A T H E N S , S T .I L L
R E M A I N S
Athens, Still Remains The Photographs of Jean-Franr;ois Bonhomme
JACQUES
DE...
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A T H E N S , S T .I L L
R E M A I N S
Athens, Still Remains The Photographs of Jean-Franr;ois Bonhomme
JACQUES
DERRIDA
_)
Translated by Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS
NEW YORK
2010
Copyright© ~010 Fordham University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may he reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or hy any me:1ns-electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Athen•, StilL Remains was published in French as Demeure, Athenes by Editions Galilee,© ~oo9 Editions Galilee. Library of Congress Catal(!ging-in- Publication Data Derrida, Jacques. [Demeure, Athenes. English] Athens, atill remains, the photographs of Jean-Fran~ois Bonbomme I Jacques Derrida; translated hy Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas. p.cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-o-8~3~-3~05-5
(cloth' alk. paper)-
ISDN n8-o-8~3~-3~o6-~
L
(pbk. 'alk. paper)
Death. z. Grief. 3. Sepulchral monuments-Greece-Athens-Pictori:ll
works. 4· Athens {Greece)-AnliquiL1es-P.i.clul"ial wu1·kt>. I. BuJilioilllll~. Jean-Fran~ois,
1943- !L Brault, Pascale-Anne. IlL Naas. Michael N. Title.
~0100~0610
Contents vii
LIST 0 F ILL US T RAT I 0 N S
T R A N S L AT 0 R S' N 0 T E
ix
* * * * * ATHENS, STILL REMAINS
* * NOTES
* 'l'3
Illustrations 1 •
Kerameikos Cemetery, Stn:t'l orTombs, Sepulcher ~
· Oroonia Sqwn-e-the Old 1\ eon Cafe 3 • A Few Moments in theN eon C~ft'
4 • Strt:Ot'l Organ
5 • Athinas Street 6 · Athinas-Meut Mal'ket
7 • Athinas-Fruil and Vl':getable Market [J • Athi.nas-~ahyChickVendur
9 · Photop;rapher un Lhe A£:ropolis 10 •
Kerameikos c.~mr.ter:y-Funcrary Stde
n • The Parthenon· Phulogl'aphy in Waiting
1:.: • Statue in th~Agora 18 • Athinas-Fish Market 14 · Agora--Column Fragments •5 • Kerameikos Cemetery-Lck)'thus J(, • ~-\ntique Dealer in Monastirnki
17 · Agora, Tnsc:ripti.on
18 · Keramcikos C:P.metery Museum-Detail f•·om a Funerary Stele 19 · ~fonl!;;tin1ki Market 40 • ~~
i\drianou Street Market
• SundayattheAdrianouSio'ef".tMD.Tket ~~
• Athina~ Market-Two Brothers
il • .Bouzouki Player ~4
· Persephone Street
25 • N ea1· the Tower of the Winds ~6
· Kl"rameikos Cemctcry--Suet:Ol ofTomh;; 27 · Site oft he Tu .... er ofthe Winds ~A
· Stoa of Attalos
29 ·Agora-Apollo Patroos 3o ·
Acropolis--f:~ryatidesBound :~1
·Agora--Sarcophagus
3:.>, · Theater of Dionysus-Thmnr, of the Priest 33 · Frieze of the Theater of Dionysus Dionysu~. Zt:Ous Seaterl
.14 • frieze ofthe Thcate1' of Dionys11s-the Silenus
Translators' Note Atheros, S~il! Remo.i11.s (Dem.~IJ.n!, Athllne.~) w.a.:: fu~t published in 1996 by Editions OLKO s (Athens) in a bilingual Fnmch-Modem Greek P.rlition. it appeared there as the preface to a wllection of photograph:; by JeariFr:tn'
the C!!lilee edition. Oerrida's original French title, Dem.e1.u~. llthenes, can be heard in at least three differentwa}'s, as an imperative, "Stay, Athens!"' as a description, "Athens stays'" or "Athens remain.;;," or a~ a fo!'mulation typically found on official uocum~nls to .refer to one's place of :residence, '"lleRidtmre: Athens." The word demeure can thus be heard either as a notm, meaning house, dwelling, or re.c;idenr.e, or as a verb, meaning to remain, stay. or reside. The verb dcrn<'tHcr also originally meant "to defer .. or ""to delay."' Denida c;-.:ploits all of these meanings in thi~ work. along with a number of relatr.d idioms. Because no single English word or even phrase can cover· alllhe diffei·e.nl me~nings m valenr.P..c; ofthe French demeure, the titleA.I"he71$, Still Remains is less a tran:;lation than a 1ra ns1m~;ition into ;1. "emantir. field that is akin to the original but overlaps it only pa1·tially. Parts or this workwP.TP. tmn~ated by Da.vidWills and published in his translation of Jacque:; Dt:uida aud CaLhexinfl Malahou's Goa1lterpath: Tro.vcling'!JJi.thfaaqueslJerrida (Stanford, Stanford University Press, ~004, •o3-f\). W~ are grateful to David Wills for allowing us to adopt so many of his fclicitou~ wm·d dw.ices. A graduate seminar in the Philo~ophy Dc:pal"llllt:nl al DePaul University in autumn ~0"9 allowr.d us to reli.ne and improve this translation. We wuuhl.like to express our gratitude to the mP.mbers of the seminar, as well as to our colleague at DePaul, Elizabeth Rott~nb"'rt\. for their m~11y excP.lltmt !';ugge~;tions. Firwlly, v.e v.ould likl>. fo thank the Summer Grants Program ofthe College of Liberal Art;; and Seieru.~~ al DePaul T~nivP.r~;ity forits [\"ener-
ous supp art ofthis project.
Nu~s nous devons
a. la mort.
1
V/e owe ow·selves to death.
Itwas thiR past July3. right around noon, close to Athens.
It was then that this sent~nce took me b)' surprise, in the light-"we owe ourselves to death"-and the desire immediately overcame me to cngra.,.e it in stom, without dda)': a sna-pshot Iun in.sta.ntane], I said to myself, without any further delay.
As the ngur~ of an example, no doubt, but .'II'> if it had pn;~(;I'ibed to me these VI"Ords in advance. what iuunediately flashed before me was one of these photographs: Kera.m.!.!ikoR CemetfffJ'• Street of Tombs, Sepu.tcher (no. 1): on the distended skill of an erection, just below the prepuce, asodofphallic column hears an inscription that l had noty~tde ciphered, except fonhc proper name, Apollodorus. And what ifit v.•ere !ha.tApollodorus, the .author of a history of the gods? Twould have loved to sign 1hc.:8C words; I would have loved to be the aulhor of an epit.aph for the author of a history of the gods. I had been traveling in Greece with these photographs ever since Jean- Fram;oil:! Bo.uhomme had given them to me. A risk had already been taken when I promised to write somethingforthe publication of these photog1·aphs, and 1 had already begun lo approac.b. thf'm ·with the hmilia.rity of a neophyte. where fascination, admiration, and astonishme.ut were nil bound up together, all sorts of troubling questions as well, in particular regarding the form my text might take. Without
bwwingit, I must have decided on that day, thethirdofJuly. having not yet v.'Titlcn a word, that the form would be at once aphoristic and .~P.nal. Making lli!C in this way of black and whitf', shadow aud light, I -w-ould thus disperse my "poims of view-'' ur ··perspectives," all the while pretendingto gather them togF-ther in the d(;quence of their very separation, a bit like a narrative always on the verge of being intcnupted, but
also like those funeraryr stones standing upl'ight in lhe S!ret:t ofTvrnbs (no. ~6) . .Arollnd the one on which the name Apollodorus ~onld be read, I had alrearly rloticed the insistence of tt serial motif. Dack and forth from one to the other, from one column Lo anoLh4;r and one limit Ol'tlli'ning poiuttu the nroxt, this serialicyis i.n. mourning or ~ears mourning [porte l~ de.uil}. Tt bears mourning through its discrete structure
(interntption, separation, reperitlon, sw·\lival); it hears the mourning
uf it~elf, aU b:yitself, beyond the r.hings of death that form its theme. if you will, or the content of the images. It's not just in the Keramciku:; Cemetery or among its funcraiJ :;tel ciS that this can be seen. \Vhether we are looking at the whole pir.ture orjllst a detail, nev-er do any of these photographs fail to signifY death. Each signili.e;:~ death without saying it. Each one, in any case. n::c.;alls a death that has already or.cmr~d, or one
that is promised or threatening, a sepulchral monumentalily. memory in the f:tgure of min. A Look uf t:pitaphs, in short, which bP.a.r.~ or wears mo r.uning [p ortc le deuil] in photo graphic ~ffigy. (Porter I~ deui/.what a suangf! irlionh how is one to translate such a bcar.i.ug or rnch a range of meaning lporl.eeJ? lmd bow is one to suggcstthatthF. de:~d, far from being borne by the survivor, who, al' we 5:1y, goes into mourning or bP.an:. mourning, is actually the one who fust heal's il, b~.:an; it within or comp.l'ehewh it likt: a specter that is greater tha.n the "living" heir, who still heli1wes that he contains or comprehends death, interiori:ting
or saving the departed whose mourui11g he must bear'?) We thus ger. the impression that what I have ventured to ca 11, vrithout too much impudence, the phallus or the colossus of Apollodorus immeclialc:ly
h~.:·
comes the metonymic f1gw·e I or lh~,; entire series of phowgraph" C'.ollcctcd in this book. But each one of them remains in its turn whal il becomes: a funerary inscription with a proper name. Having to keep what it loses, namely lhc departed, does not every photograph actin effect through the bereav~cl experience of such a proper name, through
the irresistible singula1·ily of its referent, itll herc··now. ils date? And thus through the irresi"tible singularity of its rapport with or relation tu what it ::lhow3, its ferance or its be.aring, the portee that constitutes its proper visibility? It thus seems impossible, and t.hat's the whole parad.ox, to stu p Lhis metonyrnic substitution. There is nothing but proper names, and yet everything rem.:1.ins metonymic. That's photography: seriality does not r,ome to affect it by accident. What is accidental i~:~. for it, ~;;sential and ineluctable. My feeling was
lobe connrmed as it came
into sh..'trper for.ns. Yes, each photograph whispers a pruper name. bnt it also becomes the appellation of all th~ o lhers. You can already vcr ify thi~>: without compromising in the least its absolute independenr.~. each of them is what it is, no do LAbt all on its ovm, but each one calls at once <Jorne other one and a.H the mhcrs. I will be able to sa.ythis better later. Whence the idea of a series of aphorisms analogous to till: multiple tries or takes of thP. amateur photographer I am, a stream of snapfihots or stills I clichesP-now th(';re's a possible title-sometimes just negativef·nvaitingto b~ developed. Here and there a few enlargementsof the "thing" itself or of a detail. I would thus
trials and errors: to prolong in one place the timt: of the pose, to multiply in anothervarious ":wums" or discontinuous close ups ofthesame place, affonl.ill!{ myself the liberty to feel roy way as r go, to multiply
the stereotype!! and the polaroids, to
r~trace
my own steps. to take a
shadow by surprise-and always w own up to my inexperience: inepl framing, overcxposLue, underexposure, shoo Ling into the light, and !!O
on. (Speaking of which, what would Plato or Heideggcr have thought of thi::; thing caJied the shutter or, in French, using a name that has been part ofthevocalmlaryof photography since 1868, the obtura.teur? Would they ho.ve ev~n conside1·ed this little mer.hanism that allows one to calculate the light passing through, the impression of th~ sensible subjectile-and the delaying of the "right momcnl" Imoment voulu.].)
