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VOL. IX, NO. 3 (winter 2015)
ON MALLARMÉ
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Vol. IX, No. 3 — ON MALLARMÉ: PART 1 Curated by Guest Editor KARI HUKKILA 0 Robert Boncardo, Mallarmé in Alain Badiou’s Theory of the Subject 44 Alain Badiou, Est-­‐il exact que toute pensée émet un coup de dés? 64 Alain Badiou, Is it Exact that All Thought Emits a Throw of Dice? 87 Jean-­‐Claude Milner, Mallarmé Perchance 111 Liesl Yamaguchi, Mallarmé & the Tension of Timbre 140 Jean-­‐Nicolas Illouz, Mallarmé « proselibriste » 161 Jean-­‐François Puff, Musicalité du Coup de dés 175 Kuisma Korhonen, The Mystery of Pendentif: Mallarmé’s Book & the Poetics of Suspension 189 Mary Shaw, Claude Mouchard Writing “with” — Mallarmé, Near & Far 205 Claude Mouchard, Du Darfour à la Loire... 225 Claude Mouchard, From Darfur to the Loire... 248 List of Contributors Mallarmé image credits: Édouard Vuillard (1897) — front cover Pablo Picasso (1945) — iii Paul Gauguin (1891) — back cover Mallarmé in Alain Badiou’s Theory of the Subject Robert Boncardo INTRODUCTION As readers of his 1988 masterwork Being and Event know, Alain Badiou draws on the poet Mallarmé at a decisive point in his ma-­‐
ture philosophy: namely, the point at which he constructs his con-­‐
cept of the event.1 As a particular instance of his more general doc-­‐
trine of conditions, which demands that philosophy re-­‐work its in-­‐
ternal operations under the pressure of unprecedented productions in the domains of art, politics, science and love, Badiou reads Un Coup de dés as “the greatest theoretical text that exists on the con-­‐
ditions for thinking the event.”2 In a contemporaneous essay, he repeats this glowing evaluation of the poet’s operations, writing that we find in Mallarmé nothing less than a “thought-­‐poem of the event and its undecidability.”3 Coupled with his claim that Mallar-­‐
mé was engaged in a truth procedure that produced “the truth of post-­‐Hugolian poetry,”4 in terms of his post-­‐Being and Event work, the poet is — and unequivocally so — an heroic poet-­‐thinker of the 1
Alain Badiou, Being and Event (London: Continuum, 2005) 191–198. Alain Badiou, “Est-­‐il exact que toute pensée émet un coup de dés?,” Les confé-­‐
rences du Perroquet, no. 5 (janvier 1986) 10–11. 3
Alain Badiou, ‘Mallarmé’s Method’, in Conditions (London: Continuum, 2008) 298. Translation modified. 4
Alain Badiou, Being and Event, op. cit., 404. 2
event who Badiou does not hesitate to name his “master,”5 lauding him as an “absolutely patient figure”6 capable of the committed construction of a truth. In this essay, however, we shall provide a detailed reading of Mallarmé’s place in Badiou’s 1982 work, Theory of the Subject — a work in which the poet does not figure in such unambiguously pos-­‐
itive terms.7 Rather than an interpretative engagement with Mal-­‐
larmé that seeks to submit philosophy to the truth-­‐producing force of poetry, in Theory of the Subject, we witness a compelling drama of identification and distanciation, of fascination and repulsion, being played out between Badiou and Mallarmé. On the one hand, Badiou will take the poet to have performed in his own time a task analogous to that of the Maoist militant faithful to May ’68 — that of patiently preserving the political truth of the people in a period characterized by its denial. However, he will also construe Mallar-­‐
mé as a radical conservative and idealist, whose poetic operations repress the irruptive force of revolutionary change. As an ambiva-­‐
lent specular double for the Maoist philosopher, Mallarmé will not be a condition for his philosophy. Rather, Mallarmé will incarnate a dangerous yet ever-­‐present temptation for politically-­‐engaged in-­‐
tellectuals such as Badiou — that of fatally limiting their intellectu-­‐
al and political radicality, despite historical circumstances necessi-­‐
5
Alain Badiou, Logics of Worlds. Being and Event 2 (London: Continuum, 2008) 4. Translation modified. 6
Alain Badiou, ‘Rimbaud’s Method,’ in Conditions, op. cit., 87. Badiou’s emphasis. 7
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). For texts that have already addressed Badiou’s reading of Mallarmé in Theory of the Subject, see Oliver Feltham, Alain Badiou: Live Theory (London: Continuum, 2008) 44–47 and 129–133; Jean-­‐François Hamel, Camarade Mallarmé: Une politique de la lecture (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 2013) 152–160; Jean-­‐Jacques Lecercle, Badiou and Deleuze Read Literature, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011) 92–117; Pierre Macherey, “Le Mallarmé d’Alain Badiou,” in Alain Badiou: Penser le Multi-­‐
ple (Paris; Harmattan, 2002) 397–406; and Jacques Rancière, “Le poète chez le philosophe. Mallarmé et Badiou,” in Politique de la littérature (Paris: Galilée, 2007) 205–229. See also the brief remarks by Bruno Bosteels, Badiou and Politics (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011) 84. 1 tating a break with conservative figures of thought and practice. If Mallarmé is Badiou’s “master” in Theory of the Subject, then it is as a “master” who marks a point that the student must, imperatively, pass beyond. 1. THE POET, THE INTELLECTUAL & THE POLITICAL DIVI-­‐
SION OF THE PEOPLE Despite being Badiou’s first systematic philosophical treatise, Theo-­‐
ry of the Subject is above all a vital intervention into a specific polit-­‐
ical and intellectual conjuncture involving the fading political for-­‐
tunes of the Maoist movement, born of May ’68;8 the dilution or abandonment of the Marxist, structuralist and post-­‐structuralist thought of the late-­‐1960s and their replacement by a tepid liberal-­‐
ism;9 and finally the electoral victory of Mitterrand in 1981, which for Badiou represented the capturing of the revolutionary force of les années rouges by the mechanisms of the State.10 To this situa-­‐
8
For a compact statement on how Badiou perceives the political situation and his tasks, consider this passage: “Everyone in the strike and in the street for a precious, and in its own way, immortal commencement. But seven years later we are very few to hold up the subjective future and concentrated restricted action of all this…,” Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, 42. 9
In the ‘Preface,’ Badiou lists the intellectual mediocrities of the moment: “Those French intellectuals who have not stopped spitting on themselves, on ‘ideolo-­‐
gies’, on Marxism, on the Masters, on their most incontestable experience, and who have given credibility to the formless and the multiple, to spontaneity and scattered memory, to rights and enjoyments, to works and days, have a painful responsibility in all of this — that of irresponsibility,” ibid., xli. It is not difficult to read here a denunciation of the nouveaux philosophes, in particular Henri-­‐
Lévy and Glucksmann, Deleuzians, even Situationists. For the fortunes of Marx-­‐
ism in particular, see ibid., 197. See also “Renaissance de la philosophie, Entretien avec A. Badiou,” Le Perroquet, No. 6 (février 86). 10
Well before the actual electoral victory of Mitterrand — that is, in 1975 — Badiou denounces l’union de la gauche: “seven years [after May ’68] we are very few to hold up the subjective future and concentrated restricted action of all this, in the midst of the sepulchral atmosphere of the programme commun and the prayers of Mitterrand the undertaker,” Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 42. See also ibid., xxxviii. 2 tion, which is one of extreme fragility and fatigue for the revolu-­‐
tionary project, Badiou responds by developing a theory of the sub-­‐
ject — that is, a theory of the conceptual and organisational re-­‐
sources required to collectively effect radical political change. There is no equivocation in this work as to what direction this change must be in for Badiou: “The serious affair, the precise affair, is communism.”11 What role could Mallarmé play in such a project? We will begin by establishing the significant homology between the posi-­‐
tions occupied by the militant philosopher and the poet, before turning to a reading of the way Badiou articulates, on the basis of this homology, his decisive difference with Mallarmé. A) MALLARMÉ AND THE MASSES WHO MAKE HISTORY It is in the seminar session entitled “Deduction of the splitting”12 that we are given our first extended introduction to Mallarmé in Theory of the Subject. Badiou begins by reminding his audience of a distinction between two ways of thinking of “the masses” — a dis-­‐
tinction that he will argue Mallarmé himself was perfectly aware of: “Last time I proposed to you that we split the existence of the masses according to whether they present us with the being of his-­‐
tory or, as a vanishing term endowed with causal power, constitut-­‐
ed the making of history.”13 Badiou will thus offer up his own philo-­‐
sophical inflection of Maoist doctrine — le peuple, le peuple seul, est la force motrice, le créateur de l'histoire universelle… — and will have its pertinence confirmed by Mallarmé, who, as he will show, similarly split the figure of “the crowd” between its placid present existence and its revolutionary essence. 11
Ibid., 8. Badiou’s emphasis. Ibid., 65–73. 13
Ibid., 65. 12
3 At the strictly conceptual level, the first instance of “the masses” — those who are history — corresponds to what Badiou calls the splace, the synchronic stability of the status quo.14 Trans-­‐
lated into recognizably structuralist terms, the splace is equivalent to the system that individuates and structures each of its elements. As such, the difference between individual members of “the masses who are history” corresponds to what Badiou calls “weak difference, or the difference of position.”15 As he articulated it in the previous seminar session, multiplying synonyms for stasis: “The masses themselves, in their static being, their structural positioning, their statist placement, constitute the historical world … These splaced masses do not make history so much as they are history.”16 Badiou had then proceeded to affirm that despite being the figure of “the masses” that enjoyed the most entrenched existence, these splaced “masses” were in fact secondary to “the disappearing fury of the deviating masses, that is to say, the masses who, in the unpredictable storm of their confident revolt, stood up against the figure of the State that first served as their founding principle.”17 Invoking the vocabulary of Greek atomism, Badiou claims that all splaced masses are the result of “the deviating masses,” even if nothing of the force and violence — that is, of the “strong differ-­‐
ence” — that the latter manifested can be located within the “weak differences” of the former. Such is the paradox that Badiou is un-­‐
derscoring: the cause of the synchronic system that supports the splaced masses is of a nature so heterogeneous to its effect that it seems to erase itself and render itself unimaginable from the per-­‐
spective of the splaced masses. As a result of this almost absolute heterogeneity between the collective subject as it exists during a revolt and as it endures, plac-­‐
14
See Ibid., 10–11. Ibid., 55. 16
Ibid., 63. 17
Ibid. 15
4 idly, in the aftermath of “the mass movement,”18 those who partake in a revolt are disoriented and find, in their splaced existence, no co-­‐ordinates with which to orient themselves and so conceive of what they were while they deviated. The fact that the mass move-­‐
ment “appears without a trace on the vast stages of the historical splace”19 determines that “the masses who are history” will require the mediation of the Maoist militant in order to preserve and final-­‐
ly rediscover their revolutionary essence.20 As we will see, Badiou presents Mallarmé as playing a similar mediatory role. Indeed, at the beginning of “Deduction of the split-­‐
ting,” Badiou makes the striking claim that Mallarmé had “the strong awareness” that it was within the masses who make history that we find “the silent secret of any art worthy of its name”.21 Throughout this section, Badiou will systematically conflate the poet’s references to a “collective grandeur” 22 with, precisely, the 18
Ibid. Ibid. 20
See, for a very clear statement of the necessity of a Maoist political party, Alain Badiou, “Théorie de la contradiction,” in Les Années Rouges (Paris: Les Prairies Ordinaires, 2012) 17–18: “The essence of the proletarian position does not reside in the episodes of class struggle but in the historical project that undergirds them — a project whose indefatigable duration and successive stages of proletarian obstinacy constitute the form of its practical existence … Its clarification, its ex-­‐
position — at once reflections and directives — alone do justice to the move-­‐
ment, which revolt reveals, of the class-­‐being of phenomena. Only the Maoist enterprise develops integrally today what proletarians do and offer up to knowledge through the unconditional and permanent character of their revolt”. See also Alain Badiou, François Balmès, “De L’Idéologie,” in Les Années Rouges, op. cit., 167–168, 180. 21
Ibid., 65. 22
Cited in ibid. 66. The syntagm comes from Mallarmé’s Sacred Pleasure, of which Badiou cites the following passage: “The crowd which begins to surprise us so much as a virgin element, or ourselves, fulfills for sounds the function of guardian of mystery! Its own! It compares its rich muteness to the orchestra, wherein lies the collective greatness.” In Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, tr. by Barbara Johnson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007) 390. For a reading of Mallarmé’s term “the crowd” that is most closely aligned with Badiou’s “egalitarian universalism,” see Bertrand Marchal, La Religion de Mallarmé: poésie, mythologie et religion (Paris: José Corti, 1988) 189: “The Mallarméan crowd has 19
5 capacity of the masses to make history. Whether or not he is guilty of forcing the semantics of Mallarmé’s œuvre, Badiou’s confident proclamation reveals that both philosopher and poet purport to occupy a privileged vantage point from which they can discern a virtual power within “the masses” — a power that they themselves aim to actualize, whether this be via its artistic cultivation, or via the construction of an engaged political philosophy. Crucially, “the masses” themselves are more-­‐or-­‐less unconscious of, or alienated from, this power. It is for this reason that Badiou refers to it as their “silent secret,” while Mallarmé describes it as the “rich muteness”23 of the crowd. Despite this homology, Badiou does admit that there are cer-­‐
tain features of Mallarmé’s œuvre that might prevent a Maoist mili-­‐
tant from taking the poet seriously. And yet, despite the modish objects that clutter up his poems, all of which belong to a recog-­‐
nizably dated set of figures from fin-­‐de-­‐siècle Symbolism — “con-­‐
stellations, roses, credenzas, and tresses”24 — and despite the “van-­‐
ishing terms” that structure his poetry being not revolutions but rather “the setting sun” or “the death of the Genius,”25 Badiou in-­‐
sists that Mallarmé is a “prodigious dialectician.”26 In fact, he is the brilliant thinker of the “structural dialectic” such that “it will never be a waste of our time to follow [him] in the arcane secrets of [his] nothing to do with the Wagnerian Volk, even if in both cases the sacred experi-­‐
ence requires a collective fervour. The crowd is not the depository of a national soul that would have to be reawakened by returning it to its mythical memory; rather, by its very diversity, it is like a cross-­‐section of humanity, for whom it is less a matter of plunging back into the primitive stream of myth than back into the source of nature; less a question of seeking the origin of the nation and more the origin of man.” My translation. 23
Cited in Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., ibid. Badiou ventriloquizes this latter syntagm when writing of “the infinite and mute capacity of the mass-­‐
es,” ibid., 83. 24
Ibid., 65. Badiou will return to mock these again on ibid., 97. 25
Ibid., 65. 26
Ibid. 6 acidic dialectical alchemy.”27 In addition to playing a role analogous to that of a political leader, then, Mallarmé will provide Badiou and his seminar attendees with vital conceptual resources. To recapitulate: the supposition is that Mallarmé could easi-­‐
ly be mistaken for a backwards-­‐looking bourgeois recluse; yet Badiou forcefully maintains the following, perhaps surprising, posi-­‐
tion: Mallarmé wanted nothing less than to empower the City with a book and a theatre in which the infinite and mute capacity of the masses — which he names the crowd — would finally find what it takes to produce, by withdrawing from it, its complete emblem.28 In accordance with the logic of the “vanishing term,” the masses who make history withdraw from their artistic “emblem,” which thereby becomes a reminder of their past being qua “mass movement.” The individual artist, for his part, is “the empty media-­‐
tor”29 of a communal power that infinitely surpasses them. In ac-­‐
cordance with this reading, Badiou focuses on episodes in Mallar-­‐
mé’s writings where the poet stages “the crowd” at festivals that explicitly commemorate “the foundational riot”30 — la prise de la Bastille — and so celebrate their own revolutionary capacity, even if the spectators remain in a state of “self-­‐estranged amazement.”31 The gaze of the poet, with which Badiou here identifies, sees in the fireworks display on the 14th of July, for instance, a representation 27
Ibid., 55. Ibid., 66. 29
Ibid. Badiou is here quoting from Restricted Action, but appears indifferent to the fact that the passage in question speaks of the “Book” as that which “does not demand a reader” — a curious property, if its telos is indeed to be an emblem for the contemplation of “the crowd.” See Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, op. cit., 219. 30
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 66. 31
Ibid., 67. 28
7 of the collective’s power for revolution — a capacity that this col-­‐
lectivity itself can only obscurely sense from within their splaced existence:32 Mallarmé’s key image here is fireworks: commemorat-­‐
ing, on July 14, the foundational riot, they project onto the sky a splendour of which the crowd is only the noc-­‐
turnal ground: “[…] a multitude under the night sky does not constitute the spectacle, but in front of it, suddenly, there rises the multiple and illuminating spray, in mid-­‐air, which in a considerable emblem rep-­‐
resents its gold, its annual wealth and the harvest of its grains, and leads the explosions of the gaze to normal heights.”33 Given the self-­‐estrangement of “the crowd,” the mediation of the artist — or, by analogy, the party militant — is essential. It is the illuminating power of the poem that reveals the revolutionary capacity of the French people, surrounded as they are by the par-­‐
liamentary mediocrities of the Third Republic. Such is also the pre-­‐
supposition behind the following question that Badiou draws from Mallarmé’s description of Bastille day celebrations: “What do the seething and destructive masses of the Revolution and this peaceful 32
Note that Badiou, following Mallarmé, has already insisted on the lack of awareness that “the crowd” has of their capacity: “[Art] forms a splace, which henceforth can be contemplated by the crowd from which it issues, without knowing it, since art exists ‘theatrically, for the crowd that, unconsciously and obliviously, hears its own grandeur’ (‘Music and Letters,’ D 190, tr. modified),” ibid., 66. In Theory of the Subject, as well as in contemporaneous texts like Théorie de la contradiction and De L’Idéologie, it is, admittedly, less a question of “the crowd” being unconscious of their capacity but rather corrupted from within. For a sampling of discussions of the political division of the people, see Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 8–9, 35, Alain Badiou, “Théorie de la con-­‐
tradiction,” in Les Années Rouges, op. cit., 46, 52, 57, 67–68, and Alain Badiou, “De L’Idéologie,” in Les Années Rouges, op. cit., 132–135. 33
Ibid. 8 flock of official spectators have in common?”34 The answer is, of course, their now-­‐dormant capacity to be “the masses who make history” — a capacity that it is the task of the poem to preserve and, eventually, to awaken. Unsurprisingly, then, in light of their ho-­‐
mologous positions, Badiou understands Mallarmé’s artistic project as an activity that performs a role similar to that of the political party: to hold onto “the memory and the lesson”35 — and thus the promise — of an event like the French Revolution.36 This analogy is reinforced in Badiou’s reading of the prose text ‘Conflict.’37 In this late work, Mallarmé, having had his bucolic 34
Ibid., 67. Ibid., xli. 36
Or indeed the Paris Commune. For a discussion of the figure of fireworks in Mallarmé’s text, see Frederic Dalmasso, “Badiou’s Spectator-­‐Subject and Fire-­‐
works Politics,” Performance Research: a Journal of the Performing Arts, Vol. 18, No. 1 (2013). As Dalmasso points out, “Mallarmé’s depiction of the crowd watch-­‐
ing fireworks as the substratum of mass uprising is particularly evocative in the context of the celebrations of the French Fête Nationale following the 1871 event. As pointed out by Colette Wilson, ‘the 1878 Exposition universelle and the Fête du 30 juin (Festival of 30 June) were both used to consolidate the early Third Repub-­‐
lic’s effacement of Communard Paris’. However, the firework celebration seems to conjure up the memories it is seeking to erase in a spectacle affirming the grandeur of the State: for Parisians gathered around the Arc de Triomphe, the celebratory conflagrations directly echo the bombardment of Paris and the fires of May 1871 … In this context, the firework celebration displays the political po-­‐
tential of the collective,” 77–78. For the surprisingly few remarks Badiou makes about Mallarmé and the Commune, see Peut-­‐on penser la politique? (Paris: Edi-­‐
tions du Seuil, 1985) 13, where he very briefly establishes a link between the poet’s political thought and the event of the Commune, and “Est-­‐il exact que tout pensée émet un coup de dés?,” op. cit., where the friendship between Mallarmé and Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam, who was an avid witness to, and supporter of, the Commune, seems to excuse Mallarmé from the indifference he effectively dis-­‐
played with respect to the events. See also Conditions, op. cit., 151. For a contem-­‐
poraneous discussion of Mallarmé and the Commune, see Julia Kristeva, La révo-­‐
lution du langage poétique: L’avant-­‐garde à la fin du XIXème siècle: Mallarmé et Lautréamont (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1974) 405–408. 37
See Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject op. cit., 98–100. See also the short read-­‐
ing Badiou proposes of this work in “Est-­‐il exact que tout pensée émet un coup de dés?” op. cit. In this later reading, the “dimension of the sacred in [the] exist-­‐
ence” of the workers is again aligned with their emancipatory political capacity, but this time this latter capacity is understood ontologically, in the terms of Be-­‐
35
9 reverie at his rental property in Valvins interrupted by a group of railroad workers, is overcome by ambivalent feelings that waver between a sense of guilt arising from an imagined complicity with the social order that exploits the workers, and a sense of solidarity with those he names, however ironically, his “comrades.” 38 This confrontation between poet and worker cannot fail to resonate with the experiences of Badiou and his Maoist comrades in the af-­‐
termath of May ’68: while the poet obviously did not go so far as to become an établi, he was forced to reflect on the relation his poetic practice had to the division of labour in a capitalist society. More importantly, the precise task that Mallarmé and Badiou set them-­‐
selves in the wake of their encounter qua intellectuals with “the other class” 39 betrays the analogy between their positions: both must produce “the orders” and “the plan” 40 that will effectively emancipate “the workers.” Mallarmé, for instance, interprets the drunken debauchery of the workers as a provisional expression of their “collective grandeur,” which will therefore have to be sublated in order to achieve its properly poetic expression. Revisiting this episode with his own concepts in hand, Badiou writes: ing and Event, as that which is un-­‐presented in, or as void with respect to, the situation of the workers. Badiou therefore gives us a clear ontological account of what the typically Romantic prophetic viewpoint of Mallarmé actually discerns, and which the poet enjoins us to name: “Mallarmé, you see, shows that what is at stake is, precisely, that that to which the thinking of the intervention is exposed in the invisibility of the workers can be said.” Ibid. 38
Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, op. cit. 42. 39
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 98. 40
Cited, ibid., xlii. The provenance of this citation is, in fact, the passage from Julien Gracq’s Lettrines from which Badiou liberally quotes in the ‘Preface.’ There, Badiou takes the hapless Communard commander to be a model of “the French intellectual[,] lost and useless.” What “the unfortunate delegate of the Commune” was guilty of, in Badiou’s reading, was being overtaken by events and failing to produce “the orders” and “the plan.” If Badiou identifies, albeit nega-­‐
tively, with this figure, then it is in part because he considers his duty to consist in being “a realist leader.” 10 In the alcohol-­‐sleepiness, this “momentary suicide,” [Mallarmé] deciphers first “the dimension of the sacred in their existence,” the provisory substitute of an inter-­‐
