Andy Stafford considers Barthes’s analysis of how we create a world of meaning, and how it creates us
BOOKS BY ROLAND BARTHES
A Barthes Reader
Camera Lucida
Critical Essays
The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies
Elements of Semiology
The Empire of Signs
The Fashion System
The Grain of the Voice
Image-Music- Text
A Lover's Discourse
Michelet
Mythologies
New Critical Essays
On Racine
The Pleasure of the Text
The Responsibility of Forms
Roland Barthes
The Rustle of Language
Sade / Fourier / Loyola
The Semiotic Challenge
S / Z
Writing Degree Zero
Empire
of Signs
TRANSLATED BY RICHARD HOWARD
k
HILL AND WANG
The Noonday Press
New York
Translation copyright © 1982 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
Originally published in French as L’Empire des Signes
Copyright © 1970 by Editions d’Art Albert Skira S.A., Geneve
All rights reserved
Published in Canada bv HmetCoWinsCanadaLtd
Printed in the United States of America
Designed by Stephen Dyer
First published in 1982 by Hill and Wang,
a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Noonday Press edition, 1989
Tenth printing, 1992
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Barthes, Roland.
Empire of signs.
Translation of L’empire des signes.
1 Japan—Civilization. I. Tide.
DS821.B31713 1982 952 82-11808
To Maurice Pinguet
Contents
Faraway 3
The Unknown Language
Without Words 9
Water and Flake ii
Chopsticks 13
Food Dbcentbred 19
The Interstice 24
Pachinko 27
Center-City, Empty Center
No Address 33
The Station 38
Packages 43
The Three Writings 48
Animate/Inanimate 58
Inside/ Outside 61
Bowing 63
The Breach op Meaning
Exemption prom Meaning
The Incident 77
So 81
Stationery Store 85
The Written Face 88
vii
Coppighted
Millions of Bodies 95
The Eyei.id 99
The Writing of Violence
The Cabinet of Signs 107
103
Illustrations
2 The actor Kazuo Funaki
3 The character Mu, signifying "nothing, 1 "emptiness,”
drawn by a student
2i Yoko Yayu ( 1702-83) : Mushroom picking. Ink on paper
When they hunt for mushrooms, the Japanese take with
them a fern stem or, as in this painting, a wisp of straw,
on which they string the mushrooms. Haiga painting,
linked to the haiku
He becomes greedy
his eyes lowered
on the mushrooms
31 Map of Tokyo, late eighteenth century
34 Map of the Shinjuku district, Tokyo: bars, restaurants,
cinema::, department store (Isetan)
35 Orientation sketch
30 Orientation sketch on the back of a calling card
40-1 Sumi wrestlers
44 Sake kegs
ix
50-1 Shikidai gallery—Nijo Castle, Kyoto, built in 1603
52-3 Kabuki actor on stage and in private life
56 Gesture of a calligraphy master
64 On the Yokohama dock, from ]apon illustre by Felicien
Challaye, Paris, 1915
66-7 Offering a present, from Japan illustre
90 Press clipping from the newspaper Kobe Shinbun, and
portrait of the actor Teturo Tanba
92-3 Last photographs of General Nogi and his wife, taken the
day before their suicide in September 1912. From Japan
illustre
100-1 Children in front of a puppet show, 1951
104-5 Student demonstration in Tokyo against the Vietnam War
109 The actor Kaiuo Funaki
The text does not "gloss” the images, which do not
"illustrate” the text. For me, each has been no more
than the onset of a kind of visual uncertainty,
analogous perhaps to that loss of meaning Zen calls
a satori. Text and image, interlacing, seek to ensure
the circulation and exchange of these signifiers:
body, face, writing; and in them to read the retreat
of signs.
Empire
°fSk ns
If I want to imagine a fictive nation, I can give it
an invented name, treat it declaratively as a novelistic object,
create a new Garabagne, so as to compromise no real country
by my fantasy (though it is then that fantasy itself I compro¬
mise by the signs of literature). I can also-—though in no way
claiming to represent or to analyze reality itself (these being
the major gestures of Western discourse) isolate some¬
where in the world ( faraway ) a certain number of features
(a term employed in linguistics), and out of these features
deliberately form a system. It is this system which I shall
call: Japan.
Hence Orient and Occident cannot be taken here as ''real¬
ities” to be compared and contrasted historically, philosoph¬
ically, culturally, politically. I am not lovingly gazing toward
an Oriental essence—to me the Orient is a matter of indiffer¬
ence, merely providing a reserve of features whose manipula¬
tion— whose invented interplay - allows me to "entertain”
the idea of an unheard-of symbolic system, one altogether
detached from our own. What can be addressed, in the
consideration of the Orient, are not other symbols, another
metaphysics, another wisdom (though the latter might appear
thoroughly desirable); it is the possibility of a difference, of
a mutation, of a revolution in the propriety of symbolic
systems. Someday we must write the history of our own
obscurity-—manifest the density of our narcissism, tally down
through the centuries the several appeals to difference we may
have occasionally heard, the ideological recuperations which
have infallibly followed and which consist in always accli¬
mating our incognizance of Asia by means of certain known
languages (the Orient of Voltaire, of the Revue Asiatique,
of Pierre Loti, or of Air France). Today there are duubtless a
thousand things to learn about the Orient: an enormous labor
of knowledge is and will be necessary (its delay can only be
the result of an ideological occupation); but it is also neces¬
sary that, leaving aside vast regions of darkness (capitalist
Japan, American acculturation, technological development),
a slender thread of light search out not other symbols but the
very fissure of the symbolic. This fissure cannot appear on
the level of cultural products what is presented here does not
appertain (or so it is hoped) to art, to Japanese urbanism,
to Japanese cooking. The author has never, in any sense,
photographed Japan. Rather, he has done the opposite: Japan
has starred him with any number of "flashes"; or, better still,
Japan has afforded him a situation of writing. This situation
is the very one in w'hich a certain disturbance of the person
occurs, a subversion of earlier readings, a shock of meaning
lacerated, extenuated to the point of its irreplaceable void,
without the object’s ever ceasing to be significant, desirable.
Writing is after all, in its way, a satorr. satori (the Zen
occurrence) is a more or less powerful (though in no way
formal) seism which causes knowledge, or the subject, to
i acillare: it creates an emptiness of language. And it is also
an emptiness of language which constitutes writing; it is
from this emptiness that derive the features with which Zen,
in the exemption from all meaning, whites gardens, gestures,
houses, flower arrangements, faces, violence.
4
The Unknown Language
The dream: to know a foreign (alien) language
and yet not to understand if. to perceive the difference in it
without rhat difference ever being recuperated by the super¬
ficial sociality of discourse, communication or vulgarity; to
know, positively refracted in a new language, the impossibili¬
ties of our own; to learn the systematics of the inconceivable;
to undo our own "reality” under the effect of other formula¬
tions, other syntaxes; to discover certain unsuspected positions
of the subject in utterance, to displace the subject’s topology;
in a word, to descend into the untranslatable, to experience
its shock without ever muffling it, until everything Occidental
in us totters and the rights of the "father tongue” vacillate—
that tongue which comes to us from our fathers and which
makes us, in our turn, fathers and proprietors of a culture
which, precisely, history transforms into "nature.” We know
that rhe chief concepts of Aristotelian philosophy have been
somehow constrained by the principal articulations of the
Greek language. How beneficial it would be, conversely, to
gain a vision of rhe irreducible differences which a very re¬
mote language can, by glimmerings, suggest to us. One
chapter by Sapir or Whorf on the Chinook, Nootka, Hopi
languages, by Granet on Chinese, a friend’s remark on
Japanese opens up the whole fictive realm, of which only
6
certain modern texts (but no novel) can afford a notion,
permitting us to perceive a landscape which our speech (the
speech we own) could under no circumstances either dis¬
cover or divine
Thug, in Japanese, the proliferation of functional suffixes
and the complexity of enclitics suppose that the subject
advances into utterance through certain precautions, repeti¬
tions, delays, and insistances whose final volume (we can no
longer speak of a simple line of words) turns the subject,
precisely, inro a great envelope empty of speech, and not that
dense kernel which is supposed to direct our sentences, from
outside and from above, so that what seems to us an excess
of subjectivity (Japanese, it is said, articulates impressions,
not affidavits) is much more a way of diluting, of hemorrhag¬
ing the subject in a fragmented, paraded language diffracted
to emptiness. Or again this: like many languages, Japanese
distinguishes animate (human and/or animal) from inani¬
mate, notably on the level of its verbs to be ; and the fictive
characters introduced into a story (once upon a time there
was a king) are assigned the form of the inanimate; whereas
our whole arr struggles to enforce the "life,” the "reality” of
fictive beings, the very structure of Japanese restores or con¬
fines these beings to their quality as products, signs cut off
from the alibi referential par excellence: that of the living
thing. Or again, in a still more radical way, since it is a
matter of conceiving what our language does not conceive:
how can we imagine a verb which is simultaneously without
subject, without attribute, and yet transitive, such as for
instance an act of knowledge without knowing subject and
without known object? Yet it is this imagination which is
required of us faced with the Hindu dhyana, origin of the
Chinese ch’an and the Japanese zen, which we obviously
cannot translate by meditation without restoring to it both
7
subject and god: drive them out, they return, and it is our
language they ride on. These phenomena and many others
convince us how absurd it is to try to contest our society
without ever conceiving the very limits of the language by
which (instrumental relation) we claim to contest it: it is
trying to destroy the wolf by lodging comfortably in its
gullet. Such exercises of an aberrant grammar would at least
have the advantage of casting suspicion on the very ideology
of our speech.
S
Without Wards'
The murmuring mass of an unknown language
constitutes a delicious protection, envelops the foreigner
(provided the country is not hostile to him) in an auditory
film which halts at his ears all the alienations of the mother
tongue: the regional and social origins of whoever is speak¬
ing, his degree of culture, of intelligence, of taste, the image
by which he constitutes himself as a person and which he
asks you to recognize. Hence, in foreign countries, what a
respite! Here ] am protected against stupidity, vulgarity,
vanity, worldliness, nationality', normality. The unknown
language, of which I nonetheless grasp the respiration, the
emotive aeration, in a word the pure significance, forms
around me, as 1 move, a faint vertigo, sweeping me into its
artificial emptiness, which is consummated only for me: I
live in the interstice, delivered from any fulfilled meaning.
How did you deal with the language? Subtext: How did you
satisfy that vital need of communication? Or more precisely,
an ideological assertion masked by the practical interrogation:
there is no communication except in speech.
Now' it happens that in this country (Japan) the empire
of signifiers is so immense, so in excess of speech, that the
exchange of signs remains of a fascinating richness, mobility,
and subtlety, despite the opacity of the language, sometimes
y
even as a consequence of that opacity. The reason for this is
that in Japan the body exists, acts, shows itself, gives itself,
without hysteria, without narcissism, but according to a pure
though subtly discontinuous—erotic project. It is riot the
voice (with which we identify the "rights” of the person)
which communicates (communicates what-' our—necessarily
beautiful—soul? our sincerity? our prestige?), but the whole-
body (eyes, smile, hair, gestures, clothing) which sustains
with you a sort of babble that the perfect domination of the
codes strips of all regressive, infantile character. To make a
dare (by gestures, drawings on paper, proper names) may
rake an hour, but during that hour, for a message which
w’ould. be abolished in an instant if it were to be spoken
(simultaneously quite essential and quite insignificant), it is
the other’s entire body which has been known, savored, re¬
ceived, and which has displayed (to no real purpose) its own
narrative, its own text.
10
Hater and Flake
The dinner tray seems a picture of the most
delicate ordet: it is a frame containing, against a dark back¬
ground, various objects (bowls, boxes, saucers, chopsticks,
tiny piles of food, a little gray ginger, a few shreds of orange
vegetable, a background of brown sauce), and since these
containers and these bits of food are slight in quantity but
numerous, it might be said that these trays fulfill the defini¬
tion of painting which, according to Piero della Francesca,
"is merely a demonstration of surfaces and bodies becoming
ever smaller or larger according to their term.” However,
such an order, delicious when it appears, is destined to be
undone, recomposed according to the very rhythm of eating;
what was a motionless tableau at the start becomes a work¬
bench or chessboard, the space not of seeing but of doing—
of praxis or play; the painting was actually only a palette (a
work surface), with which you are going to play in the
course of your meal, taking up here a pinch of vegetables,
there of rice, and over there of condiment, here a sip of soup,
according to a free alternation, in the manner of a (specif¬
ically Japanese) graphic artist set down in front of a series of
pots who, at one and the same time, knows and hesitates; so
that, without being denied or diminished (no question of an
indifference with regard to food—an attitude that is always
moral ), eating remains stamped with a kind of work or play
which bears less on the transformation of the primary sub¬
stance (an object proper to the kitchen and to cuisine’, but
Japanese food is rarely cooked, the foodstuffs arrive in their
natural state on the tray; the only operation they have
actually undergone is to be cut up) than on the shifting and
somehow inspired assemblage of elements whose order of
selection is fixed by no protocol (you can alternate a sip of
soup, a mouthful of rice, a pinch of vegetables): the entire
praxis of alimentation being in the composition, by compos¬
ing your choices, you yourself make what it is you eat; the
dish is no longer a reified product, whose preparation is,
among us, modestly distanced in time and in space (meals
elaborated in advance behind the partition of a kitchen,
secret room where everything is permitted , provided the
product emerges from it all the mote composed, embellished,
embalmed, shellacked). Whence the living (v.hich does not
mean natural) character of this food, which in each season
seems to fulfill the poet's wish: 'Oh, to celebrate the spring
by exquisite cookeries .. ”
From painting, Japanese food also takes the least immedi¬
ately visual quality, the quality most deeply engaged in the
body (attached to the weight and the labor of the hand
which draws or covers) and which is not color but touch.