3
Still I We owe ourselves lo death.
\\'hat a (ientence. Will it be more oJ·less sentcmiou~ for being fu:ed or foc.u~ed on in this way by a lens or objective, as if one were to lcL it sink hack just as soon, without any celebration, into the nocturnal anonywity of its origin'? We owe oursdvci:i to deaTh. Once and for all, one tim~
for all rimes. Tht sentence took me by surprise. as I said, hut I
knew right away that it must have been waiting for me for centuries, lurking in the: shadows, knowing in advance: wheretof:md me (whereto
fmd me'? ~'hat does that mean?). And yet-and I would he prepared to swear to thig.-it appeared only once. Never d.oes it lend itf\elf to commentary, never does it specify its modality: is it an obse1·vation or a piece of advice. ~we owe ourselves to death"? Does this sentence express the law of what is or the law that prestrihes what nu,ght to be? Does
it let n~> hear that. in Iact or in truth, we 0"\V"e ourselves to death"? Or else that we are obliged, that we ought, w owe ourselves to death? For
it came to me, so to speak, only once, this oracular thing. this one awl nnt another. only one Lime, the fust and last time al the same time, on a certain day in July, .and at a certain moment, and e\'ery time l make it come ha~k. or rather each time I let it reappear. it is once and Joru.ll, une
time for all #mes, or rather I shouln
S<~y:
all the times for a single time.
Like death. (One might insert here a short trcatil'le on the idealization
of ideo.tit)'"-Or on ideal objectivity-through the iterabiliLy of the "one time for all Limes." and, to stay in Greece, introduce the question of photography, between Plato and Husser}, in the context of what eidos will have meant.) Tell me, who v.'ill ever have photographed a sentence? And. its silence of things stifled on the surface? Wbo v.dll ev~r have photogtaphed any · thing other lha.n this silcncfl? Havingsurfa~ed from who kno"'-s where, the sent~n~e in question nu
longer belonged to me. h had, in fact, never been mine, and I did not
4
yet feel responsible for it. Having in!'ltantly fallen into the public cit"Jmuin, it had traversed rw.:. It passed through me, saying from wilh.i..u me that il was .iust passing through. Having become its hostage rather than its host, I had to offer it hospitality, indeed, to keep it safe~ I was, to be sure, responsible for its safekeeping, for safegll.qrding each of its
words, accowtlable for the immuni1:yor indemnity of each lett~r joined to the ne-,xt. But the same debt, the same obligation, dictated to me that I IJ.ol take this sentenr.e, not take it as a whole, that I not under anycirCll mt~.tanccs
take hold of it like a sf'ntence sig.w.:d by me. _And it did in
fact remain impregnable. Thi::s acknowledgement of debt, this wu, was like a thing, a. simple thinglo11tin thewurld, hut a thing already owed, aln:adydue, and I had to keep it without taking it. To hold on to it as if holding it in trusl. as
if on con~ignment, consigned to a photoengraved safekeeping. What does this nhligation, thil! u.rst indebting, have to du wilh the verb of th.i.s declaration that can never be appro pxiated, "we mtll [devons] our-·
3elves to d(>ath?" What does the obligation have to do with what the declaration se~med to mcaiJ.? Not "we owe ourselves to the death," not "we owe ouTselves death," hut "we owe vurselves to de<1th." ~ut
just who is death? (Where is it-or .
cLU·iously, in 11nmch, trouver la rrwrt, to ":find death," '"to meet with de:rr.h"-- and thal means to die.)
5
Still II
But just who is death? The que~>tion <:an be posed at each and every step in this phorographicjourneythroughALhens, andnotonlyin the cern ~tcories.
in from ofthe airuLsscd tombstone!'., the fun era lsteles, the col-
umns and the crossefl, the arr:haeologict~l sites, the decapitated statues, the temples in ruins, the chapels. the <mtiquc dealers in a flea mar-
ket, the displays of dead animalfrmeat and flsh-on a market street . . The pfm;on who took his time to tnke these images of Athens over a period of almost f1fteen yean! did not just devote himself to a photographic revie1c of certain sites that already constituted hypomnesic mins, so many monumental signs of death (the Acmpolis, the Agora. the Keramciku~
Cemetery, the Tower of the \v'inds, the Theater of Diony-
sus). He also saw disappear, as time passed, places he photographed, ~o to speak, "li..,ing," which are now "gone," "departed" [disparusJ. this son of flea market onAdrianou Street, for example, or the Neon Cafe in Omonia Square. most of the streetoxgans, and so OIL Thi~ world that was the Athens of yesleL·day- aL·cady a certain modernil:y of the cityeveryday Ar:hens photographed in it~; everydayness, is the 1\thens that is nmv no longer inAtherts. Her soul wowd dsk being even less pres · ertt, it might he said, than the archeological vestiges of ancient Athens. Their ruin. the only telling :1rchi.,.-e for this Market, this Cafe, this Street Organ, the best memory of thi~ culture, would be photograph,;. We would thus have to meclitate tlpon this invasion of photography intcnhP history ofthe city. An absolute mutation, though om: l:'n;parcd from lime immemorial (physis, phos, helios, tekhne, epiMem.ii, phiioso-
phia). Thi!'l book thlls bears the signature of someone keeping vigil and bearing more than one mourning, a witness who i::s UfJubly ~urviving, a lover lcndcrly taken by a city that has died more than once, in many time!'!, a ~iiy hu sy watching over all that is noncontemporaneous within it, b~lt a living city nonetheless. Tomon-ow, livirtg Athens will be seen keeping and keeping an eye on, guarding anrl regarding, reflecting and reflecting on its deaths.
Still \II We
oweour~dves lo
death.l had in any case to pay my debt toward this
sentence. No matter the cost.ll had taken me, taken me by surprise {as ii it had photographed
m~
without my knowledge. unexpectl";dly,
exaiphnes); it had overtaken me, outfltripped me, perhaps like death. a death thar would have found me where I was still hiding; it had en truf:!kd mevrith I don't knowwhat for~afckccping, perhaps myself, and perhaps us; it had el:!pr.:ci.ally entrusted itself to me by making advances on me, by giving me an advance. It had granted me an advancl";. An advance, that's what it was, whatever el.c;e it might have b~en, wherever it might hnve come from and l"i hatever it might have meant. In the eyes of
thi::; advance, 1 was not a nl)· the debtor but I was late. Given n ntice [mis en demeure] to pay 1·eslilution. I couldn't lose any mon: lime; my nrst obligation wa.o; to save the scnle.11ce as soon as possible, \\ithout any further dday. This urgent Mntence, moreovCI', suggested something about urgency. It imi.11uaLed at least, on the brink ofurgen<..j' leaving me free or pressing me v•ithout pressuring r.ae-alaw of imminence. Whence tht: idea, the nrst ide.1, my original impulse. of inscribing it in stone, right here. right away. the idea offtxing it or focusing on it precisely like an idea, eidos or idea, a form, a 1'1gure, in this element of eternity that our imagin.'l.tio:n naivelr associate~ wiLh Greece and its petroglyphs. TWOllld thus be ablt: LO settle up with it and then settle on leaving it, leaving it without losing it. This was precisely my desire, or else the opposite: to dis Lance myself from it, to set out from il without evt:r leaving it.
7
l
.
