Showing posts with label Related Writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Related Writings. Show all posts

IBN KHALDUN (1332-1406)


IBN KHALDUN, Wali al-Din 'Abd al-Rahman b. Muhammad b. Muhammad b. Abi Bakr Muhammad b. al-Hasan (732-84/1332-82), one of the strongest personalities of Arabo-Muslim culture in the period of its decline. He is generally regarded as a historian, sociologist and philosopher. Thus his life and work have already formed the subject of innumerable studies and given rise to the most varied and even the most contradictory interpretations.

I. Life.

Ibn khaldun's life may be divided into three parts, the first of which (20 years) was occupied by his childhood and education, the second (23 years) by the continuation of his studies and by political adventures, and the third (31 years) by his life as a scholar, teacher and magistrate. The first two periods were spent in the Muslim West and the third was divided between the Maghrib and Egypt.

At Tunis.

Ibn khaldun was born in Tunis, on 1 Ramadan 732/27 May 1332, in an Arab family which came originally from the Hadramawt and had been settled at Seville since the beginning of the Muslim conquest (Ibn Hazm, Dhamhara, ed. Levi-Provencal, 430), playing there an important political role. The family then left Seville for Ceuta immediately before the Reconquista. From there they went to Ifriqiya and settled in Tunis during the reign of the Hafsid Abu Zakariyya' (625-47/1228-49). Ibn khaldun's great-grandfather, Abu Bakr Muhammad b. al-Hasan, who wrote a treatise on Adab al-katib (see E. Levi-Provencal, in Arabica, ii (1955), 280-8), was put in charge of the finances during the reign of Abu Ishaq (678-81/1279-83). The usurper Ibn Abi 'Umara (681-2/1283-4) put an end to his career and to his life, having him strangled after confiscating his possessions and subjecting him to torture. His son, Muhammad, also occupied various official positions, both at Bougie and Tunis, and died in 737/1337, after renouncing political life upon the fall of Ibn al-Lihyani (711-7/1311-7). The latter's son, the father of our Ibn khaldun, wisely avoided politics, leading the life of a faqih and man of letters (Ta'rif, 10-15).

He was thus able to ensure that his son 'Abd al-Rahman received a very thorough education. The latter also attended courses given by the most famous teachers of Tunis, to whom he devotes lengthy sections in his autobiography (Ta'rif). He thus received a classical education, based essentially on the study of the qur'an, of hadith, of the Arabic language and of fiqh. The Marinid invasion (748-50/1347-9) resulted in the arrival in Tunis, with the sultan Abu 'l-Hasan, of a large number of theological and literary scholars. This widened the horizons of the young Ibn khaldun, who was thus enabled, particularly under the supervision of al-Abili, to learn about the philosophy and the main problems of Arabo-Muslim thought. He was however to undergo much suffering. The Marinid occupation ended in disorder and bloodshed, and in addition the terrible Black Death which ravaged the world in the middle of the century, coming from the East, claimed many victims in the country, among them Ibn khaldun's parents. He was at this time 17 years of age and was to retain all his life a memory of the horror of this event, which is reflected in many passages in his Ta'rif and his Muqaddima. This was the first traumatic experience of his life, which was later to have an undoubted influence on the direction of his thought. In addition, the departure of the Marinid scholars left a great intellectual vacuum at Tunis, and it seems that at this time the sole aim of the young Ibn khaldun was to leave Tunis for Fez, then the most brilliant capital of the Muslim West. He states (Ta'rif, 55) that he had a great thirst for learning. His elder brother, Muhammad, dissuaded him from his project, but not for long.

At the court of Fez.

He was not yet t0 when, towards the end of 751/1350, the powerful chamberlain Ibn Tafragin appointed him to the office of writer of the 'alama (the ruler's official signature) on behalf of the sultan Abu Ishaq. He accepted, without, it seems (Ta'rif, 561), the intention of remaining long in the post. The invasion of Ifriqiya by the amir of Constantine, Abu Yazid (753/135t), provided him with the desired opportunity. Under cover of the defeat, he parted company with his master, took refuge for a time at Ebba, then reached Tebessa, then Gafsa, before arriving at Biskra, where he spent the winter with his friends the Banu Muzni. Thus the second period of his life, which was both scholarly and adventurous, began with one of those changes of direction which were to recur on later occasions and which have been severely criticized by the majority of those who have made a study of his life and work. But it was in fact probably not a bad thing: intuitively, Ibn khaldun was refusing to be engulfed in an Ifriqiya which was then in the process of disintegration and whose court furthermore was far from providing an example of loyalty and good behaviour.

Meanwhile, the Marinid Abu 'l-Hasan, after an unfortunate adventure, had been killed (75t/1351), leaving the western territories of the Maghrib to his son Abu 'Inan, who in any case had not waited for his death before supplanting him in Fez. Once again the Marinid hegemony seemed to be consolidating itself. Abu 'Inan seized Tlemcen (753/135t) and reduced Bougie again to submission. From Biskra, Ibn khaldun offered him his services. On his journey he met the Marinid chamberlain Ibn Abi 'Amr, appointed governor of Bougie, who invited him to his new residence, where he lived for some time (until the end of the winter of 754/1353-4), before being summoned to the court at Fez. He was officially part of the sultan's literary circle (madhlisuh al-'ilmi) and soon afterwards also formed part of his secretariat (kitabatuh), though without much enthusiasm it seems, for such a post 'was not in the family tradition'--that is to say it was beneath their dignity. This remark reveals a far-reaching ambition in a young man of barely 23 years. Somewhat disappointed, he therefore continued to occupy himself mainly with his studies. 'I devoted myself', he writes (Ta'rif, 59), 'to reflection and to study, and to sitting at the feet of the great teachers, those of the Maghrib as well as those of Spain who were residing temporarily in Fez, and I benefited greatly from their teaching'. In brief, his desire for learning still took precedence over his political interests. Nevertheless, it may be that, taking advantage of the sultan's illness, he took part in a plot aiming to liberate the former amir of Bougie, Abu 'Abd Allah, and to re-install him in his former kingdom. He himself denies this and refers to intrigues, jealousy and malice (Ta'rif, 67); he was certainly thrown into prison however, remaining there for two years (758-9/1357-8) until the death of Abu 'Inan. This was followed by disturbances, by clashes between the claimants to the throne, and by treachery and bloodshed. Ibn khaldun, now set free, took part in all this according to the custom of the time. Changes of loyalty were common and he was no exception and found himself appointed, in Sha'ban 760/July 1359, to the office of Secretary of the Chancellery (kitabat al-sirr wa 'l-tarsil) for the new sultan, Abu Salim. In order the better to perform his role and consolidate his position, he even made the effort of becoming court-poet ('akhadhtu nafsi bi 'l-shi'r', Ta'rif, 70), and he quotes long extracts from his work as a panegyrist. But this was all wasted effort, since his fortune declined. Two years later he left the chancellery for a judicial post, the mazalim. Then further disturbances resulted in the accession of a new sultan. Ibn khaldun changed his allegiance in time, and considered that he was unjustly deprived of any fruits of the victory. He did not hide his ill-humour, made enemies and, after many difficulties, he obtained permission to withdraw to Granada (autumn 764/1362).

At the court of Granada.

In Ramadan 760/August 1359, a palace revolt had driven Muhammad b. al-Ahmar from the throne, so that, in Muharram 761/December 1359, he had taken refuge in Fez with his famous vizier Ibn al-khatib. There was formed at this time, between the latter and the young Ibn khaldun, a real friendship which, apart from inevitable spells of unpleasantness, was to withstand the test of time. In Jumada II 763/April 1362, Muhammad b. al-Ahmar regained his throne and Ibn al-khatib his former rank. The friendship established at Fez ensured that Ibn khaldun, forced in his turn to flee to the other side of the Mediterranean, was received in Granada with the highest honours. At the end of 765/1364, he was even sent to Seville, charged with a delicate peace mission to Pedro the Cruel. This contact with the Christian world, then in the midst of a period of change, had an important influence on him. On his return, the Nasrid amir showered favours on him (Ta'rif, 85). Ibn khaldun then sent for his wife and children to come to Constantine. But Ibn al-khatib felt some resentment at the success of his young friend and Ibn khaldun preferred not to take full advantage of his favoured position (spring 766/1365).

At the court of Bougie.

It is true that at this time there arose a unique opportunity for him to satisfy his ambition. His friend, Abu 'Abd Allah Muhammad, with whom he had already been in a conspiracy at Fez, had in fact regained his kingdom of Bougie, and offered him the office of hadhib (chamberlain), which was at that time the most important office in the state, and appointed to the vizierate his younger brother Yahya [see next article]. Ibn khaldun held at the same time posts as teacher of fiqh and as preacher. But this success was short-lived. In the following year, the amir of Constantine, Abu 'l-'Abbas, took the offensive and inflicted a crushing defeat on his cousin Abu 'Abd Allah Muhammad, who was killed in the battle. Ibn khaldun, refusing suggestions that he should continue the struggle in support of one of the younger sons of the dead ruler, handed over the town to the conqueror (Sha'ban 767/May 1366) and himself entered his service. This was not to be for long, however. Ibn khaldun saw which way the wind was blowing: he resigned in time, and took refuge at first with the Dawawida Arabs, then with his friends the Banu Muzni at Biskra, whereas his brother Yahya was arrested. To the offer by the sultan Abu Hammu, in a letter of 17 Radhab 769/8 March 1368 (Ta'rif, 102-3) of the office of hadhib at Tlemcen, he replied with a courteous refusal, sending him instead his brother Yahya, who had in the meantime been set free. He explains his motives thus: 'I was in fact cured of the temptation of office (ghiwayat al-rutab). Furthermore I had for too long neglected scholarly matters. I therefore ceased to involve myself in the affairs of kings and devoted all my energies to study (al-qira'a) and teaching' (Ta'rif, 103).

Thus at Biskra he attempted to lead the life of a man of letters. He carried on a long correspondence, much ornamented by rhetorical flourishes, with his friend Ibn al-khatib (Ta'rif, 103-30). However he could not resist intrigue. He gave his support, against Abu 'l-'Abbas, to the alliance between the Hafsid of Tunis and the 'Abd al-Wadid Abu Hammu of Tlemcen. He next took it upon himself to raise support for the Marinid Abu Faris. He was constantly on the move, attempting to form from the small tribal units a force capable of supporting a really great power. But on each occasion events upset his calculations. The claimants were simply too numerous, and this resulted in a new series of changes of front which were basically perhaps only his unsuccessful attempts to back the winner. But in the Muslim West of the 8th/14th century no winner existed. Furthermore his friends the Banu Muzni were beginning to object to the suspicious activities of their guest. Ibn khaldun tried once again to escape the lure of politics. He took refuge in the ribat of Abu Madyan, 'preferring', he writes, 'to live in retirement and devote myself exclusively to learning, if only I might be left inpeace' (Ta'rif, 134). He was not left in peace, nor was he of a temperament to remain so for long. Thus, after some new setbacks in the central Maghrib, he met with failure in Fez (774/137t). Welcomed at first, he was later arrested, then released, and finally permitted to withdraw to Muslim Spain (spring 776/1375), where he wished 'to settle permanently, withdraw from the world, and devote my life to learning (qasd al-qarar wa 'l-inqibad wa 'l-'ukuf 'ala qira'at al-'ilm)' (Ta'rif, 226). Yet again he was disappointed. He had become a political personality with a reputation which could not fail to arouse mistrust. He was henceforward condemned to offer his services for hire, and to be regarded with mixed feelings never entirely free from suspicion, whereas apparently his only ambition now was to be left in peace to work out the conclusions to be drawn from his tumultuous experience and to put his ideas in order.