ruption for the workers in which we should recognize, for lack of its higher form which would be the revolt, a derivative form of this access to the concept that is the annulment.41 Like the spectators of the Bastille Day fireworks, these workers manifest a “self-­‐estranged amazement,” 42 unaware that their drunkenness reveals a desire to rupture definitively with the cycle of work and rest. As Mallarmé writes: Some instinct seeks [the dimension of the sacred in their existence] in a large number, soon to be thrown away, of little glasses; the workers are, with the abso-­‐
luteness of a ritual gesture, less its officiants than its victims, if one takes into consideration the evening stupor of the tasks and if the ritual observance comes more from fate than will.43 Without the privileged perspective and intervention of the poet or militant philosopher, however, the workers have only their “instinct[s]” — “instinct[s]” that, while revealing their desire to break with the splace to which they are submitted, are nevertheless diverted from their proper course and directed towards practices that pose no threat to the established order. Similarly, the problem for Badiou in Theory of the Subject is that “the potential forces, at the heart of the people, are kept at a distance from their proper concept,”44 meaning that the militant philosopher and his com-­‐
rades must set themselves the task of actualizing them. 41
Ibid., 99. Ibid., 67. 43
Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, op. cit., 46. 44
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., xli. 42
11 B) “…TWO WAYS OPEN TO OUR MENTAL RESEARCH, WHERE OUR NEED BIFURCATES…” Yet Badiou also draws on the poet’s œuvre in order to mark a line of division between appropriate and inappropriate forms of praxis in such a politically contemptible situation. Indeed, in responding to the political crisis of the Third Republic, Mallarmé expressly op-­‐
posed violent political praxis as a means of emancipation. In fact, he elected to produce a poetic religion that would overcome the alienation of individual citizens and articulate a modus vivendi with a society that had neither God nor an absolute sovereign to provide it with a foundation.45 Badiou takes the following famous passage from “Music and Letters” as indicative of Mallarmé’s views: If, in the future, in France, religion comes back, it will be the amplification of the sky-­‐instinct in each of us, rather than a reduction of our instincts to the level of politics. To vote, even for oneself, does not satisfy, as the expansion of a hymn with trumpets sounding the joy of choosing no name; nor can a riot be sufficiently tumultuous to make a character into the steaming, confounding, struggling-­‐again-­‐into-­‐life hero.46 Despite the fact that Mallarmé here opposes, in the name of a poetic “religion,” both electoralism and violent political praxis, Badiou retains from this passage an element that he claims “makes Mallarmé into an intellectual revolutionary”:47 namely, the impera-­‐
tive of having to “[annul] self-­‐nomination in the crowd’s … force.”48 In other words, Mallarmé articulated the necessity of dissolving the 45
For a compact statement of this thesis, see Bertrand Marchal, La Religion de Mallarmé, op. cit., 389–391. 46
Cited, Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject op. cit., 67. 47
Ibid. 48
Ibid. 12 individual ego in the heroic force of the collectivity.49 Given the collective aspect of the “religion” Mallarmé proposes, Badiou is right to say that Mallarmé expresses “a slight conceptual prefer-­‐
ence” for “the riot”:50 for indeed, relative to “the riot,” the rein-­‐
statement of a deprived individualism in the act of voting, particu-­‐
larly within the corrupt parliamentary mechanisms of the Third Republic, is “the perfect denial” 51 of the collective heroism that people are capable of. Badiou can thus count on Mallarmé to rein-­‐
force his rejection of electoralism in a political context dominated by l’union de la gauche, which he argues has stifled the flame of May ’68.52 However, Badiou will not follow Mallarmé in deeming a novel religion, no matter how divested of theological vestiges it might be, as the solution to the mediocre politics to which “the crowd” is presently submitted. Rather, Badiou states that “[t]here is no approximation, in our own time, of what Mallarmé dreams of, except the colossal crowds dressed in red on Tiananmen Square at the peak of the Cultural Revolution.”53 Thus, while Mallarmé had questioned whether “the riot” was an adequate expression of “the sky-­‐instinct in each of us” — a task that only his poetic religion of the Book could perform — Badiou rebukes him and proclaims that “the riot … is indeed the exact form of the crowd as vanishing term, which is ‘sufficiently tumultuous’ to cause the spectacular restruc-­‐
turing of time itself.”54 Mallarmé’s project to “empower the City with a book and a theatre in which the infinite and mute capacity 49
See also ibid., 41. Ibid., 67. 51
Ibid. 52
See also the following passage in Theory of the Subject: “Never expecting any-­‐
thing from the State, I hardly expect that the recent libations in honour of the rose (I’m writing this in July 1981) will make our largely disaffected national prov-­‐
ince flourish,” ibid., xxxviii. 53
Ibid., 67. 54
Ibid. 50
13 of the masses”55 would be represented can thus only be provisional and finally insufficient substitute for the true expression of “the collective grandeur.” We can delve further into this play of identification and dis-­‐
tanciation between Badiou and Mallarmé by considering the phi-­‐
losopher’s reflections on the poet’s well-­‐known declaration that “there are only two ways open to mental research, where our need bifurcates — aesthetics, on the one hand, and political economy, on the other,”56 a declaration that Badiou takes to pit art against politics on the basis of their shared property: that of being fictions. As Badiou is aware, the reason Mallarmé places “aesthetics” and “political economy” side-­‐by-­‐side is that, as the poet puts it in Safe-­‐
guard, “the social relation at any particular time, condensed or ex-­‐
panded to allow for government, is a fiction [and] belongs in the domain of Letters.”57 In other words, the social bond is not a sub-­‐
stance that would bind together a self-­‐identical community — how could it be for a poet who posits the “strong difference” of the Revo-­‐
lution as the vanished cause of French society? Rather, it is the pre-­‐
carious product of a fiction. For this reason, the artifice of literature becomes, for Mallarmé, the sole model for understanding the func-­‐
tioning of collective life. In literature — and even more obviously in 55
Ibid., 66. Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, op. cit., 264. Cited in Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject op. cit., 85. 57
Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, op. cit., 290, Cited in Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject op. cit., 85. My emphasis. See also the citation of this same passage in Peut-­‐on penser la politique?, where Badiou deploys it in order to give credence to his thesis that “all [social] ensembles are inconsistent, that there are neither French nor proletarians…,” Alain Badiou, Peut-­‐on penser la politique ?, op. cit., 13. My translation. While in Theory of the Subject Badiou accepts the objective exist-­‐
ence of classes, in Peut-­‐on penser la politique?, by contrast, he draws on Mallarmé — and specifically on his thesis of the insubstantiality of all social bonds — to advance the exact opposite thesis, which, before him, Mallarmé — who he claims is “one of our greatest political thinkers, the equal, for instance, of Rousseau” — had advanced. See ibid. My translation. And for a compact statement of his un-­‐
derstanding of class in Theory of the Subject, see Alain Badiou Theory of the Sub-­‐
ject op. cit., 26. 56
14 the theatre — a willing suspension of disbelief is required in order to get the fictional machine up and running. As Badiou puts it, again reinscribing a Maoist directive — namely, to faire confiance aux masses — “[i]n politics only one link is required: confidence, which must be granted, as in the theatre, in order for the fiction to work.”58 However, it is on the question of how to proceed once the insubstantiality of the social bond has been recognized that Badiou and Mallarmé part company. For his part, Mallarmé attempted to articulate a modus vivendi with the essential fragility of the social bond, his poetic religion taking the very artifice of this bond as a reflection of the human animal’s fundamentally fictional mode of being.59 Badiou, by contrast, seeks to overthrow the present order and produce the truly new on the basis of the insubstantiality of what is. The distinction between Mallarmé and Badiou on this point — that is, between a thought that grasps the insubstantiality of the social bond but goes no further than articulating a modus vivendi with it, and a thought that posits the necessity of using this insubstantiality as a spur to a transformative praxis — is, in fact, the very distinction between the “structural dialectic” and the “his-­‐
torical dialectic” that Badiou will go on to detail in the remainder of Theory of the Subject.60 Mallarmé will thus stand as an exemplary 58
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject op. cit., 86. Translation modified. See Bertrand Marchal, La Religion de Mallarmé, op. cit., 391: “To restructure the city symbolically is precisely to replace a religion that, at its centre, has been left empty through the ruin — at once intellectual and social, if not also religious — of the Church, with a religion that aims less to repress than to reveal, by a sort of ideal transparency, the irreducible negativity on which it is founded. In short, it is to rediscover, through a social fiction capable of exhibiting itself as such, a positivity in nothingness, and so re-­‐establish, at the heart of the city as at the level of the principles of poetry, evidence of a ‘hollow musical core.’” My transla-­‐
tion. 60
This is the way that Bruno Bosteels, in a seminal paper on Badiou’s Theory of the Subject, articulates the general tendency of Badiou’s thought: “the structural dialectic would remain profoundly idealist — its operation delivering at most a radical, arch-­‐aesthetic or arch-­‐political act that either renders visible the unbear-­‐
59
15 representative of the limits of the “structural dialectic,” which lo-­‐
cates the symptomatic where society in its apparent plenitude is undone but cannot progress beyond this recognition to an affirma-­‐
tive praxis of creative change. As such, Mallarmé risks being a con-­‐
servative figure, however radical his recognition of “strong differ-­‐
ence” may be. But if Mallarmé ultimately chose the wrong course of action in his response to the political situation of his time, there remain sufficient commonalities between the poet and the Maoist philoso-­‐
pher to make Badiou’s recourse to the former worthwhile. To clari-­‐
fy this point one final time, let us now compare two passages: one that details how Badiou conceives of the poet’s praxis; and another that treats the appropriate actions of a Maoist militant. Drawing his initial set of remarks on the poet to a close, Badiou proclaims: What is especially marvellous is that in these colonial and provisorily docile times, Mallarmé should have been able to detect, if only so as to assign its task to art, that everything that has splendour, everything that subsists and continues, results from the crowd’s lack and bears witness to the fact that, by disappearing, the rioting masses have founded even the world that for-­‐
bids them to exist.61 Art may therefore be a poor substitute for revolution, but it does preserve its promise, the artist pinpointing within the present the able anxiety of the real itself, or ultimately calls upon the annihilation of the entire symbolic order in a mimicry of the revolutionary break … Badiou’s thought, by contrast, seeks to be both dialectical and materialist in understand-­‐
ing the production of a new truth as the torsion, or forcing, of the entire situa-­‐
tion from the precise point of a generic truth, as if the latter had already been added successfully onto the resources of knowledge available in this situation itself,” see Bruno Bosteels, “Alain Badiou’s Theory of the Subject: The Recom-­‐
mencement of Dialectical Materialism? (Part II),” Pli, Vol. 13 (2002) 205. 61
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 68. 16 traces of the vanished event. As for the Maoist militant, the artist’s task seems to substantially match one that they themselves must perform: It is one of Mao’s strengths to have insisted that the revolutionary Marxist is the lookout [guetteur] for the vanishing term, emblem of the new within the old. He or she is the active guardian of the future of the cause.62 Both Badiou and Mallarmé, then, are guetteurs. The artist remains, however, either memorialist or prophet, whereas the militant en-­‐
gages in a creative political praxis that takes its orientation — as well as one of its forms — from “the foundational riot.” The figure of Mallarmé thus allows Badiou to reinforce his own position and mark the appropriate lines of division between appropriate and inappropriate forms of praxis on the part of l’intellectuel. C) THE STRUCTURAL DIALECTIC This line of division runs, at the properly conceptual level, between “the structural dialectic” and “the historical dialectic.” As an intel-­‐
lectual occupying a liminal position between the positive and nega-­‐
tive poles of the forms of praxis in which such a figure can engage, Badiou presents Mallarmé as a radical thinker of the “structural dialectic” who took this form of thought to the limit-­‐point at which it topples over into the “historical dialectic.” In the preceding dis-­‐
cussion, we saw that Mallarmé posited “strong difference” at the basis of the illusory stability of the status quo. However, he aimed to shore up this latent instability by producing a poetic religion that positivized the nothingness of the social bond. For Badiou, on the other hand, the point is precisely to exacerbate this latent in-­‐
62
Ibid., 71. 17 stability in order to effect revolutionary change. Indeed, Badiou will argue that Mallarmé demonstrated but also disavowed, in the very movement of his poetry itself, the primacy of the Maoist “historical dialectic” — a “dialectic” that aims to think, precisely, revolutionary ruptures. As a prelude to this demonstration, Badiou unfolds what he takes Mallarmé’s poetic programme to be: Mallarmé thus sets out his programme: “To evoke, with intentional vagueness, the mute object, using allusive words, never direct” … The object, reduced to silence, does not enter the poem, even though its evocation grounds the poetic consistency. It is the absent cause. But the effect of its lack lies in affecting each written term, forced to be “allusive,” “never direct,” in such a way as to become equal on the Whole to the silence by which the object was only initially affected.63 For Badiou, what makes a poem by Mallarmé into a synthetic Whole is the fact that all of its elements work together to evoke an absent object. Like the splace that delegates the place of its ele-­‐
ments, this object is the “absent cause”64 of the poem. Since each element of a splace can be said to be both itself and its capacity for linkage with other elements from the same splace, the words of the poem are “split,”65 being at once themselves and the part they play in evoking the absent object. Finally, Mallarmé adds a dialectical twist to this program: if it is silence that is ultimately to be evoked — the silence of the ab-­‐
sent object — then “we must also efface the instrument of the ef-­‐
facement,”66 namely, the words themselves. It is this last twist that Badiou names “the lack of lack,” a second-­‐order lack that he will 63
Ibid., 72. Translation modified. Ibid. 65
Ibid. 66
Ibid. 64
18 attempt to show occurs systematically in Mallarmé’s poetry and which he will name “annulment.”67 Mallarmé thus adds an innova-­‐
tive move to the “structural dialectic”: as Badiou had indeed prom-­‐
ised his materialist audience, “it will never be a waste of our time to follow [this hero] of nonbeing into the arcane secrets of [his] acidic dialectical alchemy”. However, as we will see, it will also be the task of the materialist reader to detect the ruses of this irredeemably idealist poet, whose “never-­‐abandoned respect for the real” is matched only by “[his] disavowal”68 of its force. 2. THE POETRY OF THE STRUCTURAL DIALECTIC Having established the structural proximity between Badiou and Mallarmé, both of whom believe that, in their respective times, “the potential forces at the heart of the people, are kept at a distance from their proper concept,”69 and both of whom set out to actualize these forces, we can turn to the way Badiou effectively reads Mal-­‐
larmé as a poet of the “structural dialectic”. It is the proximity of their positions and tasks that allows Badiou to articulate with pre-­‐
cision his decisive difference with respect not only to Mallarmé, but also to all those petit-­‐bourgeois intellectuals who perpetually risk becoming “hermetic recluse[s]” 70 and traitors to the Communist cause, their inherent conservatism leading them to believe, like Mallarmé, that “there is no temporal advent of the new.”71 As he has already done with Hegel during the first year of his seminars, Badiou will now discern “ruptures and inconsistencies that consti-­‐
tute … a veritable symptomatology of the struggle of tendencies”72 between structural and historical forms of thought in Mallarmé’s 67
Ibid., 82. Ibid., 55. 69
Ibid., xli. 70
Ibid., 65. 71
Ibid., 108. 72
Alain Badiou, “Théorie de la contradiction,” Les Années Rouges, op. cit., 42. 68
19 poetry. We will begin by following his reading of the sonnet A la nue accablante tu, before turning to his engagement with Ses purs ongles, the quintessential Mallarmé poem. A) A LA NUE ACCABLANTE TU Badiou begins his reading of the sonnet A la nue accablante tu73 by making the following provocative remark: “Mallarmé’s poetic ma-­‐
chine, though opaque when looked at from the outside, neverthe-­‐
less possesses only a single meaning.”74 For this reason, Badiou ob-­‐
jects to those who, superficially celebrating the apparent polysemy of Mallarmé’s poem, are in fact doing nothing more than renounc-­‐
ing the hard labour required to discern its logic.75 Whatever the value of this claim, the key point that the philosopher-­‐turned-­‐anti-­‐
hermeneut is making is that the univocal meaning of the poem de-­‐
pends upon the operation within it of the “structural dialectic.” After offering a pedagogically-­‐apt presentation of the syntac-­‐
tical development of the poem, Badiou turns firstly to translating 73
“A la nue accablante tu/ Basse de basalte et de laves/ A même les échos esclaves/ Par une trompe sans vertu// Quel sépulcral naufrage (tu/ Le sais, écu-­‐
me, mais y baves)/ Suprême une entre les épaves/ Abolit le mât dévêtu// Ou cela que furibond faute/ De quelque perdition haute/ Tout l’abîme vain éployé// Dans le si blanc cheveu qui traîne/ Avarement aura noyé/ Le flanc enfant d’une sirène.” “Stilled beneath the oppressive cloud/ that basalt and lava base/ likewise the echoes that have bowed/ before a trumpet lacking grace// O what sepulchral wreck (the spray/ knows, but it simply drivels there)/ ultimate jetsam cast away/ abolishes the mast stripped bare// or else concealed that, furious/ failing some great catastrophe/ all the vain chasm gaping wide// in the so white and trailing tress/ would have drowned avariciously/ a siren’s childlike side”, cited in Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 75. 74
Ibid., 74. My emphasis. 75
“We must put an end to the laziness that has so many readers bypass the ob-­‐
stacle in order to claim that the enigma’s virtue consists in allowing a hundred underlying answers. This absolute dialectician does not present any ‘polysemy’. One should not take for an erratic chaos whatever is given multiple echoes, based on the firm and consecutive encipherment of the One-­‐of-­‐meaning, by those remarkable stampings with which the poem illuminates and extinguishes itself,” ibid., 74–75. 20 its central figures into the concepts of the “structural dialectic.”76 Thus, “l’abîme,” in which sea and sky are indistinguishable, is inter-­‐
preted as a “figural representative” or a [m]etaphor of the splace,”77 no doubt because of the homogeneity that sea and sky, blended into “the low-­‐ceilinged oppressiveness of the nothing,”78 share with the unicity of the splace, which is also a figure of the One. To this first metaphorical link Badiou adds a second link, this time be-­‐
tween the sea-­‐sky abyss and “the white page” upon which the poet writes. This second metaphor is perhaps the more successful of the two, since the gestalt suggested by the sea-­‐sky abyss does indeed evoke a blank page. The “sea and sky” qua splace, however, is a less successful suggestion, since the splace necessarily entails a struc-­‐
ture, of which the abyss and the white page have, precisely, none. In addition to this sea-­‐sky abyss, the poem presents “a trace, the foam, [which] holds the principle of a meaning,”79 Upon the blank page, then, the poet has placed a thin thread of ink; and in the crushing homogeneity of the splace, the mark of something heterogeneous has appeared. Badiou suggests that what we witness here is Mallarmé staging the “strong difference” 80 between “the mark,” a distinctive trait, and “the void,” which names the neces-­‐
sary spacing between distinct marks and which is “the condition a priori”81 of distinctivity and thus of the “weak differences” that in-­‐
here between individual marks. As opposed, then, to being a mere structuralist for whom the “penchant consists in seeking to com-­‐
bine elements that are identical,” or to reduce everything to “weak difference”82 in a gesture of philosophical conservatism, Mallarmé is far more radial since he posits from the outset “an absolutely 76
See, for Badiou’s parsing of the single-­‐sentence sonnet, ibid., 75–76. Ibid., 76. 78
Ibid. 79
Ibid., 77. 80
Ibid., 87. 81
Ibid., 68. 82
Ibid., 55. 77
21 qualitative difference” between a distinctive trace — “l’écume” — and the non-­‐intuitive process of spacing — “l’abîme,” the void — that is the a priori condition of “weak difference.”83 Badiou then claims that the poem is about the interrogation of the meaning of this mark, this minimal difference: “On the Mal-­‐
larméan sea, split off from nature, reduced to its anonymity, a trace, the foam, holds the principle of a meaning (‘tu le sais, écume: ‘you know this, foam’) which it does not give up (‘mais y baves’: ‘but slobber on’).”84 There are two hypotheses as to the cause — the meaning — of the foam: it is either the trace of a sunken ship or of a siren’s dive. 85 The foam itself marks the evental irruption of “strong difference” that breaks with the homogeneity of the splace — an event of which it is the single, fragile trace. Badiou in fact relates the fragility, as well as the obvious absence of the event it-­‐
self, to Mallarmé’s conservatism, as if the poet were here purpose-­‐
fully presenting a metaphysics according to which an evental rup-­‐
ture with the stasis of the splace would be so fragile in its being that it would immediately disappear, the synchronic stability of the splace reasserting itself: “The place is so avaricious as to take back immediately whatever it gives out, the thin scar of the cause.”86 Next, Badiou remarks that “[t]hese two hypotheses are in turn organized according to two metonymic chains”:87 that is, the shipwreck and the siren are evoked by reference to their parts, ra-­‐
ther than to themselves qua wholes. Specifically, the “ship is made 83
See, for Badiou’s more properly conceptual discussion of this point, ibid., 68–
69. 84
Ibid., 77. 85
While in both Theory of the Subject and Conditions Badiou registers the fact that there is an ambiguity as to whether the siren is drowned or rather simply dives beneath the surface, he makes nothing of this distinction, which is never-­‐
theless central to the readings of Rancière, Marchal and Benichou. See Jacques Rancière, Mallarmé. La Politique de la sirène, op. cit., 24; Bertrand Marchal, Lec-­‐
ture de Mallarmé : Poésies, Igitur, Le coup de dés (Paris: José Corti, 1985) 253; Paul Bénichou, Selon Mallarmé (Paris: Gallimard, 1995). 86
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 79. 87
Ibid., 78. 22 up of a distress signal (the horn), then of a mast stripped of its sail; the siren, of its young flank, and then of its trailing hair.”88 In terms of the “structural dialectic” these metonymies correspond to “the chain effect”89 since they are the individuated elements of a system that totalizes them — the system here being either the ship or the siren qua “absent causes”. The poetic logic behind evoking these objects in such a manner is that, insofar as they are lacking, Mal-­‐
larmé has reinforced their lack by referring only to their most frag-­‐
ile, insubstantial attributes, rather than to the ship or siren in their plenitude.90 Having demonstrated this link between semantics and me-­‐
tonymy, Badiou announces that “we find ourselves back with all [the] categories” of the “structural dialectic” that are operative in the poem: The strong difference (foam/blank), which opens up the problem of the thing; the network of weak differ-­‐
ences, organized in metonymies (ship, mast, horn; si-­‐
ren, hair); the transition from one to the other by way of causality of lack, supported by the vanishing terms: the ship’s wreck and the siren’s drowning, of which what is — the foam — is the mark out-­‐of-­‐place on the splace’s desolation.91 To this compact set of propositions Badiou adds the claim that the two “vanishing terms,” the shipwreck and the siren, are semantical-­‐
