In memoriam Robert Ma€s

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ltuludes biblioxraDhical EfeRnces and inder.

L Philospbx Fr€nch-l6tb enlury. 2. Philo$phy, Frcnch-l?th cenlutv
3. Philosophy, Fench-lslh.e.tu.r, 4. Trav€I, 5. Monraisne, Michel de, l5l3-
1592-virys on travel, 6, De$afles, Ren6, 1596-16t0-views on favel.
7. Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, l7l2-l'778-Views on lrad. l. Tille.
Bl80qTr2v35 192
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J
 voYA(E, s.m. (Gftm.\ Uanspoft de la personne d'un
Ibu oi 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

yorlcr, (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.
voyrcE, (Educaiion.) les grunds hom es de I'antiquitd
ont jugd qu'il 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
voyage.
i 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

thal lhere 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
bod] and lo thz mind.l
 Contents

AcknowledSments xt
lntroduction: The Ecodomy of Travel
Chapter l. Equestrian Montaigne I
Circulating in Italy: Trawl Jownal 6
Unbridled Leisure: "Of Idleness" t2
An Accidental Body; or, The Paternal Limit: l9
"Of Practice"
All Roads Lead Back to Rome: "of vanity" 32
Chapter 2. Cartesian Coordinates 39
Finding One's Footing: Second Meditation 4l
wandedngs in Errori Discourse on Method, 48
Meditalions
Chapter 3. Montesquieu's Gmnd Tout 62
A View ftom the Top: Jou e! frcm Otuz to 62
The Hague
The Occidental Tourist; or, The Drift of History: 't4
The Sqitit of the Lau'ts
Chapter 4. Pedestrian Rousseau 85
Pedagogy and the Teleology of Ttavdt Emile 85
Oedipal Returns; The Law of Successiont Emile and 97
Sophie; or, the Solitary Ones
waiking and wrhing: conle$ions r08
The "Fall" of Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Second ll8
Promenade
Notes l3l
lndex t1\
,{

lr
I Acknowledgments

i,r

I
I
\
i

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 Har-
vard 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 encour-
agement 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 par-
ticularly 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 pub-
lished 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 per-
mission to rcprint.
 Xii AC(NOWLEDGMENTS

Introduction
Finally, t
wish to thank my grandfather Robert Maes, for inspiring me
The Economy of Travel
to study French literature, Christina Schiesari-Safron for bringing her exu-
berance and spirit into my life, and Juliana Schiesari for her conceptual
clarifications and queries, her exhaustive srylistic suggestions, and her end-
lessly caring love.
Dwi' Catifonia

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 of preconceptions or values also undermines
those assumptions. Indeed, to call an existing order (whether epistemolog-
ical, 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 philo-
sophical 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 Cervant€s, 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 f€aturcs

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

 TNTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION

prominently in such canonical r;'otks 4s The Republic, The Citf of God, It would s€em, moreover, that the very banality or banalizing of travel
the -Esra/s of Montaigne, Vico's Ne)r Scierce, Hegel's Phenomenologt oJ to be found in literature both veils and unv€ils its importance for western
Mind, Frcttd's Belond the Pleasute P nciple, Heideager's Bei g and Time, culture. The voyage is undoubtedly one of the most cherished institutions
Levi-Strauss's Tirter ?opiqler, and Lyotard's The Postmodem Co dition. oi rut and banal as it may be, travel is p€rsistently perceived
as exciting and interesting, as liberating, and as what "opens up
"iuiti""tion, new
But if one grants the banality of the genre commonly associated with
innovation, the question that ne€ds to be raised is whether th€ commonplace . toriront.:ft. dearesl nolions of lhe wen nearl) all appeal to lhe molil
quality of the metaphor of travel does not at some point constitDte a limit / of Ihe loyage: proSress. the quest ior kno$ledge. lreedom ai lreedom lo
to ihe freedom of critical thought. mou", seli-u*aren""s as an odyssean enterprise, salvation as a destination
This question might be rephrased at a still more abstract level in tetms lo b€' attained by following a prescribed pathwav (typicallv straight and
of the relationship between an institutional or ideological framework and narrow). Yet if there is such a gr€at cultural irvestment in the voyage'
that
that which claims to call it into qu€stion. What if the critique of a sysrem locus oi innertment is nonetheless one whose possibility of appropiation
wer€ itself encoded as an institutionaliz€d part of the system? It would also implies the threat of an expropriation. The voyage €ndangers as much
seem, in fact, that the ways in which we question our world are themselves as it is supposed to assur€ these cultural values: something
can always go
products of that world. Should one conclude pessimistically, ther, that wrong. The "place" of the voyage cannot b€ a stable one'
critical thought can never escape its entrapment by that which it supposedly ,q.tbssicai appreciation of the probl€m of trav€l can be found in the
criticizes? h is difficult to answer the question when it is phrased in so de Jaucou
Encfck)pddie arli;le of l?65, "vovage"' written bv th€ Chevalier
absolute a form. The hypothesis this study instead attempts to support is uni*hore opening pu.ueraphs figure as the epigraph to this volume ': This
that the critical gesture is always entrapped in some ways and liberated or uli"-pt to a"fin" *iut one means bv a vovage at the high-water mark.of
lib€rating in others. The assumptiod, in oth€r words, is that no liberating ift" age of aiscon"rv, at a time when the likes of Cook and Bougainville
-prepu.ing
gesture, no theoretical breakthrough, is absolute. Rather, there is always a *e." to circumnavigate the gtob€, analyzes lravel accordin€ to
three ca;gories: grammar, commerce, education The explication of
concomitant degree of entrapment, which t suspecr ro be rh€ condition of the
possibility for the liberation that does take place. Moreover, the elemenr concurren;e of th;se three definilions, or rath€r their mutual conjugation
to pursue
of enlrapment may ev€n function in certain writ€rs as a d€sired safeguard I
and articulation, should provide an inirial sel oft€rms with which
that keeps the critical advenrure within certain bounds. Granted this par- an analysis of travel in early modern French philosophical literature'
adoxica, status of the critical act, it is incumbent upon the critic to explore A voyage is initially defined in grammatical terms as the "transport of
the conditions for critical discourse, ro locate and describe the specific a person frorn the place where one is to another place that is far enough
moments where entrapment or radical innovation takes place, away:' Travel is th;s first defined fiom an anthropological perspective:
it
of person," from on€ place
The metqp[olf !mv_elqs,!!i!cal trope is at l€ast as paradoxical in its refeis to the movement of human beings, "a
determinations as lhe critical act. If w€ are obliged to speak of the voyage io another. To be sur€, the agent of this transportation remains unclear:
as the most common of commonplaces in the Western vadition, a topos rhe Der'on is rran\porLed. lhe follo$ing Ihree senlence! in this article ale ,
of the most fixed, conventional, and uninteresting kind, rhen such a for- eouirnea ;n french Uy the impersonal forms on and il Jaut and
maljtain
mulation is paradoxical to the €xtent that a voyage cannot be restricted to ihis depersonalized anthropology even as they present three examples of
.fhe of the specifically French
or circumscribed within a place unless it is to cease being a voyage-that uoyagei. fir"t t*o designate a persistent axis
is, what necessarily implies a crossiflg of boundaries or a change of places. .eileition on t.uuet f.oln before Montaigne to after Butor, namely' the axis
A voyage that stays in the same place is not a voyage. Indeed, the very between ltaly and Paris, one to which I will repeatedly return Th€ third
notion of travel presupposes a movement away from some place, a dis- example brings an abrupt switch from the literal to the figural: "lt is
placement of whatever it is on€ understands by "place." For literature then .""".ru.y foi to make the |Jeal voyage at some point:' The
to make of the voyage a commonplace ii to deprive it of its very movement. "u".yoo"
metaphorical voyag€ that is death is not simply something "one does;'.su€h
But then again, if literature returns with such frequency ro this topos (if as t.au.t to ttay, lut *ttat "it is nec€ssary for everyone to do " This ultimale
it can still be considered ro be one), the rh€me of rh€ voyag€ must not be "transport of the person" induces the imperative form of a moral pre-
simply one [l€rary theme arnong o(hers bur one rhar in some way or orher scription by which ale Jaucourt closes this initial definition: "Ahead of
raites the qilenion of Lhe \rarus ol Iirerary diqcourse ir\elf. your departure time, go deposit into your tomb the provisions for vour
XVi INTRODUCTION
'voyage." Beneath the anthropological perspective that guides the gram-
matical definitionof travel lurks a risk and an anxiety, the risk-both
necessary and inevitable-that the limit to the motion of the anlhropos is
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 of
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,
The third definition of "voyage" posits another kind of increment,
namely, the educational value 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
that trajectory becom€ available to be read as the grammar of a topography.
And in a claus€ that impressiv€ly recombines rhe triple definition of the
voyage as it brings this paragraph to a close. rravel is stat€d to benefir the
body as w€ll 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 corpor€al 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
by its back-and-forth movem€nt some kind of travel. Historically, rh€ great
economic and commercial powers have been tbose most successful at manip-
ulating 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
libidinal, "restricted" or "g€neral."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 b€ing 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 misfortun€s 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{ whatev€r). Otherwise, there would be no incentive
to travel. Semiotic r€search on tourism has d€monstrated how. in even rhis
apparently most innocent and innocuous mode of travel, strong economic
and ideological motives are at work: tourists accumulate ..cultural expe-
riences" that then increase their social value within rheir home commu-
nities.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 brutal-
form of travel understood as opporrunity for gain is to be found in impe-
rialist or colonialist ventures, of which those described in the narratives of
the Spanish conqu€st 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 r€fercnce must be posited. The
Xviii INTRODUCTION
economy of travel requires an ol*o.s (the Greek for "home" from which is
derived "economy") in r€lation to which any wand€ring 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 betwe€n th€m. 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 s€rved by any particular point in the itinerary. That point
then acts as a transcendental point of reference that organizes and domes-
ticates a given area by defining all other points in r€lation 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 circums€ribed 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 s€em, can only be thoueht at its own risk.
lf, however, a voyage can only be conceptualized economically in t€rms
of the fixity of a privileg€d point (ottos), the positing of a point we can
call home can only occur retroactively. The conc€pt 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
INTRODUCTION xix
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 lit€rally unrhinkable if ir is pre-posirional,
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
f€el confident in my ability to define it according to an itinerary between
points. This "d€finition" 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 movem€nis to constitute
a narrative. Th€se 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. Mich€l 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 rrav€I, so the home that
one Ieaves is not the same as that to which one retums, The very condition
of orientation, the o,to& is paradoxically able to provoke the greatest
disorientation. One need only cit€ here the srereotypical image of the rrav-
eler, 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 r€turn. 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. Y€r if the or,tos does nor remain selfsame,
how can one f€el secure in it, especially given the fact that rhis identity of
the oikor is what is n€cessarily 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
 INTRODUCTION
metaphors the paradoxical and contradictory ways in which travel is under-
srood 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 qr€rl which allow on€ to conceive of the pot€ntially 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. Nev€rth€l€ss, 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
or unbounded travel. This cornplex economics of travel rehearces once more
tl\e paradoxical play of entrapment and liberation evinced in critical
thought.
The probl€ms raised in the analysis of trav€l 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 ina-
bility to isolate the object of discours€ (that is, to talk about either texts
or travel without becoming embroil€d in another text or without embarking
on a voyage, be it only a discursive one).r' But if 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 s€eks 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 prob-
lems, 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 tex-
tualization 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 appel-
lation well denotes the domesticating aim of such \Ntitinl. A rclation de
toJdge is what r€lates the events of a voyage! it re-lates the voyage, brings
it back by way of the narrator's discourse.rs The "relation" (from rckto,
to brina back) itself acts as a voyage that brings back what was lost in the
voyage. tt insiltut€s an economy of th€ voyaee. If it acts as a voyage, it
INTRODIJCTION xxi
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
€numeration of dates and place names,rr
But if the narrative can be constituted by such a repetition and dis-
placement-that is, if it is as much a tran.rlation as it is a /elarion-the
constitution of that narrative can only take place if the voyag€ is somehow
alr€ady 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-
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 r€ference ro which all orhers are
referred. We can now add, though, the further qualification rhat this ref-
. erential 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 whatev€r 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
I traveling and wriling is not necessarily unwarranred, although once again
perhaps it is not the relalionship one wor d like. For whar does Ctassical
rhetoric with its network of ropics and its catalogue of tropes pretend to,
except, as Cic€ro 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

Uii INTRODUCTION
6emor\ (memo a) wherein a prescribed technique to help one remember
^s
Lhe ooints one wishes to make during one's discourse consisrs
ol associaring
poinls wilh a familiar place One can lhen reproduce ones
each of rhose
places " NeverLheless'
arcument by imaginarively traversing lhe designaled
Lh; hisrory of rheLoric, conslituted by the interminable haggling' down
lo
our own day, over the correctness of the divisions and schemata
proposed
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 indi-
vidual 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 theor€ticians of figural
ftinCuage. Agreement cannot ev€n be reach€d 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" m€aning 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 ref€rence 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:
"Ev€ry 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 "appli-
cation of an alien name by trunsference (epiphotd).":2 "Metaphorrr comes
frcm metaphorcin, to transfer or lranspo . What b€tter word to denote
the transport of meaning than a word whose mod€rn Creek equivalent'
metoforu, .onilmonly rcfers to vehicles of public transport, such as buses?
INTRODUCIION iii
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 meta-
phorically, 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 se€n 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:
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
s€nse 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 homelin€ss 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€ constru€d
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.
 INTRODUqTION
So ever the motif of travel inhabited the
if criticd spitit or espfit ctitique,
it would have been in the classical age.1r
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 trav€l inevitably points to underlyine
conc€rns with the status of his position, vis-a-vis his own theories as well
as in relation to earlier thinkers. Rather than att€mpt, howev€r, 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
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 associat€d 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 prerev-
olutionary French thought. I have limited myself, then, to a set of €xt€nded
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 com-
monly 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 propri€ty. Hence, the writert discourse
on travel is found ir each case to allow for the elaboration of a powerful
metadiscourse opening onto the d€construction of the writ€r'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 prop€rness of the proper
name, a name whose properness becomes suspect the moment its signature
is stamped with the sign of the voyage.
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
Western metaphysics that it becomes difficult to grant any kind of historical
specificity to the texts or analyses that appropriate thar figure. The decon-
structive 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 logo-
centrism in the West, so the privileging of the oi&os in rhe economy of
travel not unsurprisingly und€rpins the ethnoc€ntrism and imperialism thar
have consistently marked W€st€rn thought even in irs best efforrs ro "com-
prehend" the other.,8 In fact, th€ very use ofthe terms ..same" and ..other,"
drawn as th€y 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, non-
males, 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 l€st "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 wh€reby the "law of the home"
(oikonomia\ organiz€s a s€t 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 gender€d topography, it is not hard to read the unpredictable
pleasure/anxiety of trav€l in terms of a male eros both attracted and
repulsed by sexual difference. Wh€n travel is not explicitly invested with
eros such as in the male fantasy production of exotic/erotic enchanted
islands such as those of Circe, Cyth€ra, 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
enclosures of boat, plane, train, or carriage that allow the explorer to
"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
 INTNODUCTION
written about travel),3o Wesiern ideas about trav€l and the concomitant
corpus of voyage literature have g€nerally-if not characteristically
-trans-
mitted, 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
T€resa 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 r€pressed. 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
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, Kl€in'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 l€ss 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 lim-
inality 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
thoroughgoing critiques of the institutional roles and complicities assumed
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 wh€n 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 think€r as tl4t'-e-!g! concr€tized in such literaiy st€-
reotypes as the prtaro, the knight errant, and the prudent navigator, or
more abstractly in the Baroque theme of the iomo viatoirr Such represen-
tations, 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 f€udal soci€ty, 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 cons€qu€nces 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 fourt€enth
through ninete€nth centuries) is also the €ra during which "economics"
itself is discovered by European society and formulated progressively into
a discernible obj€ct of knowl€dg€ and discipline of thought. The "scienc€
of wealth" was one that developed by discontinuous reactions to unprec-
edented 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 repr€sentamen
(money, precious metals) and that is able to explain the unexpectedly dis-
astrous 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 expan-
sionism is the development and r€finement of the new printing technology,
which enabl€d both vast new liquidities through the inv€ntion 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 t€xtual objectification triggered an eltirely new set of probl€ms
relalive to the property (as w€ll as propriety) of the book, notably the issue
of author's rights and privileges.rs 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 t€xt in an author's signature and whose wake we row
 INTRODUCT!ON
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
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 con-
finement lgrand rcnfemementl" of madmen in the seventeenth century)
calls the "great immurement lgrand enfememerrl" of wom€n 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 con-
solidation of the "fath€rland" 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 pro-
ductive mode of cottaAe industry casrs an imporlant historical bridge
between manor and factory, berween feudal and capiralist worksites.
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 ide-
ological self-justification for European expansion as w€ll 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, author-
ship, patriarchy, proprierorship. So not only are their texts particularly
INTRODUCTION
available to a reading of th€ir preoccupation with travel as indicative of
some larger anxiety, but that reading, g€nerallv 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
limit€d context of this study, sketches a tale ol the history of Fr€nch
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 r€marks:
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 desert€d 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 writ€rs
studi€d here traveled to ltaly, and their relation to Italian (especially Roman)
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 do€s 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, a€sthetic, and moral reflection as well as the
stereotypical place to finish ofi a young g€ntleman'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 exclusiv€ly from England, France, and G€rmany)
whh a knowledge both exotic and familiar. No longer the religious,
economic, or artistic center of Europ€, post-Renaissance ltalv became the
 INTRODUCTTON
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 trav€lers returned home to help for-
mulate their countri€s' 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 betw€en these texts and their authors' exp€riences 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 theor€tical 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 characr€ristic 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 r€marks 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 obj€cr. 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 r€strained 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 nec€ssarily 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 alfotd to lake the horce out of Monraigne's
Essays.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Montaigne's Journal de rq)age e ltalie opens with a wound, or perhaps
with a couple of wounds, namely those suffer€d 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 requ€st in the siege of HuguenoFheld La Fare
before continuing on in the dir€ction 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 wh€n 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 betwe€n, as at Monraigne.
Now, if I se€m to belabor this accident suffered by the manuscript, it
is because-accident as it is-it non€theless 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 d€cidad
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
joumal'
upon arbitrarity and after th€ fact. Even were it intact, Montaign€t
insofar as it is an account of his trip, could only begin a/ler he had set
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 v€ry
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 th€se 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( els€where, 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 c€rtain loss
of property: of the blood of one's bodv, for instance' or the (at l€ast
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, tatter€d 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 stat€s 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 hors€s on a long.iourney such as his, and insists
that "whatever trouble it mav be to m€, I must continue [the writing]
myself" (p. 111), one is led to ask whether the sudden' uno(plained appro-
priation of the scriptural task do€s 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 qu€stion 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
EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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 conv€rsation with the Tupinamba tndians
he met in Rou€n, the directness of which is marred by the mediation of
an incompetent translator: "I had ar interpreter who followed my m€aning
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
idealiz€d orality of the Brazilians, whos€ designation as "cannibals" fore-
grounds 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 frame-
work that underscores personal honor and respect for one's ancestors. Such
buccal propriety appears far less barbarous than the butchery or "bouch-
ede" 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 fr€sh
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 Am€rindians 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 perv€rse 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 buri€d 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 [/orr.ie,"sl; and we see sreat dunes fmortb,?r]
4 EQUESTRAN MONTAICNE

ahead of it and keep conq ering The main problem with such an interpretation is not so much that it is
of moling sand thal march hall a league wrong but that it does not cut far enough. At the same time, it attribules
rhe imperialisr advance' or rhe ocean'
i*l'ir",?,"i'li;;g rr' r\\i' 204r'reprerent an approprialion lhar i' nor a xo the voyage a value of presence. Montaigne\ voyage would be what takes
ii- ,ii" i*"ar"' conoui\tadols
Irulv di(g*Ii'a anrhropemv rhat threarens him away from his tower and his writing to brins him back enriched with
llli"ii .".. .l'iie"i,r* bur a rhe $orld in a pa\lage rhar can be read in experience in the "real" world. While I certainly do not wish to quarrel
i"'T""ri"." ,* rerv boal ol
il,i;';;i,;.; runa toii.' or bodies poliric: rleem' rhar rhere are
rhe'e s'|€ar bodier lcs( 8r4'd5
with the well-documented fact that the observations made by Montaign€
in his journal serve as material for his later writine and rewriting of the
;';i";.;,.: ;;;.",".a1. orhers f€veri(h' in the
ll"'"1i,*i^ r" oul orn. hen
.*:j:"'::' \ l consider inroad' thar m) river' the EssaJ.r,3 one of the points I hope to make in the following pages is that a
,. ;;.';; t"rnr lirerime inro rhe right bank in irs de\cenr' and similar logic is at work in both Montaigne's travels and his retreats to the
I'Jl"i'i r' ha. gained 'o much ground and nolen aqav rhe tower, in both his voyaging and his writing, and in both the early and ih€
';;i";';;;:
'*".,'if";;;.",'l
".",i or 'everar buirdines' I crearrv see IhaI rhi' is an late tssa/J (I view the latter, th€n, less in opposition to the early E sals
qas ro
aiorts""ce; lor ii ir had al$av' gone at rhi5 rare' oI than as what renders explicit ihe problems already posed in the €arly work).
"i'.,".;i'^.t
i."'* I" ti.'ft"t". lace ol rhe uorld qould be Lurned lopslrurv\ [14 What Montaien€ brings back from his travels may be what led him away
7"-,i) )', '1" t? wrsael"
rn., tt rxi\i 204r' whrle rhrr la'( pa*ag€ in th€ first place.
^i,a" ijis.tti'on ot tt'' Es-us rh".i': *:rr 1'l:l'l.' i1l:l: Montaigne never published-and probably never intended to publish
rn
;;t;;;'.. ltal). it also conrinuer ro make explicjr Ihe rnrer'ecrroni his Joumal de yolage. The Jounal was not published until its accidental
"i::';#;;i;';; I'eeping rhe bodv uplighr' unscarhed'
propriery lo
in".,^f"".'' wriling bet$een rralel lhe e\olic and corporeal and prop discovery nearly two c€nturies later, unless one consid€rs it to have been
by dint of its influence on the later E"ffd.l,s. lndeed, enrire passag€s from
"rl.'..?,'.,t'. ",ri*r.t
.rl! the "/ounal are textually reproduced in rhe,gssols. The Jownal de.rotage
' delimited.
l, *. i.".4.' no$ rhe nruarion ol Montaigne s travelogue
qiLhin the
can be said to be both inside and outside rhe text of the E'rsc/s to rhe
the writin^g
ttit *"tt, we find that the voyage to Italv cuts extent that much of what is said in the Jorzal finds its way into the Ersdls
to
ii'il'""i"?i,yr-r"i. *" periodsi namelv, the first period from
1580'
"fr.".f"tt'"1 1571
while the Jorrndl as a whole is to be distinsuished from Montaigne's major
i".'"1 r.].rt time Montaigne wrote rhe primiri\e venion ol rhero as rhe ftr't I$o
work. In the familiar ierms of Derridean deconstrucrion, the Joumal
"
i..i].r iil i.,,rt ,"r,ar-Montaiene crirrc' rradirronallv rerer
to rhe publication in 1588 oi
' appears th€n as a "supplemenf' to th€ Essdl.s, an excrescence that is both
."",".i, "ti ,* *-"d period leadins up
to rhe lir'r tqo {rhe b
vital and superfluous to it.q But this is to assume rhat the tssal.r itself can
,i.'tnir,i i""* a*t *,it' nurnt'o" addltion' s \ovage thar
be considered to constitute a complete work, a notion impugned by the
l'',"'-i r, ;i '" ,erm' ol rhis cap occasioned b\anMonlaisne very structure of the E sals built as it is on the practice of a ceaseless
;' ;:#':;;'*; M;"i"ie". i'iii'r''n ha' 'een opporrunirv ro e\prain commentary only ended by Montaigne's d€ath, and any part of which is
ih::i;;;rs:';; '' e*r,i." .r rhe F(ra'vj An opposirion I' rhereb)
indecidably essential and inessential. The E]ssdls is built on a mass of
ir,. l58o Lcrarr and Ihe t588 L"''vs wirh rhe latrer con-
excrescences, on the text as excrescence, a growth that can be cut off
".rrteii?i**"
il.d ";;;t i'h.';perior bur al'o rhe linali/ed \er\ion or \4onraisne\
anywhere and nowherc.ro Such a situation makes it difficult to know what
.;"1"..," t'." rhal al'o dimini(he' or belillles lhe importanlrcop\' of Lhe
or to consider as in or out of th€ text, and accordingly demands a rethinking
iri1.""."' Jai'i."' included b) \4onrarsne on Ihe "Bordeau\" ale \een a\ urF of the category of travel, which normally rests on the assumption that one
. 'rtarum) According ro this schema rhe rhe eatlier e'\avr
orisinalir\" and "penon- can decide betw€en what is inside and outside-of the text, of the home,
impei,onal compared ro
".i";""r:: ""a at ofthe body. And ifii is the cut ofacertain rrip thar defines rhe Montaignian
the rovage ro lral) rhen become'responsible
'1.'"e'-l'".'" ( hi: corpus, the effects of that cut should be legible in the text whose inaugural
"ir,""::],
i."i r" t",i '., inr' '''rking ruin in Monraigne Y't .t"
Ih'ougn lhiTl:
wnrcn rs scars led us to question the status of wriring and rravel in MontaiAne, the
ization." The \o)age can rhen become rhe melaphor journev ' a' havel journal of his trip to ltaly. A preliminary descriprion of that joumal
u.*"1*". ' opu' a' a qhole: hi' 'long medirarive
"?""i
ir" "."r. i,: l r,l cur in rhe wrirel s producuon occasioned. b) rhe in terms of its endpoints, the topography traversed, and the foregrofnded
the verv modalities of displacement should set our bearings on the symbolic function
,ft*""i'becom€s the beneficent wound that would defin€
".""*
essence of his corp s
of travel within the tssars itsetf.

4.
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
Circulating in ltalli Ttavel lourndl
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 writ€rs after Montaigne to make the journey were Descartes, Mon-
tesquieu, De Brosses, Rousseau, Sade, Chateaubriand, Stendhal, N€rval,
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 Barth€s has called an "ilLJ€lred racisd'r: as that of military con-
quest (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 conden-
sation of tourist and conqueror, the article ends by citing a long passage
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 mer€ly 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 contem-
poraries 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 under-
taken by Charles Vtll, Louis XII, and Frangois I, wars in which Mon-
EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE
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 express€d
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 proc€eds to travel in and describe that already over-
determined landscape. The Jorr"ndl is punctuat€d and divided by the names
of places where Montaign€ stayed, and which are placed in the order of
his itinerary. 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 betw€en 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
Imontaiqnetesl in a site lhat strongly reminded me of the fertile approaches
to our Pyrenees on th€ Aigues-Caudes road" (p. 135). The travelogue as
narative eenre is anchor€d by what would seem to be the most steadfast
referentiality, that of the map. This ref€rential system, however, only func-
tions 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
impli€d 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
 IT .l
EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE 9
8 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

Io underrtand in iLs sLedd to disiinguish from "chez moy." For the sub.iect who occupies this place,
bet\r\een r€ading and wriLing and
'h. ^nnnsirion much $rirren 2c read which modiries rhe the mastery of one\ geography is impljed in the mast€ry of one's language,
; :#fi';';";;;;;a 'igns-a' dilferenLial posi- and vice versa. kr both cases, we are dealing with the circular structure of
""*iJ'
rt.*h
.o.i.-. as he modilie' the terrain in an endless
or an inrinile a return to the same through th€ process of identificatio : identity of place,
l;;;;.;i
'j:::::;;'-- ;" i;tt"ire derour or rhe re\I and rhe re{r
identity of name, id€ntity ol the subject. We will have occasion to return
, nrntnecL embraced bv a Montaisne whose potential for
'. prove' daunlins ro hh oqn scrrbe and lellow rrav- to the implications of this identification of place with name ir our analysis
ii"iJ*r'. t.*'1t""r"i'
ff;;:::;'';;i;i';';ih'"i ir von'i'u'gone a' Montaigne had been arone sith of the tssals.
or toward Creece bv For th€ moment, we need to insist upon the fact that an identification
iil u,t""i"",t rt. *otra rather have buttotheCracowpleasure he took in visitins does noi go without saying. One can be mistaken about a name as well as
iiiJ'*- -"i" irl"'tu." towardfound ltalt;
to make him forsel the about a place. The reference can be lacking or be made with difficulty or
;;#; ;;;;G' which he health,sohesweet could
as
not impress on anv or his remain doubtful. One cannot always be certain that the walls that surround
i,""ir"r, r'L -a of his
^t.j a.hed only lo relurn home tp Rome are in fact vestiges of the ancienr walls (Jorndl, p. 135). Moreovet
*''i: u"a"i.t*uo".
""r.r.
65)'
wrirren b) rhe rra\erer th€ referent itself can have changed, as in the case of the ruins encountered
;;;,"';;;; ;;',;r Ihis diirerenriar networr notion of referentialitv' by Montaigne all along his route but especially at Rome: "An ancienl
to appeal to a c€rtain
".;;;;;,;.. ""eds a' rdenrirication Roman could not recognize the site of his city even if he saw it" (p. 105).
:"":',;;, ;;';;';i. ;;Jirirv or an idenriricarion-such Ihe
relerence' The half-effaced inscriptions ard the monuments in ruin resist as much as
iili. .r'""i i. " r,i.r' one linds oneselr' ro make in rhe acr ol consuhing
an idenLirlins
they encourage the act of reference. The ruin remains as an index of what
lL. to another tbe ir onlv
'.ti' "^. tli,rrion
]'-""i "...'ii"ti" schema thar brins! one term back ro
it once was at the same time that its very state as ruin blocks the full
l': :iil:";;:i;;;;
"".'i'ii "'r,ermeneurical rhi'
,,..ne" tt''ouen he ai ot identirication bacl recovery and r€construction of that anterior siate. Even if one could recon-
'h"i;iire unLnown baci ro the known' the srranse struct the monument, it could never b€ exactly the same as it once was.
lli Ji i.r.'".*. iir"t' are understood The inevitability of loss works against the hermeneutic appropriation we
as we saw'
ii',i" r".u"..-tr" ,ip*nines near castelnuovo'
Th€ referential act (that is' a have posited as the basis of the economy of lravel.
i" ,"..t .f ,rt. famiiiar French Pvr€nees inlinir€lv This loss denotes a fundamental alteration that at the limit renders
'ignifving econorn)
..ti"i" .n'*ot.,"in. *r) aims lo inrlirule aneq impossibl€ any r€turn to th€ same and that alters the voyager as he proceeds
.' 5uch an economy rmplre\
the orhel or the
."puir" on his voyage. Such a conception is also to be found in Montaigne's text,
l,it"'i ,*^ a same. to uhich evervlhing and an)4hinscanbe
it'i o".i,i* "pptopri",i"g especially in such anecdotes as that of th€ ltalian become more Turk than
a certain capital (monev'
."i"i"a u"-"r. The vovage can then accumulate
-t"o*i"ag",
that goes hand in hand with Italian merely by spending too much time amons Turks (pp. 163 64) and
ind so on), a process
the story of the young girl transformed into a man after having made a
""p-i.*"'
i"ai'ra"^ristic, or anthropoc€ntric ideologv lt should not be
leap (p. 5)2'-an act we can read as ihe ellipsis or ultimate abbreviation of
"'i"-".i'it,,r'.". i, -*.mporaneous
i"."'i.]"". q ir h rhe unfoldins ol ruch an ideologv
the voyage. In these examples, we find an interpretation of travel as loss
i;,:;;;;. i;;;t;;. se lind descrrprions or rand<capes in anrhropo of that identity which should have been assured by the economy of ref-
his posilion in the qolld
morohic lerm'. lor Renar$ance man concei\ed ol erential identif ication.
i;i"iJ;;';;;l;;;,i;; ue'".en him'etr and rhe universe rhar or The precariousness of the economy of travel is €specially io be remarked
'etur;on voyage aims at such a speculation and
-l"ro"oa- "nO-u"ro"osm.- The world shich rome mulriplv rurrher ac in Montaignet auiety about his "colic" aa the baths of Lucca. For his
."*;i",.' ,;';;, ;;J, 'thi' s'ear in which we must look condition to improve and for the mineral warer to purge his body of kidney
ilill'I"'. , '"""r- ""aer one genu'' i' the "i'o" ansle" rl \\ri l5': stones, the amount of mineral warer drunk must be exactly rendered in his
ii "i,..ri.' -i '...*o. ouneiie' trorn rhe proper urine. Any imbalance between the rwo prompts a state of anxiery rhai
''''ri""."J
my emphasis).
rolhe drives Montaigne to note down his ev€ry urination and ro check ir against
**rlarire vo)age i5 Ihe rerurn to rhe beginnineis Mon- his intake of mineral water. Nor rhar Montaigne is unaware of the comical
t"#-itt" "i,rr"
r.tr'"i.p.. naontaigne;s trip' as noted in his '/o'l'dl' aspect of such an obsessive norarion: "Ir is a srupid habit ro recounr whar
place
;;;;,^il;; iav' ttre 6acJ that bears his name' or rather the you piss" (p. 165). It is noneiheless Monraigne,s very health thar is ar srake
is as much tr4on-
fr; which he takes his name. The name' Montaigne' is difficult in the ingestion and elimination of a cerlain quantiry of a certain kind of
iti*t"t-ot"p"i t"-" it is the name of his prop€rtv "Mov"
".
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE
EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