Cooked rice (whose absolutely special identity is attested to
by a special name, which is not that of raw rice) can be
defined only by a contradiction of substance; it is at once
cohesive and detachable; its substantial destination is the
fragment, the clump, the volatile conglomerate; it is the only
element of weight in all of Japanese alimentation (antinomic
to the Chinese); it is what sinks, in opposition to what floats;
it constitutes in the picture a compact whiteness, granular
(contrary to that of our bread) and yet friable: what comes
12
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The rendezvous
Open a travel guide: usually you will liud a brief lexicon which
strangely enough concerns only certain boring and useless things:
Customs, mail, the hotel, the barber, the doctor, prices. Yet what is
traveling? Meetings. The only lexicon that counts is the one which
refers to the rendezvous.
to the tabic, dense and stuck together, comes undone at a
touch of the ghopsticks, though without ever scattering, as if
division occurred only to produce still another irreducible
cohesion; it is this measured (incomplete) defection which,
beyond (or short of) the food, is offered to be consumed. In
the same way—but at the other extremity of substances—
Japanese soup (this word soup is unduly thick, and our
French word potage suggests the pension de jamille) adds a
touch of clarity to the alimentary interplay. For us, in France,
a clear soup is a pool soup; but here the lightness of the
bouillon, fluid as water, the soybean dust or minced green
beans drifting within it, the rarity of the two or three solids
(shreds of what appears to be grass, filaments of vegetable,
fragments of fish > which divide as they float in this little
quantity of water give the idea of a dear density, of a nutriv-
ity without grease, of an elixir all the more comforting in
that it is pure: something aquatic (rather than aqueous),
something delicately marine suggests a spring, a profound
vitality. FFence Japanese food establishes itself within a
reduced system of substance (from the clear to the divisible),
in a shimmer of the signifier: these are the elementary char¬
acters of the writing, established upon a kind of vacillation
of language, and indeed this is what Japanese food appears
to be: a written food, tributary to the gestures of division
and selection which inscribe the foodstuff, not on the meal
tray (nothing to do with photographed food, the gaudy
compositions of our women's maga2ines), but in a profound
space which hierarchizes man, tabic, and universe. For waiting
is precisely that act which unites in the same labor what could
not be apprehended together in the mere flat space of
representation.
Chopsticks
At the Floating Market in Bangkok, each vendor
sits in a tiny motionless canoe, selling minuscule quantities
of food: seeds, a few eggs, bananas, coconuts, mangoes,
pimentos (not to speak of the Unnamable). From himself
to his merchandise, including his vessel, everything is small.
Occidental food, heaped up, dignified, swollen to the majestip,
linked to a certain operation of prestige, always tends toward
the heavy, the grand, the abundant, the copious; the Oriental
follows the converse movement, and tends toward the in¬
finitesimal: the cucumber’s future is not its accumulation or
its thickening, but its division, its tenuous dispersal, as this
haiku puts it:
Cucumber slices
The juice runs
Drawing spider legs
There is a convergence of the tiny and the esculent: things
are not only small in order to be eaten, but are also comestible
in order to fulfill their essence, which is smallness. The
harmony between Oriental food and chopsticks cannot be
merely functional, instrumental; the foodstuffs are cut up
so they can be grasped by the sticks, but also the chopsticks
*5
exist because the foodstuffs are cut into small pieces; one and
the same movement, one and the same form transcends the
substance and its utensil: division.
Chopsticks have other functions besides carrying the food
from the plate to the mouth (indeed, that is the least per¬
tinent one, since it is also the function of fingers and forks),
and these functions are specifically theirs. First of all, a
ehopsrick— -as its shape sufficiently indicates—-has a deictic
function: it points to the food, designates the fragment, brings
into existence by the very gesture of choice, which is the
index; but thereby, instead of ingestion following a kind of
mechanical sequence, in which one would be limited to
swallowing little by little the parts of one and the same dish,
the chopstick, designating what it selects (and thus selecting
there and then this and not that), introduces into the use of
food not an order but a caprice, a certain indolence: in any
case, an intelligent and no longer mechanical operation.
Another function of the rwo chopsticks together, that of
pinching the fragment of food (and no longer of piercing it,
as our forks do); to pinch, moreover, is too strong a word,
roo aggressive (the word of sly little girls, of surgeons, of
seamstresses, of sensitive natures); for the foodstuff never
undergoes a pressure greater than is precisely necessary to
raise and carry it; in the gesture of chopsticks, further
softened by their substance—wood or lacquer -there is some¬
thing maternal, the same precisely measured care taken in
moving a child: a force (in the operative sense of the word),
no longer a pulsion; here we have a whole demeanor with
regard to food; this is seen clearly in the cook’s long chop¬
sticks, which serve not for eating but for preparing foodstuffs:
the instrument never pierces, cuts, or slits, never wounds but
only selects, turns, shifts. For the chopsticks (third function),
in order to div ide, must separate, part, peck, instead of cutting0>
and piercing, in the manner of our implements; they never
violate the foodstuff: either they gradually unravel it (in the
case of vegetables) or else prod it into separate pieces (in the
case of fish, eels), thereby rediscovering the natural fissures
of the substance (in this, much closer to the primitive finger
than to the knife). Finally, and this is perhaps their: loveliest
function, the chopsticks transfer the food, either crossed like
two hands, a support and no longer a pincers, they slide under
the clump of rice and raise it to the diner's mouth, or (by an
age-old gesture of the whole Orient) they push the alimen¬
tary snow from bowl ro lips in the manner of a scoop. In all
these functions, in all the gestures thev imply, chopsticks arc
the converse of our knife (and of its predatory substitute, the
fork), they are the alimentary instrument which refuses to
cut, to pierce, to mutilate, to trip (very limited gestures,
relegated to the preparation of the food for cooking: the fish
seller who skins the still-living eel for us exorcises once and
for all, in a preliminary sacrifice, the murder of food); by
chopsticks, food becomes no longer a prey to which one does
violence (meat, flesh over which one does battle), but a
substance harmoniously transferred; they transform the pre¬
viously divided substance into bird food and rice into a flow
of milk; maternal, they tirelessly perform the gesture which
creates the mouthful, leaving to our alimentary manners,
armed with pikes and knives, that of predation.
18
Food Decentered
Sukiyaki is a stew whose every element can be
known and recognized, since it is made in front of you, on
your table, without interruption while you are eating it. The
raw substances (but peeled, washed, already garbed in an
aesthetic nakedness, shiny, bright-colored, harmonious as a
spring garment: "color, delicacy, touch, effect, harmony ,
relish—everything can he found here," Diderot would say)
are gathered together and brought to the table on a tray: it
is the very essence of the market that comes to you, its fresh¬
ness, irs naturalness, its diversity, and even its classification,
which turns the simple substance into the promise of an
event: recrudescence of appetite attached to this compound
object which is the market product, at once nature and
merchandise, commercial nature, accessible co popular pos¬
session: edible leaves, vegetables, angel hair, creamy squares
of bean curd, raw egg yolk, red meat and white sugar (an alli¬
ance infinitely more exotic, more fascinating or more disgust¬
ing, because visual, than the simple sweet /sour of Chinese
food, which is always cooked and in which sugar is not seen
except in the caramelized luster of terrain "lacquered”
dishes), all these raw substances, initially allied, composed as
in a Dutch painting of which they retain the linear contour,
the elastic firmness of the brushwork, and the bright-colored
19
finish ( impossible to say if this is the consequence of the
substance of things, the lighting of the scene, the unguent
that coats the painting, or the museum illumination), grad¬
ually transferred to the big pot in which they stew before
your eyes, losing their colors, their shapes, and their dis¬
continuity, softening, denaturing, becoming that roux which
is the essential color of the sauce; while you select, with your
chopsticks, certain fragments of this new-made stew, other
raw substances will be added to replace them. Over this
process presides an assistant who, placed a little behind you
and armed with long chopsticks, alternately feeds the pot and
the conversation: it is an entire minor odyssey of food you
are experiencing through your eyes: you are attending the
Twilight of the Raw.
This Rawness, we know, is the tutelary divinity of Japan¬
ese food: to it everything is dedicated, and if Japanese
cooking is always performed in front of the eventual diner
(a fundamental feature of this cuisine), this is probably be¬
cause it is important to consecrate by spectacle the death of
what is being honored. What is being honored in what the
French call erudite or rawness (a term we use, oddly enough,
in the singular to denote the sexuality of language and in the
plural to name the external, abnormal, and somewhat taboo
part of our menus) is apparently not, as wdth us, an inner
essence of the foodstuff, the sanguinary plethora (blood
being the symbol of strength and death) by which we assim
ilate vital energy by transmigration (for us, rawness is a
strong state of food, as is metonymically shown by the inten¬
sive seasoning we impose on our steak tartare). Japanese
rawness is essentially visual, it denotes a certain colored state
of the flesh or vegetable substance (it being understood that
color is never exhausted by a catalogue of tints, but refers to
a w'hole tactility of substance; thus sashimi exhibits not so
20
Where does the writing begin?
Where does the painting begin?
much colors as resistances: those which vary the flesh of raw
fish, causing it to pass, from one end of the tray to the other,
through the stations of the soggy, the fibrous, the elastic, the
compact, the rough, the slippery). Entirely visual (conceived,
concerted, manipulated for sight, and even for a painter’s
eye), food thereby says that it is not deep: the edible sub¬
stance is without a precious heart, without a buried power,
without a vital secret: no Japanese dish is endowed with a
center (die alimentary center implied in the West by the rite
which consists of arranging the meal, of surrounding or
covering the article of food); here everything is the ornament
uf another ornament: first of all because on the table, on the
tray, food is never anything but a collection of fragments,
none of which appears privileged by an order of ingestion; to
cat is not to respect a menu (an itinerary of dishes), but to
select, with a light touch of the chopsticks, sometimes one
color, sometimes another, depending on a kind of Inspiration
which appears in its slowness as the detached, indirect accom¬
paniment of the conversation (which itself may be extremely
silent); and then because this food—and this is its originality
—unites in a single time that of its fabrication and that of its
consumption: sukiyaki, an interminable dish to make, to
consume, and, one might say, to "converse,” not by any
technical difficulty but because it is in its nature to exhaust
itself in the course of its cooking, and consequently to repeat
itself—sukiyaki has nothing marked about it except its
beginning (that tray painted with foodstuffs brought to the
table); once "started,” it nu longer has moments or distinc¬
tive sites: it becomes decentered, like an uninterrupted text.
he Interstice
The cook (who cooks nothing at all) takes a
living eel, sticks a long pin into its head, and scrapes it, skins
it This scene, so rapid and wet (rather than blood', ), of
minor cruelty v, i’ll conclude in lace. The eel (or the piece of
vegetable, of shellfish), crystallized in grease, like the Branch
of Salzburg, is reduced to a tiny clump of emptiness, a collec¬
tion of perforations: here the foodstuff joins the dream of a
paradox: that of a purely interstitial object, all the more
provocative in that this emptiness is produced in order to
provide nourishment (occasionally the foodstuff is constructed
in a ball, like a v. ad of air ).
Tempura is stripped of the meaning we traditionally attai h
to fried food, which is heaviness. Here flour recovers its
essence as scattered flower, diluted so lightly that it forms a
milk and not a paste; taken up by the oil, this golden milk is
so fragile that it covers the piece of food imperfectly, reveals
here a pink of shrimp, there a green of pepper, a brown of
eggplant, thus depriving the fry of what constitutes our
fritter, which is its sheath, its envelope, its density. The oil
(but is this oil- are we really dealing with the maternal
substance, the oily ?), immediately soaked up by the paper
napkin on which you are served your tempura in a little
wicker basket— the oil is dry, utterly unrelated to the lu-
24
bricant with which the Mediterranean and the Near East cover
their cooking and their pastry; it loses a contradiction which
marks our foodstuffs cooked in oil or grease, which is to burn
without heating; this cold burning of the fat body is here
replaced by a quality which seems denied to all fried food:
freshness. The freshness which circulates in tempura through
the floury lace, tang of the toughest and of the most fragile
among foodstuffs, fish and vegetables—this freshness, which
is both that of what is intact and that of what is refreshing, is
indeed that of the oil: tempura restaurants are classified
according to the degree of freshness of the oil they use: the
most expensive ones use new oil, which is ultimately sold to
less pretentious restaurants, and so forth; it is not the food¬
stuff the diner pays for, or even its freshness (still less the
status of the premises or the service), it is the virginity of its
cooking.