6
Still IV I was taking a plan~ a few hours later, and I was having a hard time separating myself from everythi.ng, and especially from it, and so I began to dream of a camera equipped with a ''delay mechanism": after se-tting up the camera, after adjW:!ting the time of the po!:lc and activating the "triggering device," 1 might he able, I said to myself, to run ovt:I' lo the side oftho~eword~ words loaned, not given -so that the snap~hot might gather us all togethf:r once and for all. J would thus let my~ell'be . taken by surprise for a time without f!nd, a time .in proximity to which I would feel more nnite than ever, myself now entrusted 01· consigned in turn to thi!:l sentence of stone, consigned for life and up until death Lei /.a vie aLa m.ort], linked thus to what would nev<.:r be mine, but linked to it d. demeure, that is, p~rmcmentlx. for the duration.
Still V
Ademeun~, he Sa)1!. There is nothing here that is not already lodged, that ia, d demeure, in the French demeu.~. from the house to the temple, along with everything that happens to he rse trouoe.] photographed here, right up to /,a demiere dcmeu.re, the fmal resting place, everything can he found here, from the injunction (deme,~.re! stay!) to d1e m.ise en demeurr.. C:~le arc mi.s en demeure, wr: are given notice, to pay what we owe wjtbin a certain time period, for example, to death, at death, to sett1e our accounts, in the end to he released from our obligations, and to do so wirhout delay!.) Ever:;1hing having to do with debt and delay can thul:l already be found in the word demeure, as in the sentence "we owe ourfl.elvcs to death." every1:hing, eternally, having to do with obligation and rime, everything and the refl.t-remains, destiny, deferral, delay (demora.ri: to rf!main, to sLop, to take one 'g time or to delaywhichstrangelyrescmblesdem.ori: to die, to waste away). Butth~ 1\yntax remai..usuntranslatahle, and I was notyetdonewithevt.:I)'thingitkeepf\
9
• 2 •
10
in reserve. l.h&td the impression thal. h,y l'oCLts.ing on
lh~s~; wuru~ lik~;
a photograph. on<.: could-and the analysis would be endless-discover v.'ithin them ~o many "things~ that their letters showed by concealing themselves, refllllining [dem<:urant] inunobile.
impas~ive,
exposed,
too ob.,.ious, although suspended in broad daylight in some dark room, some ca.mem obscu.m, of the French language.
Still VI For I had already sensed, through these photographs, a p.atient meditation, one that would take its time along the way, giving itself the time for a slow and leisurely stroll through Athens (f1fleen yeaL·s!). the pace
of a meditation on being and time. being-and -time in it~; Greek tradition, to be sure, from the exergue from the Sophist that opens Being and Time. But being and time .in lhc age of photography. HaJ not many
trips to Greece m'er these past few yr:arl> prP-pared me for this feeling? (There w~s. first of all, Athens (three times in fact), and Mykonos and Rhodes (where I had Lhc impression uf swimming for the very f:t:rst timF:), and th~n Ephesu~ and P.atmos. v.'ith George and Myrto, and then the .Knisariani l1onasleqwilh Calhe1·ine Vel.issa1·is and DemoiiSthenes Agranoti~,
following the footsteps of Heidegger, who, near the very same Greek Orthodox temple, did not fail to indict yet again in his
Auft:r~thaltt: not ouly Rurne, along with its Ch1,1rch, its law, its state, and
its theology, but technology, machines, tourism. tourist atrractinnF>and above all photography. the ··operating of cameras and video cameras," which, in organized tours, ·~replaces" the authentic experience of the stay orth e sojourn.)
We owe ourselves to death, we owe ourselves to death, we owe ourselves to death. we owe ourselves to death: the sentence kept on repeating itself in my head, so full of sun, but without reproducing itself.
11
.
~
.
12
IL produced itself each time fo1· Lhe llrst time, the same, to be SLAre, but each time anew completely new. like an original-or a negative without origin. Once and fur all, the thing it,;~lfwas lacking in this original nt:gative.
It's now time; let us begin to lohk. Look at the Plwtogro,pher on. the AcropoUs (no. 9), whom you can see meditating or sleeping. his head resting on his chest, in the middle of the book. I -w-onder-if he ha.sn'tsct
up in front of him, in I runt of you, an archaic figure of this delay mechanism. In order to photograph the photograph and its photographer. in order to let ~verythingthat
h~s to
do with photography be seen, in or-
der to bookmark everything in this book. What exacdywould he ha,re done, the author-photographer of this book, the author, therefore, of
this self-portrait? He would h.we !'lettheanim.al machineU'p on a Delphic tripod. In following here the echo of myf.:mtasy. everything would thu~;
be suspended in the i11terval of this dela')'. a sort of diaphanous
time in an air of invisibJ.lity. His e.reR are closed, but Lhe photographer
protects them further from the lighl with sungla~t$\e~;. The author o£ a photograph would have also looked for, indeed even sought out, the shade of a parasol, unlc:,;:; it happens to he a reflector.
Still VII
We owe ourselves to death. This semeucc was right away, al'i we have comf- to understand, greater than the inlltant, whence the desire to photograph it without delay iu lhe noonday sun. Without letting any more time pass, but for a latenime. Whythi3 lime delay'! .An untranslatable sentence (and I was sure, from the very :f:trst instant.. that the economy of this sentence belonged to my idiom alone, or rather, to the domesticity of m,y old love affair with this ::;tranger whom 1 call my French languag~),
a sentence that resists trani;lation, as if one could
13
14
only photograph it. as if on~
in~tantaneom;ly
had to take its im.ag~ by
surprise at its birth: immobile. monumental, impassive. singular. ab-
stract. in retreat from all treatment, unreachable in the end by any peri · phrasis. by any transfer, by rhetoric itself, by the eloquence of tr.1111\position. Reticent like a word that know::; how w keep sJenl in order Lo say so much, a word frmen in itF: tracks [trlm.hPe Fm. a.rrP-t], or pretemrling. rather, to be freeze-framed lmTit su.rima.gd before a video camera. An oracle of silence. It gives itself in refusing itself. One time for
all times. As soon as it takes [prend] in language (but who will translate Lhis p,.endl'e i.n the phrase "des qu' elle prend dans la langue"), and once it is taken by it, it resembles a photograph. The sentence takes in photography, or takes a photograph of the language that photographs it (like the photographer who photographs himseli when he lakes a photogri!ph ofhim~~lfinthi!'\ hook). Th~' aretakf.n, t.he one and the other, in the unique example ofthis apparition. this sentence here and not another, in this irreplaceable language; it i~ thus, it was thus, it hap pened, it took place, this senten~e here,
om~
time for all timf:~, as "we
owe our~ elves to ut:alh."
Still VIII
Prendre u.n.e photographi.e, to take a photograph. prendre en photographie, to take a photograph but also to take in photography: is this translatable? At what moment docs a photog-raph come to be taleen? And taken by whom"? lam perhaps in the process, with :mywordB, of making off with his photogJ·aphs, oftald.ng rromhim the photographs that he once took. Can one appropriate another's mourning? And if a photograph is taken as one takes on mourning [prend le deiti!], that is, in separation, huw would. such a Lhcil be possible? But then also. how could such a theft be .a.voinerl?
15
16
Still IX I was coming back that day with friends from Brauron to Alhens. It was around noon, and we were on our way to go gwimming. after having paid our respects to the young girls walking in a procession tOivard the altar of Artemis. The Q.ay before I had already
rctl.lrn~J..
yet ltga.in to
Athens, butthattime itwasfromthe tip ofC;:~pe S01mion, where we al~n went swimming, and I had recalled at the time the other signature of Byron, the other petroglyph marking his passage-at Lerici this time, near Porto Venere. And 1rec~lle d the time it took for Socrates to die aftcrthc verdict cundcmn.i.ng him (and lhe name So union, as we know. is ins epa m hie from this) . .Thi:; was my third stay in Greece. Barely stays, regrellably, more like visits, multiple, fleeting. and all too late. \'V'hy so late? Wny did I wait so long to go there, to give myself over to C reece?
So late in life? But a delay, thes~ day:>. is something I always love as what gives me the most to think, more than the present moment, more than the fu · ture and more than eternit:j·, .1 del a)' before time itself. To think the atpresent of the now (prc<>~nt, pal:!t, or to come). lo L'eLhinkinstantaneity ·on the basis of the delay .<~nd not thfl othP.r way armmd. Bm: delay is not exactly the right word here, for a delay does not exist, strictly speaking.
It is something that v..ill never be, never a subject or an object. \i;'hal I would rather cultivate would be a perm.a.n.en.r.ly delo.yed am;i.on [retardemcnl ademeure I, the chrono-dissymmetrical process of the moratorium [moratoi.rn], the delay that carves out its calculations in the incalculable.
Still X ~ ~·
I have always associated such delayed action rretardementl with the ex-
perience of the photographer. Not with photography but with the photographic experience of an "image hunter." H~fore the snapshot or
17
• 6 .