ly and conceptually consistent with “l’abîme” qua void and hence with the “strong difference” that is in play in an event: the ship-­‐
wreck, for instance, is of essence engulfed by “l’abîme,” and the si-­‐
ren is a marine creature who inhabits the void as its element. A 88
Ibid. Ibid., 55. 90
Ibid., 78. 91
Ibid., 78–79. 89
23 conceptual necessity is thus being actively inscribed in the various figures chosen by the poet.92 Finally, Badiou turns to the stage of the “structural dialectic” at which the “deduction of the splitting” occurs.93 In the case of A la nue accablante tu, this “splitting” is evinced by “l’écume,” which is at once a part of the sea-­‐sky abyss qua splace — and thus “captured in the network of mundane differences”94 — and a trace of the van-­‐
ished event, its “absent cause.” Surprisingly, Badiou does not locate this “splitting” in the metonymies of the shipwreck and the siren, even though this would follow the logic of the “structural dialectic.” In fact, Badiou is equivocating on the meaning of the concept of the “absent cause”: by referring to “l’écume” as “split,” he is working with the interpretation of the “absent cause” qua event, whereas to refer to the parts of the ship or siren as “split” would suppose that the “absent cause” implied its properly structuralist meaning. In any case, on his reading “[l’écume] indicates the negative power and the underlying effect of abolition”95 and is thus the precise po-­‐
etic equivalent of “the trace left behind in the social world by the great mass movements” that the Maoist guetteur is meant to pre-­‐
serve as well as deploy in order to orient their political praxis. Badiou thus concludes that the poem is “the emblem of the structural dialectic,” 96 its internal logic integrally geared toward 92
Badiou will go no further, however, in his investigation of the semantics of these terms, as other commentators do. For example, the semantic distinction between the shipwreck and the siren is central to Rancière’s reading, itself in-­‐
spired by Davies and Marchal. For Rancière, this semantic distinction is so signif-­‐
icant it allows him to see in the veritable paradox of une sirène noyée the princi-­‐
ple of the poet’s aesthetic and to determine that Mallarmé finally decides, pace Badiou, what the “vanishing term” in fact is. See Jacques Rancière, Mallarmé. La Politique de la sirène, op. cit., 23–25; Jacques Rancière, Politique de la littérature, op. cit., 210. For Badiou’s claim that the provenance of the foam is undecidable, see Alain Badiou, Conditions, op. cit., 112–113. 93
See, for his properly conceptual demonstration of this point, ibid., 70–72. 94
Ibid., 79. 95
Ibid. 96
Ibid., 80. 24 staging its operations. However, the poem does appear to break at a decisive moment with this logic: Why two vanishing terms (ship and siren)? Why this second cleavage which, cut in two by the enigmatic coup de force of “or,” ou cela que, arranges two meto-­‐
nymical chains? 97 If “the structural dialectic” qua the logic of “structural causality” requires only one “absent cause” to function — if, that is, the struc-­‐
turation of a set of distinctive marks is integrally determined by their belonging to a single system qua their “absent cause”; or if the masses who are history are the effect of the vanished masses who make history — why does Mallarmé nevertheless stage two? In posing this question, Badiou seems to be submitting his reading to the actual logic in play within the poem, thereby treating it as an autonomous artefact that could potentially take him in a different direction than his pedagogical — not to mention political — procedure requires. However, this apparent passivity on the part of the philosopher obscures the fact that Badiou will go on, now and in the following seminar session, to postulate a predictable isomorphism between the two consecutive vanishing terms of the poem — the shipwreck and the siren — and the two stages in the passage to Communism that French Maoism posits. As Badiou states, “[y]ou see, in Maoism, we must also produce the destruction of the bourgeoisie twice.”98 Drawing for the first time on the fact that the poem clearly gives vastly different semantic values to the two vanishing terms, Badiou asks: “One or two vanishing terms? Is the ‘revolution’ that Lenin opposes to the State the same as that of the Cultural Revolution?”99 Thus, an easily recognizable two-­‐part movement is in play here that Badiou renders isomorphic to the 97
Ibid. Ibid., My emphasis. 99
Ibid., 98
25 two vanishing terms in the poem — a two-­‐part movement that, schematically, is nothing other than the passage from the “dictator-­‐
ship of the proletariat” to Communism as such.100 The current “Marxist politics” that will carry this out — af-­‐
ter, that is, the catastrophic destiny of “the socialist State and the party at its helm,” which Badiou believes to be nothing less than a “a rat’s nest of bourgeois bureaucrats”101 — is, of course, Maoism. In terms of the “structural dialectic” at work in the poem, the transi-­‐
tion to a Maoist politics thus corresponds to “annulment” of the state-­‐based figures of Marxism. Thus, while Badiou does permit the poem to unfold itself au-­‐
tonomously, allowing it go beyond the mere figuration of the “ab-­‐
sent cause,” he quite brutally stamps the intra-­‐poetic progression from shipwreck to siren with the mark of the Maoist doctrine ac-­‐
cording to which a second revolutionary rupture is required in or-­‐
der to break with the inertia of the socialist State. This criticism aside, Badiou skilfully discerns the fact that the poem seems to apply to itself the logic of the “absent cause” that it first stages, metaphorically, with the shipwreck. In other words, it will make the first vanishing term vanish: “The poem ex-­‐
hibits the causality of lack in its effect, but also in its law.”102 From this point, Badiou is able to make another leap to an analogy with 100
Ibid., 82. Ibid. 102
Ibid., 99. In his discussion of modeling in Badiou’s work, Oliver Feltham points to this self-­‐reflexive moment as proof that Badiou does not simply repeat the imposing and appropriative moves of philosophers when faced with literary works: “Badiou thus attributes self-­‐reflexivity to the poem: what it says is a reflec-­‐
tion of what it actually does, which is to stage the vanishing of the concept of the structural dialectic under the surface of the sea,” Oliver Feltham, Alain Badiou: Live Theory, op. cit., 130. However, this presupposes that Badiou is in fact correct in his description of the relation between the two vanishing terms; and that the movement of the poem is indeed to be understood as being engineered by this self-­‐conscious application of the structural dialectic to itself. However, as Rancière shows, the relation between the two vanishing terms is far more com-­‐
plex. See Jacques Rancière, Mallarmé: La politique de la sirène, op. cit., 23–25. 101
26 Marxism: given the self-­‐reflexively performative nature of the text — that is, the fact that “[w]hat the poem says, it does”103 — it can be said to distantly resemble the performative nature of Marxist tracts, which aim to bring into existence the reality that they describe. Again mixing the lexicons of politics and aesthetics, Badiou states: “Mallarmé interprets the structural dialectic less as the theme for a metaphor than as a directive for the poem.”104 Drawing this seminar session to a close, Badiou persists with his provocative interweaving of the Mallarméan and Marxist texts, proffering a set of affirmations that follow the Maoist line but which, on this occasion, mark a decisive difference with the poet: From that which put an end to the old tyrannies, we must also know how to liberate ourselves. Those who, after that, persist in talking about socialism and its State as a stable entity certainly share with Mallarmé the hypothesis of a halting point. But they have failed to see its annulation.105 Here, the poet is clearly aligned with those who persist in believing that the contemporary incarnations of socialism, in particular the PCUS and its French outpost, the PCF, carry the revolutionary flame. There can be no progression beyond these institutions — no novel Maoist politics, for instance — since they effectively consti-­‐
tute “a halting point” for history. As Badiou will demonstrate in the following seminar session, Mallarmé too posits “a halting point” in his intra-­‐poetic dialectic. However, his very own operation of “an-­‐
nulment” contradicts that of the “halting point,” thereby producing a tension that is operative in the very form of his poetry itself and which, as we will see, is the mark of the conflict between his ideo-­‐
logical conservatism and the latent — though disavowed — radical-­‐
103
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 81. Ibid., 82. 105
Ibid., 83. 104
27 ity of his poetic procedures. Badiou will explore this conflict in depth in the following seminar session. B) “…THE INTERPOLATED DRAMA OF THE SUBJECT…” When Badiou returns to A la nue accablante tu, he begins by clari-­‐
fying what the operation of “annulment” consists in. As he states, “annulment” constitutes a rupture — a “leap”106 — in the internal economy of the poem: in other words, it breaks the metonymical chains” that had been constituted by the initial hypothesis of the sinking ship (the stripped and abolished mast, the ineffectual horn). By proposing a second hypothesis, the operation of “annul-­‐
ment” institutes a second and mutually exclusive totalization that is radically heterogeneous to the first: Here the annulment of the vanishing, the shift to a se-­‐
cond line of totalization, requires that instead of the metonymy of a supplementary effacement … there comes — “or else…” — the qualitative break in which the strong difference, dismissed before, takes its re-­‐
venge so that the repressed heterogeneity returns.107 In breaking with the first line of totalization, which had instituted a series of “weak differences” between the various parts of the ship-­‐
wreck, there necessarily occurs a brief return of “strong difference,” which Badiou quite strikingly describes as having been “dismissed” or “repressed beneath the homogeneity of the initial “absent cause.” Again, the correlate of this conceptual distinction is the figure of Mallarmé as a radical idealist, whose intellectual honesty led him to posit the existence of “strong difference,” even if he finally opted for the stability of structure and repressed the moment of “heterogene-­‐
106
107
Ibid., 87. Ibid., 87–88 28 ity.” Indeed, Badiou would have us believe that the very punctuality of this “caesura” is part of a conscious strategy on Mallarmé’s part: Oh, but Mallarmé would much rather not show this subject that the structural will of his dialectic stumbles up against! If only all this could be kept within the ho-­‐
mogeneity of the poetic operations!108 This last passage follows the statement that, according to Badiou, “Mao discerned the current agency of the communist political sub-­‐
ject, the stroke of force that separates it from its alleged prior line of existence”. Thus Mao would discern a political and philosophical necessity in such a “caesura,” whereas Mallarmé, while equally as-­‐
tute — and hence, from another perspective, equally supportive of Badiou’s position — “would much rather not show” the unavoida-­‐
ble return of “strong difference”. Instead, Mallarmé would prefer that the “drama [be] resolved in an instant, just the time of showing its defeat, which unfolds in a flash.”109 For this unrepentant idealist, the reluctant admission of the necessity of “strong difference” must be as swift, indeed as invisible, as possible. Reinforcing this posi-­‐
tion, Badiou states on another occasion that Mallarmé has con-­‐
tracted a “debt” for having “broken the pact of the metonymical chains,”110 which is to say that he has betrayed the logic of “the structural dialectic” by inserting a second “vanishing term” into the poem, thereby momentarily breaking with his supposed commit-­‐
ment to idealist thought. To cover over the “the emergence of force,”111 Mallarmé con-­‐
tains it within a few terms — “ou cela que,” “excepté que” — in or-­‐
108
Ibid., 88. Cited in ibid. For a striking example of the way Badiou dramatically shifts his reading of Mallarmé between Theory of the Subject and Being and Event, see his elision of certain key terms from this passage in Igitur in Being and Event, Alain Badiou, Being and Event, 191. 110
Ibid., 87. 111
Ibid., 89. 109
29 der to return as quickly as possible to “the monotonous and infinite effectivity of the grinding of being under the law of an absence.”112 As the above passages show, Badiou deals with Mallarmé as if he were at once a glorious ancestor and a respected opponent, an ide-­‐
alist who is nevertheless “an intellectual revolutionary”113 and whose work the materialist reader must closely scrutinize in order to find the points where his “harsh sincerity”114 and his fidelity to an “im-­‐
placable rigour”115 led him towards the edge of “the structural dia-­‐
lectic,” thereby offering us a glimpse of the Maoist “historical dia-­‐
lectic.” And indeed, as he had done in the previous seminar session, Badiou again posits a homology between the poem’s internal logic and Maoist dogma: “Mao has posited for the first time that there is no hope in engendering communism in a linear fashion from the socialist State.”116 On Badiou’s reading, the logic of such a break is already inscribed at the innovative point at which the Mallarméan poem steps beyond the “structural dialectic” in its deployment of the operation of “annulment.” There are, however, a number of difficulties with this ho-­‐
mology. The first, which has less to do with the homology itself than with Badiou’s very procedure, is that the Maoist directives repeated here are perfectly indifferent to the logic of the poem it-­‐
self. Indeed, they must be, since they belong to the unquestioned axioms that Theory of the Subject is built on and which constitute the very fabric of the consensus that joins Badiou and his Maoist comrades together. Within these constraints, Mallarmé’s poetry can either reproduce this doctrine or contradict it in a way that allows Badiou to reinforce it. 112
Ibid. Ibid., 67. 114
Ibid., 55. 115
Ibid., 89. 116
Ibid., 88. 113
30 Secondly, the homology itself is problematic, since A la nue accablante tu stages one possible event with two hypotheses as to its provenance, rather than two events spaced out temporally, as per the passage from the installation of the Socialist State to the Cultural Revolution. Thirdly, while Badiou recognizes that the two hypotheses are not symmetrical, this being the whole point of the conceptual distinction between “vanishing” and “annulment,” he does not suf-­‐
ficiently take into account the semantics of the two hypotheses. It is not for nothing, for example, that the first hypothesis refers us to a tragic human drama and the second to the mere splashings of an imaginary marine creature. Such a passage from metaphysical heights to playful pantomime sits uneasily with the forward march of Maoism. Badiou thus strategically strips back the semantics to retain only the structural operations of the poem. However, in the final stage of his reading of A la nue acca-­‐
blante tu, in which he will reveal the conflict between the operation of “annulment” and Mallarmé’s positing of a “halting point” in his poetry, Badiou does draw on the semantics of some of the poet’s key figures. C) “NO HALTING POINT” At the beginning of the third section of this seminar session, Badiou poses an almost violently incongruous question: “Why does the poem come to a close?”117 He continues: it would be logical for it to remain open-­‐ended, since the combined operations of the vanishing and annul-­‐
ment, by which the cause produces its effect and then 117
Ibid., 89. 31 delivers its concept, by themselves imply no halting point whatsoever.118 As Badiou puts it further on, Mallarmé cannot be called a Hegelian, since his dialectical operations of “vanishing” and “annulment” do not have the perfect circularity of Hegel’s idealist dialectic, which returns to a simple term. According to Badiou — who is here pro-­‐
vocatively ignoring the fact that the poem is a sonnet — the only way his poems can bring about closure is by recourse to traditional figures such as the siren or the constellation, with which “Hugo already end[ed] plenty of poems”119 and which Badiou suggests are “signifiers [that] are in some way separable”120 from the internal logic of the poem, governed as it is exclusively by “vanishing terms” and “annulments”. Indeed, it would be perfectly conceivable for the procession of “vanishing terms” and their “annulment” to continue indefinitely: “The ship… or else the siren… if not Neptune… unless a conch…”121 Such an infinitely open progression would, Badiou sug-­‐
gests, be equivalent to the following Maoist directive: “Periodize and pass beyond. No halting point. ‘Success, failure, new success, new failure, and thus all the way to the final victory.’ But the ‘final’ in question is only the one prescribed by the periodization.”122 But in contrast to Maoism, and in conflict with the latent logic of his sonnet, Mallarmé’s idealism leads him to produce a vision of “an implacable finitude.” 123 To achieve this, Mallarmé must “injec[t] some familiar connotations therein in order to achieve this his goal”124 into the closing moments of his poems, which thereby offer an artificial impression of circularity: 118
Ibid., 90. Ibid., 95. 120
Ibid. 121
Ibid., 90. 122
Ibid., 91. 123
Ibid., 92. 124
Ibid., 96. 119
32 Because the floating language we inherit authorizes us to do so, we tolerate that a poem pauses at the rose of dark night or the swan’s exile. We have almost arrived safe and sound, having been guided by the star.125 Thus, despite his relative inattentiveness to the semantic values of Mallarmé’s key tropes, Badiou draws on them here at this strategic moment in order to advance his vision of the poet as a conservative idealist. On Badiou’s reading, Mallarmé is misleading us into think-­‐
ing that the finitude of the “structural dialectic” is an absolute hori-­‐
zon for thought and practice. It is therefore up to the Maoist phi-­‐
losopher to call the poet’s idealist “bluff”126 and to deduce from Mallarmé’s failed effort to contain the radicality of his poetic pro-­‐
cedures the necessity of passing beyond to the “historical dialectic.” What can we conclude from Badiou’s reading of A la nue ac-­‐
cablante tu? It is perhaps most pertinent to point out that Badiou makes two incompatible critiques of Mallarmé’s idealist tendencies in this sonnet. Firstly, he accuses Mallarmé of dissimulating the irruption of “strong difference” in his poems. He then accuses him of having artificially ended his poems, whose operations of “vanish-­‐
ing” and “annulment” by themselves imply no stopping point. But are these accusations the same? That is, are they both relevant to the idea that Mallarmé attempted to disavow the primacy of “strong difference,” the key operator of the “historical dialectic”? Arguably not, since the possibility of an endless cycle of “vanish-­‐
ings” and of “annulments” does not offer anything more than “the regular and virtually infinite iteration of that which vanishes and that which is annulled”. Such an eternal iteration would not help us exit “structural dialectic”. But why be concerned for the artificial “halting points” of his poems if the two above-­‐mentioned opera-­‐
tions are irreducibly tied to the “structural dialectic”? 125
Ibid. Ibid. 126
33 Furthermore, there is no doubt a real violence in Badiou’s question as to why A la nue accablante tu ends, especially insofar as it imputes to Mallarmé a kind of perverse motivation to put a stop to the progress of his dialectic. While in the case of a philosopher like Hegel it might be plausible to argue, for instance, that he is “capable of locally forgetting his global forgetting”127 of certain ma-­‐
terialist postulates, and that his idealism is not systematic but ra-­‐
ther sustained by “arbitrary local decrees,”128 a poem, on the other hand, is not submitted to a conceptual logic. Nevertheless, it is pre-­‐
cisely this confected conflict between the idealist and the material-­‐
ist tendencies within Mallarmé’s poetry that gives Badiou’s reading its intelligibility. Most importantly, it allows Badiou to say, at the end of this seminar session, that “the poem attests that we must dialecticize the structural dialectic beyond itself” 129 — in other words, that the very limitations of Mallarmé’s poetry point toward the “historical dialectic” and thus reinforce, albeit in a negative fashion, the primacy of Badiou’s own position. Furthermore, the subjective correlate of this intra-­‐poetic drama — namely, the figure of the petit-­‐bourgeois poet himself, split between being “an intellec-­‐
tual revolutionary”130 and a “hermetic recluse”131 — is a point of am-­‐
bivalent identification for Badiou and, no doubt, for much of his audience. This conclusion will be reinforced in the following sec-­‐
tion, where we turn to Badiou’s reading of Ses purs ongles. 127
Ibid., 48. Ibid., 5. 129
Ibid., 96. 130
Ibid., 67. 131
Ibid., 65. 128
34 D) SES PURS ONGLES In the final stage of his reading of Mallarmé in Theory of the Sub-­‐
ject, Badiou turns to the arch-­‐Mallarméan poem, Ses purs ongles.132 In his reading, Badiou will be particularly drawn to the poem’s presentation of a deserted salon after nightfall, suffused as it is with the anxiety that follows the passing of daylight. Unlike other exam-­‐
ples of le drame solaire in Mallarmé’s œuvre, Ses purs ongles stages a singular scenario in which almost all traces of the setting sun have disappeared, thereby reinforcing the anxiety inspired by the thought that the vanished event — the sun itself — is forever lost.133 In this poem, even the “rêve[s] vespéra[ux]” of the event, them-­‐
selves already situated at one remove from it as a reality, have been “brûlé[s] par le Phénix” that metaphorizes the sunset. As Badiou states, in this poem the “burden of lack … is at a maximum.”134 Gardner Davies, whose reading of the sonnet is Badiou’s principal point of reference, describes the sonnet as follows: If the allusion to the Phoenix suggests that it is here again a question of the solar drama, this sonnet, unlike the preceding ones, does not offer us a direct evocation of the sunset. The sonnet is as if situated at the second stage of the drama, the task of perpetuating the light of the vanished sun being entrusted to the genius of the 132
Ses purs ongles très haut dédiant leur onyx,/ L’Angoisse, ce minuit, soutient, lampadophore,/ Maint rêve vespéral brûlé par le Phénix/ Que ne recueille pas de cinéraire amphore// Sur les crédences, au salon vide : nul ptyx/ Aboli bibelot d’inanité sonore/ (Car le Maître est allé puiser des pleurs au Styx/ Avec ce seul objet dont le Néant s’honore).// Mais proche la croisée au nord vacante, un or/ Agonise selon peut-­‐être le décor// Des licornes ruant du feu contre une nixe,// Elle, défunte nue en le miroir, encor/ Que, dans l’oubli fermé par le cadre, se fixe/ De scintillations sitôt le septuor. 133
See, for a classic presentation of the notion of le drame solaire, Gardner Davies, Mallarmé et le Drame Solaire: essai d’exégèse raisonnée (Paris: José Corti, 1959) 7–
39. 134
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 101. 35 poet … In the obscurity, Anxiety maintains the memory of the vanished light and of all that it had inspired in the poet.135 For Badiou, the scenario of Ses purs ongles resonates powerfully with the fading political fortunes of Maoism in the aftermath of May ’68 – a situation from which all the traces of that event seemed to have vanished. However, in identifying with what Davies takes to be the task of “the genius of the poet” — namely, to “perpetuat[e] the light of the vanished sun” — Badiou, along with his Maoist comrades, can transform this anxiety into an index of their fidelity to the event of May ’68: “For a militant Marxist, there is the anxiety of the night of imperialist societies, the anxiety of the ashy Phoenix of May ’68, or of the Cultural Revolution … It is also a duty to divide what is obscure, to hold fast to the worker’s promise even at the heart of its deepest denial.”136 Their anxiety is thus the mark of their duty to preserve — just as the poet had preserved “the memory of the vanished light” — the promise that the evental rupture of May ’68 represented, even in adverse conditions. The massivity of the night is “divide[d]”137 by their praxis into, on the one hand, the iner-­‐
tia of the status quo, and on the other hand, the fragile traces that flicker with the promise of the event. However, Ses purs ongles of-­‐
fers a vision of the extreme precariousness of this very promise, its affective power thereby matching the experience of the Maoist mili-­‐
tants, who can again identify with the poet’s privileged role as guetteur in the maintenance of the solar promise. Badiou also believes that, at the properly conceptual level, Ses purs ongles both stages the two operations of the “structural 135
Gardner Davies, Mallarmé et le Drame Solaire: essai d’exégèse raisonnée, op. cit., 108. My translation. 136
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 108. 137
Ibid., 107. This act of division is, of course, functionally equivalent to the task that Badiou has already set the Maoist militant: namely, that of being “the look-­‐
out for the vanishing term, emblem of the new within the old,” ibid., 71. 36 dialectic” that we are already familiar with — “vanishing” and “an-­‐