Sometimes the piece of tempura is in stages: the fry out¬
lines (better than: envelops) a pepper, itself chambered
inside; what matters here is that the foodstuff be constituted
as a piece, a fragment (fundamental state of the Japanese
cuisine, in which blending—in a sauce, a cream, a crust—is
unknown), not only by its preparation but also and especially
by its immersion in a substance fluid as water, cohesive as
grease, out of which emerges a fragment completed, sepa¬
rated, named and yet entirely perforated; but the contour is
so light that it becomes abstract: the foodstuff has for its
envelope nothing but time, the time (itself extremely tenu¬
ous, moreover) which has solidified it. It is said that tempura
is a dish of Christian (Portuguese) origin: it is the food of
lent ( tempora ); but refined by the Japanese techniques of
cancellation and exemption, it is the nutriment of another
time: not of a rite of fasting and expiation, but of a kind of
meditation, as much spectacular as alimentary (since tempura
is prepared before your eyes) , around an item we ourselves
select, lacking anything better (and perhaps by reason of
our thematic ruts), on the side of the light, the aerial, of the
instantaneous, the fragile, the transparent, the crisp, the
trifling, but whose real name would be the interstice without
specific edges, or again: the empty sign.
As a matter of fact, we must return to the young artist who
makes lace out of fish and peppers. If he prepares our food
in front of vs, conducting, from gesture to gesture, from place
to place, the eel from the breeding pond to the white paper
which, in conclusion, will receive it entirely perforated, it is
not (only) in order to make us witnesses to the extreme
precision and purity of his cuisine; it is because his activity' is
literally graphic: he inscribes the foodstuff in the substance;
his stall is arranged like a calligrapher’s table; he touches the
substances like the graphic artist (especially if he is Japanese)
who alternates pots, brushes, inkstone, water, paper; he there¬
by accomplishes, in the racket of the restaurant and the chaos
of shouted orders, a hierarchized arrangement, not of time
but of tenses (those of a grammar of tempura), makes
visible the entire gamut of practices, recites the foodstuff not
as a finished merchandise, whose perfection alone would have
value (as is the case with our dishes ), but as a product whose
meaning is not final but progressive, exhausted, so to speak,
when its production has ended: it is you who eat, but it is he
who has played, who has written, who has produced.
26
Pachinko
Pachinko is a slot machine. At the counter you
buy a little stock of what look like ball bearings; then, in
front of the machine (a kind of vertical panel), with one
hand you stufi each ball into a hole, while with the other, by
turning a flipper, you propel the ball through a series of
baffles; if your initial dispatch is just right (neither too
strong nor too weak), the propelled ball releases a rain of
more balls, which fall into your hand, and you have only to
start over again- -unless you choose to exchange your win¬
nings for an absurd reward (a candy bar, an orange, a pack
of cigarettes). Pachinko parlors are extremely numerous, and
always full of a varied clientele (young people, women,
students in black tunics, middle-aged men in business suits).
It is said that pachinko turnovers are equal (or even superior)
to those of all the department stores in Japan (which is
certainly saying a good deal).
The pachinko is a collective and solitary game. The
machines are set up in long rows; each player standing in
front of his panel plays for himself, without looking at his
neighbor, whom he nonetheless brushes with his elbow. You
hear only the balls whirring through their ihannels (the
rate of insertion is very rapid); the parlor is a hive or a
factory—the players seem to be working on an assembly
line. The imperious meaning of the scene is that of a delib¬
erate, absorbing labor; never an idle or casual or playful
attitude, none of that theatrical unconcern of our Western
players lounging in leisurely groups around a pinball machine
and quite conscious of producing for the other patrons of the
cafe the image of an expert and disillusioned god. As for the
art of playing the game, it too differs from that of our ma¬
chines. For the Western player, once the ball is propelled, the
main thing is to correct its trajectory as it falls back down (by
giving little nudges to the machine); for the Japanese player,
everything is determined in the initial dispatch, everything
depends on the force the thumb imparts to the flipper; the
adroitness is immediate, definitive, it alone accounts for the
talent of the player, who can correct chance only in advance
and in a single movement; or more exactly: the propulsion
of the ball is at best only delicately constrained or halted
(but not at all directed) by the hand of the player, who with
a single movement moves and observes: this hand is therefore
that of an artist (in the Japanese fashion), for whom the
(graphic) feature is a "controlled accident.” Pachinko repro¬
duces, in short, on the mechanical level, precisely the prin¬
ciple of painting alia prima, which insists that the line be
drawn in a single movement, once and for all, and that by
reason of the very quality of the paper and the ink, it can
never be corrected; in the same way the ball, once propelled,
cannot be deviated (it would be an outrageous piece of
boorishness to shake the machine, as our Western sports do):
its path is predetermined by the sole flash of its impetus.
What is the use of this art? to organize a nutritive circuit.
The Western machine sustains a symbolism of penetration:
the point is to possess, by a well-placed thrust, the pinup girl
who, all lit up on rhe panel of the machine, allures and waits.
In pachinko, no sex (in Japan in that country I am calling
28
Japan—sexuality is in sex, not elsewhere; in the United
States, it is the contrary; sex is everywhere, except in sexual¬
ity) . The machines are mangers, lined up in rows; the player,
with an abrupt gesture, renewed so rapidly that it seems un¬
interrupted, feeds the machine with his metal marbles; he
stuffs them in, the way you would stuff a goose; from time
to time the machine, filled to capacity, releases its diarrhea of
marbles; for a few yen, the player is symbolically spattered
with money. Here we understand the seriousness of a game
which counters the constipated parsimony of salaries, the
constriction of capitalist wealth, with the voluptuous debacle
of silver balls, which, all of a sudden, fill the player’s hand.
29
Center-City , Empty Center
Quadrangular, reticulated cities (Los Angeles, for
instance) are said to produce a profound uneasiness: they
offend our synesthetic sentiment of the City, which requires
that any urban space have a center to go to, to return from,
a complete site to dream of and in relation to which to ad¬
vance or retreat; in a word, to invent oneself. For many
reasons (historical, economic, religious, military), the West
has understood this law only too well: all its cities are con¬
centric; but also, in accord with the very movement of West¬
ern metaphysics, for which every center is the site of truth,
the center of our cities is always full: a marked site, it is here
that the values of civilization are gathered and condensed:
spirituality (churches), power (offices), money (banks),
merchandise (department stores), language (agoras: cafes
and promenades): to go downtown or to the center-city is to
encounter the social "truth,” to participate in the proud
plenitude of "reality.”
The city I am talking about (Tokyo) offers this precious
paradox: it does possess a center, but this center is empty. The
entire city turns around a site both forbidden and indifferent,
a residence concealed beneath foliage, protected by moats,
inhabited by an emperor who is never seen, which is to say,
literally, by no one knows who. Daily, in their rapid, ener-
JO
The City is an ideogram:
the Text continues
getic, bullet-like trajectories, the taxis avoid this circle, whose
low crest, the visible form of invisibility, hides the sacred
"nothing.” One of the two most powerful cities of modernity
is thereby built around an opaque ring of walls, streams,
roofs, and trees whose own center is no more than an evap¬
orated notion, subsisting here, not in order to irradiate power,
but to give to the entire urban movement the support of its
central emptiness, forcing the traffic to make a perpetual
detour. In this manner, we are told, the system of the imagi¬
nary is spread circularly, by detours and returns the length of
an empty subject.
No Address
The streets of this city have no names. There is of
course a written address, but it has only a postal value, it
refers to a plan (by districts and by blocks, in no way geo¬
metric), knowledge of which is accessible to the postman,
not to the visitor: the largest city in the world is practically
unclassified, the spaces which compose it in detail are
unnamed. This domiciliary obliteration seems inconvenient to
those (like us) who have been used to asserting that the most
practical is always the most rational (a principle by virtue of
which the best urban toponymy would be that of numbered
streets, as in the United States or in Kyoto, a Chinese city).
Tokyo meanwhile reminds us that the rational is merely one
system among others. For there to be a mastery of the real
(in this case, the reality' of addresses), it suffices that there be
a system, even if this system is apparently illogical, uselessly
complicated, curiously disparate: a good bricolage can not
only work for a very long time, as we know; it can also
satisfy millions of inhabitants inured, furthermore, to all the
perfections of technological civilization.
Anonymity is compensated for by a certain number of
expedients (at least this is how they look to us), whose
combination forms a system. One can figure out the address
by a (written or printed) schema of orientation, a kind of
id
geographical summary which situates the domicile starting
from a known landmark, a train station, for instance. (The
inhabitants excel in these impromptu drawings, where we
see being sketched, right on the scrap of paper, a street, an
apartment house, a canal, a railroad line, a shop sign, making
the exchange of addresses into a delicate communication in
which a life of the body, an art of the graphic gesture recurs:
it is always enjoyable to watch someone write, all the more
so to watch someone draw: from each occasion when some¬
one has given me an address in this way, I retain the gesture
of my interlocutor reversing his pencil to rub out, with the
eraser at its other end, the excessive curve of an avenue, the
intersection of a viaduct; though the eraser is an object
contrary to the graphic tradition of Japan, this gesture still
Address book
34
produced something peaceful, something caressing and cer¬
tain. as if, even in this trivial action, the body "labored with
more reserve than the mind," according to the precept of the
actor Zeami; the fabrication of the address greatly prevailed
over the address itself, and, fascinated, I could have hoped it
would take hours to give me that address ) You can also,
provided you already know where you are going, direct your
taxi yourself, from street to street. And finally, you can
request the driver to let himself be guided by the remote
visitor to whose house you are going, by means of one of
those huge red telephones installed in front of almost every
shop in the street. All this makes the visual experience a
35
decisive element of your orientation: a banal enough proposi¬
tion with regard to the jungle or the bush, but one much less
so with regard to a major modern city, knowledge of which is
usually managed by map, guide, telephone book; in a word,
by printed culture and not gestural practice. Here, on the
contrary, domiciliation is sustained by no abstraction; except
for the land survey, it is only a pure contingency: much more
factual than legal, it ceases to assert the conjunction of an
identity and a property. This city can be known only by an
activity of an ethnographic kind: you must orient yourself in
it not by book, by address, but by walking, by sight, by habit,
by experience; here every discovery is intense and fragile, it
can be repeated or recovered only by memory of the trace it
has left in you: to visit a place for the first time is thereby to
begin to write it: the address not being written, it must
establish its own writing
36
7 he Station
In this enormous city, really an urban territory,
the name of each district is distinct, known, placed on the
rather empty map (the streets are not named) like a news
flash; it assumes that strongly signifying identity which
Proust, in his fashion, has explored in his Place Names. If the
neighborhood is quite limited, dense, contained, terminated
beneath its name, it is because it has a center, but this center
is spiritually empty: usually it is a station.
The station, a vast organism which houses the big trains,
the urban trains, the subway, a department store, and a whole
underground commerce—the station gives the district this
landmark which, according to certain urbanists, permits the
city to signify, to be read. The Japanese station is crossed by
a thousand functional trajectories, from the journey to the
purchase, from the garment to food: a train can open onto a
shoe stall. Dedicated to commerce, to transition, to departure,
and yet kept in a unique structure, the station (moreover, is
that what this new complex should be called?) is stripped of
that sacred character which ordinarily qualifies the major
landmarks of our cities: cathedrals, town halls, historical
monuments. Here the landmark is entirely prosaic; no doubt
the market is also a central site of the Western city; but in
Tokyo merchandise is in a sense undone by the station’s
38
instability: an incessant departure thwarts its concentration;
one might say that it is only the preparatory substance of the
package and that the package itself is only the pass, the ticket
which permits departure.
Thus each district is collected in the \oid of its station, an
empty poinr-of-affluence of all its occupations and its plea¬
sures. This day, I decide to go to one neighborhood or another,
without any goal but a kind of prolonged perception of its
name. I know that at Ueno I will hnd a station filled on its
ground level with young skiers, but whose underground
floors, extensive as a city, lined with foodstalls, with bars,
populated with bums, with travelers sleeping, talking, eating
on the very floor of these sordid corridors, finally fulfills the
novelistic essence of the lower depths. Quite close by but
on another day—will be another populous district: in the
commercial streets of Asakusa (no cars), arched by paper
cherry blossoms, are sold brand-new clothes, comfortable and
very cheap: heavy leather jackets ( nothing delinquent about
them), gloves edged with black fur, very long wool scarves
which one throws over one shoulder as would village children
coming home from school, leather caps, all the gleaming and
woolly gear of the good workman who must dress warmly,
corroborated by the comfort of the huge steaming basins in
which simmers a noodle soup. And on the other side of the
imperial ring (empty, as we recall) is still another populous
neighborhood: Ikebukuro, workers and farmers, harsh and
friendly as a big mongrel dog. All these districts produce
different races, distinct bodies, a familiarity new each rime.