inle'ior Io Mon_ ileged by the individual trav€ler. Oppositions may be set up between dif-
tioujd. a \irculation lhir aim\ al dome{icat:ng 5omelhrng
circularion or an errerror ferent ways to travel: a modem traveler may consider trains to be good,
;:];';l'-o*n body. Ihu',he need ro md\rel rhe ro ma'rel safe, and pleasant while planes are bad, dangeroDs, and unpleasant, or vic€
.i.ir.n,. nr..rv in. .i"eral '^ arer' e\rr' onlv in vie$ ol I he nced
versa. In other words, a certain vehicle of mastery may define the good or
a,*"i""' the growth and movement of his slone Such a
".-i"i"i"^i mav be able to drink as economical voyage, as opposed to lhe bad or risky one. ln a well-known
f.tar"r,i", ft exceedinglv diliicult 10 master' He passage near the beginning of "of coaches," Montaigne states his pref-
water'" Somewhere
,iu"fr *u,", ut ft" *unrt but he cannot so easily "make inter erence for horce travel: "Now I cannot lorg endure (and I could endure
i. tfr" .i."tr"i.t "f tt"se liquids, something radicallv unmasterable
out of the control them less easily in my youth) either coach, or litler, or boat; and I hate
* t.a of blockage that places this movement
"
"".*
of th€ subject, Montaigne.
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
ii"r" "i.""L.., *inomies of landmarks and bodv liquids shed light' sign of the body. According to Montaigne, coach or boat travel upsets his
with the fantastical hydraulic tech-
-....r"t. ." Montaiene's fascination stomach and aggravates his kidney stones while horseback riding actually
..f"a" ft" t""t in Augsbure, at ihe Praliolino, in Tivoli' and elsewhere'
the closed gives him relief (Essd/s lll, vi, 899 901 and III, xiii, 194; Joumal, p. 58).1s
ri;ir"i'".'ri t"r". ruirl rh;drearns of an ailing Montaigne thanwithour loss The slrength of Montaigne\ feelirgs on the matter can be judged by his
rtr*r*.f fountain in and out of which circulat€s water
" .otntorium; in other words, rhe figure of an absolute self- choice, upon returning from Rome, io go to Milan by the more arduous
^ri " o-i""
ir land route of Pontremoli rather than by way of Genoa because the lafter
w" t ack to the desire for something propcr that would
"irci*ivi ""-.
eiuae tfr" it.u"tu.ut ne..ssjty of a lundam€ntal alienation
But in the econ- would require a sea journey (p.22'7). He does, however, agree to take a
oi the monum€n!' barge into Venice, "since the boat is drawr by horses" (p. 73). What is to
omies we have been analvrng (rhos€ of wriring, of travel '
opposition be feared in the boat is the motion of water (p. 73), for if Montaigne adores
Jiift" rtva-tLi"t "f,n. todv as well as ofrhe fountain)' the verv and the well-ordered and well'master€d flow of founlain watet what he abhors
U.,\v"* ift. apparently contradictory terms of appropriation
disap-
to his is the unbridled and uncontained water of the sea, the water caught up in
pr.".i^ir".''.J'i,'
'heaittr
. i put in question Montaigne lravels improve
a perpetual llux. Such water upsets his stomach, rhar is, it upsets the
his condition as much as
tut the minerat walers seem !o aggravaie journal hydraulic equilibrium of his body. Such a flux means that travel iakcs place
,-i'"ialt.';,1" for the appropriation implied bv the wriiing of a
as much inside the body as outside of it, with the result that the very notions
i" i"ri.L. l..p *cord oi events, that approprialion is further.subject of inside and outside are jeopardized along with that of the body itself as
i. qi"tt;"., as we "trave atreadv seen, bv an inrermediarv' ata scribe
".a
other
who
times proper to itself.
,..-, u, ,i."t ,o l" *,iting under Montaign€t dictation and
The horse, on the other hand, is not only what does not leave terta
* be writing for himself:l
to firma but also that mode of transportalion whose movement ideally
ii. pt"ti". oi an appropriation that is simultaneouslv a disappropria-decision- responds to its master's bridle- Indeed, masrery over the horse exemplifies
tioni, p..ttupt *orr a.u;ari;allv brought into reliefbv Montaiene's
lf the progress of mastery in gen€ral. Crevarzr is a title ofnobiljty, ihe sign ofone's adherence
i. *.tti-" oi.t;". .r tne Journal ttt ltalian as that spoken in the area
to mime
to a ruling class. lt is to this class that Montaigne belongs. In the Latin
itr" uoyug"-tv writing in ihe same language as
the Alps alocumenl proclaiming him a Roman citizen, Montaigne is noted down as
ir*".*al Ir"t"", rt" .,urns 1o the Fr€nch languase upon crossing to ihe an eqres, a m€mber of the eqDestrian class (lII, ix, 999). And if mounting
l""t iri" e**" Il bv such a mimetic device he seeks
more lrom
master
his grasp a horse signifi€s one's ascension to the rank of the high and mighty, it is
t.a"et".ls .ltuarion, rtt" text noneiheless escapes all rhe
himself also what allows a man of small height, such as Montaigne, to attain arother
irt"i"r u".oig." f trving to use a foreign languase which' as he wilh.con- kind of stature: "Since my early youth, I have not liked to go exc€pt on
"t
*"if f,;t co;menlators have pointed out' he manipulaies
i".r"'tt"^iirri'l,n- fthis problem is at once effaced and strangelv
"r mimed horseback. On foot I get muddy right up to my buttocks; and in our streets
the halian text of Mon- small mer are subject to being jostled and elbowed" (III, xiii, 1096). Beins
i' i" i.iurity ;n e*"ch ;dirions'
"ir
which replace
in the saddle puts one in a position of borh physical anal political domi
i"tt."'lt nf"t*f.t u. Ouerlon\ French lranslation, daiins liom the '/o'r-
nation. Small wonder, then, that Monraigne should say rhar were he allowed
'- first Publication in 1774.)
,d/'s
in the means to lead the lile he desires, "I should choose to spend ir wirh my ass in rhe
flnarly, anotrra fina of appropriatins devicc can be located saddle" (III, ix, 987). Such is rh€ kind of life he trjes ro lead in his rrip
phantasmicallv priv
i."*p.""ti.., p-ticular rn;de oi which mav be
"r "
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE t3

12 EQUESTR1ANMONTAIGNE
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
',ir*ffiF*t$lffiffitirp,-ffi unfamiliar. Th€ need to establish a certain domus or domestication is there-
fore precisely what is put into relief by the metaphors Montaigne uses to
describe the dangerous state of idleness: "Just as we se€ that idle land, if
Hi'i: ;:',i'J::li:lii
:li:i;
nor be cavalierlv dismi'sed
r:l i"*:L:*::;'*rut
as ol merelro^gr
;:l'*ll'*o-
oP','#"'i. 'o.iuir*
. dch and fertile, teems with a hundred thousand kinds of wild and us€less
""u. weeds, and thai to set it to work we must subjeci it and sow it with certain
*i::li:,[:T:'L'[.,i:::i"*i$L#*;lx*l;i$::;.
inlestmenr'm '"cf,
seeds for our service; and as we see that women' all alone,
shapeless masses and lumps of flesh ldes drdt et pieces de
produce mere
chai infomesl,
The of
consequences such an h-* it ,n",r.iii"i,fr. but that to create a good and natural offspring, they must be made fertile
'"lT:,1;;: :",T::l;.:'":[*i:::
Jor{t al. the insistence ol lhe body'
f#fffi ll dmi::**
(ne rer
with anoth€r kind of seed: so it is with minds. Unless
with some definite subject that will bridle and control
you
them
keep them
lqui les
busy
bride

s).rnbolism of Rome' 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
Unbridled Leisur€: "Of ldleness"
b€twee; nature and cultur€, a closer r€ading plays havoc with the distinc-
begin our reading ol lhi<
prolilic horse i[ nol in an essay
tion, since the state of nature reveals hself to be less a terrestial paradise
where should we quesrron'
per\er<e proulicacv? The essav in than a condition chamcterized by a kind of perverse excess. In the first
i]il'rJii *.i"ott"'i'* " "enain
Ii'ilji*"- iri. r."rr,"ter' (r. viii, invites such Hli'il:"",|['jJil:: simile, uncultivated land is not marked by sterility or the absence of veg-
$ell. lt is probablv one o[ rhe earueslei'.1'.]i;," ".i lrr. 1..0. etation but rather by an overabundance of plants. The second simile repeats
well as one o[ Ihe firsr chapters
rn.lne-lii'ii'r", ;;.r' the same argument, this time in relaiion to women. Women, says Montaigne
of the firsl book More srgnrlrcanl ,i. ii,.i *'"v'rr.r" "'urllrt as if it were an incontrovertible fact, requir€ the male seed only for the
essav
**
ii'J,i 1,i.' i" j*l!.llii::1,:Li:.'llX'lf iff"ftK purposes of assuring a "good and natutat offspring;' Without the inter_
The ",'r.,*
e,sav correspond5 then to a
momenl u o"nl"""i"iar*onn"
ortr.., veniion of the man. thev would still produce "shapeless masses and lumps
discourse wh€rein he beg,nt 'o.t?'t-un1..1," ,n" nisrory o[ ]rench wflrng.. of flesh."r'] One sees in both these examples that nothing is more unnatural
that is rhe key ro the <uccess
ol rhetisd)rr*ri.. from the point of view of culture than nature itself. The state of nature
-i i
merad':'*'1":-i:TTl,;l'l';l'i.",,'r,. -n", is. if nor rhe (and of idleness) is dangerous, ihen, since it implies an unchecked process
Funhermore. rhis
tr r'"i ."""1".a
fiJst appearance ol lhe horse ln
tne of useless and vertiginous propagation.
recourse Io lhal figure'3 This perverse gelmination man will try to domesticate and cultivate
'"i"n".r*" * tL*" be a comm€ntarv m
beginr wilh whal appears to through ;griculture and attention to conjugal duties. Culture can then be
condition r Now il lnere De
;;;;" "" rhe danger" ot 't''r ol defined as ih€ institution of a certain kind of procreative labor, ihe antithesis
'n"",i"i#i lhar lhis risk qould be a funclio^n of idle perversity, of idleness as perversity So it is a particular kind of
anv risk in idleness. one ltould lhrnk would take the rorm
repo'e and
iii *-.i'ir," i*"ir"o in such a lrare orqourd carl ennui Monraisn€ now-
activity or motion which is to bring into bounds the mad motion ofidleness'
iiitillil."i 'ii", "'arter rradirion The metaphor used by Montaigne is that of a certain "bridling" of the
he see\ in idlenes\ i' celtarnrv
l.llilJ."ii ii."i t'r"riries for the danger idlene*s' ror Montaisne' rar
idle minal, an image that presages a mor€ elaborate horse metaphor at ihe
li'Jiili .i.ii!'-'it ; tomesticationa Raiher' " danger'or
end of the essay. Here, however, the domestication of ihe horse is the
ii""i'i.r"" ".tiii 'r t*mobilitv is srate ol "agiration The metaphor for dom€stication itself, th€ domestication that consists in the
movemenr' shrcn
ilil; l,:'i" ;" o,"o'"sirv "And
ro produce an unmasrerable
lhere is no mad or idle l^ncv lftvenel
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
catr itself lead to nradnesr:
in this asitation" (r' viii' 32) ldreness'
30
;iil ilil;-i "ff;il;;ns ro'th
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE
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 idl€ness 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
word
once might have had save to denote impropriety itself. Rather than con-
noting 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 evi-
denced 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 gr€ater favor than to let it €ntertain itsell
in full idleness and stop and s€ttle 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 pl€asure, I have begun to put
EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE I'
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 r€pose 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 monst€rs." 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 metaphor
the mcr4nh^r of^f i^6;--
domination and domesrication, now em€rges 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 bddling-
Beforc 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 r€cording 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
ir the other ('make it ashamed of itself',) through a rhetorical strategy that
i consists of making that other confront its owr babble. This discursive
co-nfronralion will. in principle. prcvoke a heighLened sell_awarenes.
rhar
,' Yl,.ll !"*, bring abour peace of mind or rhe iepose of absoture idteness,
which Montaigne 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
 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE I?
16 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE

judgment in lhe skeplicism o[ his after the horse, thereby instituting the regimen of repetition alr€ady alludeal
ro be obtained by Ihe suspension ol to. S€condly, the "mis€ en rolle" follows exactly the same path as the horse
as lhe greaLesl value ln llle ln
second period: and Ihe praise of ignorance only to the extent that it is motivated by the hope of bridljng the hors€.
his last or so-called naturalisl period' If it accepts following the horse, it is only because it counts on eventually
"'"it'" i""i"otive o*r"ct, the", of "of ldleness" is the prescription for
-o"l"tude, being ahead of it, on being ar the endpoint to which the horse will ideally
.u.ift" or "idleness"' in the mind The Montaigne
in order to silence them ln other wods' move. The endpoint of the voyage is fie hoped-for (but only hoped"for)
""fti""f*
*-tr" *.ii"" a"""tit". rti" thoughts
;;;;;;; hi. thoughts in-order to have no thoughts we are in the moment when the hors€ stops after having come back to itself, seen what
This aclive it has produced, and felt shame thereupon. The discunive voyage of the
t ;;.;;;-i."i ,,,u"1;sn f,J 5e who seeks repose Ihrough acrivirv oI effort Io Essd),r is tel€oloSically closed by the ,ope of teleological closure, of the
I".ri r- ."0.t" i\ paradoxrcal to lhe exlent lhar lhe desire
Io the allarnmenl ol thal bridle, of a proleptic creation or "pro-creation" of the self as domrs.
l".j" r.o.ti '"*,i.* "s Ihe immediate obslacle
Ioward a slate ol resl The jest here h connecting these terms is nonetheless in earnest. We
*..r.. ifi*.tou"fv speakinS. lo make a movemenl
ri is do the oppo'ite or putting have already seen the connection at work in the firsi part of the essay.
;';;;;;';i;;. o"'-";.'.lr motion rhar to
\hould turn oul More to th€ point, what underlies the passage in question is precisely the
;;;;ii;i,.',: And it thar <raLe o[ resr. once attained of issue of a certain p,.ogerl,, namely the .,chimeras and fantastic monsters"
i."" *"* i. i" " .f agitalion,
-an
one runs th€ risk being condemned
""*
i"l o".o"tJ .*r"" and impossible quest for r€pose' one needs to to which the "runaway horse . . . gives birth.,' Thes€ offspring are, accordine
finds ones€lf all the more to Montaigne, characterized by "ineptitude and strangeness,, and invite
-ove'in o.a"r o "top, but when one stops one
comparison with the rrshapeless masses and lumps of flesh" Montaigne
in
--- motion.
rift"i ft* b€come of our bridle? For if the horse as the dominant says women produc€ when they are wirhout the bridle of the male seed. It
..iaoft., of rfte essay is whal should be lhe meraphor of dominalion il is these offspring of which the idle mind should be ashamed. The problem,
l;J;;;;.t" "", M;nraigne who holds rhe bridle on idlenesswho bur idleness necessarily stated in terms of hope since one cannot easily predict the nature
i"f't"itr"fat f-L*"ig* tv tie bridle. It is the horse, in short' leads the of one's offspring, would be that of engend€ring a body that is ,,good and
just that' a ftopq natural." Such a body would presumably be not inappropriate or foreign
tiJ*,-""a lft. f"uif" hope to tame that horse remains
essav: "I have
;il.;i;c"" prolepticaliv susgests in the last line ofinthe to make mv
Iinepte ou dlrungel but proper and one,s own.
t"g"" i" i", imv iate dLouehtsl in lniting' hoping time What kind of body are we talking about? Or more exactly, whose body
*;;i;;;ashamed of itself."
mind is it? Following what we know from "Of ldleness,,' we can already deduce
Montaigne savs he ftas besun to write isalso' evidentlv' the that that body is a "body of thought" proper to its rhinker Such a notion
given a retroactive
*r" r.,,, ut. r.uaitg. l he thsL parr ol the essav is thus wriling is, in fact, not at all uncommon to Montaigne if w€ remember, fot instance,
""
ri"iiii**.. Ttre "rotte' n rhe lexr of lhe ErstJs rhe Monlaigne the long development at the end of "Of the Affection of Fathers for their
Bul again this Childrcn" (II, viil,399-442) in which Monraigne compar€s the relarion
oi"l"".i-i" tlit t***rs ellorls to alrain a
'tate
ol repose
i'mise en rotte" itself perpetuai€s the motion it is supposed to restrain The between writers and their books to thar between fathers and their childrer.
Io the exrenr
ouiiinn;nro *riring oi rh; idle rhoughrs can onlv masler lhem Moreover, Montaigne privileg€s the lormer of thes€ relations because, so
ir,*-ii'..o"u't,rt.ri, tu, Lhis reperirion is simulLaneouslv whar makes lhem he says, literary offspring are "more our own" (II, viii,400). To support
;;;"bl'..;"; the "mise en rolle has besun. one is rolling" in a that contention, he adds that "we are father and mother borh in this
fi;il.*t. wav to \top. lr is nei(her an accidenr nor a mere quir\ generation." Elsewher€, Montaigne makes claims for his own book that
;i;;,"tc."" ". personalitv that he should keep writing and r€writing the would seem to make it even more proper to him than one's own child: .,a
ioi oi ftit-"iar" tftougttts" until his aleath The economv of this textual book consubstantial with its author" (II, xviii, 665); ..I am mys€lf the
joumey is thus opened onto an infinit€ divagation' rMtter of my book" ("To the Reader,,' p. 3). Leaving aside for the moment
" IiiL writine is also a "rolling," it is because the function of that writing the question of the validity of Montaigne's claims, we can conclude thar
or
is to retrac€ tlie steps of the hoise's itinerary The effort is to describ€ ihe body we are dealing with is a corpus of writina, which is understood
note down the tho;ghts d€scrib€d or traced out bv the movement of the
to be a body proper to its author. Whether rhat body is the wrirert own
horse'
horse, But if the Essavs then describ€ the same trajectory as the or that of his "progeny,' is an issue of lesser importance-once rhe claim
ther€ are at least two differ€nces to be remarked. First, the writing /o//olts
18 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE
EQUESTRIANMONTAiCNE 19

would thus appear to be the stroke of the pen(is) or bridle which pro-
to property has been made. That body is always cal/ed on€'s own no matter
creates the proper body of Montaigne by defining the bounds of thar
what shape it takes.
property.
If we ieturn once rnore to "of ldl€ness," we must conclude that if there The bounds of the signature, however, only offer the teleological closure
is a proper body produced there, it must be related to that "mise en roll€" I
for what we can already see to be an autobiographical project. The signature
of the 'ichimeras and fantastic monsters:' The implication, though, is that
is the iop€ of property, its procreation, which nonetheless still leaves a
the proper body is made out of improper ones. The paradox can be r€solved,
body to be defined or produced through the writing that delimits or demar-
at Gasa momentarily, if we remember the exampte of the "idle" women'
cat€s that textual cotpus. But if Montaigne,s discourse d€scribes the limits
The "shap€less masses and lumps of flesh" they produced became proper
of his body or his property, the Iimits of that proper body are rhe limirs
human b;dies if they were "worked ov€r" Iemr€soigne4 by "another kind
of his discourse. The body or the properry of Monraigne about which we
of seed lune autre semenc€1." The male seed would give form to feminine are speaking is of a textual order. ln other words, ,,Montaigne" is what
matter. l:r the case of the shapeless bodies produced by idl€ thoughts' that
he sldles himself to be: "Ii is not my deeds that I wrire down; ir is myself,
other se€d must b€ the writing itself, which forms lhose ideas inio a body
of writing. In phallocentric terms, the pen(is) would delne the properness
it is my ess€nce 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
of the body.il
movement reveals us" (I, l, 302). Monraigne,s discourse is rh€ /6cr^ r,
lfthe productions of the mind, as they are retraced in writing, constitute
or runnirg through, of his discourse. Anyrhing can be said, then, sinc€
ih€ body of writing as Montaigne's own, what "property" is described or
anything Montaigne says describ€s him and can be aftributed to him as
circumscribed by that idle wandering if not the territory proper to Mon_
part of his proper body, the corpus of writing of the Es.rdls.
taigne, namely his domarn of Montaigne? Thus, the lext of the -6srd)J
Yet it is at this very point that Montaigne's claims to property begin ro
co;sdtut€d as a pro-creative journey aims to institute an orkos as the habitat
break down, for what could be less his own than the discourse thar delimits
proper to Montaign€. This "property" is that topographical body carved
Montaigne's property? Carried to the limit, Montaigne,s project, despite
;ut by th€ text, a mountain or Monta(i)gne in writing.rJ "Montaigne" is what he writes in "Of Repentance" OII, ji, 804-5) would not so much
the name affixed to that property, wh€ther it be a text, a place, or a body'
trace th€ limits of "a particular man," or even those of ..man in general,"
These thrce terms can ihen function and do function in "Montaigne" as
so much as the limits of discourse itself. The discourse thar claims an
melaphoric equivalents. So if Montaigne describes his text as a body, he
irreducible personality tends toward an absolure impersonality. The cita-
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 tional mania of Montaigne th€n only exemplifies this problem inherent to
his project, namely, the appropriation of a discourse which ro rhe extent
he wdtes surrounded by his library).36 Perhaps no single expression better
that it comes from elsewh€re (a sociolect can never be fully called one's
captures ih€ flexibility of Montaignian space than the prepositional clause'
own. Or should we say that it can be called one's own in name only, or y
chez mor, whitch appeats for the first lime in "Of ldleness" ("Lately when
by crl,nA ir proper in the assignation of the proper name to it?r'
I retired to my home lchez moyl . . ."1 ^nd which d€signates an interiority
as vasi as the entire surrounding region of Gascony or as r€stricted as the
innermost core of Montaigne\ private b€ing, his "back shop lanierebou' An Accid€ntal Body; or, The Paternal Limitt ,,Of Praclice',
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 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
as "As for me,^sI hold that I exist only in myself lMoy, ie tiens que ie ne
project of self-analysis as self-rherapy. This self-reflexivity in irself poinrs,
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' howevet to a break in the subjecr. Such doubling, in itselfa loss of property
8ll). since it separates the self from itself, is noneth€l€ss the condition for the
what the Essal,s of Montaigne seeks to do then is to delimit an anthro- engenderment of a proper body, sinc€ the split altows the subjecr ro be a/
pomorphic or corporcal topography in and through a text whose economy otce "fath€r and mother" (or, as Mitchell creenb€rg has more accurarety
is proleptically assured by the signature of the proper name' MontaiSne' put it, at once fath€r, mother, and child).rt Strang€ly enough, the authorial
or the mo, whose name appears right from th€ title page. The signaturc corpus or proper body is self-engendered by two very improper parents-
 EQUESTRIAN MONTATGNE
namely, improper, idle thoughis and writing "another kind of seed."
body this is, but lt dt ^sis still remains unclear.
it
we may know whose
The rudiments of an answer are laid out by Montaigne in the essav "Of
Practice" (ll, vi), near th€ end of which he undertak€s to defend his work
against th€ charge of another kind of impropriety-that of the self-indul-
g;nce implicit in on€t talking onlv of oneself One passage in this discussion
merits attention because it reformulates Montaigne's project in
;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 improprieti€s, unformed thoughts
and linguistic matter, which together produce a proper body: "lt is mys€lf,
it is my essence:'A crucial qualificarion is suppli€d, though, by the fact
ofihat body being a "sk€letos." we have indeed arrived at a state of repose,
the uttimate repose of death. Death defines th€ body as absolutely proper!
it puts ev€rythiDg "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 contemplat€d "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 improp€r 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 ess€nce." If the
proper is what is defined as proper, then d€ath 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 "skel-
eton" 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
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
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 eff€ct of an accumulated layering
whose depth remains crucially at the surface: namely, the limif of words.
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 philo-
logically 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 pe€ling off of layers to reveal the self's intimate and true
interior, the naked core of its being.ai 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 else-
where, "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 lescolch€1" (ll, \i,373). The sixth €ssay
of the second book thus further explores the lerrain charred in "Of Idle-
ness," 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
alr€ady thematized in the earli€r essay. Likewise, th€ runaway horse of l,
viii r€turns in ll, vi not as one who refuses to rcturn but as one whose
uncanny r€turn is nothing short of catastrophic: the danger of idleness, an
unbridled horse, scarcely diff€rs 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" r€counts an event
prior to the composition-or perhaps ev€n 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 iden-
tity and properness is to be assured by rhe precise demarcarion of the limit
b€tw€en its interior and exterior. What seems to be the best way to assure
this limit and ther€by th€ integrity of rhe space it defines is to 'tesfir,
 EQUESTRIAN MONTATGNE
a verb that might translate what Monlaigne varionsly calls dptouver, etpdt-
imenter, 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):
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 themselv€s 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 th€se services, too pleasant and
soft Imo4 might relax and soft€n th€ firmness lftrmetZ] of their
(II, vi,
soul. 370-71)
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 som€how 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 pro-
creates 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
movem€nt 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 exper-
ience 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
EQUESTRIAN MONIAICNE
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
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
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 d€ath or the tekne alJpias of
the Gre€k soprros, which rely on a strategy of mastery through the imaginary
repres€ntation 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 exper-
ience 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 r€ad 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 b€cause 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
ihems€lves 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 ext€riority. Death, as we are told by the name of the thid of the
 EQUES'IRIAN MONTATGNE
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 be€n 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-
tropici "It s€ems 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 usel€ss,
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 r€turn, a radical and irrevocable "dislodging ldesloae-
menll of the soul" (II, vi, 371). The image of death as travel is a conv€n-
tional one in expressions such as "to pass away," "to depart," "tr€passer,"
or {lunt€rgehen," 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
voyage must inevitably coincide with an understanding of travel as con-
taining 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 f€ared to the extent that it raises
the possibility of there b€ing no return, bui without the possibility of no
return (of death), there could b€ no such thing as travel.
EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
Wh€n in "That to Philosophize Is to L€arn 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 consid-
€rable 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 incid€nr, 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 t€rms 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 suc-
ceedina relative clause identifies mol ytith chez. mol.. "my home, which dm
situated in the v€ry 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 consequ€nces. To leave oneself does not
mear on€ can retum easily. For Montaigne, ir is pfecisely in returning that
he encounters some difficulties:
On my r€turn, when a sudden occasion came up fol me to use this
horse for a service 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 desp€rate kind of mouth and was
moreover fresh and vigorous Ivko .erxl-rhis man, in order to
show his daring lpon fone k hardtl and g€t ah€ad 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 thund€rbolt 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
26 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE
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 sc€nado (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, t€n 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 confirm€d when Moniaigne later fears that he will "die again
Vemouri4" fiomthe aftereffects of the fall (II, vi, 3?7) Montaigne's eques-
trian 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 d€light 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 ev€n 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€
Th€ resurrection of the body in the t€xt, 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 m€ans a place to trot hors€s). we can no longer
look at such horseplay without seeine in it the threat of castration and
EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE 2?
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 els€where 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 pi€re 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 maladi€s, rhe most sudden, the most painful, rhe most
mortal, and the most irr€mediable. . . . 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
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 expe-
ence its€lf.
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 ston€s in Montaigne's tim€ involved an almost invariably faral oper-
ation 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

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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 sig-
nificance 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 desperat€ly trying to master the movement
of that phallic stone through his r€gimen of mineral water. In a passage
of the trsd,t he comments in typically skeptical fashion on the advantag€s
and disadvantages of this use of mineral water:
Aperients are useful for a man with the stone because by opening
and dilating the passag€s [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 s€ize it by a natural propensity U)ropension),
will hardly fail to stop much of what has be€n 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 r€main 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 Iesbrunl€l by th€se 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."
(II, xxxvii, 775)
what is implied in thepfuffeis a kind ofinner travel that, if not mastered,
threat€ns 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 inh€renl to the body's interior. From where does
EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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 int€resiing, however, if we take note of the phonic
similarity in Fr€nch b€tween 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 res€mblance, 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.
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 €xt€rior 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 prog€nitor 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 n€eds 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 painfuln€ss, 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 repro-
duction 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,
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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 th€re 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.
We can now retum to that other petrifying scene of castration and
resurrcction: Montaigne's horse accident. The collision, we should note, is
between tlu horses, each with its rid€r. 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 him-
self 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€ ar€as granted to his opponent. In the accident that leaves Mon-
taigne 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
had ifthe play ofthe patronymic will, in turn, give coh€rence 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 eques-
trian 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 d€ath. Insofar, however, as the €r. of that movement outwards
EOUESTRIANMONTAIGNE 3I
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€ movem€nt 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 mov€ment 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 se€d curs.
The home can only be dom€sticated, "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 swe€t 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 ,.expul-
sion" of the stone. In fact, Montaigne repeatedly states that it is on horse-
back 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)
32 EQUESTRIANMONTAIGNE
play into th€ same phantasmic expulsion that in its very enactment would
obsessively inscribe the father's name into the son\ bodv+ext
All 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 dil€mma can be found at work in the essay "Of Vanity [D€ la
vanit6l" 0ll, ix), wh€re Montaigne, in an essay written entirelv a/aer his
trip to ltaly, also makes his most €xtended observaaions conc€rning his
interest in travel. The voyage as ex-cursus remains massively oedipalized
"Traveling hurts me only by its expense," says Montaigne near the begin-
ning of the essay (lll, ix, 949). The only pain in trav€l 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 dom€stic 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 operat€s 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 r€store 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 handsom€ly in his house; all the more because I
have a good chance of being the last of my race to poss€ss 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 den€gation . . marks himself
off from his father while protesting hjs loyalty."$ Montaigne's ambiguous
EQUESTRIAN MONTAIONE
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 fath€r'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 encour-
age his inh€ritors ("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 fath€r 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 fath€r, 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 inad€quacy 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 remov€s one from an improper, undomesricated home. And
since it is proper in itself, or autotelic, the voyage needs no oth€r 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 Mon-
taignel 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 gr€at 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). Else-
where, we are told not only that he wenr to lraly bu1 also rhar, like his
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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
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 abiliti€s 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 rop-
ographical, symbolic, psychological, historical, or literary. If Montaigne is
exemplafy of Fr€nch 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 bett€r" 0II, ix, 998 99). Marking within Montaisne's imasinary
the realm of symbolic fatherhood, the ruins of Rome are also described in
rr" a passage or rhe Jorrral {urillen doqn by rhe.cribe bur said b} hrm ro
be rhe \ery $ords ol Monlaigne, ar rhe locus oI a corporedt (and implicirty
patricidal) violence, not wirhour srriking parallel in the scene ofMontaigne's
horse accident in "Of Practice": ,,Those who said that one at least saw
lhe ruins of Rome said roo much. for rhe ruins of so awesome a machine
EQUESTRIAN MONTAIONE
would bring more honor and reverence to its memoryi this was nothina
but its sepulcher. The world, hostile to its long domination, had first broken
and shattered all the parts of this wonderful body; and because, even though
quite d€ad, thrown on its back, and disfigued lmo ,ranye$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 moti-
vates Montaigneh praise of Amerindian cultures in his essays "Of Can-
nibals" (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 b€come 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 l€ft 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.
what is inevitably affirmed in all rhis traveling is the value of inner /,
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 d€finitude. It is only because of this Oedipal d€termination
of travel, which makes of it the very condition for property, that Montaigne
can underwriie so willingly the "expense" ofthe voyage as an incomparable
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.
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
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 differenc€s results in indifference (€ven as th€ -EssdJt remain
one of the West's greatest clitiqu€s 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 Dnsulli€d youth
of the Old World. Favorablv citing a line from Juvenal, he ev€n finds a
precedent for-and hence defense of cannibalism in th€ archaic Gascon
;ulture from which he himself d€scends (I, xxxi, 210). While "of Canni-
bals" and "Of Coaches" repr€sent importani early moments in the defense
of autochthonous American cultures, their hermeneutics of analogical recu_
peration (whereby the other's thr€atening 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 ben€volent idealism.6l
Lik€wise, 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 Mon-
taigne'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'
it is in a moment of absence, 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 f€w 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'
which is steep Imontueuxl rugged."6r Woman appears' then, only as
^nd
she who cannot walk for herself up the hillv path to Montaigne's height
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)
EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE
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
mom€nt also witnesses the codemarcation of exteriorized zones of otherness
(femininity, savagery, madnest that reciprocally implicare the new interi-
ority 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 fath€r\ 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 farh€r iollows upon rhe
 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE
Chapter 2
father's alemise, an execution in print that also enshrines the son's shift- Cartesian Coordinates
in the very act of translating-from paternal Latin to French
66

But if the son's affirmation of castlation consecrates the father's death

in the very mov€ment 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
can have ^any meaning in this context) by its progenitor\ d€ath. This body
of writing bears a name, though-that of Montaigne, its author' Such a
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
In the histoty of thought, Descartes wi!! alv)oys be that
Essd,yr finds its or*os in this "name of the author," only if it is conceded
French caysliet who set olJ at so
that this ultimate point of ref€rence is found along the Oedipalized paths JirE a pace.
of writing a5 the ex-cursion that repeats (as it entombs or encrypts) the -Charles
peguy
father's nime. What the Esslllt performs as a death of the body is also,
with the grear era of voyages ot discovery h rhe impres_
then, ihe birth ofthe author, the prop€rness ofwhose proper name bespeaks :C::.ll_e]leoraneous
srve ano perrstenr alignment of lhe motif ol
the inauguration of a new historical order, a new set of ploperty relations rravel $ith the crilical
in French philosophical literarure. In its most positive moment
\rherein the feudal proper name as the name of the land the lord owns aspect, the advent
gives way to a prccapitalist name, functioning as a d€signatum of individ-
*',h
oLh€r.cutrures ensased a generalized quesrioning
:il,Y^l:T:i :lll""as embedded in sanclifi
;aliiy, to be found in the self as locrd of its own production The play of :l-^T.-,:-r1'1"*.
,,.1. ol medieval
ed Greco_Chri*ian paradigmJ
Montaigne's name straddles these two orders by its metaphorization of ^1T- T: synthesis. Augusrine and fhomas Aquinas, had
succeeded m graliing (respecrively) plato and ArisLotte onlo
body, text, and land within a set of equivalences that reinstitute patriarchal th; Christian
narrarrve ot redemption. fhis redoubling ol
law as a n€w kind of autarky: having no male offspring, Montaigne ends the pilgrim,s partr ro sauarion
his familial line even as he. as author, situates himself as the fath€r of :y:: socrat'c
round
quesl for rhe absoture generared lhe gred
rn Dante and the various legends of the Arthurian
a egorical journeys
French philosophy. .ycte. iar f-m
sereKtng new horizons. though. lhese narratives
The last entrv in Montaignet travel journal is headed "Montaigne,"
oflosing onel way. of srraying away fmm the right
were organized by rhe fear
where he arriv€s on Novembel 30, 1581 (p. 239), but the last line of the aEd
road, olf inro error
transgression.
preface to the Essa),J had already reinscribed this name, indecidably sig-
When travel runs lhe risk of rransgression
nature and place name, not too long beforc his initial departure: "So ,
crossin€ or sLepping over), rhen voyages
tellnologically speaking. a
farewell. from Montaigne, this first day ol March, fifte€n hundred and to exoric placei ."n'qui"lif o'p."
o-nto. rhe rransgression or ca ing
ei}htt IA Dieu donq, de Montaigne, ce prcmiet de Mars mille cinq cens into question of recelvea iaeas in'rle
traleler's }omeland. {s ceoffrot {rkinion
qualrc vingtsl;' has shown, criticisms of rra_
drtio-nal theological and philosophical posilions
abound in the rexrs Jf
ITls:ance e.xelgrer: a"d e.os;;t;;; iJ u.ro,. ,,.r, criricisms surrace
tmosr dramadcally with Montaigne) in more phitosophicalprose.
tn Uoni_
*,"mond
:?:::nr-?!i!! .sebohd and other **v..
!.:t.;,,;;;-',k,;;#: r, i"i"r^_
rDarion. irea;;;
behavior pla)s a teadins role in lhe
;:i,'1Tl'fJ:"?';Tlllil:;
" " "e*pr,i.
debunking.f,h. W..r;;";*;;;i;;

