieclt, l97l), 19 23 and passin. New Theory of the l,"ritrd Cldss (New York: lO. Dean Mccannell, Th. 'foulist: Schocken, 19?6). See also Jonathan Cullcr, 'Tne Semiolics of'lottisn;' Aneti.ah tournal

oJ Seniotics t, (no. I 2: l98l), 12? 40r and my " The Tourist as Theoiist" D,a.rti.s l0 (Winter 1980), I 14. rr. On the history ol rhe arand rou., see William Edward Mead, The Atur.t Tour in the EiEht@nth Ceitury lBostDn aDd New York: Houghron Miiflin, l9l4)r Paul n Knbx lre Annd Tott ir haly. t70o |SAO (New York: Vanni. 1952); Anthony Bursss and Fmnch Haskelt, The ase oJ the Annd 7or. (NN Yorkr Crown, 196?)i and Robefl Shactlelon, "The Cdnd Tour in the EishFenth Cen\uty: Sttdw in EishEenth-Ce tury Celture I (1911). r21popnlaily of the srand tour, elen as arly as the late svenreenth cenlury, was nored by Fra.Fn Desein in his Nolrqu |oyase d ttalie lPatis, 1699): "The cusloo of traveling is today so connon, esp*ially anonc norlhem peoples, tbat a man wbo has never lelt his counlry h held wirhout esleed. lt is so true thal voyass fo.m one's judsmenl and periect a oan rhar be is said to be like those planb tbal can only bear sood fruil alter thev have been
42, The
12. Or, as Mon&squieu pub it in anolher conrexti "The soDl rhus reoains in a slate of unceflainty berween whar ir sees and Nhat it knows" (Esrai su. le coiit, tt,1256j edphasn

3. Monlesquieu's Cmnd Tour

Nornand Doiron. fa de vovaEer: pour une dalinition du ricit de vovage a I ipoque cl.ssiquc," Po4rqle 73 (Februarv 1938), 83 108 2. tbid,, 85. 3. The iexr oi Montesquieu\ talelosuc vas lirsl publnhed bt Baron Albert de Mon_ voyaaes de Mort4422! (Bordeaux: counouilhou, 1394-96)' well over a ceDturv tesqien ^s and a hall aiter the triD took place. Unle$ orherwise noled all subsequeni references to the sork ot Charles Louis de S(ondal de Monlesquieu will be to the Oeu,res cohpliles e'lited

by Roger Cailbn (Paris: Callinard, 1949 5l), and will be indicated only as necessarv bv titl', volune, aDd pase nunber. wnh some nodificarions, lranslaiions are bv Chfttopher Betts ror rhe Pe.sta, relters lHarmondsoonh: Pensuin, 1973); and br Thomas Nucenr ior Lle Spnr o/ //r? aaws (New Yorkr Hafner, 1949) Al1 olher lranslalions ol terts bv Montesquieu

4. Cf,, lor exanple, Robert Shaclleio., Mont6qaie!: A Biosraph! loxfotd: Oxiord unirersiry Pre$, 196l), 136, l7l-?4; Piefe BaftiEre' Un cland ptuti,cial: Cha/14 Loris de Secondol, Barcn .le Lo Bride et de Monl"r4l,e! (Bordeaux: Deloas, 1946), l53if; and J. Roben Lo{ Motrr?so,i, (New vort: TNavne, 1968) 24 t, Oo rcpured cbanees in Montesquieus political lhinkine, see Paul Janel, Eirroire de lo science politique dans vs rcppo s aw. ld no/ale lPatis: Felix Alcan, 1887), 1I 468-77; Robert Shackleron, La eenese de l'Espti! .l4lois," R.tte d Hisbne l,Gtoite de la France 52 (1952),42s-38j Henri Barckhausen, "lntoduction, t/o!as6 de Montesquieu xii Feqtb' lished in his Mo,isq,,?r. Ses idd6 et s4 oeur6 d'aptus t6 papiets de La Btede lP^tis: DLodence et obelulistu dans !'oeuvle de Mantesqujd Hachette, r9o?l); Badreddine ( Robe (ce.eva: Droz, 1960), 15? ??i ^ssen, Deralhe, " Inrodudion, ' De /'erprt des /ort bv Mon_ tesquieu (Paris: Carniei, 1973), iii vii and Sante A viselli and Alexandie L Aoprimoz' ''V;yase fi esprir chez Monicsquieu," USF Lansua'e Q,a e r 25 (no' l_2, Fall wi e( 1986),12 Al$ see ccoGes Benrekasa\ ciliqle ol such a. "evolutiona'v terspecrile in to iitirique a - nanoire, te politiqre et l'histoti4ue dans lo pens@ des ltrti'rcs \P^tis: Payoi, 1i8t,296-97; and HerBann Hardefs insnlence upon lhe difterences betwoen the The Spn o! the LaNs \Le Ptasident des Brcsses et !2 vowse en ltotie au dix' v;raEe niine ^nd tceoe'a: Slatkine, 19811, ll7-29), On rhe vovaBe as a possible cause ot siCae Mon&squieu's clinatolosical ideas, se Robed ShacLleion, The Elolution of Mon6quieu!

a.te.r has most rsentlv been 13. The classic rroblen of perspectivhn in the Pe6t addEssed by Tzveran Todorov, "Reflxions sur les aPrlrer pe/sanes, Romanic Reriev 14 (1931), 306 15. See aho Kdin Newmark\ response to Todorov, 'Lealins Hone Nirhoul ll, Stdnfold Fte^ch Reykf lt \Spring 198?) u-l2i Snzan.e Pucci, "Orieotalism and Reprcsen_ lations of Fxteriority in Montesquieu\ Lear4 peBa,eJ," The Ejehteenth Centu.!: Theorr an.l lntetpretation26(19A5),261-T9rand "Lettets Fron the Haren: Veiled FisuEs olWritine in Monr esqu ieu's ,e//rpr p6,,er," in Elizabeth c. Goldsmith,ed-, wtuinc the Fmale uoice: Ese:6 oh EDistolaty LiktutuP (Bosron: No heaslem U.ilersilv Press, 1989), ll4 34 The

cla$ic essay on the inbricarion ol sexDalily and power in lhe lexers n AGd vaianian. "Eroticism and Polirics in the Ldnes pe$anes," Rohoric Retter 60 (1969), 2l-3l On the quesrion of perspecile as n pertains more se.erally ro eishleenth cenrurv travel narrative
see Percy

Adams, 'Prception and the Eighreenlh-Centurt Tiateler: The Eieht@hth Century: heor! and Interyretotioh 26 11985), ll9-5?: and Barbara Matie Stzffotd, l/olage into Sub' sta"e: Ai, Sciene, Naturc, ond the llfusxated Tlarel A.count, 1760-lU0 lcaDbridCe.
Press, 1984)paDer dlileed ar the Modern Lansla8e Associalion con_ vendon in December 198?, Sylvie Romanovskyaho discusscs thn scene and the relalion between mobiliry and knovledse as pa.l ol a wider sender inbalance in ihe PeBu, Lert?r' See also Snzanne Pucci. "Leners iion the Harcm.'

Mds.: MIT

In an as yer unpublished

5, l?28, eport or the French ./u/gC d'drlzs in Milan, Leblond, to tbe Ministee d'Aflaires Eraheares: "As thh tour does no1 sem to ne to be very much in acco.d with . nan wno traveh sidDly out of curiosny, I have my suspicions tlral the.e oay be some ofier reasons for this lrip, which make me believe that il is hr honorable duly to

15. 16.

Cf, Harris.

r" rd;o!.



the October


N'/TF,S TO PAGES 63-70




gile you an accounl of it" (cired in Francoise Weil, ..Pronenades dans Rome en l?29 avc Montesquie!:' Te.haique, an, yieace: Retue de I enseianen4r re.rrrqre 12l (Ooober t958), 2. OD Montesquieut diplomatic anbirions, see hh lerter lo rhe Abbd d'Oliver ot May lO, 1728: "A fN days ago, I wrote to Monsieur rhe Caidinal lFleuryl and to Monsieur de Chaulelin lKeeper ol the Sealsl that I sould be nore than happy to be employcd by lhen ar loreign and that I had worled hard to make mysell caoable of such nksiont
de Montes.lut?r, ed. Andr6 Masson et al. IPE.i: Nasel, 1950 551, tlt, 892: aU ensuins references ro dk edition wiu be sisnaled by the nane ..Maso.., iollose<l by rhe lolume and page nunbe.). Cf. Mpr Peaaer I,98?t and Louis Desgraves, Moui?sqzie, (Paris: Maarine, 1986), 173, 180 81. -l?- Cf. Frances Yares, rre ,,1 tt o.f Me ory {Chicasn: Uniyersiry ot Chicago pFss, 1966)i and Michel Beaujour, Mirol6 d e&E (Paris: Seuil, 1980), 79-168. 18. A ooE nuanced view of China does appear nuch tater (boot XlX, j6:-?t), but, as we shall s, is no doubt because by rhal point, rhe satic cartography oi eolernnental natures has had lo confront rbe tenporal prcblen ol hisrory, Cf. Elie,..La Chine dtns l'Esptn des lois," Rewe d'hisbne lilCrcire de la Frurce 3t (1924), t9l-205. On fie ropd oi rhe itase Chinois,i se Patl Haz d, La c,ise de la conyiekce euopeenre, t68O?7?J (Parhr Boivin, r9ls) 19-22; Vnsile Pinor, aa Chihe et ta.forndtion de t 4p/n philosophiqte er Fnnce (1610-171r,/ (Parn: cuethner, t9l2); and Reni Eriemble, Z,Oierr pri

22. Civen Montesquieu's alrirudinal penchant. acriric such asvohair. in hiscodnnlaris on The Spnit oJ the Laws, has no rouble finding coDnrerqamples ol lowland Epublics and nounrainous despotnms as well as poi.iins out larions mista*6 in Montesqlieu's eeograDhr lEssois sut les noeu6, jn Oeuvrer coup./i/"r ed. Loun Moland lParis: Carnier Frercs, 187?-

851,Xllr.l79icl. Di.liohaan philosophiqu?, atti.te,'Esptit d.s lois:' XX,6-11 Cohnehhne

de l'Esprn des lois, XXX. 442-45). and the more sober and incisive Denutt de Tracy is easil! able to arsue againsr rhe reductionhm oi a sysFm that rhin*s only in terFs or "degrces of latitu<le a.d degrees ol he (Connetone I'Esptit des lois de Montesqtieu lPatis: Mne. Levi, 18281, 268 69). 2t, ln hn Diclionnane phitosophdz?, vollane criticizes the then-nodish expression and claims its orisin ro be Cascon {afiicle "Franc ou F.a.q; France, Francoh, Franaah,,Oe&ys conplat* XlX, 190). Inrerestinsly enough. Momesquieuk home province is cascony. 24. Readers of tbe traveloBue hale ofte. been laken aback by the lxfs dryness as weu as by the apparenr iopassiviry ol MonEsquieu,s rcactions ro shal he ses. Cf. Jean Ehmd, Montesquieu. qitique .! (Parn: PUR 1965), 69, t36, Desgtaves. Montsqaiet, m1: and Harn, Le sijo,t 81. 130, 140, 150, 163, 174, 25. ln a line srruck lrom his reuer to Mme. de Ladbrt of November 9, l?:8, MontesqDieu oifes a social concomitanr fo. his view fron the iowr: ..Here is how I ravel: r ve in a city: *irhin rhree days, I know everybody there,,(Masson llt, 922, n. b). 26. "Since I have been in llalr, I nave opened my eys upoh the arrs, about which I prviously had no i<lea; it n a. enrtely new cou.try lor me,', writes Mo.resquieu ro Mme. de Lanbefi on December 26, 1728 (Ma$on lll,92?). On rhe prcsressive developmenr of


sut quelques ptin.ipales




cosnitionen (Patis, t512) a d Les six lieres de la Ripublique (Lyon, l5?6)j and John Arbnd, nots Eso! Corceminq the ElJats of An on Hunot Bodj.s \London, ul3), On the innovatilene$ ol Montesquieu\ clinatolosicat thinkinc as scr asainsr rhe backcround ot the marerjali$ fnique ol climaF rheories, se BenEkassa, aa Polr/,que t79 256. AIso Etienne Fovnol, Bodia pdcuBeur de Mo"tesquieu (Patis: A. Rousseau, 1896); Roberr Shackleron, "The Evolution of Montesquiu's Theory of Climate',; J@n Ehtad, L id@ de naturc en F.ance da"s la preniare noitii du Xv ! sidcl. lPatis: PUR t956), 691-?36; and Andrd Melquiol, "Montesquieu er la seographi poliriqle," Rer, ttemotioiate d hisbne poltique et consthttionnell ll951l, t27 46. 20. Does not Montesquieu describe hinself whn he descibes the pleasures ot rhe noirh ernerastrbuntins, traveling, wat, and eine" (The Spnit oJ th?Zawr,4??)? On Montesqnieut eth.ocenfisn, see in panicular Carninella Biondi, .,Montesquieu rezisra?', jrrdi Arr.Ai 27(no.8l:1, 1983),4?4 ?7; and Benieka$a, who arsues not only that the sy em is conceived '1o come back ujtimarely to Eu.ope ! bur ahoi siven MonresqDieut positionins of Asians amona "peopls who ae closer to the sourh (EJsai r,/ /.s ca6d qui peu|ent afJeder 16 esptits et 16 c/tuctarts, I,6l), rhar the north-sourh opposnion n ihelf rcducible to one bet*een Europe and Asia (aa politique, 2t1). 2l- By combihing the characternrics Montesquieu asiEns ro despotism, we can conctud thal lhe despotic land is a la.d without difierence, wherher renoorat (no history), spatial (no topoerapht), or social (.o crasset, Cf, Loun Ahhusser, Mo, tesquieu: La potitique et I histohe (Paris: PUF, 1959),32-9?i and Alain C.oyichad, Sracrrrc d! siruit: Lo Jition dt despotisne Biatique dans t'oc.i.tett .lasd!. (Paris: seuil. l9?9). 100-10t.