At the castle of Ibn Salama.

Practically ordered to leave the kingdom of Granada, Ibn khaldun returned to the Maghrib and, after some difficulties, settled with his family at Tlemcen (1 Shawwal 776/5 March 1375). In the meantime his friend, the vizier Ibn al-khatib, whom he had tried in vain to save (Ta'rif, 227)--and this is what had earned him the enmity of the amir of Granada--had been strangled in prison at Fez. Ibn khaldun may have seen this as a warning; he certainly seems after this to have made a firm decision to restrict himself to study and teaching. But the sultan of Tlemcen was willing to forget the past--Ibn khaldun had after all been in turn for him and against him--with the ulterior motive of making use of him once again. He entrusted him with a mission to the Dawawida. Ibn khaldun pretended to accept, but as soon as he had left Tlemcen, he took refuge with the Awlad 'Arif; they gave him a warm welcome and interceded on his behalf with the sultan of Tlemcen, who gave permission for his family to join him. For the next four years (776-80/1375-9) Ibn khaldun lived in the castle of Ibn Salama, 6 km. south-west of the present-day Frenda, in the department of Oran (Ta'rif, 228). This was a decisive turning-point in his life; really enclosed for the first time in his ivory tower, he informs us that he worked out the Muqaddima 'according to that original plan (al-nahw al-gharib) for which he received inspiration during his retirement' (Ta'rif, 229).

Again in Tunis.

After this, to enable him to continue his work, a vast amount of documentation became more and more necessary. Ibn khaldun was at this time 47 years of age. He dreamed of returning to Tunis, which he had left at the age of 20--Tunis, where 'my ancestors lived and where there still exist their houses, their remains and their tombs' (Ta'rif, 230). He wrote for, and obtained, the permission of Abu 'l-'Abbas (771-96/1370-94), the architect of the Hafsid restoration, with whom he had had connexions more than ten years earlier at Bougie. And thus, in Sha'ban 780/November-December 1378, 'he abandoned his traveller's staff' (Ta'rif, 231) in his native town. There he followed his new career as a teacher and a scholar and completed a first redaction of his 'Ibar, the first copy of which, accompanied by a long panegyric (Ta'rif, 233-4), he presented to the sultan. But the success of his teaching--which some considered subversive--and the favours which he received from the ruler, earned him many enemies. The formation of a cabal against him, the moving spirit in which was the famous Ibn 'Arafa, made him fear the worst. He decided to leave the Muslim West, where his awkward past followed him wherever he went. He made the pretext for this the Pilgrimage. The sultan granted him permission for this; there was a boat on the point of leaving for Alexandria; and Ibn khaldun embarked on 15 Sha'ban 784/24 October 1382 (Ta'rif, 245).

In Cairo.

On his arrival in the Mamluk capital, Ibn khaldun was truly dazzled. Students flocked to his courses at al-Azhar, and soon he was appointed teacher of Maliki fiqh at the al-qamhiyya madrasa. Some time afterwards he was also appointed Maliki chief qadi (Jumada II 786/July-August 1384). There then began for him a period of suffering: his family, finally given permission to join him through the intervention of the sultan al-Zahir Barquq, was shipwrecked off Alexandria. At the same time his intransigeance and the intrigues of his enemies, who were furious at seeing one of the most important offices of the state entrusted to a 'foreigner', caused him to be dismissed from his office as qadi (Jumada I 787/June-July 1385). In 789/1387, he was appointed to the newly built al-Zahiriyya madrasa, and then, on his return from the Pilgrimage, he was appointed teacher of hadith at the madrasa of ‘arghatmish. Ibn khaldun preserved in its entirety his inaugural course of lectures (Muharram 791/January 1389), devoted to the Muwatta' of Malik (Ta'rif, 294-310). At the same time, he was placed at the head of the khanqah of Baybars, the most important ‘ufi convent in Egypt. Then, after fourteen years devoted exclusively to teaching, he was once again appointed to the office of qadi (15 Ramadan 801/t1 May 1399). He was again dismissed (Muharram 803/August-September 1400), and some months later (Rabi' II 803/November-December 1400) he was obliged to accompany al-Nasir on his expedition to relieve Damascus, which was being threatened by Timurlane, already master of Aleppo. Left in the besieged town--and abandoned without warning by al-Nasir, who suspected that a plot was being hatched in Cairo during his absence--he played a certain part in the surrender of the town under a false promise of aman, and has provided a detailed account of his interviews with the Mongol leader (Ta'rif, 366-83). He may in fact have thought that he saw in Timurlane the man of the century who possessed enough 'asabiyya to re-unite the Muslim world and to give a new direction to history (Ta'rif, 372, 382). Finally, after writing for Timurlane a description of the Maghrib and having witnessed the horrors of the burning and sacking of Damascus, he returned to Cairo, having been stripped and robbed by brigands on the way. In spite of his compromising attitude towards Timurlane (Ta'rif, 378), he was well received at the court. Four times more he was appointed qadi and then dismissed. His last, and sixth, appointment to this office was in Sha'ban 808/January-February 1406, a few weeks before his death on 26 Ramadan 808/16 March 1406.

During his stay in Cairo, Ibn khaldun did not sever relations with the Muslim West. He retained his Maghribi dress, a dark burnous. He also attempted to encourage the exchange of gifts between the sultans of Egypt and those of the Maghrib and to produce a climate of co-operation (Ta'rif, 335-46). He sent a copy of his 'Ibar to the Marinid Abu Faris (796-9/1394-6), continued to correspond with his friends, and preserved in particular long passages, in prose and in verse, from the letters sent to him by the famous poet of Granada, Ibn Zamrak (Ta'rif, 262-74).

Ibn khaldun's life has been judged variously, and in general rather severely. There is certainly no doubt that he behaved in a detached, self-interested, haughty, ambitious and equivocal manner. He himself does not attempt to hide this, and openly describes in his Ta'rif his successive changes of allegiance. He has been accused of fickleness and a lack of patriotism. But for such judgements to be strictly applicable presupposes the existence of the idea of 'allegiance' to a country, which was not the case. The very concept scarcely existed and was not to appear in Muslim thinking until it was affected by contact with Europe. The only treason was apostasy, nor was loyalty understood except in the context of relations between one man and another, and examples of felony were provided daily by those of the highest rank. Ibn khaldun was, moreover, readily pardoned by those who wished to use his services--he was in turn the enemy and the servant, now of one and now of another, in the same way that men were treacherously killed, with or without good reason, simply as a precaution. The struggles which rent the Muslim West in Ibn khaldun's time were merely a series of minor and abortive coups. He should therefore be judged according to the standards of his own time and not according to ours.

Furthermore, Ibn khaldun, as he proves in his Muqaddima, was an astonishingly clear thinker. It is true that his behaviour was dictated by ambition, the desire of power, a taste for adventure and even a complete ruthlessness in political matters; but it is unlikely that this was all. It would be strange if the theoretician of 'asabiyya did not envisage a plan, perhaps rather vague, for the restoration of Arabo-Muslim civilization which he saw--and he states this clearly--to be in its death-throes. His adventures could thus be seen as only the unfruitful and calculated search for an 'asabiyya powerful enough to save Islam from ruin. Certain facts support this hypothesis, but Ibn khaldun states nothing explicity and his Ta'rif (on which moreover opinions vary) provides no assistance. As has already been mentioned, it gives us no insight into the inner thought of the author himself and presents only his external character. There is thus no way of knowing what his real intentions were.

II. Works.

Ibn khaldun is known primarily forqhis Muqaddima and his 'Ibar, but he wrote other works which have not all survived.

In about his twentieth year, he attempted, under the influence of al-Abili, to make a resume of the theologico-philosophical 'summa' of al-Razi entitled Kitab Muhassal afqar al-mutaqaddimin wa 'l-muta'-akhkhirin min al-'ulama' wa 'l-hukama' wa 'l-muta-kallimin (Cairo 1905), an outline which is a condensation of all the Arabo-Muslim cultural tradition concerning the problems of dogma and its philosophical repercussions. This resume, entitled Lubab al-Muhassal fi usul al-din (Tetuan 1952: autograph manuscript dated 29 ‘afar 752/28 May 1351, Escorial no. 1614), shows a direction of thought which Ibn khaldun was never to lose completely.

It should also be remembered that Ibn khaldun had stressed in his Ta'rif the studious nature of his period at Fez and at Granada. During this period, that is between 752-65/1351-64, the date at which Ibn al-khatib's Ihata was finished (to which we owe the following information), he wrote five works: (1) a commentary on the Burda [q.v.] of al-Busiri; (2) an outline of logic; (3) a treatise on arithmetic; (4) several resumes of works by Ibn Rushd, though unfortunately it is not known which ones; and (5) a commentary on a poem by Ibn al-khatib on the usul al-fiqh. All these works are now lost, and indeed seem to have been quickly forgotten even during the author's lifetime. Ibn khaldun does not even mention them in his Ta'rif, and his Egyptian biographers do not appear to have heard of them.

They seem moreover to have been of a traditional theologico-philosophical type, including the arithmetic which a faqih had to know. Nothing up to this time indicated that Ibn khaldun would go down to posterity as the brilliant founder of the science of history and of other disciplines. The flowering of his genius took place at the castle of Ibn Salama, as the result of the fusion of the traditional disciplines in which he had been educated with the rich harvest of political experience which, through a bitter series of failures and impasses, had made him aware of the meaning and deep significance ('ibar) of history. There then began, in the calm of the castle of Ibn Salama, the work of analysing the passionate and disturbing human adventure, which certainly has its grandeurs but of which he had experienced mainly the miseries. Ibn khaldun really changed as a thinker: the pedestrian faqih which he might after all have been had become a historian of genius, and even the founder of a number of disciplines which were to become some of the most productive of the modern humanities. The first draft of his Introduction (Muqaddima)--which contains the essence of his thought--to his universal history (Kitab al-'Ibar), as well as large sections of this history itself, were written between 776/1375 and 780/1379 during his retirement. He later continued without ceasing, until the end of his life, to re-write this basic work, and especially the Muqaddima. The Ta'rif, an autobiography which stops in Dhu 'l-qa'da 807/May 1405 (ed. al-tandhi, Cairo 1951), and the Shifa' al-sa'il, a treatise on mysticism written towards the end of his life (ed. al-tandhi, Istanbul 1958; and ed. I. A. Khalife, Beirut 1959), are minor works compared with his masterpiece, and their main interest is in the light they throw on it. It should be mentioned that the problem of the authenticity of the Shifa' al-sa'il, so important for the history of Ibn khaldun's thought, has not yet been definitively solved.