39
 CARTESIAN COORDTNAIES CARTESTAN COORDINATES

in the
to know. With the Baroque, there even appearc a certain pleasur€ VI, 105). Descartes was as opposed to the writers of utopias, whom he
li".*.".ii"t* r'^iliv, .etl-delusion. and instabiliLv one's drifrins in considered seditious ("1 could in no way approve of these turbulent humors,,
Io eladed lhan one s own
l..o*at ta" .oral (or morlall danger be lVI, 431), as to skepticism, crystallized in the figure-never named-of
"r.ni
i."".""r " experience ro be lhed and €njoled lnstead of Montaigne, the refutation of whose work constitutes the principal alriving
n".i"ll "'lai.sy*ra'rc)
uur oat*"v we have the mordanl ironv of cervanres\ deluded force behind the Cartesian opus.6 Yet metaphors and oth€r figures of speech
"rii
l.r"'r" .ii""i- s* ii, l"'the wake ol Montaignian skeplicism dnd Ielalivism' abound in the writings of this exponent of ,,clear and distinct,, ideas, in
guise ol libe inage
itr.'uovug" of a;"ou.tv is whal ailows philosoph! 'in$e particular a prolific use of travel metaphors. The latter have been the object
of its accustomed ways of thinking' it can
-*tt", to ;avel out
or_free t-ftougftt,t of a magisterial study by Nathan Edelman, for whom Descartes,s obsession
U" to o,"n, the risk of that philosophical ioumey issuing in a with finding the right road to truth is to be understood ar a reflection of
".f,"a a.ift It forestalleal bv the verv wav in which the travel proj€ct is
nihltirtl" his "native uncertainty" and concomitant desire for ,,utmost certitude."t
iorrn.rtatea. Wnen tn" aesire to call a system of thought
into question by h the following pages, I would like to demonsrrate, by looking first at two
lhat
ou,tia" i, becomes a recognizable. lopot or conllgld3ce' is nol passages in the Second Meditation, and then morc generally through the
".i""
ir.ruJ-enr o,rttnutas lhen what delines the very ;nside one is supposedly Discowse on Method as well as the Meditationr, how Descartes,s recourse
t f"**f h this not, after all, the lesson of Montaigne's to travel and topographical metaphom not only betrays, as Edelman argues,
"Vr.g
-"itr"t. a fundamental anxiety in Desca es but also, through the presuppositions
q"""i.tt also confronL u! $irh an inleresling imbricalion o[ lhe contained in the use of those metaphors, actively functions to allay that
(sleplicism, relarivism) with lhe lilerary {spalial metaphors insecurity.
iraveinarraritesr. ro, philosophy Io think its way oul of irs oqn scholas-
"triioroofri."f
ticism, it would seem to have recourse to celtain figures or mfl'oi
of travel'
is the writing of imag- Finding One's Footing: Second Meditation
ii ine' t"cnnai ot "^oring oulwards," among which of
ir"rv *otfa. or utopiasi which proliferated in the aftermath More's A key passage in which the play of spatial metaphors seems to inform
.r"ti"-i. "-r. Yet it can be asled to uhal extenl Lhe ulopic lexl can offer Descartes's metaphysical speculations occurs at the very beginning of the
Ihat describes its generic
a'critique rfrar exceeas rte analogical reductionism Second Meditation, just a little before the truth of the cogrlo is presented.
rl.ii, iu" cv.-o de Berserac'i lunar fantasv of the "other world"'to for In this passage, Descartes descdbes, in an autobiographical vein, his reac-
inri"n"", *". u" .ual""lly oiher so long as that other world is said be tion to the first dayt meditation and comments upon his meditative method:
i:iir" ti. ot""l' s""rt ufiirmations of otherness are simultaneouslv denials
bJ Y€st€rday's meditation has fill€d my mind with so many doubts
of i[, to the extent thai differences are marked only to be neutralized that it is no longer in my power to forget them. And nevertheless,
posil this otherness outside
ou"a"t"tting t"-"n""r.r In order' however, to I do not see in what way I can resolve them; and as if I had fallen
"n
itself, philosophy as pure conceptual cogitation must have recourse to all of a sudden into a very deep water lune eau tris profondel, I
otft"t,- to outsid€ that is alrcady inside itself, to what we could am so astonish€d that I am able neither to find footing on the
t.." ttt. ilt"."ty, the figures and uses of language it appropdates to
"norfr"i "n bottom nor swim to hold myself up above Ini assuret mes pieds
"uti its mental itinerarY.
plot daN le fond, ni naget po r me soutenri dr-l?lsrsl. I shall
' while the texts of imaginary voyages or utopias are manifestly informed nevertheless make an effort IJe m'efJorceru4, and I shall once
r' 'o.iiii.r-" lormal and linguisLic framing ol philosophical more follow the same path as the one upon which I entered
"on..tn.ihe
.o,rtO'ulso be demonstrared in philosophical syslems' \uch as the
y€sterday by distancing myself from all that in which I can imagine
".,n,.n (heir literariness the slig:htest doubt, just as if I knew it to be absolutely false; a;d I
.o rtiu.ptt"nr in Creal Brilain. thar $ould deny
"tofi.ir.
;; Aill;s ,run,pur.n.v of signilication and an immediacv ro realitv
shall continue always along this path until I have encounteted
something ce ain, or at least, if I cannot do anything else, until I
" tfri-
tliai*oofa-enatf" to step out of schotastic obscurantism and formalist have Iearned \rith certainty that nothing is certain in ihis wortd.s
p*"i.siv.' r" n**", tfte besi-known advocate of such a "common-sense"
rationatisrn is, of course, Ren6 Descartes, a thinker who claimed to
have Following the dominanr metaphor here, rhe state in which rhe subject is
una Uglt into the dark "c€llar" into which phi- placed after the First Meditation is understood as a loss of footing, the
"p"t"a;*i"d.*""
l;sophy had obscurely
"l"a
descenaled with Aristotelian scholasticism (Dr:sco'r'te' sudden disappearance of the terra firma on which he felt secure in sranding:
 CARTESIAN COORDINAIES
he feels as if he had suddenlv fallen into a deep pool of water and can
neither touch its bottom nor swim back up to the top
The Latin iext is even more explicit in linking the concept of doubt to
a metaphorics of disorientation, which is itself oriented according to a
certain topography. The previous day's meditation has "thrown" (cotJ?car'ls
.rrm) the meditating subject "into" so many doubts (In tantas dubitationes)
that he can neither forget about them nor see a way to resolve them (vll,
23-24). This implied figural dislocation effected bv doubt is made explicit
in the second half of the fi$t sentence, which merits being cited in the
original Latin: "sed, tanquam in profundum gurgitem ex improviso delap-
sus, 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 n€ither 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 (8ur€res. 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
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: "l
will climb out, nonetheless, and I will again try out the same path as the
one I had ent€red upon y€sterday 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
CARTESIAN COORDINATES
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 undertak€n .,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 som€thing 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).
Such a teleological closure allows the doubt to be methodical, and allows
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 philos-
opher 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 th€n 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
 CARTESIAN COORDTNATES
metaphoricsof 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 ind€terminate 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
place via the discursive voyage of tie metaphysical meditation, via the
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
"what is ce arn anal unshakable lquod ceftum sit & inconcussuml"
(Vll'
24). This search for what is certain and stable is comparcd by Descartes
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
ioubt.ls 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
sum, ego existo: certum est lt am, I exist, that is certainl" (27). The
positing
of the cogito provides the Cartesian coordinates fol the discursive mean_
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
CARTESIAN COORDINATES
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 v€ry strange thing that those rhings I 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
probl€m 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 beli€ve 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 recogniz€s 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 afi€ld 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
 C"{RTESIAN COORDINATES
CARTESIAN COORDINAIES

off on the mind's bridle, and the aesture that would seem to allow for the
cannot be doubted, we are to see what-if anything-can be believed. The
cogito to be put in question only paves the way for rhe continued affirmation
mind will be provisionally allowed io believe whatever it pleases; thai is,
of its truth.
to b€lieve the evidence of the senses ot if one prefers, to believe in the
Even the very metaphor of the errors and delusions of the midd as the
primacy of "external" reality over the "realitv" ofthe subj€ct. Our passage
wanderings of an unbridled horse points to rhe containment (in both senses
thus pr€faces Descartes's ensuing and famous argumenl about the piece of
of the word) of the error within 'the limits of truth." For the very under-
wax, whose purpose is to demonstrate that the clarity and distinctness of
standing of that error as "wandedng" implies a topography or space of
objects does not so much prove their reality as the reality of the mind that
wandering, which, be it ever so vague, already sets limits to the wandering:
perceives them. Extracted from th€ honeycomb, the wax has a certain color,
veitatis limites, the limits of the truth. The horse,s very field of movement
shape, size, and texture, all of which are altered when the same piece of
already in itself substilutes a comforting horizontality for the ve iginous
wax is melted by fire. One believes that the piece of wax remains the same
verticaliry of the initial plunge into rhe boftomless waters of doubt. The
despite contrary evidence frcm the senses. The philosopher concludes that
very metaphor of wandering precludes wandering; rhat h to say, it excludes
it is not the piece of wax that is "clear and distinct" but the activitv of
certain radical "wanderings" of the mind thar, for exampler by not respec!
the mind perceiving that wax, not through the senses but through the
ing the spatialization ofthe t€mporal continuum the meraphor ofwandering
understanding (ure1lectr6, enlendement). Havir'g compl€ted this meditative
implies, would begin to call inro question the assumptions and presup-
tra.jeciory, Descartes can then conclude, "here am I imperceptibly brought
positions upon which th€ cogilo and its attendant aopographical metaphors
back to where I wanted" (lX-I, 26). The losic of the argumenl, in following
rest. In other words, only certain lypes of enor can be admitted: rhose
the grapplings of th€ mind in the latter\ effort to understand what it takes
that allow th€mselves ro be undersrood by or within the meraphor of wan-
to be reality, com€s back around "imperceptibly linsensiblementl" to the
dering. In this sense, an l{error" is merely a deviation from an assuted
truth of the cogito.
truth and not what, for instance, aggressively calls into question the starus
Clearly, this argument presupposes the prior demonstration of the
of the truth itseli
coSito.lLlnde€d, it is only because the rogllo has already been ensconced
that Descartes can feel safe in savins "loosen the bridle." It can be deduced
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
that the wanderings of the horse must lead back to the point of origin'
once we have accepted rhe rruth of rhe co8ilo as a topographical point.
given that the proof of the cogito rests not on objective criteria but on the
The calling back into question of the cogito that Descartes claims to be
very fact of the subject\ thinking. For the coSro to be true requires onlv
undertaking at rhis juncture of the Meditdtions further supposes rhat meF
that the subject think (cogitate), whether rightly or wrongly, whether in
aphot insofar as we are dealing wirh a certain rransgression of whar has
truth or in error. So whatever enors the mind indulges in, the truth of the
previously been established. in the Meditations. Instead of examining what
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
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 Des-
or erring that constitutes the snbject J'erre donc ie s i.t'r But if it is the
cartes, as in the case of any such transgtession, is always already framed,
wandering that defines the truth of the rogito as the certain and unshakable
comprehended by some more encompassing bounds that take the very trans-
point*the place from which all the instability and loss of grounding occa-
gression of the bounds into consideration. No notion. in sum. is more
sioned by radical doubt can be stabilized and resolved-then one is led to
circumscribed rhan the noLion ol rransgression-indlet ho\r else can the
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,
of-transgression be understood? Like the error of Descartes. a
transgression can only be affirmed or posited as such if it has somehow
to ensurc in short that this wandering will not wander anywhere, that this
already been n€utralized, conrained, or codified within a certain preestab-
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 nev€r anv lished structure, and this is the case even when such boundary-crossing is
possibility oflossto th€ subject, whose mental expenditures can only provide positively valued for its own sake and affirmed in a sincerity. Such is not,
it with surplus valu€ in the shape of an ever increasing belief in his own to be sure, the €ase in Descartes, wher€ the unbridling of mental .,error"
autonomous existence. In other words, the more he thinks, or the more he remains heuristically and manifesdy in rhe service of a srrategy to contain
errs, the more he knows he is. There is thus no danser in relaxing or lettins or resrrarn such elor. $ander;ng. or transgre\sion.
 CARTESIANCOORDINATES,l9
48 CARTESIANCOORDINATES

preoccupation with the in Descartes's resuscitation of the Christian dead metaphor of /€ toit
Ar€ we not also invited to read in Descartes's chemin, the "slJaight and narow" path. Those that wander off the path
rniriAr"a rto^" of error the scene of his confrontation with Moniaigne' are in error, they err in their wandering, like ihe Second Meditation's
i;. "..a*"t*, or spirilual falhel, lhe lhinler mosl linked wilh lhe ikep_ unbridled horse. At this point in the D6corrse, however, error is still
.i.ir'tn n. it I; relule? ln lhe lighr ol sDch an OedipaliTarion' Des- something to be avoided as opposed to something in which one can indulge
'tvi"gt"".. tess happy than Montaignet Er'roris what is proper
freely and safely, knowing that that erior will always lead back to rhe truth.
"uri"r'r "ituutionimproper as that may
,o Uonr"ig*, be lf Montaigne cheerfully assumes
Descartes seeks inst€ad to deny that castration'
ln the Discourse, the problem for Descartes is how to g€t on the righr path
ii" and stay on it, or ev€n how to recogniz€ it when one stumbles upon it.
"*t"t_i.".r paiental example set by Montaigne' by resorting io the
ft i ,ft" "i_p*l"nce, Only by finding a sure solution to this traveleas dilemma can this error or
"ra-*i
ir""".".i ;"'"ii;"", con\lrued as whal is mosL inner and proper ro lhe aimless (and by implication both stupid and sinful) wandering be avoided.'5
irri"ii"i-r'a.ntuig* his own lhoushrs a' Ihev presenr themselves Io.him
iiui ii ""tf.,' rid€s off on his horse while Descartes slavs at home
And it is Descaries's story of how h€ found a "method" (methodus: an
itin€rary) to arrive at this solution which we are told ii the Discourse on
celebrated po?k or slove-healed loom' it is because each
-nitu,inn in his l Method: "l shall not be afraid to say thar I think I have had a lot of luck
inil. o"_. "uv ."*..'tte same claim to lheir o$n property or properness 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
Wanderings in F,rroti Discourse on Method, Meditatio'ts ethodt thtoluEh which it seems to me that I hav€ th€ means to increase
would lead my knowledge rlep ,/ step" (Vl, 3; emphasis added). Something has hap-
Desca es's economy of error (wher€in no wandering or illusion pened, however, to the organization of Descartes's topography. Here, the
prove lhe cogllo right)
t'to.. t"""o." ttt" u"rv tact of its occurr€nce would in philosopher's position is not merely the resula of a moral and intellectual
ir ir-tft*p to ttt" nsetett wanderings and €rrors he d€scribes
""*.*, first part of the,iscotrse on Methotl ln faci' it is choice, but it is also an effect of oneh good fortune (/,err). Descartes has
ii"-""i.ii.g*prti"a poele in order merely had the good luck, or bonheur, to find himself on certain parhs
u.."ur. or ii't"r" thai Descartes shuts himself up in his
and not others, in certain ways of thinking and not orlers. Now, too,
i" "*n"ft "tto."
paths I ought to follow" (VI, l0) Implicit in the full differences between peopl€ are said to be "accidenral": "Only between
iitf""ft""*
oi,ft" *-t tl;r"o urs de la mdthode pout bie conduire sa rubonwell et
Method for occidents is there'more' or 'less' and no( between the furrlB, or natures,
,iiriin to ,erii dans les scie ces: Discourse on the of indiriduak of lhe safie rpecles" (Vl, 2-3; Descartest emphasis). Civen
on.t Reason and for seeking Truth in the Sciences)' the meF this revision of the topographical schema, one is always already in error
.i ,_r'o""ft, ^,*vel appears almosl lrom rhe beginning Right good
"onau"ting afler
iir'..r.iru,.a-oo*ine t.*ari uuo,'r rhe equilable di'rribulion
"rtror ot 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
r.nr.;' i".*, iescartes reverts to ttre travel metaphor in order to be able of the ,,isco../rse, while Descartes is developing his "provisionary" morals
i. l"pf"in aifi...*.t in intelligence: "The diversitv of our opinions only
does
by which to guide his actions in the world until such time as he can undertake
noi aiise because some men are more rational than others, but because
and do not a global and systematic reappraisal of his opinions, th€ finding of the right
we lead tcordariozsl our thoughts along different ways ho'?sl ot straighl path (dtoil chemin\ merely b€comes a question of following
the sam€ quantitv
same things" (Vl, 2). While €vervone has
slraiEht on ot tout droit the path on which one is: "ln this, I would imitare
""""ia".ift"
oi ilgooa ,"nt.," *" utiuse it in different ways, giving rise to the diversity
or patbs travelers lost llgdrid in a wood! they must not wander about [er.e/] turning
oi o,], opiniont. sut ttt"se different ways are also different "ways" now to this side, now to that, and still less must they stop in one place;
of thought in which
iuoi"rl, n.""".t." i.plicitly proposes a topography but they must keep walking as straight as rhey can in one direction lnd]'crel
"t
each person follows a diff€rent itinerary'
point outi toujouts le plus dtoil qu'ils peuyent yers un meme c6t6l and nor change
Bui not all itineraries are good ones, as Descartes is quick to cours€ for sliaht reasons, ev€n if ar the beginning rh€ir choice was det€r-
mind may b€ put takes on
his description of the various uses to which the mined perhaps by mere chance; for in this way, even if they do not arrive
of greatest vices' as
.*""*", "The great€st souls are capable the
may just where they wish, they will at leasr finally ger somewhere where they
"ifri""i
*"tl as ttt" g.eur""t virtues; and those who walk only verv slowly
path' ihan those will probably b€ beuer off than in rhe middle of a wood,, (Vt, U-25\.^
J;;";; farther, if thev alwavs follow the straighr
While the meditations leading up ro rhe dhcovery of rhe coai o require th€
*ho.un una go u"t.uy r.om it" (Vl,2) A certain moral imperative surfaces
 CARTESIAN COORDINATES
rejection of the 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 odyss€y in search of truth, "a la recherche de la v€rit€," an
exemplum that, as he is at pains to remind his readers, is not g€neralizable.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 oth€r 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 equival€nt of ttav-
eling through space. But while Descartes does not want to d€ny a certain
utility to both literal voyages and the figural trav€l 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).
CARTESIAN COORDINATES
Confionted with the danger of such errot Descarres tells how he aban-
doned 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
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
circumstances fortune dealt me, and in reflecting ev€rywhere upon rhe things
that prcsented themselves in a way that might enable me to derive some
profil 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. Consequ€nily, 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 r€solved
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
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 po€le, aIId then by embarking upon an intro-
spective 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
 CARTESIAN COORDINATES
if 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
the first meditation that he is brought, via the indubitability of his nec-
essarily 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 Descart€s 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
CARTESIAN COORDINATES
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 m€taphysical meditation is thus paradoxically
at once a voyage of discov€ry, a refusal to voyage, and a quest for the
proper way to voyage. It is a journey undertaken to find on€h bea ngs so
that the voyage can be undertaken with assurance, so that the movement
of error can be definitively mast€red. 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 pre-
viously 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
travel.
infinite andering
The labyrinthine topography of error in its threat of an
figures Descartes's predicament as one that is inextdcably textual. Con-
ftonting this predicament, Descartes has rccourse to the supremely logo-
centric 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 s€cure 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 int€rpretation. Although
Descart€s 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
 CARTF,SIAN'OORDINATFS
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 ceasel€ss bal-
ancing and weighing of issues marking, for example, Monraigne's thinking
in the EssdJ,r. Such an infinite wandering would also be an infinire squan-
dering, a squandering, that is, of Descartes's mental and physical r€sources
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" eniail€d in examining every issue case by case to derer-
mine 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 archi-
tectural 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 l€ad it astray, to lead him into an infinite e/ro[ In the following passages
alone, taken from the Second M€ditation, 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 l€isure that remains ro me, by using
it to unravel subtleties of this kind. (lX-I, 20)
Can 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)
Is 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 of
CARTESIANCOORDINATES 55
such changes, and I cannot run through this infinity in my
imagination. (lx-l, 24)
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)
We 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 res€mbles closely whar Kant calls in the Citique of Judgment the
"mathematical sublime"r:-with the qualification that such a mathematical
infinity appears to D€scarres as anything but sublime. The sublime does
appear in Descartes, howev€r, and in conjunction with a recLrrence of the
notion of infinity, specifically in that sublim€ infinity evoked by Descartes
in his proofs for the exisi€nce 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 univ€rse 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 abso-
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 M€dilation 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 def€nded and
protected from error. To maintain the perfection of Cod and the perfection
of His cr€alion, 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 consid€ring it precisely, one can say that no error is ever
found in the understanding, provided one rakes the word, error, according
 (]ARTF,SIAN COORDINATES CARTESIAN COORDINATES

and in the dream. In the remaining pages of the Meditation, thecommitment

to its prop€r meaning" (45). Acting as if it went without saying' Descartes
of an errot that is, the making ofjudgments on matters beyond the capacity
offers no explanation as to what he thinks the "proper" meaning of the
word "error" is. a semantic problem whose solution, as our reading sug-
of the understanding-an act implying a misuse of our God-given facul
ties-takes on the air of a sin, and more particularly of the sin of hubris:
gests, is far from being "clear and distin€t." In fact, if th€ word "error"
;an be said to be naming anything in D€scartes's discourse, it is the lack "Forit is surely no imp€rfeciion in God that He has given the freedom to
judge or not to judge upon certain things of which He put no clear and
or loss of what is supposed to be proper: epistemological impropriety, a
distinct percepiion in my und€rstanding; but it undoubtedly is an imper-
wandering from the proper path Like Montaigne\ "idleness," the ambi-
fection in me not to use this freedom well, and recklessly to makejudgments
guity of Cartesian error (im)properly names the deferral of the proper'
about things which I only conceive obscurely and with confusion" (IX-I,
itrere is neuer any error if one underslands the word in its "proper" 48). An error is therefore an incontinence, a transgression, or an overslep-
signification, but that is to say that there is never anv error if there is a ping of the bounds of propriety. Descartes seems to have defined one sense
proper signification for it. There are no "proper" errors. Th€re will only
Le error if it is improper. And it is as a certain kind of impropriety that
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
error will be und€rstood. Such a conclusion will only come' however, once
limits.
D€scartes has atso €xcluded error from being a problem proper to the will
We do not need to repeat our previous argument about how the very
(volrrlar): "From all this, I recognize that the power of willing, which I
metaphor of a topography of error is itself a way of containing that notion
have r€ceived from God, is not in itself the cause of my errors, for it is
of error, a notion lhat, nonetheless, keeps intruding into Descartes's dis-
very ample and perfect in iis kind; nor yel is it the power of understanding
course even after so many attempts to do away with it once and for all.']6
or conceiving: for since I conc€ive nothing save by means of thal power The struggle could be followed right up !o the final sentence of the sixth
Cod has siven me to conceive, there is no doubt that whatever I conc€ive'
and lasr meditation: "But since the necessity of things to be done oft€n
I conceiv€ it as il must be. and it is not possible for me to be deceived in obligates us to make determinations before we have had the leisur€ to
this" (lX-1, 46). examine these things carefully, it must be conlessed that the life of a man
But if error has been judg€d proper neither to the understanding nor to
is subject to many errors lest sujette d lai it fott souven, saepe erroribus
the will, where do€s error com€ from if not from their inieraclion?:r esse obnoxiam) in particular matters; and it is ultimately n€cessary to
"Whence then are my errors let o.ed born? It can only b€ from this one recognize the infirmity and weakness of our nature" (lx-l, 72; Vll,90\.
thing lnempe ex hoc uno qubdl lhe scope of the will being ampler and
In the course of this narative of error, ther€ is nevertheless one particular
wide; t/dlirsl than thal of the understanding, I do not contain it within
type of enot which is foregrounded and designated as '.the chief and
the same limirs Inon intru eosatem limiles contineoT' b\tt I extend lextendol
commonest error"r "Now the chi€f and commonest error [erol] that is to
it also to thinas I do not understand, which things being indifferent io the be found consists ir my judging that the ideas which are in ne len mot
will, it easily turns away b'egcre, defleditl and takes evil for goodn€ss, resemble, or conform to, things which ar€ outside me lhots de moil: fot
or falsehood for truth. And so ii is thai I make mistakes and that I sin if I were to consid€r ideas only as certain modes or manners of my thinking
lque je me trcmpe et que ie pAche; & falor &
peccol" (lX-I, 46i VII' 58)
without r€ferring them to some othet external thing Isans les vouloi rup-
Given that the will holds over a wider (/arlrs) domain ihan does the under porter d quelque autrc chose d'extArieur; nec ad quidquan aliud teJeffenl,
standing, they cannot be contained within the same botnds (non inlra
they could hardly give any occasion for etrot loccasion de Jailtit; ena di
eosdenl limites contineo) Error occurs when instead of reducing the exercise
mateiaml" (Thitd Meditation, lx-l, 29; VIl, 37). The error is that of
of the will to the compass of the understanding' one "extends" one's establishing l.es€mbldnces between what is inside the subject (his ideas) and
judgments beyond the realm of the understanding to objects one does not
what is oulside (things). These resembla[ces are furthermore understood
understand. Once this happens, it is easy for the will' as it is indiffer€nt
as equivalences: one errs in believing that one\ ideas not only conform but
to what it pronounces upon, to "turn away" (deflectit) from the true and
also apply to things, coincide with them. More than a simpl€ relarion of
the good. This solution to the problem of error, which Descartes offers
comparison, then, this structurcd error, as the positing of resemblances
with great confidence (nempe ex hoc uno 4rdd), is curious in a number
mislakenly perceived as id€ntities, corresponds to the figure of a metaphor.
of ways, Once again, there occurs a convergence between the moral and Metaphor would be the "chief and commonest" error. But again, to pursue
th€ conc€ptual similar to what happens at the beginning of the Discourse
 CARTESIAN COORDINATES
CARTESIAN COORDINATF,S

this denunciation of metaphot Descartes is obliged to use metaphors, sp€-

of the blood as generated by the heart's production of heat, comparable
cifically the spatial metaphors that allow him to speak of wbar is..inside',
if not the radiant warmth of the stove?'ze Is lhe poCle not a foundational
or "outside" him. metaphor as well as the physical and historical frame for the Cartesian
Within this metaphorical scheme, metaphor itself is defined, true ro its
invention of subjeclivity? But the very establishment of such a metaphor
etymological sense of transferral (meta-phorar, as the movement between
already puts the inside of the subject into a rclation with its outside, already
inside and outside, an act of "referral" ("rapporter nes id6esl a quelqu€ gives it a mate am errqndi, without which it could not constitute itself as
autre chose d'ext6rieur" [IX-I, 29]; "ideas . . . ad qridqram aliud reIeftem"
"inside," as self. In the opening section of Part Four of the Discorr.re, the
IVII,37; my emphasisl), that is, a bringing or carrying back over (re-le//e). process of methodical doubt implicitly empties out all of the errors or
This referral or exchange between inside and outside is also a. materiam
unjustified "opinions" that *e inside Descartes (",n my belief len mq
erfondi, an occasion for error or wandering, Efiot is the wandering ov€r ci.ddncel," "the things that had entercd into my lx.ind lles choses . . . entrdes
the border, the going ov€r from one side to rh€ othe\ the metaphorcin en I'esptitl: Vl, 31-32; my emphasis), but ir is rhe very acr of emptying
between self and other. The eradication of error or meraphor seeks to
the container that the mind is, that is, the very activity of doubting, or
establisb a self-sufficient economy of the self, one that does not borrow
thinking, that constitutes the indubitable first ground of the truth for the
from or engag€ in an exchange with what is brought over (metaphorcin)
subject.ro So if the positing of an outside ihrough the unbridling of the
from the other. But to instirute this ideal economy, ihe self must mark horse of error is allowed only in order to secure ihe inner truth of the
itself off from all €lse, trace a clear and distinct line of demarcation between
subj€ct of the cogiro, the prior establishment and delineation of that inside
itself and what is other. The tracing of such a divider, howevet already
necessarily presupposes an outside inherent to that inside.r'To do without
implies its lransgr€ssion. To define an inside is by rhe same srroke to define
effor, one must indulge in it,
or delimit an outside as whatever is nol;nside. Therefore, one who defines Reemerging from his po€le Descartes's subsequent travels could, ihen,
himself as an inside apart from that outside is, in rhe ad of thal definition,
appear to offer the prospect of a methodical flight from eror: "Winter
both inside and outside (or, if one prefers, neirher inside nor oulside, since
had not quite ended before I began again to travel. . . . during this time I
one posits oneself as ihe origin of that opposition, rhar is, as what precedes
uprooted from my mind all the errors which had been able to slip into it
it). The situation recalls the pun that is the title of Maurice Blanchor's book
beforehand. Not that I imitated in this the skeptics, $ho doubt only for
Le pas au-dela, in which the "step beyond" is raken ar the same rime that
the sake of doubting and affect to be always undecided; fot on the contrary,
it is denied (the "not beyond").:r ln order to secure the inn€r sancruary of my whole aim was to find assurance, and to cast aside loose earth and
the cogto, the subject must already be in "error."
sand so as to feach rock ot.lay" (Discou6e, V[,29).3, While left unnamed,
Having failed to eradicate th€ problem of error rhrough rhe literalizarion
Montaigne figures here as a negative model, as precisely he whose doubting
of the metaphor in his itinerant existence, does Descartes not, by enclosing practices Descartes is rot imitating. Unlike his skeptical pr€dec€ssor, whose
himself in the mythic space ol the poAb,28 come to perform a curious
movement would end up in something resembling quicksand, Descartes's
enactment of the pas au-deh? The self-enciosure is simultaneously the
travels allow him to r'uproot" his errors but in such a way as to locate the
inaugural step of another journey: through the m€raphysical meditation he
solid bedrock below Chief among the post'po€le joumeys, and as if to
wanders from the cogiro to the infiniry of cod, whose relationship to
e"\acerbate the parallel with Montaigne, was Descartes's trip to ltaly, pro-
Descartes does not €xclude that of resemblance: "But from the mere fact jected for as early as the end of November 1619, in the very aft€rmath of
that God has created me, it is highly worthy of belief rhat He has in some
his dream and groundbreaking meditations. Seeking divin€ assurance, he
way produced me according to His image and likeness, and rhat I conceive
hoped to gain in particular the aid of the Virgin Mary by unalertaking a
of this resemblance, which includes the idea of Cod, rhrough the same pilgrimaee to her shrine in Loreto, a site visit€d not forty years earlier by
faculty as enables me to conceive of myself" (IX l,4l). And is there nol
Montaigne. Delayed for over thr€e years, Descartes or y left for the pen-
also a ceraain resemblance betw€en th€ spatial metaphors by which the
insula in 1623, _after having sold off his inherited wealth.' As far as we
sub.,ect is understood as an "inside" opposed ro all that is "outside," the
know, Descartes kept no journal, and what little information remains to
Cartesian separation of mind and body, and rhe situation of Descarres in
us about his trip has to be gleaned principally from allusions scattered
the poele, wherein he has closed himself off from the "outside"? And ro
throughout his correspondence. While th€ outline of his itinerary oeaving
what is the Cartesian anatomy, wirh irs curious rheory of rhe circularion
France via Basel and Innsbruck; passing throueh Venice, Florenc€, and
 CARTESIAN COORDINAIES CARTESIAN COORDINATES

Rome; returning by Torino and Susa) would roughly replicate Montaigne\ make the enjoyment of the fruits of peace all the more secure; and amidst
passage,r4 Descartes's impressions of ltaly are decidedly negative. In a letter rhe masses of this greal people, extremely industrious and more concerned
to Guez de Balzac (May 5, 163l), he vocif€rously complains about rhe with their own busin€ss than curious about oth€r people's, while I do not
climate: "I don\ know how you can lov€ so much the Italian air, wirh lack any conveniences of the most frequented cities, I have been able to
which one so often breathes in ihe plague, where the heat of the day is live a life as solitary and retired as though I were in the most remote deserts
always unbearable and the cool of the ev€ning unhealthy, and where the Idans les ddsetts les pl[s dcdrlds]."rr we should not be surprised if, having
darkness of the night gives cover to thefts and murders" (1, 204). On more
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
than one occasion, he actively dissuades his friend Mersenne from a pro-
jected trip south of the AIps: "Your trip to ltaly worries me, for it is a 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
very unhealthy country for Frenchmen; above all one must eat parsimo-
poe[e: "dans les Drserts les plus 6cARTEs." Des-Cartes, as his biographer
niously 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
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)
skeptic\ footsteps in the saindy destination of Loreto (although no proof
that delimit a warm and privileged interior from which the exterior can be
exists that Descartes ever actually accomplished his pilgdmage rhere, once
progressively, methodically, appropriated as on€'s own. Such is, of course,
again in contrast to the elaborat€ painting of his family wirh rhe Virgin
the narrative of Cartesian science announced in Part Six of the D/icorlse,
left behind by Montaigne as a votiv€ offering and memento of his visit
a narrative by which the systematic acquisition of knowledge that is ceriain
ITroyel Jowndl, l4l 421), Descartes finds ltaly hot, unsafe, and unhealthy.
Far from seeking the assimilation of Roman citizenship, Descartes takes will "thus make us as the masters and possessors of nature" (vI, 62).
Descartes's metaphorical economy of "inside" and "outside" thus both
up nearly permanent residence (broken only by three brief trips to France
posits and denies (or conlains) the outside. And if rhe figure of travel
and the final. fatal move to the cou of Sweden a few months before his
neutralizes the other that philosophy posits for itself or prevents that other
death) in Holland, a country that stands in virtual opposition to ltaly
within his psychogeography. Not only is the Dutch climate deemed from posing any serious threat to the philosophical system, recourse to
such a metaphor also necessarily draws philosophy into a complicity with
"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
the literary, that is, with a radical other within itseu. For the philosophy
winters, tell me what shade, what fan, what fountain can as well preserve thal represents itself as a voyag€ of discovery, or as a meditative journey
you from lhe discomforts of th€ heat in Rome, as a stove-heated room 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,
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
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 phil-
theory of the body, as we have noted, describes the circulation of ahe blood
osophical may be safeguarded by the literary, as Cartesian "error" confirms
as an effect of heat transfer emanating from a central source, the heart.
by leading back to thetruth (ofthe cogilo), butthis shoring up ofphilosophy
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 implicitly converts philosophy into a (literary) discourse among others: a
(Holland) within the Lowlands, a Dulch oven of self'hood where Descartes parlicularly successful (and timely) story for a European age of newly found
and putatively self-generat€d wealth at hom€ and relentless expansionism
seeks a refuae in which to write and from which to mas(er the presentation
abroad.
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