nulment” — and presents a novel operation, “foreclosure,” which is evinced, precisely, by the absent amphora, Master and ptyx. The specificity of these objects lies in the fact that, despite appearing to be like “vanishing terms” that could function as traces of the van-­‐
ished sun — the amphora, for example, which Davies simply equates with the ptyx, could have held the ashes of the Phoenix, figure of the sun138 — they can neither play this role nor be subject to the operation of “annulment,” because they are not present in the room. As Badiou has it, The amphora, the master, and the ptyx have all the at-­‐
tributes of the vanishing term, except the vanishing, from which a trace of the lack should be evinced. They lack without a trace. On this account, they are unsub-­‐
stitutable.139 In locating this novel operation, Badiou appears committed to allowing the poem unfold its various modalities of absence au-­‐
tonomously, without undue interference from the philosopher. But it will now be his task to show what significance “foreclosure” has for the “structural dialectic.” The final line of the above passage gives us an indication: insofar as they are “unsubstitutable” these terms are, according to Badiou, the point of departure from which all deduction — substitution — proceeds. As Badiou states, “[t]his is something you will never be able to deduce: this triangle of the subject [the master], death [the amphora], and language [the ptyx qua pure signifier].”140 The terms that are “foreclosed” in the sonnet strictly denote those surd-­‐like foundations to rationality from which all thought and action proceeds. However, the pertinence of the operation of “foreclosure” is not made particularly evident by 138
See Gardner Davies, Mallarmé et le drame solaire, op. cit., 116–118 Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 105. Translation modified. 140
Ibid. 139
37 Badiou, who makes a characteristic leap to a remark made by Mao which apparently contradicts the idea according to which there is, in fact, something unconceptualizable: “Mao did not seem to be-­‐
lieve so. He said: ‘We will come to know everything that we did not know before.’”141 Despite this doctrinal statement by Mao, Badiou suggests that “the Marxist axiom: ‘It is right to revolt,’ is ambigu-­‐
ous. Is it meant to indicate that the revolt has its reason, its con-­‐
cept?”142 As Badiou tells us, if this were indeed the case then there would be nothing unconceptualizable and a rational foundation to revolt could be posited. Badiou, however, rejects this, and his statement that the “revolt is what founds rationality, and it concen-­‐
trates a thousand reasons to revolt,” is aligned with the presence of the foreclosed terms in Mallarmé’s poetry. What is to be made of this novel operation of “foreclosure”? Badiou does not develop the significance of the notion of the un-­‐
conceptualizable, except to use it as a bridge to a brief discussion of Maoist doctrine — a discussion whose terms are in fact indifferent to the sonnet, and which serves more to reinforce the foundational assumptions of the seminar than to consider a genuinely novel proposal. Arguably, then, the central though implicit role that the absent amphora, Master and ptyx, play in Badiou’s reading of Ses purs ongles, is in fact to reinforce the radical fragility of the solar promise that the poem stages. As Gardner Davies has it, “the ab-­‐
sence of the amphora, the absence of the Master himself, seem to remove all elements that would be able to capture the dreams of light, which Anxiety continues to maintain in the obscurity of the empty salon.”143 And so, just as the poet had for his duty the guardianship of the solar promise, the sonnet also offers, in the figure of the “lamp-­‐
141
Ibid. Ibid., 106. 143
Gardner Davies, Mallarmé et le drame solaire, op. cit., 124–125. Translation modified. 142
38 bearer” with which the poet identifies, a precise image of the sub-­‐
jective stance that they are to take: We are lamp-­‐bearers. Just as the poem does with the deserted salon, we inspect the political place in order to discern therein the staking out of antagonism that will relay the promise and organize the future.144 Indeed, after “the burden of lack”145 with which the quatrains are invested, the poem will, finally, offer a fragile mark of this promise in the tercets: If the obscurity of the room seems once again to tri-­‐
umph over the dreams of light, let us not forget that in a torch relay the lamp-­‐bearers always passed the torch on to the next lamp-­‐bearer. Likewise, here, when the elements of light are threatened with extinction, the decor itself furnishes a symbol to replace them.146 The first symbol of the vanished sun, which is announced by an instance of what Badiou had called “signifiers of the exception”147 — namely, in this case, the “Mais…” that opens the tercets — is the possible glint of dying sunlight at the edge of the mirror: “Mais proche la croisée au nord vacante, un or/Agonise selon peut-­‐être le décor.” This, then, is the first intra-­‐situational trace of the vanished event that Ses purs ongles offers the lamp-­‐bearer-­‐poet, which is therefore equivalent to “l’écume” of A la nue accablante tu. And the first “vanishing term” that could be its “absent cause” is the nix that — perhaps — has been drowned in the dark pool of the mirror after being pursued by “[d]es licornes”: “Des licornes ruant du feu contre une nixe/Elle, défunte nue en le miroir…” Finally, in apparent 144
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 108. Ibid., 101. 146
Gardner Davies, Mallarmé et le drame solaire, op. cit., 134. My translation. 147
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 87. 145
39 symmetry with the logical progression of A la nue accablante tu, the nix qua “vanishing term” is then followed by the operation of “an-­‐
nulment,” which is here performed by the upsurge, within the frame of the mirror, of the constellation of “la Grande Ourse,” an-­‐
other possible cause of the brief twinkling in the frame of the mir-­‐
ror. From this short sketch of Badiou’s reading, we can point to two individual instances where Ses purs ongles does not precisely match the operations of A la nue accablante tu. The first arises from the fact that the nix qua “cause absente” is definitively revoked by the actual presence of the constellation, which figures, in the depths of the sonnet’s night, as the promise of the vanished event. In A la nue accablante tu, however, no certainty remained – at least on Badiou’s reading — as to what the “absent cause” of “l’écume” in fact was. To this problem is added the philosopher’s curious remark concerning the myth of the nymph Callisto, who died and became the constellation of “la Grande Ourse.”148 What this intertextual link shows, according to Badiou, is that the “annulling connection” between the nix and the constellation “is all the more firm and af-­‐
firmative.”149 However, as he had described them in his reading of A la nue accablante tu, there is no necessary semantic connection be-­‐
tween the operator of “vanishing” and that of “annulment,” and it is not clear why Badiou would need to introduce one now. The second instance of asymmetry involves the fact that there are three “vanishing terms” in this poem: in addition to the nix and the constellation (and this latter is not, strictly speaking, a 148
Badiou draws here on a note from Gardner Davies. See ibid., 136, No. 19: “An Australian poet, Christopher Brennan, who corresponded with Mallarmé, com-­‐
pletes the interpretation of this final image by an observation that we would hesitate to include were it not linked to a passage from Les Dieux antiques. Bren-­‐
nan identifies the nymph of the mirror with Callisto, who was banished from the court of Artemis and transformed into a bear, before being placed in the sky by Jupiter in the form of a constellation.” My translation. 149
Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, op. cit., 103. 40 “vanishing term,” since it is actually present in the setting of the poem), Badiou rightly remarks that the sun is the initial “vanishing term”. But if the sun is “the absent cause” of the scenario of the po-­‐
em, then it is unclear whether the nix in fact plays the role of the hypothetical cause of the glinting of sunlight in the mirror’s edge. And can the sun in fact be a “vanishing term” if we are certain of its reality, and if it is something that returns cyclically? In A la nue accablante tu, by contrast, both “vanishing terms” were hypothet-­‐
ical. Badiou nevertheless does treat the sun according to the logic of the “vanishing term,” since he claims that the constellation ef-­‐
fects its “annulment”: “By way of the star, the sun certainly comes to be lacking twice. The star presupposes the night, hence the caus-­‐
al vanishing of the sun, and yet, by bringing brightness, it annuls it.”150 On Badiou’s reading, then, Ses purs ongles instantiates the operations of “vanishing” and “annulment,” in however complex a form, and adds a third operation, “foreclosure,” to Mallarmé’s intra-­‐
poetic “structural dialectic.” We have attempted to show, however, that his attempt to match these operations with the internal dy-­‐
namics of the poem is less successful than in the case of A la nue accablante tu. What gives Badiou’s reading its coherence and reso-­‐
nance, then, is the paradigmatic scenario that Ses purs ongles stages and the task that it gives the poet — a scenario and a task with which Badiou and his Maoist comrades can, at the price of a meta-­‐
phorization of their predicament, identify with. E) “… A PRECIOUS LEGACY” Badiou adds a final twist to his reading that returns to the negative image of Mallarmé as an intellectual conservative, purposefully re-­‐
pressing the immanent heterogeneity of “strong difference” that is both presupposed and disavowed by his idealist “structural dialec-­‐
150
Ibid., 104. 41 tic.” Indeed, Badiou argues that Ses purs ongles is a particularly successful example of Mallarmé’s strategy of disavowal. For while in A la nue accablante tu the re-­‐emergence of “repressed heterogenei-­‐
ty” occurred in the break between the quatrains and the tercets and was marked by the signifiers “ou cela que,” Badiou argues that in this poem we find only “a subject of diminished force, almost fold-­‐
ed back — finally! — onto the even surface of the metonymical op-­‐
erations.”151 Apparently, this “subject” is nothing other than the up-­‐
surge of the constellation at the poem’s close, which marks the promise of the event and so of the “strong difference” it encapsulat-­‐
ed. It is therefore as if the poet, motivated by a perverse will to dis-­‐
simulate the necessary moment of “strong difference,” has engi-­‐
neered an ingenious way of having this moment go unnoticed. What, then, does this strategy of Mallarmé’s consist in? As we know, the apparent narrative arc of the poem coincides with a search for the traces of the vanished event, the setting sun. It ends, finally, with the reflection of the constellation in the mirror, which confirms the promise of the event in the anxious depths of the night. However, the ruse of the poet consists in making us suppose that the discovery of the evental trace is the result of the creative praxis of the lamp-­‐bearer figure with which the utopian poet and Maoist militant both identify. Instead, the stars are there from the start: The solution to the lamp-­‐bearing problem (here, the reflection of the Great Bear) must be there from the start. Only the poet’s dead eye spins the subtle threads that link one object to another so that, in a tricked per-­‐
spective, the illusion of a surprise may come about.152 151
Ibid., 107. Ibid., 108–109. 152
42 The temporal progression from anxiety to salvation is noth-­‐
ing more than the imaginary trajectory of a subject stumbling upon signs that have already been laid out for them; nothing new hap-­‐
pens in Mallarmé’s poetry, only the shuffling between an already-­‐
fixed set of possibilities. The narrative arc of struggle followed by success is brutally undercut by the structural fact that the condi-­‐
tions for this success were always-­‐already in place, set up like a trap by an idealist poet committed to demonstrating that there is “no temporal advent of the new.”153 For Mallarmé, in short, there is no history. His poetry is in-­‐
tegrally geared towards repressing the necessary moment of “strong difference” that produces revolutionary breaks. He can only offer the Maoist militant a “precious legacy,” whose very limitations at-­‐
test to the necessity of passing beyond to the “historical dialectic.” By contrast, Badiou tells us that he is “not swayed by an order of things in which all thought is devoted to the inspection of that which subordinates it to the placement of an absence and which brings salvation for the subject only in the already-­‐thereness of a star.154 Badiou must thus bid farewell to his Symbolist “master.” His prescient poetic thinking of the “structural dialectic” has been trav-­‐
ersed, and the ruses of his ineradicable conservatism have been avoided. We will have to wait until Being and Event, or, just prior to it, the essay “Is it Exact That All Thought Emits a Throw of Dice?,” for Badiou to find in Mallarmé the precise resources he requires for thinking, rather than repressing, the event. 153
Ibid., 108. Ibid., 110. 154
43 EST-­‐IL EXACT QUE TOUTE PENSÉE ÉMET UN COUP DE DÉS ?1 Alain Badiou On a, dans ce foyer, dans ce théâtre, plusieurs fois soutenu le texte représenté d’une musique. Ce fut il y a peu, je m’en souviens avec tendresse, le cas de mon propre texte, L’écharpe rouge. Ce que je vais dire relève de l’abstraction sans musique. Il y à là seulement quelqu’un qui parle, c’est la loi jusqu’à ce jour des Conférences du Perroquet. Pour arrimer mon courage de ne proposer que peu d’ornements, je m’abriterai derrière cette thèse de Mallarmé, qui est que quelqu’un qui parle peut à lui seul équivaloir à tout ce que la musique suscite. Mallarmé le disait en ces termes: «Au moment exact où la musique paraît s’adapter milieux qu’aucun rite à ce que de latent content, et d’à jamais abscons, la présence d’une foule, a été montre que rien, dans l’inarticulation ou l’anonymat de ces cris, jubilation, orgueils, et tous transports, n’existe, que ne puisse avec une magnificence égale — et, de plus, notre conscience, cette clarté — rendre la veille et sainte élocution; ou le Verbe, quand c’est quelqu’un qui le profère. » Mallarmé disait cela, après tout, dans une conférence, jus-­‐
tement. Nous aurait justifiés une fois pour toutes qu’elle soit du 1
Originally published in Les conférences du Perroquet, No. 5 (janvier 1986) 3–20. Perroquet. Aussi la déclarerons-­‐nous telle rétroactivement, nous exposant ainsi à une très haute mesure. Le 11 Février 1890, à Bruxelles, Mallarmé prononce en effet une conférence sur Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam. Villiers était mort en août 1889. Entre lui et Mallarmé, il y avait une amitié profonde, nouée dès les années 1865–1870. C’est ainsi qu’en 1870, Villiers était venu voir son ami à Avignon, ou Mallarmé exerçait la noble profes-­‐
sion de répétiteur d’anglais dans un lycée, comme il le fit toute sa vie. Parmi les compagnons de voyage de Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam, il y avait Judith Gauthier, l’admiratrice éperdue de Wagner. Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam est un des très rares écrivains à n’avoir pas fui Paris pendant la Commune. Nous avons de lui là-­‐
dessus des notes précises, sereines, qui balancent les sinistres dé-­‐
clarations de propriétaires chatouillés et féroces que firent en la circonstance les Flaubert, Goncourt, George Sand et autres Leconte de Lisle. On peut dire que Hugo, Rimbaud, Verlaine peut-­‐être, et Villiers, sont tout ce qui surnage de la débâcle morale, de la pro-­‐
fonde canaillerie, où s’exhibèrent en ce moment de vérité les écri-­‐
vains qu’avait entretenus dans leurs allures d’esthètes les agapes financières du Second Empire. Villiers notait en particulier la beau-­‐
té du Paris Communard, la visibilité d’un bonheur des passants, le sentiment que la ville était enfin parcourue par ses habitants réels. J’ajoute que le livre de Jean Aubry qui s’appelle, à juste titre, Une amitié exemplaire: Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam et Stéphane Mallarmé, parut en 1941. Laissons jouer ces dates, et ces noms: 1870, la Com-­‐
mune, Wagner, Villiers, Mallarmé, 1941. Ce tressage du pire de l‘histoire, du génie intellectuel, de l’amitié, je crois qu’il compose assez nettement ce qu’on peut nommer le site temporel de Mallar-­‐
mé. Il le désignait lui-­‐même ainsi: On assiste, comme finale d’un siècle, pas ainsi que ce fut dans le dernier, à des bouleversements; mais, hors de la place publique, à une inquiétude du voile dans le temple avec des plis significatifs et un peu sa déchirure. 45
Mallarmé, mort en 1898, à 56 ans, ne pouvait pas encore imaginer que ce que la déchirure du voile allait révéler était le couple fondateur de la boucherie de 14–18 et de la révolution d’Octobre, et qu’ainsi, en matière de «place publique», on allait être servi. Son énoncé semble tout à fait convenir a notre propre site, mais peut-­‐être Le voile, à nouveau déchiré, laissera voir, à nouveau, ce qui nous est tout à fait inouï. Mallarmé commençait ainsi son hommage à Villiers: Un homme au rêve habitué, vient ici parler d’un autre, qui est mort. Au rêve habitué... C’est une définition paradoxale, car, dans le poème intitulé «Toast Funèbre», que Mallarmé écrit en 1873 pour célébrer Théophile Gauthier, il énonce comme un impératif poé-­‐
tique l’interdiction du rêve. Ceci: C’est de nos vrais bosquets déjà tout le séjour, Où Le poète pur a pour geste humble et large De l’interdire au rêve, ennemi de sa charge. Soit dit en passant, ce poème dessine une autre constellation. Le recueil où il parait, qui est le Tombeau de Théophile Gauthier, dé-­‐
tient une sorte de passage dont le mort, ce Théophile Gauthier qui sut se faire aimer de tous, est la cause absente: le passage Hugo-­‐
Mallarmé. Le recueil s’ouvre en effet par un superbe poème de Hu-­‐
go, celui où l’on trouve les vers fameux qui donnèrent un titre à Malraux: Ah! quel farouche bruit font dans le crépuscule Les chênes qu’on abat pour Le bûcher d’Hercule. Seul le poème de Mallarmé se tient à hauteur d’une pareille ouver-­‐
ture. Mallarmé avait de Hugo une image puissante et conclusive: 46
Hugo, dans sa tâche mystérieuse, rabattit toute la prose, philosophie, éloquence, histoire au vers, et, comme il était le vers personnellement, il confisqua chez qui pense, dis-­‐
court ou narre, presque le droit à s’énoncer. Monument en ce désert, avec le silence loin; dans une crypte la divinité ainsi d’une majestueuse idée inconsciente, à savoir que la forme appelée vers est simplement elle-­‐même la littérature; que vers il y a sitôt que s’accentue la diction, rythme dès que style. Le vers, je crois, avec respect attendit que le géant qui l’identifiait à sa main tenace et plus ferme toujours de forgeron, vînt à manquer; pour, lui, se rompre. La passe de Hugo à Mallarmé est celle de la crise du vers, qui ouvre aussitôt au mystère dans les lettres. Qu’est-­‐ce que la langue française comme langue littéraire, si défaille le vers ? Mallarmé est le guetteur de cette question, toujours posée, et sur laquelle lui, Mallarmé, reste une anticipation énigmatique. L’interdiction du rêve est certainement une directive post hugolienne. Mais comment celui qui désigne dans le rêve l’«ennemi de sa charge» peut-­‐il se présenter comme l’«homme au rêve habi-­‐
tue» ? On aura là-­‐dessus quelque éclaircissement, si on se de-­‐
mande de quel réel il est question, qu’il faille impérativement sous traire au rêve. Il est essentiel de comprendre que, aux antipodes de la connexion du rêve et de la Nature, où s’origine la vision roman-­‐
tique, et que Baudelaire n’a qu’à demi disjointe, parce qu’il en a en-­‐
core la nostalgie, Mallarmé soutient qu’a l’époque de l’emprise technicienne, du cartésianisme accompli dans son effective posses-­‐
sion, la Nature a cessé de valoir comme réfèrent de la métaphore poétique: «La Nature a lieu, on n’y ajoutera pas; que des cités, les voies ferrées et plusieurs inventions formant notre matériel.» Je soutiendrai donc que le réel dont le texte mallarméen propose l’attente n’a jamais la figure déployée du spectacle. La doc-­‐
trine de Mallarmé dévoue la poésie à l’événement, c’est à dire au pur «il y a» de l’occurrence. On s’est mépris sur la fonction du né-­‐
47
gatif chez Mallarmé parce qu’on a cru y discerner un désespoir ni-­‐
hiliste. Certes, et j’y ai consacre dans Théorie du Sujet un large dé-­‐
veloppement, on trouve chez lui une dialectique achevée des pro-­‐
cédures de l’absence. L’intelligence du moindre poème suppose qu’on distingue avec soin trois régimes de la négation: l’évanouissement, dont la valeur est causale, l’annulation, dont la valeur est conceptuelle, la forclusion, de valeur nulle. Mais cette dialectique n’a qu’une valeur opératoire. Elle or-­‐
ganise une expérience où capter, toute factualité soustraite, la pure essence du ce-­‐qui-­‐advient. La question mallarméenne n’est pas: qu’est-­‐ce que l’être ? Sa question est : qu’est-­‐ce que «avoir lieu», qu’est-­‐ce que «se produire» ? Y a-­‐t-­‐il un être du ce-­‐qui-­‐advient en tant qu’il advient? Bien entendu, cette question est tout a fait voi-­‐
sine d’une autre, souvent tenue pour centrale, et qui est: qu’est-­‐ce que disparaître ? Mais Le disparaître n’est ici que l’obliquité du pa-­‐
raître, quand ce qui est en jeu est l’apparaître. Mallarmé nous convoque à penser que l’appui du sens et de la vérité n’est pas dans ce qui se donne ou s’étale, mais dans ce qui est, selon son mot, «surgi de la croupe et du bond». Peut-­‐il y avoir, et à quelles conditions, une pensée du «surgir», une rationnelle nomination de ce qui ne se laisse compter qu’une fois, n’ayant ni insistance ni consistance? C’est bien au point du réel que Mallarmé consacre la littérature. En quoi il lui convient à la fois de la délester du rêve, et d’y être cependant habitué, car on ne peut saisir ce point pur qu’autant qu’on procède en soi-­‐même à l’interdiction du rêve. C’est ici l’interdit, dont la matière est le rêve, qui commande l’impossible, dont l’équivoque est le réel. Dans les termes de Lacan, on dira qu’un interdit porté sur la totalisation imaginaire autorise une soustraction symbolique d’ou se fixe un point de réel. C’est pourquoi n’importe quel poème de Mallarmé décrit le lieu d’un évènement aléatoire, qu’il est requis d’interpréter à partir de ses traces. Contrairement à ce qui se dit le plus souvent, nulle 48
poésie n’est plus soumise à l’action. Cet univers poétique est bien la passe hugolienne, en ceci qu’il est l’envers des Contemplations. Le sens, à mon avis toujours univoque, du texte de Mallarmé, ne ré-­‐
sulte pas d’un en-­‐dessous symbolique, ou d’une obsession théma-­‐
tique. Il n’y a dans Mallarmé aucune profondeur. Le sens résulte de la détection de ce qui s’y est produit, de la mise en jeu événemen-­‐
tielle dont nous n’avons, au départ, que le décor. Vous connaissez le fameux «hermétisme» de Mallarmé, qui a poussé tant d’exégètes littéraires à des gloses, et à la bien com-­‐
mode doctrine de la polysémie, laquelle donne droit à l’arbitraire des interprétations. Cet «hermétisme» doit plutôt être pense dans la catégorie de l’énigme, au sens policier du terme. Ce salon vide, ce vase de fleurs, cet éventail, cette pierre tombale, cette mer sombre et déserte, de quel crime, de quelle catastrophe, de quel manque-­‐
ment majeur, sont-­‐ils les indices? Le plus grand interprète de Mal-­‐
larmé, l’australien Gardner Davies, a titre l’un de ses livres: «Mal-­‐
larmé et le drame solaire». C’est un titre dont le mot «drame» porte la valeur générale. Le coucher du soleil est en effet un exemple de ces événements défunts, de cet apparaître dans le disparaitre, dont il faut reconstruire au cœur de la nuit le «il aura eu lieu». Mais tous les poèmes ont une structure dramatique. Si vous avez au départ du poème une extrême condensation des figures, quelques objets, c’est selon la même loi qui fait que dans un roman policier, on ne saurait avoir plus de quelques personnages, au plus une dizaine, puisque c’est dans ce groupe fini que doit errer le soupçon, et qu’au delà d’un certain nombre, il devient évasif et sans portée. Les objets mallarméens sont essentiellement suspects, suspects d’avoir sup-­‐
porté, ou entravé, une action radicale, un événement qu’il faut sau-­‐
ver au bord de l’oubli. Il faut qu’il y ait une scène fortement cir-­‐
conscrite, et telle qu’à l’interprétant, au lecteur, rien n’est dissi-­‐
mule. Le protocole descriptif du poème ne va pas au delà d’un sys-­‐
tème d’indices tel qu’une seule hypothèse quant à ce qui s’est passé permet de lui donner une consistance. Une seule déduction à partir 49
de cette hypothèse doit permettre d’annoncer comment, étant abo-­‐
li l’événement va cependant se fixer dans son décor, devenant ainsi l’éternité d’une «notion pure». Et il n’y a de notion pure que du pur «il y a». Ce qui se dit aussi: toute loi est une loi des suspects. La poé-­‐
sie soupçonne l’être de ne pas vouloir livrer l’événement qu’il dé-­‐
tient. Si la poésie est un usage essentiel du langage, ce n’est pas parce qu’elle le voue à la Présence, à la proximité de l’être; c’est au contraire parce qu’elle le plie à la maintenance de ce qui, radicale-­‐
ment singulier, action pure, serait sans lui retombé dans la nullité du lieu. La poésie est assomption d’un indécidable: l’action elle-­‐