18
instamatir. [in£tantane] that, from the lens or objective. freezes for near eternity what isnaivdy called an image, there would thus he thi~ tk!ayed CJction. And tho U$'hlful meditation o:n this delayed action always gets woven within me along the lines of two Atlumian threads, pltotograph)· (the ·writing of light-is there a word more Greek?) and the enigmatic thought of the aiiin (the .interval full with duration [1, 'inter~·alle ple~n, d"une duree], an inces!';ant space oftime, and thi~ i~ sometimes called clcrni.ty ). The intriguing possibility of a delayed .a.cti.on gets wo · ven or platt~d out in advance along lhc l.i..nes of these threads. lnces~anlly. lnces~antly
[incessamment J, what a word.l
Whenee my pa~;sion for delay, and for the delay within delay (aperiphrasisfoL·theadvance, Since time iS l1f'.f',ded tO makethismovc). anu
my mad love for all the figures ohhis moratorium en abyme that are organized "';thin photographic invention-and with almost the sole aim of illustrating or h•·iuging such invention to light-by the technique tha.t goes bythf' namr. ofthe delay mechanism, the automatic timer, or the autom.'ltic shutter rel~aF;e [di,~positif-retard, der:Lwcherr~£nh·etard,
le retard automtLtitjtlel. At once banal in its possibility and F;ingular and unprecedented in itFI opr.rational workings, it has given rise today to mechanisms that are so much more sophisticated than so many imaginable sop his tics. Everything is going to be in place in just a mament, at any moment now [incegso.mment], presently or at prt;senl, so that, later, a few
moment~
from now, sometimes a lot later or ~vena very
longtime from now, anotherprcscnllo come will be tnken bysurprifle
.by the click and v:ill he forever fm~d. reproducible, archivahlc, saved orlostforthis present time. One does not yet knowwhatthe image ~'ill give or show, hut the interval must he objectively calcu.lab!e. a certnin technology is required, and this is perh~pl'. the origin or the essence of technoloSY.
19
7
. 8 .
zo
· Stiii.Xl Let's go back to thP. Photogrnpher on the Acropoli-s, whom you ran see meditating or sleeping, his head slouched dovm, in the middle of this book. Hns he not set up in front of him, in front of you, an archaic fLgurr. of thi~ delay mer.hanism? Did he not decide, after some reflec · tion, to ph()tograph photography and its photographer, in o1·der to let everything that has to do with -photography be :.;een. in order to bookmark evel)rt.hing in this hook? He would have set the animal- machine on a Delphic tripod. His eyes are closed, a::~ you can seF:, and he protects them even further from the light with sunglasses; he even sought out the sharle of a parasol-unl~ss it's a reflector. AI; in an anti que store, make an inventory of everythingyou can count
11p around lhisPhotographeron theAcropoU.s. Con:hgurcd on the t~cene or stage of a single image, accnmulakd in the studied rlisorder of a prearrangt:d taxonomy, there's an example, a representative, a sample of all visible aspects, of all the .!lpecies, idols. icons, or simu.lacrn of possible things. of"ideas," if you will. of all those shown in this book: within a space whe1·e all time!!
i.nters~ct
or cross paths (an arclllteolog)· of ruins,
a cemetery of phantoms, authentic antiquities nr the rw.:rchro1dise of antique dea lerl\, a conservatory o£ Athcniam., both living and dead, a market or n:sale store in a street of yesteryear, and so on), there is also ::~cnse of genealog_v and genres, but also in the senille of fortuitous encounters, of this tu.khethat gathers the mall together along the way, the1·e where they just happen to he, as it just may happen in a photograph that perhaps feigns improvisation), all the kingdoms whose sediments this hook an· alyzes: (i) everywhere you look, the petrogiyphs of a miner-a.! memory: (~)the lJeg"etation, rare but visible, r;rov.'ing between the s-wncl!; (3) an archeology fuc.ed in stone of the Athenian divinities (the allusions of the book ~uggest Dionysus rather than Apollo):(,~) the livu1g anima.~.
a crossing of all the kingdoms of the world (crossing in the
21
. 'J.
22
thf'; photozoography or a black pigeon o:n thF. left (are its feathers black or nre they just in the 3hadow of this skiagr<tphy?); (5) the living hu man, the photographer himself or his model, the one as the other, the one producing or re-producing the other, the one as the generator OJ' the proge11 i tor of the other; (6) technical obj ~c Ls, whether (a) everyday implements (Lhe bench. the bucket next to .1 fountain, if I'm seeing· it right) or (h) machine· instru.mems (rn·o cameras, at least, from two generations, one large one sma 11, one old one young. one more archaic than the other, an archeology of -photography; (7) and then so n1any al:!ys~al or ref!.ecting .~creens (the cameras themselves, the sunglasses, the parasol-reflector); (8 .;- n) :md, fmally, the reprts~nlaLions dis-
play.;d on the camera itself and under the paraBol. These representations, these photogr:1phs of photographl:l (Lhese phantasma;to., .1::; Plato would ba;·c hastened to say, and that is why one can no longer count here, no longer count on tllis process of reflection, for as soon as you counl on it you can no longt=:r count, you lose yuw· head or y-ou lose tht=: !ngos), these copies of copies that you can see, in two places, at uncc in,
frunt of the phntographer, on the body of the camera set on the tripod, and behind, behind the hack oft he photographer. under the -paraso.lthese are perhaps some of the photographs of the book. The book an nounces itself in thifl way.
:Z3
. 10 '
24
Still XII \Vhen. exactly, does a shot [pri.se de vu.e] take plar.~? \1:iJten, exactly, is it taken? .lffid thus .whc rc? Given tht! workings of a delay mechanism, giYen the "time lag" or "time differenr.e.," if I can put it this way. is the photvgraph taken when the photographer takes the thing in view and focu~e~ on it, when he adjusts the diaphragm and seLs the timing mechanism, or else when the click signals tne capture and the im pression? Or later ::still, al Lhe moment of development'! And should we gh-e in to the verti gn llf this m~etonymy and this innnitc nJ..irror.i.11g when they draw us into the folds of an endless refle,..ivity? Does not one of the other photograph::~, 1he Pa,rLhenon (no. H). exhibit, at least in part, the same camera 011 a tripod, the same parasol or the same rdlcc· tor? Does not the ::;ame camera also display photographs. on it.s side? OthMphotographs this time, it is true, the poilraitof a man and. in addition (n supplementar:r mise en. o.b;me), rerluc~d- size images of this very Parthenon, which form:; th~ background for everything else? My hypothesis iF; that this structure is generalilcd throughol.ll lhe book. It is its lain't matter; I will try this another· lime, if only to do or to pl·ove the impossible.
. Tl
•
26
Still XIII I
Imagine him, _yes him, through the images he has "taken." Walking along the edge, as I said just a moment ago, of the abyss of his images, I am retracing the foott!1eps of the photograph'"r. He bears ,;n, advance the mourning for Athens, for a city owed to death, a city due for death, and two or three times rather than
on~.
according lo different trmpo-
ralities: mourning for an ancient, archeological, or mythologicul Athen.<~, to be sure,
.mourning for anA.then~:~ that is gone and that shows the
body of its ru.ins; but also mourning for an Atheni$ that he knows, a.<;
he is photographing it, in the present of his snapshots, will he gone or
will riisappear tumoiTow, an .Athens that ia already condemned to pass av.11y and whose witnesses (Adrianou Street Market [no. 20 I, the Neon Cafe un Omo:nia Square [no.~], Street Organ [no. 4,1) have. indeed, disappeared since the "shot'' wasta ken; and fmally, the third anticipated mourning, he knows that other photographs have captun;d sights that, though still visible today, at the present time, at the time thi:. book ap pears (Athinas-Meat Market [no, 6] and fish Marl~e! Ino. I::l]), will hai'P. [devrunl] to be destroyed tomQITOW. A question of debt or of necesflity, a question of economy. ofth~ "market," all the sights along these streets, all these cafes, these markets, these musical im;trwnents, wil.! have Ldevront] to die. That is the law. Theyarethu~atened with death or promised to death. Three deaths, three instanc~;s, three temporalities of death in the eyes of photography-or ifyou prefer, since plw tography makes appear in the light of the pha-ines~hai, three "pr~;;ences" of disappea r.ance, three phenume na of the being that has "disappen H' d" or is "gone": the nn>.t before the shot. the secondsin.ct< the shot was taken, and the last later still, for another day, though it is imminent, after the appearance of the print. But if the imminence ofwhal is thus due for death suspends the c:omingdm.:, as epoch of eve-ryphotogTaphdoes, it signs at the same Lime the verdict. It confu:ins and seals jts ineluc table authority: this v..ill have lo die, the m.i..c;e. en demeure is underwny,
me
27
• 12 .
28
nol.i.ftcation has been given, the r.ountdovm. ha;; already st:.rrted, there i" only a delay. the Lime to photograph. though when it comes to death
no one even dreams of escaping il -or dreams that .:mything will be spared. I am thinking of the dei!th of Socrates, of the Ph.aedo and the
Cri.to. Of the incredible r·eprieve that delayed the datP. of r:xccution for so many day-s after the judgment. They awaited the sails, their appearance off in the dis lance, in the light, at a prtlcise, unique, anJ. inevitable
moment-fatal like a click.
Still XIV We kno¥~ what Cape Sounion meant for the death of Socrates. It is from
there, in short, that Athens s<J.w it coming-hi~'. death, that is. By ship. Fromthetempll'lofPoseidon, at the tip of the cape, duringmynrST:>'isit (itwasthc day before the sentence "we owe ourselvcl:! to death"), I imagined .a photograph, and I saw il before me. It eternalized, ina snap~hot
the time of this extraordinary moment:
Socral~s
awaiting death. That
he was told aboullhe passing oft he Rails so close to AtlH;ns, just off the cape, offthiR w·ry cape and not another. from the heights of this very promontor:r where l found my.~elfwith friends before going sv..imming down below, atth<.;foo{ of the temple, thatthiswas the same cape, impassive, immutable, silent like a photograph-thatiswhat.,.,'ill continue to amaze me to my dying day. AJI of this belongs to the luminous memory of Athens, to its phenomenal archive, and that is why I dare insh>t
upon it here. I would thus have photographed Socrates awniting death, Socrates knov.'ingly awaiting a death that had been promi~cdhim: while others art': on the lookout al Cape Sounion, he k:nov..ingly awaits during the entire time of this delay. But he decided not to esca-pe: he knows thatthi~will be but a tempora:r}'reprieve, thi;; rl~lay benreen the speakingofthe verdict and the taste of lhe phcmnakon in his own mouth. He
29
. 13 .