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.
-Pascal
A View from the Topi l/oyage 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 trans-
lation of a Cerman work) signals rhe rise of a subsenr€ d€riv€d from the
perception in seventeenth,century France of travel narrative as an accred-
itable 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 s€r.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 on€t body in space. The domestication of effol
thus becomes the €ommon goal of trav€l 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,
MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 63
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, Mont€squieu, and Dosthumously published as his Zol-
age 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, wh€re he resided unril his
spring 1731 return to France. As for the extant travelogue, a good thre€-
fourths of it describes Montesquieuh stay in Italy, with only a few scattered
notes r€ferring 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 r€publican 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 osten-
sible dhcussion of th€ contrast between ancient Roman "intemperance"
and latter-day Roman sobriety seems to double rhe Pr€sident\ putative life
 MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR
change on the occasion of his peregrination, Montesquieu's travels io var-
ious for€ign lands become lhe sociological €quivalent of so many laboratory
experiments, whose data then b€comes systematized in the later political
writings as the putativ€ "triumph of the experimental method" in social
sci€nce.6 While it would be foolish to discount the manifest reprise of
Montesquieu's on-the-road observations in his ulterior writing, such a cril-
ical perspective does nonetheless neglect the possibility that th€re may
already be a theory or method that orients the practice of Montesquieu's
traveling, that is, thal there is an int€rpretation of the voyage in Montes_
q,rien's Voyage which iniersects with other interpretive practic€s of the
That there is a method to Montesquieu's peregrinations is signaled aboul
halfway through the manuscript wh€n 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 lev€ls 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 v€rtical perspective from on high implies
both that "everything holds together, everything is conneca€d" and that
"the order ofthe demonstration matters very little."'Whence the €elebrated
disotdet of The Spirit o.f lne lalrr, a disord€r ihat, according to Starobinski,
is but "the expression of ihis v€rtical 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 differ€nt moments of a dialectic.3 And although such a dialectic
implies a narrative through which a concept is arriv€d 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 total-
izing in its embrac€ that it neulralizes or annuls the very temporality of
its mov€ment through what Starobinski calls "a massive simultaneity"
(p. 39).
To be sure, the belief in such a total vision is metaphysical to the ext€nt
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
MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
critical discourse practiced by Starobinski insofar as he supposes the notion
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 alr€ady 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 read€r of Montesquieu's €nrire discursive production.
But whatever one may feel about the pertinence of Starobinski's appli-
caaion 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 moti-
vating force throughout. In the context of a travel journal, such a desire
to s€e interestingly corroborates recent work on the social insrirution of
travel in its most cultivated form-tourism, a practice whose visual dimen-
sion 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 s€e what there is to
be seen. As sociologist Dean Maccannell argues, sights€eing implies a
semiotic aciivity wh€rein the toudst arrives at the tourist attraction via the
intermediary of "markers." These are anything that point 1o the tourist
attraction: maps, road signs, advertisemenas-signifiers to the sight's sig-
nified.r0 More significartly, th€ act through which the sight is seen implies
an int€rpretive gesture whereby the tourist places every sight into a relation
with the other sights seen as well as with ihe point of d€partur€. lt is
through the consiruction of an imaginary univ€rse 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 requir€s
"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 sp€ctacl€. Theory, insofar as it
assumes the rendering pres€nt 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 d€sire 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 ritual of rhe "8rand rour.!'ri
'L,. ,. .t
r - r,,.r:c..- )
 66 MONTESOUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
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,
est 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." Inst€ad 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 Montesqui€u 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 persp€ctive which is esrablished is rhus a kind of
voyage, insofar as ir involves a movemenr away from the object of sight.
Moreovet the play of perspectives articulared by travel can Ue seen to
found an €pistemology in complicity wirh exoricism, a complicily already
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 obj€ct 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 wom€n and eunuchs lept in ;e harem
MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR 67
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 th€y ar€ addressed. The empowering mobility of the latter's
gaze thus finds iis correlative in the veiled and immobilized status of the
women k€pt back home. lnde€d, one of the earli€st 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 sudd€n 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
philosophical insights aleared by Usbek turn out to be as inescapably
predicated upon his own blindness (or castration, to follow the other the-
in the P?rsia, telle by rhe figure of
matics of self-limitation reaisi€red
the eunuch) as upon the blindness he tries unsuccessfully ro impose upon
hh subjects. As Montesquieu will later wrire in the preface to The Spitit
oJ theLaits, "it is not a matter of indifference that rhe people be enlightened
I6claift1" 0t,23o\.
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 s€e 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.
Th€ towering vision from the 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 eds€mble" 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 attrac-
tions 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 row€r or
steeple-something not always as €asy as all rhat.
 MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOU,{
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 visits.ir This "visionary conquesl" of Ilaly seems
hardly innocent for someone who aspir€d 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 d€aling with the same "eniire ensemble." That these
ideas need to be "fixed down" t€lls us that th€y are neith€r 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 alr€ady s€en to be itselfrooted in a projection oflanguag€
as topography.rl
Throush the stereoscopy ofa superior vision constituted out ofthedoubl€
distance Gpatial and temporal) enabl€d by a second view from the tower,
Montesquieut touristic method gives rise to a literal theory, whose signified
is the ens€mble of ideas (what the mind's eye has seen), and whose signifier
is the contour ot the landscape (what the physical eye has s€en). 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 d€scription of aciually existing political systems. In other words,
the illustration of Montesquieu's theoretical principles does not take place
^{ategories
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.
MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND 7?UR
raphy made most evident in the celebrated passages on climate as an influ-
ence on social customs and forms of government, As if io underscore this
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'in-
telligenc€ 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 consequenc€s. Indeed, the very size of an area delimited by top-
ographical factots has a determining influence on the nature of that eov-
ernm€nt: 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 narion-
states 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 h€ar, 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 coun-
iries, 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 fre€dom; 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
p'iffiL;i ea.h kind of sovernmenr. Asia is thus found (o be the
place where despotism is ,.naturalized" (II, 296). Consequemty, every exisr-
ing government is the righr one-including those thar are desporic. The
implication is that nothinA should be changed, since things are as rhey
 MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
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).
Montesqui€ut 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 found-
perhaps 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 r€ad in terms of a touristic theory insofar as it is a question of "fixing"
ila c€rtain 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"
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 parlia-
mentary 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 lbasres.re] that they are reputed to have no will of their
own" 01,40O). And if it is in the high€r latitudes-that is, in the north-
that all positive values, including liberty, are found, we should not be too
surprised to learn that liberty "reigns" more in mountainous r€gions rhan
in the plains (ll, 532), the lowly plains being a terrain mor€ associated with
I 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 respect€d 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 v€rtical
. 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
MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR
only looks at the parts Ipdrriesl in order io judge the enlire ensemble ltorl
ensemblel:' he \ nites in rhe pr€face 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." Moreov€r, 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" ("Avertisse-
ment," 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 s€e that what will consrirurively elude rhe gazer\
sisht is the sisht of his own gaz€. Everything could conc€ivably be seen
except for the sight of on€self seeing, and the attempt to catch up with
that sight always leaves mor€ to s€e. 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,
wheth€r th€y be public monum€nts, famous or noFso-famous persons,,5 or
those visual objects par excellence, works of art.,6 As Pierre Barridre has
not€d, "the great and master word is 10 see' [vor4,", and the mosr pre-
dictable 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 signif-
icant 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 differ€nt impressions" (p. ?98). What the repetition of the gaze
reveals is differenc€, whether thought of as "ideas" or as "impressions."
Hence, Montesqui€u can write of his subsequent desire to see Paris again,
"for I have flot yet seen it."I
But that increm€ntal difference, which prevents the a€complishment 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
 MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
' by taking a c€rtain distanc€ from it, a disrancing thar presupposes rhe
continuation ofthevoyage, ihe prolongation of irs course. This prolongation
of the voyage can its€lf 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 master€d. The repetition of the view is already a repetition
of what happens elsewher€, and, in fact, everywhere ir Montesquieu,s jour-
ney, 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 high€st 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
eng€nders an infinity of perspectives, none of which can claim rhe supe-
riority of an all-embracing view over the orh€rs. There is no rallesr tower.
Montesquieu's travel not€s have no clear beginning or end: there is no
t€rminus 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 Mont€squieu'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 mon-
ument. The city of the seven hills offers a number of differenr perspectives,
MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
none of which is manifesdy superior to the others.r: Even though he spends
nearly half his y€arlong halian adventure in Rome (from January 19
rhrough July 4, 1729), a stay broken only by a three-w€ek 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 p€rspeciivism 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
stat€ment 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 charact€rization 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 alr€ady th€ r€petition of many a French trip to
Italy, a veritable lopos spanning the history of th€ lit€rature, from Du
B€llay on up to Stendhal, Nerval, Gide, and orhers. ln Montesquieu's
€entury, among the most noteworthy travelers were Misson, Deseine, Mont-
faucon, Silbouette, Labat, De Brosses, Lalande, as well as Burnet, Addison,
Gibbon, Smolleu, and of course, Goethe.' Since "all roads" are prover-
bially said to lead there, Rome is everybodyt home, and everybody wants
to go ther€. The superimposition of itineraries m€ans 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 aft€r (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
cov€r over the layers below even as th€y 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 fre€ly assumes and appropriates, in contrast to Montaignek
 MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR
anxious quest for the oflicial document formally grantins him civic status
in lhe et€rnal city.rs 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 satis-
faction of the desire ro see everyrhing. This is rhe aestherics later formulat€d
in his Essai sw le Coitt (Essdt on Taste, 175?) and epitomized by none
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 err€rd
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
trav€l of lhe gaze, whose pteasure is guaranteed by an indefinire extending
of the soult "sphere of presence." Und;srupr€d 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 circumfer€nce equidistant from rhe
ocular ol&or of its center
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\t-
ingly 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
r€venue. 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
MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR
strayed from the economy of a theoretical vision that sees everything from
th€ height of its tower
The imaae of the theorist as tourist returns a few pages later: "When
one casts one's ey€s upon the monuments of our history and laws, it seems
that it is all op€n 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 bound-
less 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 s€eing too much he ends by seeing too litde. The
movem€nt 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 D€scartes 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 s€a. 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 Mon-
resquieu) 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 v€ry much at issue in a work \tthose epigraph, prclem
sine matre crcatam, celebrat€s 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 ing€stion. 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 Mon-
tesquieu's anxi€ty, and his personal inv€shent 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 patrilin€al lines, eventually determining the privil€ged
 MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR
status of a landed nobl€man-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 posi-
tionirg within his own fi€ld 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 gov€rnmental 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 Mont€squieu speaks of history, what is mosr ofren implied is a kind
of immaneni teleology: the history of a nation is rhe unfolding or devel-
opmenl of what is already inscribed wirhin the founding condirions, or
"principles," of {hat nation.re 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). The-
or€tically, everything one needs ro know abour a country should accordingly
be deducible, in a manifestly Carr€sian manner, from its map. On rhe orher
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
qu€stion raised ar rhe end of the eighth book, rhen, is, how ro conserve
these principles. Montesquieut answer is thar ..in order to pr€serve 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
MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOAR T
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 Mon-
tesquieD 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 l€ss 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 carto-
graphical 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 comm€rce,
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 betw€en two
78 MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUF
societies, each of $hich conceived as a distinct entit, Montesquieu's "com-
munication of peoples" describes the very ebb and flow of the border that
separates them and defines them as separate entities. What Montesquieu
calls commerce involves the "flux et reflux" of peoples, their intercom-
munication, 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 mer-
cantile laws announced by the title, Montesquieu's history of commerce,
und€rstood as the communication of peoples, takes as its object the very
creaiion and d€struction of nations, a history whose "greatest events" are
rothing l€ss than the vast migrations and transformations of societies. This
history of comm€rce is, ther€for€, indistinguishable from history in general,
with "commerce" or "communication" as its driving force. What, then,
do€s 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 r€count-
ing 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 achiev€d 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
seems 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 consequ€nt 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 esrablish€s this relationship, what puts it inlo a r€lation.
The voyage institutes a relationship between two geographical entities,
which, to the extent that they are thought through the differences of a
distance in spa€e, 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-
MONTESQUTEU S ORAND aOUR
and produces 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
map retroactively appears as what defin€s 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
plott€d its coordinates, and rhar replots th€m wirh every succeeding -ioumey.
In other words, the voyage always exceeds the map, and by extension,
exceeds any theory conceiv€d 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 s€em to evade the liquid metaphor:
he concluales book I wirh rhe boast that if he can establish the principle
of a governm€nt, "the laws would then be seen ro flow as from their
spdrehead" (II, 238). Phrases such as "inrermediate channels thrcugh
which power flows" (ll, 247); "the force of rhe principle draws everything
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 Montes-
quieu'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 mis-
comprehension 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, b€cause 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 them-
selves" (II,646). Hence, ihe more gold rhey import, rhe more rhe Spanish
exacerbate the inflationary spiral triggered by the explojtarion of the Amer-
ican colonies: "Th€ Indies and Spain are rwo pow€rs 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
gold from ihe mines, 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
b€come unprofitabl€ (this loss of profit having nothing to do, ot course.
with the empirical amounr of gold conrained in the mine).
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 beiw€en 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 rrav€l 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
to the world history wriuen in book XXI, a ftoundering manifestly in
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 Montesqui€u\ appraisal of the Europ€an explorations: al
one moment, he writes that the grear voyages ol discovery have led Europe
to "arrive at so high a degr€e 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 d€mise 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,
ll, 1435-36). The voyage makes and unmakes economic prosperity, rhrough
a mov€menr rhal is as unmasterabl€ as the drifr of conrinenrs in the erosive
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:
MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 8I
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 comm€rce 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
laws,
even hav€ bounds. (ll, 894-95)
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
swe€ping 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 Medi-
tation, 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 r€calling an earlier,
perhaps more epic, nautical journey to every French philosopher's preferred
desllnation: "Italiam, Italiam...l finish my treatise on fiefs at a point
wher€ most authors commen€e theirs" (II, 995).
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 Mon-
tesquieu naively or inadv€rt€ntly qualifi€s 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 r€gimen of repetition thal
structures th€ voyag€ narrative as an unending seri€s of episodes. And while
 MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR
the context of the shour does nor exactly connote rhe ideas of a safe rerurn
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 besp€aks 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
uation might seem secondary;n'n relarion to Montesquieu's
work, it is also
that which, as Montesqui€u 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 includ€d in The Spirit of the aalrs because of the
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 fi€fdoms become her€ditary. 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
and to "reestablish our family which is fall;ne,"so he arraneed for his
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
MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 83
height is achieved in the sol€mn rilual of rhe marriaee contraci. which
positions the lord's gaze at an altirude from which he can securely watch
over his desc€ndants: "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
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 the-
matized 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 the-
oretical 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 persl€s, ..when
34 MONTESQUTEU'S CRAND aOUR
Itraveled 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
were his own, could it be that the foreign land is appropriated, rendered
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 moun-
tain, 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
th€ory as an impossible vision, as an inaccessible position. Would the
heights of Montaigne, his compatriot and intellectual farhet be too grear
to scale?
Or is the very failure to achi€ve 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.r-
slriliry of its being chang€d by those who become not m€rely the subjects
but also th€ agents of history. lr is in this sense that a provincial patriarch
and nobl€man, 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 per-
mutations 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."
Chapter 4
Pedestrian Rousseau
What setves to deceive othets v,as for me the pathwa)
to trulh.
R.ousse n, Emile and Sophie: ot,
-Jean-Jacques
The Solitaty Ones
Pedagogy and the T€leology 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 s€nse of education
as an e-ducarc, a leading out from receiv€d 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 cul-
tural practic€ ofthe young gentleman\ "grand tour," and by various strands
in the emergence of the novel, such as the picar€sqte, the Eildungsroman,
and aurobiography, which tend to posit wisdom as a function of accu-
mulat€d 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" f€atures 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
refer€nce in relation to which the increment of profit (here, wisdom) can
 PFDESTRIAN ROI]SSEAIJ
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
always risks a corollary fall into p€rsonal 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: Rous-
sear's Emile (1162\. Th€ final section of that work is headed by the title:
"Ofvoyages," and once again, the concerns uttered und€r that rubric evince
a d€monstrable p€rtinence to other aspects of J€an-Jacques's varied and
disparate opus, and more sp€cifically, 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 se€m ines-
seniial. The voyage is only undertaken, in fact, after Emile has already
b€en 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 r€mains 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 attach€s 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
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAIJ
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 wheth€r or nor voyages are good. Insread, he
propos€s 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
traveling,
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 par-
ticular case of travel narrarives, this obfuscarion is exacerbared bv a double
mediation or veiling of rhe rrurh: ..tt is too much, in order ro arrire ar rhe
truth, to have to pi€rce 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 g€nre 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
aft€r a pariing shot at the decadence of contemporary society: !!Let us
th€n 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 trav€l
(otherwise, "ev€ryone 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 r€ading travel literatur€
only serves to superimpose another r€ading, 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. Nev-
ertheless, 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 nam€s 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 Descart€s?), for in contradistinction
to the Cartesian grounding of truth in the self-evidence of intuition, Rous-
seau'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 gen€ral and with writing in
pariicular. But we should not forget that in the above passage, the example
Rouss€au uses to illustrate the suspension of the referent is drawn from
cartography, a field whose pretension is to th€ utmost precision in rcfer
€ntiality. A map is nothing, if
you will, but a collection of points of
referenc€s, and y€t th€y remain just poira.r 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 refer€nt 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 be€n cut off from their
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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
consid€red 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 lying-
and this is not to excuse them of it-it is because the account of an exotic
place suspends as it names ias referent, b€cause its implicit claim to veracity
cannot be verified.s The names are empty signifiers, indefinitely available
to what€ver 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
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 lil€rary.
Even basically believable or verifiable travel sro es come to be read as
literature (Xenophon, Marco Folo, Bougainville, Cook, and more rccently
L€vi-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 gl€aned from travel, if there is any, must be acquired
dir€ctly and alone. Hence, Emile is to Iearn his way around not through
maps but through the p€rsonal 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
matt€r 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
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
while Rouss€au says that it is not necessary to know every man in order
to know man in general, he also assefis that ev€ry 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 diff€rent 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 consid€red rhe
masters at knowing how to profit from travel. This mastery is immediately
qualifi€d, howev€r, 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 w€re b€tter eth-
nographers, 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
s€es 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 obser-
valion was done "more negligently and more poorly" (lY 831) becaus€ rhe
instruction (in the study of man) d€riv€d from voyages became of less
interest than the "object" of their mission: "When this object is a philo-
sophical 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. Wh€reas "primitive" man, who is sufficient in himself and
ne€ds 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
descends to a kind of cannibalism: "But for us to whom civil life is a
PEDESTRIANROUSSEAIJ SI
necessity and who cannot do without earing men, the interests of each one
of us is served by frequenting rhe lands where one finds th€ most men.
That is why ev€rything flows inro Rom€, paris, or London. Human blood
is always sold ar a b€uer price in capital cities. Thus, only the great nations
are known, and the gr€at 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 betwe€n 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 rh€m. 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
c€ntered 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 prof-
itable 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 t€nth 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 Rous-
seau. 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_
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEATJ
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 trav€led far in order to shake
off the yoke of national prejudices."lo Through the comparative study of
cultural differ€nces, 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 sdg€sl ."r' So, if the Second Djscourse coroborates
the anthropological aim s€t for travel in Emile-namely, the establishment
of a common conc€pt 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 phi-
losopher, 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):
Whoev€r 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 inclin€d to evil rather than
goodness. In their voyages, badly raised and badly led youth
contract all the vices of the people ihey fr€quent, and not one of
the virtu€s 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
will my Emile travel. (IY 832)
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, howev€r, 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-soph€r, 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
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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 gov-
ernment under which one was born: "Now after having consider€d 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 und€r which he is born in ord€r 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 s€lf-int€rest: 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
b€€n determined, if the tutor has successfully implemented the pre€epts of
"negative education": "Either I am dec€ived in my method, or he ought
to answ€r 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 r€plies
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-wher€ver the fr€e 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 atta€hment 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 experi€nce is said to be particular to every individual,
one should practice the faiih into which one was born.'r A curious privi-
leging of the home is effected: it is best to stay home, although one must
be equally prepared to l€ave 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 cftoo.re to stay at home. One
sees why, for Rousseau, the value of voyages is not a question of traveling
but of having traveled.ra
 PEDESTRIAN ROIJSSEAU
Emilet trip is thus quite obviously a rit€ of passage; ir completes his
education and d€fines 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 envi-
sioned by Rousseau's tutor, a risk, however, that cannor be circumvent€d
if the p€dagogical 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 betw€€n th€ "route" of nature and that
of its other (humaniry, society, culture, art, etc.). Emil€'s education is seen
as an alt€rnative journey (one that stays "within" or does not stray '{out-
side" the stat€ of nature), or as a nonvoyage, th€ natural route being one
in which the traveler stays put, anchored against th€ imp€rceptibly 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 matt€r 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
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
more afterwards than before. There is no n€ed 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 n€ed€d-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 c€nter 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 l€arn 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 strat€gy designed to d€ny it, the explicit
purpose of the liteml voyaeins at the end of Emile's €ducation. The "nat-
u(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
succ€eding 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 trav€I. 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
t€acher. That neither of these prerequisites to the natural education is m€i
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
 PEDESTRIAN ROI]SSEAU
already nuclear 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 Rouss€au's nov€I, 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 Rous-
seau 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
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 br€ast-feed th€ir children.
the virtual disappearance of the mother herself, or ev€n 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 reduc-
ibility to the abstracr "wisdom" Emile is supposed ro have acquired from
his education. Even so, Emilet encounter with her is carefullv m€diated
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 Rous-
seaut pedagogical ruminarions in book V We first spy Emile and his teacher
returning from Paris, wh€re 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 ..in vall€ys 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
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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 privi-
leges. 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 "d€ciding" 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 husband-
to-be on this trip or on any of his p€regrinarions, 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 ,,per-
version" that women signify in the Rousseauian universe. As such, Rous-
seau'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
r€pale, 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: E ile and Sophie;
or, The Solitary Ones
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 r€nunciation 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, consecrat€d 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
altlough to the ext€nt that ihe anterior term (rhe father) is considered
superior to and hasjurisdiction over the tarter (the son), the r€laiion r€mains
more what th€ text irself calls ..succession,,, a term implying nor ihe dis_
continuity of repetition bur a remporal conrinuity achieved by the posiaing
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
of a first t€rm as the cause or precondition for the second t€rm. At the
same time, the second term is seen to build upon or add to what is already
implied in the firsr rerm. A resutt of this relation of succession is rhe sonh
dependency on th€ father Emile still ne€ds 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 farh€r 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 Ferre-
lon'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 wh€re he remains a castawav for rwenrv-
iour years are consequenr ro his disobeling his tarher\ advice and com-
mands not to travel. This disobedience of rhe paternal law of rhe oitos is
constru€d 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 simul-
tan€ously a s€arch for rhe father and th€ means by which rhe son acquir€s
his maturity or manhood. This maturarion is accomplished precisely
through the son's imitation of his father,s voyages. T€l6maque musr become
worthy of his father by undergoing a series of advenrures reminiscent of
those in the lliad and the Odlsse]. T€t€maque 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
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
if the end of T€l€maqu€'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 fi 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 l€t us leave the reader to imagine our travels, or
have them undertak€ these rrav€ls in our place, a copy ol Tlldmaque in
hand" (lV,8a9). To make matters brief, in th€se texts, and on several
diff€renl levels within these texts, the resolution of the son's relation to the
father is effect€d 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 res€mbled (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 fath€r in his own turn. And yet,
this metaphorical process of internalization or incorporation, this institu-
tiomlization 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 fath€r 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 sta-
bilization 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
 PEDES-TRlAN ROUSSEAU
succession in both by maintaining (he privilege of home and father even
if it m€ans that one must assum€ for oneself rhe role of home and father.
We need 1o consid€r, though, whar happens in the abs€nce 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 inrer-
dependence of city life. Self-sufficiency and enclosure characrerize the ideal
domus to the point that the (male) subject must be willing and able to
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
of lmile rurns our in the sequel ro be itturcry and p,ecariouJy fragile. tt
takes little more than the rutor,s abs€nce and Emile and Sophie,s move to
the city for all the peace and security gained through rhe',natuml,, edu-
cation 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 par-
adise of home, th€y fall into a series of misfortun€s 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
most explicitly in the rwo Discourses. Ifon€ were to follow rhe aitegorizarion
of lhese narratives as voyages, on€ would be t€mpted to conclude that the
economy of trav€l 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 pres€rve 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 ,ec€rsit, 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
dauAht€r). 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,a 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
PEDESTRIAN ROTJSSEATI
of the 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 mom€ntary illusion of preservation: the
home away from home tums out to be even less of a home than its pte-
decessor, 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 rep€atable; 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 r€gain 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
r€covery 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 corr€ct 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 d€parture as an arrival. Such ar ass€rtion 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.
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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 associat€d with that period in his life. Thus his voyase is also
an allegorized moral journey in which he finds goodness and truth aft€r
the detour of error. But this is to forget that th€ d€tour is constitutive of
th€ r€turn, 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 d€parture of the lutor and the demise
of Sophie\ parents and child their d€parture, that is, on '1h€ great voy-
age" that is death). Emile complains of a "repose worse rhan agilation"
(Y 894). As in the case of Montaigne's idl€ness, what one thought was rest
turns out to be anoiher motion, and one all the more thr€atening because
it takes place in the supposed place of rest, ihe home. According !o the
logic we have r€peatedly seen, that motion in the home can only be immo-
bilized if one affirms th€ motion of travel by leaving the home, by embark-
ing 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, th€n the notion of rest is only an aftereffect
of the movemenl of travel. It is only because one is already in motion that
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
rest can or need be posited as a goal. What Emile do€s 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 motion-
What I would like to sugg€st is that even if the don could be preserved
in its domesticity, rh€re remains something inherenrly 'lsundomesticatable or
\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
d€fended 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€ indep€ndendy 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 fix€d myself: my life would be attached ro rhis land as
the land of the Dryads was atta€hed 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
mys€lf. (IY 856)
An opposition is drawn here b€tween 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, impair-
ing 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 mak€s 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 becom€5 hi\;", In**. t-or Rouiseau,
IO4 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
this is clearly the morally sup€rior 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 reflec-
tions, 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 d€p€ndent 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 aft€r Montaigne and the third
rule of Descartes's provisional morality, allows the self to ass€rt 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, y€t it is nonetheless a proposition characteristic
of the Rousseau who requested that he be kept in "perpetual captivity"
on the islandoi 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 will€d: "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 autodi-
dact. After this apprentic€ship, 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 credit€d with making him "a man who
feels in his place everywh€re" (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
PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU IO5
nontravel. ln fact, travel can no longer be rigorously understood when all
lands become one's homeland: "Everywh€re I passed for a native inhabi-
tant" (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
Monlesquieu.
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 knowl€dge 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 on€self wh€rever 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. P€rhaps this is the sense of
th€ story's subtitle, The Solitary Ones.lt 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 domes-
ticat€d 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 ev€ryrhine from me except me. I
am alone, I have lost everything, but I remain to mvsetf, and
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAIJ
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