même, l’agir de l’acte, dont on ne peut savoir qu’il a eu lieu qu’en pariant sur sa vérité. L’être est ce dont se prodigue un savoir, l’événement ce dont se trame une vérité. Un événement n’a pas lieu n’importe où. Il y a ce que j’appellerai des sites événementiels, dont la structure d’être est une condition nécessaire, quoique non suffisante, pour que s’y décline le multiple essentiellement paradoxal qu’est l’événement. Cette structure tient toujours li ce que le site est au bord du vide, en ceci que les termes qui en composent la présentation-­‐multiple ne sont pas, eux, présentes. Un site événementiel est, dans une situation globale, un multiple qui est compté-­‐pour-­‐un sous la condition que ce qui lui appartient ne le soit pas. On peut ainsi démontrer que l’usine est un site événementiel de la politique moderne, en ceci que, sous le nom d’entreprise, elle est présentée, sans que les ou-­‐
vriers le soient, ni, à vrai dire, ne puissent l’être. Sinon que juste-­‐
ment l’intervention interprétante procède, à partir de l’événement, à la mise en circulation d’un nom de cet imprésentable. Le site évé-­‐
nementiel conjoint ainsi la solidité de l’un-­‐multiple à l’errance du vide, laquelle ne se fixe que dans la dialectique de l’événement et de l’intervention. En substance: une intervention est ce qui fait 50
nom d’un élément imprésenté du site pour qualifier l’événement dont ce site est le site. Un poème de Mallarmé est une intervention fictive. Que le statut des ouvriers relève de la dialectique du site, de l’événement et de l’intervention n’avait pas échappé à Mallarmé. Dans le texte qui a pour titre «Conflit», et pour lequel, au point où nous en sommes, il faut donner tout le Germinal de Zola, Mallarmé écrit ceci, faisant du sommeil des ouvriers du chemin de fer, sous ses fenêtres, l’emblême d’une non-­‐présentation, à la relève de quoi sa pensée doit désormais s’étendre: Les constellations s’initient à briller: comme je voudrais que parmi l’obscurité qui court sur l’aveugle troupeau, aussi des points de clarté, telle pensée tout à l’heure, se fixassent, malgré ces yeux scellés ne les distinguant pas — pour le fait, pour l’exactitude, pour qu’il soit dit. Mallarmé, vous voyez, représente comme un enjeu que puisse être dit, exactement, ce à quoi l’invisibilité ouvrière expose la pensée intervenante. Et il conclut magnifiquement: Ces artisans de tâches élémentaires, il m’est loisible, les veil-­‐
lant, à côté d’un fleuve limpide continu, d’y regarder le peuple — une intelligence robuste de la condition humaine leur courbe l’échine journellement pour tirer, sans l’intermédiaire du blé, le miracle de vie qui assure la pré-­‐
sence: d’autres ont fait les défrichements passes et des aqueducs, ou livreront un terre-­‐plein à telle machine, les mêmes, Louis-­‐Pierre, Martin, Poitou ou Le Normand, quand ils ne dorment pas, ainsi s’invoquent-­‐ils selon les mères ou la province; mais plutôt des naissances sombrèrent en l’anonymat, et l’immense sommeil l’ouïe à la génératrice, les prostrant, cette fois, subit un accablement et un élargisse-­‐
ment de tous les siècles et, autant cela possible — réduite aux proportions sociales, d’éternité. Vous voyez que le poète est le veilleur de l’invisibilité ou-­‐
vrière. 51
Vous voyez aussi que c’est le mot «peuple» qui est prélevé dans le vide du sommeil ouvrier, et qui, par l’intervention du texte, circule désormais, dans l’injonction d’une valeur éternelle. Plus généralement, il faut concevoir que le poème est une intervention aux abords d’un site événementiel dont il institue la fiction. Cette intervention vise à détecter l’événement dont le nom rompra la séparation d’avec le vide. Parce que cette séparation entre le vide et l’un, entre le site et l’imprésentable, l’ordre ordi-­‐
naire, celui de la réalité, la perpétue. Or cette séparation est une injustice faite à l’être. La poésie est vérité parce qu’elle propose une fiction réparatrice au regard d’une injustice faite à l’être. Cette in-­‐
justice est que l’événement soit interdit d’être. Par rapport à cette définition, Un coup de dés... est en posi-­‐
tion générale, de ce que son enjeu est la doctrine de l’événement comme telle, et non son investissement dans telle ou telle figure. Je vous lis préalablement ce texte, conscient de vous inviter ainsi à le lire, fait qu’il est pour l’œil plutôt que pour l’oreille. Mallarmé prévoyait expressément que son Livre absolu se-­‐
rait lu en public. Il voyait dans ces lectures une opération à la fois politique et spirituelle, qui donnerait au public la représentation de ce que ce public — comme les ouvriers des chemins de fer tout à l’heure — détient en lui-­‐même d’invisible. Il imaginait ce public comme immense. Séance après séance, les calculs qu’il faisait an-­‐
nonçaient au minimum 480,000 participants, auditeurs ou lecteurs. Il concevait l’opération comme un rapport à la foule, terme essentiel pour Mallarmé. Il disait: «Dans cette épreuve de la foule par les narrations ou réciproquement, moi, je suis simple lecteur emportant mon exemplaire.» Le Livre disparaissait dans la lecture, il en devenait le vide central. Mallarmé note: «Livre, même et nul, en tant que central, ange.» 52
Faire, par lecture, du texte de Mallarmé, l’ange qui passe sur un détachement de foule, que ce soir vous constituez, est fidèle à son vœu. Je signale qu’Antoine Vitez et moi-­‐même nous nous y em-­‐
ploierons, le 27 Janvier et le 24 Février, ici-­‐même, sans aucune réfé-­‐
rence commémorative, par le seul effet simple de notre commune admiration pour ces vers et ces proses dont le statut dans notre langue est proprement unique. Si je lis main tenant Un coup de dés, c’est au titre de texte de pensée, du plus grand texte théorique qui existe sur les 10 condi-­‐
tions d’une pensée de l’événement. Un coup de dés jamais Quand bien même lance dans des circonstances éter-­‐
nelles, du fond d’un naufrage, Soit/que l’Abîme, blanchi, étale, furieux, sous une in-­‐
clinaison plane désespérément d’aile (la sienne) par avance re-­‐
tombée d’un mal à dresser le vol, et couvrant les jaillissements, coupant au ras les bonds, très à l’intérieur résume l’ombre, en-­‐
fouie dans la profondeur, par cette voile alternative, jusqu’ adapter à l’envergure sa béante profondeur en tant que la coque d’un bâtiment, penche de l’un ou l’autre bord. Le Maitre, hors d’anciens calculs où la manœuvre, avec l’âge oubliée, sur-­‐
gi/ — jadis il empoignait la barre —, inférant, de cette confla-­‐
gration à ses pieds de l’horizon unanime, que se prépare, s’agite, et mêle, au poing qui l’étreindrait comme on menace un destin et les vents, l’unique Nombre qui ne peut pas être un autre (Esprit pour le jeter dans la tempête, en reployer la divi-­‐
sion et passer, fier, hésite (cadavre par le bras écarté du secret qu’il détient), plutôt que de jouer, en maniaque chenu, la partie au nom des flots (un envahit le chef, coule en barbe soumise — naufrage, cela, direct, de l’homme, sans nef, n’importe/où vaine)/ ancestralement à n’ouvrir pas la main crispée par delà l’inutile tête : legs, en la disparition, à quelqu’un ambigu, l’ultérieur démon immémorial ayant, de contrées nulles, induit le vieillard vers cette conjonction suprême avec la probabilité. Celui (son ombre puérile caressée et polie et rendue et lavée, assouplie par la vague et soustraite aux durs os perdus entre 53
les airs) ne d’un ébat, la mer par l’aïeul tentant, ou l’aïeul contre la mer, une chance oiseuse. (Fiançailles dont le voile d’illusion rejailli, leur hantise, ainsi que le fantôme d’un geste, chancellera, s’affalera, folie.) N’abolira Comme si, une insinuation simple au silence enroulée avec ironie, ou le mystère précipité, hurlé, dans quelque proche tourbillon d’hilarité et d’horreur voltige, autour du gouffre, sans le joncher, ni fuir, et en berce le vierge indice. Comme si, plume solitaire éperdue, — sauf que la rencontre ou l’effleure, une toque de minuit, et immobilise au velours chiffonné par un esclaffement sombre cette blancheur rigide; dérisoire en oppo-­‐
sition au ciel trop, pour ne pas marquer exigüment quiconque, prince amer de l’écueil, s’en coiffe (comme de l’héroïque irrésis-­‐
tible mais contenu par sa petite raison virile) en foudre. Sou-­‐
cieux, expiatoire et pubère, (muet rire, que Si) La lucide et seigneuriale aigrette de vertige au front in-­‐
visible scintille puis ombrage une stature mignonne téné-­‐
breuse, debout en sa torsion de sirène, le temps de souffleter, par d’impatientes squames ultimes, bifurquées un roc faux manoir tout de suite évaporé en brumes qui imposa une borne à l’infini. C’était le nombre — issu stellaire — ? Existât-­‐il (autrement qu’hallucination éparse d’agonie) Commençât-­‐il et cessât-­‐il (sourdant que nié, et clos quand apparu) enfin par quelque profusion répandu en rareté Se chiffrât-­‐il évidence de la somme pour peu qu’une Illuminât-­‐il Ce serait, pire ? non davantage ni moins indifférem-­‐
ment, mais autant le Hasard. (Choit la plume, rythmique suspens du sinistre, s’ensevelir aux écumes originelles, naguère d’où sursauta son délire jusqu’à une cime flétrie par la neutralité identique du gouffre). Rien de la mémorable crise ou se fût l’événement ac-­‐
compli en vue de tout résultat nul humain, n’aura eu lieu (une élévation ordinaire verse l’absence), que le lieu — inférieur, clapotis quelconque comme pour disperser l’acte vide, abrup-­‐
54
tement, qui sinon par son mensonge eut fondé la perdition dans ces parages du vague en quoi toute réalité se dissout ; Excepté, à l’altitude, peut-­‐être, aussi loin qu’un, en droit, fusionne avec au delà (hors l’intérêt quant à lui signalé en général selon telle obliquité, par telle déclivité de feux), vers ce doit être le Septentrion aussi Nord, une constellation, froide d’oubli et de désuétude pas tant qu'elle n’énumère, sur quelque surface vacante et supérieure, le heurt successif sidéralement d’un compte total en formation ; Veillant, doutant, roulant, brillant et méditant, avant de s’arrêter à quelque point dernier qui le sacre. Toute pensée émet un Coup de Dés (Note: Le texte ici reproduit est celui de la lecture, ponctué par mon souffle.) Dans Un coup de dés... la métaphore de ce que tout site évé-­‐
nementiel est au bord du vide est bâtie à partir d’un horizon désert sur une mer orageuse. Ce sont là, parce que ramenées à la pure imminence du rien — de l’imprésentation — ce que Mallarmé nomme les «circonstances éternelles» de l’action. Le vocable par lequel Mallarmé désigne toujours un multiple présenté aux confins de l’imprésentation est l’Abîme, lequel, dans Un coup de dés… est «étale», «blanchi», et récuse d’avance toute sortie de soi, «l’aile» de sa propre écume étant «retombée d’un mal à dresser le vol». Le paradoxe d’un site événementiel est de ne se laisser re-­‐
connaître qu’à partir de ce qu’il ne présente pas dans la situation où lui-­‐même est présenté. Ce n’est en effet que de faire-­‐un de mul-­‐
tiples inexistants dans la situation qu’un multiple est au bord du vide. Mallarmé présente génialement ce paradoxe en composant, à partir du site — l’Océan désert — un multiple fantôme, qui méta-­‐
phorise l’inexistence dont le site est la présentation. Dans le cadre scénique vous n'avez que l’Abime, mer et ciel indistinguables. Mais de «l’inclinaison plane» du ciel et de la «béante profondeur» des 55
flots, voici que se compose l’image d’un navire, voile et coque, ré-­‐
voqué aussitôt qu’allégué, en sorte que le désert du site «très a l’intérieur résume (...) un bâtiment» qui, lui, n’existe pas, étant l’intériorité figurative dont la scène vide indique, par ses seules res-­‐
sources, la probable absence. Ainsi l’événement va-­‐t-­‐il, non seule-­‐
ment se produire dans le site, mais à partir de la suscitation de ce que le site contient d’imprésentable: le navire «enfoui dans la pro-­‐
fondeur», et dont la plénitude abolie — puisque seul l’Océan est présenté — autorise d’annoncer que l’action se déroulera «du fond d’un naufrage». Car tout événement, outre qu’il est localisé par son site, en opère la ruine au regard de fa situation, puisqu’il en nomme rétroactivement le vide intérieur. Le «naufrage» seul nous donne ces débris allusifs dont se compose, dans l’un du site, le multiple indécidable de l’événement. Une caractéristique fondamentale de l’événement est qu’il est ultra-­‐un, en ceci que l’élément déterminant du multiple qu’il est lui-­‐même. Une révolution, une grève, une guerre, une représenta-­‐
tion artistique marquante, contiennent leur propre nom. Quand Saint-­‐Just déclare, en 1794, que «la révolution est glacée», il désigne certes des facteurs multiples, la lassitude, l’impuissance terroriste, le poids de la guerre et des militaires. Mais il désigne, en imma-­‐
nence aces termes, ultra-­‐un de leur multiple, la révolution, qui ain-­‐
si, pouvant être elle-­‐même qualifiée dans la situation qu'elle nomme, est en position d'appartenance a elle-­‐même. Dans le texte de Mallarmé, le nom de l’événement, interne à son être, va se disposer à partir d’un des débris du navire fantôme, symbole de ce que le site ne présente pas ses termes. Le débris est le capitaine du navire naufragé, le «maître», dont le bras élevé au-­‐
dessus des flots serre entre ses doigts les deux dés qu'il s’agit de je-­‐
ter sur la surface de la mer. Dans ce «poing qui l’étreindrait», se «prépare s’agite et mêle (...) l'unique Nombre qui ne peut pas être un autre». 56
Que le geste de jeter les dés soit porté par le capitaine que tire littéralement du lieu nu le naufrage d'un navire inexistant —
donc la disparition d’un non-­‐être — nous indique que le nom de l’événement, sa circulation à la surface de la réalité, ne peut en effet qu’être prélevé dans le vide que borde le site événementiel. Telle est la fonction de toute intervention: décider que l’événement ap-­‐
partient à la situation, en tirant du vide qu’il côtoie, c’est a dire de termes imprésentables, le nom sous lequel il va désormais circuler et propager ses fidèles conséquences. Pourquoi l’événement, tel qu’il advient a l’un des sites à par-­‐
tir des multiples «naufragés» que cet un ne présente que dans leur résultat-­‐un, est-­‐il ici un coup de dés? Que signifie ce nom? Ce geste symbolise l’événement en général, soit ce qui, purement hasardeux, ininférable de la situation, n’en est pas moins un multiple fixe, un nombre, que rien ne peut modifier dès lors qu'il a étalé — «reployé la division» — la somme de ses faces visibles. Un coup de dés con-­‐
joint l’emblème du hasard a celui de la nécessité, le multiple erra-­‐
tique de l’événement a la rétroaction lisible du compte. L’événement dont il s’agit dans Un Coup de Dés… est donc la pro-­‐
duction d’un symbole absolu de l’événement. L’enjeu du lancer des dés «du fond d'un naufrage» est de faire événement de la pensée de l’événement. La difficulté est alors la suivante: un événement n’est pas lui-­‐
même un terme de la situation pour laquelle il est un événement. Ce multiple est un ultra-­‐un, je l’ai dit. Il est de son essence qu'il faille, par une procédure spéciale, que j’appelle l’intervention, déci-­‐
der que L’événement appartient à la situation. Considéré comme simple multiple, avec le paradoxe reconnaissable de son auto-­‐
appartenance, l’événement est indécidable. Il appartient au lieu, ou ne lui appartient pas, cette indécidabilité est de principe. Il en résulte qu'un événement dont le contenu est l’événementialité de l’événement (et tel est bien le coup de dés lan-­‐
cé «dans des circonstances éternelles») ne peut à son tour avoir 57
pour forme que l’indécision. Puisque le maître doit produire l’événement absolu (celui, dit Mallarmé, qui abolira le hasard, étant le concept actif, réalisé, du «il y a»), il doit suspendre cette produc-­‐
tion à une hésitation elle-­‐même absolue, où s’indique que l’événement est ce multiple dont on ne peut savoir, ni voir, s’il ap-­‐
partient à la situation de son site. Nous ne verrons jamais le maitre lancer les dés, car sur la scène de l’action, nous ne pouvons avoir accès qu’à une hésitation tout aussi éternelle que ses circonstances: «Le maitre (...) hésite (...) plutôt que de jouer en maniaque chenu la partie au nom des flots (...) à n’ouvrir pas la main crispée par delà l’inutile tête...». «Jouer la partie», ou «n’ouvrir pas la main » ? Dans le premier cas, on manque l’essence de l’événement, puisqu’on dé-­‐
cide de façon anticipante qu’il va se produire. Dans le second cas, de même, puisque «rien n’aura eu lieu que le lieu». Entre l’événement annulé par la réalité de son appartenance visible à la situation, et l’événement annule par sa totale invisibilité, la seule figure représentable du concept de l’événement est la mise en scène de son indécidabilité. Aussi bien, toute la partie centrale de Un Coup de Dés... or-­‐
ganise une stupéfiante série de transformations métaphoriques au-­‐
tour du thème de l’indécidable. A partir de ce bras levé qui — peut-­‐
être — détient le «secret» du nombre, se déplie, selon la technique qui déjà suscitait l’imprésentable du site océanique en y surimpo-­‐
sant l’image d’un vaisseau fantôme, un éventail d’analogies où, peu à peu, s'obtient l’équivalence du jet des dés et de leur retenue, donc un traitement métaphorique du concept d’indécidabilité. La «conjonction suprême avec la probabilité» que repré-­‐
sente le vieillard hésitant à jeter les des sur la surface de la mer est d’abord, en écho des écumes initiales dont se tissait la voile du na-­‐
vire noyé, transformée en voile de fiançailles (les fiançailles de l’événement et de la situation), frêle tissu aux confins de l’engloutissement, qui «chancellera/s’affalera», littéralement aspire 58
par le néant de présentation où se dispersent les imprésentables du site. Puis ce voile, au moment de disparaître, devient une «plume solitaire», laquelle «voltige autour du gouffre». Quelle plus belle image de l’événement, à la fois impalpable et crucial, que cette plume blanche sur la mer, dont on ne peut décider raisonnable-­‐
ment si elle va «joncher» ou «fuir» la situation? La plume, au terme possible de son errance, s’ajuste au socle marin comme à une toque de velours, et, sous ce couvre chef où se jouxtent une hésitation fixée («cette blancheur rigide») et «d’esclaffement sombre» de la massivité du lieu, on voit surgir, mi-­‐
racle du texte, qui donc, sinon Hamlet, le «prince amer de l’écueil», c’est a dire, exemplairement, ce sujet de Théâtre qui lui-­‐même ne trouve pas de raison recevable de décider s’il convient, ou non, et quand, de tuer le meurtrier de son père? La «seigneuriale aigrette» du chapeau romantique dont le Danois se couvre jette les derniers feux de l’indécidabilité événe-­‐
mentielle, elle «scintille puis ombrage», et dans cette ombre où à nouveau tout risque de se perdre, surgissent une sirène et un roc —
tentation poétique du geste et massivité du lieu — qui vont cette fois conjointement s’évanouir. Car les «impatientes squames ul-­‐
times» de la tentatrice ne servent qu’a faire «s’évaporer en brumes» le roc, le «faux manoir», qui prétendait imposer «une borne à l’infini». Comprenons: l’équivalence indécidable du geste et du lieu est à ce point raffinée, sur la scène des analogies, par ses transfor-­‐
mations successives, qu’une seule image supplémentaire anéantit l’image corrélative: l’impatient geste de la queue d’une sirène, in-­‐
vite à jeter les dés, ne peut que faire disparaître la limite à l’infinité de l’indécision, c'est a dire la visibilité locale de l’événement, et ra-­‐
mener le site originel, qui congédie les deux termes du dilemme, faute d’avoir pu établir entre eux une dissymétrie tenable, d’où puisse s’énoncer la raison d’un choix. Sur aucun roc discernable de la situation n’est plus disposée la chance mythologique d’un appel. 59
Ce retour en arrière est admirablement stylise par la ré-­‐apparition d’une image antérieure, celle de la plume, qui cette fois va «s’ensevelir aux écumes originelles», son «délire» (soit le pari de pouvoir décider un événement absolu) étant allé au plus haut de lui même, jusqu’a une «cime» d’ou, figurée l’essence indécidable de l’événement, elle retombe, «flétrie par la neutralité identique du gouffre». Elle n’aura pu, ce gouffre, ni le joncher (jeter les dés) ni le fuir (éviter le geste), elle aura exemplifie l’impossibilité du choix rationnel — de l’abolition du hasard — et se sera, dans cette identi-­‐
té neutre, simplement abolie. En incise de ce développement figuratif, Mallarmé donne sa leçon abstraite, qui s’annonce au feuillet 8, entre Hamlet et la si-­‐
rène, par un «Si» mystérieux. Le feuillet 9 en résout le suspens: «Si (...) c’était le nombre, ce serait le hasard». Si l’événement délivrait la finitude fixe de l’un-­‐multiple qu'il est, il ne s’ensuivrait nulle-­‐
ment qu’on puisse avoir décidé rationnellement de son lien à la si-­‐
tuation. La fixité de l’événement comme résultat, soit son compte pour-­‐un, est soigneusement détaillée par Mallarmé: il viendrait à l’existence («existât-­‐il autrement qu’hallucination»); il serait enser-­‐
ré dans ses limites («commençât-­‐il et cessât-­‐il»), ayant surgi dans sa disparition («sourdant que nié») et s’étant fermé dans son appa-­‐
rition (« clos quand apparu»), il serait multiple («se chiffrât-­‐il»); mais il serait aussi compté pour un («évidence de la somme pour peu qu'une»). Bref, l’événement serait en situation, il aurait été pré-­‐
senté. Mais cette présentation, ou l’engloutirait dans le régime neutre de la présentation quelconque («la neutralité identique du gouffre»), laissant échapper son essence d’événement, ou, n’ayant avec ce régime nul lien saisissable, serait «pire/non/davantage ni moins/indifféremment mais autant/ le hasard», et par conséquent n'aurait pas non plus représente, à travers l’événement de l’événement, la notion absolue du «il y a». 60
Faut-­‐il donc conclure, de façon nihiliste, que le «il y a» est pour toujours in-­‐fondé, et que la pensée, se vouant aux structures et aux essences, laisse hors de son champ la vitalité interruptrice de l’événement? Que la puissance du lieu est telle qu’au point indéci-­‐
dable du hors-­‐lieu, la raison vacille et cède le pas à l’irrationnel ? C’est ce que le feuillet 10 pourrait laisser entendre, ou s’énonce que «rien n’aura eu lieu que le lieu». La «mémorable crise» qu’aurait représenté l’événement absolu symbolise dans le coup de dés aurait eu ce privilège d’échapper à la logique du résultat, l’événement se serait accompli «en vue de tout résultat nul humain», ce qui veut dire: l’ultra-­‐un du nombre aurait transcendé la loi humaine, trop humaine, du compte-­‐pour-­‐un, qui veut que le multiple puisque l’un n'est pas — ne puisse exister que comme résultat d’une structure. Par l’absoluité d’un geste, une interruption auto-­‐fondatrice aurait fusionné l’aléa et le compte, le hasard se serait affirme et aboli dans l’ultra-­‐un, «issu stellaire» d’un événement ou se déchiffre l’essence de l’événement. Mais non. «L’inferieur clapotis quelconque» de la surface marine, le pur site cette fois dépourvu de toute intériorité, même fantomatique, vient «disperser l’acte vide». Sinon, nous dit Mallarmé, si d’aventure l’événement absolu avait pu se produire, le «mensonge» de cet acte (mensonge qui est la fiction d’une vérité) aurait provoqué la ruine de l’indifférence du lieu, «la perdition (...) du vague». Puisqu’il n’a pu s’engendrer, il faut, semble-­‐t-­‐il, conve-­‐
nir que «le vague» l’emporte, que le lieu est souverain, que «rien» est le vrai nom de ce qui arrive, et que la poésie, langage ajusté à la fixation éternelle du ce-­‐qui-­‐arrive, ne se distingue pas des usages commerciaux où les noms ont pour vil office de faire s’échanger l’imaginaire des liens, la prospère et vaine réalité. Or, tel n’est pas le dernier mot. Le feuillet 11, ouvert par un «excepté peut-­‐être» où se lit une promesse, inscrit subitement, à la fois hors de tout calcul possible — donc, dans une structure qui est elle-­‐même celle de l’événement —, et en synthèse de tout ce qui précède, le double stellaire du coup de des suspendu: la Grande 61
Ourse (la constellation «vers (...) le Septentrion») énumère ses sept étoiles, effectue «le heurt successif sidéralement d’un compte total en formation ». Au «rien» du feuillet précèdent répond, hors-­‐lieu («aussi loin qu'un endroit fusionne avec un au-­‐delà») la figure es-­‐
sentielle du nombre, et donc le concept de l’événement. Cet évé-­‐
nement est bien a la fois advenue de lui-­‐même («veil-­‐
lant/doutant/roulant/brillant et méditant») et résultat, point d’arrêt («avant de s'arrêter à quelque point dernier qui le sacre»). Comment est-­‐ce possible? Pour le comprendre il faut se souvenir qu’au terme des métamorphoses ou s'inscrivait l’indécision (bras du maitre, voile, plume, Hamlet, sirène), ce n’est pas au non-­‐geste que nous parvenions, mais à l’équivalence du geste (lancer les dés) et du non-­‐geste (ne pas les lancer). La plume qui retournait aux «écumes originelles» était ainsi le symbole puri-­‐
fie de l’indécidable, elle ne signifiait pas le renoncement à l’action. Que «rien» n’ait eu lieu voulait donc seulement dire que rien de dé-­‐
cidable dans la situation ne pouvait figurer l’événement en tant que tel. En faisant prévaloir le lieu sur l’idée qu'un événement puisse y être calcule, le poème accomplit l'essence de l’événement lui-­‐
même, qui est justement d’être, de ce point de vue, incalculable. Le «il y a» pur est simultanément hasard et nombre, multiple et ultra-­‐
un, en sorte que la présentation scénique de son être délivre seu-­‐
lement du non-­‐être, puisque tout existant se réclame, lui, de la né-­‐
cessite structurée de l’un. En tant que multiple in-­‐fondé, auto-­‐
appartenance, signature indivise de soi, l’événement ne peut que s’indiquer au-­‐delà de la situation, quoiqu’il faille parler qu’il s’y est manifesté. Aussi, Le courage qu’il y a à tenir le geste dans son équiva-­‐
lence au non-­‐geste, et de risquer ainsi l’abolition dans le site, est-­‐il récompensé par le surgissement surnuméraire de la constellation, qui fixe au ciel des Idées l’ultra-­‐un de l’événement. Certes, la Grande Ourse — ce chiffrage arbitraire, qui est to-­‐
tal d’un quatre et d’un trois, et n’a donc rien à voir avec la Parousie 62
du compte suprême que symboliserait, par exemple, le double six — est «froide d’oubli et de désuétude», car l’événementialité de l’événement est tout sauf une chaleureuse présence. Cependant la constellation équivaut soustractivement, «sur quelque surface va-­‐