30
prepares himself for it and y<:..:t he ::~peaks to his friends about preparing
for death, about the exercise, care, or practice of death (epi.meltiu.
lot~
thanaLoU-), a discourse that still WJ.tches over us, a discourse of rn ourn-
inganrl of the denial of mourning. all of philosophy. This discourse entertains ilTesistibJe an11.logies to, but ha R .1 bRolutP-ly nothing to do with, · I am certain, the verdict "we owe ourselves to death"-a sentence that might even say the Mntrary and V~~ill always remai11, moreover, some-
thing that belongs to the J:o'rench idiom. Yes, we still sharP. the :>ame ;wonder (etha.umazomen) expressed by Echecrates. He is the one who asks Phae do what happcn.e.rl.. \\~'hat, exactly. took place;? W'hile the vcrdi c L had been pronounced long before (pata,O. the death had been put off until "much later~ (poLlOi hysteron phain.etai apotha!n5r~). To answer the question of what happened (Ti (l]Ln ~n tolltrl, aPha.idon). Phaedo invokes chance, tukhe (it happened in this way because it just so happened th.H way); it wAs "a matter of r.hanr.t'!." "It happened that the :;tern ol' the ship which the Athenians send to Delos wa.s crownf:d on the day before thetrial."What ship? The one. following an audentAthenian tradition (we are stiJl recounting the history of Athe-ns), that once carried the
seven buys Ufld. seven girls whom Theseus led to Crete and whom he then saved in ~aving his own skin. It is. in sho1t, this saving, and the pledge that followed, that is responsible for granting Socrates a reprieve of a few· days, a provi~ionalsalvalion, in this case, the time for an unforgettable discourse on tme f:.alvation, salvation by philosophy. Because in order to give thanks lol' lhe safe- conduct of the young boys and girls led by Theseus, the Athenians had made a pledge-a pledge to Apollo. They pledged to organi:>:e ~ yl'.nly pilgrimage or "procession" (theona) to Delos. The law (nonws) of Athens thus prescribes that duringth~en tire. time ofthe theoria "the city must he pure and no one may be pub-
licly executed until the ship has gaM to Delos and back" (Ph(J,e;do s8b). This time is not calculable. and neither is the delay, the.refore, bec:mse
31
. 14 '
32
the voyage took a lorig time and the v.i n cl.;; were so metirnes, w1fo1·eseeably. unfavorable. Such an uncontxollable delay m~r.hanism (what is
calledph:rsis), suchincalculahihry. grants So~.:rales an indeterminable reprieve. One knows when thetheiiria begins, hut one does not see the end. One can determine the ark/~~ Les lheoria.s. the moment wh~n the priest ofApollo crowns the stern of !-he ship. hut one.: never knov.-s when the theiiria v.ill end, and when a sail will announce the return from off Cape Sounion. That is the inten..-al that :separates the verdict from the death; that is the delay lhat_ stands bet•ween these TWO morm.:nls. That is why, Phaedo conclude~ ...Socrates pas~ed a longtime [polw; khrorws] in prison between his trial anrl his death [mela::cu tis dikes te kai tou. thana.tou]" (Phaedo sSe). One never knows when the theona will end. And yet-a story of the eye.-Socratcs claimt:d lo know it; he r::l.a imed to knowwhen the &heona. would end thanks to a dream or, mort;: precise~y, by means of a kr\owledge [sa voir] based on a seeing [voir]. the seeing of a vi:sion (enupnion) come to vi sir him in the middle of the night in the, course of a dream. A dream in black nnd white that was awaiting us. It will await us even longer. It is right ttt th.i.s moment of presumption that I dreamed of photographing him, photo graphing Socra lcs as he speaks and claims to have foreseen the instant of his death. Wbcn he claims. by a kind of knowledge, ;m unconscious knowledge, it is tme, to l';ee in adva-nce, to foresee and no longer let himself he taken by :surpdse by the delay of death. My own dream Lelesympathized with his. It was in accord with whalhe says about it.
33
. 15
I
34
Still XV Meeting with aPhotographel'on t/LeAcropol.is. He seems to he sleeping, dreaming perhaps, unless he has died, ~truck dovm right there by a
sun stroke, his head slouched do-w-n on his che~L He is perhaps the author of this book. He would have photographed himself. in full sunlight. Here, then, is the heliogl'aph: he wear~ a hat on his head, hut he is still too exposed because the 11ar.1fiol or the reflcclor behind him is no longer 0\'er his head, protecting, il would seem, only other photo-graphic images, already a few reproductions, no doubt. You can make out another camera, much smaller, behind him. And in front of him, on a Delphic tripod, a camera from another age is looking at him. 1.m-less it is looking elsewhere, perhap.'\ equipped wiLh a delay mechanism. The autophm:o~::rraphcr has laid out around him, as if he had saved them onh.is ark, an e:xample or copy of every species ofthing, not each ofthe genres of being distinguished in Plato's Sophi~t {being, move.inent and rest, the same and the other). not each of the ontological rt!gions of transcendental phenomenology. not the categories orexistenti.als of Being and Ti.mc (Dase~n. Vorhandensein, Zuha,ndense~n), hut 8 + n "other thing~>." He thought he had. thus divided up phJ'Sts or the kM;mos, the world and then the world of culture within it, if you want to hold onto these later categories, the world or its photographic archive: in8 +nkinds of"things." He dreamed lhat all these photograph:;; would take these things by surprise, in order or out of order, at random, there .where they h.nppened to be found. He inspert~rl and inventoried them. 1. The mineral and canhen tl1ing, materiali1y withoul life, whether ruins or not, whether with or withoul inscription: a.!/. these photos helong in ~ome way to this first class. 2. The ~egeta~. growing thing: almost all the photos (the onl.Y exceptions to this form of physis, to this more or less "natural" form of growth, arc a few images of the m:~rk~t or the cafe, a few f1·agment.o;
35
. 16 .
36
of frescoes, Zeus ::;eated in the frie1.e from the Thcaler of Dionysus, a detail of a funeral stele, th~ Lhmne of the priest of Dionysus, and the bouzoUki player: everywhere else, somdhing isgrow&ng). 3. The divine thing (nearly all the statues and the ;$tclcs, all the tempies, a good hnlfthe images).
4· The anima! thing. Dut here things get a Lit too complicated, for there is the subclass of Lil'in.g beings (the pigeon outside, m;ar !he pho-
tographer, for example, and the dog in!iide. just as black.
m~ar
the
sculpture in the Stoa ofAtta.!os [no. 29]) and then Lhe subclass of the dead (ofthose put to death in tmlh. killed en m.a.5se, hut less "naLural." already "merchandise or" commodities" in the meat or nsh market. in the hands ofmcrcha.uts): and then there are the livmg beings roamingfredy (whether "natural," thr.; pigeon, or "dome~tir.ated," the dug) M
and living beings in ca,ptivity (this ()thcr kind of me1·chandise in thl' form ofhahychicks in cages in the Athintts Mark~t [no. 8]). The dream run:; uul of steam, but tht'\ dreamer gucs on. fu does his taxonomy. Wt: arr, only about halfway there. One is reminded of all the classincatio ns of the Sophi.~t (one wo-uld be lcmpted to try them
:~ll
om. but this has
to be given up). all those we encounter even before getting to the numetic arts, notably, the photographer :1" n!';herman or angler, an image hunterwhos~ art is uncla:::~s.ifLable bec<J.use it part.
"s,.im" through the air as opposed to those that swim in water (2l')C-
2~ob). The i~ru.ge hunter has all of this in his book, hut who would be able to decide whether his is an art of production or reproduction? Ju.c>t
37
l( •
· '1ryto adapt all thePlatoDic categories here, for example, the ''mime lie" 'arid the "phant.a~matic,'' just give it a try. and have a tield day! , , 5· Thehumc.nthing (thethingwith ahu.manjace, subcatego.ries' artist.~,
a photographer and the specter of nn ah::;e:nt painter. m.r:rchan(s
and.pa,ssersby, and thtm merchants of art ()I" uj'past~mes, like the org:mgrinder). 6. The technica~ thing (a hLlman thing as well, b1Jt thi,; time without u,face) seems to defy classification even more. Vi'hy? Beyond the difncult di:otinctio.ll between tool and machine, b ffVrf' P.ll everyday impJements (chair,; and glasses inA Few Moments in the Neo1t Ca:fe [no. 3], the little bench of Photographer on theAcropolis [no. 9], the scales of the Athinas Market [no.~:.~], the bouzouki of Dou.zmiki Pla~1-er [no. 23]) and machine-tools (tht! fltreet organ, radios, telephones. the fan, the cameras themselves). one has to acknowle.dge tha1 nothing il; altogether natural in thi~ world, everything is shot thro\1gh with Jaw, conventionality, technology (nomfl~. thesis, tekhn~). (Tlu:se have in adYance invadedph.ysis and ruined its principle or it~ phantasm of purity. HistOl}' as well, and th:1t ill fmough to thre<~.lt:rL in the photographer's drt':am, this classification compulsion.) For the same photograph~r ~xerclses an unprecedented art of composition in the RP.r.ir.e: of his mourning. In the service not of a perMnal nostalgia but of a melancholy that markR a certain ~.:sscnce of historical experience or. if you prefer, the meaning or sense for history. For photography has a sense of history, hut it also oppo:;es an impassive and implacable sensibility. an insensible sensibihty, to the hisloricity of what is still going or going well or not going or not going so well, to what is no lunger goingwell.but go~:> nonetheless and, in going, goes away, rem.aing in the procc:s:; uf going away, h~re
fornfteen years, the fifteen rears during which the photographer
paraded his meditation throughAthcru;, camera in hand, curious about everything. Multiplying the spectacles of ruins, and of ruin:; of modern
39
· IR ·
41)
itiJl1es; s.omeone thus went out of his way to rerall the emblem of such 1 '.