lonphique tu Xvul,siicle (Paris: Cenfe de documcntarion universitane, 1957-58). For an accessible and radable compilation ofrhe Jesuit Relations fron China, see lsablle and JeanLouis vissiaF, eds., aplrJ A4liantes et cu euses de Chine pat d6 nbsiohaanes jCsuites, 1702 1776 (P^tis: Cani.rFt^nnarion, 1979)- Foi 6ore of Monresquieut reacrions !o tbese lerters, as well as hn friendship wnh lhe Chinese scholar Arcadio Hoanse, see rh nores grouped under rh title C@8/apri., in Masson ll, 956-63. 19, Ofieneroneously corsidered the i.ventoroisuch clinatolosical schemas, Monresquieu lolrows a tradnion soinB bacl ro anriquity, renovated by Lo'is L. Floy s De ta i.jsitude ou roniti des choes eh l uniw6 (Paris, 1575); Jea. Bodin\ Methodus ad frcilen histotatun

Montesquieu\ se.sitivity ro arr during his lrip to lraly, see Efta:d, Mont*quieu, .rhique and Batriire, "Lerpe enc de Montessnie!:' Riebta di tetetutule tuodene (January March 1952), 15 28. 27. Pierre Barriare, "Monrsqlieu voyaseur," in.4.rad, Montesquieu. ed. Lotis Dessraves (Bordeauxr Delmas, 1956i, 62. Cl. L'exparience italienne,,, 25. 28. Lencr io Mme. de Lambert, Decenber 26, 1723 (Masson 0t,928). 29. Cf. 825-26 and Cailloh\ note, 1615. The mosl rhorough examination orrhech.onology ol Montesquieu\ lrarl n the one underraken by Hatrk (Z? re/or.). who n driven to conclude lhat in counterdistinctjon to the mericulous oider of Edsard Cibbon! rratetosue, ..n musr be said thar Montesquieu rears dates with nore abandon rhan when ne ser up Rjca and


Usber\ ninerary" (?1, 74). 30. Se Hatris, 73 ?4, l2l, 189 90. 31. On the impersonality of Monresquieu\ voice in the ravelosue, see Haiiis, ?2, lt9,


.s by

caiesjns;' Philosophische Mo,arsrelb a (winte6enestd 1869-70), I t8; Cusrave Lanson, "Linlluencede la philosophie can6sienne sur la lildrature ft.ncaise;' Reyue de natuphjsique e1.lehonle4lt396l,5l1 50,especially540-46;and.,Ledderminismehhloriqueerl'idealisne social dans fEjp,? der /otr" Rewe de naaphlsique a de orzle 2l (19t6), t?? 202; Charles
J&ques Beyer. "Monresquieu er l'esprn carresien,,'in,1crer du Coryris Montes.ruieu, jS9 73. On the orhr side, Ceolges Bnrekassa assens lhat .,no one dares any morc ro see in MontesquieD, as Lanson o.ce did, a Ca esia. djsposiiion, Morlerq!/?, (park: pun 1968), 22. Bnl perhaps ir is Monresquieu\ own rc0ecrion on DescE.tes that is the nosr suggestive: "Desartes taushr dose wno came after him to discoler even hh {ro^ lses ,,rnrl"
(Mes Pensees, tt, t54U, 32. Among the panoply

185. On rhe que$ion ol Montesquieu\ Ca.rsianism (nediated by Malebranche as we Fontenelh), see Battine, Un Etand prcrincial, 1t2-tli E, Bu$, .,Monlesquieu und


of proposed

ine Capilolin hiu, the Janicullm, and the cuDola or Sain! pererk Basiric. (see Ehrard. Mortsqui.u, cftique d'a.t, 1Ot D.s{ayes. Mortesqui , 2A t and Jean Rousset, i.Se pronener

snes are Santa TrinitA-dei-Monri, rhe pincian hiu,





xvtlf.sii!1e,, in Raymond Trousson, ed.. ThiM et Jieures du siacle da Luni*es: Melantes oJle.ts it Rotahd Mo ier loeneva: Drcz, tgsr)t,243). Frangois Maximilien Mjssoo, Nouw rolase d,Itdli.Jait .n ],anree r6as (De H^Et , _-31,
dans Rome au

Dia un nalicun.

JeanBiprnreLabat.totapc.pnL:paEwetcnttotierpa,r.,tllo);(harte\deBro$e5.rzdr.\ lannprc, d ttotie en t-ta et c, /?0 (pan\, r7a9), to.eDh tarcme de I aldrde, /,.r,re r,; Francais e" tlalie (Patis, 1769); Citbed Burnet, ,sone aelds .ontainins ai @.ou ;f ehai yened n6t reh kabk in Svrc.latl Lal!. Fnnce and Ce.nary (Amsrerd^n, rca:l,l

Sjye notud.ntun @etuh, bibtiothecatun, tuueeotuh, &.. Notitia; nnE lares in itinetutio itali.o col/e.ra? (parh, t?02); Etienne de Sitho&rre, vorale de F.ance. d'Espdsne, de Po usal et d halie, du 22 atrit 1729 au 6 Jawiet] (pa.n. t730): Le par

Addism, Reua*r D S?wrul po/ts


1705)l Tobias

rralelosue ol 1764 was only recenrly published as Girrors Jow*t on eqqa n aoil, t ed. C- il-ondon: Nelson, t96t). Joha.n wolfsane lon coethet tdr?,i.r? Red; of 1786-88 appeared in vaiious bils and piftes n.rir ils tusr in"g.ur p.tri"u,io, S*,,e;.i in 1862. As they becane available, the earlier of rhese rmvelosu* $Ned as guideboo*Jfor " late. travelers, who oien carried rhen in rheir baseage. Se piere Laub.ier, il-es guides de voyages au ddbut du Xvll. sidcle,,, ,SruEC 12 (1965), 269 125; Ludwis Schud, /rar..,/erre, ih 17 und 18. Jahfiuhde (v\enna and Munichi Schroll, t9s9)i Hermann Hadei Ze prdsrdp,r de ,rorses,. and Rolsset, ..Se prcnener dans Rone,,, 219 50. Nsertheles. as Shacklr.n poinrs o!t, "if one excludes th e speciatized Didtiun ltati.un of Monrfarcon, iModsquieuli J rte iFr ,r-avel clcounr .ince rhe Jo,,,,/ dp ro,aa, ot Mon,d,Ane ro be srir,en by a | renchnan ol hEnD ctaacnp. tA anaat Biog,aphr gt, empha.i! added, 34. Anong the nosr developed examDles ot rhh ropq G rh one underraken bv Frend in ciiti.aton oad h, Drroatpat\, s.r XXt.6a -0. the a emor to vkw clt o, R;me,, par in irs "sinuhaneity', and not jnsr as accunutate.r ruins siles Freld ore ot his dost susgestive analogies for rhe srrucluE ot rhe unconscious i. its unrepres.nrabilily. Mo.tesquieu\ Rome would har. been an esprially junbted one, sinc systematic archeolosical exca;aion ot lhe ancimt cily did nor besin tor anorher cenrury Gee Harris, Ze #jo,r 152). 35. Tbe text ol the .locunent n reproduced at fie end of .,Of Vanity,,, Elra'),r |lI, ix, 999-r00q and the $oy ot irs difficult procurenenr n reconted in rhe Ta@ Jo;ro!, t29_ 30. Near thc end of his lite, Monlesquieu wrole to an unidenrified addre$ee rha. his ay in Rone some lwentyjile yeas earlier renained ..the happiesr dme of ny lit and the ;ine dudn which I hamed ihe dost, February 21, t?54 (Masson rll, 1496). 36. Cf. the lefies ot Norenber 1.1, 1748 (1t44)j November t9, l?48 (1r45)i December 2, _, 1748 0148, ll50); Drcember 28, l?4s (|50, I5l); lanlary 9, t?49 (1162 63)t January 10, 1749 (116r; Janudy ll, t?t9 (ll?5); March 4, t?.19 (1t96 97): April2, 1749 (12t5); April2l, 1149 (t221 28Ji Ma, 20, 1749 (l2lt i2); June ?, l?49 (!239 ,t0) (all pase ounbeB Erer to

Snouer, Ttwts thtoush Frun

hab, &., ih
e and



leB t7\l, t702. t7O3 lLondo;. (London, t?66). E.tward cibbon,s

19. In what is i.dnbitady de most ri8orous inquiry inro rb p.oblen of Moni.squieu's histoncisn, Suanne Gearhai! denonsfates 1hal ahhoush the principl seems to Ep.esnt the rel.Iionship of 4ch governnent ro liorir is vnat permits a eovernm@r to reorcdue itserl, rc exisl in rime, ro have a iisrory {1'he Op.n Bornddtr ol Hbtot and Fiction lPrincelon: P.incelon U.iversity Pre$, 19841, 138), borh despotic a.d republican rorms ol gdermenr arc shovn to iall ouiside hislory: the foioer as a collapse idto the ore "cirumsranrialily" of even$ (14? .49)i rhe la$er as nreoverably silualed in the disrant past" (r5052). As for Montesqnieu's prelerrd lorn ol Aolernnenr, rhe nonarch, ns detroind bistoricity aho sirudres it as an inremedia.y lorn, a degeneiate version of republicanhm shich in lum degenerares into despotnn: "ln this way, a concepr ol history tbus lends uhinarely in Montesquie! to doninate bistodcitx 10 linit or !o subordioate the ditfercnces and fie cootiadictions wirhin nature or lhe origin" (lJ?). !O. As Cearhart rishrly ohser!6, "The origin h rhe none.r 1nar nakes histo.y inrellisibler all hisro.y nust be conrinuous virh an orisin il n is to be history and not sone unintellisible process oi randoo chanee. Bul rhousn ir nakes bistory irtellicible, the o.igin aho nakes it redlndant the nere illustrarior ol what was alr@dy iopUcnly prsenr al the beginning" (Open Boun

lary, \5a-59),

see Grosrichardh exceUenl discusio., Stucture du sdruil,39-16. 42. Fo. CeoBes Benreka$a, the bistoncd cominsency ol rhe Roman changes in aove.nmenl, as Monlesquieu describes rhen, carries out. deconstrudion ofthe "Ronan mytb" in pohical rhin*ing: "Hedcelorth theE is no lonser any Daradigmatic and sinplilyins olisin, blt only nultiple iracruEs oi history oll oi which arc bor. difiicuh qDeslions.... Rome, rhe object ol a 'work of nournins.' also en$s as a mauer in histoty; The Spitit oJ the Lows, Rome\ tonb' (tz porr4za 120-?lft.). As for the celebmred impo.lance oi the Brnish constitulion.l model wirhin the framesork of Tre sptl, o/ rre dgr, BenEka$a also con vincidgly demonsfates Mo.tesquieu's conprehension ol the Enslhh sirlario. wirh a Iarser Larin paladism, shere ir fisures Es rh "NN Rone in rhe wesr" iibid., 291-96 and t08-20)_ 43- SeeMe e Perkins, "Monresquieu on National Porer ad<l l.teinational Rilaky, ' S /EC 238 (1985), 96, who also pershrendy alisns MonresqDieu's internarionalhm wnn the pluraliry of "ansles of vision" Monlesquieu deploys in aporoachins his lopic (Z 18, 46, t0, 83, 85, 88,