The Ottoman historian Na'ima [q.v.] (d. 1128/1716) praises Ibn khaldun in the introduction to his work and gives a summary of his ideas. (The first translation into Turkish, of part of the Muqaddima, was made by the Shaykh al-Islam Piri-zade Mehmed Ef. in 1143/1749 (see IA, s.v. Ibn Haldun, col. 740b); the most recent, complete, translation is by Zakir Kadiri Ugan, 2 vols., Istanbul 1954.) Yet it was in Europe that Ibn khaldun was discovered and the importance of his Muqaddima realized: by d'Herbelot (Bibliotheque Orienlale 1697), by Silvestre de Sacy (Chrestomatie arabe, 1806), by von Hammer-Purgstall (Ueber den Verfall des Islam ..., 1812) and especially by Quatremere, who, in 1858, produced the first complete edition of the Muqaddima--another edition of it was published in the same year in Cairo by Nasr al-Hurini, based on another manuscript containing in particular the dedication to the sultan Abu Faris of Fez (796-9/1394-7)--and by de Slane, who, some years afterwards, produced the first French translation of it (Les Prolegomenes, Paris 1863-8). Since then there has been a continual series of editions and studies on it, in both the East and the West, a proof of the increasing interest in Ibn khaldun's thought, and there have recently been so many of them that bibliographical works on them (by H. Peres and W. J. Fischel) became necessary. The most recent translation, by F. Rosenthal (into English, 3 vols. New York-London 1958), has the advantage of having been made from the Istanbul manuscript (Atif Efendi 1936), which contains a note in Ibn khaldun's writing stating that it had been 'scientifically revised' by the author. There should also be mentioned the Portuguese translation by Khoury, in 3 vols., Sao Paulo 1958-60; a French translation by V. Monteil is being published.

The 'Ibar, the Universal History itself, naturally aroused less interest. The first to produce an edition and translation of extensive passages from the 'Ibar was Noeel Desvergers, under the title Histoire de l'Afrique sous la dynastie des Aghlabites et de la Sicile sous la domination musulmane, Paris 1841. Another partial translation was published some years later by de Slane under the title Histoire des Berberes et des dynasties musulmanes de l'Afrique Septentrionale (4 vols., Algiers 1852-6), followed by an edition of the passages translated (2 vols., Algiers 1863). Next there appeared the complete Bulaq edition (7 vols., 1868), and since then there have followed also some partial translations. There has not yet appeared, however, a truly critical edition of either the Muqaddima or the 'Ibar. The latest edition, that of Beirut (1956-9)--from which our references are taken--is a commercial one, which is however provided with useful indexes.

The criticism generally made of the 'Ibar is that it did not fulfil the promises made in the Muqaddima. This is obvious, but it could not have been otherwise. No one man could write alone a universal history according to the demands of the Muqaddima. But it has more serious shortcomings: Ibn khaldun at times demonstrates a surprising lack of learning, for example, concerning the Almohads and their doctrine: 'In addition, precise dates are rarely given; the chronological details throughout the work are too often contradictory, and one is obliged to prefer on many occasions those provided in other more humble and much more succinct works' (R. Brunschvig, Hafsides, ii, 392). Nevertheless, the Kitab al-'Ibar, through its intelligent arrangement of facts and the detail and scope of the account, remains, in the opinion of the specialist who has made most use of it, an incomparable tool, particularly 'for the two centuries nearest to our author, the 13th and the14th' (R. Brunschvig, op. cit., ii, 393). It should also be added that this work, often disappointing on the history of the East, is generally valuable especially for the Muslim West, and in particular for the Berbers.

But Ibn khaldun's main work, of universal value, is the Muqaddima. In the author's intention, and as the title indicates, it is an Introduction to the historian's craft. Thus it is presented as an encyclopaedic synthesis of the methodological and cultural knowledge necessary to enable the historian to produce a truly scientific work. Initially, in fact, Ibn khaldun was preoccupied with epistemology. Then gradually, meditating on the method and the matter of history, he was led, in full consciousness of what he was doing, to create what he refers to as his 'new science' ('ilm mustanbat al-nash'a, 63), which itself turned out to contain more or less implicitly the starting points of several avenues of research leading to the philosophy of history, sociology, economics and yet other disciplines.

In his preface to the Introduction proper (muqaddimat al-Muqaddima, 1-68), Ibn khaldun begins by defining history--which he expands to include the study of the whole of the human past, including its social, economic and cultural aspects--defining its interest, denouncing the lack of curiosity and of method in his predecessors, and setting out the rules of good and sound criticism. This criticism is based essentially, apart from the examination of evidence, on the criterion of conformity with reality (qanun al-mutabaqa, 61-t), that is of the probability of the facts reported and their conformity to the nature of things, which is the same as the current of history and of its evolution. Hence the necessity of bringing to light the laws which determine the direction of this current. The science capable of throwing light on this phenomenon is, he says, that of 'umran, 'a science which may be described as independent ('ilm mustaqill bi-nafsih), which is defined by its object: human civilization (al-'umran al-bashari) and social facts as a whole' (62).

All that follows, that is the main part of the Muqaddima itself, is only the detailed exposition of this new and independent science which the author had perceived. In it he develops his argument, contrary to some opinions, according to a strict plan, the broad lines of which he states and clearly explains (68) before beginning his exposition. This exposition is divided into six long chapters which in turn are subdivided into many paragraphs of varying lengths and often mathematically arranged. Chapter 1: a general treatise on human society. In it Ibn khaldun makes an outline study of the influence of environment on human nature, an ethnological and an anthropological study. Chapter t: on the societies of rural and, generally speaking, fairly primitive, civilization ('umran badawi). Chapter 3: on the different forms of government, on states and institutions. Chapter 4: on the societies of urban civilization ('umran hadari), that is of the most developed and sophisticated forms of civilization. Chapter 5: on industries and economic affairs in general. Chapter 6: on scholarship, literature and cultural matters in general.

This plan clearly shows that Ibn khaldun in his Muqaddima was inclined to concentrate on social phenomena in general. The central point around which his observations are built and to which his researches are directed is the study of the aetiology of decline, that is to say the symptoms and the nature of the ills from which civilizations die. Henceqthe Muqaddima is very closely linked with the political experiences of its author, who had been in fact very vividly aware that he was witnessing a tremendous change in the course of history, which is why he thought it necessary to write a summary of the past of humanity and to draw lessons ('ibar) from it. He remarks that at certain exceptional moments in history the upheavals are such that one has the impression of being present 'at a new creation (ka'annahu khalqdhadid), at an actual renaissance (nash'a mustahdatha), and at [the emergence of] a new world (wa 'alam muhdath). It is so at present (li-hadha 'l-'ahd). Thus the need is felt for someone to make a record of the situation of humanity and of the world' (53). This 'new world', as Ibn khaldun knew (866), was coming to birth in other lands; he also realized that the civilization to which he belonged was nearing its end. Although unable to avert the catastrophe, he was anxious at least to understand what was taking place, and therefore felt it necessary to analyse the processes of history.

His main tool in this work of analysis is observation. Fairly recently there has been stressed the realistic aspect of his thought. Ibn khaldun, who has a thorough knowledge of the sources on logic and makes use of it, particular of induction, greatly mistrusts speculative reasoning. He admits that reason is a marvellous tool, but only within the framework of its natural limits, which are those of the investigation and the interpretation of what is real. He was much concerned about the problem of knowledge and it led him finally, after a radical criticism, to a refutation of philosophy. 'In casting doubts on the adequacy of universal rationality and of individual reality, Ibn khaldun at the same time casts doubts on the whole structure of speculative philosophy as it then existed' (N. Nassar, La pensee realiste d'Ibn khaldun, 66). Having thus calmly dismissed Arabo-Muslim philosophy, he chose, in order to explore reality and arrive at its meaning, a type of empiricism which has no hesitation in 'having recourse to the categories of rational explanation which derive from philosophy'. In short, Ibn khaldun rejects the traditional speculation of the philosophers, which gets bogged down in fruitless argument and controversy, only to replace it by another type of speculation, the steps of which are more certain and the results more fruitful since it is directly related to concrete facts.

This new positive speculation which he suggests and of which he provides an example in the Muqaddima is operated through a dialectical process which has been referred to in several studies (see in particular the recent works of Y. Lacoste and N. Nassar). He could not in fact penetrate to the heart of reality, describe the struggles and conflicts, the tensions and the successive failures of states and civilizations produced by their internal dissensions without encountering, and calling attention to, the process of dialectic, especially since he had encountered logic in his earlier years and since the ideas of contradiction, antithesis, opposition, the complementariness of opposites, of ambiguity, of complexity and of confusion had long been familiar to the Muslim thinking in which he had been educated. They are thus often evoked as operative concepts permitting understanding and explanation. In surmounting the contradictions dialectically, and in attempting to explain them and hence to resolve them, Ibn khaldun thus arrives at a dynamic conception of the dialectic development of the destiny of man, and at a system of history which is retrospectively intelligible, rational and necessary. His famous cyclic schema of historical interpretation, which in itself is not particularly original, must be included, in order for its true meaning to be seen, in this general view.

The wealth of the ideas provided in the Muqaddima has enabled several specialists to find in it the early beginnings of a number of disciplines which have become independent sciences only very recently. There is of course no argument about Ibn khaldun's quality as a historian. Y. Lacoste writes: 'If Thucydides is the inventor of history, Ibn khaldun introduces history as a science' (Ibn Khaldoun, 187). But he has been regarded also as a philosopher, and it is surprising in particular to discover in his Muqaddima a very elaborate system of sociology. His 'new science', his 'ilm al-'umran, the discovery of which dazzled even himself, is basically, strictly speaking, nothing but a system of sociology,--conceived it is true as an auxiliary science to history. He considers that the basic causes of historical evolution are in fact to be sought in the economic and social structures. He therefore set himself to analyse them, elaborating as he did so a certain number of new operative concepts, the most pregnant of which is incontestably that of 'asabiyya [q.v.]. It should be mentioned that this concept of 'asabiyya, and that of 'umran, have given rise in modern times to many discussions--which cannot be enumerated here--regarding their interpretation (see M. Talbi, Ibn khaldun et le sens de l'histoire, in SI, xxvi (1967), 86-90 and 99-112). He was interested particularly in the influence of the way of life and of methods of production on the evolution of social groups. In a famous sentence, he states: 'The differences which are seen between the generations (adhyal) in their behaviour are only the expression of the differences which separate them in their economic way of life' (210). This sentence is often compared with an equally famous one of Marx: 'The method of production in the material matters of life determines in general the social, political and intellectual processes of life'. The similarity is indeed striking, and it is not the only one between them. Thus Ibn khaldun's thought is often interpreted, particularly in recent years, in the spirit of dialectical materialism. But, in spite of the undoubted similarities, it would be difficult to regard Ibn khaldun as a forerunner of materialism. Moreover the explanation he gives is not exclusively a socio-economic one but also psychological. 'The Prolegomena do not contain only a general sociology but also a very detailed and subtle social psychology which may be divided into political psychology, economic psychology, ethical psychology and general psychology. The intermingled and closely linked elements of this social psychology and this general sociology form a whole complex which it is difficult to disentangle' (N. Nassar, op. cit., 178).

There have been identified also, in this complex, economic doctrines sufficiently detailed to justify a study devoted to them, and a philosophy of history to which M. Mahdi has devoted an important work. It also provides ethnographic, anthropological and demographic information of real value.

Thus the atypical figure of Ibn khaldun in Arabo-Muslim culture has been unanimously considered, since his discovery in Europe, as that of an authentic genius, 'un penseur genial et aberrant' (Brunschvig, op. cit., ii, 391), whose Muqaddima represents 'one of the solemn moments of human thought' (Bouthoul). Certainly a 'solitary genius', he does not belong to any definite current of Arabo-Muslimqthought, since his works are in fact the product of a multitude of agonizing enquiries. His thinking represents a radical change, which unfortunately remained as unproductive as his political misadventures. 'Just as he had no forerunners among Arabic writers, so he had no successors or emulators in this idiom until the contemporary period. Although he had a certain influence in Egypt on some writers of the end of the Middle Ages, it can be stated that, in his native Barbary, neither his Muqaddima nor his personal teaching left any permanent mark. And indeed the systematic lack of comprehension and the resolute hostility which this nonconformist thinker of genius encountered among his own people forms one of the most moving dramas, one of the saddest and most significant pages in the history of Muslim culture' (R. Brunschvig, op. cit., ii, 391).