To cross the city (or to penetrate its depth, for underground
there are w hole networks of bars, shops to which you some¬
times gain access by a simple entry way, so that, once through
this narrow door, you discover, dense and sumptuous, the
black India of commerce and pleasure) is to travel from the
39
These wrestlers constitute a caste; they live apart, wear their hair
long, and eat a ritual diet. The match lasts only an instant: the
time it takes to let the other mass fall. No crisis, no drama, no
exhaustion, in a word, no sport: the sign of a certain hefting, not
the erethism of conflict
top of Japan to the bottom, to superimpose on its topography
the writing of its faces. Thus each name echoes, evoking the
idea of a village, furnished with a population as individual as
that of a tribe, whose immense city would be the bush. This
sound of the place is that of history; for the signifying name
here is not a memory but an anamnesis, as if all Ueno, all
Asakusa came to me from this old haiku (written by Basho
in the seventeenth century):
A cloud of blossoming cherry trees:
The bell. — Vena’s?
Asakusa s?
Packages
If the bouquets, the objects, the trees, the faces,
the gardens, and the texts—if the things and manners of
Japan seem diminutive to us (our mythology exalts the big,
the vast, the broad, the open), this is not by reason of their
size, it is because every object, every gesture, even the most
free, the most mobile, seems framed. The miniature does not
derive from the dimension but from a kind of precision which
the thing observes in delimiting itself, stopping, finishing.
This precision has nothing specifically reasonable or moral
about it: the thing is not distinct in a puritanical manner (by
cleanness, frankness, or objectivity) but rather by hallucina¬
tory or fantasmal addition (analogous to the vision resulting
from hashish, according to Baudelaire) or by an excision
which removes the flourish of meaning from the object and
severs from its presence, from its position in the world, any
tergiversation. Yet this frame is invisible: the Japanese thing
is not outlined, illuminated) it is not formed of a strong
contuur, a drawing which would "fill out” the color, the
shadow', the texture; around it, there is: nothing , an empty
space which renders it matte (and therefore to our eyes: re¬
duced, diminished, small).
It is as if the object frustrates, in a manner at once un¬
expected and pondered, the space in which it is always
43
located. For example: the room keeps certain written limits,
these are the floor mats, the flat windows, the walls papered
with bamboo paper (pure image of the surface), from which
it is impossible to distinguish the sliding doors; here every¬
thing is line, as if the room were written with a single stroke
of the brush. Yet, by a secondary arrangement, this rigor is
in its turn baffled: the partitions are fragile, breakable, the
walls slide, the furnishings can be whisked away, so that you
rediscover in the Japanese room that "fantasy” (of dressing,
notably) thanks to which every Japanese foils—without
taking the trouble or creating the theater to subvert it.-the
conformism of his context. Or again: in a Japanese flower
arrangement, "rigorously constructed” (according to the
language of Western aesthetic), and whatever the symbolic
intentions of this construction as set forth in every guide to
Japan and in every art book on the Ikebana , what is produced
is the circulation of air, of which flowers, leaves, branches
44
(words, that arc far too botanical) are only the walls, the
corridors, the baffles, delicately drawn according to the notion
of a rarity which we dissociate, for our part, from nature, as
if only profusion proved the natural; the Japanese bouquet
has a volume; unknown masterpiece, as dreamed of by
Frenhofer, Balzac’s hero who wanted the viewer to be able to
pass behind the painted figure, you can move your body into
the interstice of its branches, into the space of its stature, not
in order to read it (to read its symbolism) but to follow the
trajectory of the hand which has written it: a true writing,
since it produces a volume and since, forbidding our reading
to be the simple decoding of a message (however loftily
symbolic), it permits this reading to repeat the course of the
writing’s labor, Or lastly (and especially): without even
regarding as emblematic the famous set of Japanese boxes,
one inside the other down to emptiness, you can already see
a true semantic meditation in the merest Japanese package.
Geometric, rigorously drawn, and yet always signed some¬
where with an asymmetrical fold or knot, by the care, the
very technique of its making, the interplay of cardboard,
wood, papier, ribbon, it is no longer the temporary accessory
of the object to be transported, but itself becomes an object;
the envelope, in itself, is consecrated as a precious though
gratuitous thing; the package is a thought; thus, in a vaguely
pornographic magazine, the image of a naked Japanese boy,
tied up very neatly like a sausage: the sadistic intent (paraded
much more than achieved) is naively—or ironically—
absorbed in the practice, not of a passivity, but of an extreme
art: that of the package, of fastening . ..
Yet, by its very perfection, this envelope, often repeated
4vou can be unwrapping a package forever), postpones the
discover) of the object it contains—one which is often in¬
significant, for it is precise!)’ a specialty of the Japanese
45
package that the triviality of the thing be disproportionate
to the luxury of the envelope: a sweet, a bit of sugared bean
paste, ,1 vulgar "souvenir” (as Japan is unfortunately so
expert at producing) are wrapped with as much sumptuous¬
ness as a jewel. It is as if, then, the box were the object of the
gift, not what it contains: hordes of schoolboys, on a day’s
outing, bring back to their parents a splendid package con¬
taining no one knows what, as if they had gone very far away
and this was an occasion for them to devote themselves in
troops to the ecstasy of the package. Thus the box acts the
sign: as envelope, screen, mask, it is worth what it conceals,
protects, and yet designates, it puts off, if we can take this
expression in French donner le change —in its double
meaning, monetary and psychological; but the very thing it
encloses and signifies is for a very long time put off until
later, as if the package’s function were not to protect in space
but to postpone in time: it is in the envelope that the labor
of the confection (of the making) seems to be invested, but
thereby the object loses its existence, becomes a mirage: from
envelope to envelope, the signified flees, and vyhen you finally
have it (there is always a little something in the package),
it appears insignificant, laughable, vile: the pleasure, field of
the signifier, has been taken, the package is not empty, but
emptied: to find the object which is in the package or the
signified -which is in the sign is to discard it: what the Japa¬
nese carry, with a formicant energy, are actually empty signs.
For there is in Japan a profusion of what we might call: the
instruments of transport; they are of all kinds, of all shapes,
of all substances: packages, pouches, sacks, valises, linen
wrappings (the fujo, a peasant handkerchief or scarf in
which the thing is wrapped), every citizen in the street has
some sort of bundle, an empty sign, energetically protected,
vigorously transported, as if the finish, the framing, the hal-
lucinatory outline which establishes the Japanese object
destined it to a generalized transport. The richness of the
thing and the profundity of meaning are discharged only at
the price of a triple quality' imposed on all fabricated objects:
that they be precise, mobile, and empty.
47
The Three IVritings
Eunraku dolls arc from three to five feet high.
They are little men or women with movable hands, feet, and
mouths; each doll is moved by three quite visible men who
surround it, support it, accompany it; the leader works the
upper part of the doll and its right arm; his face is apparent,
smooth, bright, impassive, cold as "a white onion that has
just been washed” (Basho); the two helpers wear black, a
piece of cloth conceals their faces; one, in gloves but with the
thumb showing, holds a huge pair of shears with which he
moves the doll’s left arm and hand; the other, crawling, sup¬
ports the body, and is responsible for the doll’s walking.
These men proceed along a shallow trench which leaves
their bodies visible. The setting is behind them, as in our
theater. To one side, a dais receives the musicians and the
speakers; their role is to express the text (as one might
squeeze a fruit); this text is half spoken, half sung, punc¬
tuated with loud plectrum strokes by the samisen players, so
that it is both measured and impassioned, w'ith violence and
artifice. Sweating and motionless, the speakers are seated
behind little lecterns on which is set the huge script which
they vocalize and whose vertical characters you can glimpse
from a distance, when they turn a page of their libretto; a
triangle of stiff canvas, attached to their shoulders like a bat’s
48
wing, frames their face, which is subject to all the throes of
the voice,
Bunraku thus practices three separate writings, which it
offers to be read simultaneously in three sites of the spectacle:
the puppet, the manipulator, the vociferant: the effected
gesture, the effective gesture, and the vocal gesture. The
voice: real stake of our modernity, special substance of
language, which we try to make triumph everywhere. Quite
the contrary, Bunrakn has a limited notion of the \oice; it
does not suppress the voice, but assign, it a scry clearly
defined, essentially trivial function. In the speaker’s voice arc
gathered together: exaggerated declamation, tremolos, a
falsetto tonality, broken intonations, tears, paroxysms of rage,
of supplication of astonishment, indecent pathos, the whole
cuisine of emotion, openly elaborated on the level of that
internal, visceral body of which the larynx is the mediating
muscle. Yet this excess is given only within the very code of
excess: the voice moves only through several discontinuous
signs of the tempestuous; expelled from a motionless body,
triangulated by the garment, connected to the text which,
from its desk, guides it, str ictly punctuated by the slightly
out-of-phase (and thereby even impertinent) strokes of the
samisen player, the vocal substance remains written, discon¬
tinuous, coded, subject to an irony (if we may strip this word
of any caustic meaning); hence, what the voice ultimately
externalizes is not what it carries (the "sentiments”) but
itself, its own prestitution; the signifier cunningly does noth¬
ing but turn itself inside out, like a glove.
Without being eliminated (which would be a way of
censuring it, i.e., of designating its importance), the voice is
thus set aside (scenically, the speakers occupy a lateral dais).
Bunraku gives the voice a counterpoise, or better still, a
countermove: that of gesture. This gesture is double: emotive
49 The Oriental transvestite does not copy Woman bat signifies her:
not bogged down in the model, but detached from its signified;
Femininity is presented to read, not to see: translation, not trans¬
gression: the sign shifts from the great female role to the fifty-year-
old paterfamilias: he is the same man, but where dots the
metaphor begin?
.gesture on the level of the doll (audiences weep at the
mistress-doll’s suicide), transitive action on the level of the
manipulators. In our theatrical art, the actor pretends tu act,
but his actions are never anything hut gestures: on stage,
nothing but cheater, yet a theater ashamed of itself. Whereas
Bunraku (this is its definition) separates action from gesture:
it shows the gesture, lets the action be seen, exhibits simul¬
taneously the art and the labor, reserving for each its own
writing. The voice (and there is then no risk in letting it
attain the excessive regions of its range) is accompanied by
a vast volume of silence, in which are inscribed, with all the
more finesse, other features, other writings. And here there
occurs an unheard-of effect: remote from the voice and
almost without mimicry, these silent writings, one transitive,
the other gestural, produce an exaltation as special, perhaps,
as the intellectual hyperesthesia attributed to certain diugs.
Language being not purified (Bunraku is quite unconcerned
with ascesis), but one might say collected to one side of the
acting, all the importunate substances of Western theater are
dissolved: emotion no longer floods, no longer submerges,
but becomes a reading, the stereotypes disappear without, for
all that, the spectacle collapsing into originality, "lucky
finds.” All this connects, of Course, with the alienation effect
Brecht recommends. That distance, regarded among us as
impossible, useless, or absurd, and cagerlj abandoned, though
Brecht very specifically located it at the ccntei of his revolu¬
tionary dramaturgy (and the former no doubt explains the
latter), that distance is made explicable by Bunraku, which
allows us to see ho\V it can function: by the discontinuity of
the codes, bv this caesura imposed on the various features of
representation, so that the copy elaborated on the stage is not
destroyed but somehow broken, striated, withdrawn from that
54
metonymic contagion of voice and gesture, body and soul,
which entraps our actors.
A total spectacle but a divided one, Bitnraku of course
excludes improvisation: to return to spontaneity' would be to
return to the stereotypes which constitute our "depth.” As
Brecht had seen, here citation rules, the sliver of writing, the
fragment of code, for none of the action’s promoters can
account in his own person for what he is never alone to write.
As in the modern text, the interweaving of codes, references,
discrete assertions, anthological gestures multiplies the written
line, not by virtue of some metaphysical appeal, but by the
interaction of a combinatoire which opens out into the entire
space of the theater: what is begun by one is continued by the
next, without interval.
53
Writing, then, rises from the plane of inscription because it
results from a recoil and a non-regardable discrepancy (not
from a face-to-face encounter; inciting from the first not
what is seen but what can be traced) which divides the
support into corridors a-, though to recall the plural void in
which it is achieved- it is merely detached on the surface,
it proceeds to weave itself there, delegated from depths
which are not deep toward the surface, which is no longer a
surface but a fiber written from beneath vertical to its upper
surface (the brush stands straight up in the paint)—the
ideogram thereby returning to the column— tube or ladder
—and taking its place there as a complex bat released by
the monosyllable in the field of the voice: this column can
be called an "empty wrist," in which first appears as a
"unique feature” the breath which passes through the
hollowed arm, the perfect operation necessarily being that of
the "concealed point" or of the "absence of traces,"
Philippe Sellers, On Materialism , 1969
Animate / Inanimate
Concerned with a basic antinomy, that of animate
/ inanimate, Bunraku jeopardises it, eliminates it without
advantage for either of its terms. In the West, the puppet
(Punch, for instance) is supposed to offer the actor the
mirror of his contrary; it animates the inanimate, but the
better to manifest its degradation, the unworthiness of its
inertia; caricature of "life,” it thereby affirms life’s moral
limits and claims to confine beauty, trutfi, emotion within the
living body of the actor, who, however, makes this body a
lie. Bunraku , however, does not sign the actor, it gets rid of
him for us. How? Precisely by a certain idea of the human
body, which the inanimate substance here controls with in¬
finitely more rigor and inspiration than the animate body
(endowed with a "soul”). The Western (naturalist) actor is
never beautiful; his body seeks to be a physiological essence
and not a plastic one: it is a collection of organs, a muscula¬
ture of passions, each of whose devices (voices, faces, ges¬
tures) is subject to a kind of gymnastic exercise; but by a
strictly bourgeois reversal, although the actor’s body is con¬
structed according to a division of passional essences, it
borrows from physiology the alibi of an organic unity', that of
"life”: it is the actor who is the puppet here, despite the
connective tissue of his acting, of which the model is not the
caress but only visceral "truth.”