4r. On rhn prohlen,

44. The conplicity between lhe science ol Beosraphy and oiharish n probably ageless, Maunce Bouguereau DEsented the fiisr national adas of Fance, Le thedtre Jroac.|s (Torrs, 1594) to Henii lV as an aid to fte kine\ tax colleclins and nilirary canpaisnins (I thank Ton Conley for rhis reieE.cei. Richelie!\ ideal oi "n.lural frcnrie.s" and Louis XM subsequnl conbinalion of varfa.e and legal na.ipnlalion to securc the ben po$ible borders lor France lestify ro the ielado. belwen nalional unity and cartosraphic repEsenrarion (Ci. Bruno-Henn Vay$iaE, "'La'carte de Fiance," and Mneile Pastoureau, "Feuilles d'arlas," bo|]l. in Ca es a JEves de la lerp, ed. Roger Agache d al. [Pais: Cedtre Ceoryes Podpidou, 19801, 252-6s, ,142-s4). One of the primipal causes of war in rly modern Europe {as the desne to lnify fte ofien dGparale ieudal holtlines ol a royal family inro rhe ceocraphically coherent whole of a nationita&. .15. On 1ie prpo.derance ol liquid inageiy in Monresquieu, see Corrado Rosso, n/ort$qrieu holalista: dalle le$i al "bonheur" (Pisa: Colialdica, 1965). l0l loi and Jaoe Mclelland, Metaphor in Montesquieu\ Thoretical W.nines," SyEC 199 (1931), 205-:4. Mclelland isespeciallycogenr in arguing Montesquieu\ sysrematic Eprise othh eady scientific work on the "hydraulics" of plarl lile in the later political analosies buih a.ound the idea oi "channels of powr" (203-16). li shonld be added rhat ihe eco.omic Drinciple oi MonreF quieu! rllid nechanics, sheEby evry displacnenr is conpensated by another, recalls the


the stblime. Ctitiq@ o! Judcenat, tr.


sinilar descriplion of Sajnt pciefs is

!. H. Bernard {New

used by

Kanl to qplain the notion ot yo.k: Hatner pre$, tgst),

38. Cl. Althusser: .1hat nan lho set oft arone and trnty dhcovere.t the new tands ot histoty" (Montesqtieu, t22): ot Ernsr Cassner, who .efe^ to Monresquieu as ,.lhe tun lhinter to srasp and ro expre$ dearly the concept ot,ideal ryDes, in hi6roty,, (The phitosoph! oJ t.|':p".1 kt:t!@!hL rr. F (oe n dnd J. peleso\e lp,rnleron. p,inceron LnireF y pre$, lusll, 210'. Al,o,e Rene HLbe,r. td norbnoL devenir hnroriqLe dan. ja phrto.ophF de Monresqjien: Revue de hdtdphtsique et de norate 46 (tgjgt, 581 6tO_



undcrmine the rcry specilicity ol lhe principlcs he defends so visoiously eheNnere, , Cearharr. Opea Bounddry, r5l. Arso Benrekassa, who conctudcs his lensthy study by noling thar Monresquieu\ "ambirion" in rhe pret*e to The Spn, ol the aarr lo se hntory ,,benr,,ro beine but the consequences" ol his principles (tl, 229) ends by ..beinC ineluctably Be6ed," deanins rhat his principles have been benr ro the seqlen.e of hkory tla porli4,e, 155), 48. Viselli and Anprinoz oddly misinlerpret lhe quorarion tron the,,l",erd as sienaling lhe besinnins ofrhe vircilian voyace (47), Perhaps David Hude*as rishl to chi<le Moniesquieu lbr rh obscurny oi this quotation pur in ptace oi a conctusion: ,.t find a nunber of peopte as perplex.d as I ah in rying ro gue$ rhc meaning of rhe lasr paragraph in your work: haliatn, dalbt to. lack ol knowinc whar ir is you are a udins (Lerrre d Monlesquieu, April 10, l7r9 lMasson Ilt, 12221). 49. One cannor help bur be $ruck br rhe abruprness with which Monresquieu rhe lFarise, diopping his nairarive in rhs middle of lhe Mi.ldle fues, an abrlprness of endins reminncenr of Stendhal (who, incidenrallx was a grear rader and adnirer or Monlesquieu: "lfs nor exacrly rove rhar I have tbr Monresquieu, n is \cneetion' lyolase .lans Ie didi: Mltroires d toutisle ttl lParis: Masperc, 19811, 69). Bur in rhe case oi Montesquieu, rhe "n abrupt cndinA berEys less an aenhetic .xperinenlarion rhan hh desne to sel our ot rhe rcxi, Io be done with il. This exasperarion ar being caucht up in a seeninely endtess lexr, whose exDanse h such as to render hopcle$ any anempr !o domesricare il or iecuperare n, is precisety whar is evoked by thn as well as orher trarel metaphois in The Spitu oI the LaNs. On the /opor of the naulical loyase as a merapnoi of rhe nararort progre$ lnroush rhe rexr, see

sinilar eco.ony of dhplacemedr in Descanes\ physics, as tJ,pified mon nanirenly in his lheory of vofrices Gee chaprer 2, n. 2l), 46. On Montesquieu's use ol tavel relarions in his wort, see Muriet Dodds, aes /.rs d. vtlagd r,"r.?s de I Esprn des lois .te Mont?squjeu \Patisl Honord champion, t929), 47, "One eli{t ol Monresquieu\ hisrory of rhe French nonarchy is that n tends ro

my case, Montcsquieu\ fear that his line woDld cone to a. end seems to have ben norilated in 1744 by hh son\ lack ol a male heir alter fonr and a half years oi narriase. h 1749, hovever, a son was finally born ol this union, tbe futDre c4n4ral de Mon&squieu otAmeiicao .nd Frcmi Rdolutionary war iane. A year eallier, a son had b.e. born to Monlesqrieu\ daushter, Denhe, f.on whon i.ded descend the curenr barons of Mo.tesquieD. s2. Mes Pe6les, I, 1292. 53- Shaclleton, Moitesqrier: A Onical Biosrupht. L Desgraves adds th.t ..fion rne
exhring ofMortesquieu, you can stiu today peieive tne ruins

a lorlorn and desolat hill" and lhar alEady in Monlesquieut tine rhe casrle was jn ruins
54. Cl. voltane: "l rcspft. Montesquien 4en when he fatls ldl6 rer.rrrerl, becaus he picks himseli back up [se E/dwl and mounts to the sky lpoo nontet au cier]', (Cnnnentaite 55.


chateau lhar croqns


I'EsDril des lois, xXX. 441). Ol lhe innunerable assessnents ol Monrsquieut impacl on Evolutionary tni.kins and lesislation, see especially Be.nard Crcethuysn, prl/oropnie de ta Rdeotutioa Jraacoiy, pft.eda de Mont*quieu (Parn: callimard. 1956): Renaro Calliani, ..La fo.lue de Montcsqlieu en l?89: Un so.daEe:' Archiw da leua noder@ r97 (1981), 31 6l; Norman Hampson, WiI an.l Cirtnstan.e: Montesquieu, Ro'etu and the Frcach Rewlutios (Notnan: Univemiry ol Oklahona Press, 1983); Judirh N. Sbklat, Montesqritu lo\totd. Oxtotd Universily P.ess, 1987), lll 26; and Paul M, Spurlin, .,Liniluence de Monlsqnieu sur la consrnudon americaine," in Actes du Consfts Moht6qui"z, 26j-?2. On lhe revolutionary irretu.n ro rh ancientii' se Louis Haulecoeur, Rod? 4 /d /enaisan e de I'a\turaird d ta Iin du XVII'siacle (Patis: Foniemoine, l9l2). I rhank Marie-Clane Vallois tor rhis retelence.


4. Pdestrirn Rousseau L See Charles L- Barte., P&dsrtoble lnsirctioh: Fom and Conrentiot in Eishteedth Century liawl Litetutut \Berleley: Unile ily oi Calirornia PF$, l9?8). 2, As Jan Starobinski has eloquenrly indicaFd, Rousea!\ search for botb and physical iixiry, hn dsne to 'fix .town his life ltrrer sa y,?],' and 10 ..tix dowo his opinions once and for all," is nor wthout Elevance ro hn havins spenr ar leasr ftirty,eishl of his sixry*ix yeas in one kind oi transienr node o. anorher (./ea,-Jacqw Rdsse: La t&6 pamce et l obstnle, 2nd ed, IParis: Callimard, t97tl,61-65,1t ?2, and passin). t, Enile, ot.le l'edrc ion, i. Oeuvrcs.ohptites de JeanJrcques Ro6sea!, ed. Bernard casnebin an.l Marcel Raymond (Paris: Callimard, 1959-69), tv,245, Al1 subsequent refer.cs to Rou$eau aie ro tbis edirion a.d will be indicated only as neded by rirle, volume, and pase lunbei. with sone nodifications, E.slish r..ndations are laken frcm 1ne folloNins: A Disco,re on lneq"alitt ri Maurice Cranston (Haimondsvorth: penguin. 1984); Eaila tL Barbara Foxly (lglli rpr. Londonr De.t, 1974)i rre Co,?$&rr ti J. M, Coben tHarno.dsworrh: Penguin, 1953): The Rerqies oIa Solitary ti John Contd Ftercher (192?i rpl. New Yoik: Burr Fran*lin, l9?l), Unle$ nold, all olher Enslish fanslaiions ot Rou$eau are
4. lmnanuel Kant, Crt'?,p r/ Jtdcenent, rr, !. H_ Betnatd (Nw yorkr Hafner pE$, passin. Cr. Deiiida, "Le PaFryon," in ta yeli d e, peintu.e (p^rts.. Ftammation. l9?8), t9-168. 5. Ci De Jaucourr\ arricle, "yoyaeeu;' ia rne Enctclopidie, XvU, 4?8. -rne a.ticle slates thar one nust suspes z// ravelrs of being liars den if and in tacl prisely because sone of thm are nor. On dupliciroDs tavel natratires in the eiehtenrh cenrury, see pery Adamst classic Tldrelqs and Ttueel Lia6: 1660-t8oo tBetketee: Universn! or calitor.ia
r95 r ), ?3 and

(193r). 50. Lerer lo Codelroy de Secondat, D{enber 28, t7.t4 (Masson l. loj2 5l). 51. "Te amcnl de Monresquieu,, (Masson l5?3i emphasis added)_ On the a(ansing of Denise\ daniasc, see slendh^|, t/olus. dans le nkti, 76, ?8i Snackleron, Mo,rps4zrer, 198.'2@l Barriare, Crond p/ovincial, 97itl Descraves, Mont\quieu, 251 leann ne Ceffriaud Ro$o, Mo,/.r4zi?, et la fitninitd (Pisa: Cotia:dica, l9??), 42-44. Siendhat\ venion ol lhe nory adds, howerer, thar atler this maniaee oi utter conlenience ro pEserve lhe nane ol Montesquieu, Montesquieu\ wile did bear him a son, ro Nhom Montesqujeu rhen refused lhe palronym. "our of respect for the sa(ifice he had asled trom his dalghrer" (?8). Monlesquieu sould have succeeded in preservins the nane drd in prevenrins the rise of a threalenjns male proseny by desisnarins rhe larer by the orher tanily nane, Secondat, shose erymolosical sense implicirly relesares ns bearer ro rhe srarus ot a mere .,tolo*er.,, Sten.lhal. lhal sreat adnter ot the farher, had a conconilant disdain rbr rhe son, M. de Secondar. whon he calk'lhat good old letlor kr brore hodnel" and accuses oi ktepronania (76 73). Untonunatelx Srendhal sas noi onty wrons abou! rhe son (*ho was, in tacr, Monres quieu\ born), but in whar is rhe mosr thoroughsoins research inro rhe noraiiat archives ro dale, Jean Dalar ako finds .o hard proot for Slendhatt claim ot a forced (as opposed ro merely an arranced) maiiiaBe, eve. thoush he does uncover ample evidence of Monresquieu! olten perly and occasionally licious ma.iputalion oi hk pariarchat riebs in order ro assure the perperuarion ol borh his nane and hh tand (Mo,,erqrteu chef de tanitte en tufi? arec es beaux-pdrcnts. sa fetntne, rer e,/d,/r lParh: A.chives des LerrEs Moderncs, 19831). rn