%iri~:il1these im.a.ges of .a flea market, whose studied order exposes :;o
many "technical" or" cultural" object~ that have in common their beingdefunct (defUnctus), that is, ""'ithoutfunction, ohsole1e, uul of com. mission, dysfunctional, fallen into dit~usc ldc5~ffecte]. The tool and the machine are stripped down lo being mere "things." But the. thing is also a fetish, a disused objeCt, divested of u.se but then rrnnvested wilh the
surplus value of a fetish, a fetish to keep an eye on, to keep, to ;;ell, to see being sold. An original affect, an affect with om: pathos, surrounds the aura of these photographs: the sense o1' obsolescence U'aff'ect d~; la
desa,ffgction], precisely. the affect of the one affected by this disuse or obsolescence oftechnical objects. defunct sign~ of culture. Is not this
affection ofthe photographer for these imiJlements or signs fallen imo disuse also an affect of lhe delay, of the delay withoul reLurn'? Without return, and that is why I he8itale to use the Greek ·word Lhat you no doubt ha\'C on Lhe tip of your tongue, the Creek word that speaks of the longing for return, oi homesickness-nostalgia.. If there is nostalgia in these photographs, nothing makeil it ohvio11s. But that il! not aiL Among these fetishes (and it v.'ill be incumbent upon us later to recallthat the photograph of a fetish fetishizes in it3 turn its own ubyss, for every photogr-aph is a fetish), hiswry, history 3R the historidty of technology, is seen to be discreetly but surelr expo~cd, recounted, a.nalyzed, "objectified" by the objective or the lens-precisely as the hiswry
of ruin or disuse, the history of ohflolescencc. Two or three examples: besides the measuring instrume.a.ts (scales and weights), besides th~ recording or transmitting devices (radios,
typewriter~.
tape record-
ers), besides the 'instruments of ~rt and technology (music, painting, and photography),
)'011
'Nlll be able
tO
connrm that, Wheiher in use
Or
out of use, the cameras belong to !levcral different technological gc.:n · , erations. Is this just a coincidence? Tt is at the very least the sign of a
41
. 19 .
42
history of photographic technology and, as always, of its min and its
mourni-ng,
it~> ~r~hiv~ ~nd it~ f~ti::;hiz.ation.
The:n th~re are the musi-
cal instruments: they are not alone in reca.lling a history of sonogra-
phy, jllilt a,; the tape rccunkr recalls a history of phonography. Here is a telephonography (and Socrates' daimon enters momentarily into the dream of the photographer) that annoLtnces Lo you its pmg.ram: there are at least two old telephones for sale (one has to wonder what was the last message to be interrupted at the moment of disconnecting these conveyers of voices), and the two telephones are both to be found in
the "PPP-rl~ft, in the di~=;play~> of lvl'o different merchants, one at the Mouastirald. Market (no. 19) and the other at the Adrianou Street Market
(no. 20). Neither ofthcm is working, true, but one Ia oks like the ancestor of the other. (It is, moreover, right next to a photographed ancestor. a prominent Athenian, I imagine, with a full mustache in an oYal frame, an effi.gy t.hat the heirs wanted to get rid of for a little money.
yet another v.-ay of mourning.) The ancestral telephone has a dial, the younger one is a louchlonc. Black and white too en a byrne: the old telephoneis black...,oith awhitespot in the miclrile; theyrmnger cme is light, with a dark s-pot on its tummy. Each telephone is placed on top of an
old radio. It's as if we were being reminded, in the middle of all Lhesc musical instruments, that these photographs bear the mourning of sounds ami voices.
Kegativ~:o;
of sonvgrams or of phonograms, mulli-
mediainmourning, compact disks (ens, video cassettes, or c..w ROI\ors) all of a sudden voiceless-allowing us to hear all that much better the spectral echo of what they silence. The echo becouH::; in us the origi-
nal. The.c;e photo grams would resonate like echographic whispers; they v.uuld immediately emanate from out of memory. That is the photographer's touch, in the service of his gaze, of his
reflection~
of the light
he projects or reflects. And somf'times it is an a.rtifr.ci.a.lligh t.
?· UndeL' the heading of refler::t~on. precisely. there would be even
43
. 20 .
44
more to say: everything is reflected and reflected upon, of course, by both the photographer and the photographic process. But in addition, the "te~hnologicar art and artifice of reflection, such as those found in arli.Uciallighting. turn ou ll o be represented at every moment. Count, fort:xamplt:: (1) the numerous light bulbs above the displays of the meat market or the fish market (nos. 6 and t3), and then those in the Neon
Cafe
(no.~).
11\'ltich hang down from the ceiling on a long wire (given
a11 the discarded appli.'lnces or instruments exhibited here-ndio, t~pe
recorder, fan-this book fuc:es or focuses on a certain epoch of electric culture in modern domesticity, a short history of Athenian electricity, arid every1hing seems to be calculated on the basis ofthis electrology, right up to that calculating tlring that goet~ by the name of an ,electric meter, just to the left of the two brothers in the Athinas Market .[no. 2~D: (2) parasol-r'4f!ectors; (3) the mirrors in the ::-leon Cafe and behind the two brothers in the Athinas Market. fl. Refl~ctions on rdlection and the inf:mite mirroring of the mise en. a.byme (in the large sense of the term: the metonymic representation of a representation), reflections on the phantasms of simulacra or the sim11lacra of phantasms (to ~it~ or tn F>irletrark Pla.to)-the innumerable, playful ways in which photography, or else painting, is photographr.d. H r-re again, between painting and photography mere is a pseudo-difference of generations, as the art of one generation represents in its own fallhion the art of an earlier generation. JW:!t look at the easel on which there is .a pa.inti ng ofmins in perspective (Ne.arth.P-TouJer
of the Winds. no.
~5):
the painter is gone, the -photographer remains
invisible, and the woman spectator, seen from behind, seems at once to look on v.'ithoutunderstanding and to let heTself be taken in by the
spectacle. Even though. in a certain sense. everything is "representation" in what is photographed in this way. one can count the representations of representations, for example, certain photographs or paint-
45
. Z2 .
48
all thMe mul':ieal instrumentt;. rad.ios, telephones, and tape
recorder~
did not recall it, the phonogram of this mW:!ic of J.caLh \vould resonate here in black and while, from one photo to the next. Like a silent song. Like a dirge of mourning that recalls, for example, Demeter weeping for Persephone, who bad been abducted by Hades and whom Theseus, y~s. him
again, tried to carry away by descending into the underworld.
At the center of one of thr. photographs, a spectacular· street sign. the
only one, commemorates Kore, the young girl: 011m: ITEPl:E4I>01\"Hl:, just I:'~.Ksto:l'ONIS (no. 24). Does not Persephone reign over tbis entire book, Persephone, vl'i.fe of Hades, the goddess of death and of pha:utoms. of souls wandering in search of their mcmory? But also (and this is another world of significations v.ith which the ngure of Persephone is associated) a goddess ofthe iinagc. of waterand of tears. at once transparent and reflecting, mirror :md pupil? Kore, Persephone's other name, mean~:~ both young girl and the pupil of the eye. "what is called the pupil [korenkn.Lmkmen)," and in which, as Plato'llAI.cibi.ades I reminds us, our face is reflected, in its image, in. its "idol," when it looks at itself in the eyes of another. One must thus look at this divinity, the best mirror of human things (t33c). And all that would be due to de~th, along with the spectei'S, and the photographic pupil, and the symphony of a II th~se musical in!ltru.mcnls. above itF. transliteration.
49
• 24 .
51)
Still XVI To photograph Socrates as a mu~ir.al instrument. And musical instruments al:l so many Socrateses. For what does Sorrates do? He waits. bu.t withm1t waiting: he awaits death and dreams of annulling its delay by
composing a sacrificial hymn. De<Jth is indeed slow in coming. buL he knows, he bcliGvcs he knows, how to calculate the arrival of the day of reckoning. Not that hP. .~ees it coming, sees dt.:ath coming. from Cape Sounion, uo, he k!s il come, he hears it coming, y01n~ill recall. and this too is a kind of music. He dreams, he dreams a lot, Socmtes does, a:nd he interprets his dreams. He describes them and wards to comply with what they prescribe. He wants to do what he has to and he kno'\11-s what he Mfl to do, what he owes. One uf lhese dreams announces death to
him: it tells him tvhen death v.ri II r.ome. when the delay will end, along >vithits imminence. The otheJ' enjoins him to pay a debt by composing music to
off~r to the
god whose ''otivc fcsti\•al was re:;punsilile for de-
ferringhi:; death. In the Grito, as we know, Socrates owes to a dream the powerto l':alculatethc momentofhi~ death. The dream of a nightallov.>: him to see and to hear. Apparition and appellation: tall and bea1..1Liful,
clothed in white. a woman calls him by name in order to give him this rende1.-vou;;, the moment of death, thu:; annlllling in advance both the delay and the contretemps. (Is this :not the very desire of philoaophy, the destruction of the delay, as will soon be eonf:trmed ?) She comes to him. this woman does, a;; beautiful, perhaps, as the name of Socrates: he "thuugbl he saw" her coming, thus seeing the death that would not be long in coming. One has the feeling that his own name has all of a sudden become inseparable from the h~auty of this woman. Ncilher thisbcautynorhis name, as a result, can he separated from the: news of his death: news announcing to him nullhal he will die, but rathert~t he will die at a particular moment and not another. The woman pre diet~
for him not a departure but an arrival. More precisely, she
ori~
ents the departure-for it is indeed ne ccssary to depart and part ways,
51
' 2~ '
5.2
to leave and take one's leave-Jrorn the voyage's l'uint of aniva~ by citing; the flia.~. But Crito persists in deeining this dream to be extravagam, l>trange, or mad (otopon to en.upnion), and he continues to dream
ofSoct·ates' "salvaLiou." so CliAT:t:~: W'hatilo this news? Has the ship comcfrom Delos, attheaxrival ofwhiflh J .:lm to die? C"R T ro,
Jt has not e"ll".actly come, hut l think it will come today from the
reports of some men who have come Imm So 1.miou amlldt it there. Now
it is clear from what they say tha1: it v.'ill come torlar, and :;;o tomorrow, Socrates, your life must end. soc R A I' E s, Well, Crito, good luck be with us! If this is the "'ill of the gods, so be it. Howcvc1·, I do nut think it will come today.