despair has nor overwhelmed me. These pages will not reach you,
I speaker. The father, then, is the fatherland in r€lation to which the speaker's
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 discursive wandering cari take place without fear of loss or infinirude. In
lhem. I bind them. I continue to $rire them. and it is to you that other words, because there is an addressee, there can be an addressor who
I address rhem: ir is to you thar I wanr to trace rhese pre;ious sends a message to him. The speaker can speak because rhere is someone
memorie. rhat nouri,h and break m) hea : ir i, ro to speak to. Rousseau's grounding of the possibility of discourse in the
)ou thar I wanl determination of the ddd,,ess€e would thus seem to rcverse Descartes's dis-
to gi\e an account ol mysel. ot my leetings. of m] behavior, ot
thrs hea,l thar you have given me. rlV. 882) cursive grounding in the place of the dddressor'.
This formula(ion of the problem suggests another, however, in which rhe
If Emile is lost in a ,,land of exile,', thar is, away from the istand or ,,ile,, sub.ject of the discourse entirely eludes the necessity of an interlocutor for
he would love as "aime-ile," the tutor is either also in this land of exite the constitution of his own subjectiviiy by positing the addressee as a fictior,
(in which cas€ he is srilt .,wirh,, Emile and can be invoked),
or already in albeit a necessary one.ro 11 is this fictionality ofthe addr€ssee, of rhe father,
"thr larherland ofjusr.out\, a periphra.is tor heaven. But it rhe t;ror ol rhe oikos, that Rousseau's texi demonslrates at the very momeni that
rs deacl and in heaven, he r. also in lhe ..lalhertand of
lhe juql,.. whfre a\ thos€ principles are invoked as origins. It seems to mafter less ihar rhese
falher he justly belongs. civen rhat the morality of the tutor cannot terms exist than that they be posited as such, as poinrs of reference in
be
put into question at the level of Emile,s comprehension of him, relation to which all else can be placed and thereby mast€red. At the same
and given
thar the turor is called'.my father" by Emile, rhen rhe tutor,s locatiin time, such rccessary or theoretical fictions pose what seems ro be an insur-
in
"the fatherland of jusr souls', becomes a rautology to rhe exrenr thar the mountable dilemma: How can th€ fiction be recognized as borh necessary
just father is wher€ he belonas, in the farherland
oi the just. So if the tutor and fictive, for the fiction would only fulfill its function of domesricarion
is dead and cannor be reached by Emjte,s discourse, it is because if it were denied as fiction, that is, if ir were accepted as truth? ln other
he is in
his proper dwelling place, rhe safe home or isle of refuge which words, one must act ds y' the fiction were true in order to make it work-
is ort of
(or not in) th€ ex-ile. The farher is ar hom€, where the son would A necessdry fiction cannot be posited as ficrion. . . and yer rhis is precisely
like ro
be but is not. wha( Rousseau's text works to do whether that fiction b€ called nature,
But then, in a surprising move, it suddenly turns out thar it does origin, home, or father.sl
nor
maiter to the son where the farher is: ,'Wherever you are, you are To make of the fathet such a necessary fiction cannot be without con-
dead
for me, my eyes wiu never see you again.,, It sequ€nces, though, for the law of succession that posits the father as rhe
does not even mafter if Emile,s
word. never reach lhe tutofi..These pages $ill nol reach you, sont ultimate refer€nce point. lf it is up to the son to become the father
hope rhat lhey do. Undoubledty. rhey wilt pcrish unseen
I cannor
by an, manj bul in the latter's absence, does this not mean that the son either makes himself
rl does nor mdller. rhe) have been sri en. Icollare (hem, I bind into the father or himself mak€s the father (a problem of self-engenderm€nr
lhem, I
conlinue ro srile lhem. and it i\ to you lhar I address them: ir is ro lou not unlike that posed by the autobiographical project of Moniaigne)? Is ii
rhar I want to rrace rhese prcciou, memories... The tarher ir
rherefore ontv not the son who, in the rite of succession, defines the law of the faiher
lhere ro lill rhe di(curcire po,ilion ol addre.see. U nerner rne not by defining himself as son but by defining his father as father? But if
me*age e,e'r
reachf\ lhe rece'ver or nor i. of le,s impoflance rhan rhar rhe me"sage the father is only defined as such so that the son can constitute himself as
be
addre$ed ro hin, in other words. that the enuncia on ot rhe discou,,e son, then at the same time that the father is privileged (as origin, as law)
take place. In addressing rh€ farher, who as far as the speak€r is he is denounc€d as a fiction engendered by the son. The son turns out to
conc€rned
("you are dead for ne") h oul of exile and back ar lhe home
to which rhe be the father of the father, but to say this is to upser ahe very law of
speaker has no hope of returning, rhe speaker's task seems
less thar of succesion set up by th€ son as the rule of the father. Somehow, for the
attempting a hopeless communication rhan of finding a point
of reference paternalistic pedagogue thai is Rousseau (whose own farher had abandoned
toward which the discourse can be addressed and around which
it can be him before he, in turn, had notoriously abandon€d his children ro a public
arliculared. Ih€ .pealer: predicamenl. a\ rerruat a. ir Lopographrcat, orphanag€), the father must not be denied the authority and anteriority
ljnd5 issue in rhe po.iting ol a cerlain o/*oj llhe {arher a. inredocuror;, attributed to him by the son, for it is those attribures thar define him as
a
/ol,er around which the discourse can be domesricared within rhe safe con_ father. Nor must the father appear as a fiction of the son, and yer this is
fines ol a communicarive act produced by and under the mastery
of rhe what happens iL Emile and Sophie, borh when Emile addresses his tutor
 PEDESTRIAN ROTISSEAU
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 faih€r 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
misfortun€s to the p€dagogical work of his "father." The relation of suc-
cession 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 ret-
roactively 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 g€nre of
autobiography practic€d (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 v€ry repetitiveness begins to deconstruct the posl l?oq
2/opler ,oc fiction of succession.)
The first of these "misfortunes" Rouss€au 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 closen€ss of a father whos€ sentimental
bond to his son was grounded in th€ latter's resemblance to his lost wife
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU 109
and solidified by their joint reading of novels until lale at night. This won-
drously idyllic symbiosis between father and son is brok€n 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 Lamberci€r 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 vall€ys, not unlike the terrain
where Emile finally locates Sophie. Noi only does this Alpine terrain con-
note 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 cross€s 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 alr€ady, 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
esp€cially and for traveling on foor lles wyaqes pedesl/€sl" (1, 59).
Rouss€au'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 riv€r. Il is here thar ihe young Swiss runaway
has be€n sent in order formally to abjure his Calvinisr faith in favor of
Roman Catholicism. A most powerful ser of boundaries is thus already
IIO PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
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 languag€s. 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 Rouss€au
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 that in a very short time, I should fall considerably
foreseeing ,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
oth€rs. 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
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 adult€ry 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 adv€nrure 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 trig-
gered 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 monst€r" (I, 322).16 It is in Venice roo that
PEDESTRIAN ROIJSSFAII
Rousseau claims to have gotten the idea for making Emile fatl in love prior
to his departure on the grand tour, whose st€reotypjcal 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 k€pt him true to her
(Enile, lv, 853).
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 g€ographical 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 brun€tt€s, Mme. de
Ch€nonceaux and Mme. de Larnage, Th€rese Levasseur and the Comtesse
d'Houd€tot. The Cor?2ssior,.s end with Rousseau's d€partur€ for England,
a country wher€ no women at all figure in Rousseau\ imaginary; there he
was uniquely preoccupi€d 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 ta
Nouvelle Heloiie, where the rural sanctity of Clarens contrasts boih with
the corruption 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
Rouss€auian father figur€s, 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 of€vents in Rousseau's life, their return in writjng
as the accumulated exp€ri€nce 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 remem-
brance of a memory to occur as an event. This dilemma is explicitly dis-
cussed 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
 II2 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
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." Rouss€au'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
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 prot€ctive enclosure found in boats and carriages, walking is
the l€ast socially presrigious mode of transportarion, the most plebeian way
to get around, bur ir is also the most independent and least r€liani 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 {ant. Yon see the whole country; you turn off on rhe right,
or on the left. You examine everything that pl€ases 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 pl€ases 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 rour€s. I pass wherever a
man may pass; I see all that a man can s€e, and since I depend on
no one other than me, I enjoy all th€ freedom a man can mjoy.
(Emite, IV,771-72\
Loq slow, and exposed but utrerly self-reliant, the walker,s apparent
dependence on no power other rhan his own \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 none-
theless placed inevocably in the pasr by rhe Rouss€au of the Corl€ssrons..
PEDES'TRIANROUSSEAU II3
"I traveled on foot only in my prime and always wirh delight. Duries.
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
I
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, l,
59). If the aduh world of
horses and carriages has replaced rh€ childt pleasure in walking, ir is
because the immediacy of the lafer has given way to the mediatory injunc-
tions of the former, which tums transportation into a mere means to an
all-consuming end. This kind of t€leology, already denounced by Rousseau
in th€ "Of Voyages" section of E'/rile is what the tutor r€sists when traveling
with his young pupil:
We do not trav€l then as couriers bur as trav€lers. We rhink nor
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 id€ology 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 hurri€d 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 allow€d €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 rog€rher by this pleasant way to travel! Nor
II4 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
to mention firmer health and a more pleasant humor. I have always se€n
those who traveled in good, soft carriages to be distracted, unhappy, scold-
ing 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 depend-
ence, of everylhing thal recalls me to my situation-all this serves to dis-
engage my soul, to lend a great€r 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 res-
piration and appetite, good health, fr€edom, and the feeling of one\ own
independence. Basicatly, these can be broken down into three qualities-
aesthetic pleasure, corporeal well-being, and self-sufficiency which are
gained through this type oftravel. Freedom, independence, and good health
are link€d 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 serv€s 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 n€eds to be in molion lor my
mind to be there." As opposed to the corporeal stability required for
Descartes's meditative iourn€ys. 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 trav€l 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 trav€l€rs sho'rld have ,€/ore s€tting out on iheir travels begs the
question of what it takes to be such a philosoph€r, if it is not alrcad) Lo
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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, lv
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\ :aththan 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 phil-
osophical ideas in the practic€ ofwalking.a, As he writ€s 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
encounter€d during the walk through natur€ are thus "fixed" through an
inner description ("describing them to myself"). Horizontalizing Montes-
quieu'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 obj€ct 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,
fr€shn€ss, energy) ev€n though that presentation of the object's life is cr€d-
ited to ihe subjecfs demiurgic masr€ry: "What expressive energy I bring
to them." ls it not ihis vitalistic pow€r of representing the world to oneself,
of "fixing" internally whar is perc€ived 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 to be characrerisric of
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 se€n 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
vitality of his travel thoughts as old age lacks the vigor of yourh. tn
 116 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU II7
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; the lesson of the Fifth Reveie, which attempts ro prescribe the conditions
but unwri en works are con\idered superior to lhe taLer for the occurrence of a reverie: "It is true that these consolations cannot
and pub_
lrshed ones, even as lhe tormer impt;cirl' appear ar "rirren be felt by all souls, nor in all situations. lt is necessary thal rh€ heart
irrerrierable ai rtre
laller arc paler and less inspired: .'Why do I nor qrire lhem, you $i ash? should be at peace and that no passion should come to trouble the charm.
But why should l?. I reply. \\ h) rob mylelf of rhe presenr charm Certain dispositions on th€ part of the man who experiences rhem are
ot rherr necessary; it is also necessary in the getting rogether of the surroundirg
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 objects. Ther€ is needed neither an absolute r€pose nor too much agitation"
the skies?,,a
If the unwrinen works were not wdfien, it is lecause tne writing oi ifrem (r, 1047).
would have desrroyed their obviously autoerotic ctu.rn. fo,tut" If
and when the reverie occurs, it is overwhelming, as the Con"fessions
tnJ.uU;""i;. note: "Either lideas] do nor come at all, or they come in a swarm, over-
enjoyment would be to do away with ir. As Rousseau notes
in the Fifth wh€lmirg me with their srrength and their numbers. Ten volumes a day
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 would not have been enough" (1, t62-63). Instead of roo few ideas. there
pleasure in his ficrion is thar of the sense of are now too many.rr This situation in which th€ influx of ideas or the
U. o*n uutooo_y,
be a solitary pleasure. If the pleasure h to be maintained,
ii'.uri production of fictions is ov€rwhelming in force and number turns the
the fiction m;;;
be left uncommunicared. but rhen rhe pteasure of the problem of writing into one of adequation. So even if the subjecr wanted
licrion is such thaL
ru mares qhatever remains outside to write down these unwritten but composed works, and even if his intention
of it inconsequential: _What did readers
matter to me, or a public, or the whole world, while to write and the availability of writing insruments did not prevenr the
I was soarina in the thoughts from being triggered, there would srill be n€irher time nd place
skies?"
to write everything down: "Where could I have found tim€ to write them?
, Bur there is another red\on Rousseau gi\es in lhis same pa\\age trom
the Contctsions [ot nor $riling rhe walleas relerier ..ee.raei. When I arrived, my only thought was for a sood dinner. When I set out.
paper wirh me, or pens? It I had thoughr of
aij t carry I thoDght only of a good walk. I felt rhat a new paradise awaired me ar
alt *,at, *ould h;u!
come to me. t did not foresee rhat I would have ideas."othiog the door; I thought only of going out ro find it', (1, 163). The success of
Thei arrive when
they please, nor when it pleases me. Either they do not writing depends upon the s€dentary just as the succ€ss of rhe promenade
uU, .,
rhe),come_in a swarm, oler\hetming me wirh rheir .,,""g,h ".-" ;;;-;;.,;
" demands th€ lack of writing. So, it on rhe one hand the Rousseau of the
numbers. Ten votume! a day would nor have been enoughi Corlessiors r€grets his not having written down his travel experiences so
{1. t62_61). that he could remember them, on the orher hand he explains how rhose
The text of- the voyage depends upon rhe absence of *.iirg
and even of rhe inrenrion Lo wriLe. The ptume as pen pre\ents
in.t_.*i. experiences could never possibly have b€en wriften down, or even have
rhe u5e ol
the p/4me as feather in-themelaphorical flrghr ol taken place had an att€mpt been made to \rrite them down. Once again,
rhe subjecr.s reverie, and
rhus arso prevents the fulfiltment of ir. inscriprional and following the same logic as evinced in Rouss€au's rhoughts on travel
luncrion d( pen- The
charm of the walk cannot be writen down ;ithout in En i/e, the nostalgia for these momenrs of pleasurable insight is posited
a writing i"ri;;;;
but it cannot even occur if there is so much as rhe threat at the same time as the impossibility of rheir being retained.4s
of writing: ,.Ii
I had thouglr of al thar, norhing would have come to me.,,6 The s;bject In any case, th€ urgency ofretaining the lost charm of foot tMvel surfaces
cannot foresee thar ideas will come to him. It is, in facr, throughout the autobiographical wotks, for no maner how overwhelming
not up to hi_
to produce fictions or ideas, to charm himself; rather, it is the reverie may be said to be, it is nonetheless understood as having a value
the ideas or
ficrions rhaL.come ro him ..when the) pleare. noL when please! of presence: "Never have I thought so much, existed so much, lived so
me,.. lhat
rs, rr r\ ror him to be chatmed. So rhe walter does much, been myself so much" And ir is nor only the subject,s presence to
n61 ge ro his reverie;
the latter comes to him. All rhat he can do by his watk is hims€lf and his sense of mastery that are concerned. tt is also essentiat to
in a position of receptivity vis-i-vis rhe rev€rie. Contradjcring
," p"; ;il;;ii the philosopher b€cause the reverie provides him wirh a stock of ideas that
hi; asserrions
that his id€as are animated by his walkins, th" ."ul p..-"";" then defines him ar a philosopher: ',I never do anything except during my
ort t;;l;; strolls, the countryside is my study" ("Mon portrait,,, l, 28). Bui if rh€
which joesiot
when the promeneur has stopped moving: ,,The movement
come ftom withour, then, is made within us,,(Reyer,ies, walk provides th€ philosopher wirh ideas, rhen he is dependent upon the
I. 1048). Suc; js continu€d vitality of th€ walk's charm. This viialirx however. is on the
II8 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
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 alr€ady on rhe
decline, incomparably b€low th€ heights of his yourhful Alpine hike to
Turin.
Th€ "Fall" of Jean"Jacqu€s Rousseau: Second Promenade
h the Reyeties, written at the very €nd of his life, Rousseau is especially
haunted by the f€ar thai these charming experiences will disappear alto-
gether,leaving him with no possibility ofconsolation. Doffing his Armenian
garb upon his return from England in 1767 and then reestablishirg his
residence 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 pl€asure: "Each time I rer€ad them will give back rhe pteasure
I had."a' This attempted economy of pl€asure will be the Reyeties of o
Solitaty Wa[ker: "In order to fulfill the ritle of this collection, I should
have b€gun it sixty years ago: for my whole life has hardly been more than
a long reverie divided into chapt€rs by my daily prom€nadesJ, (,{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 ad€quately retain thos€ stares would be one that
thinks of itself rs a "reverie" or a "promenade," borh of which names
have been used indiscrimimt€ly by tradition to r€fer 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 rev€rie or a
prom€nade, 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 reveries.so But this double recuperation (mim€tic and mnemonic) of the
reverie in writing makes ir difficult to distinguish between text, reverie, and
promenade, since €ach term would refer to the oth€rs as well as to itself.
The Second Promenade or Reverie being rhe only one in which a single
promenade or reverie is r€counted (as opposed to being evoked in the
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
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 t€xt, reverie,
and promenad€, or if on€ prefers, between wriring, thinking, and walking.
To th€ extent that th€ Second Reverie also bears an uncanny r€semblance
in both th€me and structure (o Montaigne's essay "Of Practice," irs analy-
sis 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 Prom€nade 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 mom€nr of plenitude, of self-
possession, 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 sutfac€s the desire to ke€p a written record or ,,reg-
ister" 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 ev€I 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 exisr€nce that is at stake jn its ability to
cont€mplate 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 r€member the (earlier) reverie. At the limit, the self would
prolong its existence by remembering itself: ,,I would exisr only ihrough
memories" (I, 1002). The nec€ssity of sustaining oneself rhrough one,s
memories is occasioned, we are told, by a "d€cline,' in the revede,s strength
associated with the loss of on€t vitality. Thus the rcvetie as the creativiry
of the imagidation Guch as it was d€scribed 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 k€ep 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).
The probl€m is no longer that the moments of writine and daydreaming
I2O PF,IJESTRIANROIJSSEAU
are incommunicable but that their communication takes place through a
shorFcircuit which makes that communication superfluous. The mere desire
to rem€mber the r€verie 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 th€n makes the writing of
it unnecessary. The reverie can now be rememb€red at will, if it is not
remembrance itself.
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 mem-
ories are said to constitute a store of "wealth" and "treasures" (1, 1003),
the capital for one's self-p€rpetuation 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 p€roration to the Seventh Promenade, the practice of col-
lecting flowers is revealed to be an €specially efficacious m€ans of perpet-
uating 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 magnific€nt spectacle" (I, 1073). H€re, 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 trav€l 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 s€dentary 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 r€turn
PEDESTRIANROIJSSEAU I2I
of the self to itself exemplified in the Rousseauist injunction, "Go back
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 func-
tioning of a struclure of return or autosuccession, th€n we see implied a
notion of the self as the aftereff€ct 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 pro-
posed 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 t€xt, moreovet places a detour before the descrip-
lion of the accident itself, a detour giv€n 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, nev-
e 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
and unfo unate lif€" (I, 1004).
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 meta-
phorizing of the landscape by bringing the "ensemble" of observed phe-
nomena 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 betwe€n himself and rhe landscape
122 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
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 so€iety 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 flow-
ers, is brought back to the self, back lo the home, \rhere it will be r€served
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
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 follow€d, up to the mom€nt
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')
PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU 12]
The gap betw€en 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"l came back home lie lerins chez mojl.,, This replication, how€ver,
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 se€m to be conflat€d into
the sam€ problem: "I 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
self's name can be rediscovered: ..They ask€d 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 n€ighborhood 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 supr€mely self,rerrieving a€i 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 whi€h 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 h€els. Unabl€ ro find his footing, in a reverse image oi
the submerged Descartes at the beainning of rhe Second Meditation, Rous-
seau 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
IU PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
upon my two legs, and striking me with its mass and speed, made me fall
h€ad 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 of Pere Lachaise, whose spectacular view of
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
n€ss 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 experience of death. Like Monraigne, though, and unlike
Descartes, Rousseau's utter disorientation in the wake of his accident is
seen to be a pl€asurable 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: ..lt seemed
to me that I filled with my lighr ex;stence Ima lAgirc eristencel the
objecls I perceiv€d. Entirely aiven up to the present moment, I did ^ll 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,
without even dreaming rhar^btooklet
rhis blood in any way belonged ro me" (t,
PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU
1005). While plenitude and pleasure ar€ sustained in this primal indiffer-
entiation, 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 d€rive 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.
Yet this expropriation ofihe self is simultaneously understood as the greatest
self-appropriation. Nev€r is the self more its€lf than when it is not, than
in the aftermath of this catastrophic walk.53 Rouss€au'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 Rous-
seau 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 sequ€l to r'le), in which different rctums are at stake
such that a return somewhere'.n is a departure from somewhere else. ls Rous-
seau, 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 qu€stion, one must conclude either that not all returns are pleasurabl€
or that r€turns 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 obstinat€ly, 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 cov€req 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 chang€d and disfigured lddlg-
wee] 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
 PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEATJ
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
authority of the external!-that is, the sociat-world would se€m 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
accid€nt on his way down inro the corruption of ihe city, after having found
.ioy in the height of ihe counrry, only underscor€s 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
int€rt, is called into qu€stion 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 portray€d 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 s€r 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, childr€n, friends, s€rvanrs, 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
PEDESTRIAN ROTISSEAIJ 121
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
"destroy the rumor" about the appended note by himself writing a note
to Mme. d'Ormoy whose incipit was none other than his name: ..,Rousseau,
not receiving any author at his home, thanks Madame d,Ormoy for h€r
kindness, and prays her not to honor him any more wirh her visits," (I,
1008).
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 Farh€r
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 singu-
larities 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; every-
thing 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
success, But if Cod guarantees the r€turn to ordet it is because He is
nolhing more in Rousseauh discourse rhan lhe principle of rerurn irself.
God as the pat€rnal law of return srates thar 'leverything must in the end
r€lurn to order.!' In ahis ulrimare grand rour of the divine escharology,
Rousseau's turn (mo, tor./r) will come "sooner or later.,,
I28 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU
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 do-
namely, 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 ev€r 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
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 t€rms, 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 pr€seni, rhar is, if ir is not
here and not now. One's b€arings can only be set by something spatially
and temporally distant. That one can refer 10 a point of reference alr€ady
states that it is far away or in the past or in the future. There is a refereni
but it is always already abs€nt. Such an absent referenl is Rousseau's God,
a principle of return situated at an unsp€cilied 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 rcferen€e 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 b€carse 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 believ€r must then be said to creat€ Cod by his very
b€lief 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 supr€me addressee who h€ars 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.
PF,DF,STRIAN ROTJSSEAIJ
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 unsign€d 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\ imag-
inary, 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
undoubtedly "cruelet" more "lacerating" (dichirunte), and disfiguring
effects he suffered from signing his name in ink and on the cover of books.
Either way, howev€r, 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-
scjousness, the fame 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 R€verie),
M€nilmontant, 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 nev€r t//), return as reverie, which, in turn, can
nev€r 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.
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 accu-
mulated effect of foreign travel in favor of the apparently moF elitist notion
that only those already in possession of philosophical knowledeebe afowed
I3O PEDESTRIANROUSSEATJ

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 subj€ctivily in a relation of immediacy
with the world he traverses, Rousseau d€mocratizes 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 appro-
priated by the Romantics, whose generation also saw the invention and rise
Notes
of the word "tourist," applied not to the aristocratic follow€rs 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 Rouss€au 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 T€l€maque Ulysse, or Monraigne his father For th€ir
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 r€ad
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 irs€lf. One cannot simply say,
for instance, that Rousseau is the successor of a tradition of the voyage, Introduction: The Economy of Travel
lhe father of which iradition would be Montaigne, without making of that
very tradition precisely th€ kind of voyage of filial succession described in l. ln fact, the v€ry movenenl belwen tie voyage and ofier ropoi it sel I sussesr s a Eading
ol lhe history ol herarure as a voyase. For one ot rhese rdpoi or sloppjng places on thn
the writings of Montaigne, Descartes, Mont€squieu, and Rousseau, More- itinerary ro be wbal sisniff€s rhar journey as a whote cannot be without consequences, As
ovet the question of inten€{ual appropriation is not an innocent one when we will s*, rhe notif of the voyase h an eremplary locus ot titerary self{€flerion.
the travel narrative assures th€ transitional smoothness of a patrilinear 2, Loun d€ Jaucoun, "voyage:' Enclcbpedje o, dictiohhane ruietn'.tes yiacd, des
succession whereby the son can evenlually come to occupy the place of the a.ts et .les tuetie6 pat une e.iata de s",r de lerlEs (NeufchaEl I Sanu€l Fautche & Conpasnie,
r?51-65), XV ,4?6.
father. lf the signature that is the writer's particular mode of iravel would
3- Extensions of th€ concept ol econohy have been a key tearure oi nuch recent Flench
seem to converi ihe banal trop€ of the voyage into somerhing he can call criical dncoursc, since at leasr Georges Batait:te, Ld part naudite (pa'is: Minuit, 1949),
his own, the anxi€ties associated with that signature, as rcvealed most especially the secrion enlnFd "La norion de d€pense," inirialy pubtished in 1933. For an
ov€rtly in Rousseau, poinr to the dread detour rhat the detour of travel is incisive ahalysn of Baraille\ nolion ot economn sft aho Jacques Derrida, ..Fron Resticred
meant to circumvent: namely, woman, whose difference is as unmasterable to Cen€ml Economyl A H€selianism withoul Reserve,,, in wtuinC and DifJqence. t, At^n
Ba$ (Chicago: University of Chicaso Pre$, t9?8), 25t ?z Amons others in this t.adition,
for the male philosopher as the oitos is unsrabilizable for rhe lraveler As
see especially: Jean Joseph 6o!x, Stnbotic Economi*: Alet Malx and Frcud, rL Jeonitet
such, even th€ names (as)sign€d to the texts of Montaign€, Descarres, Cudiss Gare (lthaca, N.Y,: Cornell Univenity P.ess, t99O), and L6 onnayeu' d, tdnpape
Montesquieu, aod Rousseau can be shown ro be caught in the drift of an iPc'iJ Caliltr. rs34ri lean-Frr'ncoF Llotard. t.ononp tibidtntte \ptti:: Minuir, lo-4) ,;d
appropriation that is, at some point and ar some time, also and inevitably D6 disposnils pulsionneh (Parisr Union Cendrale d,Ednions, l9?t)j Jean Baldrillad, ao.
a disappropriation.
 t12 NOTES TO PAGES Xvii-rir
o ctitiqLe oJ the Political E ononr oJ the sisn, f cha.les Levin (st. Lout. Mo_: Telos
Prc$. 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, Utsr€r'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$, l9?0)l Tzvelan 'fotlotov, The Conquesl aJ Anetua: rhe eaesti.n of the Othet,
Ricnard Hosad (New Yorl: Harper and Ro$, 1984), and Mary B. camDbelt. The llitness
1,.
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 No.th 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
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$, 1986).
NOTES To PACES nx-xxi ll.,
10. Linrention du quotidien I: A s de Jdirc (Patis.l0/la, t980),206- while de Cerreau,s
sBtement oa, sound exce$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
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$ion of rhe imbricarion between rexr and riavel
remains Micnel Butor\ "Le voyaae s I'ecrnuE," in tqerteroi.e lv (Parn: Minuit, 1974),
9-29. Sinilar i.siehts ca. be sleaned iron Loun Marin, Utopiqu*: Jeux d *pace {paris.
Minuit, 1973); Nornand Donon, rarr de voyase.: Pour u.e ddtinirion du r€cil de voyage
a l'dpoque cla$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$,15 3lt also, Beroard Beugnot's preiace to rhis same volume, ix xvi; cilles
Deleuze, ProlJl ard Sisnr tr. Richald Howard (New Yorki Biazitler, lt2); Roland Barthes,
5/2,1r. Richa.d MiUer (Nes Yorl: Hill and Wans, l9t4), 105; Michel de Certeau,l- twuro,
12, Such a cririque ol menphysics n the one offered by J&ques Derida, and fte entire
coDus of bis tro* could be cited in lbis rccad. In eference !o the arsudent I am lryins
10 nake here, suflice n to mention in panicllar O/ C/znuzlo/oa:/, rn caydri Chakralorty
Spilal (Balrimore: Jobns Hopkins Unilersiry Pres, 1914), and Speuh and Phenotnena ond
Othd Essays on H6y ! Th?o., o/ Srsru, ri David Allison (Evanstoni Northwesern Uni-
ll. A lariant oi tbe rela?io, d" rcr,ae h rhat of the voyage rcon.red throush letres.
Hee, the steps in lhe votaser's itinerary are brousht back or .elated to tbe addressc (steF
€otypicatly positioned at the traveler! point ofdepairlre) in the concEle forn oirhe missives
narked by rhen .hansins dates and place nanes. The dareline lhus designars its addEsso.'s
prqress elen as il neasuies rhe dhsnce tbe letter nself nust refiace on ir way back to the
addre$ee. La Fonraine! Relation d un blaEe de Patis en Llnorrt (1663) and Mne. d'Aul-
tty's Relation du vorage .l'hposre (1691J eqloit thn po$ibiliry, as do, albeit in a !e.y
diferenr re8istcr, de aet€s ddrrantes et .ulieuses de Chine (l?02 ?6), conpiled and edited
by Jesuil nissionaries. The dflice is also widely qploited p.ecisely to ohraih an (oien tacile)
etiect of cultural and eeocraphical alienarion in sucb eighteentb-centlry eroric novels as
MonFsquieu\ aerr.es p€.ra,6 (l?21), Poullain de Saint,Fo\x's Leftrcs turqta (t13()), and
Mne. de Craftignyt l,?t/€s d une Plwienne (t141),
14. On the translarion or trandornarion of topocraphy into topic as n rebtes to the
constitution of narative, see Louis Maiin, "Du corps au rexre: proposirions m€raphysiques
sur I'orisine du i&n,'Aprn 4I (1973), 913-28.
15, Such a minimal voyase naoalive k tbe one lelt behind by Jean Jacques Rou$eau as
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 Coud.de.
 NOTES TO PAGES XXi-Xrii
Dined Monday on tbe s.ass close to Ripailles.
TUesday sle ar Bex.
Di.ed ar Pisse-Vache.
Slepr d Saint Maurice.
Filgal oeal off€Ed oul oi hospiraliry.
ls lherc not sonelhi.s Hoderic aboul my voyage?
Di.ed Tuesday al Villeneuve-
Dined 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 difi€Fnce ana-
tooique 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\
delaphor ol la.sua8e as a cit\ (Philasophi.ol lrrestieotiotu, 3d 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.
A
r98O), 79-.168; and Fiances Yares's classi.. The o.f Menory (Chicaso: Uoilesiry otChicaso
20. C€sar 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-M€noire;' 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
NOTES TO PACES xxiii-rriv
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 ll
(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.
24. Derida, "Wiitc MyrholoBy," 241.
25. An arsunent simild to the o.e I halc nade conc€rning 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 la€e$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 berw€en crnical rhousht,
tralel lite.arure, and liberalism, On the ev€nrs of Ausnst 4, se Jean,piere Hirsch, ed., !a
nuit du 4 aoiil (Patis: Aallinard/lulliard, t9?8).
26, The hnrori.al importance of rhe litemru.e ot exploration for the developnenr of Fr€ncn
(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$arce Jrancais? (plrisr Droz, t9l5)t Gilben
China , L'etishe atniri.oin dans la litutoture lruncais ou X/t srit/" (paris: Hachelle,
tgttj, and L AhAnque et te re|e etique dons la tit&ruturc.ftuacuik au Xt4r,et au XV !
s,a.& (Paris: Droz, r9l4)r Paul Hazard, Lo ctise de la .onscien e eurcpenie, t6t1 t7t5
(Paris: Boilin, l9l5), especiauy chaprer one: ..De la srabitre au noulenent,', j-25t Ren6
Pomeau, "voyage d lumidEsdans lalitrerature rrancahe du xyllt
siecte:' Studir on volone
and the EiChtienth Cenlury 57 (1967), 1269-39; Hen.i piyre, iiR€flecrio.s on ihe Lneralur
ol'liavel:' in rtay.l, Quest. oad PilBinaee as a Literutr 'rhene: Sttdies in Hoiot of Reino
vi anea, e.l. F. Amelinckx and J, Meeay (Ano Arbor: Soci€ly of Spanish and Spanish-
Anerican Studies, 1973),7 23. On rhecorElarion berw*n scjentific prosress and theaesthetic
gue as aniculaled in early nodern rravelogues, see Barbara Maria Suffortl, ,/o),asp rro
Substa,.e: A/t, Science, Notute, and the lttastnted ftotet A.ctunt, t760-184o t:^6btid1e.
Mass,: MIT Press, ,984). For a rendition inat insisrs instead upon rhe function ot voyase
literarure as an erpression of bourseois cla$ 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 Anrhro-
polosy 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).
 NOIES TO PAGES xxiv xxviii
27. CnarFs D€ddyan, E$at rw le totnal d. wraEe de Mo,td?ae (Pais: Boivin, n,<t.),
15,215.
28. Anong man! possible danples, se Dedidas deconsfucriod of the ethnocenfisn
thar lies benedh Leli Srau$'s puratively benevolent alirude ro{ard tbe Nanbikwara ln.tians
he sfidies Qf Atunnotoloe', l0l 40). The ra.se 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,r-
anywheE 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 theAn 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 aord€r 118401). For lhe
Cla$ical period, one should aho especiauy note Marie de t,tncarnation (a nun vbose expe
dences in QDebec aE recounred in het Relations spitittela 11653l), Ma.ie,Catherine Junel
de Berneville, Mme, d'Aulnoy (Relation dt yotage d Espas,e 1169ll), and Marie-Anne Le
Pase, Mme. Du Boccage (Ia Colonbiade, ot la loi po/t4e at Nouveau Monde lr1s6l and
Lettres srt l Atsletene, la Holande et I'Italie 11162l),
I L 'tercsa de Lauretis, ranz,loEies oJ Aen.lel: Esols on Th@.r, Filn and Fiction 181006-
ineton: Indiana UnireFi.J Pres, 198-r. l8 and pa,.im.
32. Melanie Klein, 'Eady Analysis," ad<l "Th€ Role of the School in the Libidinal Devel-
opoenr oide Child,li in toya Auir, and Repsntion, and Other Essars, I92t t945(Lo don:
Hosartb Pre$, 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
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 Pa.is 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 ta6-
Jomatioa 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 d€ath of the aurho." derives iron Rolan.t Barlhes! iamous article of tb€
same name. in Inqe-M6ic rext, tr Sl€phe. Head (New Yorkr Hill and Wans, l9??),
NOTES TO PAGES xxviii-t
142-.43. Also see Peesy Kahul, Sienatu.e Pieces: On the tnstnution ofAuthotship (tth^c^,
N.Y: Co.nell Uniledilv Piess. 1988),
37. On the symbolic dimensionol absolurist nonarchy, the key sudi€s 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 $d
rinothy Mrt6y. Theatncol Lqitination: Alleqones oJ Aenius ih Serenteenth-Century Ery-
lond and Fnn.e (Nee \ot*: Oxlord Univelsily PEss, 198?).
18. Sarah Kolman, a? respe./ derledaes (Paft: Calilae, 1982), especially ?l-83- Since
Friedrich Eneels, The OnCtu o! the Faditt, Pri,at? tuopen, and the State (1894), hisrories
ol the laoily and oi the division of labor under preindustial pariaichy have burseoned.
Amons recent work, see especiauy loan Kelley, "Family and State;' in her womei, Histot!
ard Zr€ory (Chicago: Universiry of Chicago Pre$, 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: S€uil. 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
i, the Sixteetth ond Serenteerr, Ceutr,?s (Philadelphia: univereny of P€rnsylvania Pr€ss,
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 intentio.ally 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$trian Montaign€
l. Michel de Montaisne,Jolrnol.le eorase a lalie pa. ta Sujse et I Aqetudghe en 1580
et ed. M, Rat (Paiis: Garnier, n,d,), l. Unl€ss olherwise noted, all subsequenr pase
1581,
references are ro lhis edition. Erulish tralslations, rilh sone nodificalions, are laken lrom
Donald M, Frane, Montaigne! Tluwl Jou al \l9'1i tpt. San Fmncnco: North Poinr Pr€s,
1983).
2. Maurice Rat, "lnlroduclion" ro ,lou.nol de voydae ea halie bv Monraigne, ed. M.
Ral (Paris: Carni€r, n.d.). iii'if, Cf. also Chanes DadCyan, Esai sut le Joumal de wlaae
de MontaiEn , (P^tis: Boivan, n-d.) 27-12, 93-99; P^rl Bonnefon, Montaiane et ses amis
(Paris: Arnand Colin, I898t rpt- 6eneva: Slaltine, 1969), Il, l-46; Louis Laurrey, "Inlio-
dnction" to Joumal de voraE? by Monraisne (Parh: H&herre, 1906), I 5l: Donald Frane,
Mohtaisne! Discowt o! Ma : The Hunoiization oJ a H4nz,dt (New York: Columbia
Universny PE$, 1955), ll0 20i and Donald Ft^me, MontdEne: A rtosruprl (N4 Yotk:
H.rcour!,.Brace and world, 1965), 201-22.
 NOTES TO PACES 2-5
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),
has even offered rhc rarher bizarre sussest ion that ihis secrerary was Montaiene
himself,
Cl- rmbrie Bufiun, llul!€rce du wruce de Montaisne sur /es tsdrs, diss., pri;ceton, t9.r2
(P nceroo: privarely printed, 1946), 149.
4. Cilbert Clrinaid, L exotishe anAricoin dans 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,
see Jean Marc Blanchard. .Of Ca.nibalism and Autobiosraphx,, 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?
Tourist Papets tLondo Ronrledge, foihconind.
6. Such is the rhesis initially advanced by pieire vi ey in his monumenral t"r sorl.es
et t'awlation .les Esais de Mo,ra€r?(paris: Hachetre, l9O8)and further .tevetooed
bv Donatd
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 pe6on-
alily. from solitude ro society, riom the c!ftique oi cunons ro their detense. from ,.dive6n!.,
'j' La,"ill.
C.
Io'r!'nrqueor rhe -cvotlr.ondry. dpproach ro rhe L\ou...ee Rarnond
"l ..Monraisne\
Charitd, 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
.\,1dt.p letel.'t^r,nat dc votas. pn ltahp ot te. t.\rr. LrLde d r.,e.re$Lahre,.. rn Ftold
5tl
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
NOTES TO PAOES 5-7 ll9
B, Brush, "The E$ayisr ls L€arnedr Montaiene! Jo!r,a/ d? t/oyake .t the E tuis_- Rohahi.
R"ri",62 (19?l)t Lino Peiile, "Monraisne in rtaliar Ar1e, rcnica ^ e scienza ttal.rorzalasli
Eseis, SaBEi e Ri.etche di Lefieratutu Fruncae 12 ttgtj), 49-92j Claude Blud, ..Montaicne,
aclivain du voyas.. Notes sur I'inasinane dD loyage A Ia Renaissance," in Franqok Moureau
a.d Rend Bernouilli, ,4rlorl tlu Journot de wroce de Montaisne, tSSO-t980 (Aenq^
Paris: Slatkine, 1982), I ll, ^nd
9- The relerence is ro Jacques Denida, Of Clannototoly, t. Cayat.i Cbatmvorty Soivak
(Baldmore: Johns Hopkins Universiry Pres, t9?4), l4t 64.
l0- On prolific commentary as a discu$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$o\
xI l Forum. ra8o,: Fr ancoi. P.icotot . t ? ta lp dp to Rent,,da, e De: RhaonC"eu, .
'ench
d Montaisne (C.nda. Drcz, \982); and Andrd Tourno., MontaiCne: La gtose.t t'.sai (Lyon:
PFsses UniveisitaiFs de Lyon. 1983)-
Il. while, to my knovledge, rh€re exists no conplere bibliosraphy of Fr€nch trav.ls to
llalx help can be fou.d in lhe bibliography oi fo.eisn votase.s 10 rraly placed ar the end ot
Alessandro D'Anconat edhion oi Monraignet Jolrrat: L,tlatia ala
Jin. del secoto Xtt:
Aio.nale del eiogqi. di Michele de Montaicre in Latia lcittA di Castellor S, Lapi, 1895), as
weu as in the bibliosraphies of Ludvis Scbudt, Latialeisen in tZ uhd IB. Jahfiunden
(viennaand Munich: Schroll, l9s9) and Hermann Harder,l,e prdsident de B.os6 et le
woce
a ltdlie au dix-h,itiane siitk (Ceneva: Slalkine, t98t). The nain problem wirh rhese bib
liqraphies, bowser, is that rhey are complere only rill rhebegin.ins ofrhe nineteend century.
Furthei help can rhen be found in cian Carlo Me.ichelli, Vjapsiato l,anc6i reati o i ma-
ginati nell ltalia del ouocenta (Romer Edizioni di Stoda e Leueratura, 1962). See also Enite
Pnor L?s Frubcais ilalidnisants au Xyl. sii]cle (patis: Cnampion, t9O6).
12. On ichoue roujours a parler de ce qu on aine,, ?/ Orcl 85 (Aurunn, l98O), 33.
Il. The relevant pa$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 d€clared ro be sacriligious and padicidat anyone vho crossed rhe Rubicon, now
called rhe P;sar€l1,, 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$ar, 1208.
15, D€deyan, €$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, 344,