cante et supérieure», à tout l’être dont est capable ce qui advient, et qui nous fixe pour tache de l’interpréter, puisqu'il nous est impos-­‐
sible de le vouloir. Aussi la conclusion de ce prodigieux texte, le plus ramassé qui soit sur le sérieux limpide d'un drame conceptuel, est-­‐elle une maxime, dont je donnais naguère une autre version dans ma Théo-­‐
rie du Sujet. L’éthique, disais-­‐je, revient à l'impératif: «Décide, du point de l’indécidable». Mallarmé l’écrit : «Toute pensée émet un coup de dés». De ce que «un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le ha-­‐
sard», il ne faut pas conclure au nihilisme, à l’inutilité de l’action, encore moins au culte gestionnaire de la réalité et des liens fictifs qui y pullulent. Car si l’événement est erratique, et que du point des situations on ne peut décider qu’il existe ou n’existe pas, il nous est imparti de paner, c’est à dire de légiférer sans loi quant à cette existence. L’indécidabilité étant un attribut rationnel de l’événement, la garantie salvatrice de son non-­‐être, il n’est d’autre vigilance que de l’aborder par l’angoisse de l’hésitation comme par le courage du hors-­‐lieu. Celui qui erre aux abords des sites événe-­‐
mentiels, fidèle à la vocation d’y intervenir pour tirer du vide un nom surnuméraire, celui-­‐là, certains d’entre vous s’y reconnaitront. Mallarmé leur dit qu'ils sont à la fois, et la plume, qui «voltige au bord du gouffre», et l’étoile, «à l’altitude peut-­‐être». 63
Is it Exact That All Thought Emits A Throw of Dice? Alain Badiou Translated by Robert Boncardo & Christian R. Gelder We have, in this place, in this theatre, supported several times the textual representation of music.1 This was the case not long ago — and I remember it fondly — with my own text, L’Echarpe Rouge. What I am going to say here will be a matter of abstraction without music. There will be nothing more than a person speaking: to this day this has been the law of the Conférences du Perroquet. In order to summon up the courage required to propose only a few ornaments, I will seek refuge behind the following thesis of Mallarmé, which is that someone who speaks can on their own become the equivalent of all that music provokes. Mallarmé said this in the following terms: “At the exact moment when music appears better suited than any rite to what is present in the masses, though latent and incomprehensible, it has been shown that there is nothing, in the inarticulation or anonymity of those cries, that jubilation, that pride, and those transports, that can not with equal magnificence — and, what is more, with that clarity that is our 1
Originally published in Les conférences du Perroquet, No. 5 (janvier 1986) 3–20. We would like to sincerely thank A.J. Bartlett, Justin Clemens and Sigi Jöttkandt for their invaluable and generous suggestions on earlier versions of this translation. We are also grateful to Oliver Feltham, whose pioneering translation of Being and Event we closely consulted [TN]. conscious knowledge — be rendered by that old and holy elocution; or the Word, when someone proffers it.”2 After all, Mallarmé said this, precisely, in a conference. In doing so he justified once and for all for us that his be du Perroquet. We will also declare it retroactively to be so, thereby submitting ourselves to a very high standard. On the 11th of February 1890, in Brussels, Mallarmé pronounced in effect a conference on Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam. Villiers had died in August 1889. Between he and Mallarmé there had been a profound friendship, forged in the years 1865–1870. It was thus that in 1870, Villiers had come to see his friend in Avignon, where Mallarmé was exercising the noble profession of teaching English in a secondary college, as he did for his whole life. Among the travelling companions of Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam was Judith Gauthier, the fanatical admirer of Wagner. Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam is one of the very few writers not to have fled Paris during the Commune. From him we have an accurate and calmly composed account of the Commune, which compensates for the sinister declarations of the petulant and spiteful property owners that Flaubert, the Goncourts, George Sand and Leconte de Lisle revealed themselves to be in the circumstances. Only Hugo, Rimbaud, perhaps Verlaine, and Villiers, rose above the moral debacle and the profound villainy shown at this moment of truth by writers who, masquerading as aesthetes, had taken part in the commercial depravity of the Second Empire. Villiers noted in particular the beauty of Communard Paris, the visible happiness of the passers-­‐by, the feeling that the real inhabitants of the city finally walked its streets. I would add that Jean Aubry’s book, which is appropriately titled Une amitié exemplaire: Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam et Stéphane 2
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Villiers de L’Isle-­‐Adam,” Œuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 1945) 507. Translation from Rosemary Lloyd, Mallarmé: The Poet and His Circle (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999) 225. Translation modified. 65 Mallarmé, was published in 1941. Let us allow these dates and names to resonate with each other: 1870, the Commune, Wagner, Villiers, Mallarmé, 1941. This interweaving of the worst of history, of intellectual genius, of friendship — I believe that it quite clearly constitutes what we can call the temporal site of Mallarmé. He himself referred to it as follows: We are witnessing, in this fin-­‐de-­‐siècle, not — as it was during the last one — upheavals, but, far from the public square: a disturbance of the veil in the temple, with significant folds, and, a little, its rending.3 Mallarmé, who died in 1898 at the age of 56, could not yet imagine that what the rending of the veil would reveal was the foundational couple of the butchery of 14–18 and the October Revolution; and that thus, as far as the “public square” was concerned, we would not be left wanting. His statement seems perfectly appropriate to our own site, but perhaps the veil, torn once again, will allow us to see, once again, what is completely unknown to us. Mallarmé began his homage to Villiers as follows: A man habituated to dream, comes here to speak of another, who is dead.4 Habituated to dream… It is a paradoxical definition, because, in the poem entitled “Funeral Toast,” which Mallarmé wrote in 1873 to celebrate Théophile Gauthier, he states as a poetic imperative the prohibition of dream. Thus: It is the whole domain of our true grove that the pure poet’s humble, generous gesture prohibits dreams, his function’s enemy.5 3
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Crisis of Verse,” Divagations, tr. by Barbara Johnston (MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007) 201. Translation modified. 4
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Villiers de L’Isle-­‐Adam,” Œuvres complètes, 481. 66 Let it be said in passing that this poem sketches a different constellation. The collection in which it appears, namely Le Tombeau de Théophile Gauthier, includes a sort of passage of which the dead man, this Théophile Gauthier, who knew how to make himself loved by all, is the absent cause: the passage Hugo-­‐
Mallarmé. The collection in fact opens with a superb poem by Hugo, the one in which we find the following famous lines that Malraux would later use as a title: What a wild noise these oaks cut down For Herakles’ pyre are making in the dusk.6 Only the poem by Mallarmé reaches the heights of such an opening. Mallarmé had a powerful and conclusive image of Hugo: Hugo, in his mysterious task, brought all prose, philosophy, eloquence, history down to verse, and, since he was verse personified, he confiscated, from whoever tried to think, or discourse, or narrate, almost the right to speak. A monument in the desert, surrounded by silence; in a crypt, the divinity of a majestic unconscious idea — that is, that the form we call verse is simply itself literature; that there is verse as soon as diction calls attention to itself, rhyme as soon as there is style. Verse, I think, respectfully, waited until the giant who had identified it with his tenacious and firm blacksmith’s hand came to be missing, in order to, itself, break.7 5
Stéphane Mallarmé, The Poems in Verse, tr. by Peter Manson (Oxford, OH: Miami University Press, 2011) 107. 6
Victor Hugo, “For Théophile Gautier,” Selected Poems of Victor Hugo: A Bilingual Edition, tr. by E.H. Blackmore & A.H. Blackmore (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004) 549. 7
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Crisis of Verse,” Divagations, op. cit., 201. 67 The passe from Hugo to Mallarmé is that of the crisis of verse, which immediately opens onto the mystery in letters. What is the French language as a literary language, if verse fails? Mallarmé is the watchman of this question; question that is still being posed today and in terms of which he, Mallarmé, remains an enigmatic anticipation. The prohibition of dream is certainly a post-­‐Hugolian directive. But how can he who designates in the dream “his function’s enemy” present himself as a “man habituated to dream”? We can shed some light on this question if we ask what real is at stake here, which it would be imperative to subtract from dream. It is essential to understand that, at the antipodes of the connection between dream and Nature, in which the Romantic vision had its origins, and which Baudelaire had only half disentangled, since he remained nostalgic for it, Mallarmé holds that, in the epoch of the reign of technology, and of the accomplishment of Cartesianism in its effective possession, Nature has ceased to be of value as a referent for poetic metaphor: “Nature has taken place; it can’t be added to, except for cities or railroads or other inventions forming our material.”8 I will therefore hold that the real of which the Mallarméan text proposes the anticipation is never the unfolded figure of a spectacle. Mallarmé’s doctrine devotes poetry to the event, which is to say to the pure there is of occurrence. We have misunderstood the function of the negative in Mallarmé, since we believed we discerned in it a nihilist despair. Certainly — and I devoted a long development in my Theory of the Subject to this — we find in him a complete dialectic of procedures of absence. The intelligibility of the most minor of his poems supposes that we carefully distinguish three regimes of negation: vanishing, which has causal value, 8
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Music and Letters,” Divagations, op. cit., 187. Translation modified. 68 annulment, which has conceptual value, foreclosure, which has null value. But this dialectic has only an operative value. It organizes an experience in which, all factuality being subtracted, the pure essence of that-­‐which-­‐takes-­‐place is captured. The Mallarméan question is not: what is being? His question is: what is it “to take place” [avoir lieu], what is it for something “to happen” [se produire]? Is there a being of that-­‐which-­‐takes-­‐place insofar as it takes place? Of course, this question is very close to another, which has often been taken to be central and which is: what is it to disappear? But disappearance [disparaître] is here only the obliquity of appearance [paraître], when what is in play is appearance [l’apparaître]. Mallarmé summons us to think that the touchstone of meaning and of truth lies not in what gives or shows itself, but in that which is, in his words, “sprung from the croup and the flight.”9 Can there be, and under what conditions, a thought of what “springs forth” [surgir], a rational nomination of that which can only be counted once, having neither insistence nor consistence? It is precisely to the point of the real that, for Mallarmé, literature is devoted. In this sense it suits him to unburden literature of dream [délester du rêve] and nonetheless to be habituated to it, for this pure point can be grasped only insofar as one undertakes within oneself to prohibit dream. It is here that the prohibition, whose material is the dream, commands the impossible, whose equivocation is the real. In Lacan’s terminology, we will say that a prohibition bearing upon imaginary totalization authorizes a symbolic subtraction, from which is fixed a point of the real. This is why any poem by Mallarmé describes the place of an aleatory event, which we are required to interpret on the basis of its 9
Stéphane Mallarmé, Collected Poems, tr. by Henry Weinfield (CA: University of California Press, 1994) 79. 69 traces. Contrary to what is most often said, poetry is no longer submitted to action. This poetic universe is precisely the Hugolian passe, in the sense that it is the reverse of the Contemplations. The meaning, to my mind always univocal, of Mallarmé’s text does not result from some symbolic substrate, or from a thematic obsession. In Mallarmé, there is no profound depth. Meaning results from the detection of that which has taken place [ce qui s’y est produit], in the text — from the evental putting-­‐into-­‐play of that which, at the beginning, we have only the décor. You know of the famous “hermeticism” of Mallarmé, which has led many literary exegetes to gloss, and to the all-­‐too convenient doctrine of polysemy, by virtue of which a certain entitlement is given to arbitrary interpretations. This “hermeticism” should instead be thought in terms of the category of the enigma, in the sense of a detective novel. This empty salon, this vase of flowers, this eventail, this tombstone, this somber and deserted sea, of what crime, of what catastrophe, of what major lack are they indicative? The greatest interpreter of Mallarmé, the Australian Gardner Davies, entitled one of his books Mallarmé et le drame solaire. It is the word “drama” [drame] taken from this title that holds the general value. The sunset is in effect an example of one of those defunct events, of that appearance-­‐in-­‐disappearance, of which it is necessary to reconstruct, in the heart of the night, the “will-­‐have-­‐taken-­‐place.” But all the poems have a dramatic structure. If, at the beginning of the poem, you have an extremely condensed set of figures — a few objects — then it is according to the same law that determines that, in a detective novel, there can be no more than a few characters, indeed no more than ten, since it is amongst the members of this finite group that suspicion has to circulate, and that beyond a certain number it becomes diffuse and insignificant. Mallarméan objects are essentially suspects who are suspected of having supported or hindered a radical action, an event that must be saved on the edge of forgetting. There must be a 70 strictly circumscribed scene such that from the interpretant — from the reader — nothing is hidden. The descriptive protocol of the poem does not go beyond a system of clues such that a single hypothesis concerning what has taken place suffices to give it consistency. A sole deduction on the basis of this hypothesis must allow one to say how, having been abolished, the event will nevertheless fix itself in the décor, becoming thus the eternity of a “pure notion.” And there is no other pure notion than the pure “there is.” This can also be said as follows: every law is a law for suspects. Poetry suspects being of not releasing the event it has put behind bars. If poetry is an essential use of language, this is not because it is devoted to Presence, to the proximity of being; on the contrary, it is because it submits language to the maintenance of that which, being radically singular, pure action, would without it have fallen back into the nullity of the place. Poetry is the assumption of an undecidable: that of action itself, the action of the act, of which we can only know has taken place by wagering on its truth. Being is that to which knowledge is devoted, the event that from which a truth is woven. An event does not take place just anywhere. There are what I will call evental sites, whose ontological structure is a necessary but not sufficient condition for the essentially paradoxical multiple of the event to occur there. This structure always involves the site lying on the edge of the void, in the sense that the terms that compose the site qua multiple-­‐presentation are not themselves presented. An evental site is, in a global situation, a multiple which is counted-­‐as-­‐one on the condition that that which belongs to it is not. We can thus demonstrate that the factory is an evental site of modern politics, in the sense that, under the name of enterprise, it is presented, but without its workers being presented nor, truth be told, able to be presented. Except that, precisely, the interpretative 71 intervention undertakes, on the basis of the event, to put into circulation a name for this un-­‐presentable. The evental site thus conjoins the solidity of the one-­‐multiple with the errancy of the void, which is fixed only in the dialectic of the event and the intervention. In substance: an intervention is that which makes a name from an unpresented element of the site in order to qualify the event of which this site is the site. A poem by Mallarmé is a fictive intervention. What did not elude Mallarmé was that the status of the workers has to do with the dialectic of the site, the event and the intervention. In the text titled Conflict — and for which, at the point at which we find ourselves, is worth the entirety of Germinal by Zola — Mallarmé writes the following, making of the sleep of the railroad workers beneath his windows the emblem of a non-­‐
presentation, the sublation of which his thought must henceforth devote itself to: Constellations begin to shine: I wish that, in the darkness that covers the blind herd, there could also be points of light, eternalizing a thought, despite the sealed eyes that never understood it — for the fact, for exactitude, for it to be said.10 Mallarmé, you see, shows that what is at stake is, precisely, that the invisibility of the workers, to which the thought of the intervention is exposed, can be said. And he concludes magnificently: Keeping watch over these artisans of elementary tasks, I have occasion, beside a limpid, continuous river, to meditate on these symbols of the People — some robust intelligence bends their spines every day in order to extract, without the intermediary of wheat, the miracle of life which grounds presence: others in 10
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Conflict,” Divagations, op. cit., 46. 72 the past built aqueducts or cleared fields for some implement, wielded by the same Louis-­‐Pierre, Martin, Poitou, or the Norman. When they are not asleep, they thus invoke one another according to their mothers or their provinces. But in fact their births fall into anonymity, and their mothers into the deep sleep that prostrates them, while the weight of centuries presses down on them, eternity reduced to social proportions.11 You see that the poet is the watchman of the invisibility of the workers. You also see that it is the words “people” that is drawn from the void of the worker’s sleep, and which, by the intervention of the text, circulates henceforth under the injunction of an eternal value. More generally, it is necessary to conceive of the poem as an intervention at the outskirts of an evental site, whose fiction it institutes. This intervention aims to detect the event whose name will break with and separate from the void. For this separation between the void and the one, between the site and the unpresentable, the established order, that of reality, is perpetuated. Yet this separation is an injustice done to being. Poetry is truth since it proposes a reparative fiction for the injustice done to being. This injustice is that the event is prohibited from being. With regard to this definition, Un Coup de Dés… occupies a general position, insofar as what is at stake in it is the doctrine of the event as such and not its investment in such and such a figure. I will first read you this text, conscious of thus inviting you to read it for yourself, written as it is for the eye rather than for the ear. Mallarmé expressly anticipated that his absolute Book be read in public. He saw in these readings an operation at once political and spiritual, which would give the public the representation of that which this public — like the railroad workers 11
Ibid. 73 from before — held within itself of the invisible. He imagined that this public would be immense. His calculations predicted that, performance after performance, there would a minimum of 480,000 participants, listeners or readers. He conceived of this operation as a relation to the crowd, an essential term for Mallarmé. He said: “In this proof by the crowd through narrations or reciprocity, me, I am a simple reader carrying my copy.” The Book, having disappeared in the, reading, became its central void. Mallarmé notes: “The Book, same and null, as central, angel.” To make, by reading Mallarmé’s text, an angel pass by a detachment of the crowd, which this evening you constitute, is to be faithful to his wish. I note that, on the 27th of January and the 24th of February, Antoine Vitez and myself will, in this very place, set ourselves this same task, without any commemorative reference but by the sole and simple effect of our common admiration for this poetry and this prose, whose status in our language is properly unique. If I now read Un Coup de Dés, then it is as a text of thought, as the greatest theoretical text that exists on the conditions for thinking the event. A throw of dice will never Even when launched in eternal circumstances, from the depths of a shipwreck, Though it be/that the Abyss, blanched, spread, furious, beneath an incline desperately plane on a wing (its own) fallen back in advance from being unable to dress its flight, and covering the spurtings, cutting of the surges, most inwardly sums up the shadow buried in the deeps by this alternate sail, to the point of adapting to the wingspan its gaping maw like a shell of a ship, listing to starboard or larboard. 74 The Master, beyond ancient reckonings, the maneuver forgotten with the age, arisen/ — formerly he would grasp the helm —, inferring, from this conflagration at his feet from the unanimous horizon, that there is readied, tossed about, and mixed, in the hand that would clasp it as one shakes one’s fist at a destiny and the winds, the unique Number which cannot be another (Spirit to cast it into the storm, to fold back the division and pass on, proudly), hesitates (corpse by the arm separated from the secret it withholds), rather than play, as a hoary maniac, the game in the name of the waves (one invades the head, flows in the submissive beard — shipwreck, this, pertaining, to man, without vessel, no matter/where vain)/ from ancient time not to open up the hand clenched beyond the useless head: legacy, amid disappearance, to someone ambiguous, the ulterior immemorial demon having, from nullified regions, induced the old man toward this supreme conjunction with probability. This one (his puerile shade caressed and polished and rendered and washed, made supple by the waves and removed from the hard bones lost among the timbers), born of a frolic, the sea through the ancestor, or the ancestor against the sea, tempting an idle chance. (Nuptials from which the veil of illusion sprung up, their haunting, like the ghost of a gesture, will falter, will fall, madness). Abolish As if, an insinuation simple, in the silence, enrolled with irony, or the mystery hurled, howled, in some nearby whirlpool of hilarity and horror, flutters, about the abyss, without strewing it, or fleeing, and out of its cradles the virgin sign. As if, solitary distraught feather, — unless a midnight toque encounters, or grazes it, and immobilizes on the crumpled velvet by a somber guffaw this rigid whiteness; ridiculous; in opposition to the sky, 75 too much so not to mark in the slightest detail whoever, bitter prince of the reef, wears it (as an heroic headdress irresistible but contained by his small virile reason) in a lightning flash. Anxious, expiatory and pubescent, (mute laughter, that If) The lucid and lordly crest of vertigo invisible on the brow scintillates, then shadows a delicate dark form standing upright, in its Siren twist, long enough to slap, with impatient terminal scales forked, a rock, false manor immediately evaporated into mist, which imposed a limit on infinity. It was the number — born of the stars — ? Were it to exist (other than as scattered dying hallucination) Were it to begin and were it to cease (springing up as denied, and closed off when made manifest) at last through some thinly diffused emanation Were it to be numbered evidence of a totality however meagre Were it to illumine It would be, worse? no, more nor less, but as much indifferently, Chance. (Falls the feather, rhythmic suspension of disaster, to be buried in the original spray, whence formerly its delirium sprung up to a peak withered by the identical neutrality of the abyss). Nothing, of the memorable crisis or might the event have been accomplished in view of all results null human, will have taken place (an ordinary elevation pours out absence), but the place — some splashing below of water as if to disperse the empty act, abruptly which, otherwise, by its falsehood would have founded perdition, in these latitudes, of indeterminate waves in which all reality dissolves; Except, on high, perhaps, as far as place can fuse with the beyond (aside from the interest marked out to 76 it in general by a certain obliquity through a certain declivity of fires), toward what must be the Septentrion as well as North, a constellation, cold from forgetfulness and desuetude not so much, that it doesn’t number, on some vacant and superior surface, the successive shock in the way of stars of a total account in the making; Keeping vigil, doubting, rolling, shining and meditating, before coming to a halt at some terminus that sanctifies it. All thought emits a Throw of Dice. (Note: The text here reproduced is that from the reading, punctuated by my pauses.)12 In Un Coup de Dés, the metaphor for the fact that any evental site is on the edge of the void is constructed from a deserted horizon hanging over a stormy sea. These are stripped back to the pure immanence of the nothing — of unpresentation — which Mallarmé names the “eternal circumstances” of action. The term by which Mallarmé always designates a multiple presented within the confines of un-­‐presentation is the Abyss, which, in Un Coup de dés… is “spread,” “blanched,” and refuses in advance any flight from itself, “the wing” of its own foam being “fallen back in advance from being unable to dress its flight.” The paradox of an evental site is that it is identifiable only on the basis of what it does not present in the situation in which it itself is presented. It is only insofar as it makes-­‐one the inexistent multiples in a situation that a multiple is on the edge of the void. Mallarmé ingeniously presents this paradox by composing, on the basis of the site — the deserted Ocean — a phantom multiple that metaphorizes the inexistence of which the site is the presentation. In the scenic frame you have only the Abyss, 12