Review of Sophie's World By Jostein Gaarder


It's tempting to get all warm and gloopy over this well-intentioned response by a Norwegian writer and former philosophy teacher to the New Age "pornography" he fears may replace the Western philosophical canon. Sophie's World has rapidly become an international literary phenom. A genre-crossing European best-seller (file under fiction, philosophy, and young adulthood) with nearly a million copies sold to date, Jostein Gaarder's novel, at 400 pages, is a concise, clearly written corrective to philosophic obscurantism.

The foil for Gaarder's pedagogic fantasy is Sophie Amundsen, a spunky 14-year-old whose philosophic journey begins when a pair of timeless ontological posers--"Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?"

--appear mysteriously in her mailbox. A follow-up envelope containing typewritten pages titled "What Is Philosophy?" (11) orient her on a correspondence course in the history of philosophy that eventually turns into a Socratic tutorial. Sophie's enthusiasm shocks her mother, who attributes her newfound interest in the mysteries of life to the influence of drugs.

Nothing could be further from the truth (at least until the Kierkegaard chapter, when things do get a trifle psychedelic). Although Sophie's tutor, Alberto Knox, grounds the philosopher's project in maintaining a sense of wonder, his disquisition is clean and sober indeed. What keeps the novel moving are the tricks Gaarder plays with what we used to call the old r. and i.--reality and illusion. Sophie begins receiving postcards addressed from a United Nations observer in Lebanon to his own 15-year-old daughter, Hilde. As Sophie gradually becomes aware of her existence within a book (within a book (within a book)), the philosophical question gradually take on an existential tinge, embracing problems of determinacy and free will. While not nearly as highfalutin as such would-be popularizers as Umberto Eco, Susan Sontag, or Stephen Hawkins, it's loads of fun in a cool, Scandinavian Alice-in-Wonderland fashion.

The book is for children of all ages, remember, so don't expect detailed synopses of the world's major philosophers, systems, or contexts. The risks Gaarder takes in the interests of simplicity and clarity definitely pay off, however. These include the translation of nearly all technical terms, the omission of the hundreds of titles that would otherwise clutter the book, and his emphasis on the echoing persistence of philosophical themes from the pre-Socratics (whose modernism is conveyed elegantly) to the existentialists Gaarder nutshells right before dropping a few gee-whiz notions about ecophilosophy and how star gazing constitutes a cosmic journey into the past ("Yes, we too are stardust" (392), croons Alberto).

Sophie's World is a model of classic pedagogical technique packaged in most tasteful modernism. From the Socratic dialogues up to and including Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari's ultimate collaboration (the perfect companion volume, their What Is Philosophy? tastefully packages chaos as classicism), philosophy has been intertwined with friendship, sharing, and equality. While on the one hand Sophie (and Hilde and every kid who receives this book as the gift of a concerned adult) serves as the willing receptacle of Alberto's wisdom (perform your own deconstruction here), Gaarder has her question frequently the absence of women in philosophy. The only women thinkers accorded a paragraph or two here are beheaded French revolutionary Olympe de Gouges and Simone de Beauvoir. Sophie, nevertheless, seems more than willing to, well, man the barricades in their name.

Ongoing advertisements for environmental activism and world federalism via the United the Nations add to the novel's liberal agenda--which is about where my enthusiasm ends. Gaarder's well-measured conciliatory tone masks the rhetorical (and physical) violence philosophic discourse has generated over the past few thousand years, so don't expect to find Foucault, Deleuze/Guattari, or Derrida--even Heidegger and Nietzsche earn s little as a paragraph each. As noted above, Gaarder holds no truck with the outlaw alternatives sold under the New Age and mysticism rubrics. "The difference between real philosophy and these books," grumps Alberto, "is more or less the same as the difference between real love and pornography" (357). Do we detect an old-fashioned moralist in this dismissal? Gaarder, having stripped down the canon's arguments to their leanest Western cuts, thereby ignoring Muslim or pagan can't or won't see philosophy's manfully conceptualized recourses to faith, transcendence, and immanence as actually forming much of the spiritual bedrock for crystal worship or ufology.

At worst, Gaarder's book is a philosophical Ikea, whose clean lines and slick marketing offer a one-size-fits-all coziness masking the bitter ideological rivalries and utter radicalism characterizes so much of the field's history. On the other hand, any Sophie's World reader inspired to further investigation will collide with all that soon enough, which suggests an even more provocative sequel.

The Ulitimate Goals of Sociology

The immediate goal of sociology is to acquire knowledge about society like all the sciences. However, sociology is not content with descriptions, exhibitions and analysis. It has a more remote and ultimate purpose. Robert Bierstedt's views are meaningful in this regard. He says "The final questions to which sociology addresses itself are those that have to do with the nature of human experience and this earth and the succession of societies over the long centuries of human existence..............What are the factors responsible for the disintegration of one social structure, like that of the medieval world, and the coming into being of another? Do human societies like the individuals who comprise them, grow old after a while, and very and finally disappear from the face of the earth? Is there an ebb and flow in the affairs of men, a systole and diastole of human history? These too are problems of sociology... But some day, if sociology, through its intimate analysis of the dynamics of society, can archive some understanding of problems of this kind, and contribute to their resolution, it will fulfil its initial promise and its ultimate destiny. In brief, as Samuel Koenig has pointed out the ultimate aim of sociology is " to improve man's adjustment to life by developing objective knowledge concerning social phenomena which can be used to deal effectively with social problems".

Development of Sociology in the 20th Century

In the second half of the 19th and in the beginning of the 20th centuries a large number of sociologists and social thinkers contributed a great deal to the development of sociology. Karl Marx 1818-1833, Lester F. Ward 1841-1913, George Simmel 1858-1918, Alfred Vierkandt 1867-1953, Gabrial Trade 1843-1904, Small 1854-1926, Giddings 1855-1931, C.H. Cooley 1864-1929, James Ward 1843-1925, Llyod Morgan 1852-1932, L.T. Hobhouse 1864-1929, E. A. Westermarck 1862 -1939, Pareto 1848-1923, Charles A. Elwood 1873-1946, Benjamin Kidd 1858-1916, E. B. Tylor 1832-1917, J. G. Frazer 1854-1941, B. Malinowski 1884-1942 and others are some of them.

Sociology experienced a rapid development in the 20th century, most notably in France, Germany, the United States and England. Recently famous sociologist like P. A. Sorokin, Talcott parsons, R. K. Merton, R. M. MacIver, M. Ginsberg, Kingsley Davis, W. F. Ogburn, A. W. Green, Kimball Young, P. G. Murdock. W. I. H. Sprott, E. A. Ross, Wilbert Moore, Karl Manheim and a host of others have further enriched the subject by their social investigations and writings. Today, sociology is firmly established as a discipline. The developments of the 20th century provided a great stimulus for the study of social sciences in general, and sociology in particular. All major universities in the world, now offer instruction in this subject. Even in the U. S. S. R. sociology is a legitimate discipline now. "It is not yet in many respects, mature science and the student will find in it therefore, more divergent points of view and rather less systematic agreement than in such other sciences as physics, astronomy and biology". (Robert Bierstedt)

Jacques Derrida


Jacques Derrida (1930-2004) was the founder of “deconstruction,” a way of criticizing not only both literary and philosophical texts but also political institutions. Although Derrida at times expressed regret concerning the fate of the word “deconstruction,” its popularity indicates the wide-ranging influence of his thought, in philosophy, in literary criticism and theory, in art and, in particular, architectural theory, and in political theory. Indeed, Derrida's fame nearly reached the status of a media star, with hundreds of people filling auditoriums to hear him speak, with films and televisions programs devoted to him, with countless books and articles devoted to his thinking. Beside critique, Derridean deconstruction consists in an attempt to re-conceive the difference that divides self-reflection (or self-consciousness). But even more than the re-conception of difference, and perhaps more importantly, deconstruction works towards preventing the worst violence. It attempts to render justice. Indeed, deconstruction is relentless in this pursuit since justice is impossible to achieve.

* 1. Life and Works
* 2. “The Incorruptibles”
* 3. Basic Argumentation and its Implications: Time, Hearing-Oneself-Speak, the Secret, and Sovereignty
* 4. Elaboration of the Basic Argumentation: The Worst and Hospitality
* 5. Deconstruction
* Bibliography
o Works by Derrida
o English translations
o References and further reading
* Other Internet Resources
* Related Entries

1. Life and Works

Derrida was born on July 15, 1930 in El-Biar (a suburb of Algiers), Algeria, into a Sephardic Jewish family. As is well-known, Algeria at this time was a French colony. Because Derrida's writing concerns auto-bio-graphy (writing about one's life as a form of relation to oneself), many of his writings are auto-biographical. So, for instance in Monolingualism of the Other (1998), Derrida recounts how, when he was in the “lycée” (high school), the Vichy regime in France proclaimed certain interdictions concerning the native languages of Algeria, in particular Berber. Derrida calls his experience of the “interdiction” “unforgettable and generalizable” (1998, p. 37). In fact, the “Jewish laws” passed by the Vichy regime interrupted his high school studies.

Immediately after World War II, Derrida started to study philosophy. In 1949, he moved to Paris, where he prepared for the entrance exam in philosophy for the prestigious École Normale Supérieure. Derrida failed his first attempt at this exam, but passed it in his second try in 1952. In one of the many eulogies that he wrote for members of his generation, Derrida recounts that, as he went into the courtyard toward the building in which he would sit for the second try, Gilles Deleuze passed him, smiling and saying, “My thoughts are with you, my very best thoughts.” Indeed, Derrida entered the École Normale at a time when a remarkable generation of philosophers and thinkers was coming of age. We have already mentioned Deleuze, but there was also Foucault, Althusser, Lyotard, Barthes, and Marin. Merleau-Ponty, Sartre, deBeauvoir, Levi-Strauss, Lacan, Ricœur, Blanchot, and Levinas were still alive. The Fifties in France was the time of phenomenology, and Derrida studied closely Husserl's then published works as well as some of the archival material that was then available. The result was a “Mémoire” (a Masters thesis) from the academic year 1953-54 called The Problem of Genesis in Husserl's Philosophy; Derrida published this text in 1990. Most importantly, at the École Normale, Derrida studied Hegel with Jean Hyppolite. Hyppolite (along with Maurice de Gandillac) was to direct Derrida's doctoral thesis, “The Ideality of the Literary Object”; Derrida never completed this thesis. His studies with Hyppolite however led Derrida to a noticeably Hegelian reading of Husserl, one already underway through the works of Husserl's assistant, Eugen Fink. Derrida claimed in his 1980 speech “The Time of a Thesis” (presented on the occasion of him finally receiving his doctorate) that he never studied Merleau-Ponty and Sartre and that especially he never subscribed to their readings of Husserl and phenomenology in general. With so much Merleau-Ponty archival material available, it is possible now however to see similarities between Merleau-Ponty's final studies of Husserl and Derrida's first studies. Nevertheless, even if one knows Merleau-Ponty's thought well, one is taken aback by Derrida's one hundred and fifty page long Introduction to his French translation of Husserl's “The Origin of Geometry” (1962). Derrida's Introduction looks to be a radically new understanding of Husserl insofar as Derrida stresses the problem of language in Husserl's thought of history.