Cf. Jules Michelet. *ho besins the lolune on the Renaissance in his Histoire de Fnnce
17.
witb Charles 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 enin€nlly
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 Eslie.net 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 h.ve 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
tllu:t nta \venice. l<42J.
20- See,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
Mdd€r, 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 medici.al prope.lies ofnine.al 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$lli, Autout dt Joumal de |oNge de Mottaigre, 55 66; Jea! Claude Carron, Leclurc
dt,loutnal de VoraE Ae Moalaiene: L'€ria.ce th€rapeutique de I'e$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$?ts.
24. "An idiom thar I could.eirher bend nor tlrn out orits common course" (IlI, v,873).
Nunerous c tics have alluded, gleefully as it were, lo Montaisnel poor connand of lhlian:
Dedeyan, Esrar', 162 64i D'Ancona, LLata,4l9i Fta6e. Montaign: A Biogtuphy,219.
N€verthele$, sone attenpt has ben nade to a.eue rhe opposite by Aldo Rosellini, "Quelques
reoarqles sur I italie. d! 'Jour.al du loyase' de Michel de Monraighe, zeitsthrtll Jtt
rcna"ische PhiloloEie al <1961), 3ar4Oa.
25. Tbe essay, "Of Coaches," also offers Montaisne's stronsest crili<lue ol European
coloniahn in tbe New Wodd. lnteresrinslx the ho6e ficu.es asain witbin this critiqle as an
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$ay aho
desfibes the iau both heral and figlral of the last king of Peru at the hands or "a
ho6enan" sho "pulled hio ro fie ercund" (lll. vi, 915). Cf. Tom Conley, "C.taparalysis,"
Drb.rtrtr 3 (Fall l9?3), .11-5q
26, The tnle Nas boushl by Mo.taisnet srcar-srandfalhet Ramon Eyqueh, only a lnde
over lifiy yean belore Mo.laisnet binh. Relevanr i.fomaiion o. Monlaisnet ancestry can
NmES TO PACES t2-13
be found in Fmme, Mozta€u"r A Bioeraph!, 3-2a: Ihaoohi| M^l\ezin, Mi.hel d. Mo"taisne:
Sot otieire, sa e lBodeaux, 1395: rDi. Geneva: Slarkine, 1970); Paul Bo.n€ion, Mo,
fani
taicne et ses amis, t, 2t , and Roset'tttnqter, La jeanese de Montaisne: Ses otisines Jan iliales,
son enJarce et ses aud6 (Pa.n: Nizet, 1972).
2?, while nuoerous critics have mentioned the liimpodance" of rhn essay, only a very
lew hav€ siv€n nore than passinc atention !o thh text crucial to rhe cenesn ol the 6rsu./s
in iis specitically dis.!6tw aspecr. The culprit no doubt n rhe (to my mind) exaege.ated
enphash placed by oainstrean Montaisne criricism on lhe psychobiographical origins of the
Esrars as a nourning for lhe lo$ of rhe authort friend. Esrienne de La Boetie, Anone the
iN ex.epiio$ are Jean Starobirsri. Mohtoiehe.n nouvenenl (Parkr callinard, 1982), rl-
l6i 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
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$o.es amone Roran srites include CalullDs, 50 a.d 51, Horace, Ozl"t
ll, 16, and Seneca's D? Tra,4uillitdte Anini and De Otio, Cf. J. M. AndrC, rR?.lel.les rrf
totirn rohain, Ahhales de ltkiveBite de BNncon, 52 (Patist aelbs Lenres, 1962). On
Monkigne\ relario.ship to the Larin noralns .orion oi o,t!d, see Hugo Frjedrich, Mo,-
rats,e, ir. R. Rolini (Parisr Callinard, 1968), 269.
30. The vod.lyp.ta as here employed by Montaisne in rhe sense of foolisbne$ 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 ftreriejus.lu'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 R€naissance 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
searue ldes onas sans Jome de oeat re rcisonnablel, and ftsenbling a lunp of flesh [pie.e
'odeed
de .hditl:' O
r@ notales de P/,rarq!e, ti
Jacques Amyor, ed. E. Clavier (Pa.n: Cussac,
1802). xv 30.
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"nunjustifiableonrhelev€lofMoniaianes
Frcnch text,l naintain its usenee b€cause ol its explanarory power to desisnate in shorthand,
as ir were, lhc phauooatically sanctioned analogy manilesrly operative in "Of ldlene$
t42 NOTES TO PA(iF,S I3.2'
bedveen{riline as phallic acrilily and nisoay.ist tbeori es o r senerarion enabled bv
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 &p.tr 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 Mon-
taisne," in Donald Frane and Mary McKinlex eds., Colr/bia Mohtajqne Cor,fertnce Pape6
(Lqinglo.. I<x: French Forun, l98l), ll9 14,
36, Cf, l, xxxix, 241; lll,
iii, 821. Many critics nale connenred on Monlaisnek use ol
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 rtla.er, that h, as a
rnnnins throush ol rherorical posibiliries- As opposed to auiobiqraphy (Dnd.rerood as a
narradre structuE recounting lhe $riter\ life chrcnoloeically), self-podrailure would pEsup-
pose a tpace,r'or topoloay, oltnesubject in la.suase. FurrhermoE,lhh topoloey is orienred
by an eonony which n thal of the [uriteasl body" (334). S.li-ponrailuE dus phrases rhe
rert as a toDosraDhical body,
33. Ddo,ts oJ Desire: Studies it the Fterch Barcque (Co nnbusr Miami Univeisity/Ohio
Srate University Press Joinr lmprint Series. 1984), 57-58.
19. Loun Marin has also insnted on rhe inposible vision ol the ske./er6 in his readinc
ol "De lexeicitation'l Le lonbeau de Monlaiane." in La wit eontuuhide: Estuis.le
ndnoire lPatis: Aai|Ge, l98ll, 133-56)- Ci. also Tom conley, "Un test de sryle," Oazyler
et Ctitiquesvttt (t-2:943), t95-209i and Timothy Murrax "Translating Monlaiene\ Cryprs:
Melancholic Relarions and rhe Sites of Altarbiosraphy," fotrb.oming in Bucknell Review.
40. Jout4al, t01 5. Montaigne\ descdprion, irsell inspired by Joacbim Du Bellay\ ,6
A"ti.luitas de Rore l.t'saj, models a lons series of such neditations on the Roman iuins,
not rhe least significant ol Nhich is Freud! exlended netaohor of rhe unconscious as rhe
uninasinable sinulta.eiry of all rhe histoical Romes copr€senr€d in their archirectu.al com-
pletion (Si8mund Freud, Ciu/iiation an.l lts Dis..ntents, The Standatl Edition oI the Con
plete Psrcholqical Wotks lhsealrer releired to as S.E.l, rr, J. Srlachey ll-on.ton: Hosarth,
1955-73) XXr, 69-70).
as tbe p.ivileged neraphor ol sincerity is also explicirly linked by Montai8ne
41. Nakednes
lo hh primililisttendencies righl from lhe openinc "To tbe R€adea': "Had I been placed
anons those naiions which are said to lile still in rhe sweet freedon of nature! tusl laws,
I asDre you I should lery sladly have poitrayed nyself here enrire and wholly naked," On
lhe theme olnative nudity" in Renaissa.ce tavel literature, see Ceorrroy Arlinson, a€r
Nou|eout Hotizo$ 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
pr€sence: '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
NOTES TO PAGES 23 29
a sendered nryer rcduce by irself. Experi€nce is always the relationship wirh a pknnude, wh€rher it be
sensory simplicitt oi the infinite presence ol Cod. Even up to Hegel and Hu$erl, one could
sh@, for this very reason, thecomplicityolaceitain sensationalho andolacenain theolosy,
The onio{heolqicat idea ofsensibility or qperience, rhe opposnion of passilily and actilily,
constitute a profou.d homoseneity, hidden under the dive6ily ol neuphysical sysFnt (O/
6rd4drrolosr, 281; Dctrida! emphasn).
43. Cl.PietrcP\cci,The violence oJ Pn| ih Eutipedd Medea (ldaca, N.Y,, and London:
Cornell Unive6iry Press, 1980). l-l:, 34-85.
44. On rhe distinclion between penis and phauDs, see Jacques Lacan, "The Signilication
of the Phallus," in E rr$ ,4 Se/edi.,, tr. A. Sbeddan iNev Yotk: Norron, 1977), 281 91.
Useful commentaryon the penis/phallus distincion can be found in Fredric Janeson, "lmag-
inary 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?
103.
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 lll, i, ?9 80,
.17. Sicnnnd Freud, The lhlerpretatior oJ Dteans, 5.E., y, !85-
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$rained noninalism" (1,13) is checked by a realGn which
posns aunilcnal in rhe father's nane: "Now, there is o.e.ame for which Montaigne manases
a sincular lrealdenti a nane vhich is an dception ro his rheory ard which rends 10 be
granted a substance r, ?. Thh uhique nanej always thesame, wbich Nould escape the universal
inco.sisrency ol the /ar!s rocir of the wind and voice, is nol in futh rhe name of just
anylhins nor, moreover, ofjusr a.ybody: n is fie vely naoe of nalter itsell and furlhernore,
tho name oilhe father {l",ou dr A!re1, Piere" (}71). Compasnon docunenrs how rhc word
prelB is repeatdly used to Eier to substance or mauer itselfNhile rhe name Pr'e.re is employed,
in example airer exanple, as "rhe canonical lorename, th€ forenade ol ioFnanet' (l?l).
Thus, at the stony subsfiatlm oi the Esrarr is lound a rock or pt€rz of slabilily upon which
can be buill an ontolqy ol rhe soed" (184), which na*es oi iathelhood irself a univesal.
Thanks to rhn onrology of rhe seed, we aE allowed to "so beyond rhe alrernatile bct$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 ,29 ]5
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
ol rhe iarher qune cleany recalls Freud's analysis in Toten ahd Taboo, S.E Xlll, a wo.k
tha! surprhingly n nevei nentioned by Compacnon. lt n only a ep frcm this theory of the
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 {of
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-
osy ol Montaigne\ adical noninalism.
Ci. Ar4,s l, rxei. lTli ll, {vii, 619; lll, ii, 810! lll, ix, S96-97
53.
54. Here you have, a bit more decendy, some excrenent ol an aged mind, sometimes
haid, sonetimes loose, and always undicened' (lll, ix, 946).
55. Conpagnon, Norr, 198.
56. Compag.on, ll5 and passin.
57. Compacnonk conclusion, 198.
58. 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,
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 Bo€tic. 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$ible. ln any case, iaiher ihan aoing ro lind de mother in Rofre,
it seens nore likely ihat Monraigne left hone precisely ro get away from hk molher and ro
refind his tather in the eternal ciry. On Monraisne\ norher, see Cecile lnsdorf, Mo,/d€,?
z,z/ I'.ui,tsr (Chapel Hill: North Carolina Studies in lhe Romance Lansuases and Litera-
rures, r9?7), 43 41t Ftame, Montaisne: A Biosraphr, t6 28: Malrezin. Michel de Montaisne:
'tdnqtet, La jdne* de Montaiane, ttls9.
NOTES TO PACES 36-33
60. Sone roDcbno.es in rbe debare over Mo.laigne\ polirics aR Frieda S. Brcwn, Fe/,ato6
and Politi.al Co8ervotisn i" the Ess ts ol MohtaiBne (cenevar Droz, 196r); Friedrich,
Montaisne, 195.210, Fencis le nton, MontaiEne par luinane eatis: Seuil, n-d.), 62 ?4i
Jefirey Meblmann, "La Boeliet Montaisne," O4fotd Littatr Reriev 4lno. l: 1979), 45-
6lt Tidothy Rehs, "Montaisne and the Subject or Politr." in Paricia Parkcr and David
Q\tnt, eds., Litdary Theory/Re,arnrar.e I48 (Balrinore: Johns Hopkins Unilersity Pre$,
1986). I l5 49r Maniied (itlsch , Recht und Mrcht bei Montdisn : Ein BeitruE .ut EtarchunE
d4 Gturdlacen w,
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 r€ductionism Todorov sees by ironizins or orher{he con-
plicatinc tbe vay analoay works in Montaisne: Michel de Cerleau, The l/ritins oI Historr,
tr Tom Conley (Nes York: Columbia Univesity Prc$, 1988), 209 4liand "Montaisne\'Ol
Cannibars': The Savage'l':'in Het{oloeies: Diyourse oh the Othe, rr, Brian Masumi
(Minneapolh: Univesny ol Minnesota Press, 1936),67-?9i c€rard Delaux, "Un cannibale
en haut de cha!$es: Montaigne, la difiCrence er la losique de l'iderlit€," MrN 9? (1982),
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 conqD€ranc de I'or,"
Stutli Flahcesi (1959),153 67; Frank Lesl ncanr, 'Le Cannibalisme des Cannibales,"' ,rl
letir.lelaSociltidesAnisdeMoaloiEne9l0anlll 12 (1982),27 40. 19 38iTon Conley,
"MontaiBne and the New world," Itispani. /s&er 4 i1989), 225 62, For nore seneral con-
siderations 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$. 19?6), I, 12l 35 i Michale Duchet, .4 rrn@polaaE
et histoite tu siicle des luniires, rov. ed. (Paris: Flammarion, 197?),
62. O.e ol ine nost endearine nomenrs or Michel Buloas Asatr Jr
/er E$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
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), l3 17,
63, Ersa)r ll, vi, 176.
64. On tbe relation between sieger.ft and ego-conslructio. as elaborated in terms of rhe
texluar Drodlction oi cla$ical France, see Joah Delean, Litem! Fottili.ations: Rotseat,
ta./oJ, Szde (Princelon: Princebn Universily Prcss, 1984),
65. Rigolol sees lhe ensconcenent ol Monraigne in ihe heishr of hn nam€ and doninion
as tbe coddilion ior the very writine ol rhe Esdrr aod the reason lor lhen s€lf-deprecatory
mannel "li h becausehe n'perched'up onlopolhis mou.iain'-lilerally and fisurarilely
tbar he can...embra.e'a lile thal h los ahd withour lu$er'and learlessly proclain the
ted;,.z, 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€ tb€olosian. 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 O€dip.l dval.y: Fr€de.ic Rider,
fhe Dialectic oJ Se[hood in Mo,tats,? stanford: Slaniod Uniledly Pft$, 1973); Antoine
Comlasnon, No!s, Mt lel de Mortorsre, Mirchell CEnbers, "Monlaisne at rhe Crossroadsi
Texrlal Connndruns in the E{sais, ' tn Detou* oJ Desire. 4r-59, and "L 6cho de Monraisne,"
Oeueres et CtitiquesA6os. r-2: r98l), llJ-25; Denn goliet, "Le siaee," Oava et Cdiqtes
8(nos.l-2:1983),45 58i and Francois Risolor, Monraig.et Purloined Letlets," vale Ftr.,
9rdt6 64 O983), 145-66. While rhese cirics tend to insht. quile isbtly, on Monraigne\
slruduied inadequacr vis-;L-vn his real iather as *ell as his synbolic or literary lalhere
(Sociates, Plurarch, the Larin doralisls), this is to iorget lhe obviols, the nistorical lriumph
of Monraisne oler his fatne(t. In tbe leminolosy advanced by Harold Bloom (ar? 'l,riely
ol Iifluence lo\fotd: Oxfot.l Universn! Pre$,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.
2. Cartesirn Coordin.tes
l. Les Nouveaux Hon.ons de Ia Renakerce Jnh|aik lPatis: Droz, 1935), 254-61, 402-
5. 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,
rh€y iound no mention ol ir in Scriprure.... N€vertheless, ev€n 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 sci€nce 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, 'R€ponses aux Sixiames Objections," lX l.
221,229, vt[.124,126, All stbsequ€nr 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 r€xr 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 Fr€nch
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. (Indi-
anapoh: Bobb$Merrill, r91t). The Philoephical wntinEs oJ D*a es,2 !oh., tr. John
NOTES TO PACES 40-47
Coiinshan, Rober! Sloolhof, and Dusald Mur.locb (Cambridse: Cambridee University prcss,
r984),
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- Savidi€n d€ Cyrano de Beryetet LAtne Mon te, ou tes esto,s et enpiw de ta lure
ia Oeuvrcs conplat5, ed. teq\es Pr€vot (paris, Belin, l9?7), 359, ny enphasn. Cf, Oe.a.d
Cenerte, "funilers r€vesible:' 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'e€ae (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,
'i
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
I pott: Histoire littdnhe de la pe6@ rtopique (F'issets. publicatiohs de la Facujrd de phj-
losopbie 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., Srdrlsr.es 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 fisu.al underpinninss id a key rert oi tbe
B.itish iradition, John Locke\ E$a]] o, A,uoa Undqstandinp, can be found in paul de
_
Mqn, r 4e Meta]\o-: ..h at tnqun).,.o i Adunn t9-8J, It_10 t ol
r p,.remolosy or
a wide rangins discu$ion ol rhe ways in wnich a parlicutar metaphor (lhe oculai) has informed
AL 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$.
6. To be precise, exactly one instance of Montaigne\ .ame occurs in rhe entne Caftesian
coryus: in a letter ro Ne*castte (Novenber 23, t6.16), Descarles mentions Montaisnet name
amona rhose of philosophere who axribure ftousht and nhderstandins 1o aninals, a view
often lamhasred by Descartes in his idfanous rheory of animals as mere ..automatons.,, On
the dhcreer bur decisive iniluence ot Montaisne on Descartes, see, anonc otbers, Leon
Brumchvicg, D.sarer er P6el, teckuE de Montai,ne (Neuchalel: La BaconniiE,rg45);
Richard H, Popki., Ire t/,rol.), of Skept;.kn.ltun Ehshus to Stiroza (Berkeley: Univerity
ol Calilomia Pre$, 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),
 148 NOTES TO PAGES 4I-45
136..421 Gilbed Oadoflre, "Le Dirouts .te ta nAhode et t histone Iirtdraire," Frer., Srrdtes
2 (19.18), 301 14 iAlerandie Koyt4, Ehtrelids sur Defatt*
(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),
61 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,
37-5rl and Pierre'Alain Cahne. Lh outre Desca ?s: Le philosophe.t s.n lotE$e \P^tis:
vrin, 1980), espcially 166 71. Olher, noreiecenr works stressing lhe inportance or Desca es\
use of langlage that have subsranrilely inlorned my Eading ol Descattes include: Jean'Luc
Na.cy, Eao rr, (Paris: Flamoarion, 1979)i Mi.nel Foucauh,,rtdrone de lo folie n !'43.
c/asri4,a znd ed. (Paris: Callinard, l9?2),56 53,581-601i Jacques Derrida, "Coeiro and
rhe Hislory oi Madness," in Witins and Dilletehce, rr, Alan Bass (Chicaco: Universily of
Chic.so, l9?8), ll 6li Jea. Frangois Bordron, La fonction slructurante,'i in S/.u.?!res
ilinentai6 de lo signi,ficatioh, ed. F. Nel (Brussels: Editions Complexe, 19?6), l10-42. Alonc
similar lines, also see Sylvie Ronanowski, ZLl&slon.rez D?s.a es: Lo structurc.t, .livo B
cadisien lP^tis: Klincksieck, 19?4)t Timorhy.J, Rehs, "Cartesian Dncourse and Cla$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.,
l9?r),201-22;JohnLyons,'TbeCartesianReaderandtheMelhodicSubjecl,"Esp,rC.dar4l
:r lno.2: 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$, 198?).
8, Medilationson Fi6t Phitosopht lX \la 19. Ct. La recherche d? /a vlrld (The Search
ior Trurh), x,512: Such seneral doubts uould lead us straight into the isnorance olSofates
or rhe uncerlainry or the Pyrrhonist. Tbese are deep walers, wh€re it seens io me rhat one
nay lose on€\ iooting."
9. Cl. The Search Ju Ttuth, X, 515: lor iron lhis unirersat donhr, just as if !tutn o
Ji*d otu innoeobte point l|eluli d Jixo innobilique pun rol, I shall deriv€ the knowledge
of Cod. ot vou vouroelf. and ol all rhe dinas in the Norld."
,0. AccordinsroMa ialcueroujt, this dilenma poin$ to a sysre@tic opposition lhrcush-
out Descartes\ opus berw*nrhe peGuasiveand rheconvincing: "The liNn a deep agreemenl
and close acquiesc€nce, eirher with sensations o. habits, orNilh the fundam€nral .equnenents
of our nindr lhe second h an external con$rainr iD Nhich will, far from beins seduced, sees
ns conseni torn lrom n by the torce ol reasons, \Jr'hen conviction encounrer a persuasion
opposed io it, ir can be broughl to move asain nself *ith dittic\ny" (Desca es Phit6oph!
Inte.preted o.cordins to the Oder o/R?arorr, ri Roser Ariew e1al. lMi.neapolis: unilersilv
NOTES TO PACES
'6-4R
of Minnesota Prcss, 19341 l, 299n), Cr. Henri Couhi€r's renarks on rhe diflerence berw€eh
8ensio pe,tuasio (Ld pensee hetaphlsique de Deya eJ lParis: vrin. 19671, 9t-95rf).
ll. Cl-^ndGu€roult, Dar.o.ler' PrlTosopr).. "Tbe analysis of th. pi*e ol wax has appeared
.s a d*isile and brillianl verificadon of the conclusions imposed by the o.der ol reasons '
(t, r21).
12, Cf, Nancy! clain in Eso s/u subject! conlinued qisrence is co.linsenl uDon
1nat the
his co,rtled enn.ciario. of rhe .rsro.
Th€ a.sumenl is based on rhe lollowjns line fron
rhe Second Medilarion: "Thn prcposirion: / /ft, 1 sdr, is n{essarily u!e, every rine rhat
I pro.ouce it, or thar I conceile it in ny nind' (lX I, t9). Tne &nporal problem ol the
cost,t conlinuity or disconrnuity is. ofcourse, oDe offte tradnional aeas of debate anons
Eade( ol Des@rtes. As his own lirsr r€ader, Descartes was himself awarc ol the problen:
"lt micht ju$ 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 dil€nna 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 fi€rcely co.lested article,
''CoEno, EtEo Inierence or Pellormancel" lPhitosophiet Rei.w 1t 11962l, t 23),
cu.Ent debates 'un:
on rhh issue have rended ro quesdon rhe tnndanental Carresian dictum in
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 arcu€d 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
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 Descart€s's
rbuttal is rbat a proposnion svn I |'alk, the.eJore t od is only certain insofar as /rrt,t
^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 po€le were aneady res&d by Montaisne during
hh trip thrcugb soutbem Cermany on his $ay b Inly. His secrelary rores Monrais.et
reactions: 'Monsieur d€ Montaisne, who slcpr in a rcom wnn ise tn it ldans un poite).
prahed it hiehly for feeli.s aU nighr a pleasa.t and noderare ^warntb of aji Ar lea$ you
donl burn your iace or yoDr boots, and you are frc froo lhe smote you set France" i.
(Joumol, U,, LaI{,6 rhe Esrr, Montaigne compares the rladve merits ol FEncn chimney
and Cernan poe&i "A Oe.man 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 gen€ral, snhour flane, snoke, or th€ wind thar rhe
openins ofour chioneys bdnss us, n has what n bkes i. orher rcsp€cts lor conparhon *ith
ouri' (lll, xiii, 1030). In line, horaer, witb nis predictable Ladn afrinilies, both modes or
 150 NOTES TO PAOES 49 5I
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 studi€s
includ€d 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 olvicissitud€s. 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-spirir€d horse, lone and well rained in war and long afleNards let out to pasture
at will in rhe fi€lds, 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, $, Ms Harold Fnch and Thodas Coddard
Bergin lhhaca, N.Y.: Cornell unilemity Pres, 194,1]. ll3 l4), vico\ ievision ol Descartes\
autobiosraphical rbetoric has beencdtically er.minedby Juliana Schiesari in an as ye! unpub_
lished paper, "Hnirory: vico\ Aulobiosiaphy in the Thnd P€ron," read rhe Modern
Languase A$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 p€culiarny
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 w€ll as thenecessily lor Descartest
provins Cod! *isteoce by rational proof alo.e.
16. Tne dark *ood of erof is, of couise, a lonsstandins lil€rary ropdr celebtated
qanples of whicb can be fouod in lhe openins canros ol Danret ,rur€.ro 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 eveFwide.ing 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
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 Sup€rieure in
17. Cf. Nancx teo s,n, 104 15.
18, D6.oure, vl,6,
19. The hhlorical veracily of Descartis accoun! oi nis ovn philosophical developmenl
has drawn serious eservarions lrom rve.li€th-cenlury dirics. Ferdinand Alquie, in Danicular,
NoTES TO PAGES J2-55 l5l
has insisted on a slow, lil€lons proce$ of oaruration in De$aies's philosophy. He conse-
quendt !€iuses 10 Ead any inklings ol the laler No.ks in the earlier o.es, 10 th€ point or
claimins fiar ine .oEiro of ihe DtscorBe n nor yer the 'lrue .oat , ' whose prcp€r rormulation
must await ft€ pubricario. ol the Me.titations \La dicouvette nataphlsique de l'honne chez
Des.arr"r re!. ed, IParis: PUR 19661, ll3il). othefs, such as Ceorses Poulet ("Le sonse de
Des.^ttes:' in Etuds sut le renps huhain IP^t\s: Plon, 19491, I, 6l-92); Bertram D. Lewin
lDreahs and the Uses oJ Rearc$ior lNe* Yo*: l.lernarional Univesit€s Pre$, l9s8l): and,
to a lesser exl€nr, CEsor Sebba lThe Drcah o.f D.scanes lcarbondale and Edwardsville:
Sourhein Illinois Universily Press, 19871), see rhe entnety ol Descaies's pbilosophical projd
inscribed in the early reieiences to the dEan- Needless to say, betw€en the two exrenes,
innumerable lariations and posnions *nt. For sohe ove.vie*s ol th. crnical rerraln, see
Geneliive Rodis-Lesis, Z'o?lvte .le Dd.ades (P^ri! \tin, l9?l), 45-59, 448 5,1.
20- While rcf€rences to the dftam occur i. fte Costarior?r P.irara. (X, 216-18), {harevei
tert Descanes nay hare wrirten has disappeared- Scholas aie thus obtiged lo tollow fie
veBion civen by Adien Bailler i^ \is Vie ./e Monsiet Des-Carr?s {lPais: Hortbenels, l69li
.p1. Ceneva: SIalkine, 19701, I, 8l-86), rcprodlced by Adan and Tanhery, Oe0B, X, l?9-
88. Baillefs texl can be civen considerable credence, howse., since whal conld be called nis
biqraphical nelhod often consn$ 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
considerable imerprelive auendon. See, i. parricular, Poulel, "Le sonce"; SeblJ^, Drean;
Lesin, D€aar, 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:' hte 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; Rob€rta Recht, The Foun-
dations 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!
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 exr€nsion 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
152 NOTES TO PACES 5s-58
ol votries ltoutbilons, cl. Le Monde, Xl, tA 2lt Ptihciples oJ Philosoph, lX 2.11-44:
VIU-I, 49 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 ohj€cl 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
in its atlenpts to apprehe.d" thal objsl thrcugh a pr@e$ ol sequenlial apprcximarions
rnnannel Kanl, Criti4r€ o/JzrlEnent, ft- l. H. Beinard (New York: Hatner Press, l95l),
86-99
21, As Descanes slates €h4here, "Cod alone is rhe anlhor of sery movenenl in rne
Notld" (Le Monde, Xl, 46).
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 l€dilion 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: Princ€ron U.ilersil] Pre$, 19851, 256-60) rhrcugh Rodis Lewh, ,bezvlp
de D.scofls, 3ll ll, and Slsan Boido (Irp F/,sht to Objttitiry: Esals on Ca.tesianisn
zld C!/trre lAlbany:SUNY Press, 198?1,73-82). Nonetheless, il seeds !o me rhat Descartets
analvsis merely poinrs, in a ssonelrically insDn€d fashion, to a zone ol noninleredion belween
two God-siven, hence pe.f€cl, facuhies: "Since God is not d€ceitful, th€ facllly ol k.osi.s
tnar H€ gave us cannol fail, ,ot ewn the J@tltr oJ the dll" lPlihciples, tx-2, 4a: fll-t,
2ti my enphasis). As a Esult, to follow Alqui€, L d4.o!rerle, "1he Fourlh Meditarion did
not conplerelt dculpate Ood, nor did it lully sround mn\ r6ponsibility" {236). As for hh
obj€cdons to the Mldt,tio,r, the ever-rerlcit.a Cassendi ta*es rhe opposite lack: "The
tauh seems ro li€ les wnh tbe f.ee will io( nor judgins cotrectly lhan with lhe understandins
foi not indicarins corecrly" (vll, 311)- Ci also Cotlfied wilhelm Leibniz, "l do not adnil
rhar eiios are no.e dependent upon the will than upon rhe ifiell.cr" (ctiti.al ThouEhts on
the Cenetul Pa of the P ciples of Des.o es 11692l, in L. Loenker. ed., Philoephi.dl
Papes and Lette5lchi.aEo: Chicaco Unive$ity PE$. 19561, ll, 6l7lf).
26, Amone those ciirics Nho read Descades's*ork as more driven by the need-negativelx
as ir weE-to conrain eiior than by the posidve desire ro stou.d t.uth as crtnude, s*
especially Ron.noNski. a1l/rr/bn, 159, 186, and passinr and Altnie, La de.ourerte, r'1-31,
and passin.lt h ahovolth norins tnar 1ne najor wo.k of Descartes! mo$ prominenl successor
in F€nce. Malebranche\ a, €chet.he de la ftti6, is fnd^renlally orsaniz€d as a reflection
on $ay. o o\e-cone rh. .h,ef oblacle ro rurh. erro.
2?. Maudce Blanchor. ,.par r!-deA (Parisr callinard, 1973). Se aho Jacqu€s Dedda,
"Pas:' etunnd 14 (1976), rrt-2r'.
28, while rhe or'sinal 1619 poAk experience nay have had lilde ro do (ar lea in lhe eves
ol some critiqncs, most.orably thal ofAlqui6) wnh Descarles's subsequent nednalons cadied
out in Holland after 1628. rhepn@lor-i.space ofrhe stw€-healed rcon recure as the narrative
selrins lor borh ths Dkcou6e 6e Meditotioa, as when Descarles has some touble
doubtins lhat he is "h€re. sndns ^nd
close to the tue. dtess€d in a housecoaa'(lx-I. 14! vrl,
r8), or wh€n he demon mres tbe meltin8 of tbe Nax pi*e by putling i1 near the iire 'eeen
while I am speakins ld,u /o4rol1" (lX-I, 23; Vlt, 30i cr. Ch^ttes Adam, vi. et odva de
D6ca es: Elude histotique, in Oewres d. D.s.arta. ed. Adam and'tbnnery, xll,
130). The
NOTES TO PA6ES 59 60 t53
cozine$ 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 Philosophi.at Pap.6, ll, 1044
4sfi} The proxirotems of Beins in rhe Carlesia. sysl€m is also coeendy dored by Hegel:
"The dena.d vhich rsts at the basis of Desca(esh Easoni.ss 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 as the simple immediacy of ,eins-at-hmevith ne is the wty
sane thing as *hat is called Beins. ... Thouehl, rhe Notiod, rhe spirnlal, the seli-conscious,
is shar is ar rom? wnh i6e6 and ns opposir€ n conraioed in whar is qtended, spdial,
separaled, not at home wifh itself" (Ceorg Wilbeln Fri€dricn 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.guish€s
Descartes borh tom scholasric lias
and fron thos€ ol his contemporarx Willian Ha.vey
(Etud6 su. le fiI.
de la pas@ nidiarale .la6 la Jomation du srstetue co/Esie, lPa(n.
vrin, 19301, 5l 100).
10. Cl. Gueronlt, Da.aia' P,tiloropr, l, 30, ?3, 99-100, and passin. The netaphor ol
n€thodical 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 proc€durc is also exte.siv€ly
analyz€d hy Bordo F,srr lo Objaltvi0 flom a iemini pempetive in te.ms of a purificadon
rirual, whose uhimate hisro.ical horib. n $e "nasculidization of thoughf' enacted by rhe
sev€nEenth centur, discouBe of objeclive scienc€ (16-i? and pa$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 subsequ€nr, 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
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$ophe, I, t'l
t8; and Cuslav. cohen, Ec.tvains rancais e, Holtande ddre Lt peniarc noitia du xvlt
!?./e [Paris: Champion, 19201, 412-13) are left Nith pr€cions litde to go on, erce ror the
 NOTES TO PACES 6I.6]
fas rhai Descarles did indeed travel ro ltalv in 1622 Perhaps a tavelogue such as Monlaigne\
exisr and has yd to be discolered. ln anv case, Monlaisne\ J,"r,r/ was not ver known in
Descadeis tine and so could have had no iniluence on him save lhroueh the allusions nade
:ls.ln 1644, 164?. and 1648, For derails or tbese trips. see Baillet /i? lt'
215_48 321_
30, 318-50; Adam, /€, 432 75: and Cohen, E ridins ltuncais sl9 85.635-47
16 Discoue, \1.31.
17. Which h nor at aU lo inply thar Descaites hinself h unaware ol ihe problemr lr n
nor rhe Dtr.ozrsp nor lhe MedtlurD,s, nor elcn the comedv he wrote lor Chrnrina or Sweden
(see Xl, 66r-62), not his ficlional di^logte. The Seorch lot Ttrth 6!i the Prirciples of
Prlosopr], the mosl purely philosophical ol hn rvorks and a work *ritten in the lradirional
style ot the trealne, which in his 1647 prelace ro the French lranslation he enioins his reader
ro read 'in ns entirery jun as ir n weE a ,oEl (lx-2, ll; mv cmphasis) Cl. the renark
anribured ro Pascal by Anloine Me.jol: "The lateM Pascal caued Cartesianhn the Ronance
of Nattrre, sonelhins tike the storv ol Don Quirote " (PP,sd.t ed L Laflma' t' A J'
Krailsh€imer {Harmoodsuorthr PenBUin, 19661, 356)
3. Monlesquieu's Cmnd Tour
I Nornand Doiron. fa de vovaEer: pour une dalinition du ricit de vovage a I ipoque
cl.ssiquc," Po4rqle 73 (Februarv 1938), 83 108
2. tbid,, 85.
3. The iexr oi Montesquieu\ talelosuc vas lirsl publnhed bt Baron Albert de Mon_
tesqien voyaaes de Mort4422! (Bordeaux: counouilhou, 1394-96)' well over a ceDturv
and a hall^s aiter the triD took place. Unle$ 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 Ctiti.al Biosraph! loxfotd:
Oxiord unirersiry Pre$, 196l), 136, l7l-?4; Piefe BaftiEre' Un cland ptuti,cial: Cha/14
Loris de Secondol, Barcn .le Lo Bride et de Monl"r4l,e! (Bordeaux: Deloas, 1946), l53if;
and J. Roben Lo{ Motrr?so,i, (New vort: TNavne, 1968) 24
t, Oo rcpured cbanees in Montesquieus political lhinkine, see Paul Janel, Eirroire de
lo science politique dans vs rcppo s aw. ld no/ale lPatis: Felix Alcan, 1887), 1I 468-77;
Robert Shackleron, La eenese de l'Espti! .l4lois," R.tte d Hisbne l,Gtoite de la France
52 (1952),42s-38j Henri Barckhausen, "lntoduction, t/o!as6 de Montesquieu xii Feqtb'
lished in his Mo,i€sq,,?r. Ses idd6 et s4 oeur6 d'aptus t6 papiets de La Btede lP^tis:
Hachette, r9o?l); Badreddine ( DLodence et obelulistu dans !'oeuvle de Mantesqujd
Robe Deralhe, " Inrodudion, ' De /'erprt des /ort bv Mon_
(ce.eva: Droz, 1960), 15? ??i ^ssen,
tesquieu (Paris: Carniei, 1973), iii vii and Sante A viselli and Alexandie L Aoprimoz'
''V;yase fi esprir chez Monicsquieu," USF Lansua'e Q,a e r 25 (no' l_2, Fall wi e(
1986),12 Al$ 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
v;raEe The Spn o! the LaNs \Le Ptasident des Brcsses et !2 vowse en ltotie au dix'
niine ^ndsiCae tceoe'a: Slatkine, 19811, ll7-29), On rhe vovaBe as a possible cause ot
Mon&squieu's clinatolosical ideas, se Robed ShacLleion, The Elolution of Mon6quieu!
Theory olClinate, Rev,ptt.mationale.lephilosophierasc.r-4(1955),31739;andMiche-
line FortHaris. 'Le s€jour de Monresqnicu en Italie (aont Ir28 jlillet l?29)i chronolosie
et commenranes, ' S vEC 127 (19?,1), 190 96.
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.
lO. Dean Mccannell, Th. 'foulist: A
New Theory of the l,"ritrd Cldss (New York:
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 "Sishts.es: 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 Burs€ss 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). r21-
42, The popnlaily 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 voyas€s 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
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
13. The classic rroblen of perspectivhn in the Pe6t , a.te.r has most rsentlv been
addEssed by Tzveran Todorov, "Refl€xions 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 p€6,,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 PercyAdams, 'P€rception and the Eighreenlh-Centurt Tiateler: The Eieht@hth Century:
heor! and Interyretotioh 26 11985), ll9-5?: and Barbara Matie Stzffotd, l/olage into Sub'
T
sta"e: Ai, Sciene, Naturc, ond the llfusxated Tlarel A.count, 1760-lU0 lcaDbridCe.
Mds.: MIT Press, 1984)-
14- paDer d€lileed ar the Modern Lansla8e Associalion con_
In an as yer unpublished
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.'
15. Cf, Harris. r" rd;o!. 103.
16. Cl. 5, l?28, eport or the French ./u/gC d'drlzs in Milan, Leblond, to
the October
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
 N'/TF,S TO PAGES 63-70
156
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 cou.ls. and that I had worled hard to make mysell caoable of such nksiont
(Otuy6.onplit6 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€, i is no doubt because by rhal point, rhe satic cartography oi eolernnental
natures has had lo confront rbe tenporal prcblen ol hisrory, Cf. Elie Carcasso.ne,..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 philo-
sophiqte er Fnnce (1610-171r,/ (Parn: cuethner, t9l2); and Reni Eriemble, Z,Oierr pri
lonphique tu Xvul,siicle (Paris: Cenfe de documcntarion universitane, 1957-58). For an
accessible and r€adable compilation ofrhe Jesuit Relations fron China, see lsab€lle and Jean-
Louis vissiaF, eds., aplr€J 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
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 inno-
vatilene$ 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 Montesqui€u'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 wh€n 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 "peopl€s 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.
NO'fES TO PACES 7t tl t51
22. Civen Montesquieu's alrirudinal penchant. acriric such asvohair. in hiscodn€nlari€s
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
sut quelques ptin.ipales n6D4 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 t'(Connetone stI'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&y€s
conplat* XlX, 190). Inrerestinsly enough. Momesquieuk home province is cascony.
24. Readers of tbe traveloBue hale ofte. been laken aback by the l€xfs dryness as weu
as by the apparenr iopassiviry ol MonEsquieu,s rcactions ro shal he ses. Cf. Jean Ehmd,
Montesquieu. qitique .! a (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 Ladb€rt of November 9, l?:8, MontesqDieu
oifes a social concomitanr fo. his view fron the iowr: ..Here is how I ravel: r a
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 ey€s 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
Montesquieu\ se.sitivity ro arr during his lrip to lraly, see Efta:d, Mont*quieu, .rhique
d'art and Batriire, "Lerpe enc€ italie.ne de Montessnie!:' Riebta di tetetutule tuodene
(January March 1952), 15 28.
27. Pierre Barriare, "Monr€sqlieu voyaseur," in.4.rad, Cons.is 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,
lt4, 185. On rhe que$ion ol Montesquieu\ Ca.r€sianism (nediated by Malebranche as we
.s by Fontenelh), see Battine, Un Etand prcrincial, 1t2-tli E, Bu$, .,Monlesquieu und
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 orh€r side, Ceolges B€nrekassa 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 ,,rn€rl"
(Mes Pensees, tt, t54U, "/p/6
32. Among the panoply of proposed snes are Santa TrinitA-dei-Monri, rhe pincian hiu,
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
 NOTES TO PACES '73-?6
NOTES TO PACES 7G79 I59