c:ano: Whal is your rc1Ulon for not thinking so? so CRA'IE s: I will tell you. I must die on the day after the ship comes in, mm;t I nnt? C:R ITO:
So those say who have charge of these matters.
~OCRAns:
Well, I think it will not come in today, but tomorrow . .And
my reason.forthi;;; is a dream which I had a little while ago in the course ofthls night. And perhaps you l~t me Rl~f'P juRt at th~ right time. CRITO:
What was the drt:a.m?
socR P.Tl': s: I thought I saw a beautiful, fairwoinan, clothed in white rai-
ment, who came to me and called me and said, "Socrates, on the third dar thou wouldst come to fertile Phthia. "4 A little later, so to speak, on the next day (thi.~ i~ in the Phaedo, "'the day before. when we left the prison in the evening we heard that the
53
. 26 .
54
ship had aniv\:d .from Delos" 5 ), adrea.m again dictates the law. Unlike the other dream, this one does not give Socrates a.aythingto see or to hear~ it gives an order, it "prescribes ·• or orners him to compose and devote a hymn to the god who, while ghing him death, thereby
grants him the time of de.<~th, the delay or the reprieve as well as that which puLs an end to the reprieve, the delay that does aw:ly with itself. Socrates owes him this temporary slay of execution. and he is beholden to this st~y. And this music, "the greatest music," is philusu·
phy. Socrates must thus transform himself into a music..1.l instmmem in the service of thit; philosophical music. He has j u.s Lrecalled that the
same dream (to auto enupni.on) has visited him regt.llarly throughout the course nfhis life. The vision was nut always the s.ame, neither the image nor the ·'phenomenon" ofwha1: "appears to the <.:ycs"-the photograph, if you will but the words alway-s said the 5ame thing (ta auta de legon): '"Socrates,' it !'laid, 'make music and workaL il. "'Socrates is ~:crlain that that's what he
has alw:Jys Clone:
Because philosophy was the greatest kind of music and I was working at that. But now, after the trial and wh.i.le Lhe festival of the god delayed my execution, I thought, in case th~ rep ea.ted dream really meant to tell me to makt: this v;hich is
ordinnri~y called
music, I ought to do so and
not to disobey.... So n.rst I composed a hymn to the god whose festi-
val itwas. 6
55
. 21 .
51>
Still XVII We owe ourselves to death. To commemorate the arrival of this sentence iuto my language, l would have to dedicate centuries of books
to this memory. I immediately declared it to bt untnmslatable, lurning to Myrto (who was behind me, to my left, beautiful like her name, in lhe back of the car), to Georges, who was driving and laughing like a demon-tender. sarcastic or 3ardonic, innocently perverse (more or less perveTse than he believM orwoulrllike others to believe, like
all sclf-rcspc{-1ing individuals of this sort), and first and foremost to V.:mghelis, behind me on the right, whose genius would appreciate more than anyone the aporia called "translation" (and I Frtill hope that he vl'ill agree to traru!latc this tcxl. for· nothing better could happen to these words in Greek).
I began explaining to my friends the different ways in which, forme,
nou.s rwus demns ala mort would forever remain photographed. in some re~omce:; of this sentcnc c lcnl to its logic, an innocently perverse logic, perverse despite itself, a desperate taste of eternity. lending thi11 taste then to liS, who, al that moment, felt our desire being burnt by a sun the likes of whic:h I had never known. The!'e was but one sun, and it had only a homonymic rebtion with all the others. Over the road that led us back to Athens, lhal Wednesday, july 3. 1996. there blazed a sun like no other Thad ever known. We were coming hack from Brauron, vo'hen: we had seen the Chapel of Saint George, with itB small ritual drinking cups decorated withy oung naked girls running or virgins in a procession toward the alt!irof Artemis, the so-called votive bas ·rchef"ofthe gods" (Zeus, Apollo,Artemis-lphigenin in nhsentia), fltatueB of young girls (arlctos), Artemis the hunt res~:~. Ancmis on hu 1hrone, I\rtemis Kourotrophos. the remains of the necropolis of Merenda (on the rim of an amphora I recall an" exposition of the dead"), and we were going to go swimming. I had to take a plane later that day; delay was on the day's ageLJ.da, and sense, in the French language. The grammatic::JI
17
28
56
we were laughing about it. My friends know that if llove delayed action [le retardem.entl. the least delay kills me, !:!Specially when I am about to
leave for the train ~tation or the airport, th::~t is, at the moment of arriving at the point of rlep:n1:ure. I began to explain all these reasons why, for me, not~s n.ous devons a !a murtwould remain foreveruntranslated, spelled out, phororthograp hed in an album of the French language. ·~·irst, it did
greal
pu~t
ethic5~
not necessarily have to be understood in the scn~c of the
Socratic and sacriii.cial tradition
ofh~ing-for-cleath,
this
of dedication o:r devotion that immediately comes to take this
sentence into its purview in order lo say, for example: we must devote oUl'sdves to death, we have duties vdth regard to death, we must dedicate on:r meditations to it, our care, om· concern, our exerci:.;es and our
practice (eplrneleia. !au £hanawu, mdete thanatou, as it is saidatPha~do 8ta), we must devote ourselves to the death to which we are destined, and so on. ln addition. one musl respect the dead (so as, the implicaLion would he, to keep death at a respectful distance, out of a respect for
life).ltis the death of So crater;, in short, that never stops watching over us. the culture of death ur the (.:ult of mourning, the v.,ray in whir.h thit=; poor Socrates, between the verdict and the pMsin g of the sails off Cape
Smmi on, believed that by not fleeing or saving h.i.s skin he wa:l ::saving him~elf and ::;aving within him, at the samr. moment, philosophy, all th:lt mm;ic that is philosophy, "the greatest kind of music." But as for me, I persist in belie.,-.i.ng thal philu:mphy might have another chance. This ethico-Socratic virtue of "we owe ourselves to death" can easily be translated into every language and no doubt every "world view ... Bu:c that is .not Lhe only meaning that is held in reserve in my sentence, and I proteste.d ~ilf'ntly against it. As for the redoubling of the nous in no u.s no us devunli, it is no doubt difficult, i£not impossible (I meanaccordingto the economy of a wordfM-word translation), to retain in ·another language its relation to the
59
<19 •
60
sole and irreplaceable word deuons, which snsp ends, in so me sense, it::s status as a grammatical sLtbject ot· as a subject at all. Wbat I wanted to suggest to
my fri~nds would be, in short, the following: the fust ncus,
the ":;ubj~cl," would come after the second one (thP. reflecting object, the one taken in view, shot, the one that begins to look at us from over there, like a ''photographed" nhJect) .It would con::stitutc itself as "subjed' only after having rellecled the "second~ now;, which is itself constimted as all "objftct" due or owed: nous, we, are "due" (rnol·atorium. delay, giving notice), we appear to our,;elves, we relate to our::sdves,
we take ourselves in view as what i.s due lduJ. taken by a debt or a duty that precedes us and institutes U!l, a debt that contracts us e"en before wt:
have contracted it. Taken by surpri~e in this nous, I would be from
the outset situated, already a fetish, merchandise. a pledge or a hostage, something promised or something due in the e..xchange. somethingtradcd in Lhe transaction (a bit like the nsh or meatfor sal F. in all these Atht'\nian markets). And all the f1gures of autonomic obligation tha L govern our morality or our ethics would be taken in view, shot, by this orit.linary heteronomy. To what, then, would we owe ourselvc:.? To whom? To death. which would be someone or something? Alid ill owing ourselves, owing ourselves rather than this or Lhat, do we owe all or nothing? Or do we owe ourselves, are"'-e oursl"lvesdue, to death, which is nothing? Due, then, to nothing and tu no one't Or else to some dead person, him or her, some particular death? Who knows. (The Eoglish phrase" to he due to" pe1·haps conveysratherwell this intertwining of debt, duty, obligation, and what comes due at a specifiC date, at a particular moment in time, at the a.ppointed tim e.) But that is not all, and it is not even what's essential, for thill m.ighl still he translated into a common idiom (i-Hetzschean, lleideggerian, or Lacanian). What this French j:lentencc, this sentence that took
me
61
. 30 .