The basis of our theatrical art is indeed much less the
illusion of reality than the illusion of totality: periodically,
from the Greek choreia to bourgeois opera, we conceive lyric
art as the simultaneity of several expressions (acted, sung,
mimed), whose origin is unique, indivisible. This origin is
the body, and the totality' insisted on has for its model the
body’s organic unity: Western spectacle is anthropomorphic;
in it, gesture and speech (not to mention song ) form a single
tissue, conglomerated and lubrified like a single muscle which
makes expression function but never divides ir up: the unity
of movement and voice produces the one who acts; in other
words, it is in this unity that the "person" of the character is
constituted, i.e. s the actor. As a matter of fact, beneath his
"living” and "natural' externals, the Western actor preserves
the division of his body and, thereby, the nourmshment of
our fantasies: here the voice, there the gaze, there again the
figure are eroticized, as so many fragments of the body, as so
many fetishes. The Western puppet, too (as is quite appar¬
ent in our Punch and Judy), is a fantasmal by-product: as a
reduction, as a grim reflection whose adherence to the human
order is ceaselessly recalled by a caricatural simulation, the
puppet does not live as a total body, totally alive, but as
a rigid portion of the actor from whom it has emanated; as
an automaton, it is still a piece of movement, jerk, shock,
essence of discontinuity, decomposed projection of the body’s
gestures; finally, as a doll, reminiscence of the bit of rag, of
the genital bandage, it is indeed the phallic "little thing”
("das Kleine”) fallen from the body to become a fetish.
It may well be that the Japanese puppet keeps something
of this fantasmal origin; but the art of Bunraku imprints a
yj
different meaning on it; Bunraku does not aim at "animat¬
ing” an inanimate object so as to make a piece of the body, a
scrap of a man, "alive,” while retaining its vocation as a
"part”; it is not the simulation of the body that it seeks but,
so to speak, its sensuous abstraction. Everything which we
attribute to the total body and which is denied to our actors
under cover of an organic, "living ’ unity, the little man of
Bunraku recuperates and expresses without any deception:
fragility, discretion, sumptuousness, unheard-of nuance, the
abandonment of all triviality, the melodic phrasing of ges¬
tures, in short the very qualities which the dreams of ancient
theology granted to the redeemed body, i.e., impassivity,
clarity, agility, subtlety, this is what the Bunraku achieves,
this is how it converts the body-as-fetish into the lovable
body, this is how it rejects the antinomy of animate / inani¬
mate and dismisses rhe concept which is hidden behind all
animation of matter and which is, quite simply, "the soul.”
Inside / Outside
Take the Western theater of the last few centuries;
its function is essentially to manifest what is supposed to be
secret ("feelings,” "situations,” "conflicts”), while conceal¬
ing the very artifice of such manifestation (machinery, paint¬
ing, makeup, the sources of light). The stage since the
Renaissance is the space of this lie: here everything occurs in
an interior surreptitiously open, surprised, spied on, savored
by a spectator crouching in the shadows. This space is theo¬
logical- -it is the space of Sin: on one side, in a light which
he pretends to ignore, the actor i.e., the gesture and the word;
on the other, in the darkness, the public, i.e., consciousness.
Bunraku does not directly subvert the relation of house and
stage (though Japanese theaters are infinitely less confined,
less enclosed, less weighed down than ours); what it trans¬
forms, more profoundly, is rhe motor link which proceeds
from character to actor and which is always conceived, in the
West, as the expressive means of an inwardness. We must
recall that the agents of the spectacle, in Bunraku, are at
once visible and impassive: rhe men in black busy themselves
around the doll, but without any affectation of skill or of
disdction and, one might say, without any paraded demagogy;
silent, swift, elegant, their actions are eminently transitive,
operative, tinged with that mixture of strength and subtlety
Or
which marks the Japanese repertoire of gestures and which is
a kind of aesthetic envelope of effectiveness; as for the
master, his head is uncovered; smooth, bare, without makeup,
which accords him a civil (not a theatrical) distinction, his
face is offered to the spectators to read; but what is carefully,
preciously given to be read is that there is nothing there to
read; here again we come to that exemption of meaning (that
exemption from meaning as well) which we Westerners can
barely understand, since, for us, to attack meaning is to hide
or to invert it, but never to "absent” it. With Bunraku, the
sources of the theater are exposed in their emptiness. What is
expelled from the stage is hysteria, i.e., theater itself; and
what is put in its place is the action necessary to the produc¬
tion of the spectacle: -work is substituted for inwardness.
Hence it is futile to wonder, as certain Europeans do, if the
spectatoi can ever forget the presence of the manipulators.
Bunraku practices neither the occultation nor the emphatic
manifestation of its means; hence it rids the actor’s manifes¬
tation of any whiff of the sacred and abolishes the meta¬
physical link the West cannot help establishing between
body and soul, cause and effect, motor and machine, agent
and actor, Destiny and man, God and creature: if the manipu¬
lator is not hidden, why—and how—would you make him
into a God? In Bunraku, the puppet has no strings. No more
strings, hence no more metaphor, no more Fate; since the
puppet no longer apes the creature, man is no longer a pup¬
pet in the divinity’s hands, the inside no longer commands
the outside.
62
Why, in the West, is politeness regarded with
suspicion? Why does courtesy pass for a distance (if not an
evasion, in fact) or a hypocrisy? Why is an ''informal'’ rela¬
tion ( as we so greedily say) more desirable than a coded one?
Occidental impoliteness is based on a certain mythology of
the "person,” Topologically, Western man is reputed to be
double, composed of a social, factitious, false "outside” and
of a personal, authentic "inside” (the site of divine communi¬
cation). According to this schema, the human "person” is
that site filled by nature (or by divinity, or by guilt), girdled,
closed by a social envelope which is anything but highly
regarded: the polite gesture (when it is postulated) is the sign
of respect exchanged from one plenitude to the other, across
the worldly limit (i.e,, in spite and by the intermediary of
this limit). However, as soon as the "inside” of the person is
judged respectable, it is logical to recognize this person more
suitably by denying all interest to his worldly envelope:
hence it is the supposedly frank, brutal, naked relation,
stripped (it is thought) of all signaletics, indifferent to any
intermediary code, which will best respect the other’s indi¬
vidual value: to be impolite is to be true—so speaks (logically
enough) our Western morality For if there is indeed a
human "person” (dense, emphatic, centered, sacred), it is
«r l
doubtless this person which in an initial movement we claim
to "salute” (with the head, the lips, the body); but my own
person, inevitably entering into conflict with the other’s
plenitude, can gain recognition only by rejecting all media¬
tion of the factitious and by affirming the integrity (highly
ambiguous, this word physical and moral) of its ' inside”;
and in a second impulse, I shall reduce my salute, J shall
pretend to make it natural, spontaneous, disincumbered, puri¬
fied of any code: I shall be scarcely affable, or affable
according to an apparently invented fantasy, like the Princess
of Parma (in Proust) signaling the breadth of her income
and the height of her rank (i.e. her way of being "full” of
things and of constituting herself a person), not by a distant
stiffness of manner, but by the willed "simplicity” of her
manners: how simple I am, how affable I am, how frank I
am, how- much I am someone is what Occidental impoliteness
says.
The other politeness, by the scrupulosity of its codes, the
distinct graphism of its gestures, and even when it seems to
us exaggeratedly respectful (i.e., to our eyes, "humiliating”)
because we read it, in our manner, according to a meta¬
physics of the person- this politeness is a certain exercise of
the void (as we might expect within a strong code but one
signifying "nothing”). Two bodies bow very low before one
another (arms, knees, head always remaining in a decreed
place), according to subtly coded degrees of depth. Or
again (on an old image): in order to give a present, I bow-
down, virtually to the level of the floor, and to answer me, my
partner does the same: one and the same low line, that of
Who is saluting whom?
The gift is alone:
it is touched
neither by generosity
nor by gratitude,
the soul does not contaminar
the ground, joins the giver, the recipient, and the stake of the
protocol, a box which may well contain nothing—or virtually
nothing; a graphic form (inscribed in the space of the room)
is thereby given to the act of exchange, in which, by this
form, is erased any greediness (the gift remains suspended
between two disappearances). The salutation here can be
withdrawn from any humiliation or any vanity, because it
literally salutes no one\ it is not the sign of a communication
—closely watched, condescending and precautionary—be¬
tween two autarchies, two personal empires (each ruling over
its Ego, the little realm of -which it holds the "key”); it is
only the feature of a network of forms in which nothing is
halted, knotted, profound. Who is saluting whom? Only
such a question justifies the salutation, inclines it to the bow,
the obeisance, and glorifies thereby not meaning but the in¬
scription of meaning, and gives to a posture which we read
as excessive the very reserve of a gesture from which any
signified is inconceivably absent. The Form is Empty, says—
and repeats—a Buddhist aphorism. This is w'hat is expressed,
through a practice of forms (a word whose plastic meaning
and worldly meaning are here indissociable), by the polite¬
ness of the salutation, the bowing of two bodies which in¬
scribe but do not prostrate themselves. Our ways of speaking
are very vicious, for if I say that in that country politeness is
a religion, I let it be understood that there is something
sacred in it; the expression should be canted so as to suggest
that religion there is merely a politeness, or better still, that
religion has been replaced by politeness.
The Breach of Meaning
lhe haiku has this rather fantasmagorkal prop¬
erty: that we always suppose we ourselves can write such
things easily. We tell ourselves: what could be more acces¬
sible to spontaneous writing than this (by Buson):
It is evening, in autumn,
All I can think of
Is my parents.
The haiku wakens desire: how many Western readers have
dreamed of strolling through life, notebook in hand, jotting
down "impressions” whose brevity would guarantee their
perfection, whose simplicity w'otild attest to their profundity
(by virtue of a double myth, one classical, which makes con¬
cision a proof of art, the other romantic, which attributes a
premium of truth to improvisation). While being quite in¬
telligible, the haiku means nothing, and it is by this double
condition that it seems open to meaning in a particularly
available, serviceable way—the way of a polite host w'ho lets
you make yourself at home with all your preferences, your
values, your symbols intact; the haiku’s "absence” (we say
as much of a distracted mind as of a landlord off on a
journey) suggests subornation, a breach, in short the major
69
covetousness, that of meaning. This precious, vital meaning,
desirable as fortune (chance and money), the haiku, being
without metrical constraints (in our translations), seems to
afford in profusion, cheaply and made to order; in the haiku,
one might say, symbol, metaphor, and moral cost almost
nothing: scarcely a few words, an image, a sentiment—where
our literature ordinarily requires a poem, a development or
(in the genres of brevity) a chiseled thought; in short, a long
rhetorical labor. Hence the haiku seems to give the West
certain rights which its own literature denies it, and certain
commodities which are parsimoniously granted. You are en¬
titled, says the haiku, to be trivial, short, ordinary; enclose
what you see, what you feel, in a slender horizon of words,
and you will be interesting; you yourself (and starting from
yourself) are entitled to establish your own notability; your
sentence, whatever it may be, will enunciate a moral, will
liberate a symbol, you will be profound: at the least possible
cost, your writing will be filed.
The West moistens everything with meaning, like an
authoritarian religion which imposes baptism on entire
peoples; the objects of language (made out of speech) are
obviously de jure converts: the first meaning of the system
summons, metonymically, the second meaning of discourse,
and this summons has the value of a universal obligation. We
have two ways of sparing discourse the infamy of non-
meaning (non-sense), and we systematically subject utterance
(in a desperate filling-in of any nullity which might reveal
the emptiness of language ) to one or the other of these
significations (or active fabrications of signs): symbol and
reasoning, metaphor and syllogism. The haiku, whose propo¬
sitions are always simple, commonplace, in a word acceptable
(as we say in linguistics), is attracted into one or the other of
these two empires of meaning. Since it is a "poem,” we assign
70
it to that part of the general code of sentiments called "poetic
emotion” (for us, Poetry is ordinarily the signifier of the
"diffuse,” of the "ineffable,” of the "sensitive,” it is the class
of impressions which are unclassifiable); we speak of "con¬
centrated emotion,” of "sincere notation of a privileged mo¬
ment,” and above all of "silence” (silence being for us the
sign of language’s fulfillment). If one of their poets (Joko)
writes:
How many people
Have crossed the Seta bridge
Through the autumn rain!
we perceive the image of fleeting time. If another (Basho)
writes:
/ come by the mountain path.