The 1960's is a decade of great achievement for this generation of French thinkers. 1961 sees the publication of Foucault's monumental Folie et déraison (Madness and Civilization is the English language title). At this time, Derrida is participating in a seminar taught by Foucault; on the basis of it, he will write “Cogito and the History of Madness” (1963), in which he criticizes Foucault's early thought, especially Foucault's interpretation of Descartes. “Cogito and the History of Madness” will result in a rupture between Derrida and Foucault, which will never fully heal. In the early 60's, Derrida reads Heidegger and Levinas carefully. Then in 1964, Derrida publishes a long two part essay on Levinas, “Violence and Metaphysics.” It is hard to determine which of Derrida's early essays is the most important, but certainly “Violence and Metaphysics” has to be a leading candidate. What comes through clearly in “Violence and Metaphysics” is Derrida's great sympathy for Levinas's thought of alterity, and at the same it is clear that Derrida is taking some distance from Levinas's thought. Despite this distance, “Violence and Metaphysics” will open up a lifetime friendship with Levinas. In 1967 (at the age of thirty-seven), Derrida has his “annus mirabilis,” publishing three books at once: Writing and Difference, Speech and Phenomena, and Of Grammatology. In all three, Derrida uses the word “deconstruction” (to which we shall return below) in passing to describe his project. The word catches on immediately and comes to define Derrida's thought. From then on up to the present, the word is bandied about, especially in the Anglophone world. It comes to be associated with a form of writing and thinking that is illogical and imprecise. It must be noted that Derrida's style of writing contributed not only to his great popularity but also to the great animosity some felt towards him. His style is frequently more literary than philosophical and therefore more evocative than argumentative. Certainly, Derrida's style is not traditional. In the same speech from 1980 at the time of him being awarded a doctorate, Derrida tells us that, in the Seventies, he devoted himself to developing a style of writing. The most famous or infamous example is his 1974 Glas (“Death Knell” would be an approximate English translation); here Derrida writes in two columns, with the left devoted to a reading of Hegel and the right devoted to a reading of the French novelist-playwright Jean Genet. Another example would be his 1980 Postcard from Socrates to Freud and Beyond; the opening two hundred pages of this book consist of love letters addressed to no one in particular. It seems that sometime around this time (1980), Derrida reverted back to the more linear and somewhat argumentative style, the very style that defined his texts from the Sixties. He never however renounced a kind of evocation, a calling forth that truly defines deconstruction. Derrida takes the idea of a call from Heidegger. Starting in 1968 with “The Ends of Man,” Derrida devoted a number of texts to Heidegger's thought. In particular, during the 1980's, Derrida wrote a series of essays on the question of sex or race in Heidegger (“Geschlecht I-IV”). While frequently critical, these essays often provide new insights into Heidegger's thought. The culminating essay in Derrida's series on Heidegger is his 1992 Aporias.

Throughout the Sixties, having been invited by Hyppolite and Althusser, Derrida taught at the École Normale. In 1983, he became “Director of Studies” in “Philosophical Institutions” at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris; he will hold this position until his death. Starting in the Seventies, Derrida held many appointments in American universities: Johns Hopkins, Yale, SUNY at Buffalo. From 1987, Derrida taught one semester a year at the University of California at Irvine. Derrida's close relationship with Irvine led to the establishment of the Derrida archives there. Also during the Seventies, Derrida associated himself with GREPH (“Le Groupe de Recherche sur l'Enseignement Philosophique,” in English: “The Group Investigating the Teaching of Philosophy”). As its name suggests, this group investigated how philosophy is taught in the high schools and universities in France. Derrida wrote several texts based on this research, many of which were collected in Du droit à la philosophie (1990, an approximate English title would be: “Concerning the Right to Philosophy”). In 1982, Derrida was also one of the founders of the Collège Internationale de Philosophie in Paris, and served as its first director from 1982 to 1984.

In the 1990's, Derrida's works went in two simultaneous directions that tend to intersect and overlap with one another: politics and religion. These two directions were probably first clearly evident in Derrida's 1989 “Force of Law.” But one can see them better in his 1993 Specters of Marx, where Derrida insisted that a deconstructed (or criticized) Marxist thought is still relevant to today's world despite globalization and that a deconstructed Marxism consists in a new messianism, a messianism of a “democracy to come.” But, even though Derrida was approaching the end of his life, he produced many interesting texts in the Nineties and into the new century. For instance, Derrida's 1996 text on Levinas, “A Word of Welcome,” lays out the most penetrating logic of the same and other through a discussion of hospitality. In his final works on sovereignty, in particular, Rogues (2003), Derrida shows that the law always contains the possibility of suspension, which means that even the most democratic of nations (the United States for example) resembles a “rogue state” or perhaps is the most “roguish” of all states. Based on lectures first presented during the summer of 1998, L'animal que donc je suis (The Animal that Therefore I am) appeared as the first posthumous work in 2006; concerning animality, it indicates Derrida's continuous interest in the question of life.

Sometime in 2002, Derrida was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He died on October 8, 2004.


2. “The Incorruptibles”

As we noted, Derrida became famous at the end of the 1960's, with the publication of three books in 1967. At this time, other great books appear: Foucault's Les mots et les choses (The Order of Things is the English language title) in 1966; Deleuze's Difference and Repetition in 1968. It is hard to deny that the philosophy publications of this epoch indicate that we have before us a kind of philosophical moment (a moment perhaps comparable to the moment of German Idealism at the beginning of the 19th century). Hélène Cixous calls this generation of French philosophers “the incorruptibles.” In the last interview Derrida gave (to Le Monde on August 19, 2004), he provided an interpretation of “the incorruptibles”: “By means of metonymy, I call this approach [of “the incorruptibles”] an intransigent, even incorruptible, ethos of writing and thinking …, without concession even to philosophy, and not letting public opinion, the media, or the phantasm of an intimidating readership frighten or force us into simplifying or repressing. Hence the strict taste for refinement, paradox, and aporia.” Derrida proclaims that today, more than ever, “this predilection [for paradox and aporia] remains a requirement.” How are we to understand this requirement, this predilection for “refinement, paradox, and aporia”?

In an essay from 1998, “Typewriter Ribbon,” Derrida investigates the relation of confession to archives. But, before he starts the investigation (which will concern primarily Rousseau), he says, “Let us put in place the premises of our question.” He says, “Will this be possible for us? Will we one day be able to, and in a single gesture, to join the thinking of the event to the thinking of the machine? Will we be able to think, what is called thinking, at one and the same time, both what is happening (we call that an event) and the calculable programming of an automatic repetition (we call that a machine). For that, it would be necessary in the future (but there will be no future except on this condition) to think both the event and the machine as two compatible or even in-dissociable concepts. Today they appear to us to be antinomic” (Without Alibi, p. 72). These two concepts appear to us to be antinomic because we conceive an event as something singular and non-repeatable. Moreover, Derrida associates this singularity to the living. The living being undergoes a sensation and this sensation (an affect or feeling for example) gets inscribed in organic material. The idea of an inscription leads Derrida to the other pole. The machine that inscribes is based in repetition; “It is destined, that is, to reproduce impassively, imperceptibly, without organ or organicity, the received commands. In a state of anaesthesis, it would obey or command a calculable program without affect or auto-affection, like an indifferent automaton” (Without Alibi, p. 73). The automatic nature of the inorganic machine is not the spontaneity attributed to organic life. It is easy to see the incompatibility of the two concepts: organic, living singularity (the event) and inorganic, dead universality (mechanical repetition). Derrida says that, if we can make these two concepts compatible, “you can bet not only (and I insist on not only) will one have produced a new logic, an unheard of conceptual form. In truth, against the background and at the horizon of our present possibilities, this new figure would resemble a monster.” The monstrosity of this paradox between event and repetition announces, perhaps, another kind of thinking, an impossible thinking: the impossible event (there must be resemblance to the past which cancels the singularity of the event) and the only possible event (since any event in order to be event worthy of its name must be singular and non-resembling). Derrida concludes this discussion by saying: “To give up neither the event nor the machine, to subordinate neither one to the other, neither to reduce one to the other: this is perhaps a concern of thinking that has kept a certain number of ‘us’ working for the last few decades” (Without Alibi, p. 74). This “us” refers to Derrida's generation of thinkers: “the incorruptibles.” What Derrida says here defines a general project which consists in trying to conceive the relation between machine-like repeatability and irreplaceable singularity neither as a relation of externality (external as in Descartes's two substance or as in Platonism's two worlds) nor as a relation of homogeneity (any form of reductionism would suffice here to elucidate a homogeneous relation). Instead, the relation is one in which the elements are internal to one another and yet remain heterogeneous. Derrida's famous term “différance” (to which we shall return below) refers to this relation in which machine-like repeatability is internal to irreplaceable singularity and yet the two remain heterogeneous to one another.

Of course, Cixous intends with the word “incorruptibles” that the generation of French philosophers who came of age in the Sixties, what they wrote and did, will never decay, will remain endlessly new and interesting. This generation will remain pure. But, the term is particularly appropriate for Derrida, since his thought concerns precisely the idea of purity and therefore contamination. Contamination, in Derrida, implies that an opposition consisting in two pure poles separated by an indivisible line never exists. In other words, traditionally (going back to Plato's myths but also Christian theology), we think that there was an original pure state of being (direct contact with the forms or the Garden of Eden) which accidentally became corrupt. In contrast, Derrida tries to show that no term or idea or reality is ever pure in this way; one term always and necessarily “infects” the other.

Nevertheless, for Derrida, a kind of purity remains as a value. In his 1992 The Monolingualism of the Other, Derrida speaks of his “shameful intolerance” for anything but the purity of the French language (as opposed to French contaminated with English words like “le weekend”). Derrida says, “I still do not dare admit this compulsive demand for a purity of language except within boundaries of which I can be sure: this demand is neither ethical, political, nor social. It does not inspire any judgment in me. It simply exposes me to suffering when someone, who can be myself, happens to fall short of it. I suffer even further when I catch myself or am caught ‘red-handed’ in the act. … Above all, this demand remains so inflexible that it sometimes goes beyond the grammatical point of view, it even neglects ‘style’ in order to bow to a more hidden rule, to ‘listen’ to the domineering murmur of an order which someone in me flatters himself to understand, even in situations where he would be the only one to do so, in a tête-à-tête with the idiom, the final target: a last will of the language, in sum, a law of the language that would entrust itself only to me. …I therefore admit to a purity which is not very pure. Anything but a purism. It is, at least, the only impure ‘purity’ for which I dare confess a taste” (Monolingualism, p. 46). Derrida's taste for purity is such that he seeks the idioms of a language. The idioms of a language are what make the language singular. An idiom is so pure that we seem unable to translate it out of that language. For example, Derrida always connects the French idiom “il faut,” “it is necessary,” to “une faute,” “a fault” and to “un défaut,” “a defect”; but we cannot makes this linguistic connection between necessity and a fault in English. This idiom seems to belong alone to French; it seems as though it cannot be shared; so far, there is no babble of several languages in the one sole French language. And yet, even within one language, an idiom can be shared. Here is another French idiom: “il y va d'un certain pas.” Even in French, this idiom can be "translated." On the one hand, if one takes the “il y va” literally, one has a sentence about movement to a place (“y”: there) at a certain pace (“un certain pas”: a certain step). On the other hand, if one takes the “il y va” idiomatically (“il y va”: what is at issue), one has a sentence (perhaps more philosophical) about the issue of negation (“un certain pas”: “a certain kind of not”). This undecidability in how to understand an idiom within one sole language indicates that, already in French, in the one French language, there is already translation and, as Derrida would say, “Babelization.” Therefore, for Derrida, “a pure language” means a language whose terms necessarily include a plurality of senses that cannot be reduced down to one sense that is the proper meaning. In other words, the taste for purity in Derrida is a taste for impropriety and therefore impurity. The value of purity in Derrida means that anyone who conceives language in terms of proper or pure meanings must be criticized.