Stéphane Mallarmé, A Throw of the Dice, Collected Poems, op. cit., 124–145. We have retained the form of Badiou’s presentation of the poem [TN]. 77 indistinguishable sea and sky. But out of the “desperately plane incline” of the sky and the “gaping maw” of the waves, there is composed an image of a ship, of its sail and prow, revoked as soon as it is invoked, such that the desert of the site “most inwardly sums up … a ship [batîment]” that does not exist, being only the figurative interiority of what the empty site indicates, with nothing more than its own resources, the probable absence. Thus the event will not only occur in the site, but will do so by summoning that which the site contains of the unpresentable: the ship “buried in the deep,” whose abolished plenitude — since only the Ocean is presented — authorizes us to announce that action takes place “from the depth of a shipwreck.” For any event, in addition to being localized by its site, produces the ruin of the site with respect to the situation, since it retroactively names its interior void. The “shipwreck” singlehandedly gives us these allusive debris of which is composed, in the one of the site, the undecidable multiple of the event. A fundamental characteristic of the event is that it is ultra-­‐
one, in the sense that it is itself the determining element of the multiple that it is. A revolution, a strike, a war, a significant artistic representation — each of these contain their own proper name. When Saint-­‐Just declared, in 1794, that “the revolution is frozen,” he is certainly referring to a multiplicity of factors, fatigue, terroristic impotence, the weight of the war and military personnel. But he refers to, as being immanent to these terms, and as the ultra-­‐one of their multiple, the revolution itself, which also, insofar as it can be identified within the situation that it itself names, is in a position of self-­‐belonging. In Mallarmé’s text, the name of the event, internal as it is to its being, will arrange itself on the basis of a debris from the phantom ship, this being a symbol of the fact that the site does not present its own terms. The debris is the captain of the shipwrecked ship, the “master,” whose arm held high above the waves grips 78 between its fingers the two dice that are to be cast upon the surface of the sea. In “the hand that would hold it” there “is readied tossed about and mixed […] the unique Number which cannot be another.” That the gesture of throwing the dice is to be performed by the captain, which literally draws from the bare place the shipwreck of an inexistent ship — therefore from the disappearance of a nonbeing — indicates that the name of the event, its circulation on the surface of reality, can in effect only be drawn from the void that borders the evental site. Such is the function of all intervention: to decide that the event belongs to the situation, by drawing from the void which it borders, which is to say from unpresented terms, the name under which the event will henceforth circulate and propagate its faithful consequences. Why is the event, insofar as it occurs in the one of the site and on the basis of the “shipwrecked” multiples, which this one presents only in their result-­‐one, a throw of the dice? What does this name signify? This gesture symbolizes the event in general, namely that which, as a pure contingency that cannot be inferred from the situation, is no less a fixed multiple, a number, which nothing can modify as soon as it has unfolded — “folded back the division” — the sides of its visible faces. A throw of dice conjoins the emblem of chance to that of necessity, to the erratic multiple of the event to the retroactive readability of the count. The event in question in Un Coup de Dés… is therefore the production of an absolute symbol of the event. What is at stake in throwing the dice “from the depths of a shipwreck” is to make an event of the thought of the event. The difficulty is as follows: an event is not itself a term of the situation for which it is an event. This multiple is an ‘ultra-­‐one’, as I have said. Its essence determines that, by a special procedure that I will call the intervention, deciding the belonging of the event to the situation be decided. Considered as a simple multiple, with the 79 recognizably paradoxical property of being self-­‐belonging, the event is undecidable. It belongs to the place, or it does not: this undecidability being a matter of principle. What results from this is that an event whose content is the eventality of the event (and such is the dice thrown “in eternal circumstances”), can only take the form of indecision. Since the master must produce the absolute event (the event that, Mallarmé says, will abolish chance, being the active and fully realized concept of the “there-­‐is”), he must suspend the production from a hesitation that is itself absolute, thereby indicating that the event is a multiple that one can neither know nor see if it belongs to the situation of its site. We shall never see the master throw the dice, for on the scene of action all we have access to is a hesitation as eternal as its circumstances: “The master […] hesitates […] rather than play as a hoary maniac the game in the name of the waves […] not to open up the hand clenched beyond the useless head.” “To play the game,” or “to not open the hand”? In the first case, we miss the essence of the event, since we decide in anticipation that it will occur. Likewise for the second case, since “nothing will have taken place but the place.” Between the event annulled by the reality of its visible belonging to the situation and the event annulled by its total invisibility, the sole representable figure of the concept of the event is the mise-­‐en-­‐scène of its undecidability. Moreover, the entirety of Un Coup de Dés… organizes a stupefying series of metaphorical transformations around the theme of the undecidable. From this raised arm, which — perhaps — holds the “secret” of the number, there unfolds, according to the technique that had already summoned the unpresentability from the oceanic site by superimposing an image of a phantom vessel, a fan of analogies unfolds by which, little by little, the equivalence between the throwing and not throwing of dice is achieved — such is the metaphoric treatment of the concept of undecidability. 80 The “supreme conjunction with probability” that the old man, hesitating to throw the dice on the surface of the sea, represents, is firstly — and as an echo of the initial foam from which the sail of the drowned ship was woven — transformed into nuptial robes (the nuptials of the event and the situation), a frail fabric on the edge of vanishing, which “will falter, will fall,” blown apart by the nothingness of presentation in which unpresentables of the site are dispersed. Then this veil, at the moment of disappearing, becomes a “solitary feather,” which “flutters about the abyss.” What more beautiful image of the event, at once impalpable and crucial, than this white feather on the sea, of which we cannot reasonably decide if it will be “scattered” across the situation or whether it will “flee” it? The feather, at the possible end of its errancy, adjusts itself to this marine pedestal as if to a velvet hat. Then, underneath this headgear where a fixed hesitation (“this rigid whiteness”) adjoins “the somber guffaw” of the massivity of the place, who do we see arise but — miracle of the text — Hamlet himself, the “bitter prince of the reef”: that is, exemplarily, this subject of Theatre who can find no admissible reason for deciding if he should, or should not, and when, kill the murderer of his father. The “lordly crest” of the Romantic headgear with which the Dane adorns himself throws off the last fires of evental undecidability — it “scintillates then shadows” — and in this shadow where once again everything risks being lost, a siren and a rock arise — poetic temptation of the gesture and massivity of the place — both of which will this time vanish. For the “impatient terminal scales” of the temptress serve only to make the rock, this “false manor,” “evaporate into mist,” which had claimed to impose “a limit on infinity.” Understand this: the undecidable equivalence of the gesture and the place has at this point been refined, on the scene of analogies, by such successive transformations, that a single 81 supplementary image annihilates the correlative image: the impatient gesture of the tail of a siren, which invites a throw of dice, cannot but make the limit to the infinity of indecision — that is to say the local visibility of the event — disappear and thus bring back the original site, which dismisses the two terms of the dilemma, for lack of having failed to establish a tenable asymmetry between them, on the basis of which a rational choice could have been stated. On no discernible rock of the situation is the mythological chance of an appeal disposed. This return to a prior stage is admirably stylized by the reappearance of an anterior image, that of the feather, which this time will be “buried in the original spray”, its “delirium” (the wager of being able to decide an absolute event), having risen up as high as it could, up to a “peak” from where, figuring the undecidable essence of the event, it falls back, “withered by identical neutrality of the abyss.” It will neither have been able to join the abyss (to throw the dice) nor flee it (to avoid the gesture), it will have exemplified the impossibility of a rational choice — of abolishing chance — and in this identical neutrality will have simply abolished itself. Into this figurative development, Mallarmé inserts his abstract lesson, which is announced on the 8th sheet, between Hamlet and the siren, by a mysterious “If.” The 9th sheet breaks the suspense: “If [...] it was the number, it would be chance.” If the event were to deliver up the fixed finitude of the one-­‐multiple that it is, it would not follow that we could have rationally decided its link to the situation. The fixity of the event as a result, its count-­‐for-­‐one, is carefully detailed by Mallarmé: it would come into existence (“it would exist other than as a hallucination”); it would be held within its limits (“it would begin and it would cease”), having surged up in its very disappearance (“sprung up and denied”) and closed itself off in its appearance (“closed off when made manifest”), it would be multiple (“it would be numbered”); but it would have also been 82 counted for one (“evidence of a totality however meager”). In short, the event would be in the situation, it would have been presented. But this presentation would either swallow it up in the neutral regime of anonymous (“the identical neutrality of the abyss”), allowing its essence qua event to escape; or, having no perceptible link with this regime, the event would be “worse/no/more nor less/but as much indifferently/chance,” and consequently nothing there would not have been represented, via the event of the event, of the absolute notion of the “there is.” Should we thus conclude, in nihilist fashion, that the “there is” is forever groundless [in-­‐fondé], and that thought, devoting itself to structures and to essences, leaves outside of its scope the interruptive vitality of the event? Or even that the power of the place is such that, at the undecidable point of the outplace, reason vacillates and cedes ground to the irrational? This is what the 10th sheet, where it is stated that “nothing will have taken place but the place,” might have us believe. The “memorable crisis,” which the absolute event symbolized in the roll of the dice would have represented and which would have had the privilege of escaping from the logic of the result, would have accomplished itself “in view of all null human results.” This means: the ultra-­‐one of the number would have transcended the human, all-­‐too human, law of the count-­‐for-­‐one, which demands that the multiple — because the one is not — can not exist, except as the result of structure. By the absoluteness of a gesture, a self-­‐founding interruption would have fused together the aleatory and the count, chance would have affirmed and abolished itself in the ultra-­‐one, “the stellar result,” of an event that encrypts the essence of the event. But no. “Some splashing below” on the sea’s surface, the pure site now devoid of any interiority, even phantasmatic, comes to “disperse the empty act.” Except, Mallarmé tells us, if by chance the absolute event had been able to occur, the “falsehood” of this act (a falsehood that is the fiction of a truth), would have provoked the ruin of the 83 indifference of the place, “the perdition [...] of these indeterminate waves.” Since the event was not able to engender itself, it is necessary, it seems, to acknowledge that the “indeterminate waves” triumph over it, that the place is sovereign, that “nothing” is the true name of that which takes place, and that poetry, as language that seeks to eternally fix that which takes place, is indistinguishable from commercial uses of language in which names have for their vile office to make circulate imaginary links that support a prosperous and vain reality. But this is not the last word. On the 11th sheet, which opens with the promise of an “except perhaps,” there is suddenly inscribed, at once outside of all possible calculation — and thus in a structure which is itself that of the event —, and as a synthesis of all that has preceded, the stellar double of the suspended throw of the dice: the Great Bear (the constellation “toward … the Septentrion”), enumerating its seven stars and effecting “the successive shock in the way of stars of a total count in the making.” To the “nothing” of the preceding sheet there responds, in the outplace (“as far as place can fuse with the beyond”) the essential figure of number and thus the concept of the event. This event is precisely at once self-­‐engendering [advenue de lui-­‐même] (“keeping vigil / doubting / rolling / shining and meditating”) and a result, a stopping-­‐point (“before coming to a halt / at some terminus that sanctifies it”). How is this possible? To understand it what must be remembered is that at the end of the metamorphoses in which indecision was inscribed (the arm of the master, veil, feather, Hamlet, siren), we did not arrive at a non-­‐gesture, but rather at the equivalence of gesture (throwing the dice) and non-­‐gesture (not throwing). The feather that returns to the “original spray” was thus the purified symbol of the undecidable, not the renouncement of action. That “nothing” had taken place meant only that nothing decidable in the situation could figure the event as such. By giving 84 precedence to the place over the idea that an event can be calculated to occur there, the poem accomplishes the essence of the event, which is precisely, from the point of view of the place, incalculable. The pure “there is” is simultaneously chance and number, multiple and ultra-­‐one, such that the scenic presentation of its being delivers nothing but non-­‐being because all existents demand the structured necessity of the one. As an unfounded, self-­‐
belonging multiple — indivisible signature of itself — the event can indicate itself only as being beyond the situation, even if it is necessary to wager that it has manifested itself there. Also, with the courage that it takes to hold the gesture in its equivalence to the non-­‐gesture, and the risk of abolition in the site, the reward is the supernumerary emergence of the constellation, which fixes in the sky of Ideas the ultra-­‐one of the event. Certainly, the Great Bear — this arbitrary number [chiffrage], which is the sum of four and three, and therefore has nothing to do with the Parousia of a supreme count that would be symbolized, for example, by the double six — is “cold from forgetfulness and desuetude,” for the eventality of the event is anything but a warm [chaleureuse] presence. Nevertheless, the constellation, “on some vacant and superior surface,” is subtractively equivalent to all the being of which the event is capable, and fixes as our task its interpretation, since it is impossible for us to will it. Furthermore, the conclusion to this prodigious text, the most incisive that exists on the limpid seriousness of a conceptual drama, is a maxim I once gave a different version of in my Theory of the Subject. There, I said that ethics comes down to the imperative: “Decide from the point of the undecidable.” Mallarmé writes this as follows: “All thought emits a throw of dice.” Even if “a throw of the dice will never abolish chance,” we should not conclude with nihilism, with the uselessness of action, and even less with the managerial cult of reality and the fictive links it proliferates. For if 85 the event is erratic, and if from the point of view of the situation it cannot be decided whether it exists or not, then we are entitled to wager, which is to say to legislate without law as to its existence. Since undecidability is a rational attribute of the event, the salvific guarantee of its non-­‐being, no other form of vigilance is possible than confronting the event with the anxiety of hesitation and the courage of the outplace. One who wanders on the edge of evental sites, faithful to the vocation of intervening there in order to draw from the void a supernumerary name — some of you here will recognize yourselves in this figure. Mallarmé says to them that they are at once the feather, which “flutters about the abyss,” and the star, “on high, perhaps.” 86 Mallarmé Perchance Jean-­‐Claude Milner Translated from the French by Liesl Yamaguchi Mallarmé completes his oeuvre on chance.1 But the word reappears continually in his writings. To begin with, it characterizes the structure of language: “the mere chance that persists in terms, despite the artifice of dipping them alternately into sense or sonority.”2 The statement has been compared to the Saussurean doctrine; Mallarmé’s “chance” appears, in fact, to announce that which the Course in General Linguistics will name the arbitrary sign.3 But the comment immediately following dispels such an impression: “Beside the opaque ombre [shade], ténèbres [shadows] is not very dark; what a disappointment, before the perversity that makes the timbres of jour [day] and nuit [night], contradictorily, dark in the first case, bright in the latter.” Saussure having been the first to separate the signified, internal to language, from the thing signified, external to language, it would not be surprising to find that Mallarmé is indifferent to the 1
All Mallarmé citations are taken from the Pléiade edition edited by Bertrand Marchal, Œuvres complètes (Paris: Gallimard, 2003), henceforth abbreviated OC. 2
“le hasard demeuré aux termes malgré l’artifice de leur retrempe alternée en le sens et la sonorité.” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 213. The piece integrates a number of texts drafted at various intervals between 1886–1896). Citations refer to published English translations when available. I have silently modified these translations throughout. 3
See Gérard Genette, “Le jour, la nuit,” Langages, N° 12 (1968) 28–42. distinction. He meditates exclusively on the relation between the phonic signifier, which he calls the sound, and the thing signified, which he calls the sense. Saussure’s arbitrary assumes the sound and the thing to be mutually independent; neither party promises anything to the other, nor expects anything of the other. As for the signifier and the signified, they are compared to the recto and verso of a sheet of paper; they know nothing of one another; thus, it would be as absurd to imagine that they could contradict each other as it would be to imagine that they could confirm each other. Mallarmé, on the other hand, assumes that the sonority of the term retains some property of the thing. The examples selected demonstrate that this expectation may be disappointed, but this disappointment, which is accompanied by regret, attests to a promise in which the subject was engaged. With regard to the things signified, the phonic form ténèbres (shadows) should be darker than ombre (shade); it is not; the phonic form jour (day) should be bright and the phonic form nuit (night) dark, but the reverse is the case. Mallarmé admits two propositions that Saussure would not accept: first, that the qualities of the phonic form are of consequence; second, that these qualities should, ideally, correspond to the qualities of the thing signified. As a strict Galilean, Saussure eliminates qualities; even if one can concede that a phoneme has phonic qualities, those qualities are not, in themselves, functional in language; their role is strictly negative and oppositional: they contribute only to establishing differences between phonemes, because in language, there are only differences; in fact, they cease to be qualities and become distinctive features. Saussure announces to the speaking subject that the signifier is without qualities and that language is indifferent to the qualities of the thing signified. Mallarmé, on the other hand, evokes qualities: those of the signifier as well as those of the thing signified. Sound offers hope of sense; sense has certain expectations with regard to 88 sound. On this condition only, one can affirm that the subject is, sometimes and even often, disappointed; “disappointment,” “perversity,” “contradictorily” — this vocabulary would have no relevance for Saussure. Mallarmé’s ‘chance,’ like Aristotle’s, imitates intentionality. Saussure’s arbitrary in no way resembles intentionality. In English Words, one can recognize a catalogue of promises effectively kept. But Mallarmé never suggests that all English words, without exception, conform to the principles laid out. There is no doubt that he could have proposed examples illustrating the same type of linguistic malignity that he points out in French. Thus, chance first makes itself known in the disappointment that languages impose upon the subjects that speak them. Verse remedies this defect: “the versified line which from many expressions makes a total, new word, foreign to language, as if incantatory, achieves this isolation of speech, negating, in a sovereign sweep, the chance that persists in terms….”4 This fragment from “Crisis of Verse” is well known; nonetheless, it merits lingering over for a moment: “speech” (parole), here, is spoken aloud; this is indicated by the qualifier incantatory; it is isolated from language, as language makes no distinction between the written and the spoken. The language Mallarmé describes is literalized just as much as it is proffered. The language/speech (langue/parole) distinction is thus crucial in Mallarmé, but it does not correspond to Saussure’s distinction of the same name. Saussure opposes the individual dimension of speech to the collective dimension of language; this is not what Mallarmé stresses. Speech, for him, is fundamentally a matter of sonorous vibration: “…to transpose a fact of nature into its vibratory near-­‐
4
“Le vers qui de plusieurs vocables refait un mot total, neuf, étranger à la langue et comme incantatoire, achève cet isolement de la parole : niant, d’un trait souverain, le hasard demeuré aux termes …” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 213). 89 disappearance through the play of speech….”5 In customary usage, this play reunites a sound with a “fact of nature,” day or night, for example; the relation between the qualities of the sound and the qualities of the fact of nature is governed by chance. Such, at least, is the rule. Poetry constitutes an exception. In poetry, speech is revealed to be capable of fashioning language into an entirely new object: a word, made up of several expressions, in which the sonorous promise will be kept, though each expression taken in itself might fail to do so. Poetry does not interfere with signified things. In creating something new, it has only its sounds to work with. Working with the sonorities of words, combining them and opposing them, poetry can make it so that in a line, nuit becomes dark and jour bright, ténèbres darker than ombre. In contrast, prose, left to its own devices, is incapable of such transmutations. Poetic prose constitutes an exception, but only because it makes use of fragments of verse: “the prose of any sumptuous writer, ornamental, set apart from the general carelessness, is as a broken line, playing with its timbres and even covert rhymes…”6 Broken or intact, the line enjoys comparable powers. Mallarmé does not name these sumptuous writers; he might be thinking of Villiers de l’Isle-­‐Adam. Does typical prose, non-­‐poetic prose, accomplish nothing, then? On this point, Mallarmé explains himself by way of Victor Hugo, still in “Crisis of Verse.” “Hugo, in his mysterious task, drove [rabattit] all of prose — philosophy, oratory, history — into the realm of verse, and, seeing as he was verse personified, nearly confiscated, from anyone who thought, discussed or narrated, the 5