A h! this is exquisite!
A violet!
it is because he has encountered a Buddhist hermit, the
"flower of virtue”; and so on. Not one feature fails to be
invested by the Western commentator with a symbolic
charge. Or again, we seek at all Costs to construe the haiku’s
tercet (its three verses of five, seven, and five syllables) as a
syllogistic design in three tenses ( rise, suspense, conclusion):
The old pond:
A frog }temps in •
Oh' the sound of the water.
(in this singular syllogism, inclusion is achieved by force: in
order to be contained in it, the minor premise must leap into
7 I
the major). Of course, if we renounce metaphor or syllogism,
commentary would become impossible, to speak of the haiku
would be purely and simply to repeat it. Which is what one
commentator of Basho does, quite innocently:
Already four o'clock . .
I have got up nine times
To admire the moon.
"The moon is so lovely,” he says, "that the poet gets up re¬
peatedly to contemplate it at his window,” Deciphering,
normalizing, or tautological, the ways of interpretation,
intended in the West to pierce meaning, i.e., to get into it by
breaking and entering—and not to shake it, to make it fall
like the tooth of that ruminant-of-the-absurd which the Zen
apprentice must be, confronting his koan —cannot help fail¬
ing the haiku; for the work of reading which is attached to it
is to suspend language, not to provoke it: an enterprise whose
difficulty and necessity Basho himself, the master of the haiku,
seemed to recognize:
How admirable he is
Who does not think "Life is ephemeral'’
when he sees a flash of lightning'
72
Exemption f rom Meaning
The whole of Zen wages a war against the pre¬
varication of meaning. We know that Buddhism baffl.es the
fatal course of any assertion (or of any negation) by recom¬
mending that one never be caught up in the four following
propositions: this is A—this is not A—this is both A and not-
A—this is neither A nor not-A. Now this quadruple possibil¬
ity corresponds to the perfect paradigm as our structural
linguistics has framed it (A — not-A—neither A /tor not-A
(zero degree]— A and not-A [complex degree]); in other
words, the Buddhist way is precisely that of the obstructed
meaning: the very arcanum of signification, that is, the
paradigm, is rendered impossible. When the Sixth Patriarch
gives his instructions concerning the mondo, a question-and-
answer exercise, he recommends, in order to confuse the
paradigmatic functioning more completely, as soon as a term
is posited, ro shift toward its adverse term ("If, questioning
you, someone interrogates you about non-being, answer uith
being. If you are questioned about the ordinary man, answer
by speaking about the master, etc."), so as to make the
mockery of the paradigm and the mechanical character of
meaning all the more apparent. What is aimed at (by a
mental technique whose precision, patience, refinement, and
learning attest to how difficult Oriental thought regards the
73
peremption of meaning), what is aimed at is the establish¬
ment of the sign, i.e., classification (maya)\ constrained to
the classification par excellence , that of language, the haiku
functions at least with a view to obtaining a flat language
which nothing grounds (as is infallible in our poetry) on
superimposed layers of meaning, what we might call the
"lamination” of symbols. When we are told that it was the
noise of the frog which wakened Basho to the truth of Zen,
we can understand (thought this is still too Western a way
of speaking) that Basho discovered in this noise, not of
course the motif of an "illumination,” of a symbolic hyper¬
esthesia, but rather an end of language: there is a moment
when language ceases (a moment obtained by dint of many
exercises), and it is this echoless breach which institutes at
once the truth of Zen and the form—brief and empty'—of
the haiku. The denial of "development” is radical here, for it
is not a question of halting language on a heavy, full, pro¬
found, mystical silence, or even on an emptiness of the soul
which would be open to divine communication (Zen know's
no God); what is posited must develop neither in discourse
nor in the end of discourse: what is posited is matte, and all
that one can do with it is to scrutinize it; this is what is
recommended to the apprentice who is working on a koan
(or anecdote proposed to him by his master): not to solve it,
as if it had a meaning, nor even to perceive its absurdity
(which is still a meaning), but to ruminate it "until the
tooth falls out.” All of Zen, of which the haiku is merely the
literary branch, thus appears as an enormous praxis destined
to halt language, to jam that kind of internal radiophony
continually sending in us, even in our sleep (perhaps this is
the reason the apprentices aie sometimes kept from falling
asleep), to empty out, to stupefy, to dry up the soul’s in-
coercible babble; and perhaps what Zen calls satori, which
Westerners can translate only by certain vaguely Christian
words (-illumination, revelation, intuition ), is no more than
a panic suspension of language, the blank which erases in us
the reign of the Codes, the breach of that internal recitation
which constitutes our person; and if this state of a-language
is a liberation, it is because, for the Buddhist experiment, the
proliferation of secondary thoughts (the thought of thought),
or what might be called the infinite supplement of super¬
numerary signifieds—a circle of which language itself is the
depository and the model—appears as a jamming: it is on the
contrary the abolition of secondary thought which breaks
the vicious infinity of language. In all these experiments, ap¬
parently, it is not a matter of crushing language beneath the
mystic silence of the ineffable, but of measuring it, of halting
that verbal top which sweeps into its gyration the obsessional
play of symbolic substitutions. In short, it is the symbol as
semantic operation which is attacked.
In the haiku, the limitation of language is the object of a
concern which is inconceivable to us, for it is not a question
of being concise (i.e., shortening the signiiier without dimin¬
ishing the density' of the signified) but on the contrary of
acting on the very root of meaning, so that this meaning will
not melt, run, internalize, become implicit, disconnect, diva¬
gate into the infinity of metaphors, into the spheres of the
symbol. The brevity of the haiku is not formal; the haiku is
not a rich thought reduced to a brief form, but a brief event
which immediately finds its proper form. The measurement
of language is what the Westerner is most unfit for: not that
his utterance is too long or too short, but all his rhetoric
obliges him to make signifier and signified disproportionate,
either by "diluting” the latter beneath the garrulous waves
of the former, or by "deepening” form toward the implicit
regions of content. The haiku’s accuracy (which is not at all
75
an exact depiction of reality, but an adequation of signifier
and signified, a suppression of margins, smudges, and inter¬
stices which usually exceed or perforate the semantic relation),
this accuracy obviously has something musical about it (a
music of meanings and not necessarily of sounds): the haiku
has the purity, the sphericality, and the very emptiness of a
note of music; perhaps that is why it is spoken twice, in echo;
to speak this exquisite language only once would be to attach
a meaning to surprise, to effect, to the suddenness of perfec¬
tion; to speak it many times would postulate that meaning is
to be discovered in it, would simulate profundity; between the
two, neither singular nor profound, the echo merely draws a
line under the nullity of meaning.
The Incident
Western art transforms the "impression’' into
description. The haiku never describes; its art is counter-
descriptive, to the degree that each state of the thing is
immediately, stubbornly, victoriously converted into a fragile
essence of appearance: a literally "untenable" moment in
which the thing, though being already only language, will
become speech, will pass from one language to another and
constitute itself as the memory of this future, thereby anterior.
For in the haiku, it is not only the event proper which
predominates:
(I saw she first snow:
That morning 1 forgot
To wash my face.)
but even what seems to us to have a vocation as painting,
as a miniature picture- -the sort so numerous in Japanese art
—such as this haiku by Shiki:
With a bull on board
A little boat crosses the river
Through the evening rain.
77
becomes or is only a kind of absolute accent (as is given to
each thing, trivial or nor, in Zen), a faint plication by which
is creased, with a rapid touch, the page of life, the silk of
language. Description, a Western genre, has its spiritual
equivalent in contemplation, the methodical inventory of the
attributive forms of the divinity or of the episodes of evan¬
gelical narrative (in Ignatius Loyola, the exercise of con¬
templation is essentially descriptive); the haiku, on the
contrary, articulated around a metaphysics without subject
and without god, corresponds to the Buddhist Mu, to the Zen
satori, which is not at all the illuminative descent of God, but
"awakening to the fact.” apprehension of the thing as event
and not as substance, attaining to that anterior shore of
language, contiguous tu the (altogether retrospective, recon¬
stituted) in elite ness of the adventure (what happens to
language, rather than to the subject).
The number and the dispersion of haikus on the one hand,
the brevity' and closure of each one on the other, seem to
divide, to classify the world to infinity, to constitute a space
of pure fragments, a dust of events which nothing, by a kind
of escheat of signification, can or should coagulate, construct,
direct, terminate. This is because the haiku’s time is without
subject: reading has no other self than all the haikus of which
this self, by infinite refraction, is never anything but the site
of reading; according to an image proposed by the Hua-yen
doctrine, one might say that the collective body of all haikus
is a network of jewels in which each jewel reflects all the
others and so on, to infinity, wdthout there ever being a center
to grasp, a primary core of irradiation (for us, the clearest
image of this ricochet effect without motor and without
check, of this play of reflections without origin, would be that
of the dictionary, in which a word can only be defined by
other words). In the West, the mirror is an essentially
7 «
narcissistic object: man conceives a mirror only in order to
look at himself in it; but in the Orient, apparently, the mirror
is empty; it is the symbol of the very emptiness of symbols
("The mind of the perfect man,’’ says one Tao master, "is
like a mirror. It grasps nothing but repulses nothing, it re¬
ceives hut does not retain") : the mirror intercepts only other
mirrors, and this infinite reflection is emptiness itself (which,
as we know, is form). Hence the haiku reminds us of what
has never happened to us; in it we recognize a repetition
without origin, an event without cause, a memory without
person, a language without moorings.
What I am saying here about the haiku I might also say
about everything which happens when one travels in that
country I am calling Japan. For there, in the street, in a bar-
in a shop, in a train, something always happens. This some¬
thing—which is etymologically an adventure—is of an in¬
finitesimal order: it is an incongruity of clothing, an anach¬
ronism of culture, a freedom of behavior, an illogicality of
itinerary, etc. To count up these events would be a Sisyphean
enterprise, for they glisten only at the moment when one
reads them, in the lively writing of the street, and the
Westerner will be able to utter them spontaneously only by
charging them with the very meaning of his distance: he
would in fact have to make haiku out of them, a language
which is denied us. What one can add is that these infinitesimal
adventures (of which the accumulation, in the course of a
day, provokes a kind of erotic intoxication) never have any ¬
thing picturesque about them (the Japanese picturesque is
indifferent to us, for it is detached from what constitutes the
very specialty of Japan, which is its modernity), or anything
novelistic ( never lending themselves to the chatter which
would make them into narratives or descriptions'); what they
offer to be read (I am, in that country, a reader, not a visitor)
79
is the rectitude of the line, the stroke, \Vithout wake, without
margin, without vibration; so many tiny demeanors (from
garment to smile), which among us, as a result of the West¬
erner’s inveterate narcissism, are only the signs of a swollen
assurance, become, among the Japanese, mere ways of pass¬
ing, of tracing some unexpected thing in the street: for the
gesture’s sureness and independence never refer back to an
affirmation of the self (to a "self-sufficiency”) but only to
a graphic mode of existing; so that the spectacle of the
Japanese street (or more generally of the public place),
exciting as the product of an age-old aesthetic, from which all
vulgarity has been decanted, never depends on a theatricality'
(a hysteria) of bodies, but, once more, on that writing alia
prima, in which sketch and regret, calculation and correction
are equally' impossible, because the line, the tracing, freed
from the advantageous image the scriptor would give of him¬
self, does not express but simply causes to exist. "When you
walk, says one Zen master, "he content to ivalk. When you
are seated, he content to be seated. But, above all, don’t
u>riggle. r '\ this is what, in their way, all seem to be telling
me—the young bicyclist carrying a tray of bowls high on one
arm, or the young saleswoman who bows with a gesture so
deep, so ritualized that it loses all servility, before the cus¬
tomers of a department store leaving to take an escalator;
or the Pachinko player inserting, propelling, and receiving
his marbles, with three gestures w hose very coordination is a
design; or the dandy in the cafe who with a ritual gesture
(abrupt and male) pops open the plastic envelope of his
hot napkin with w'hich he will wipe his hands before drink¬
ing his Coca-Cola: all these incidents are the very substance
of the haiku.
So
So
The haiku's task is to achieve exemption from
meaning within a perfectly readerly discourse (a contradic¬
tion denied to Western art, which can contest meaning only
by rendering its discourse incomprehensible), so that to our
eyes the haiku is neither eccentric nor familiar: it resembles
nothing at all: readerly, it seems to us simple, close, known,
delectable, delicate, "poetic”- -in a word, offered to a whole
range of reassuring predicates; insignificant nonetheless, it
resists us, finally loses the adjectives which a moment before
we had bestowed upon it, and enters into that suspension of
meaning which to us is the strangest thing of all, since it
makes impossible the most ordinary exercise of our language,
which is commentary. What are we to say of this:
Spring breeze:
The boat man chews his grass stem.
or this:
Full moon
And on the matting
The shadow of a pine tree.
or of this:
In the fisherman's house
The smell of dried fish
And heat.
or again (but not finally, for the examples are countless) of
this:
The winter wind blows.