Ernn currius, E ropp?, Literature o"d the Latin Mi.jttle As6, tt. w. Trask (p.inceronl Princeron llnive6ily Pres, l95l), 128-10. On lhe extensivene$ of Monresquieu\ erudirion in p!6un of his magnum opusj see his Cox, Morlerq,&, an.t tuen.h Laws, SlEC 218










6- On the seniotic iFpon of nanes as rigorouslt desisnadve blt indete.ninate $ith regard to sense, see Jean-Francois Lyotma, The DifJaeh.l: Phrares n Diprr? (Minneapolisl

universitr of Min.esora. 1988). 32 58, 7. On 1he seneral quesion ol aulhenticity as rhe value by which a voyase is judged, I
reler the reader once more ro Dean Maccannell, The lo,tist: A New Theor! oJ the Leisurc C/zsr (New York: Schocked, 1976). 8. This is not tbe place Rousseau advances so sNeeping a condemnarion ol travel. Conpare the following passase iiom the pref.ce 10 Na..6s?r .,The Crusades. commerce, rhe discovery of the Indies, naviCation, long voyases, and slill other causs I donl want ro so in1o, hav nai.lained and augnented the diorder Everyrhine thal facilitates connunicarion betveen one nation and anorher sprcads.ol thn virrles but deir cines, and in every nation n ahrs the custons which arc proper to tben cUnales and to rbe constilution ol tben sovernnen$" (Narc6se, ou l'dnant de lui n'tue, Il, 964n). As lor Rousseau's delense of nationar identity, the nosl quesrionable sratemenr is no doubt found in his Coksj.liatiois sut le Eotvemmdt de ]a Polocna especially l, 959-66, where ne ses rhe sotulion ro potand! pohical woes i. the delineario. ol a dbrincrive "nadodal physiosnomy' (960), See, on tbe quenion ol Rousseau\ nationahm, the useful il somewhat nissuided work ol Alexandre Chotrlsuine, rer orsrrer d? / esp nationdl nodene et Jean Jrcqres Ro6sedu, Aanotes

is an inexcusablc presumption, given rhe unceiainty in which we are, to pioress a rclision other than the one in which you are born, and a fahehood nor ro pracrice sincerety rhe one you piofess. lf you deviare, you deprive yourslf ol a sreai excuse betoE rhe r.ibunat ot the soveeisn jud8e. Will He not ratber pardon lhe erro. inio which yoD wcre born than rhe one you dared to cboose for yoursell?" (Eutla IV, 6ll). ln the sixtll ol his Lettes l.rita de la ,o,ld3,e Rou$eau defends the polidcal tbeses of rre 5@;a/ Co,r.a.r by claininc tbai rhey arc patler.ed alter the constirurion of his native Ceneva: "Everythins elF beinc equal, I gave

to rhe sovernmenr o/ D] colrrlr" (lll, 811; emphash added). Heni Couler eloquently stares, 'lhe idea of Erurn is aftirmed more rhan rhe idea ol getling installed in a counrry visned i. rhe course of a journey.... Alrer sone hesitatiDs and laking of different tacks, ihe pri.cipal soal seems !o be ftat oi a pohical educarion which Emile could pur to use in his ow. counrry; hh ralels wiu hale rau*ht hin rhar senli.a elssheE soes asai.n both his duty and hn inreesri' ("L'ducarion polnique d'Enile," in Honnase A Fruncois Meret lt.lx en Provence: Publicarions de I'UnivemitC de Prcvence, 19831,

,4, As


Amone rece.r analyses of


ot the lhaCinarr: Th@tiziu the Ftehch Enlishte"nent llthac^, N,Y,:

pedacosical paiadox, see especiaUy Hara.i, CorneU



Rotseau 26 (193?), 7-281- And on Rou$eau\ dtensive but selecrive use of ethnosraphical inlornation rron contempo.ary travsl narrariles, see Chinad, L Anarique et le ftw *otique dans la iftdature fuancaise at XylI. et la I, siale (P^tis. Dtoz. 1934). l4l-65j and noie recendy, Tzvelan Todorov, "La connahsance des aulres: ThCories er pra, tiq\es:' LEspd criateut 25 (.o. 3: Fall 1985), 8-r7. 9. This relesal is not unique ro Rou$eaui h ca. be found as early as Fontenollc s !?08 "Elose de lburncforf ("Philosophers raEly run abour in the wodd, and ordinarily those {ho do are hardly philosophersi and hence a philosophe.t journey is qremely prcious," Oeryler {Paris: Jean-Fra.cois Basten, l?901, Vl, 240-4t), and h responsible for the Enlight enmenfs innovarile sponsorinc ol anbitious erpeditions overseas led by scinlis1s and phi bsopnem wilh spdfic Esearch .sendas. Typical ol such journeys wE those of Maupertuis (to Lapland in 1136-l?) and La Condamine (o Am@nia irom l?35 ro 1745) to neasur the "llaltenins" ofrhe slobe, as qell as Bousairville\ monunental cncudnavieation. Cf. Numa Broc. Le seoeruphi. d6 philotupha: Caostaph6 et wraseuB Jidncais d, XvI I, siecle (Patis: Ophrys, n.d.), especially 187-92t Reni Ponea!, "voyase et dans la Iirterature fran qaise du Xvur"siicle," SVEC 51 1t961), 1269-89i and foi a slighlly later peiod, Sersio MoEvia, "Philosophie et ceographie iL Ia lin du Xvlll"sidcle," Sr/'.C 5? (196?), 937 lotl. On &e general question ol the relation belwee. travel narrarives and lhe ofien parallel development of science a.d ae$hetics, see aarbara Maia Sratfotd, vorose irto S"bstanrc: Att, Sciace, Nature, and the lusnated fravelAeount, 1760 /8?0 (Camb.idse, Mass.: MIT Press, 1984). As ior Rousean, rhe Dhilosopher's jou.ney would tbus seem to pose sonewhat of a .louble bi.d. On the one hand, one can only be a .,real" philosophe. as opposed to a "philosophe de ruelle lsalon-dwellins philosopher]" ii one raveh; on the o1her hand, one should alrcady be a philosopher in order ro ravel.


ceton: Piincebn Unire(iry Press, 1984), 27? 191 a^d lo n Dete n. Lretut! Fo ilications: Rouss@t, Laclos, Sa.le (Pinceton: Princeton University Press, 1984), I2G6l ; hut aho Tbomas M. Ka\anaeb, writiry the Ttuth: Authotiq and Desjre in Rot$?a! (Berkeley: University of California Pre$, !987), 78-101, who sees a oore anbisuous dialecric berween ireedom and
16, Cf, Jacques Dedda, Ol Johns Hopkins Univesiry Pre$, 1974),




Cayari Cnakavo y Spilak (BahimoE:

Ceorses Ma\, Roersedu pat lui-tuChe (P^ris: Seuil, n.d.), 129 5l; Jear Starobinski, "Jean Jacques Rou$eau er le ,a!il de la iCrlexion," in viv,,r (Paft: Callinard, 196l), ll9if; Pierc-Paul Ctanent, Jeaa Joc4ues Rousseau: De I'qos coupable d I eros E/or?,' (Nenchatel: La Baconniire, 1976): vicror C- Wexler, '''Made for Man\ Delishf: Rousseau as Anlifemi.isr," r1d.,ri?n Histdicat Retie\| 8t



Sarah Kofman, Ze zsped .les Jennes lPatis: c^lil'e, l98l), 5? l5q Pesgy Kamui, Fi.tions oJ Feninite Desite: Dis.losures oJ Helobe {t ircoln: Universit} of Nebras*a Pre$, 1982), 9? l22j Danielle Monret-CIavie, "La iemne comme natute moire dans I oeuvre de Jea!-racques Rousseau,'in Croupe de Recherhes lnterdisciplinane d'Elude des Fennes, aa ('tanlotse: Publications de I'Universit de Toulouse Le Mirail, 1984), 59et la ?6i Ceorges Benrekasa, ap.orcentn.lte et reentiqu.: Mary6 des Ltniarcs (Patis: P^yor, 266



10. Second

Difo!.r?, lll,


ol political content, see Joel Schwartz, The s@ol l,oliti.s o! Jeah Jacqtes (Chicaeo: thiveKily ol Chicaso Press, 1984). On Rou$eau! radicalizins inlluence on prcsressile wonen in rbe late eishteenlh century, sdism norNithsran.line, se Cila Max "RousFauyAntifeminism' Rcoosidered," in Sania L Spe.ceL ed.. French Woheh aid the ACe of E,liEhtennent (Bloominero.r Indiana Univeronv Press, 1984), 309 17. 17. The canonical analysn n rhal or Pier.e Burslir, .,L'educalion de Sophie," ,,l,,a/es .le la tuiAi kan Jacqu.s Roussea! 35 (1959-62), lll-lo. More ecenrly, s* Nancy J, Senior, "Sophie and the Srate oi Narue: Frehch Fmn 2 (no,2: May 197?), t3L46i Nannerl O.
the level


12. Far lron beins lhe aristofatic desisnation ol an ontitled prop.rty, tbe Rousseau m.Ely su8cests a featuE of sone ancesfal physiognomy: red hair,


13. 60 back to yolt count.y, .etu.n to the religion of your fathers, foilow it in the sincerityolyolrhea and do not leave it a8ain.... When you *ant to lisren to yourconsciencei a tbousand ehpty obstacles sill disappear a1 rhe sound of rour loice. Yo! wiu leel rhat n

"'But ror Her Sex...': The Donestication ol Sophie,,,in J. MacAdam, M. Neunann, and G, Lafrance, eds., Tte Rouseau Papets tonov^. Universit! of Onova Piess. 1980), rl5-45; and Heren Evahs Misenheimer, Ror$eau on the Education ol vlonen (Washinslon: Univesity Piess of Anerica, l98l). ta. Dettida. OJ C.annatolosy, )41 64 and 3l] 16.





19, The sirualion is conplicared, ot course, by the fad that the leacher is 4or Enile! farhe!. althoush, to the exrent that he is a substiture tarher and is esenlally reated as one, rhe h JLo him,etr a qmuta!run ot rhe rarher 'eJcher

Sfachey (Londo.r Hoeanh, 1955 ?3), xllt, especialt, t,lo_6t; .,ponsciipl,. ra Pslchaanauti. Notes on an Autobiosruphical Account oI a Cas o! pa.anoio, S.E. *t, 80 82t The Dissoturion of the Oedipus cohplex,,,tt XIX, l7l ?9. proposed conclusio. -. 24. Thisalthough we lnow to Enite et Sophie *as, in poinl ot fact. never writren by Rousseau, of n from rhe tikes ot tacques tsernadin de and Piene Prdvo , 10 whom Roussean woutd hlve rold the endins of rhe story. pravont accounr oi rho nconclusio. oi ihe Sotla,r', can be tound in ty clxiii-clriv. Bena.din de Sainr_ Piere\ slishrly nore denjled rendilion can bc roun.l i. his La vie .t tes ouvales de JeanJdcqres Rouseou, ed. Maurice Souriau (parh: Edouard Cornalr r9O?), t69_ta, Ako see Karana8h! uslut .ote in wtuinR the Ttuth,l99, (avanagh, moreover, conlincinsty argues asainn lhose rirics who would isnore or disnhs the inpotrance of rnis tsertnown or Ronsseaut works and nsses instead ihat il n rhe ,.$enlial posrscripr,. ro Eurk one shose ''subj*r natt{ [n] akeady inscribed in t .ir?'s si!en,, (lot, 85). lndee<1, only ve.y a few olher Rousseaucrilics hale paid serjous arrenlion ro this rert: Charles win,..Noles sur,Emite l soele ou res soritaircs,'" Arnat\ Jean,Ja.qua Rodseu t6 (1963_65),291 joli cuy 'nr.befDelof, ,A propos d,.Emite er Sophie,',, Rewe d,Hinone tuGnire .te ta Fn,.p 6a (1964), 44 59; Nancy J. Senioi, ,..Les Sohates, as a Te ior Ehile and Sophie,,, Fr,., R"vier49(no.4: March t9?6),52s-t5; and Jam6 F, Hamiltoo, .,.Enileer Sophje,: A parody of tbe PhilosopheFKinc,,, Srr.ti Jra\cesi 65-66 \91'il. 3s2_s5. 25. La trunsparc6ce et t obsta./a l5t_65. A more nuanced ve,sion of Starobinski,s\ one whi!h rllos. d more ronuEd aro unpred,.rqbte irdererm,ndcJ ber\een ,uch oppo\ire. q5 denarrurc .u'e, and obndcte,pdren!), can be .ound in hF rtren, /a 'erlrn. ,Pqadcdm.hnd c'llne.\ rq4ettpSitihat,ondetbt ttpb t,lta. dc: I uhkt.s Pnh:oa,timali , le3s'. lo5 212. On rhe diale.rr of novemenr cnd Rro\e d\ r figure\ rn ra. fntishrenmen, tr.