3. Basic Argumentation and its Implications: Time, Hearing-Oneself-Speak, the Secret, and Sovereignty

Already we are very close to Derrida's basic argumentation. The basic argumentation always attempts to show that no one is able to separate irreplaceable singularity and machine-like repeatability (or “iterability,” as Derrida frequently says) into two substances that stand outside of one another; nor is anyone able to reduce one to the other so that we would have one pure substance (with attributes or modifications). Machine-like repeatability and irreplaceable singularity, for Derrida, are like two forces that attract one another across a limit that is indeterminate and divisible. Yet, to understand the basic argumentation, we must be, as Derrida himself says in Rogues, “responsible guardians of the heritage of transcendental idealism” (Rogues, p. 134; see also Limited Inc, p. 93). Kant had of course opened up the possibility of this way of philosophizing: arguing back (Kant called this arguing back a “deduction”) from the givenness of experience to the conditions that are necessarily required for the way experience is given. These conditions would function as a foundation for all experience. Following Kant (but also Husserl and Heidegger), Derrida then is always interested in necessary and foundational conditions of experience.

So, let us start with the simplest argument that we can formulate. If we reflect on experience in general, what we cannot deny is that experience is conditioned by time. Every experience, necessarily, takes place in the present. In the present experience, there is the kernel or point of the now. What is happening right now is a kind of event, different from every other now I have ever experienced. Yet, also in the present, I remember the recent past and I anticipate what is about to happen. The memory and the anticipation consist in repeatability. Because what I experience now can be immediately recalled, it is repeatable and that repeatability therefore motivates me to anticipate the same thing happening again. Therefore, what is happening right now is also not different from every other now I have ever experienced. At the same time, the present experience is an event and it is not an event because it is repeatable. This “at the same time” is the crux of the matter for Derrida. The conclusion is that we can have no experience that does not essentially and inseparably contain these two agencies of event and repeatability.

This basic argument contains four important implications. First, experience as the experience of the present is never a simple experience of something present over and against me, right before my eyes as in an intuition; there is always another agency there. Repeatability contains what has passed away and is no longer present and what is about to come and is not yet present. The present therefore is always complicated by non-presence. Derrida calls this minimal repeatability found in every experience “the trace.” Indeed, the trace is a kind of proto-linguisticality (Derrida also calls it “arche-writing”), since language in its most minimal determination consists in repeatable forms. Second, the argument has disturbed the traditional structure of transcendental philosophy, which consists in a linear relation between foundational conditions and founded experience. In traditional transcendental philosophy (as in Kant for example), an empirical event such as what is happening right now is supposed to be derivative from or founded upon conditions which are not empirical. Yet, Derrida's basis argument demonstrates that the empirical event is a non-separable part of the structural or foundational conditions. Or, in traditional transcendental philosophy, the empirical event is supposed to be an accident that overcomes an essential structure. But with Derrida's argument, we see that this accident cannot be removed or eliminated. We can describe this second implication in still another way. In traditional philosophy we always speak of a kind of first principle or origin and that origin is always conceived as self-identical (again something like a Garden of Eden principle). Yet, here we see that the origin is immediately divided, as if the “fall” into division, accidents, and empirical events has always already taken place. In Of Spirit, Derrida calls this kind of origin “origin-heterogeneous”: the origin is heterogeneous immediately (Of Spirit, pp. 107-108). Third, if the origin is always heterogeneous, then nothing is ever given as such in certainty. Whatever is given is given as other than itself, as already past or as still to come. What becomes foundational therefore in Derrida is this “as”: origin as the heterogeneous “as.” The “as” means that there is no knowledge as such, there is no truth as such, there is no perception as such. Faith, perjury, and language are already there in the origin. Fourth, if something like a fall has always already taken place, has taken place essentially or necessarily, then every experience contains an aspect of lateness. It seems as though I am always late for the origin since it seems to have always already disappeared. Every experience then is always not quite on time or, as Derrida quotes Hamlet, time is “out of joint.” Late in his career, Derrida will call this time being out of joint “anachronism” (see for instance On the Name, p. 94). As we shall see in a moment, anachronism for Derrida is the flip side of what he calls “spacing” (espacement); space is out of place. But we should also keep in mind, as we move forward that the phrase “out of joint” alludes to justice: being out of joint, time is necessarily unjust or violent.

So far, we can say that the argument is quite simple although it has wide-ranging implications. It is based on an analysis of experience, but it is also based in the experience of what Derrida has called “auto-affection.” We find the idea of auto-affection (or self-affection) in ancient Greek philosophy, for example in Aristotle's definition of God as “thought thinking itself.” Auto-affection occurs when I affect myself, when the affecting is the same as the affected. As we said above, Derrida will frequently write about autobiography as a form of auto-affection or self-relation. In the very late L'animal que donc je suis, Derrida tells us what he is trying to do with auto-affection: “if the auto-position, the auto-monstration of the auto-directedness of the I, even in man, implied the I as an other and had to welcome in the self some irreducible hetero-affection (which I [that is, Derrida] have attempted elsewhere [my emphasis]), then this autonomy of the I would be neither pure nor rigorous; it would not be able to give way to a simple and linear delimitation between man and animal” (L'animal que donc je suis, p. 133, my English translation). Always, Derrida tries to show that auto-affection is hetero-affection; the experience of the same (I am thinking about myself) is the experience of the other (insofar as I think about myself I am thinking of someone or something else at the same time). But, in order to understand more fully the basic argumentation, let us look at three of these “other places” where Derrida has “attempted” to show that an irreducible hetero-affection infects auto-affection.

The first occurs in La voix et le phénomène (literally the title is Voice and Phenomenon; the title of the English translation is Speech and Phenomena), Derrida's 1967 study of Husserl. Here, Derrida argues that, when Husserl describes lived-experience (Erlebnis), even absolute subjectivity, he is speaking of an interior monologue, auto-affection as hearing-oneself-speak. According to Derrida, hearing-oneself-speak is, for Husserl, “an absolutely unique kind of auto-affection” (Speech and Phenomena, p. 78). It is unique because there seems to be no external detour from the hearing to the speaking; in hearing-oneself-speak there is self-proximity. It seems therefore that I hear myself speak immediately in the very moment that I am speaking. According to Derrida, Husserl's own description of temporalization however undermines the idea that I hear myself speak immediately. On the one hand, Husserl describes what he calls the “living present,” the present that I am experiencing right now, as being perception, and yet Husserl also says that the living present is thick. The living present is thick because it includes phases other than the now, in particular, what Husserl calls “protention,” the anticipation (or “awaiting,” we might say) of the approaching future and “retention,” the memory of the recent past. As is well known, Derrida focuses on the status of retention in Voice and Phenomenon. Retention in Husserl has a strange status since Husserl wants to include it in the present as a kind of perception and at the same time he recognizes that it is different from the present as a kind of non-perception. For Derrida, Husserl's descriptions imply that the living present, by always folding the recent past back into itself, by always folding memory into perception, involves a difference in the very middle of it (Speech and Phenomena, p. 69). In other words, in the very moment, when silently I speak to myself, it must be the case that there is a miniscule hiatus differentiating me into the speaker and into the hearer. There must be a hiatus that differentiates me from myself, a hiatus or gap without which I would not be a hearer as well as a speaker. This hiatus also defines the trace, a minimal repeatability. And this hiatus, this fold of repetition, is found in the very moment of hearing-myself-speak. Derrida stresses that “moment” or “instant” translates the German “Augenblick,” which literally means “blink of the eye.” When Derrida stresses the literal meaning of “Augenblick,” he is in effect “deconstructing” auditory auto-affection into visual auto-affection. When I look in the mirror, for example, it is necessary that I am “distanced” or “spaced” from the mirror. I must be distanced from myself so that I am able to be both seer and seen. The space between, however, remains obstinately invisible. Remaining invisible, the space gouges out the eye, blinds it. I see myself over there in the mirror and yet, that self over there is other than me; so, I am not able to see myself as such. What Derrida is trying to demonstrate here is that this “spacing” (espacement) or blindness is essentially necessary for all forms of auto-affection, even tactile auto-affection which seems to be immediate.

Now, let us go to another “other place,” which can be found in “How to Avoid Speaking.” Here Derrida discusses negative theology by means of the idea of “dénégation,” “denegation” or “denial.” The French word “dénégation” translates Freud's term “Verneinung.” With its negative prefix (“ver”), this German term implies a negation of a negation, a denial then but one that is also an affirmation. The fundamental question then for negative theology, but also psychoanalysis, and for Derrida is how to deny and yet also not deny. This duality between not telling and telling is why Derrida takes up the idea of the secret. In “How to Avoid Speaking,” Derrida says, and this is an important comment for understanding the secret in Derrida: “There is a secret of denial [dénégation] and a denial [dénégation] of the secret. The secret as such, as secret, separates and already institutes a negativity; it is a negation that denies itself. It de-negates itself” (Languages of the Unsayable, p. 25, my emphasis). Here Derrida speaks of a secret as such. A secret as such is something that must not be spoken; we then have the first negation: “I promise not to give the secret away.” And yet, in order to possess a secret really, to have it really, I must tell it to myself. Here we can see the relation of hearing-oneself-speak that we just saw in Voice and Phenomenon. Keeping a secret includes necessarily auto-affection: I must speak to myself of the secret. We might however say more, we might even say that I am too weak for this speaking of the secret to myself not to happen. I must have a conceptual grasp of it; I have to frame a representation of the secret. With the idea of a re-presentation (I must present the secret to myself again in order to possess it really), we also see retention, repetition, and the trace or a name. A trace of the secret must be formed, in which case, the secret is in principle shareable. If the secret must be necessarily shareable, it is always already shared. In other words, in order to frame the representation of the secret, I must negate the first negation, in which I promised not to tell the secret: I must tell the secret to myself as if I were someone else. I thereby make a second negation, a “de-negation,” which means I must break the promise not to tell the secret. In order to keep the secret (or the promise), I must necessarily not keep the secret (I must violate the promise). So, I possess the secret and do not possess it. This structure has the consequence of there being no secret as such. A secret is necessarily shared. As Derrida says in “How to Avoid Speaking,”

This denial [dénégation] does not happen [to the secret] by accident; it is essential and originary. … The enigma … is the sharing of the secret, and not only shared to my partner in the society but the secret shared within itself, its ‘own’ partition, which divides the essence of a secret that cannot even appear to one alone except in starting to be lost, to divulge itself, hence to dissimulate itself, as secret, in showing itself: dissimulating its dissimulation. There is no secret as such; I deny it. And this is what I confide in secret to whomever allies himself to me. This is the secret of the alliance. (Languages of the Unsayable, p. 25)