The cats’ eyes
Blink
Such traces (the word suits the haiku, a kind of faint gash
inscribed upon time) establish what we have been able to
call "the vision without commentary.’’ This vision (the word
is still too Western) is in fact entirely privative, what is
abolished is not meaning but any notion of finality: the haiku
serves none of the purposes (though they themselves are
quite gratuitous) conceded to literature: insignificant (by a
technique of meaning-arrest), how could it instruct, express,
divert? In the same way, whereas certain Zen schools con¬
ceive of seated meditation as a practice intended for the ob¬
taining of Buddhahood, others reject even this (apparently
essential) finality: one must remain seated "just tv remain
seated.” Is not the haiku (like the countless graphic gestures
which mark mudern and social Japanese life) also written
"just to write”}
What disappears in the haiku are the two basic functions
of our (age-old) classical writing: on the one hand, descrip¬
tion (the boatmans grass stem, the pine tree’s shadow, the
smell of fish, the winter wind are not described, i.e., embel¬
lished with significations, with moralities, committed as
S2
indices to the revelation of a truth or of a sentiment: meaning
is denied to reality; furthermore, reality no longer commands
even the meaning of reality); and on the other, definition;
not only is definition transferred to gesture, if only a graphic
gesture, but it is also shunted toward a kind of inessential—
eccentric efflorescence of the object, as one Zen anecdote
puts it nicely, in which the master awards the prize for
definition (what is a fan?) not even to the silent, purely
gestural illustration of function (to wave the fan), but to
the invention of a chain of aberrant actions (to close the fan
and scratch one’s neck with it, to reopen it, put a cookie on it
a?td offer it to the master). Neither describing nor defining,
the haiku (as I shall finally name any discontinuous feature,
any event of Japanese life as it offers itself to my reading),
the haiku diminishes to the point of pure and sole desig¬
nation. It’s that, it's thus, says the haiku, it’s so. Or better still:
sol it says, with a touch so instantaneous and so brief ( with¬
out vibration or recurrence) that even the copula would seem
excessive, a kind of remorse for a forbidden, permanently
alienated definition. Here meaning is only a flash, a slash of
light: When the light of sense goes out. but with a flash that
has revealed the invisible world, Shakespeare wrote; but the
haiku’s flash illumines, reveals nothing; it is the flash of a
photograph one takes very carefully (in the Japanese man¬
ner) but having neglected to load the camera with film. Or
again: haiku reproduces the designating gesture of the child
pointing at whatever it is (the haiku shows no partiality for
the subject), merely saying: that! with a movement so im¬
mediate (so stripped of any mediation: that of knowledge,
of nomination, or even of possession) that what is designated
is the very inanity of any classification of the object: nothing
special, says the haiku, in accordance with the spirit of Zen:
the event is not namable according to any species, its specialty
short circuits: like a decorative loop, the haiku coils back on
itself, the wake of the sign v hich seems to have been traced
is erased: nothing has been acquired, the word’s stone has
been cast for nothing: neither waves nor flow of meaning.
84
Stationery Store
It is at the stationery store, site and catalogue of
things necessary to writing, that we are introduced into the
space of signs; it is in the stationery store that the hand
encounters the instrument and the substance of the stroke,
the tract, the line, the graphism; it is in the stationery store
that the commerce of the sign begins, even before it is
written. Hence each nation has its stationery store. That of
the United States is abundant, precise, ingenious; it is an
emporium foi architects, for students, whose commerce must
foresee the most relaxed postures; it says that the user experi¬
ences no need to invest himself in his writing, but that he
must have all the commodities necessary to record in comfort
the products of memory, of reading, of teaching, of commu¬
nication; a good domination of the utensile, but no halluci¬
nation of the stroke, of the tool; thrust back into pure
applications, writing is never understood as the interplay of
a pulsion. The French stationer)’ store, often localised in
"Establishments founded in 18 —,” their black marble es¬
cutcheons encrusted with gold letters, remains a papeterie of
bookkeepers, of scribes, of commerce; its exemplary product
is the minute, the juridical and calligraphed duplicate, its
patrons are the eternal copyists, Bouvard and Pecuchet.
The object of the Japanese stationery store is that ideo-
graphic writing which to our eyes seems to derive from
painting, whereas quite simply it is painting's inspiration
(important that art should have a scriptural and not an ex¬
pressive origin). To the degree that this Japanese stationery
store invents forms and qualities for the two primordial
substances of writing, i.e., the surface and the drawing instru¬
ment, to the same degree, comparatively, it neglects those
byways of registration which form the fantasmal luxury of
American establishments: since in Japan the stroke excludes
erasure or repetition (since the character is drawn alia prim a),
no invention of the eraser or of its substitutes (the eraser,
emblematic object of the signified one wants to erase alto¬
gether 01 whose plenitude, at the very least, one would like
to lighten, to reduce; but on the other side of the street, on
the Oriental side, why erasers, since the mirror is empty?).
Everything, in the instrumentation, is directed toward the
paradox of an irreversible and fragile writing, which is
simultaneously, contradictorily, incision and glissade; papers
of a thousand kinds, many of which hint, in their texture
powdered with pale straw's, with crushed stems, at their
fibrous origin; notebooks whose pages are folded double, like
those of a book which has not been cut so that writing moves
across a luxury of surfaces and never runs, ignorant of the
metonymic impregnation of the right and wrong side of the
page (it is traced above a void): palimpsest, the erased stroke
which thereby becomes a secret, is impossible. As for the
brush (passed across a faintly moistened inkstone), it has its
gestures, as if it were the finger, but whereas our old pens
knew only clogging or loosening and could only, moreover,
scratch the paper always in the same direction, the brush can
slide, twist, lift off, the stroke being made, so to speak, in the
volume of the air, it has the carnal, lubrified flexibility of the
hand. The felt-tipped pen, of Japanese origin, has taken up
86
where rhe brush leaves off: this stylo is not an improvement
of the point, itself a product of rhe pen (of steel or of
cartilage), its immediate ancestry is that of the ideogram.
This notion of graphism, to which every Japanese stationery
store refers (in each department store, there is a public writer
who draws, on long, led-bordered envelopes, the vertical
addresses of the gifts), is to be rediscovered, paradoxically
(at least as far as we are concerned), even in rhe typewriter;
ours is quick to transform writing into a mercantile product:
it pre-edits the text at the very moment one writes it; theirs,
by its countless characters, no longer aligned in a single
stitching row of letters but rolled on drums, refers to the
ideographic marquetry scattered across the sheet—in a word,
space; hence the machine extends, at least potentially, a true
graphic art which would no longer be the aesthetic labor of
the solitary letter but the abolition of the sign, flung aslant
freehand, in all the directions of the page.
The Written Face
The theatrical face is not painted (made up j, it
is written. There occurs this unforeseen movement' though
painting and writing share the same original instrument, the
brush, it is still not painting which lures writing into its
decorative style, into its flaunted, caressing touch, into its
representative space (as would no doubt have been the case
with us—in the West the civilized future of a function is
always its aesthetic ennoblement); on the contrary, it is the
act of writing which subjugates the pictural gesture, so that
to paint is never anything but to inscribe. This theatrical
face (masked in No, drawn in Kabuki, artificial in Bunraku)
consists of two substances: the white of the paper, the black
of the inscription (reserved for the eyes).
The white of the face seems to have as its function, not to
denature the flesh tints or to caricature them (as with our
clowns, whose white flour and greasepaint are only an in¬
citation to daub the face), but exclusively to erase all anterior
trace of the features, to ttansform the countenance to the
blank extent of a matte stuff which no natural substance
(flour, paste, plaster, or silk) metaphorically enlivens with a
texture, a softness, or a highlight. The face is only: the thing
to write', but this future is already written by the hand which
has whitened the eyelashes, the tip of the nose, the cheek-
88
bones, and given the page of flesh its black limit of a wig
compact as stone. The whiteness of the face, not lustrous but
heavy, as disturbingly dense as sugar, signifies simultaneously
two contradictory movements: immobility (for which our
'moral” term is: impassivity) and fragility ( which in the
same fashion but with no more success we label: emotivity)
Not on this surface but engraved, incised within it, the strictly
elongated slit of the eyes and of the mouth. The eyes, barred,
unhooped by the straight, flat eyelid, supported by no lower
circle (circles under the eyes: a properly expressive value of
the Occidental face: fatigue, morbidity, eroticism) — the eyes
debouch directly onto the face, as if they were the black and
empty source of the writing, "the night of the inkwell”; or
again: the face is drawn like a sheet of cloth toward the black
(but not "somber”) pit of the eyes. Reduced fo the ele¬
mentary signifiers of writing (the blank of the page and the
indentations of its script), the face dismisses any signified,
i.re., any expressivity: this writing writes nothing (or writes:
nothing ); not only does it not "lend” itself (a naively mer¬
cantile word) to any emotion, to any meaning (not even that
of impassivity, of inexpressiveness), but it actually copies no
character whatever: the transvestite actor (since the women’s
roles are played by men) is not a boy made up as a woman,
by dint of a thousand nuances, realistic touches, costly simu¬
lations, but a pure signifier whose underneath (the truth) is
neither clandestine (jealously masked) nor surreptitiously
signed (by a waggish wink at the virility of the support, as
in Western drag shows: opulent blondes whose trivial hand
or huge foot infallibly give the lie to the hormonal bosom):
simply absented ; the actor, in his face, does not play the
woman, or copy her, but only signifies her; if, as Mallarme
says, writing consists of "gestures of the idea,” transvestism
here is the gesture of femininity, not its plagiarism; it follows
89
This Western lecturer, as soon as
he is "cited” by the Kobe Shtnbun,
finds himself "Japanned,” eyes
elongated, pupils blackened by
Nipponese typography
Whereas the young actor Teturo
Tanba, "citing” Anthony Perkins,
has lost his Asiatic eyes. What
then is our face, if not a "citation”?
that it is not at all remarkable,, i.e., not at all marked (a thing
inconceivable in the West, where transvestism is already in
itself ill conceived and ill supported, purely transgressive),
to see an actor of fifty (very famous and much honored)
playing the part of a young woman, timorous and in love;
for youth—no more than femininity here—is not a natural
essence whose truth we madly pursue; the refinement of the
code, its precision, indifferent to any extended copy of an
organic type (to provoke the real, physical body of a young
woman), have as their effect—or justification—to absorb and
eliminate all feminine reality in the subtle diffraction of the
signifier: signified but not represented, Woman is an idea,
not a nature; as such, she is restored to the classifying func¬
tion and to the truth of her pure difference; the Western
transvestite wants to be a (particular) woman, the Oriental
actor seeks nothing more than to combine the signs of
Woman.
However, insofar as these signs are extreme, not because
they are rhetorical (one sees that they arc n<>t so), but be¬
cause they are intellectual -being, like writing, "the gestures
of the idea”—they purify the body of all expressivity: one
might say that by dint of being signs they extenuate meaning.
Which explains that conjunction of sign and impassivity (the
word is unsuitable, as noted, because it is moral, expressive)
which marks the Asiatic theater. This touches on a certain
way of taking death. To imagine, to fabricate a face, not
impassive or callous (which is still a meaning), but as though
emerged from water, rinsed of meaning, is a way of answer¬
ing death. Look at this photograph from September 13,
1912: General Nqgi, victor over the Russians at Port Arthur,
has himself photographed with his wife; their emperor hav¬
ing just died, they have decided to commit suicide the fol¬
lowing day; hence, they know, he, lost in his beard, his kepi,
his decorations, has almost no face at all; but she reveals hers
entire--impassive? stupid? dignified? peasant-like? As in the
case of the transvestite actor, no adjective is possible, the
predicate is dismissed, not by the solemnity of imminent
death, but quite the contrary, by the exemption of Death’s
meaning, of Death as meaning. General Nogi’s wife has de¬
cided that Death was the meaning, that she and Death were
to be dismissed at the same time, and that therefore, were it
to be in her countenance itself, there was to be no "mention”
of it.
94
Millions of Bodies
A Frenchman (unless he is abroad) cannot
classify French faces; doubtless he perceives faces in com¬
mon, but the abstraction of these repeated faces (which is the
class to which they belong) escapes him. The body of his
compatriots, invisible by its quotidian situation, is a language
he can attach to no code; the dejd vu of faces has for him no
intellectual value; beauty, if he encounters it, is never for him
an essence, the summit or the fulfillment of a research, the
fruit of an intelligible maturation of the species, but only a
piece of luck, a protuberance from platitude, a departure
from repetition. Conversely, this same Frenchman, if he sees
a Japanese in Paris, perceives him in the pure abstraction of
his race (supposing that he does not see him simply as an
Asiatic); between these very rare Japanese bodies, he cannot
introduce any difference; much more: having unified the
Japanese race in a single type, he abusively relates this type
to his cultural image of the Japanese, as constructed from
not even films, for these films have offered him only anach¬
ronistic beings, peasants or samurai, who belong less to
"Japan" than to the object "Japanese film,” but from a few
press photographs, a few newsreel flashes; and this arche¬
typical Japanese is quite lamentable; a skinny creature,
wearing glasses, of no specific age, in correct and lusterless
clothes, a minor employee of a gregarious country.