dans Rome au xvtlf.sii!1e,, in Raymond Trousson, ed.. ThiM et Jieures du siacle da 19. In what is i.dnbitady de most ri8orous inquiry inro rb€ p.oblen of Moni.squieu's
Luni*es: Melantes oJle.ts it Rotahd Mo ier loeneva: Drcz, tgsr)t,243). histoncisn, Suanne Gearhai! denonsfates 1hal ahhoush the principl€ seems to Ep.es€nt
Frangois Maximilien Mjssoo, Nouw rolase d,Itdli.Jait .n ],anree r6as (De the rel.Iionship of 4ch governnent ro liorir is vnat permits a eovernm@r to reorcdue
_-31, H^Et ,
itserl, rc exisl in rime, ro have a iisrory {1'he Op.n Bornddtr ol Hbtot and Fiction
Dia un nalicun. Sjye notud.ntun @etuh, bibtiothecatun, tuueeotuh, &.. Notitia; lPrincelon: P.incelon U.iversity Pre$, 19841, 138), borh despotic a.d republican rorms ol
nnE lares in itinetutio itali.o col/e.ra? (parh, t?02); Etienne de Sitho&rre, vorale gdermenr arc shovn to iall ouiside hislory: the foioer as a collapse idto the o€re "cirum-
de F.ance.
d'Espdsne, de Po usal et d halie, du 22 atrit 1729 au 6
Jawiet]7.ro (pa.n. t730): Le par sranrialily" of even$ (14? .49)i rhe la$er as nreoverably silualed in the disrant past" (r50-
JeanBiprnreLabat.totapc.pnL:paEwetcnttotierpa,r.,tllo);(harte\deBro$e5.rzdr.\ 52). As for Montesqnieu's prelerr€d lorn ol Aolernnenr, rhe nonarch, ns detroin€d bis-
lannprc, d ttotie en t-ta et c, /?0 (pan\, r7a9), to.eDh tarcme de I aldrde, /,.r,re r,; toricity aho sirudres it as an inremedia.y lorn, a degeneiate version of republicanhm shich
Francais e" tlalie (Patis, 1769); Citbed Burnet, ,sone aelds .ontainins in lum degenerares into despotnn: "ln this way, a concepr ol history tbus lends uhinarely
yened n6t reh kabk in Svrc.latl Lal!. Fnnce
ai @.ou ;f ehai
and Ce.nary (Amsrerd^n, rca:l,l in Montesquie! to doninate bistodcitx 10 linit or !o subordioate the ditfercnces and fie
Joseph Addism, Reua*r D S?wrul po/ts hab, &., ih cootiadictions wirhin nature or lhe origin" (lJ?).
oJ leB t7\l, t702. t7O3 lLondo;.
the
1705)l Tobias Snouer, Ttwts thtoush Frun e and lat (London, t?66). E.tward cibbon,s !O. As Cearhart rishrly ohser!6, "The origin h rhe none.r 1nar nakes histo.y inrellisibler
rralelosue ol 1764 was only recenrly published as Girrors Jow*t on eqqa all hisro.y nust be conrinuous virh an orisin il n is to be history and not sone unintellisible
t n aoil,
ed. C- Bon.ad il-ondon: Nelson, t96t). Joha.n wolfsane lon coethet process oi randoo chanee. Bul rhousn ir nakes bistory irtellicible, the o.igin aho nakes it
tdr?,i.r? Red;
of 1786-88 appeared in vaiious bils and piftes n.rir ils tusr in"g.ur p.tri"u,io, redlndant the nere illustrarior ol what was alr@dy iopUcnly pr€senr al the beginning"
S*,,e;.i
in 1862. As they becane available, the earlier of rhese rmvelosu* $Ned as guideboo*Jfor
" (Open Boun lary, \5a-59),
late. travelers, who oien carried rhen in rheir baseage. Se piere Laub.ier, il-es guides 4r. On rhn prohlen, see Grosrichardh exceUenl discusio., Stucture du sdruil,39-16.
de
voyages au ddbut du Xvll. sidcle,,, ,SruEC 12 (1965), 269 125; 42. Fo. CeoBes Benreka$a, the bistoncd cominsency ol rhe Roman changes in aove.n-
Ludwis Schud, /rar..,/erre,
ih 17 und 18. Jahfiuhde (v\enna and Munichi Schroll, t9s9)i Hermann Hadei Ze prdsrdp,r menl, as Monlesquieu describes rhen, carries out. deconstrudion ofthe "Ronan mytb" in
de ,rorses,. and Rolsset, ..Se prcnener dans Rone,,, 219 50. Nsertheles. pohical rhin*ing: "Hedcelorth theE is no lonser any Daradigmatic and sinplilyins olisin,
as Shackl€r.n
poinrs o!t, "if one excludes th e speciatized Didtiun ltati.un
of Monrfarcon, iModsquieuli blt only nultiple iracruEs oi history oll oi which arc bor. difiicuh qDeslions.... Rome, rhe
J rte iFr ,r-avel clcounr .ince rhe Jo,,,,/ dp ro,aa, ot Mon,d,Ane ro be srir,en by a object ol a 'work of nournins.' also en$s as a mauer in histoty; The Spitit oJ the Lows,
| renchnan ol hEnD ctaacnp. tA anaat Biog,aphr gt, empha.i! Rome\ tonb' (tz porr4za 120-?lft.). As for the celebmred impo.lance oi the Brnish
added,
34. Anong the nosr developed examDles ot rhh ropq G rh€ one underraken constitulion.l model wirhin the framesork of Tre sptl, o/ rre dgr, BenEka$a also con
bv Frend in
ciiti.aton oad h, Drroatpat\, s.r XXt.6a -0. the a emor to vkw clt o, R;me,, par vincidgly demonsfates Mo.tesquieu's conprehension ol the Enslhh sirlario. wirh a Iarser
in irs "sinuhaneity', and not jnsr as accunutate.r ruins Larin paladism, shere ir fisures Es rh€ "NN Rone in rhe wesr" iibid., 291-96 and
siles Freld ore ot his dost susgestive
analogies for rhe srrucluE ot rhe unconscious i. its unrepres.nrabilily. t08-20)_
Mo.tesquieu\ Rome
would har. been an esprially junbted one, sinc€ systematic archeolosical 43- SeeMe e Perkins, "Monresquieu on National Porer ad<l l.teinational Rilaky, ' S /EC
exca;aion ot lhe
ancimt cily did nor besin tor anorher cenrury Gee Harris, Ze #jo,r 152). 238 (1985), I 96, who also pershrendy alisns MonresqDieu's internarionalhm wnn the pluraliry
35. Tbe text ol the .locunent n reproduced at fie end of .,Of of "ansles of vision" Monlesquieu deploys in aporoachins his lopic (Z 18, 46, t0, 83, 85, 88,
Vanity,,, Elra'),r |lI, ix,
999-r00q and the $oy ot irs difficult procurenenr n reconted in rhe Ta@ 9t,92).
Jo;ro!, t29_ 44. The conplicity between lhe science ol Beosraphy and oiharish n probably ageless,
30. Near thc end of his lite, Monlesquieu wrole to an unidenrified
addre$ee rha. his ay in
Rone some lwentyjile yeas earlier renained ..the happiesr dme of Maunce Bouguereau DEsented the fiisr national adas of Fance, Le thedtre Jroac.|s (Torrs,
ny lit€ and the ;ine 1594) to Henii lV as an aid to fte kine\ tax colleclins and nilirary canpaisnins (I thank
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, Ton Conley for rhis reieE.cei. Richelie!\ ideal oi "n.lural frcnrie.s" and Louis XM
_, l?48 (1r45)i December 2, subsequ€nl conbinalion of varfa.e and legal na.ipnlalion to securc the ben po$ible borders
1748 0148, ll50); Drcember 28, l?4s (|50, I5l); lanlary
9, t?49 (1162 63)t January 10, lor France lestify ro the ielado. belwen nalional unity and cartosraphic repEsenrarion (Ci.
1749 (116r; Janudy ll, t?t9 (ll?5); March 4, t?.19 (1t96
97): April2, 1749 (12t5); April2l, Bruno-Henn Vay$iaE, "'La'carte de Fiance," and Mneile Pastoureau, "Feuilles d'arlas,"
1149 (t221 28Ji Ma, 20, 1749 (l2lt i2); June ?, l?49 (!239 ,t0) (all
pase ounbeB Erer to 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
17. A very sinilar descriplion of Sajnt pciefs is used by Kanl to qplain the notion ot desne to lnify fte ofien dGparale ieudal holtlines ol a royal family inro rhe ceocraphically
the stblime. Ctitiq@ o! Judcenat, tr. !. H. Bernard {New yo.k: Hatner pre$, tgst), coherent whole of a nationita&.
90-9r. .15. On 1ie pr€po.derance ol liquid inageiy in Monresquieu, see Corrado Rosso, n/or-
38. Cl. Althusser: .1hat nan lho set oft arone and trnty
dhcovere.t the new tands ot t$qrieu holalista: dalle le$i al "bonheur" (Pisa: Colialdica, 1965). l0l loi and Jaoe
histoty" (Montesqtieu, t22): ot Ernsr Cassner, who .efe^ to Monresquieu
as ,.lhe tun lhinter Mclelland, Metaphor in Montesquieu\ Thoretical W.nines," SyEC 199 (1931), 205-:4.
to srasp and ro expre$ dearly the concept ot,ideal ryDes, in hi6roty,, (The phitosoph!
oJ Mclelland isespeciallycogenr in arguing Montesquieu\ sysrematic Eprise othh eady scientific
t.|':p".1 kt:t!@!hL rr. F (oe n dnd J. peleso\e
lp,rnleron. p,inceron LnireF y pre$, work on the "hydraulics" of plarl lile in the later political analosies buih a.ound the idea
lusll, 210'. Al,o,e Rene HLbe,r. td norbnoL devenir hnroriqLe dan. ja phrto.ophF oi "channels of pow€r" (203-16). li shonld be added rhat ihe eco.omic Drinciple oi MonreF
de
Monresqjien: Revue de hdtdphtsique et de norate 46 (tgjgt, 581 6tO_ quieu! rllid nechanics, sheEby ev€ry displac€nenr is conpensated by another, recalls the
 NOTES TO PACES 30.32
sinilar eco.ony of dhplacemedr in Descanes\ physics, as tJ,pified mon nanirenly in his
lheory of vofrices Gee chaprer 2, n. 2l),
46. On Montesquieu's use ol tavel relarions in his wort, see Muriet Dodds, aes /.rs d.
vtlagd r,"r.?s de I Esprn des lois .te Mont?squjeu \Patisl Honord champion, t929),
47, "One eli{t ol Monresquieu\ hisrory of rhe French nonarchy is that n tends ro
undcrmine the rcry specilicity ol lhe principlcs he defends so visoiously eheNnere, , Cearharr.
Opea Bounddry, r5l. Arso Benrekassa, who conctudcs his lensthy study by noling thar
Monresquieu\ "ambirion" in rhe pret*e to The Spn, ol the aarr lo s€e hntory ,,benr,,ro
beine but the consequences" ol his principles (tl, 229) ends by ..beinC ineluctably Be6ed,"
deanins rhat his principles have been benr ro the seqlen.e of hkory tla porli4,e, 155),
48. Viselli and Anprinoz oddly misinlerpret lhe quorarion tron the,,l",erd as sienaling
lhe besinnins ofrhe vircilian voyace (47), Perhaps David Hude*as rishl to chi<le Moniesquieu
lbr rh€ obscurny oi this quotation pur in ptace oi a conctusion: ,.t find a nunber of peopte
as perplex.d as I ah in rying ro gue$ rhc meaning of rhe lasr paragraph in your work:
haliatn, holiad...no dalbt to. lack ol knowinc whar ir is you are a udins to (Lerrre d
Monlesquieu, April 10, l7r9 lMasson Ilt, 12221).
49. One cannor help bur be $ruck br rhe abruprness with which Monresquieu cn.ls rhe
lFarise, diopping his nairarive in rhs middle of lhe Mi.ldle fues, an abrlprness of endins
reminncenr of Stendhal (who, incidenrallx was a grear r€ader and adnirer or Monlesquieu:
"lfs nor exacrly rove rhar I have tbr Monresquieu, n is \cneetion' lyolase .lans Ie didi:
Mltroires d toutisle ttl Masperc, 19811, 69). Bur in rhe case oi Montesquieu, rhe
abrupt cndinA"nberEys less anlParis:
aenhetic .xperinenlarion rhan hh desne to sel our ot rhe rcxi,
Io be done with il. This exasperarion ar being caucht up in a seeninely endtess lexr, whose
exDanse h such as to render hopcle$ 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
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
(193r).
50. Lerer lo Codelroy de Secondat, D{enber 28, t7.t4 (Masson l. loj2 5l).
51. "Te amcnl de Monresquieu,, (Masson lt, 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 5ji 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\ in! 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
NOTES TO PACES 83-89
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 viU.se ofMortesquieu, you can stiu today peieive tne ruins ofa chateau lhar croqns
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
srl I'EsDril des lois, xXX. 441).
55.Ol lhe innunerable assessnents ol Monrsquieut impacl on Evolutionary tni.kins
and lesislation, see especially Be.nard Crcethuys€n, 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 (Not-
nan: Univemiry ol Oklahona Press, 1983); Judirh N. Sbklat, Montesqritu lo\totd. Oxtotd
Universily P.ess, 1987), lll 26; and Paul M, Spurlin, .,Liniluence de Monl€sqnieu 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. P€destrirn 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 J€an Starobinski has eloquenrly indicaFd, Rousea!\ search for botb mo.al and
physical iixiry, hn d€sne 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€.c€s
to Rou$eau aie ro tbis edirion a.d will be indicated only as neded by rirle, volume, and
pase lunbei. with sone nodifications, E.slish r..ndations are laken frcm 1ne folloNins:
A Disco,re on lneq"alitt ri Maurice Cranston (Haimondsvorth: penguin. 1984); Eaila
tL Barbara Foxl€y (lglli rpr. Londonr De.t, 1974)i rre Co,?$&rr ti J. M, Coben tHar-
no.dsworrh: Penguin, 1953): The Rerqies oIa Solitary ti John Contd Ftercher (192?i rpl.
New Yoik: Burr Fran*lin, l9?l), Unle$ nol€d, all olher Enslish fanslaiions ot Rou$eau are
4. lmnanuel Kant, Crt'?,p r/ Jtdcenent, rr, !. H_ Betnatd (Nw yorkr Hafner pE$,
r95 r ), ?3 andpassin. 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// ravel€rs of being liars den if and in tacl prisely because
sone of th€m 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
Prcss, l 2).
162 NOTES TO PACES 89-9]
6- On the seniotic iFpon of nanes as rigorouslt desisnadve blt indete.ninate $ith
regard to sense, see Jean-Francois Lyotma, The DifJaeh.l: Phrares n Diprr? (Minneapolisl
universitr of Min.esora. 1988). 32 58,
7. On 1he seneral quesion ol aulhenticity as rhe value by which a voyase is judged, I
reler the reader once more ro Dean Maccannell, The lo,tist: A New Theor! oJ the Leisurc
C/zsr (New York: Schocked, 1976).
8. This is not tbe o.ly place Rousseau advances so sNeeping a condemnarion ol travel.
Conpare the following passase iiom the pref.ce 10 Na..6s?r .,The Crusades. commerce, rhe
discovery of the Indies, naviCation, long voyases, and slill other caus€s I donl want ro so
in1o, hav€ nai.lained and augnented the diorder Everyrhine thal facilitates connunicarion
betveen one nation and anorher sprcads.ol th€n virrles but deir cines, and in every nation
n ah€rs the custons which arc proper to tben cUnales and to rbe constilution ol tben
sovernnen$" (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
Jedn-J@ques Rotseau 26 (193?), 7-281- And on Rou$eau\ dtensive but selecrive use of
ethnosraphical inlornation rron contempo.ary travsl narrariles, see Chinad, L Anarique et
le ftw *otique dans la iftdature fuancaise at XylI. et la Xv I, siale (P^tis. Dtoz. 1934).
l4l-65j and noie recendy, Tzvelan Todorov, "La connahsance des aulres: ThCories er pra,
tiq\es:' LEspd criateut 25 (.o. 3: Fall 1985), 8-r7.
9. This relesal is not unique ro Rou$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 sci€nlis1s and phi
bsopnem wilh spdfic Esearch .sendas. Typical ol such journeys w€E 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 lunii.es 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$hetics, see aarbara Maia Sratfotd, vorose irto S"bstanrc:
Att, Sciace, Nature, and the lusnated fravelAeount, 1760 /8?0 (Camb.idse, Mass.: MIT
Press, 1984). As ior Rousean, rhe Dhilosopher's jou.ney would tbus seem to pose sonewhat
of a .louble bi.d. On the one hand, one can only be a .,real" philosophe. as opposed to a
"philosophe de ruelle lsalon-dwellins philosopher]" ii one raveh; on the o1her hand, one
should alrcady be a philosopher in order ro ravel.
10. Second Difo!.r?, lll, 214.
12. Far lron beins lhe aristofatic desisnation ol an ontitled prop.rty, tbe su.name of
Rousseau m.Ely su8cests a featuE of sone ancesfal physiognomy: red hair,
13. 60 back to yolt count.y, .etu.n to the religion of your fathers, foilow it in the
sincerityolyolrhea and do not leave it a8ain.... When you *ant to lisren to yourconsciencei
a tbousand ehpty obstacles sill disappear a1 rhe sound of rour loice. Yo! wiu leel rhat n
NOTES TO PACES 93 97 l6l
is an inexcusablc presumption, given rhe unceiainty in which we are, to pioress a rclision
other than the one in which you are born, and a fahehood nor ro pracrice sincerety rhe one
you piofess. lf you deviare, you deprive yourslf ol a sreai excuse betoE rhe r.ibunat ot the
soveeisn jud8e. Will He not ratber pardon lhe erro. inio which yoD wcre born than rhe one
you dared to cboose for yoursell?" (Eutla IV, 6ll). ln the sixtll ol his Lettes l.rita de la
,o,ld3,e Rou$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
preierence to rhe sovernmenr o/ D] colrrlr" (lll, 811; emphash added).
Heni Couler eloquently stares, 'lhe idea of Erurn is aftirmed more rhan rhe idea
,4, As
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,
87).
15. Amone rece.r analyses of ftn pedacosical paiadox, see especiaUy Hara.i, S.e,,.rcs
ot the lhaCinarr: Th@tiziu the Ftehch Enlishte"nent llthac^, N,Y,: CorneU Unile(ily
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 Cnn atolost ti Cayari Cnakavo y Spilak (BahimoE:
Johns Hopkins Univesiry Pre$, 1974), Ceorses Ma\, Roersedu pat lui-tuChe (P^ris:
l4l-57t
Seuil, n.d.), 129 5l; Jear Starobinski, "Jean Jacques Rou$eau er le ,a!il de la iCrlexion,"
in tbel 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 ltn.),
266 9l:
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$,
1982), 9? l22j Danielle Monret-CIavie, "La iemne comme natute moire dans I oeuvre de
Jea!-racques Rousseau,'in Croupe de Recherhes lnterdisciplinane d'Elude des Fennes, aa
lmm et la no
('tanlotse: Publications de I'Universit€ de Toulouse Le Mirail, 1984), 59-
?6i Ceorges Benrekasa, ap.orcentn.lte et reentiqu.: Mary6 des Ltniarcs (Patis: P^yor,
o. ol political content, see Joel Schwartz, The s@ol l,oliti.s o! Jeah Jacqtes
the level
Rors"a, (Chicaeo: thiveKily ol Chicaso Press, 1984). On Rou$eau! radicalizins inlluence
on prcsressile wonen in rbe late eishteenlh century, sdism norNithsran.line, se Cila Max
"RousFauyAntifeminism' R€coosidered," 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 Burs€lir, .,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.
Keohane, "'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.
 164 NOTES TO PACES 9? IOI
NmES TO PACES tO3 t0? r65