Now, finally, let us go to one of the most recent of Derrida's writings, to his 2002 “The Reason of the Strongest,” the first essay in the book called Rogues. There Derrida is discussing the United Nations, which he says combines the two principles of Western political thought: sovereignty and democracy. But, “democracy and sovereignty are at the same time, but also by turns, inseparable and in contradiction with one another” (Rogues, p. 100). Democracy and sovereignty contradict one another in the following way. And here Derrida is speaking of pure sovereignty, the very “essence of sovereignty” (Rogues, p. 100). On the one hand, in order to be sovereign, one must wield power oneself, take responsibility for its use by oneself, which means that the use of power, if it is to be sovereign, must be silent; the sovereign does not have to give reasons; the sovereign must exercise power in secret. In other words, sovereignty attempts to possess power indivisibly, it tries not to share, and not sharing means contracting power into an instant — the instant of action, of an event, of a singularity. We can see the outline here of Derrida's deconstruction not only of the hearing-oneself-speak auto-affection but also of the auto-affection of the promising-to-oneself to keep a secret. On the other hand, democracy calls for the sovereign to share power, to give reasons, to universalize. In democracy the use of power therefore is always an abuse of power. Derrida can also say that sovereignty and democracy are inseparable from one another (the contradiction makes them heterogeneous to one another) because democracy even though it calls for universalization (giving reasons in an assembly) also requires force, freedom, a decision, sovereign power. For Derrida, in democracy, a decision (the use of power) is always urgent; and yet (here is the contradiction), democracy takes time, democracy makes one wait so that the use of power can be discussed. Power can never be exercised without its communication; as Derrida says, “As soon as I speak to the other, I submit to the law of giving reason(s), I share a virtually universalizable medium, I divide my authority” (Rogues, p. 101). There must be sovereignty, and yet, there can be no use of power without the sharing of it through repetition. More precisely, as Derrida says, “Since [sovereignty] never succeeds in [not sharing] except in a critical, precarious, and unstable fashion, sovereignty can only tend, for a limited time, to reign without sharing. It can only tend toward imperial hegemony. To make use of the time is already an abuse” (Rogues, p. 102, Derrida's emphasis). This tendency defines what Derrida calls “the worst,” a tendency toward the complete appropriation or extermination of all the others.


4. Elaboration of the Basic Argumentation: The Worst and Hospitality

Throughout his career, Derrida elaborates on the basic argumentation in many ways. But Derrida always uses the argumentation against one idea, which Derrida calls “the worst” (le pire). We can extract a definition of the worst from “Faith and Knowledge” (Religion, p. 65). It revolves around an ambiguous phrase “plus d'un,” which could be translated in English as “more than one,” “more of one,” or “no more one.” On the one hand, this phrase means that in auto-affection, even while it is “auto,” the same, there is more than one; immediately with one, there is two, the self and other, and others. On the other hand, it means that there is a lot more of one, only one, the most one. The worst derives from this second sense of “plus d'un.” The worst is a superlative; it is the worst violence. Derrida, it seems, distinguishes the worst violence from what Kant had called “radical evil.” Radical evil is literally radical, evil at the root. It consists in the small, “infinitesimal difference” (see Of Grammatology, p. 234) between me and an other, even between me and an other in me. Derrida would describe this infinitesimal hiatus as the address, the “à” or the “to”; it is not only difference, across the distance of the address, it is also repetition. And, it is not only a repetition; this self-divergence is also violence, a rending of oneself, an incision. Nevertheless, radical evil is not absolute evil (see Philosophy in a Time of Terror, p. 99). The worst violence occurs when the other to which one is related is completely appropriated to or completely in one's self, when an address reaches its proper destination, when it reaches only its proper destination. Reaching only its proper destination, the address will exclude more, many more, and that “many more,” at the limit, amounts to all. It is this complete exclusion or this extermination of the most – there is no limit to this violence — that makes this violence the worst violence. The worst is a relation that makes of more than one simply one, that makes, out of a division, an indivisible sovereignty. We can see again that the worst resembles the “pure actuality” of Aristotle's Prime Mover, the One God: the sphere, or better, the globe of thought thinking itself (Rogues, p. 15).

What we have just laid out is the structure of the worst in Derrida's thinking. But the structure, for Derrida, can always happen as an event. Derrida thinks that today, “in a time of terror,” after the end of the Cold War, when globalization is taking place, the fragility of the nation-state is being tested more and more. Agencies such as the International Criminal Court, the demand for universal human rights encroach on nation-state sovereignty. But the result of this universalization or “worlding” (“mondialisation” is the French word for globalization) is that the concept of war, and thus of world war, of enemy, and even of terrorism, along with the distinctions between civilian and military or between army, police, and militia, all of these concepts and distinctions are losing their pertinence. As Derrida says here in Rogues “what is called September 11 will not have created or revealed this situation, although it will have surely media-theatricalized it” (Rogues, pp. 154-55). Now, with globalization, there is no identifiable enemy in the form of a “state” territory with whom one (in Rogues Derrida uses this phrase: “the United States and its allies”) would wage what could still be called a “war,” even if we think of this as a war on international terrorism. The balance of terror of the Cold War that insured that no escalation of nuclear weapons would lead to a suicidal operation, Derrida says, “all that is over.” Instead, “a new violence is being prepared and in truth has been unleashed for some time now, in a way that is more visibly suicidal or auto-immune than ever. This violence no longer has to do with world war or even with war, even less with some right to wage war. And this is hardly re-assuring – indeed, quite the contrary” (Rogues, p. 156).

What does it mean to be “more suicidal”? To be more suicidal is to kill oneself more. The “more” means that, since there is only a fragile distinction between states (there is no identification of the enemy), one's state or self includes more and more of the others. But, if one's self includes others that threaten (so-called “terrorist cells,” for example), then, if one wants to immune oneself, then one must murder more and more of those others that are inside. Since the others are inside one's state or one's self, one is required to kill more and more of oneself. This context is very different from the rigid and external opposition, symbolized by the so-called “Iron Curtain,” that defined the Cold War. There and then, “we” had an identifiable enemy, with a name, which allowed the number of the enemies to be limited. But here and now, today, the number of “enemies” is potentially unlimited. Every other is wholly other (“tout autre est tout autre” [cf. The Politics of Friendship, p. 232]) and thus every single other needs to be rejected by the immune system. This innumerable rejection resembles a genocide or what is worse an absolute threat. The absolute threat can no longer be contained when it comes neither from an already constituted state nor even from a potential state that might be treated as a rogue state (Rogues, p. 105). What Derrida is saying here is that the worst is possible, here and now, more possible than ever.

As I said, Derrida always uses the basic argumentation that we have laid out against the idea of the worst; today the tendency towards the worst is greater than ever. The purpose in the application – this purpose defines deconstruction — is to move us towards, not the worst violence, not the most violence, but the least violence (Writing and Difference, p. 130). How does the application of the argumentation against the worst work? Along with globalization, the post-Cold War period sees, as Derrida says in “Faith and Knowledge,” a “return of the religious” (Religion, pp. 42-43). So, in “Faith and Knowledge,” Derrida lays out the etymology of the Latin word “religion” (he acknowledges that the etymology is problematic). The etymology implies that there are “two sources” of religion: “religio,” which implies a holding back or a being unscathed, safe and sound; and “re-legere,” which implies a linking up with another through faith (Religion, p. 16). We can see in this etymology the inseparable dualities we examined above: singular event and machine-like repeatability; auto-affection as hetero-affection. Most importantly, Derrida is trying to understand the “link” that defines religion prior to the link between man as such and the divinity of God. What we can see in this attempt to conceive the link as it is prior to its determination in terms of man and God is an attempt to make the link be as open as possible. Derrida is attempting to “un-close,” as much as possible, the sphericity or englobing of thought thinking itself – in order to open the link as wide as possible, open it to every single other, to any other whatsoever. Throughout his career, Derrida is always interested in the status of animality since it determines the limit between man and others. As his final book demonstrates, L'animal que donc je suis, Derrida is attempting to open the link even to animals. Animals are other and, because “every other is wholly other” (tout autre est tout autre), the link must be open to them too. Here despite the immense influence they have had on his thought, Derrida breaks with both Heidegger and Levinas both of whom did not open the link this wide (see Points, p. 279). Here, with the “door” or “border” open as wide as possible, we encounter Derrida's idea of “unconditional hospitality,” which means letting others in no matter what, without asking them for papers, without judging them, even when they are uninvited. All are to be treated not as enemies who must be expelled or exterminated, but as friends.

This unconditional openness of the borders is not the best (as opposed to what we were calling the worst above). It is only the less bad or less evil, the less violence. Why? The unconditional opening is not possible. There are always conditions. Among all the others we must decide, we must assign them papers, which means that there is always still, necessarily violence at the borders. At once, in hospitality, there is the force that moves towards to the other to welcome and the force to remain unscathed and pulled back from the other, trying to keep the door closed. Here too, in hospitality, we see Derrida's idea of a “messianism without messiah.” Because letting all the others in is impossible, this de-closing is always to come in the future like the messiah coming or coming back (Derrida plays on the French word for the future, “l'avenir,” which literally means “to come,” “à venir”). We must make one more point. The impossibility of unconditional hospitality means that any attempt to open the globe completely is insufficient. Being insufficient, every attempt therefore requires criticism; it must be “deconstructed,” as Derrida would say. But this deconstruction would be a deconstruction that recognizes its own insufficiency. Deconstruction, to which we now turn, never therefore results in good conscience, in the good conscience that comes with thinking we have done enough to render justice.


5. Deconstruction

As we said at the beginning, “deconstruction” is the most famous of Derrida's terms. He seems to have appropriated the term from Heidegger's use of “destruction” in Being and Time. But we can get a general sense of what Derrida means with deconstruction by recalling Descartes's First Meditation. There Descartes says that for a long time he has been making mistakes. The criticism of his former beliefs both mistaken and valid aims towards uncovering a “firm and permanent foundation.” The image of a foundation implies that the collection of his former beliefs resembles a building. In the First Meditation then, Descartes is in effect taking down this old building, “de-constructing” it. We have also seen how much Derrida is indebted to traditional transcendental philosophy which really starts here with Descartes' search for a “firm and permanent foundation.” But with Derrida, we know now, the foundation is not a unified self but a divisible limit between myself and myself as an other (auto-affection as hetero-affection: “origin-heterogeneous”).