secondhand" (Harari, S.?tr?rior lt2). 21, Thn "incoryoralion,' ot lbe tarher n one oi rhe key concepr or psychoanatysG. My analysn olthe p.oblen has accodinsly been intormed by a readins of Freld, especiauy rorea antl Taboo, The Stardad Edition o.f the Conptete psrchotoqiet tlotks

Duuon, 19501, 285). Despite the disclaimer. a ercar deal ot the ensuins adicle is devored lo esablhhine the difierences and sinilarities berween rhe fatnq of a ta;ily and the ruler of a cou ry. I submir ihat ir woutd nor be strerching maren ar alt ro say rhat in Rousseau it is the father who diin6 the hone, a snuarion reinforced by lne descdprion in book I in rhe Co4&sto,s, of Rou$eau\ motherle$ childnood hone (Co,t$ions. t.1-12.t. . 21. A, \,tnerrr-Menror re , titemaqre. -!ou have sain.d le in .u erins. ..n.e Jou htve acquned sisdom," F.ancon de Salignac de La Molhe de Fe.ebn, Les Awnrurcs de rAahaque, ed. r,\bert Cahan (paris: Hache e, 192?), l, 36s. 22 The child, doomed m repear the tutor\ imasinarx can do no norc rnan inacine

On donesric ecooomx see Fani\ Farhd. (|1,24ti tanstation modjfied from .4 Dd.oa4" on Political Ecoaonr,i^ The Sociot Co"ta.l and Dis.ourses, rr. C. D. H. Cote yort:

RoD$eau's a.licle lor the E .rcloptdle on polilical econony: ..The word Economv or onomv, i: derived rrco o/{o\, a hod.e, and rofor, as and meanr o-isin. y ort; lhe s..e and le3itinate governmenr ot rhe house tor rhe comnon good of rhe whole fanilu Th. meanne or rhe krm rhen e ended .o rhe eo\e,nnenr ot ,har Ered tadrt). rhe Srqre. Io distinsuish rhese two ot rhe word, the tauer is ca ed senerut ot potiticd! ecanof,y, atu Ihe former dodevic or padiculai economy. The ftsr only is .thcused in rhe prefnt ;icle,

20. He is, in iact, at the very heart ot the

otl.o, jf

we Eoenber lhe introduction ro




'imentahy" oi happi.ess, see Robett M^!zi, L idae dL boaheut dans ta tiftit4ttre et ta pensAe Jtancaise ou XVII. sie.b \Pads: Armand Colin, 1985), 125-j5, 330 513. 26. The bone caonot defnd itselfasainsl some unspecilied enemy trod wnhout or wnhin. Tne Ldtre ar d'Aleftbe stt /a sp"c/acld (1758) could be studied in rhis context. since n idvokes a defense of Rolsseau\ own against a plot hatched tron vithout bur inte.ded to desfoy frcn withi. (rhe eslablnhnent ot a theate. in Ceneva). The rh@r h tbat of the desrruction oi rhe very boundary separalins withour fion wilhin, wnh tbe encroachnenr of a ioEien powe. (France) i. cenaa and lhe lanr's subsequedt subservience ro that powe.. And in the subsequenl a"rrres dtites de ta noatdsne, Rousseau fidds himselt in rhe even srranser position ol having to tleie.d his toyalty ro fie srate and religior ot Ce.eva after haviq been coddenned by borh. Respondins ro this perverse atact by ihe hone asainst one of ils own constitures what Rousseau calls final dury io my country,' (lll, 89?). On rbe S*Gs identity of Rousseau, see Francois Jost, J"u,-.racr?r6 Rotetu Sub*: Etude sw peten4ali6 et e pase lFtibolis: Editions Unive6itanes, t96tt, ad Rouwau et to Suisy (Neuchalel: Cdffon, 1962). For a more nuanced discussion, see Starcbinski, iiuecart rcman esqtet in La trcnsparcn.e et /'ob' 39:l-414: and Marrina Rudes, ..Une paria difticile: Cin.vra.ella corlhpondnza di Jn Jacques Rousseau (17s4-rj59);' Le ore di p.ovin ia

to Se),

\herc^lt* teleted

(no. 5?/58: Ausust Septenber 1984). 5? 63. 2?. One nisht nore, in Eeards ro this c.itique ot dependency, rhe hish jncidnce of neraphos of bindins in E/i/. Bindins (lit tbe dependency for which il n so oten a nraphot sems to be conri.ually underrood by Rousseau as sonerhins nesadv, if not as nesativny i1fli wnoess bis famous attack asainn rhe use of ssaddtinE clolhes because thev tstricl the child\ liberty of movement 0V 253-56), While therc n no space here ro plrsue a deBiled Eadins ol rhe binding nelaphos jn t-ila n cao be sumisetl that mucb nore is ar stake in thed tban a simple question of child caE. 28. The relqant passaees can be found id Co,/ersiors, I,6.l6t Rewier l, lo4t and lo48r and rhe inn Letrre a M.lesherbes." January 4, t?62, t, 1132 _ Cl. Starcbinski, La truhspatence et I obstacle, 243-3gJi an<l Kava.asn, whose careful of the ..fredon in se.virude,, iheme ol Ehil. and Sophie lhirrrS rne r/,rr, ?8,tot) Ieads him to an importanl and oricinat Ereadins ol Rou$eau\ political wrirings as less ..tolatirarian', in inspnarion rhan norivated by an 'abidin8 identification with rhe lojce of thc vicrim" (lolfi). Or rhe lirerarv roror of fteedoo in captivity, see vicror Brcmbetr, La prison rcmntique: Essi tut I inosinaire lp^tis:

Josd Corti, 1975), ll-5029. Thn rephrasing ofthe ontolosical question of selftood as a roposraDhical one grounds Alain Gro$ichardt psychoanalytic reading of Ronsseau\ imaginary as calghl in an endtess seris of idemilications, a psycbolosically verriginous and fatal crack in the Lacanian ..mirror slace that scriprs rhe hinory ol Rou$eau's eso developmenr as a harroNins traversal of ..a hall of in search oi an inpossible .,fixed point'. (..,On suhjer', .eue suis,je?' IReflqions sur la quesion de la p/ac dans l'oeulre de Jean Jacques Rou$au, d d'un texre <les lCi@terl," in Ro,rsau et Voltaire en r9?8: Act6 du.oloque ihtenatiohot de Nice


and Paris: Slariine, t98t1, 338-65). of a (ficrional) interlocuror as tbe enabline con<tition fo. the coDritution ot the subjecl discouse n a sklclure laid bare in rbe iamiliai rop ot apost.ophe. Se Jonarhan Culler, "Apostrcpne,,' D,n..rrts ? (winrer t9??). J9_69_ Speciric srudies of rhe role or lhe Mder in Rouseau can be lound in Rob.n J. Ellrich, Rorseau and His Reader: The Rhetolical Shuation oJ the Maju ,/o./.r (Chapet Hil: Unirmity of No(h Caroljna pre$, 1969); and Hunlinstor williams, RoNe, and Romantic Autobiosdphr (Oxtotd: Oxtotd Universily Press, 1983). 130 217. . 31. Consider Rousseau\ fanous datedents ned rhe besinning of the Ddco!6e o, /re4la/iq,. i Ld us b.sin by seuins aside alt ihe f&is, because they do nor arfect tbe queslion,,



30. This positins







(lll, 132)i'Fornnnobshrehrerpdseto...arrain.sotidknowldcotasrateshichno
Ionger exnrs, which perhaps never erined, and vnich sill prcbabty naer exist, yer ot which ir is neessary to hEve soun.l ideas if Ne a. to ju<lge ou pEsent shte sdnfaoorily.' 123), On th.consequences of this posiring of trutn asa necessary ticrion! thecanonical srudies renain rhose ol De.rida, O/ O tunnatolosr': Pant de M^n, Btindnss ard lfsisht l1\totd: ^nd Oxlord Universily Pres, r97l), l0l 41, and AteCoi* of Reodin.: FEurut LonauaEe in Rtus@u, Nietzehe, R/ke aar' P/o6, (NN Haven: yale Unive6ity press, l9r9), t3j-301.


se Cearha(\ ioportanr and billiant cririqle of tnen wotk in The Ope, Boundary, 234 84. Fo. a hisrorical and i.leolosical situatins oi Rousean! concepr ot nature as critical ficrion, see Bronislaw Baczko, Rouwtu: Soitude et conhnu,/e, r!, Chne Brendhet Lad_ hout (Parn and De Hasue: MoDron. t974). 59-t54. 12. On thecone.uencies between Rousseau\ anthropotosical hislory oflbe differenr,,ases of man" as presedted in the lwo Discouises and thc .rrorolrsrtal orsaniation of the tirsr book of the Co4re$rbrn see Pniliqpe Leje e, Le pacte autobiosraprl?,p (parh: Seuil. t975). 87 16{. lo' \ohe connderalon\ on Ro!{eu r'5 rhe po..ibte origirdro, of alrobroB-aphy,.r leasl in its nodern form, a clain aheady nodeled by Rousseau hinsslt in $e opnins line oi the Cortss,o,s [i'l forn an enrerprise wnich has no p@e.renr,', 51, se Lejeune, Z a!robioEraphie ek Fnnce lPatts. Arnand Colin, l9?t) and a"pate autobiosnphique, t| 4tl also Michael Spri.ker, "The E.d of Autobiosraphy," in rames Otney, ed., AutobioE,aphr: Esats Theotetical and Oitical (Princeion: Princeron Udive.sily pre$. l98O). 32t-26. Orher essays i.clnded in this sane volume that are pe.tine.r ro the quenion aF James Olney. "Autobiosraphy and lhe Cuhural Monent: A Theoretical, Hisroricat, and BiblioBraphical Inrroducrion," especiauy 5 6; Ccorses Cusdort, .,Condnions and Linils ot Autobiograpby,,, rr. Janes Ohex 28-48; and Jean Sraiobinski, ..The Style of Aurobiogr.phy,., tr Seynour Chatnan,73-31. Aho se Lionel Co$nan\ seninal anicles,,.Tihe and Hisroryin Rouscau,,, S/EC 30 (1964), 3ll-49: and The lndocenr An ot Coniession and Reverie.,, Dz"dalr t07 (no. 3: Sunner 1978), 5+7?. By far the Bo$ sophisticared and anbitious examinarions of Rousseau as autobiosrapher are Huntinclon wiltians, Rowseau and Ronant ic A, tobiosraph|,


Luigi Fnpo, ,.Rou$eau e Monresquieu a Torino: Nor\Elts de ta Rqubtique (198rJ,6?-81 and Roben Shac[eton, .,Montesquieu, DlFin, and rne Ea;ly Le res 2 Wrilings of Ron$eau," in Simon HaNey, Marian Hobso., David Keltey. Sanuel S. A_ Tavlor, ed'.. Reopprut."i oJ Ro^teau \lud4 n Honou, oJ R. a. /ea, lMan.hejfl: Vdn(hener Univesily P.ess, 1980). 234. For Montesquieu,s readions to, see Voluse, t,604_t1, 36. zulieuat indisnant response is too sood to pas up: .,Zanetto lascia le Don.e, e sludia la nathenatica lJohnny, give up women and srudy marhenaticsl,,(Co4t$,o,, 322). On Rousseau's adventur in Venice, see Climent, ./ean Jaa,?s Ror$.a,, 20t_2t: Madeleine B. Ellis, Roussea,) v.netian Stor!: Aa Esa:' upon A ahd tur, l, Les Contessions {Batrimore: lohn, Hoplr'. Pre\. lq6br: (J u\eppe scaratrE. rene/ia. Rou$eau e i avnovd, in Centc d'Erudes Franco, Universires de Turin d Ae S^\ote, MebnEa d b nenone de Fnn o Sinone: Ftuace et nok dans lo ultue eurcpAear? (Ceneva: Slartine, t98l), rr, 561 trj and Le er Croc*et, Jaa Jacqa Roasyau ltlev yort: Macdillan, t968 t3), l,

lifidtuturc et des noeuts IPatis: Hacheue, 19071,259 60ff.), Barba.a Stafford more judiciously sir'^tes Lo Nouwtle HAbie wnhin rhe contexr ot the Entighreinent\ emersme inle;-i; nouhrains, an inleresr whose dcisile publication would have ben rhar oi lohann Jacob Schevhzet's hi"en Heleeti@ in OOa (voyaee ino Substan.e,88 89fi., an.l 162). 35. While Rousseau was in Turin ar tbe rime of Montesquieu,s vhir therc in t728. rhere is no accounr of thei! meetinc ach oder, which is unsury.nins, as then difierence in social iank and pre ise woul.l have made such an encountd unlikely, it not neaninsless had n