19, The sirualion is conplicared, ot course, by the fad that

the leacher is 4or Enile! 'imentahy" oi happi.ess, see Robett M^!zi, L idae dL boaheut dans ta tiftit4ttre et ta pensAe
farhe!. althoush, to the exrent that he is a substiture tarher and is esenlally
reated as one, Jtancaise ou XVII. sie.b \Pads: Armand Colin, 1985), 125-j5, 330 513.
rhe h JLo him,etr a qmuta!run ot rhe rarher 26. The bone caonot def€nd itselfasainsl some unspecilied enemy trod wnhout or wnhin.
'eJcher
20. He is, in iact, at the very heart ot the otl.o, jf we Eoenber lhe introduction ro Tne Ldtre ar d'Aleftbe stt /a sp"c/acld (1758) could be studied in rhis context. since n
RoD$eau's a.licle lor the E .rcloptdle on polilical econony: ..The word
Economv or o& idvokes a defense of Rolsseau\ own iathe.land against a plot hatched tron vithout bur
onomv, i: derived rrco o/{o\, a hod.e, and rofor, as and meanr o-isin. y
ort; lhe s..e inte.ded to desfoy frcn withi. (rhe eslablnhnent ot a theate. in Ceneva). The rh@r h tbat
and le3itinate governmenr ot rhe house tor rhe comnon good of rhe whole fanilu Th. of the desrruction oi rhe very boundary separalins withour fion wilhin, wnh tbe encroachnenr
meanne or rhe krm rd rhen e ended .o rhe eo\e,nnenr ot ,har
Ered tadrt). rhe Srqre. Io of a ioEien powe. (France) i. cenaa and lhe lan€r's subsequedt subservience ro that powe..
distinsuish rhese two se.ses ot rhe word, the tauer is ca ed And in the subsequenl a"rrres dtites de ta noatdsne, Rousseau fidds himselt in rhe even
senerut ot potiticd! ecanof,y, atu
Ihe former dodevic or padiculai economy. The ftsr only is .thcused in rhe prefnt srranser position ol having to tleie.d his toyalty ro fie srate and religior ot Ce.eva after
;icle,
On donesric ecooomx see Fani\ Farhd. (|1,24ti tanstation modjfied from .4 Dd.oa4" haviq been coddenned by borh. Respondins ro this perverse atact by ihe hone asainst one
on Political Ecoaonr,i^ The Sociot Co"ta.l and Dis.ourses, rr. C. D. H. Cote yort: of ils own constitures what Rousseau calls i.my final dury io my country,' (lll, 89?). On rbe
Duuon, 19501, 285). Despite the disclaimer. a ercar deal ot the ensuins adicle
[N4
is devored lo S*Gs identity of Rousseau, see Francois Jost, J"u,-.racr?r6 Rotetu Sub*: Etude sw e
esablhhine the difierences and sinilarities berween rhe fatnq of a ta;ily peten4ali6 et e pase lFtibolis: Editions Unive6itanes, t96tt, ad Rouwau et to Suisy
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 (Neuchalel: Cdffon, 1962). For a more nuanced discussion, see Starcbinski, iiuecart rcman
the father who d€iin6 the hone, a snuarion reinforced by lne descdprion esqtet in La trcnsparcn.e et /'ob'a.la 39:l-414: and Marrina Rudes, ..Une paria difticile:
in book I in rhe
Co4&sto,s, of Rou$eau\ motherle$ childnood hone (Co,t$ions. t.1-12.t.
I
Cin.vra.ella corlhpond€nza di J€n Jacques Rousseau (17s4-rj59);' Le ore di p.ovin ia
. 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
15 (no. 5?/58: Ausust Septenber 1984). 5? 63.
Awnrurcs de 2?. One nisht nore, in Eeards ro this c.itique ot dependency, rhe hish jncid€nce of
rAahaque, ed. r,\bert Cahan (paris: Hache e, 192?), l, 36s. neraphos of bindins in E/i/€. Bindins (lit€ tbe dependency for which il n so oten a
22 The child, doomed m repear the tutor\ imasinarx can do no norc rnan inacine n€raphot sems to be conri.ually underrood by Rousseau as sonerhins nesadv€, if not as
secondhand" (Harari, S.?tr?rior lt2). nesativny i1fli wnoess bis famous attack asainn rhe use of ssaddtinE clolhes because thev
21, Thn "incoryoralion,' ot lbe tarher n one oi rhe key concepr tstricl the child\ liberty of movement 0V 253-56), While therc n no space here ro plrsue
or psychoanatysG. My
analysn olthe p.oblen has accodinsly been intormed by a readins of Freld,
especiauy rorea a deBiled Eadins ol rhe binding nelaphos jn t-ila n cao be sumisetl that mucb nore is
antl Taboo, The Stardad Edition o.f the Conptete psrchotoqiet tlotks ar stake in thed tban a simple question of child caE.
\herc^lt* teleted
to Se), tr. JSfachey (Londo.r Hoeanh, 1955 ?3), xllt, especialt, t,lo_6t; .,ponsciipl,. 28. The relqant passaees can be found id Co,/ersiors, I,6.l6t Rewier l, lo4t and lo48r
ra Pslchaanauti. Notes on an Autobiosruphical Account oI a Cas o! pa.anoio, and rhe inn Letrre a M.lesherbes." January 4, t?62, t, 1132 _ Cl. Starcbinski, La truhspatence
S.E. *t,
80 82t The Dissoturion of the Oedipus cohplex,,,tt XIX, l7l ?9. et I obstacle, 243-3gJi an<l Kava.asn, whose careful nu.ly of the ..fredon in se.virude,,
24. This proposed conclusio. to Enite et Sophie *as, in poinl iheme ol Ehil. and Sophie lhirrrS rne r/,rr, ?8,tot) Ieads him to an importanl and oricinat
-.
Rousseau, although we lnow of n from rhe tikes ot tacques tsernadin
ot fact. never writren by
Ereadins ol Rou$eau\ political wrirings as less ..tolatirarian', in inspnarion rhan norivated
de Sainlpie.re and
Piene Prdvo , 10 whom Roussean woutd hlve rold the endins of by an 'abidin8 identification with rhe lojce of thc vicrim" (lolfi). Or rhe lirerarv roror of
nconclusio. rhe story. pravont accounr
oi rho oi ihe Sotla,€r', can be tound in ty clxiii-clriv. Bena.din de Sainr_ fteedoo in captivity, see vicror Brcmbetr, La prison rcmntique: Essi tut I inosinaire lp^tis:
Piere\ slishrly nore denjled rendilion can bc roun.l i. his La vie .t tes ouvales Josd Corti, 1975), ll-50-
de Jean- 29. Thn rephrasing ofthe ontolosical question of selftood as a roposraDhical one grounds
Jdcqres Rouseou, ed. Maurice Souriau (parh: Edouard Cornalr r9O?),
t69_ta, Ako see Alain Gro$ichardt psychoanalytic reading of Ronsseau\ imaginary as calghl in an endtess
Karana8h! uslut .ote in wtuinR the Ttuth,l99, (avanagh, moreover, conlincinsty
argues seri€s of idemilications, a psycbolosically verriginous and fatal crack in the Lacanian ..mirror
asainn lhose rirics who would isnore or disnhs the inpotrance of rnis
tsertnown or slace that scriprs rhe hinory ol Rou$eau's eso developmenr as a harroNins traversal of ..a
Ronsseaut works and n€sses instead ihat il n rhe ,.€$enlial posrscripr,.
ro Eurk one shose hall of nnot' in search oi an inpossible .,fixed point'. (..,On suhjer', .eue suis,je?'
''subj*r natt{ [n] akeady inscribed in t .ir?'s si!en,, (lot, 85). lndee<1, only ve.y
a few IReflqions sur la quesion de la p/ac€ dans l'oeulre de Jean Jacques Rou$€au, d pa.tn d'un
olher Rousseaucrilics hale paid serjous arrenlion ro this rert: Charles win,..Noles
sur,Emite texre <les lCi@terl," in Ro,rs€au et Voltaire en r9?8: Act6 du.oloque ihtenatiohot de Nice
l soele ou res
'nr.befDelof,
soritaircs,'" Arnat\ Jean,Ja.qua Rodseu t6 (1963_65),291 joli cuy
,A propos d,.Emite er Urtr 19781 lcensaand Paris: Slariine, t98t1, 338-65).
Sophie,',, Rewe d,Hinone tuGnire .te ta Fn,.p 6a 30. This positins
(1964), 44 59; Nancy J. Senioi, ,..Les Sohates, of a (ficrional) interlocuror as tbe enabline con<tition fo. the coDritution
as a Te ior Ehile and Sophie,,, Fr€,., ot the subjecl i.
discouse n a sklclure laid bare in rbe iamiliai rop€ ot apost.ophe. Se
R"vier49(no.4: March t9?6),52s-t5; and Jam6 F, Hamiltoo, .,.Enileer Sophje,: A parody
Jonarhan Culler, "Apostrcpne,,' D,n..rrts ? (winrer t9??). J9_69_ Speciric srudies of rhe role
of tbe PhilosopheFKinc,,, Srr.ti Jra\cesi 65-66 \91'il. 3s2_s5.
or lhe Mder in Rouseau can be lound in Rob.n J. Ellrich, Rorseau and His Reader: The
25. La trunsparc6ce et t obsta./a l5t_65. A more nuanced ve,sion
of Starobinski,s rh.si\ Rhetolical Shuation oJ the Maju ,/o./.r (Chapet Hil: Unirmity of No(h Caroljna pre$,
one whi!h rllos. d more ronuEd aro unpred,.rqbte irdererm,ndcJ ber\een ,uch
oppo\ire. 1969); and Hunlinstor williams, RoNe, and Romantic Autobiosdphr (Oxtotd: Oxtotd
q5 denarrurc .u'e, and obndcte I.an,pdren!), can be .ound in hF rtren, /a
'erlrn. 'llne.\ Universily Press, 1983). 130 217. .
,Pqadcdm.hnd c rq4ettpSitihat,ondetbt ttpb t,lta. dc: I uhkt.s Pnh:oa,timali , 31. Consider Rousseau\ fanous datedents ned rhe besinning of the Ddco!6e o, /r-
le3s'. lo5 212. On rhe diale.rr of novemenr cnd Rro\e d\ r figure\ rn ra. fntishrenmen, e4la/iq,. i Ld us b.sin by seuins aside alt ihe f&is, because they do nor arfect tbe queslion,,
 166 NOTES TO PAGES IO8.IO9
(lll, 132)i'Fornnnobshrehrerpdseto...arrain.sotidknowl€dc€otasrateshichno
Ionger exnrs, which perhaps never erined, and vnich sill prcbabty naer exist, yer ot which
ir is neessary to hEve soun.l ideas if Ne a.€ to ju<lge ou pEsent shte sdnfaoorily.' (Il,
123), On th.consequences of this posiring of trutn asa necessary ticrion! thecanonical srudies
renain rhose ol De.rida, O/ O tunnatolosr': Pant de M^n, Btindnss ard lfsisht l1\totd:
Oxlord Universily Pres, r97l), l0l 41, and ^ndAteCoi* of Reodin.: FEurut LonauaEe in
Rtus@u, Nietzehe, R/ke aar' P/o6, (NN Haven: yale Unive6ity press, l9r9), t3j-301.
Also se€ Cearha(\ ioportanr and billiant cririqle of tnen wotk in The Ope, Boundary,
234 84. Fo. a hisrorical and i.leolosical situatins oi Rousean! concepr ot nature as critical
ficrion, see Bronislaw Baczko, Rouwtu: Soitude et conhnu,/e, r!, Chne Brendhet Lad_
hout (Parn and De Hasue: MoDron. t974). 59-t54.
12. On thecone.uencies between Rousseau\ anthropotosical hislory oflbe differenr,,ases
of man" as presedted in the lwo Discouises and thc .rrorolrsrtal orsaniation of the tirsr
book of the Co4re$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 $e op€nins line
oi the Cortss,o,s [i'l forn an enrerprise wnich has no p@e.renr,', 51, se Lejeune, Z a!ro-
bioEraphie ek Fnnce lPatts. Arnand Colin, l9?t) and a"pate autobiosnphique, t| 4tl
also Michael Spri.ker, "The E.d of Autobiosraphy," in rames Otney, ed., AutobioE,aphr:
Esats Theotetical and Oitical (Princeion: Princeron Udive.sily pre$. 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|,
ard rllen Bu \ ro h(omine Ro6,eru\ Autobioe\phtc..
3l- Among ft€ mo olefl stalen€nrs in this Esard are the tolowinsr ,.There h a certain
r,..ersto, of affecs and ideas which modify those rhal fouow them, and wnich i! is n€cesE.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
rhe )olerFpue.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
rwenty-rhird letter of Zz Nory"//e sr1o,i4 ,.u seems that by tist E len s,atevoht ou
^bo\e and thar as one
derslrl lhe domain of nen. one leaves atl lol and earlhly feelinss behind,
neare lhe erb€real resions, the soul cont.acls some oi rheir inalrmble purny,, (78). For a
d€tailed r€adins of the elation beNeen lhe norat and the physicat in this passace, as weI
as or Rouseaut literary pFdece$ors in this ropos, see Cnrislie McDonatd-Vance, rr? Errrav-
aeant Shephetd: A Stud! oJ the Pd|orul yiion in Rousftuzt Noulelle Hetone. SI/EC 105
(1973), especiauy 58 ?0. while for Daniel Mo.net, rhe nodern taste for nountain scenery
would hale orisinared, ahost sinclehah<tedly, yirh Rouss€\ (Le sentinent .te la nature e,
Frarce de Jean-Jac.1u6 Rousseau d Betua.din de Saihrpie/te: Esai sut t6 npports de ta
NOTES TO PACES ll0- 3 t61
lifidtuturc et des noeuts IPatis: Hacheue, 19071,259 60ff.), Barba.a Stafford more judiciously
sir'^tes Lo Nouwtle HAbie wnhin rhe contexr ot the Entighreinent\ emersme inle;-i;
nouhrains, an inleresr whose d€cisile publication would have ben rhar oi lohann
Jacob
Schevhzet's hi"en Heleeti@ in OOa (voyaee ino Substan.e,88 89fi., an.l 162).
35. While Rousseau was in Turin ar tbe rime of Montesquieu,s vhir therc in t728. rhere
is no accounr of thei! meetinc €ach oder, which is unsury.nins, as then difierence
in social
iank and pre ise woul.l have made such an encountd unlikely, it not neaninsless had n
otclired. Luigi Fnpo, ,.Rou$eau e Monresquieu a Torino: Nor\Elts de ta Rqubtique
See
Le res 2
des (198rJ,6?-81 and Roben Shac[eton, .,Montesquieu, DlFin, and rne Ea;ly
Wrilings of Ron$eau," in Simon HaNey, Marian Hobso., David Keltey. Sanuel S. A_ Tavlor,
ed'.. Reopprut."i oJ Ro^teau \lud4 n Honou, oJ R. a. /ea, lMan.hejfl: Vdn(hener
Univesily P.ess, 1980). 234. For Montesquieu,s readions to Tn.in, see Voluse, t,604_t1,
36. zulieuat indisnant response is too sood to pas up: .,Zanetto lascia le Don.e,
e
sludia la nathenatica lJohnny, give up women and srudy marhenaticsl,,(Co4t$,o,, 322).
On Rousseau's adventur€ in Venice, see Climent, ./ean Jaa,?s Ror$.a,, 20t_2t: Madeleine
B. Ellis, Roussea,) v.netian Stor!: Aa Esa:' upon A ahd tur, l, Les Contessions {Bat-
rimore: lohn, Hoplr'. Pre\. lq6br: (J u\eppe scaratrE. rene/ia. Rou$eau e i avnovd,
in Centc d'Erudes Franco ltalien.es, 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,
37. M^y. Rousseau pat lui- ane, t29-5j.
38. On Rousseau\ rrip to England, see Louis J, Cou oh, Le
sdjou de Jeun-Jacques
Rotsseau et Ahsletefte 1t766-l267,) (Cenevaj Jullien, tglt)i M at!:atet H, peoptes, Lo que;el.
Rouseau'Hune. A1nales kak Jacqu* RoBeu I (t921-28). I Slti Henri Roddie;. J€2,
la.oup\ Rouieau ph lael.lptr? ou XV t.
tpar.: Bonrn. taso,. hpeoa J 25a_Uhi
Jacques voisine. Jean-Ja.qu6 RoN@u en'ie.tr
Anstetete d tdpoqre lonantique: La eurs
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
39. The patiarhal a(aneenenr oi Clarens is the implicit discovery of Erienne Cilson\
cla$ic "La nithode de M. de wotmaa (in a6 /d&s /es /erres [paris: V.in, l9j2]. 275
"r Tony Tan.er,
98), and rhe explicit object of nore recenr studies, imludine ..Julieel.la Manon
paternelle': Anolher Look at Ro$se rs La NourelleHitoire," 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
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$eau to the same eblrd stare desciibed in the
nanarive" (Rousseou and Rohanti. Autobjocrutrh!, lo- 13). D€spire fie nanifen insenuity of
lh€analysn, one is nilllefi wonderinswhy Rou$ea! should persGt in lanenti.s those e.s;aric
Doments of ramblinc reverie as nEtridabty los in rhe pa$, if as Witrian;
pEsenl acr ol w tins oreates rhh past anew,. (tj).
ckins, ,1he
4l.rl._'Mon po rar. L It28. On rhe.$ed q16,ron or Rou.,eau\..mdtddy..,.ee
skrob'
eipecially ll\ "Su td mclcdie de Rouseau,, rn / o ,,on"po,".," n ,,oouo"i, ltO-
441CEment, Jean-JacCup\ Rors.ar, )?.t.91: and Xotman. rho
anuretJ q$ocisre. Rodrecu\
Amtnian aune and urinary disorder b a desire ro -be,, the mother and ro
child a: rl one were -pd$ing a rone .rh,ough sive bkth to a
rh. u.erhra (/ e 6pc.t dc" J?nn?:, ta8 ,O)
or course. !!(h a ranra\v ot canralon and r€minra,ion !an dl.o be 5hNn !o cond,r,on hi!
168 NOTF,S TO PAGES II5-I18
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 sc€nes ny head could still desir.,
I becameemotio.al to the point ofreare in consi.terins lhe true pleasuFs ofhumanirx pleasurcs
thal are so delicious and so pur, and rhat are hen elorrh so disrant from nen" (1, ll40).
wc accept what Rou$eau says in book lX of rhs Co,ftsrrb,s (I,430ri.), his novel !a Norwl/e
d4o6" would have been conceived and elaborated out of qa.lly such a lamasy. And a i.
Ieuei to Jacob veinet, dared November 29! 1760, he sinilarly projcrs rhe writinc oi Enr€
as tne outcome ol hh Beries Nhile walting: .A kind of rrealise on edlcation, iull oi my
custonary reveries and the final iruit of ny runic piomenadesldethietltait d. tues pronerdd5
chahpatdl, rcm ins ro be published br ne" lcorrespondane cohplite de Jean-tacquet
Rorrseur, ed, R. A. Leish lceneva: Insiitlt Mlsee vohane; and Oxford: Vollair. Foun-
darion, l96s-891, vll. 332).
41. ConJesio6. 1.162,
45, On the ptdicamenl of bappiness as a problen of consciousne$, see Ceorces PoDlet,
Etuda sur le tenDs hunaia I lParis: Plon. 1949). 220-15,
46. Compare the rouowing pasage iiom "Mon Do(iait"r "lnever 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": "liI could ever have wrinen a quarter of whar I saw and lelt under this ree. with
what clarity I would have made evid€nr 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.sn€d tour
of Italy on ioot only to see the pmjecl ransnuted into a mere erercise in qling: "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$to,r,
l, 59).
49. Rerdies, l,999.
50. Accordins to the erymolosy set lo h by wartburg, lhe words /Aw and .6ter€ would
be derived lrom a hypotbetical Laiin word, rcpnaErJ, deaning r1o ioam aboui, to wand€r
for one\ preasure, ro rake a prearant {ark lvagabonde. e/M pour son plaki. Jaire ure
p.otuena.le jote6el'i (Frunz.;sisches Etlnotosisthes Wittetbuch lB^set: zbinden, t96ol, X.
NOTES TO PAGES II9-I24 169
184). Adds Marcel Raynond, "it is a question of leavins oneselt, ot leavins o.e\ natural
chara.rei, oldeviatins lrom the belten path, of soing anray, of soins our ot bounds tar.,-
vasuerl (Jean-Juques Rousseau: La quote de soi et la ftrdie lParhr Jose Corti, t9621,
r59ll). The r€velie lhus alEady imqlies a ptohena.le and vice versa. Cf, Amautl Tripet. aa
ftaetie tirCrcirc: Essaistt Ro,Jsear (Ceneva: Drcz, l9?9)t Robert J. Morrnser &.aypl&
jusqu A Roussear: Raherches sh un tapos lifttone (Lea\ngron, Ky.: Fiench Forun, 1984)i
and Hnnlinsroo WilliEns, fousseau and Ronantic Artobiosruphr, 9-22.
St. Ct. Rousseau juse de kan,Jrcqt* (Dialoeu5). I, a45-4j.
52. Motrissey corecdy sees in this Elerie of prior Everies an ..embedde.r phenomenon',
thal n lne culnioation of Rousseau\ anempts to rlrn the rcverie into a .tkte oi autarty,':
"To fall inro a reverie over forner rryeries [/Cr"r a s?J /rre.,?s z/,2,rrelo61 apD@rs as a means
ol enriching them, ol makins them lile nore lully, (t54ff.). Such a s{onddesree reverie
thus aho nonically reconftns Tripefs orisinal insishr in1o the .everie as a nelancholy neans
lf to Ecover i a lost place and a shatreed unily": .,lThe reveriel does .or exist vnhoul some
alienalion lron which it anemprs in turn to departi so as ro live.,. in an anrriority yhich
rhe rcverie herDs us rcaprure llo lCtetie li irane,26t. Cl. Srarobinski\ disclssion ofwhat
be caus tecondary Everie" (.Relerie er rransmutation,,, in Lo tokspdrence et I'obstacle,
4\5-29).
53. Ano.B the many srudies of rhe analosies ber$een wrilins and boranizins in rhe
REBi€s, 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$eau co.lre Ia sciedce: L'exemple de ta botanique
dans les lexles autobiographiques," SI,EC 219 (1981), 159 6?; Jenny E. Bartay, ..L herbier,
journal de reveies, conne subniru! d,une CcritDre aurobiosraphique chez Ro!$eaui,,jn
Roussea! et voraite 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
u du Mont Louis pfts de Parjr (Paris: Lachevadiaie. ln26)
5-. Norice lhar Rous,eau\ rie' or rhi q heE
! wet a. n
the ptup\.ion oJ ta
h o!
^
a Sdowrd yi.aa is not only from o. high (as Moniesquieu woutd hale pEscribed) but .tso
I?O NOTES TO PAGES I25.I29

from outside fte cny, thls preservins ils Eazr trcm lhe isk of innedion in a coffuDl

58. On Rolss€u\ possccidenr plenitnd. h indifi€Entiarion, s€e also Poulel, Erldet 215.
Lionel Cossman nd ako perceptively.ol€d the dissolurion of ev€n the most basic opposition
in fte R,wi6j "Nhat is oien cau€d life inn€di4y, 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 Da.es thal the vaniry ol rich people allows 10 run ahead of their coaches, ro thc Index
nhiorlu.e ol folks on foor. *nocled llea.-Jacques Rou$eall so roughly onlo rhe palemenr
rhat he lost all conscioDsn6s. Sone charnabk passemby picked hin up: hh upper lip was
split, the thunb of his isbt hand was all skinned l€.or.r4. He came back to hinself ltl
Evi,l d l,il. They wanred to hire him a cariage, but he didn\ wanl one fo. fea. of catbins
a chill. He cane bac* hobe o. foot i// 4vini.r4 lui d piedi a doctot can€ runningl
lRouseaul thanked bin ior his frie.dsnip bur refused his helt. lnsread, he was codtenl to
wash bis wounds, vhich aftei a few days heal€d periedly. h's narure who cuFs,' he said,
'nor nen" (La eie et les ouvnses, 49)-
60. Cl. Aeneid tt,29!-91 aoa p.ssin. My criiiqle ol rh€ tneobsical eference point finds
an eloquent lellow traveler in Sartre\ relativisl rcprc.cb to Frangois Mauriac for assuoing
the posilio. olCod in rclation ro the chamclers in his noleh: "As do rhe En ol our autbors,
he wanled to ignore rhat the lheory of relariliry applies inte8rally lo lhe novelGdc universe,
rhat in a true novel there is, no moe rhan in tne Norld ol Einsrein, do place for a prilile8ed
observer, and rhal in a .ovelisric sysrem, thee exis$, 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 Rous€an, 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 redubh€d 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
Addison, Joseph, 73, 158

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 Aususlin€, Saint, 39; Ctr o/ Ood xjv
Alps, 10, 109, ll8, l3d 139
turns our ro cotrespond to any nunber olrhose pl&es wheE ne happened to nay, wrire, and
AIquie. Fedinand, l50-5l, 152
rsp(l ro rhe case or rhe \lo1l6an lFmn the Histolt
63. Developed nosr elabolarely wirh Balller. Adrien, l5l, 153, 154
of ar l4fontile Neutosk, in S.E. xvll, 7-122), the imporlant psychoanalytic conceDl oi Balu, Honde de: Plrc Aoriot, 124, 169
Nrchtiislithkeit n^s bee defi.ed by Jean Laplanche and Jean-Baptiste Po.lalis: "Experi Balzac, Jean-Louis Cue de, 60, 153
encss, inp.esions, and memo.yrraces may be revised ar a later date to lir in with fresh
Apostrcphe, 106-8, 165 B.triare. Pierre, ?1, 154, l5?, 160
qperiences or {nh the auainmen! ol a ns staee ol developnem. They may in that elent Aquinas, Sainl Thonas, 39 Badhes, Roland, rxii, 6, ll4, 116, t47
be endowed nol only Nirh a new meanins bul aho with psychical effectiv€ness" ("Deferred
Actlml in The Ldrpua?e oI PJr.ro,4ralyr6, rr, Donald Nicholson-Smith [New York: NoF
ton, l97ll, Ill).
A.istotle, A.hlotelianisn, xviii, uii, 19, 40 Baudetane, charles, xvii
Arnauld, Anloine, 150 Beaujour, Michel, t42, 156
Asia, 69-70 BeaunonlsuFohe, I
Araraxia, 15-16 Bectelt, sanuet, t5o
A*inso., Ceoffroy, 39, ll5, 142, 146 Bernadin de Sain.Pierre, Jacques, 164, 170
Bla.lhol, Maurice, 58. t52

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
Campanella, Tonnaso, 68
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,
Chrisrina, Qneen ol Ssedcn, I54
Cice.o, Marcus TDllius, xxi, 27. 134
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
cool, CaDiain Janes. r!, 89
Cyrano de Berge.ac, Savjnien de, ,lO
Danto Alishieri, xiii, 39, .t0
David, Jacques Louis, 84
Dealh, xvi, 20, 21 38, tlo, t2r-26, 129, t43,
169
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-
54, 59 61, 75, I04, l.t?, t52, 153, t54i
''Dream" oi,51 51, t51.. Metaphyi.at
Meditations, 11 48, 49, 5]-5q 8t, t2t,
r48 .19, r52, r53, t54 prin.iples oJ phi
lonph!,
152, 151i Seo,ch for 1iuth, ]'?.a,
151t Trcatise on Man, t53i me u/otkl,
t41, t52
Deseine, Francois: Nouka! ,oras.
?3, t55
Denur de T.acy, Anroine,Louis
Diderot. Denn, xxviii, 163
Doiron, Nornand, 62, 133, t54
Du Bellay, Joachim, 6, ?3, r.12
Du Ma6ais, Cisr Chesneau, xrii,
llt Edelnan, Narhan, 41, 1.t8, t5l
Educarion, xri, 6, 23, 50, 63, 85-r08, l6t,
163, !68
Enerson, Ralph waldo, I
Ent lope.lie: "Economie polilique, t64j
"voyace,' vii, xv rrii, xxix,6,24,851
England, 63, 69, 70, llt, tt3, ll8. t59,
Erasnus, Desiderius, 6
Ermenonville, 129, 169
Eroricism,21 28,31, 31,95, llO-l . ll6,
167-63
Enor, 19, ,lo, 45 61, 81; and rranssresion,
Eyquem, Piere, 7, 29 18, 144,
145
Farhe6 and sons, xxviii. 6, 17, t9, 29-i8, 48,
75,82-84,94,96 109, llr,
l12, 127 to,
l4l 44, r,14, 145-46, 163
Fenelon, Franqon de Salisnac de La Morhe
de: Awhtures de Tdvnaaue, 6a. 9A 99,
I]0, 16.1
Fleury, Andre-Hercule, cardinat de, t56
Fonr€nelle, 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
t?3
Ga$endi, Pierc, 149. l5l
Oeneva, 93, 109, 129. ll4, 16l, 165, 170 lGnt, lmmanuel, 55, 88 89, 149, I5o, r52,
r58, l6r
Georee lll of Eneland, lll (lein, Melanie, xxvi, Il6
Gibbon, Edward, 71, 157, 158 KiDlinS, Rudyard, xxli
Kolman, Sarah, xxviii, I37, 167 68
/?ara God, 52, 55-56.57,58.98. 12?-29. 1,16. r48,
150, lJ2, r70 Labar, Le Pir€ Jean Baprisle, ?1, 158
Ctaude, Ooethe, Johann WolfsaD8 !on, xlii, 73, 158 La Brlde. chareau of, 70, 82, 83
Crand tour, 65, 85, 97, l2l, Il0, 155 Lacan, Jacques, 21, t43, 165
La Condanine, Chanes Marie de, 162
Creece. 3, ll,
69, ?8, 80
Creenbe.s, Mirchcll, 19. l3?, 142, 146 La Fo.raine, Jean de, xvii, r32, ll3
Crimm, FrddCric-Melchior, 168 Lanonran, Louis Armand de, xxviii
134 Cueroult, Manial, 148, 153 Lalande. .rospeh Jdrone de, 71, I58
Lambercicr, Mlle. Cabrielle, 168
Lanberr, Anne Therese de Marglenal de
Cou.cellcs. marqune de, 15?
He8el, Ceors wilhelm Sriedrich, rjv, xxv,
La Popelinidre, Henii l-ancelot Du vohin de,
143, l5li Heaelian dialectic, 64, lm-l0l 146
Hei<leeget, Mattin: Beiry dr.l Tine, xi\ Larnage, Suzanne Francoise du Sa!lzet,
Holland, 60 61, 61, 152
53 Leibniz, cotfried wirheh. 152, 153
Homer, xiii, xvi, 96. ll4i Odl,rs€.y, xv, xxv,
16?.
91, 98, lto, 134 Levasseur, Th€rese, lll
Ho6es and equenrian ralcl, ll 19, 21, 25- Lavi Sftus, claude, xiv, 89, 132, 136, l3?,
27, 10-12, 14, t5. 16 37, 45-43. 51. ll2.
D8
t13. t15, 130. !41. 150. 168
Holderor, Sophie. comtese d , lll, 168
Libertina8e, xxiii, 40, l4?
Hune, David, lll, 149, 160
lraly, xv, xxix-rxx, l. I, d 5, 6-12, 23, 31, Louis Xll of France, 6
3l-35, 59-60, 61, 63, 69, 72 7d ?5, 80,
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; Pon- Luxembolrg, Charlelllan':oisFrd.tarjc de
trenolir Prattolinot Rome; Rubiconi Monhorency, narich.l de France et duc
Susa; Tibert Tivolii Turin: Vaticani ven
Lnynes, Loun-Chancs d'Alberl, duc d€, 42
laucourl, Louis der E crc/opldip anicles on Lyotard, Jcan-Franaoh. xiv, 13l, 149, 162
162 "Voyage" and Voyageur," rii, xv-xvii.
xxix, 6, 24, 85, lll, ll?, 119, 16l Maccannell, Dean, xvii,65,89, 132, 155, 162
Malebranche, Nicolas de, 152, 15?
144, Maps, naDpine. xx. rxi, ?, 51.65,69,1619,
88 89, r59

Marin, Louis,64, tlt, I37, l4O, t.t2, 143, l4Z
155
Marivaux, Pierc Carlet de Chamblain de.gr)
Maupertuis, PiereLouis Moreau de. t52
Mauriac, Francois, r?0
May, Ceorges, llt, t6l, 167
Memoix art ol, xxii, 68, lll-22, 129,
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,
xxlii! xxix! xrx, t-38, 19, 40, 4t, 42,
45, 48, 54, 56, 59-60, 63, 71, ?5, 84, 8s,
91, 92, t02, 104, 105. lo?, 108, lro, Irr,
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$o-
ciation," 142;.,Olvanity, 3l, l2 38, ?1,
l4d ls3; "On Sohe Veises or Virsil., 3l.
36; "Our Felinss Reacn our beyond Us.,.
l4l; "That b Philosophize h ro Learn to
Dte:' 25; Theotosia Naturulis by Ra\-
hond Sebond, rranstatio. oi. 3? i8: ..T.
rhe Reader,' t7, 38, j42; Trawt Joumat
115
(to holt b! wa! o.f Switze and aatJ Aer
Phallus, phallocenlrism, xxv, 13, 2j, 28, 75, l16 17. 8-29, I6t, t65, 166. t68_?0:
uarul. \1\. l-2,4-12, ]l .12,14 15, 18. 82-84 98, t03, 134 t4t, t4l, t60, t6?, sft
60. 61, tJ7-40. 142, t49, 154. t53 Rousteau juse .te te,n-Jocq,es, t69l
Monresquieu, Chartes-Loun de Secon.lar s@iar contruct, t63
de,
xxiv, xxlii, rxx,6, 62_84, t6,91, 91, to5, Rubicon, 6, t39
Plato, 39, 91, rt4i The Republi.. xi\
I0, lI, 5. l2t, t21, \54 61,
t29_3O,
Ruins, xxix xxx, 9, 34-i5, ?3. 142. tss
161, 169. ttoi Asace et knAnie,6jtCon-
sidenlions oh theCoas6 oJth. Grandeu, Sade, Donarrn Atohon5e Francor, narquh
dnd De.o.Jen.e oI rhe Ronaas, 63. lj.
"Considerations sur tes richesses d€ I,Es Ponralis. Jean-Baptiste, r2O, t69. l7O
Sainr Pierre, nhnd of, lod |9, r29, t?0
l]4, paanei" ?9,80j ..Essai sur Ie soot,,, 63, Sartre, Jean-Paul, t?O
14. Me. P?nsaes, j2,82, aj 84, j55. ts6,
l57i t Nores sur I'Angletede, TOt perrr.",
Proun, Marcel, xiii, 6 Sebond. Raymond, 37, l4J
,€re.s, xxviii, 63, 66-67, ?8. 81, 86, ll3,
1.17, t55i ,,Rdflexions sur ra monarchi.
unive.selle," 79 80; ..Reflexions sur tes Seneca, Lucius Annaeus, 6, l4l, t50
habilanh de Rome, , 6l I ,srr.i/ise, 72; /re Shackleton, Robe.l, 84, 154, 155, 158, r60.
Spir, oJ the La$,6t,64,61.6s 11,11- Quedon, Anne,Cabriel Mensnier dc. t0 l6r. r6?
84, 154. 156-57. t59t Le Tehpt? de Anide, Shakespearc, willian, l4l
xri{ 6ti yorage Jrcn Cn. to The Hasue, 63_ Silhoueue, Erienne de, 73, 158
.14, 68, 7l ?4, 83_84, 154_56, ts-t, 161
Monresquieu, Denke de, 8:, 160-6t Skepticisn, xxiii, 16, 16 3?, .10 41, 59, 63,
Monlfaucon, Berna.d de, 73, 158
Relativhd, siii, 36, 40. l7O t46, 148, 153
Rheloric and fopes, xxi-xxiii, 4O-4r, l]4, ll5,
Montnoren.y, rown of, 89 Snollert, Tobias, ?t, t58
Mor, Thonas: U/opl?, 40, Spanish conquest or rhe Nes World, xvii,
68
Morhere and lisures
Rone, xxix xxx, 2, 9, tt, t2, 21, 32, 34-35, xxlii, 3, 36, 80, 132, 116, l4o
of marernity, rrvi, 19.
15,94,91, tO8 9, \44. t61, 161
60, 63,?:-?4, 76, 77, ?8, 30, 84, 9t, 128, '9
139, r40, 1.12, 144, rs0. 157_58. 159. .S€? Starcbinski, Jean, 64 66, 7t, tor, 125, l4l,
145, r55, l6t, 163, 164, t65, 166, 16Z 169
Nabotov. vladimir xiii Stendhal (Hend Beyle), 6. 6j. 71, BO, t6O
Nancy, Jean,Luc, 148. 149, t5O Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, xxir xxvii, xxx, 6,
85..r30, 133, r4r, 16r-10., Confasions,
108 18, ll9, 16l, 165, 166, t6?, r68t Co,- Snblihe, 55, 82, t52
Navisarion and nauricat siderutions on theCovernnent oI pota.d.
rrar.t, ll, ?8 82, 9d
12. 160, 162 t62t Dis.ou6e on the Ans otd S.ie"ca,
Nerval, Cerard de, 6, ?l tM, 109: Discoulse on he Origins ar.t S*itzerland,6, lll, lt3, ll4, 165
Foundation ol tnequatitr ohons Mek, 9r-
92, 100, rld 16l, t65 66: Enite,85-tVJ,
Otkor, xviii, xx, xxii, xx!, xxviii, 8, B, 38, 108, r09, llt, lt4, u7, l19, t26, r28, r29.
44, 68, 70, ?4, 30, 93, 98, rO0 lo2, 106. 161. 162-63, 164, t65. rca, nO.. Enite and Tavernier, Jean-Baptnre, 87
t21, t28. 129. 164 Sophie, ot the SolitaryOre' q
nA, D5, Gn.in, Claudine Alexandrine Cudrin de, 74,
Ormox Chauhet, Mme d . t26 2? 164, \65i En.r.topldie icte an ,'Econ
a 153
nmie politiqte: 164i J,tie, ou to Noueele
Hetbiv, 96. 128, 166, t61, 168., Leftre a
Paris, x!, 1,7t,91,96, l02, 10, It8, lt9, d'Atenbert, 165:..Lenres a
I2l Malesh,
24, t25, I29, 163, 169
erbes:' tt5. l6s, rcai Letn6 khta de to
nftra8,e, lto, l65i.,Mon po iair,,,
163, Tiloli, l0
II?, 167, 168; Nzrcirse 162.. ptoJ\sion oJ Tourhh, xvii. xxi!,65 66, 68, ?4 75, 83-34
Pavel, Thomas, xir. 132
Fanh o! a Sowlad yicat, ttj, t62 63.
130, 132. 169. see abo srand tout
t69: Rereies of a Salitary watket, a1, \05, Tronchin, Jean Robe , tto
Tioy, 128 wnlsedsrein, Lndwb, r34 Georges Vrn Den Abb€ele is professor of French at the University of
Turin, Torino. 60. 109-10, ll8, 16? wonen and fisuB of Lnininiry: and De$
carles,153; and €du@tior,96 97, 126 2?;
California-Davis. He is ihe translator of Jean-Frangois Lyotard,s flrs
Utopias, &-41, 68, l0l, 147 and gende.ed loposraphr xxr-xxxli; and Dfuend: Phruses in D,bpr,e and has published numerous essays on early
Montaigne, l45i antl Monl€squieu, 160; modern literature and contemporary theories in ,idc.jtics, Esptit Ctiateur
and Rousseau, I63i as dansrous d.tours Romanlic Review, Ftench Studies, a\d Stdnjotd Frerc, nerierl. He is also
V€nice, ll, 5q ll0, 16? for oen, nv, xxviii,94,98, 103, llo-ll, a member of The Miami Theory Collective and the coeditot oI Community
126-2?, l30i .s endt.sered by travel, 67;
dt Zoore ,E/dr (Minnesola, 1991).
as self-s€rcraing, 13, 18, I4li rs wrires,
I22 2?i exclusion froo scienc€, 153;
vico, Ciamb.lrista, xir 150 re$ricled lo the bonq xxv, xxviii, 36-3r,
Villex Piere. 15. 15. l3?, 138. l4l. l,r4 9+9?i viaed as rravelins in qcessive
Vnsil: ,,1.""i4 xiii, 8l-82, 128, 160. 170 conion, ll3i wom.n travele.s. 136. Se
Vollaire, F..n9ois-Marie Arcuet de, rvii, 132, also Morhers and fieur€s ol marernily
147, t51, t6l

walliing and f@l l..vel, 109, lll 10, 149,

167, 168, l?0
Warens, Francoise-LouiF de La Ton., Mne.
zulietla, ll0, 167