62
by surprise in the sun, would forever leave guspended, better than any i~
the pragmatic moda.lit:r of its event. For it came alone, this sentence nid, as decontextu.alized as a photograph. It was thu~ impossible to decide, withother sentence. more economically than
out any other conlcxt, as if its inli<'.ription were being read on a piece of funerary stone or on its photograph, whether it was a matter of an ethico-philosophical exhortation, with the performative polcntiality thal comes alongv.'ith it, or a constative descr·iption, or even an indignant protel>ta.tion th...1.t would rai<Sc the curtain on centuries of de4.!epti.onand obstinacy: So (you say that, it is believed that, lhcy claim that)
"we owe ourselves to death"! --well, no, we refuse this debt; not only do we not re<:Ogni7.e it, but we rduse the authority of this anteriority, this a priori or lhis supposed origin.arity of obligatiun, ofSchulriig.~mn, this religion of mou-rning, tb..is culture of loss and of lack, .and so on. (The a.n.d so on. is essential here, for it signs the suspension, s.ign<~ the "photographic" structure, the decontextualized aphorism of this sentence that assaile-d me on that day, around noon, in full sunlight, in the domesticity of my old love affair with this stranger whom I call my French language.) Against thi.~ debt, this obl.igatiun, this culpability, and this fear ofthe dead, a "we" 1rright, perhaps, protest (and this would not necessarily be me, me or some other me): we might be able to protest innocently our innocence, one "we" protesting against the other . .Nous n.ou.s devons a ta mort, we owe our.:;elves to death, there is indeed a nous, the second one, who owt:F. itself in this way, but we, in the first place, no, the fm;t we wh.o looks. obs\.:rves. and photographs the other. and who speaks here, is an innocrmt living being·w"ho foreYer knows nothing of death: in thi~> we we are infinite-that is what I might have wanted to say to my friends. We ar'C infmite, and"o let's he infmite, ett!rnally. It is, in any case, from this thought, beneath the sun, at the moment of returning to Athens, that we could at least d:ream 'of pronouncing,
. 31 .
64
and rnmrnoningto appear, but in the mode of a denunciation, the little sentence "we owe ourselves to death." The sun itseli is flllite, as we know, and its light might one day com~ to an end, but us? Let'$ leave finitude to the sun and return in another way to Athens. 'iXlhich v.-ould mean: there is mourning and
th1m~
is death·- notice I am nut saying
memory. innocent memory-onlyforw:hat regards the sun. Every photograph is ofth.a. sun.
Still XVIII Is not this impassioned denunciation the last sign of mourning, the sunniest of all stele$, Lhe weightiest deniaL the honor of life in its wounded photograph?
Still XIX So many hypotheses! Wlwt could have been going through the head of
this photographer on the Acropolis? Was he sleeping? Dreaming? \Vas he simply pretending. feigning the whol!': thing? Was he playing dead? Or playing a living being who knows he has to die? Was he thinking of everyday Athens, of the Athens of today, or of the AtheilS of always, aei? Wa<~ he already haunted by the stratilied min of all the Athenian
memories he would have wanted to tak~ in view, to shoot, this day, today, under this sun, but for every day and forEWer? Or V!l-ag he haunted
by what took place, one fllle day, between photographic technology and the light of clay? Or else by what took place, one day. between phologi·aph)'. the day or night of the unconscioui':, a.r<:haeology, and psychoanalysis? Would he recall, for example, a certain "disturbance of memory on the Acropolis?" ("Eine Erinnerungil:otorung auf der Ak-
ropolis," 1936), which I have never stopped thin king ahout, especially
65
.
~:z
.
at the point where Freud
meditate~
upon whal he calls in French the
"rwn ru-r~t-·e"??
One might as well ask what takes place when, photographed in the process of photographing (himself). photographed photographing, active and passive at rhe same time, in the same time, that is, during time itself-whiC'h Vv'ill always have been this auto-affective experience of passactivity-a p hotogr~pher takes a shot of himself. One might a~ well ask wlliit happc.:ns Lo him. and to us, when his action thuf> takes up taking itself by surpril'>e, hut without ceasing to await lhis surprise. He awaits (himself), this bonhomme does, this good fellow photographer. Right there in the theater of Dionysus, he reckons with the in('.alnulable. 1 then dream his "Iris ion, the fire of a declaration of lo\'e, a flash in
bnJad daylight, and one would say to the other, "lt takes me. by surprise to he waiting for you today. my love, as always." Dion.ysianism, philos'-Qp]J,y, photography. It remains tO he known what is (ti esti) the cs~ence of the photog1·a ph.ic form from the point of view of a delay that gf.tE! carried aw:1y with overtaking time. A silcnl avo"\1\ial, perhaps, and reticent as well. because it knows how to keep silent, an infmitely elliptical dis · course, mad with a single desire: to imp1·ess time. ll.-i.th all times, at all times, and then furtively, in 1he night. like a lhief of fuc, archive at the speed oflighlthe speed oflight.
67
33 .
68
Still XX Heturn to Athens. Let one not hasten to conclude that photography du~.;l! away with words and can do without translation, as i:f an art of si ~ lenr.e would no longer be indebted to a language. "After all,'' the tour-
ist of photographs "'-ill say, ··these images of .Athens are all the .more precious to me insofar as they speak to me in a univerl;allanguage. If they reJruJ.in untranslatable and untransJatably singular, it is because
oftheirveryunivel·salit_y; they show the same thingto everyone, whatever their language may he: the di.,.ine play of shadow and light in the Kerameikos Cemetery, in the Agora, the Acmpolis, the Parthenon, the AdriB.nou Street Market, the pause of a photographer before the name PerF>ephnne."
No. photographs are um.ranslatable in another way, according to the laconic rnse of a ~per.ter or .a phantasm, when this economy acts as a letter, when it succeeds in saying to us. with or without words. that we owe oun1dvcl! to death.
-Wf:? What "we"? And, fm;t of all, who is inclndedin this we? Like a negative still in the camera, an impressed question remains in abeyance, still pending. Willit ever he developed?WhoV~>ill have signed the nons, whether the f:trst or the second, of this nous no us devons d ta, mort?
Me. rou, she, he, all of you? And who will have inherited iL in the end?
-But I am reading this in translation, am I not? It wa~ v.Titten in French and I am reading it in Englishu ... ·· .v.;'hat docs that prove? Evl:ry time you look at these photographs, ~nd to recall that one day, ha11ing come J.rom Athens and on their way ba<;k to it, the vcrdi<.."t had come down but the sun was not yet dead.
you will have r.o hf':gin again to translate, around noon, for
s~me,
69
• 30::::
70
Notes 1 The phrase
no us ToQ!tS devons t1 kl. mtJrl.
rflmf"~~
from the nrst person plu-
ral form of the reflexive verb se deHJir d. Collins Rub~rL Diclwnmy g:ives as its ouly t:x8ml'l ~ of rhis reflexive furm: 1-m.e mere se do it cl sa Jamille,
"K
mother
has to or must devote }u:::l'l:lel f tr. her family." Hence nous nous de(•ons t.i Ia mort would mean "we must devote ourselve~ Lo death" or, asv•e h~ve translat~d it 1.hroughout. "we owe ourselves to
death.~
l:lut following Derrid;t' s sugge~hon
in Right uflr•spcc!itm that the phra~ A!l~.~ se regarden.t be b.eard as either are±lexive relation. "they look at rhemaelves." or· a re<'i pmcal one, one 3nnt.lwr,"
no~
~they look at
nous ctevons ida mort might also be read as exp•·e~Ring a
reciprocal relation: "we owe each other or we owe one another to death (or up until death)." Vihilewe have tr~n~l:~led this phrase .as a reflexive thro-ugh()ut. the reader may want to experiment with this othr:H' poR.~ibility. especially in Still XVTT.-Trans. 2 In addition to Lht:: me~ni ng it carries in English, the French word diche can mean either a photographic IJCglllive ,,.. plate or else, more generally .and
mon; colloquially, a photograph. Derrida gives the till~ clicM-which we have
translated 118 "Mill"-to each ofthe twenty sections of hls commentary.-Tnms. 3 What a W()rd is right. Thuugh the adverb ince.ssamrr..en.t typically means in
modern French not "incessantly" but "what is about to
h~pptm,
what is on
lilt' •ergll of happening, what could happen at any mom~=:nt," il is occasionallyusctl in French letters to
me~n
"·without intem.lption or pause." that is.
"continually or incessantly." In "'hat follows Oerrida seems to be trading on bo1h MnRes of the term.-lrans.
4 Cr~lo -f.3c-44h; trans. 1-T amid North Fowler ((.;ambridge, Harvard University Press. 1982). Translati(Jnslighlly morlif1erL
s Ibid .• 59d -e. 6 Phaetlo 6•a-bllram:;. Harold :--;orth fowler (Cambt:'idgc: Harvard Ur~iv~r
sity Press. 1982). 7 Sigmund Freud. "ADisturbancc ofM<:::nHJI'yontheAcrop()lis.~ inTheSta,n.-
tlruTl Edition of the C<Jmplete Works
~{Sigmund
Preuli,
han~.
unrler the editor-
ship of Jam<:::l; Str;JchAy, in collaboration wi.th.tuma Freud (Lond(Jn: Tht:: HogarthPress and the Institute or p~,)'r.ho-analysis. I9G4)' 22;:239-41!, thep.luasc
nonarrire canbefound o:up. :z46. B The French text reads here engrec-"in Greek"
Still XVII, DeHida. was
anticip~ting
sinut::,
i!S we
learn rrom
the Modern Greek translation of this
work.-Trans.
73