37. M^y. Rousseau pat

lui- ane, t29-5j.

sdjou de Jeun-Jacques H, peoptes, Lo que;el.

ard rllen Bu

rwenty-rhird letter of Zz Nory"//e sr1o,i4 ,.u seems that by tist E len s,atevoht ou ^bo\e derslrl lhe domain of nen. one leaves atl lol and earlhly feelinss behind, and thar as one neare lhe erbreal resions, the soul cont.acls some oi rheir inalrmble purny,, (78). For a dtailed radins of the elation beNeen lhe norat and the physicat in this passace, as weI as or Rouseaut literary pFdece$ors in this ropos, see Cnrislie McDonatd-Vance, rr? Errravaeant Shephetd: A Stud! oJ the Pd|orul yiion in Rousftuzt Noulelle Hetone. SI/EC 105 (1973), especiauy 58 ?0. while for Daniel, rhe nodern taste for nountain scenery would hale orisinared, ahost sinclehah<tedly, yirh Rouss\ (Le sentinent .te la nature e, Frarce de Jean-Jac.1u6 Rousseau d Betua.din de Saihrpie/te: Esai sut t6 npports de ta

rhe rFpue.r?., I, 105t. empha-. cddedr. On rhi. -s.ner( dimen,.on ol Ro!.,eaur autobios.aphicar rritinc, see Starcbinski, La ndaspate\ce el t,obsiode. 23O 32ff. 14. Thh corElarion berween noral and roposrapbicat heisht is unders.ored in the tamous

3l- Among ft mo r,..ersto, of affecs and ideas which modify those rhal fouow them, and wnich i! is ncesE.v ro tno$ In order ro pd$ rddgmenr dpon rhem. I rm tvrng rhrodghout ro e\ptarn rhe ri,,; causes sell so as 1o give a feeling fo. th sequential chain oi effec6,, (Co4,&ss,bu, t75, empnash added); t have only one faitbful euide on whicn r can count; namely, the chain of feelines Nhicb hale narked tne rrc.6sio, or ny bei.s, an<r through the succe$iod of event whicn have acted as a cause or effsr of my being', (ibid, l, 2?8, emphasis adde.l)r ''Bur lron rhese litsr acts of eoodness, poured out Nirh etiusion of hearl. were born chains of sr..u$tw ensasenenrs that I had not toresecn, and of which I colld no loneer shake .fr

\ ro h(omine Ro6,eru\

Autobioe\phtc.. olefl stalennrs in this Esard are the tolowinsr ,.There h a certain

4ltobiqraphiques et la lacende (pat\s. Didier, l9j6), B 55i Edward Duttu Fozrs?a! f Eneland (Betkelcy: Univesiry oi California press, t9?9),9-31; antl Crocker, Jaa,-Jacq,s

Rouseau'Hune. A1nales kak Jacqu* RoBeu I (t921-28). I Slti Henri Roddie;. J2, la.oup\ Rouieau ph lael.lptr? ou XV t. tpar.: Bonrn. taso,. hpeoa J 25a_Uhi Jacques voisine. Jean-Ja.qu6 RoN@u en' Anstetete d tdpoqre lonantique: La eurs

38. On Rousseau\ rrip to England, see Louis J, Cou oh, Le Rotsseau et Ahsletefte 1t766-l267,) (Cenevaj Jullien, tglt)i M at!:atet

39. The patiarhal a(aneenenr oi Clarens is the implicit discovery of Erienne Cilson\ cla$ic "La nithode de M. de wotmaa (in a6 /d&s /es /erres [paris:, l9j2]. 275

"r 98), and rhe explicit object of nore recenr studies, imludine Tony,
paternelle': Anolher Look at Ro$se


skrob' "Su td mclcdie de Rouseau,, rn / o ,,on"po,".," n ,,oouo"i, ltO441CEment, Jean-JacCup\, )?.t.91: and Xotman. rho anuretJ q$ocisre. Rodrecu\ Amtnian aune and urinary disorder b a desire ro -be,, the mother and ro sive bkth to a .rh,ough child a: rl one were -pd$ing a rone rh. u.erhra (/ e 6pc.t dc" J?nn?:, ta8 ,O) or course. !!(h a ranra\v ot canralon and rminra,ion !an dl.o be 5hNn !o cond,r,on hi!

tbroDshout th iollowine paeet, Hunrinston Willians arrues rhat Rou$eau! svnrax so suc ces\'ully mime. rhe .repe \e ph).icqt doremenr ot$atkins,.rhd. rhroleh: -.he,or,at lour de foEe," it acruallt -elevatelsl Rou$eau to the same eblrd stare desciibed in the nanarive" (Rousseou and Rohanti. Autobjocrutrh!, lo- 13). Dspire fie nanifen insenuity of lhanalysn, one is nilllefi wonderinswhy Rou$ea! should persGt in lanenti.s those e.s;aric Doments of ramblinc reverie as nEtridabty los in rhe pa$, if as Witrian; ckins, ,1he pEsenl acr ol w tins oreates rhh past anew,. (tj). 4l.rl._'Mon po rar. L It28. On rhe.$ed q16,ron or Rou.,eau\..mdtddy..,.ee Manon Hitoire," Daedalrs lO5 rno. l: winrer 1976), 23-45; Kanuf, Frinorr ol Fehinine Dente, 91-t22, DeJeao, Litetut! Fofti.ficatioas, 16l-90; and (avanash, Wrnins the'huth, \ 2t_ 40. In a stylisric readins of rnis passase tofr the Cortssio,r (quored by me hee and

rs La





184). Adds Marcel




eiotic investments in various kinds of phallic somen fiom Mll. Lanberier. who spanks him, to Mme. d'Houdetor, whose surDrise visir dressed in nothing less inan an ?4rerrfta, outfi1 ri8sen Rousseau\ sense ol being tult in love tor '1be tu$ and only" tiner "On rhis trip, she qas oh horseback and dressed as a nan lar chetal et en hotune\. Although I an not very fo ol such masquemdes. the an of roma.ce aboul rhh one charned me, a.d this tine n *as lo!e.. ,. the tust and only love in all my tiie, one vhose consequences ma*e il

for4er nenorable" (Corlessto,r l, 419). 42, "Nor for lons did my ioagination leave this lovely land deserred, I populated it *iih beinBs afier ny osn hcan, and casting out opinions, prcjudices and alt lake passions. I t.a.spofied inro naruE\ refuges men wonhy ofinhabidng 1hen. out of these nen, I lormed a charnins society to Nnich I did not feel unwonhy ol belonsins. I fabricated a colden ase to sujt ny fancy, and fillin8 those lovely days wnh all the scnes ny head could still desir., I to the point ofreare in consi.terins lhe true pleasuFs ofhumanirx pleasurcs
thal are so delicious and so


and rhat are hen elorrh so disrant from

nen" (1, ll40).


wc accept what Rou$eau says in book lX of rhs Co,ftsrrb,s (I,430ri.), his novel !a Norwl/e d4o6" would have been conceived and elaborated out of qa.lly such a lamasy. And a Ieuei to Jacob veinet, dared November 29! 1760, he sinilarly projcrs rhe writinc oi Enr


ol hh Beries Nhile kind of rrealise on edlcation, iull oi my custonary reveries and the final iruit of ny runic piomenadesldethietltait d. tues pronerdd5 chahpatdl, rcm ins ro be published br ne" lcorrespondane cohplite de Jean-tacquet Rorrseur, ed, R. A. Leish lceneva: Insiitlt Mlsee vohane; and Oxford: Vollair. Foundarion, l96s-891, vll. 332). 41. ConJesio6. 1.162,
as tne outcome 45, On the ptdicamenl of bappiness as a problen of consciousne$, see Ceorces PoDlet, Etuda sur le tenDs hunaia I lParis: Plon. 1949). 220-15, 46. Compare the rouowing pasage iiom "Mon Do(iait"r never do anylhinc excepr durins ny strelh, the countryside h ny study; rhe meE asped ol a rable, paper and books h tedious to ne, fie accourrenenrs oi work discourage ne, if I sn down lo wrire I find norhins and the need io be wiuy 1akes ir away" (t, tl28). 4?. Cf. the des-ipiion of the "llluni.alion" ai vincennes in the second ..Letlre A Mates herbes": I could ever have wrinen a quarter of whar I saw and lelt under this ree. with what clarity I would have made evidnr the conriadictions of the social sysrem . AU that I could rcrain of tnese svams of gEat truths that enlishrened me lor a quafler of an hour nnder lhis t@ has been ieebly scatrered into my three najor writinsJ' (1, ll35 36). 48. Perhaps nowhere is lhis contradiction berween travel and wdrin8 sononically presenied as in Rousseaut persuadine Dideror and Crinn to accompany him on a long-d.snd tour of Italy on ioot only to see the pmjecl ransnuted into a mere erercise in ling: "For a Io.3 while, I seaiched Paris for No comrades sharing ny taste, each willins to confibure fifty ld,b fron nis puse and a year of bh rine for ajoinr rour or lraly on roor.. .. I renenber lalkine wilh such pasion ol rhe project to Diderot .nd Orimm thal I finally save then rhe same urae. I rhoughl I had it all setled: but soon i! alr reduce<l irselt lo a nere journey on Oap{ lun totwe par4.titl,in which Crimm iound norhins noErleasant thanrerina Diderct ro connit various impieties and handinsne o!e. to lie lnqunition in hG stead" (Corl$to,r,

walting: .A

Raynond, "it is a question of leavins oneselt, ot leavins o.e\ natural deviatins lrom the belten path, of soing anray, of soins our ot bounds tar.,vasuerl (Jean-Juques Rousseau: La quote de soi et la ftrdie lParhr Jose Corti, t9621, r59ll). The rvelie lhus alEady imqlies a ptohena.le and vice versa. Cf, Amautl Tripet. aa ftaetie tirCrcirc: Essaistt Ro,Jsear (Ceneva: Drcz, l9?9)t Robert J. Morrnser &.aypl& jusqu A Roussear: Raherches sh un tapos lifttone (Lea\ngron, Ky.: Fiench Forun, 1984)i and Hnnlinsroo WilliEns, fousseau and Ronantic Artobiosruphr, 9-22. St. Ct. Rousseau juse de kan,Jrcqt* (Dialoeu5). I, a45-4j. 52. Motrissey corecdy sees in this Elerie of prior Everies an ..embedde.r phenomenon', thal n lne culnioation of Rousseau\ anempts to rlrn the rcverie into a .tkte oi autarty,': "To fall inro a reverie over forner rryeries [/Cr"r a s?J /rre.,?s z/,2,rrelo61 apD@rs as a means ol enriching them, ol makins them lile nore lully, (t54ff.). Such a s{onddesree reverie thus aho nonically reconftns Tripefs orisinal insishr in1o the .everie as a nelancholy neans to Ecover i a lost place and a shatreed unily": .,lThe reveriel does .or exist vnhoul some alienalion lron which it anemprs in turn to departi so as ro live.,. in an anrriority yhich rhe rcverie herDs us rcaprure llo lCtetie irane,26t. Cl. Srarobinski\ disclssion ofwhat be caus tecondary Everie" (.Relerie er rransmutation,,, in Lo tokspdrence et I'obstacle,



53. Ano.B the many srudies of rhe analosies ber$een wrilins and boranizins in rhe REBis, se especially (ava.agh. hitins the Trrth, 165-80; Srarcbinski, aa rruBpderc? et I'obsra.te.218 82; McDonald vance, txrlzyzsanr Sr"pnel4 7o-?3; Cossnan, ,.The lnno, cen! Arl," 72 74j David Scolt, "Rouseau and Flowers: Tne poelrl of Bolanr." S/EC r82 (19?9), ?3-86; Pierre Saint Amand, ..Rou$eau co.lre Ia sciedce: L'exemple de ta botanique

journal de reveies, conne subniru! d,une CcritDre aurobiosraphique chez Ro!$eaui,,jn