In Japan, everything changes: the nothingness or the
excess of the exotic code, to which the Frenchman at home
is condemned when confronting the foreigner (whom he
calls the stranger though he does not manage to make any¬
thing very strange out of him), is absorbed into a new dia¬
lectic of speech and language, of series and individual, of
body and race (we can speak of dialectic literally, since what
arrival in Japan reveals, in a single huge stroke, is the trans¬
formation of quality' by quantity, of the petty official into
exuberant diversity). The discovery is prodigious, streets,
shops, bars, cinemas, trains open the huge dictionary of faces
and figures in which each body (each word) means only it¬
self and yet refers to a class; hence one has both the pleasure
of an encounter (with fragility, with singularity) and the
illumination of a type (the feline, the peasant, the apple, the
savage, the Lapp, the intellectual, the sleepyhead, the moon-
face, the smiler, the dreamer), souice of an intellectual jubi¬
lation, since the unmasterable is mastered. Immersed in this
nation of a hundred million bodies (one will prefer this
quantification to that of "souls”), one escapes the double
platitude of absolute diversity, which is finally no more than
pure repetition (as is the case of the Frenchman at odds with
his compatriots), and of the unique class, all difference muti¬
lated (the case uf the Japanese petty official as we imagine
we see him in Europe). Yet here, as in other semantic groups,
the system is valid at its vanishing points: a type imposes
itself and yet its individuals are never found side by side; in
each population which a public place reveals, analogous in
this to the sentence, you grasp singular but known signs, new
but potentially repeated bodies; in such a scene, there are
never two sleepyheads or two smilers together at the same
time, yet one and the other unite with a knowledge: the
stereotype is baffled but the intelligible is preserved. Or again
—another vanishing point of the code—certain unexpected
combinations are discovered: the savage and the feminine
coincide, the smooth and the disheveled, the dandy and the
student, etc., producing, in the series, new departures, ramifi¬
cations both distinct and inexhaustible. One might say Japan
imposes the same dialectic on its bodies as on its objects: look
at the handkerchief shelf in a department store: countless, all
different, yet no intolerance in the series, no subversion of
order. Or again, the haiku: how many haiku in the history of
Japan.'' They all say the same thing: season, vegetation, sea,
village, silhouette, yet each is in its way an irreducible event.
Ot again, ideographic signs: logically unclassifiable, since
they escape an arbitrary but limited, hence memorable,
phonetic order (the alphabet), yet classified in dictionaries,
where it is—admirable presence of the body in writing and
in classification- -the number and order of the gestures neces¬
sary to draw the ideogram which determine the typology of
the signs And the same for bodies: all Japanese (and not:
Asiatics) form a general body (but not a total one, as wc
assume from our Occidental distance), and yet a vast tribe of
different bodies, each of which refers to a class, which van¬
ishes, without disorder, in the direction of an interminable
order; in a word: open, to the last moment, like a logical
system. The result—or the stake—of this dialectic is the
following: the Japanese body achieves the limit of its indi¬
viduality (like the Zen master when he invents a preposterous
and upsetting answer to the disciple's serious and banal ques¬
tion), but this individuality cannot be understood in the
Western sense; it is pure of all hysteria, does not aim at
making the individual into an original body, distinguished
from other bodies, inflamed by that promotional fever which
infects the West. Here individuality is not closure, theater,
outstripping, victory; it is simply difference, refracted, without
privilege, from body to body. That is why beauty is not de¬
fined here, in the Western manner, by an inaccessible sin¬
gularity: it is resumed here and there, it runs from difference
tu difference, arranged in the great s> ntagm of bodies.
98
The Eyelid
Ihe several features which compose an ideo¬
graphic character are drawn in a certain order, arbitrary but
regular; the line, beginning with a full brush, ends with a
brief point, inflected, turned av. ay at the last moment of its
direction. It is this same tracing of a pressure which we re¬
discover in the Japanese eye. As if the anatomist-calligrapher
set his full brush on the inner corner of the eye and, turning
it slightly, with a single line, as it must be in painting alia
pr'ima , opens the face with an elliptical slit which he closes
toward the temple with a rapid turn of his hand: the stroke
is perfect because simple, immediate, instantaneous, and yet
ripe as those circles which it takes a lifetime to learn to make
in a single sovereign gesture. The eye is thus contained be¬
tween the parallels of its lids and the double (inverted)
curve of its extremities: t looks like the silhouetted imprint
of a leaf, a broad comma painted sideways. The eye is flat
(that is its miracle); neither exorbital nor shrunken, without
padding, without pouch, and so to speak without skin, it is
the smooth slit in a smooth surface. The pupil, intense, frag¬
ile, mobile, intelligent (for this eye barred, interrupted by
the upper edge of the slit, seems to harbor thereby a reserved
pensivity, a dose of intelligence kept in reserve, not behind
the gaze but above )—the pupil is not dramatized by the
yo
orbit, as in Western morphology; the eye is free in its slit
(which it fills sovereignly and subtly), and it is quite mis¬
takenly (by an obvious ethnocentrism) that we French call
it bride (bridled, constrained); nothing restrains the eye, for
since it is inscribed at the very level of the skin and not
sculptured in the bone structure, its space is that of the entire
face. The Western eye is subject to a whole mythology of the
soul, central and secret, whose fire, sheltered in the orbital
cavity, radiates toward a fleshy, sensuous, passional exterior;
but the Japanese face is without moral hierarchy; it is entirely
alive, even vivid (contrary to the legend of Oriental hiera-
tism), because its morphology cannot be read "in depth,’’
i.e., according to the axis of an inwardness; its model is not
sculptural but scriptural: it is a flexible, fragile, close woven
stuff (silk, of course), simply and as though immediately
calligraphed by two lines; "life” is not in the light of the
eyes, it is in the non-secret relation of a surface and its slits:
in that gap, that difference, that syncope which are, it is said,
the open form of pleasure. With so few morphological ele¬
ments, the descent into sleep (which we can observe on so
many faces, in trains and evening subways) remains an easy
operation: without a fuld of skin, the eye cannot "grow
heavy ”, it merely traverses the measured degrees of a gradual
unity, progressively assumed by the face: eyes lowered, eyes
closed, eyes "asleep,” a closed line closes further in a lowering
of the eyelids which is never ended.
102
The Writing of Violence
When one says that the Zengakuren riots are
organized, one refers not only to a group of tactical pre¬
cautions (incipient notion already contradictory to the myth
of the riot) but to a writing of actions which expurgates
violence from its Occidental being: spontaneity. In our myth¬
ology, violence is caught up in the same prejudice as literature
or art: we can attribute to it no other function than that of
expressing a content, an inwardness, a nature, of which it is
the primary, savage, asystematic language; we certainly con¬
ceive, no doubt, that violence can be shunted toward delib¬
erated goals, turned into an instrument of thought, but this
is never anything but a question of domesticating an anterior,
sovereignly original force. The violence of the Zengakuren
does not precede its ovn regulation, but is born simultane¬
ously with it: it is immediately a sign: expressing nothing
(neither hatred nor indignation nor any moral idea) , it does
away with itself all the more surely in a transitive goal (to
besiege and capture a town hall, to open a barbed-wire
barrier); yet effectiveness is not its only measurement; a
purely pragmatic action puts the symbols between paren¬
theses, but does not settle their account: one utilizes the
subject, while* leaving it intact (the very situation of the
soldier). The Zengakuren riot, entirely functional as it is,
remains a great scenario of signs (these are actions which
have a public), the features of this writing, rather more
numerous than a phlegmatic, Anglo-Saxon representation of
effectiveness would suppose, are indeed discontinuous,
arranged, regulated, not in order to signify something but as
if to do away (to our eyes; wfith the myth of the improvised
riot, the plenitude of "spontaneous” symbols: there is a para¬
digm of colors— red-white-blue helmets —but these colors,
contrary to ours, refer to nothing historical; there is a syntax
of actions ( overturn, uproot, drag, pile), performed like a
prosaic sentence, not like an inspired ejaculation; there is a
signifying reprise of time-out (leaving in order to rest behind
the lines, giving a form to relaxation). All this combines to
produce a mass writing, not a group writing (the gestures are
completed, the persons do not assist each other); finally, the
extreme risk of the sign, it is sometimes acknowledged that
the slogans chanted by the combatants should uttet not the
Cause, the Subject of the action (what one is fighting for 01
against)—this would be once again to make language the
expression of a reason, the assurance of a good cause—but
only this action itself (The Zengakuren are going to fight),
which is thereby no longer covered, directed, justified, made
innocent by language—that external divinity superior to the
combat, like a Marseillaise in her Phrygian bonnet—but
doubled by a pure vocal exercise which simply adds to the
volume of violence, a gesture, one muscle more.
100
The Cabinet of Signs
In any and every site of this country, there occurs
a special organization of space: traveling (in the street, in
trains through the suburbs, over the mountains), I perceive
the conjunction of a distance and a division, the juxtaposition
of fields (in the rural and visual sense) simultaneously dis¬
continuous and open ( patches of tea plantatii ns, of pines, of
mauve flowers, a composition of black roofs, a rill work of
alleyways, a dissymmetrical arrangement of low houses): no
enclosure (except for very low ones) and yet I am never
besieged by the horizon (and its whiff of dreams): no crav¬
ing to swell the lungs, to puff up the chest to make sure of
my ego, to constitute my< If as the assimilating center of the
infinite: brought to the evidence of an empty limit, I am
limitless without the notion of grandeur, without a meta¬
physical reference.
From the slope of the mountains to the neighborhood
intersection, here everything is habitat, and I am always in
the most luxurious room of this habitat: this luxury (which
is elsewhere that of the kiosks, of corridors, of fanciful struc¬
tures, collectors’ cabinets, of private libraries) is created by
the fact that the place has no other limit than its carpet of
living sensations, of brilliant signs (flowers, windows, foliage,
pictures, books); it is no longer the great continuous wall
107
which defines space, but the very abstraction of the fragments
of view (of the "views”) which frame me; the wall is
destroyed beneath the inscription; the garden is a mineral
tapestry of tiny volumes (stones, traces of the rake on the
sand), the public place is a series of instantaneous events
which accede to the notable in a flash so vivid, so tenuous that
the sign does away with itself before any particular signified
has had the time to "take.” One might say that an age-old
technique permits the landscape or the spectacle to produce
itself, to occur in a pure significance, abrupt, empty, like a
fracture. Empire of Signs? Yes, if it is understood that these
signs are empty and that the ritual is without a god. Look at
the cabinet of Signs (which was the Mallarmean habitat),
i.e., in that country, any view, urban, domestic, rural, and the
better to see how it is made, take for example the Shikidai
gallery: tapestried with openings, framed with emptiness and
framing nothing, decorated no doubt, but so that the figura¬
tion (flowers, trees, birds, animals) is removed, sublimated,
displaced far from the foreground of the view, there is in it
place for furniture (a paradoxical word in French —mettble
—since it generally designates a property anything but
mobile, concerning which one does everything so that it will
endure: with us, furniture has an immobilizing vocation,
whereas in Japan the house, often deconstructed, is scarcely
more than a furnishing—mobile- -element) ; in the Shikidai
gallery, as in the ideal Japanese house, stripped of furniture
(or scantily furnished), there is no site which designates the
slightest propriety in the strict sense of the word- -ownership:
neither seat nor bed nor table out of which the body might
Close to smiling
108
constitute itself as the subject (or master) of a space: the
center is rejected (painful frustration for Western man,
everywhere "furnished” with his armchair, his bed, proprietor
of a domestic location). Uncentered, space is also reversible:
you can turn the Shikidai gallery upside down and nothing
would happen, except an inconsequential inversion of top
and bottom, of right and left: the content is irretrievably
dismissed: whether we pass by, cross it, or sit down on the
floor (or the ceiling, if you reverse the image), there is noth¬
ing to grasp.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1142804/
For the ones who are interested there are also the books on which the movie was based: Journey into the Whirlwind and Within the Whirlwind by Evgenia Ginzburg.
During the movie Emily Watson, who is the title character, often recites a poem who, in my opinion, is wonderful but I am not able to understand of whom it is (I presume Pushkin) and the title of this poem.
Can somebody of you help me?
The poem begins in this way:
Somebody gave me this body
but what do I do with it.
It is a very remarkable body...(here I don't understand what she says)
I am alive and I breath
I am strong and tall.
Can somebody tell me
who to thanks for this all?
I am the gardener and the flower too
and in this prisoner of the world I am not alone.
I hope to have understood good the words of this poem. Thanks if somebody can help me!