Derrida has provided many definitions of deconstruction. But three definitions are classical. The first is early, being found in the 1971 interview “Positions” and in the 1972 Preface to Dissemination: deconstruction consists in “two phases” (Positions, pp. 41-42, Dissemination, pp.4-6). At this stage of his career Derrida famously (or infamously) speaks of “metaphysics” as if the Western philosophical tradition was monolithic and homogeneous. At times he also speaks of “Platonism,” as Nietzsche did. Simply, deconstruction is a criticism of Platonism, which is defined by the belief that existence is structured in terms of oppositions (separate substances or forms) and that the oppositions are hierarchical, with one side of the opposition being more valuable than the other. The first phase of deconstruction attacks this belief by reversing the Platonistic hierarchies: the hierarchies between the invisible or intelligible and the visible or sensible; between essence and appearance; between the soul and body; between living memory and rote memory; between mnēmē and hypomnēsis; between voice and writing; between finally good and evil. In order to clarify deconstruction's “two phases,” let us restrict ourselves to one specific opposition, the opposition between appearance and essence. Nietzsche had also criticized this opposition but it is clearly central to phenomenological thinking as well. So, in Platonism, essence is more valuable than appearance. In deconstruction however, we reverse this, making appearance more valuable than essence. How? Here we could resort to empiricist arguments (in Hume for example) that show that all knowledge of what we call essence depends on the experience of what appears. But then, this argumentation would imply that essence and appearance are not related to one another as separate oppositional poles. The argumentation in other words would show us that essence can be reduced down to a variation of appearances (involving the roles of memory and anticipation). The reduction is a reduction to what we can call “immanence,” which carries the sense of “within” or “in.” So, we would say that what we used to call essence is found in appearance, essence is mixed into appearance. Now, we can back track a bit in the history of Western metaphysics. On the basis of the reversal of the essence-appearance hierarchy and on the basis of the reduction to immanence, we can see that something like a decision (a perhaps impossible decision) must have been made at the beginning of the metaphysical tradition, a decision that instituted the hierarchy of essence-appearance and separated essence from appearance. This decision is what really defines Platonism or “metaphysics.” After this retrospection, we can turn now to a second step in the reversal-reduction of Platonism, which is the second “phase” of deconstruction. The previously inferior term must be re-inscribed as the “origin” or “resource” of the opposition and hierarchy itself. How would this re-inscription or redefinition of appearance work? Here we would have to return to the idea that every appearance or every experience is temporal. In the experience of the present, there is always a small difference between the moment of now-ness and the past and the future. (It is perhaps possible that Hume had already discovered this small difference when, in the Treatise, he speaks of the idea of relation.) In any case, this infinitesimal difference is not only a difference that is non-dualistic, but also it is a difference that is, as Derrida would say, “undecidable.” Although the minuscule difference is virtually unnoticeable in everyday common experience, when we in fact notice it, we cannot decide if we are experiencing the past or the present, if we are experiencing the present or the future. Insofar as the difference is undecidable, it destabilizes the original decision that instituted the hierarchy. After the redefinition of the previously inferior term, Derrida usually changes the term's orthography, for example, writing “différence” with an “a” as “différance” in order to indicate the change in its status. Différance (which is found in appearances when we recognize their temporal nature) then refers to the undecidable resource into which “metaphysics” “cut” in order to makes its decision. In “Positions,” Derrida calls names like “différance” “old names” or a “paleonyms,” and there he also provides a list of these “old terms”: “pharmakon”; “supplement”; “hymen”; “gram”; “spacing”; and “incision” (Positions, p. 43). These names are old because, like the word “appearance” or the word “difference,” they have been used for centuries in the history of Western philosophy to refer to the inferior position in hierarchies. But now, they are being used to refer to the resource that has never had a name in “metaphysics”; they are being used to refer to the resource that is indeed “older” than the metaphysical decision.

This first definition of deconstruction as two phases gives way to the refinement we find in the “Force of Law” (which dates from 1989-1990). This second definition is less metaphysical and more political. In “Force of Law,” Derrida says that deconstruction is practiced in two styles (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, p. 21). These “two styles” do not correspond to the “two phases” in the earlier definition of deconstruction. On the one hand, there is the genealogical style of deconstruction, which recalls the history of a concept or theme. Earlier in his career, in Of Grammatology, Derrida had laid out, for example, the history of the concept of writing. But now what is at issue is the history of justice. On the other hand, there is the more formalistic or structural style of deconstruction, which examines a-historical paradoxes or aporias. In “Force of Law,” Derrida lays out three aporias, although they all seem to be variants of one, an aporia concerning the unstable relation between law (the French term is “droit,” which also means “right”) and justice.

Derrida calls the first aporia, “the epoche of the rule” (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, pp. 22-23). Our most common axiom in ethical or political thought is that to be just or unjust and to exercise justice, one must be free and responsible for one's actions and decisions. Here Derrida in effect is asking: what is freedom. On the one hand, freedom consists in following a rule; but in the case of justice, we would say that a judgment that simply followed the law was only right, not just. For a decision to be just, not only must a judge follow a rule but also he or she must “re-institute” it, in a new judgment. Thus a decision aiming at justice (a free decision) is both regulated and unregulated. The law must be conserved and also destroyed or suspended, suspension being the meaning of the word “epoche.” Each case is other, each decision is different and requires an absolutely unique interpretation which no existing coded rule can or ought to guarantee. If a judge programmatically follows a code, he or she is a “calculating machine.” Strict calculation or arbitrariness, one or the other is unjust, but they are both involved; thus, in the present, we cannot say that a judgment, a decision is just, purely just. For Derrida, the “re-institution” of the law in a unique decision is a kind of violence since it does not conform perfectly to the instituted codes; the law is always, according to Derrida, founded in violence. The violent re-institution of the law means that justice is impossible. Derrida calls the second aporia “the ghost of the undecidable (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, pp. 24-26). A decision begins with the initiative to read, to interpret, and even to calculate. But to make such a decision, one must first of all experience what Derrida calls “undecidability.” One must experience that the case, being unique and singular, does not fit the established codes and therefore a decision about it seems to be impossible. The undecidable, for Derrida, is not mere oscillation between two significations. It is the experience of what, though foreign to the calculable and the rule, is still obligated. We are obligated – this is a kind of duty — to give oneself up to the impossible decision, while taking account of rules and law. As Derrida says, “A decision that did not go through the ordeal of the undecidable would not be a free decision, it would only be the programmable application or unfolding of a calculable process” (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, p. 24). And once the ordeal is past (“if this ever happens,” as Derrida says), then the decision has again followed or given itself a rule and is no longer presently just. Justice therefore is always to come in the future, it is never present. There is apparently no moment during which a decision could be called presently and fully just. Either it has not a followed a rule, hence it is unjust; or it has followed a rule, which has no foundation, which makes it again unjust; or if it did follow a rule, it was calculated and again unjust since it did not respect the singularity of the case. This relentless injustice is why the ordeal of the undecidable is never past. It keeps coming back like a “phantom,” which “deconstructs from the inside every assurance of presence, and thus every criteriology that would assure us of the justice of the decision” (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, pp. 24-25). Even though justice is impossible and therefore always to come in or from the future, justice is not, for Derrida, a Kantian ideal, which brings us to the third aporia. The third is called “the urgency that obstructs the horizon of knowledge” (Deconstruction and the Possibility of Justice, pp. 26-28). Derrida stresses the Greek etymology of the word “horizon”: “As its Greek name suggests, a horizon is both the opening and limit that defines an infinite progress or a period of waiting.” Justice, however, even though it is un-presentable, does not wait. A just decision is always required immediately. It cannot furnish itself with unlimited knowledge. The moment of decision itself remains a finite moment of urgency and precipitation. The instant of decision is then the moment of madness, acting in the night of non-knowledge and non-rule. Once again we have a moment of irruptive violence. This urgency is why justice has no horizon of expectation (either regulative or messianic). Justice remains an event yet to come. Perhaps one must always say “can-be” (the French word for “perhaps” is “peut-être,” which literally means “can be”) for justice. This ability for justice aims however towards what is impossible.

Even later in Derrida's career he will formalize, beyond these aporias, the nature of deconstruction. The third definition of deconstruction can be found in an essay from 2000 called “Et Cetera.” Here Derrida in fact presents the principle that defines deconstruction:

Each time that I say ‘deconstruction and X (regardless of the concept or the theme),’ this is the prelude to a very singular division that turns this X into, or rather makes appear in this X, an impossibility that becomes its proper and sole possibility, with the result that between the X as possible and the ‘same’ X as impossible, there is nothing but a relation of homonymy, a relation for which we have to provide an account…. For example, here referring myself to demonstrations I have already attempted …, gift, hospitality, death itself (and therefore so many other things) can be possible only as impossible, as the im-possible, that is, unconditionally (Deconstruction: a User's Guide, p. 300, my emphasis).
Even though the word “deconstruction” has been bandied about, we can see now the kind of thinking in which deconstruction engages. It is a kind of thinking that never finds itself at the end. Justice – this is undeniable – is impossible (perhaps justice is the “impossible”) and therefore it is necessary to make justice possible in countless ways.

Bibliography

Works by Derrida

  • Adieu à Emmanuel Levinas. Paris: Galilée, 1997. English translation by Michael Naas and Pascalle-Anne Brault as Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999.
  • L'animal que donc je suis (Paris: Galilée, 2006).
  • Anne Dufourmantelle invite Jacques Derrida à répondre. De l'hospitalité (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1997).
  • Apories (Paris: Galilée, 1996).
  • L'Archeologie du frivole: Lire Condillac (Paris: Denoël/Gontheier, 1973).
  • Béliers (Paris: Galilée, 2003).
  • La Carte Postale de Socrate à Freud et au-dela (Paris: Flammarion, 1980).
  • Chaque fois unique, la fin du monde (Paris: Galilée, 2003).
  • Le “concept” du 11 septembre, Dialogues à New York (octobre-décembre 2001) avec Giovanna Borradori, with Jürgen Habermas (Paris: Galilée, 2004).
  • La Dissemination (Paris: Seuil, 1972).
  • Donner le temps: 1. La fausse monnaie (Paris: Galilée, 1991).
  • L'Ecriture et la différence (Paris: Seuil, 1967).
  • “Et cetera… (and so on, und so weiter, and so forth, et ainsi de suite, und so überall, etc.),” in Jacques Derrida, edited by Marie-Louise Mallet et Ginette Michaud (Paris: Editions de l'Herne, 2004), pp. 21-34.
  • Glas (Paris: Denoël/Gontheier, 1981 [1974]), two volumes.
  • De la grammatologie (Paris: Minuit, 1967).
  • De l'esprit (Paris: Galilée, 1987).
  • Demeure (Paris: Galilée, 1998).
  • Du droit à la philosophie (Paris: Galilée, 1990)
  • États d'âme de la psychanalyse (Paris: Galilée, 2000).
  • Force de loi (Paris: Galilée, 1994).
  • “Je suis en guerre contre moi-même,” interview in Le Monde, August 19, 2004.
  • Khôra (Paris: Galilée, 1993).
  • Limited Inc (Paris: Galilée, 1990).
  • Marges de la philosophie (Paris: Minuit, 1972).
  • Memoires for Paul de Man (Paris: Galilée, 1988).
  • Le monolinguisme de l'autre (Paris: Galilée, 1996).
  • L'Oreille de l'autre: otobiographies, transferts, traductions. Textes et débats avec Jacques Derrida (Montreal: VLB, 1982).
  • Edmund Husserl, L'Origine de la géométrie, traduction et introduction par Jacques Derrida (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1974 [1962]).
  • Papier Machine (Paris: Galilée, 2001).
  • Points de suspension, Entretiens (Paris: Galilée, 1992).
  • Politiques de l'amitié (Paris: Galilée, 1994).
  • Positions (Paris: Minuit, 1972).
  • Le Problème de la genèse dans la philosophie de Husserl (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1990).
  • Psyche: Inventions de l'autre. Paris: Galilée, 1987.
  • Psyche: Inventions de l'autre, II. Paris: Galilée, 2003.
  • De quoi demain… Dialogue (Paris: Fayard/Galilée, 2001).
  • La Religion (edited with Gianni Vattimo), (Paris: Seuil, 1996).
  • Sauf le nom (Paris: Galilée, 1993).
  • Schibboleth pour Paul Celan (Paris: Galilée, 1986).
  • Spectres de Marx (Paris: Galilée, 1993).
  • Le Toucher, Jean-Luc Nancy (Paris: Galilée, 2000)
  • La Vérité en peinture (Paris: Flammarion, 1978).
  • La Voix et le phénomène (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1983 [1967]).
  • Voyous (Paris: Galilée, 2003).
  • Ulysse Gramophone (Paris: Galilée, 1987).



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