Roussea! et voraite

dans les lexles autobiographiques," SI,EC 219 (1981), 159 6?; Jenny


Bartay, ..L herbier,



a 1973,I l8ia.d in a noE Dhenomenolosical resisrer, John C. O'Neal, SeeineondObsdrinE:Rous.attRhetotico.fP.rceptioh(S^t^tosa.Cal.:AnmaLib,1985), 122 38. On rhe ielation betsen the ,affectile nemory , of lhe berba un and rhc icmporal problen ol conscjousness! see Ponlet, Errder 226-15. 54. J.-8. Pontah, E r.e /p rpre et ld douleut (P^tis: A^\imard, t9?7), lj6. 55. lt *as Robe( Osno.t Nho firei analyzed 1he resemblances belween Montaisno! and Rousseau\ accidenrs in hn "Contribution a l'etude psychologi$e des Riwies du pnnerur sotuaite," Annales Jean Jocqtes Fo6reo! 23 (1934), 54-55. Also see Henri Roddier,s ..tnrio duction" to aes Rrr"/i6 (Paris: Garnier, 1960), lxvi-lwiii and Huntinglon willians, Rorsrea/ and Rondrti. Autobioetuph!, 4 S. 56. HonorC de Balzac, Ie Pire Aoriot, in La canAdie huhsine (Pads: Callinard, 1976 8l), IIl, 290, The PaE Lachaise cemetery was opened in 1804, rhe cDlminalion ot a reforn
movemenr in bu.ial practices rhal Eplaced the old cbarnel hoDse *ilh th landscaped carden Gee Richaid A. Ellin, The Archrectrre oI Deathr The Ttarcfo.nation of the Cenetet| ir EiBht@nth-Cehtary Pa s lcanbridge, Ma$.: MIT Press, 19841). As E in also sho*s, Rous seau\ o*n "natu.allrtonb, as l.ndscaped byde Marquis deciraidin on tbe lle des peuplieis ned Ermenonville, represenFd an impodanl rurn in the iorrlnes of lhn novenent (204 9). An ediroriar nol to rhe Preiade ednion ot Le Perc Aoriot O j3O) signals the pubtication ot gui.lebooks ror lhe modnh strolles and .tonrisrs', who besan frequenlins the cemerery early on, definitrs it as rn. dace in Plrn to take a walk: a?.rrductew au cidetii,e de t Est at .!" PC.e-Lrchabe lPatis: Plass, t9z()i aod Ponenade sdtuk au.ituetiirc du pare-Lachake du Mont Louis pfts de Parjr (Paris: Lachevadiaie. ln26) 5-. Norice lhar Rous,eau\ rie' or rhi q heE wet a. the ptup\.ion oJ h o! a Sdowrd yi.aa is not only from o. high (as Moniesquieu woutd hale pEscribed) but .tso



set lo h by wartburg, lhe words /Aw and .6ter would be derived lrom a hypotbetical Laiin word, rcpnaErJ, deaning r1o ioam aboui, to wandr for one\ preasure, ro rake a prearant {ark lvagabonde. e/M pour son plaki. Jaire ure p.otuena.le jote6el'i (Frunz.;sisches Etlnotosisthes Wittetbuch lB^set: zbinden, t96ol, X.

49. Rerdies, l,999. 50. Accordins to the erymolosy




from outside fte cny, thls preservins ils Eazr trcm lhe isk of innedion in a coffuDl
58. On Rolssu\ possccidenr plenitnd. h indifiEntiarion, se also Poulel, Erldet 215. Lionel Cossman nd ako perceptively.old the dissolurion of evn the most basic opposition in fte R,wi6j "Nhat is oien caud life inndi4y, prcsence, plenirude, enjoynent-n closely akin ro death" ("The hnoce Arr," 7l), 59. More Rousseauisr rha. Rousseau hinself in @ountins rhe accidenl, Ber.ardin de Sainr-PierE also applies the vord @rrcl in desfihins rh philosopher! wounds: "One oi rbose C@t thal the vaniry ol rich people allows 10 run ahead of their coaches, ro thc nhiorlu.e ol folks on foor. *nocled llea.-Jacques Rou$eall so roughly onlo rhe palemenr


rhat he lost all conscioDsn6s. Sone charnabk passemby picked hin up: hh upper lip was split, the thunb of his isbt hand was all skinned l.or.r4. He came back to hinself ltl Evi,l d l,il. They wanred to hire him a cariage, but he didn\ wanl one fo. fea. of catbins a chill. He cane bac* hobe o. foot i// 4vini.r4 lui d piedi a doctot can runningl lRouseaul thanked bin ior his frie.dsnip bur refused his helt. lnsread, he was codtenl to wash bis wounds, vhich aftei a few days heald periedly. h's narure who cuFs,' he said, 'nor nen" (La eie et les ouvnses, 49)60. Cl. Aeneid tt,29!-91 aoa p.ssin. My criiiqle ol rh tneobsical eference point finds an eloquent lellow traveler in Sartre\ relativisl rcprc.cb to Frangois Mauriac for assuoing the posilio. olCod in rclation ro the chamclers in his noleh: "As do rhe En ol our autbors, he wanled to ignore rhat the lheory of relariliry applies inte8rally lo lhe novelGdc universe, rhat in a true novel there is, no moe rhan in tne Norld ol Einsrein, do place for a prilile8ed observer, and rhal in a .ovelisric sysrem, thee exis$, no more rhan in a physic.l stslem, no *pe.inenr that can Eveal *hether that systen n in morion or al resr" (Srrart 6 I lParis: Callimard, 19471, 5G5?). 61, On the slatus ol tne siBnatDre (or ils absnce) in Rousan, se Ellen Bu , "Rousseau the Scribe," Sildter i, Roaarlrirr 18 (Wi.t.r 1979), 629-67; and Pecey Kanuf, Sisuar@ Piec6: On the Instnution oJ AuthoBhip, espeially 2l-120. 62. Sidce Rousseau\ rine. Sainr Piefie has been renamed rhe IIe Rouseau, and lhe rue PlarridE similarly redubhd rhe rue Jean-Jacques Rou$eau. Wbile such a naning of a place after a pecon is not unusual, it does ailord us an inrerestin8.ontrast wnb lhe cases ot Montaisne and Montesquieu, whose names aE derived fron a p.eviouslt exisrios place, the ownership of which sives its Dosse$or leave to apply ihe nane ro himself. True ro the elhics of E-ila and despire his ilaunted nosralgia for his bnrhplace oi Cenela, Rouseaut hone turns our ro cotrespond to any nunber olrhose pl&es wheE ne happened to nay, wrire, and
63. Developed nosr elabolarely wirh

Addison, Joseph, 73,


Alps, 10, 109, ll8, l3d 139 AIquie. Fedinand, l50-5l, 152

Aususlin, Saint, 39;

Ctr o/ Ood


of ar l4fontile Neutosk, in S.E.

rsp(l ro rhe case or rhe \lo1l6an lFmn the Histolt xvll, 7-122), the imporlant psychoanalytic conceDl oi
Apostrcphe, 106-8, 165 Aquinas, Sainl Thonas, 39

Balller. Adrien,

Balu, Honde


153, 154

Nrchtiislithkeit n^s bee defi.ed by Jean Laplanche and Jean-Baptiste Po.lalis: "Experi encss, inp.esions, and memo.yrraces may be revised ar a later date to lir in with fresh qperiences or {nh the auainmen! ol a ns staee ol developnem. They may in that elent
be endowed nol only Nirh a new meanins bul aho with psychical effectivness" ("Deferred Actlml in The Ldrpua?e oI,4ralyr6, rr, Donald Nicholson-Smith [New York: NoF

de: Plrc Aoriot, 124, 169 Balzac, Jean-Louis Cue de, 60, 153 B.triare. Pierre, ?1, 154, l5?, 160
Badhes, Roland,

rxii, 6, ll4,

116, t47

ton, l97ll,


A.istotle, A.hlotelianisn, xviii, Arnauld, Anloine, 150






A*inso., Ceoffroy, 39, ll5,

69-70 15-16

Baudetane, charles, xvii Beaujour, Michel, t42, 156



BeaunonlsuFohe, I Bectelt, sanuet, t5o Bernadin de Sain.Pierre, Jacques, 164,


Bla.lhol, Maurice, 58. t52


54, 59 61, 75, I04, l.t?, t52, 153, t54i

''Dream" oi,51 51, t51..

Bousainlille, Louis Anroine de, xv, 39, 162 Branrone, Piere de Boudeilles, abbi de. 6
Anrnet. Cilbei, 71, 158 Buror, Michel, xiii, x!, 6, 133, l.r5

Meditations, 11 48, 49, 5]-5q 8t, t2t, r48 .19, r52, r53, t54 prin.iples oJ phi

Ga$endi, Pierc, 149. l5l Oeneva, 93, 109, 129. ll4, 16l, 165,


lGnt, lmmanuel, 55, 88 89, (lein,

r58, l6r


I5o, r52,

t41, t52

152, 151i Seo,ch for 1iuth, ]'?.a, 151t Trcatise on Man, t53i me u/otkl,

lll of Eneland, lll Gibbon, Edward, 71, 157, 158


xxvi, Il6

Deseine, Francois:

Nouka! ,oras.


KiDlinS, Rudyard, xxli Kolman, Sarah, xxviii, I37, 167 68

1,16. r48, 158

God, 52, 55-56.57,58.98. 12?-29.

?3, t55
Campanella, Tonnaso, 68

Denur de T.acy, Anroine,Louis

Diderot. Denn, xxviii, 163 Doiron, Nornand, 62, 133, t54 Du Bellay, Joachim, 6, ?3, r.12

Casraion, 23, 26-18, 48, 67, 81, Il3, t6?

68. S?e abo Phallus, phauocenlrnm C6line. Louis-Ferdinand. xiii Cerva.tes, Miguel de: Do, Ouircte, xiii, 40 Chailes Vlll oi France. 6 Chareaubriand, Franqois R.n, vicomre de. 6 Chenonceaux, Louise Dupin, Mne. de,

150, lJ2, r70 Ooethe, Johann WolfsaD8 !on, xlii, 73, Crand tour, 65, 85, 97, l2l, Il0, 155 Creece. 3, 69, ?8, 80 Creenbe.s, Mirchcll, 19. l3?, 142, Crimm, FrddCric-Melchior, 168 Cueroult, Manial, 148, 153


Labar, Le Pir Jean Baprisle, ?1, 158 La Brlde. chareau of, 70, 82, 83 Lacan, Jacques, 21, t43, 165 La Condanine, Chanes Marie de, 162 La Fo.raine, Jean de, xvii, r32, ll3 Lanonran, Louis Armand de, xxviii Lalande. .rospeh Jdrone de, 71, I58 Lambercicr, Mlle. Cabrielle, 168 Lanberr, Anne Therese de Marglenal de Cou.cellcs. marqune de, 15? La Popelinidre, Henii l-ancelot Du vohin de,


Du Ma6ais,






Chrisrina, Qneen ol Ssedcn, I54 Cice.o, Marcus TDllius, xxi, 27. 134

Edelnan, Narhan, 41, 1.t8, t5l Educarion, xri, 6, 23, 50, 63, 85-r08, l6t,
163, !68

He8el, Ceors wilhelm Sriedrich, rjv, xxv, 143, l5li Heaelian dialectic, 64, lm-l0l

Climablosx 63, 69, 154-55 Colbe , Jean,Aaprisre, xxvii

Connerce and economics, xvi, rlii, xviii,61, ?7 80, 82, 90 91, 120. 162 Compasnon, Antoine, 32-31, l4l-4,1, 146


Enerson, Ralph waldo, I

Mattin: Beiry dr.l Tine, xi\

Larnage, Suzanne Francoise du Sa!lzet,

Leibniz, cotfried

"voyace,' vii, xv
England, 63, 69, 70,

lope.lie: "Economie polilique, t64j

rrii, xxix,6,24,851
tt3, ll8. t59,

Holland, 60 61, 61, 152





xiii, xvi, 96. ll4i





xv, xxv,
Levasseur, Threse,


CaDiain Janes.



Erasnus, Desiderius, 6 Ermenonville, 129, 169

Eroricism,21 28,31, 31,95,

Cyrano de, Savjnien de,

llO-l . ll6,


Enor, 19, ,lo, 45 61, 81; and rranssresion,

Eyquem, Piere, 7, 29 18, 144,

91, 98, lto, 134 Ho6es and equenrian ralcl, ll 19, 21, 2527, 10-12, 14, t5. 16 37, 45-43. 51. ll2. t13. t15, 130. !41. 150. 168 Holderor, Sophie. comtese d , lll, 168 Hune, David, lll, 149, 160




claude, xiv, 89, 132, 136, l3?,

D8 Libertina8e, xxiii, 40, l4?

Danto Alishieri,


39, .t0

David, Jacques Louis, 84 Dealh, xvi, 20, 21 38, tlo, t2r-26, 129, t43,


lraly, xv, xxix-rxx,

3l-35, 59-60, 61, 63, 69, 72 7d ?5,

l. I, d

5, 6-12, 23, 31,



Xll of

France, 6

De Brcsses, Charles, 6, 73, 139, 158 De Ce eau! Michel! rix, Bl, t3?, 145 Dideyan, Charles, xxi\ ll0, 116, lt9 Deioe, Daniel: Rordso, C&roa xiii, xxvi,98 De Lauretis, Teresa, xx!i, lt6 Derida, Jacques, xx, xriii, xrv,5,20,9?i l3l, I]3, 134-t5, t36, lt9, 142_4t. 148, l6t,
163, 166 Descaites, Rend, xxir, rxvii, 6, 15, 39-61, ?2. 75, 76, 81, 86, 87, 88, 91, 102, to4, 105. 107, Il0, l14, r2tl, t24, 129 lo, t46 54, 157, l10t Distortse on Method, 4O-4t. 4a-

Farhe6 and sons, xxviii. 6, 17, t9, 29-i8, 48, 75,82-84,94,96 109, l12, 127 to, l4l 44, r,14, 145-46, 163 Fenelon, Franqon de Salisnac de La Morhe de: Awhtures de Tdvnaaue, 6a. 9A 99,



8d 109 ,lr, r38 40,149, 154-55,15?,158, 160, 167, 168. 5e. a6o Apenninest Cas telnuovo: Floence: Cenoai Hannibal: Loretoj Lucca; Milan; Naplesi Po; Pontrenolir Prattolinot Rome; Rubiconi Susa; Tibert Tivolii Turin: Vaticani ven laucourl, Louis der E crc/opldip anicles on "Voyage" and Voyageur," rii, xv-xvii. xxix, 6, 24, 85, lll, ll?, 119, 16l

Luxembolrg, Charlelllan':oisFrd.tarjc de Monhorency, narich.l de France et duc

Lnynes, Loun-Chancs d'Alberl, duc d, 42


Fleury, Andre-Hercule, cardinat de, t56

Lyotard, Jcan-Franaoh. xiv, 13l, 149, 162 Maccannell, Dean, xvii,65,89, 132, 155,

Fonrnelle, Bernard Le Bolier de, l5?, Foucault. Michel, *viii, I.10, l4t, 143 Freud, Sigdund, xiv, 24, t29, 142, I,11, 15l, 158, t6.t. l?0



Malebranche, Nicolas de, 152, 15? Maps, naDpine. xx. rxi, ?, 51.65,69,1619, 88 89, r59


Marin, Louis,64,


I37, l4O, t.t2, 143, l4Z

Marivaux, Pierc Carlet de Chamblain

(to holt b! wa! o.f Switze and aatJ Aer uarul. \1\. l-2,4-12, ]l .12,14 15, 18. 60. 61, tJ7-40. 142, t49, 154. t53 Monresquieu, Chartes-Loun de Secon.lar de, xxiv, xxlii, rxx,6, 62_84, t6,91, 91, to5,

Phallus, phallocenlrism, xxv, 13, 2j, 28, 75, 82-84 98, t03, 134 t4t, t4l, t60, t6?, sft Plato, 39, 91, rt4i The Republi..

l16 17. 8-29, I6t, t65, 166. t68_?0: Rousteau juse .te te,n-Jocq,es, t69l s@iar contruct, t63

Maupertuis, PiereLouis Moreau de. t52 Mauriac, Francois, r?0

May, Ceorges,

llt, t6l, 167

\54 61, 161, 169. ttoi Asace et knAnie,6jtConsidenlions oh theCoas6 oJth. Grandeu,

I0, lI,

5. l2t, t21,


6, t39

Ruins, xxix xxx, 9, 34-i5, ?3. 142. tss

Sade, Donarrn Atohon5e Francor, narquh

Memoix art ol, xxii, 68,




156, 16?. 169 Metaphor, xiii, xix-xx, xtii-xxiii, t5, 4r, .18, 54 5?-59,61, ?5, 83,94, t2t 22, 123, 134,
135, r.12, t47, r50, 153

Misson, Fra.cois-Maximilien, 71. 158 Monraisnc, Michel Eyquem de, xv, xvi,

l57i t Nores sur I'Angletede, TOt perrr.", ,re.s, xxviii, 63, 66-67, ?8. 81, 86, ll3, 1.17, t55i ,,Rdflexions sur ra monarchi. unive.selle," 79 80; ..Reflexions sur tes habilanh de Rome, , 6l I ,srr.i/ise, 72; /re Spir, oJ the La$,6t,64,61.6s 11,1168, 7l ?4, 83_84, 154_56, ts-t, 161 Monresquieu, Denke de, 8:, 160-6t Monlfaucon, Berna.d de, 73, 158
84, 154. 156-57. t59t Le Tehpt? de Anide, 6ti yorage Jrcn Cn. to The Hasue, 63_

dnd De.o.Jen.e oI rhe Ronaas, 63. lj. "Considerations sur tes richesses d I,Es paanei" ?9,80j ..Essai sur Ie soot,,, 63, 14. Me. P?nsaes, j2,82, aj 84, j55. ts6,

Ponralis. Jean-Baptiste, r2O, t69. l7O

Sainr Pierre,

nhnd of, lod

Sartre, Jean-Paul, t?O


r29, t?0

Proun, Marcel, xiii, 6

Sebond. Raymond, 37, l4J

Seneca, Lucius Annaeus,

6, l4l, t50

Quedon, Anne,Cabriel Mensnier dc. t0

Shackleton, Robe.l, 84, 154, 155, 158, r60.

l6r. r6? Shakespearc,

willian, l4l

xxlii! xxix! xrx, t-38,


Silhoueue, Erienne de, 73,

19, 40,

4t, 42,

rhe Reader,' t7, 38, j42; Trawt Joumat

Dte:' 25; Theotosia Naturulis by Ra\hond Sebond, rranstatio. oi. 3? i8: ..T.

36; "Our Felinss Reacn our beyond Us.,. l4l; "That b Philosophize h ro Learn to

ll3, U9, t23-26, 129-30, ll4, 13? 46, 14?.18, I49, 154, t5a, \69i Apotosl lot Rdrnond Sebond, 15, 39, 143-,14, 146. 169, l?oi "Custom oi lhe ltan.l oi Cea,27j Olthe Afidion or Fathers tor Then Cbildren," l?; .,Ol Cannib!1s,,, rx!iii.2 d 35,36, 7s,91, 133, t45i ..OfCoaches.,, ll, 15, 36, l40i ..Ot Demofirus and Her aclitus," l9i of Drunlenne$," ur9, "ot rhe Educarion ol Children,,' xxix, 8, 8i, l37t "Of Experience,,' ttr, 3?, t40, 142. 144, 149; '.Ol Civins rhe Lie," t7, 138, 144;"Ol Husbanding your \vill,,'2t. 331 ''Ol ldlene$,,' t2-t9, 21. 2?, t6 37, 56. 92, to?. l4t-42i .,Ol lhe power or rhe hasinarion,', I40; .,Ol pra.rice,', t9 32, 31, tlg, t23-26, t42 41, l69j ,.Of Repen, tance," 19, 31 44, !.t4; .,Oi th Resen blance oi ChildEn ro Farhers,,, 27r ,.Oi Solirude," 142; OiThree Ki.ds of A$ociation," 142;.,Olvanity, 3l, l2 38, ?1, l4d ls3; "On Sohe Veises or Virsil., 3l.

45, 48, 54, 56, 59-60, 63, 71, ?5, 84, 8s, 91, 92, t02, 104, 105. lo?, 108, lro, Irr,



36, 40. l7O

Skepticisn, xxiii, 16, 16 3?,

t46, 148,


41, 59, 63,

Rheloric and fopes, xxi-xxiii, 4O-4r,

l]4, ll5,
Snollert, Tobias, ?t, t58
Spanish conquest

Montnoren.y, rown of, 89 Mor, Thonas: U/opl?, 40,

Morhere and lisures

19. 161


of marernity, rrvi,

Rone, xxix xxx, 2, 9,

60, 63,


t2, 21, 32, 34-35,


9, \44. t61,

?:-?4, 76, 77, ?8, 30, 84, 9t, 128, 139, r40, 1.12, 144, rs0. 157_58. 159. .S?

xxlii, 3,

or rhe Nes World, xvii,

80, 132, 116, l4o



Nabotov. vladimir xiii

Nancy, Jean,Luc, 148. 149, t5O

Navisarion and nauricat


rrar.t, ll, ?8



160, 162

Nerval, Cerard de, 6, ?l

Otkor, xviii, xx, xxii, xx!, xxviii, 8, B, 38, 44, 68, 70, ?4, 30, 93, 98, rO0 lo2, 106. t21, t28. 129. 164 Ormox Chauhet, Mme d . t26 2?

Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, xxir xxvii, xxx, 6, 85..r30, 133, r4r, 16r-10., Confasions, 108 18, ll9, 16l, 165, 166, t6?, r68t Co,siderutions on theCovernnent oI pota.d. t62t Dis.ou6e on the Ans otd"ca, tM, 109: Discoulse on he Origins ar.t Foundation ol tnequatitr ohons Mek, 9r92, 100, rld 16l, t65 66: Enite,85-tVJ, 108, r09, llt, lt4, u7, l19, t26, r28, r29. 161. 162-63, 164, t65. rca, nO.. Enite and
Sophie, ot the SolitaryOre' nA, D5, 164, \65i En.r.topldie icte an ,'Econ nmie politiqte: 164i J,tie, ou to Noueele

Starcbinski, Jean, 64 66, 7t, tor, 125, l4l, 145, r55, l6t, 163, 164, t65, 166, 16Z 169 Stendhal (Hend Beyle), 6. 6j. 71, BO, t6O Snblihe, 55, 82, t52



lt3, ll4,


Tavernier, Jean-Baptnre, 87, Claudine Alexandrine Cudrin de,




x!, 1,7t,91,96, l02, 10, It8, lt9,

24, t25, I29, 163, 169

d'Atenbert, 165:..Lenres a
nftra8,e, lto,
erbes:' tt5. l6s, rcai Letn6

Hetbiv, 96. 128, 166, t61,


Leftre a Malesh,
de to

Pavel, Thomas,



l65i.,Mon po iair,,, II?, 167, 168; Nzrcirse 162.. ptoJ\sion oJ Fanh o! a Sowlad yicat, ttj, t62 63.
t69: Rereies of a Salitary watket, a1, \05,


Tiloli, l0
Tourhh, xvii. xxi!,65 66, 68, ?4 75, 83-34 130, 132. 169. see abo srand tout Tronchin, Jean Robe , tto

Tioy, 128 Turin, Torino. 60. 109-10, ll8,

Utopias, &-41, 68,


wnlsedsrein, Lndwb, r34 wonen and fisuB of Lnininiry: and De$

carles,153; and du@tior,96 97, 126 2?; and gende.ed loposraphr xxr-xxxli; and

Vrn Den Abbele is professor of French at the University of California-Davis. He is ihe translator of Jean-Frangois Lyotard,s flrs





ll, 5q ll0,

Montaigne, l45i antl Monlsquieu, 160; and Rousseau, I63i as dansrous

vico, Ciamb.lrista, xir 150 Villex Piere. 15. 15. l3?, 138. l4l. l,r4 Vnsil: ,,1.""i4 xiii, 8l-82, 128, 160. 170
Vollaire, F..n9ois-Marie Arcuet de, rvii, 132, 147, t51, t6l

for oen, nv, xxviii,94,98, 103, llo-ll, 126-2?, l30i .s endt.sered by travel, 67; as self-srcraing, 13, 18, I4li rs wrires, I22 2?i exclusion froo scienc, 153; re$ricled lo the bonq xxv, xxviii, 36-3r, 9+9?i viaed as rravelins in qcessive conion, ll3i wom.n travele.s. 136. Se
also Morhers and fieurs

Phruses in D,bpr,e and has published numerous essays on early modern literature and contemporary theories in ,idc.jtics, Esptit Ctiateur Romanlic Review, Ftench Studies, a\d Stdnjotd Frerc, nerierl. He is also a member of The Miami Theory Collective and the coeditot oI Community

dt Zoore ,E/dr (Minnesola,


ol marernily

walliing and f@l l..vel, 109,

167, 168, l?0




Warens, Francoise-LouiF de La Ton., Mne.

zulietla, ll0,