“… transposer un fait de nature en sa presque disparition vibratoire selon le jeu de la parole …” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 213). 6
“toute prose d’écrivain fastueux, soustraite [au] laisser-­‐aller en usage, ornementale, vaut en tant qu’un vers rompu, jouant avec ses timbres et encore les rimes dissimulées ...” (“La Musique et les Lettres,” OC II, 64). The text was published in 1894, on the basis of a paper delivered in French at Oxford, then at Cambridge. 90 right to speak.”7 Rabattre (to drive) belongs to the vocabulary of hunting; the Littré gives the definition “to force the prey into the area occupied by hunters.” The image is thus one of a hunt. Prose, previously, was dedicated to admirable enterprises: philosophy, oratory, history. It thought, discussed, narrated, privileging sense over sound. Hugo overturned the situation, luring all that is spoken into the domain of poetry. He drives, he confiscates. This quasi-­‐military landscape, differing little from that of a Napoleonic War, was made possible by a particular conception of verse: “The form called verse is simply, itself, literature; … verse appears as soon as diction accentuates itself, rhythm as soon as style.”8 The question concerns not just Hugo himself, but also his followers, who abstained from formulating the agenda explicitly. They were not aware of it; hence the expression “unconscious idea,” though it is “majestic” as well, with regard to what it enabled: the edification of a great empire of words; the annexation of everything said in language into the realm of verse. Mallarmé’s statement has occasionally been taken in the opposite sense.9 That its exact implications be restored, a more complete citation is necessary: “Monument in the desert, surrounded by silence; in a crypt, the divinity of a majestic, unconscious idea, that the form called verse is simply, itself, literature; that verse appears as soon as diction accentuates itself, rhythm as soon as style.”10 These are not the positions of Mallarmé, 7
“Hugo, dans sa tâche mystérieuse, rabattit toute la prose, philosophie, éloquence, histoire au vers, et, comme il était le vers personnellement, il confisqua chez qui pense, discourt ou narre, presque le droit à s'énoncer” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 205). 8
“La forme appelée vers est simplement elle-­‐même la littérature ; … vers il y a sitôt que s’accentue la diction, rythme dès que style” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 205). 9
See, for example, Jacques Rancière, Politique de la sirène (Hachette/Poche: 2006). 10
“Monument en ce désert, avec le silence loin ; dans une crypte, la divinité ainsi d’une majestueuse idée inconsciente, à savoir que la forme appelée vers est 91 but those of Hugo. It is a case of free indirect discourse; Mallarmé says nothing for himself. He exposes a doctrine that he rejects. He pays homage to Hugo, but his homage does not amount to a declaration of adherence. All the less so because he is ambivalent; Mallarmé expresses a grievance: driving all forms of prose into the domain of verse, confiscating everyone’s “right to speak,” Hugo is responsible for the desert in which he stands. Not only does Mallarmé keep his distance, he stands in opposition. Since Hugo’s death, verse has begun to liberate itself; “we have touched the line” (on a touché au vers), the announcement rings out in Oxford on March 1st, 1894; it summarizes the decade that has just passed. Prose must also recover the right to speak. In 1885, no one can think, discuss, or narrate anything in French without running up against the language forged by Hugo; philosophy, oratory, and history must free themselves from its empire. In its every branch, the empire must be opposed.11 An interpretation of Flaubert is discernible here: he rebelled; he was the vanguard. For Flaubert is implicitly present: it seems difficult not to recognize, in the description of divinity, an echo of Salammbô. Hugo, monument in the desert, is compared to an archeological site; today, the statue in the crypt is as outmoded as are the gods of Carthage. It has not always been noted that the statement at Oxford, “We have touched the line,” takes up the last sentence of the novel: “Thus died the daughter of Hamilcar, for having touched the mantle of Tanith.”12 Hugo’s line bears the beauty, but also the vulnerability of this invisible object, the zaïmph: “…at the same time bluish as the night, yellow as the dawn, purple as the sun, simplement elle-­‐même la littérature ; que vers il y a sitôt que s’accentue la diction, rythme dès que style” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 205). 11
Cf. Daniel Delas, “On a touché au vers! Note sur la fonction manifestaire du poème en prose au XIXe siècle,” Littérature, N° 39 (1980) 54–60. 12
“Ainsi mourut la fille d’Hamilcar pour avoir touché au manteau de Tanit” dans Gustave Flaubert, Salammbô, Oeuvres complètes I (Paris: Gallimard, 1951) 994. 92 multitudinous, diaphanous, sparkling, light. It was the mantle of the goddess, the sacred zaïmph that no one was to see.”13 One might note that the word zaïmph in the passage was Flaubert’s invention, just as the word ptyx was originally Mallarmé’s. An allusion from “Crisis of Verse” captures our attention: “We are witnessing, as if to mark the end of the century …, far from the public square, a trembling of the veil in the temple with significant folds and, a little, its rending.”14 Is this Flaubert or the Gospels? I lean toward Carthage. It took the genius of Flaubert to bring the ancient beliefs into the present, to conquer the great divide separating them from us. It took the penetrating mind of Mallarmé to make the unconscious idea of Hugo’s oeuvre manifest. “Monument in the desert,” “… in a crypt, the divinity,” these are the expressions of an archeologist discovering a statue devoted to some forgotten form of worship. This is how a chief excavator would speak if, by chance, he stumbled upon a colossal representation of Tanith. Neither Flaubert nor the antiquities specialist believes in the gods of Carthage; Mallarmé is not a follower of Hugo, but an adversary. He methodically analyzes the dogma of the cult to be combatted. Verse can subsume all of prose on the condition that one accept the following axioms: (1) “verse appears as soon as diction accentuates itself”; (2) this accentuation of diction makes audible the rhythm in prose; (3) in prose there is “rhythm as soon as style.” Hugo’s reasoning may be restored even more fully if its order is reversed: consider a type of prose that is governed by a 13
“… tout à la fois bleuâtre comme la nuit, jaune comme l'aurore, pourpre comme le soleil, nombreux, diaphane, étincelant, léger. C’était là le manteau de la Déesse, le zaïmph saint que l’on ne pouvait voir” (776). 14
“On assiste, comme finale d’un siècle …, hors de la place publique, à une inquiétude du voile dans le temple avec des plis significatifs et un peu sa déchirure” (“Crise de vers,” 205). In his commentary, Bertrand Marchal leans toward the Gospels. Mallarmé was not without a sardonic sense of humor; a double allusion would not be beyond him. 93 particular style; this style is endowed with a powerful rhythm; to bring this rhythm out, speech must — and need only — accentuate itself; thus a line of verse takes shape: a simple putting into voice, and not “incantatory speech.” This vocalization allows the passage from prose into verse to take place simply and easily, but in the process, prose ceases to exist independent of verse. Hence the Hugolian doctrine that summarizes all the rest: “The form called verse is simply, itself, literature.” For prose to become literature or for it to become verse are one and the same. But to become verse does not mean to be in verse form. Style will suffice, because it suffices to accentuate the rhythm produced by style to obtain poetry. Prose no longer exists, but in the end, neither does verse. The two merge in the great ocean that is literature; literature absorbs verse and verse is incarnated in the person of Victor Hugo. Between The Legend of the Ages and Les Misérables, the language remains identical to itself because it has reached its apex; the rhythm, be it born of versification or born of style, is of the same nature; in both cases, it emerges through simple reinforcement and accentuation. From that point on, literature constitutes a unified space that becomes confused with the Hugolian empire; within it, there is free movement between prose and verse. The point bears stressing: Mallarmé reconstitutes this agenda for the sole purpose of distancing himself from it. Consequently, he reaches the affirmative theorems of “Crisis of Verse” through a systematic reversal; each article of faith in the Hugolian doctrine must be overturned; according to Mallarmé, (1) verse need not subsume prose; (2) verse form is not coextensive with literature, nor literature with verse; (3) one does not have verse as soon as diction is accentuated. Verse requires a supplementary component comprised of calculations, symmetries, plays of sonority and, running under it all, a design to create, by means of verse, this single word that language lacks, this word 94 whose sounds correspond with its sense. A line sketches a rhythm, certainly, but that rhythm has nothing to do with style. Style may be necessary to prose, but it is foreign to verse. Style alone, even in the hands of the greatest prose writers, can never make jour bright and nuit dark; that privilege is reserved for the versified line, and, secondarily, for the broken line contained in poetic prose. It is true that Mallarmé played with ambiguities. When he suggests, in Music and Letters, that “verse is everything when one writes,”15 the hurried reader thinks Hugo has resurfaced; but writes here is to be understood in a narrow sense: all writers, admired though they may be, do not write; a philosopher, a rhetorician, a historian — do not write. In the same text, the apparent equation “style, versification so long as there is cadence,” would seem to reassert the Hugolian faith; it does not, not in the least. A severe limitation has been imposed: style is not versification unless it has a cadence. Which would imply: there are styles with no cadence. Mallarmé does not name names; it falls to the reader to find examples. By means of verse, poetry abolishes chance. “The Mystery in Letters” is explicit on this point. In response to an article by Proust, Mallarmé, exceptionally, explains his art;16 he defends himself against the accusation of obscurity, but above all he lays out theses. He defines the poetic line (vers) as a line (ligne) bound by blanks, and as the site of a victory: “When chance aligned …, having been conquered, word by word, unfailingly the blank returns.”17 The blank is that of the printed page; the victory is obtained by means of sonorities and sonorities alone. 15
“La Musique et les Lettres,” OC II, 64. Marcel Proust’s article “Against Obscurity” (“Contre l'obscurité”) was published in July 1896 in the Revue blanche. “The Mystery in Letters” (“Le Mystère dans les lettres"), OC II, 229–234, was published in September of the same year, in the same journal. 17
“Quand s’aligna … le hasard vaincu mot par mot, indéfectiblement le blanc revient” (“Le Mystère dans les lettres,” OC II, 229–234). 16
95 We recall that Hugo had confiscated the right to speak from “anyone who thought, discussed, or narrated.”18 In other words, verse alone was able to think, discuss, or narrate. We recall as well that Mallarmé systematically reverses the Hugolian doctrine; if we follow the logic to its conclusion, we reach the unstated proposition contained therein: verse does not think, does not discuss, does not narrate. Thus imperialism is disarmed; prose recovers its freedom and, in return, verse is left to its true destiny. The implicit proposition finds a strange echo in Chapter VI of The Interpretation of Dreams, in which Freud characterizes the dream as follows: “[The dream-­‐work] does not think, calculate, or judge at all, but limits itself to the work of transformation.”19 Lacan takes up the formulation and extends it to the entire unconscious: knowledge “that does not think, calculate, or judge.”20 With Mallarmé, one discerns, on the horizon, the hypothesis of a verse that neither thinks, nor discusses, nor narrates, but accomplishes a task: it abolishes chance. Verse has only one means at its disposal, but it is sovereign: it resounds. This is why Mallarmé engages music, another magician of sonorities. And opera. Having recalled Wagner’s “magnificent, instrumental polyphony,” Mallarmé wonders, “Does this mean that the traditional writer of verse, he who works with the humble and sacred artifice of speech alone, will attempt, by means of this sole resource, subtly elected, to compete? Yes, with something like an opera neither accompanied nor sung, but spoken.”21 One might 18
“il confisqua chez qui pense, discourt ou narre, presque le droit à s'énoncer” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 205). 19
Sigmund Freud, La science des rêves (Paris: P.U.F., 1980) 432. 20
“qui ne pense pas, ni ne calcule, ni ne juge” in Jacques Lacan, “Télévision,” Autres écrits (Paris: Seuil, 2001) 518. 21
“Va-­‐t-­‐il se faire que le traditionnel écrivain de vers, celui qui s’en tient aux artifices humbles et sacrés de la parole, tente, selon sa ressource unique subtilement élue, de rivaliser ! Oui, en tant qu’un opéra sans accompagnement ni 96 note the insistence upon speech and the spoken: verse must be declaimed aloud, in incantation. Mallarmé continues, “With two pages and their lines of verse, I provide a surrogate, adding the accompaniment of my whole self, for the world!”22 One might say the two pages announce the Roll of the Dice, but that text is not in verse — a major difference, as we shall see. The phrase “the accompaniment of my whole self” sums up the implication of the body, summoned in its entirety into the declamation of poetry. In short, we have arrived at what one might call Mallarmé’s fundamental theorem: Verse abolishes chance only when it is disjoined from thought. And hence, a lemma: thought speaks in prose. From which it follows that the prose of thought does not abolish chance. And the same applies for the prose of discourse or narration. Though the novel is not mentioned, its implication is clear. It must be added that the theorem and its lemma apply to Mallarmé himself. He explicitly includes philosophy amongst the prose genres; this inclusion is not self-­‐evident. One would be justified in recognizing within it a trace of the importance Mallarmé accorded Hegel, or at least accorded his language, such as it was transmitted to him through the Vera translation. He had, on the basis of the translation, constructed a lexicon for his doctrinal writings. In so far as they depend upon philosophy, those writings are in “non-­‐poetic” prose; they do not partake of the prose poem in any way. Because Mallarmé wrote prose poems as well, it is necessary to establish a difference in kind between them and the doctrinal texts, however perfect in form. Human beings speak; they speak in languages; thus, they engage with the chance that governs the encounter between sound chant, mais parlé.” (“Planches et feuillets,” Crayonné au théâtre, OC II, 195). The text dates from 1893. 22
“Avec deux pages et leurs vers, je supplée, puis l’accompagnement de tout moi-­‐
même, au monde!” 97 and sense. But they also engage with the chance that governs their own encounters. The internal law organizing the language and the external law determining the coexistence of speaking beings are exactly homogenous with one another. In fact, they form but one and the same law, because there is only one chance. Whatever the context from which it arises, chance designates, purely and simply, the law of multiplicity. Language, in Mallarmé’s account, is intrinsically multiple, not only because there are multiple languages, but also because each expression in each language is born of a collision of two elements foreign to each other: sound and sense. The multiplicity begins with the Two. But the same applies to speaking beings themselves. Considered simultaneously from a single point of view, they appear to form a crowd. The crowd is an unbounded entity, just as everyday language is, and each being, in the crowd, is a random collision of a body and a breath of life. One might mix the terminologies and describe languages as a crowd of languages, each language as a crowd of expressions, each expression as a crowd of two: the random co-­‐existence of a sound and a sense. Reciprocally, with regard to speaking beings, the crowd, in the singular, functions in the same way that language, in the singular, does with regard to expressions. This structural equivalence, or rather, identity, explains a turn of phrase articulated but once in Mallarmé. And it has often been overlooked. It appears in Bucolic, a prose piece that might be taken as an homage to the poet’s summers in Valvins:23 “The artist and the man of letters, who goes by the unique name of poet, has no business in a space devoted to the crowd or chance.”24 The substantives crowd and chance are treated as synonyms, freely 23
Mallarmé’s country residence. “L’artiste et lettré, qui se range sous l’unique vocable de poète, n’a lui, à faire dans un lieu adonné à la foule ou hasard.” “Bucolique,” Grands faits divers, OC II, 252. The text dates from 1895. The formulation of equivalence was written in on the proofs by Mallarmé. 24
98 interchangeable for one another. When Mallarmé speaks of chance, he speaks of the crowd and vice versa. A crowd of spoken words or a crowd of speaking beings, a chance encounter of sound and sense or a chance encounter of passers-­‐by. Verse abolishes chance at the core of language; should it not abolish chance in its form as a crowd? Here we come to the question of the Book. On the basis of the notes that Mallarmé left, it appears that, indeed, the Book was conceived as a means of organizing a multiplicity.25 Mallarmé speculates on the number of participants and attempts to subject that number to the necessary constraint of calculation. An abolition of the crowd should result. One is tempted to take up Lenin’s phrase — Lenin, who, in 1901, defined the revolutionary newspaper as a “collective organizer.” Similarly, one might think of the Book as an organizer by means of which a group of speaking beings who are devoted to realizing it in spoken form isolates itself in the midst of the crowd. Just as the collaboration of drafters gives birth to the revolutionary newspaper, so do the reading sessions of the participants enable the functioning of the Book. In both cases, the organizer is collective, the better to organize the collectivity. In the end, I would dare to suppose that through the repeated action of the Book, the analogue to a revolutionary party would come into being. The analogy seems more fertile to me than the ceremonial of an atheist religion, too often evoked by commentators. After all, revolution undertakes to abolish the chance that, in society, slots someone or other into the class of the powerful or the class of the poor. In any event, two abolitions may be distinguished; verse abolishes the chance in language, and the Book, in creating an organized coexistence, abolishes the chance of the crowd.26 Could 25
“Notes en vue du Livre,” OC I, 947–1060. I am leaving aside the chance one might call editorial: “An order innate to the book of verse exists … everywhere, eliminating chance” (“Une ordonnance du livre de vers … partout, élimine le hasard,” “Crise de vers,” 211); “The haphazard 26
99 the two abolitions be connected? Yes, if the Book is in verse, but no one can determine with certainty whether the Book as Mallarmé conceived it was to be in verse or not. Thus, two abolitions of chance are to be admitted as possible: one concerns the crowd, but we have no reliable trace of the procedures involved and some doubt whether it has ever been put into action; the other concerns language: it happens through verse; it has been enacted. The operation is simple and clear. It is an operation of resistance — against Hugo, in poetry, against the crowd in society, against Hugo as the poet of the crowd. Is this the final word from Mallarmé? Obviously not. In “Crisis of Verse,” he announces the end of an era: “Our recent phase is, if not coming to a close, taking a break, or perhaps taking stock…”27 The move away from the versified line began with Hugo’s death in 1885; everything happened as if verse had waited for this moment to break apart. Now, “the whole language is escaping”: “the whole language,” not just verse.28 And here one has to be wary. Mallarmé, as if for the fun of it, cast his statement in obscurity. In “Crisis of Verse,” he distinguishes not two periods — before and after Hugo’s death — but three. The period Mallarmé calls “our recent phase” ends at the moment he uses the phrase: 1895. It was preceded by a previous phase, precisely the one that Hugo dominated, despite the sporadic resistance of Baudelaire or Flaubert. It will be followed by a new phase inaugurated by the Roll of the Dice. This middle phase is one of open resistance, the war of the Titans against Olympus, one might say. It is not confined to the breakdown of verse; it includes collection, and there are indeed such; or chance… should never be anything but simulated” (“Le précaire recueil d’inspiration diverse, c’en est fait ; ou du hasard, qui ne doit … jamais qu’être simulé” (“Planches et feuillets,” 195). The distinction between “to eliminate” and “to abolish” is to be maintained. 27
“Notre phase, récente, sinon se ferme, prend arrêt ou peut-­‐être conscience …” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 204). The text dates from 1895. 28
“toute la langue s’évade” (“Crise de Vers,” OC II, 205). 100 Mallarmé’s own oeuvre. And Mallarmé does not participate in the break with verse; he keeps its distance. In truth, he works primarily with the versified line and adopts the very strictest rules of the sonnet. It is during this stage that, for fifteen years, he formulates axioms, theorems, and lemmas; it is during this stage that he promotes verse disconnected from thought. It would be difficult to overemphasize this point: all of the traits that, to our eyes, define Mallarmé’s poetry, belong to what he calls “our recent phase.” Yet, “Crisis of Verse” characterizes that phase negatively. To illustrate the process by which the line is breaking apart, the lecturer selects an example he describes as “curious”: Henri de Régnier inserted, among regular alexandrines, lines of eleven, thirteen, or fourteen syllables; Jules Laforgue “initiated us to the particular charm of the line that’s slightly off.”29 Régnier is compared to an instrumentalist who hesitates, respectfully, before the keys; Laforgue, on the other hand, takes part in a “mutiny.” Mallarmé comments, “Up to now, or in either of the cases just cited, there is nothing but reserve and abandon, brought on by exhaustion at the overuse of the national cadence; whose use, like that of the flag, should remain exceptional.”30 Then comes the crucial clarification: “…willful infractions or knowing dissonances call upon our sensitivities, whereas scarcely fifteen years ago, the pedant, whom we have remained, was exasperated, as if confronted with some ignorant sacrilege!”31 In a few lines, Mallarmé lays out three points: (a) he opposes his present position to his past position; previously, he would have rejected the games of Régnier and condemned Laforgue’s mutiny; 29
“nous initia au charme certain du vers faux.” “Jusqu’à présent, ou dans l’un et l’autre des modèles précités, rien, que réserve et abandon, à cause de la lassitude par abus de la cadence nationale ; dont l’emploi, ainsi que celui du drapeau, doit demeurer exceptionnel.” 31
“… des infractions volontaires ou de savantes dissonances en appellent à notre délicatesse, au lieu que se fût, il y a quinze ans à peine, le pédant, que nous demeurions, exaspéré, comme devant quelque sacrilège ignare !” 30
101 today, he finds a subtle pleasure in them; (b) he dates his past position, situating it around 1880; (c) he characterizes it as pedantic. We are witnessing something we would not have expected from Mallarmé: a self-­‐critique. And in the same moment, the historical analysis grows clearer. We knew that the “recent phase” presented two roads, the breakdown of the versified line on the one hand and its exaltation on the other, but now we learn that there had been a struggle between the two roads. Mallarmé reveals that the war fought against Hugo did not reside on an alliance; the assailants, on the contrary, were divided amongst themselves. From a chronological point of view, the operation of breaking down verse certainly began with Hugo’s death in 1885, but Mallarmé’s operation began earlier; his forces had been deployed from 1880 and doubtless before that. What is he alluding to, more precisely? Jacques Roubaud’s studies enable us to find out.32 It is not just an issue of the versified line; it is also the privilege accorded to the sonnet and to the adherence, within the sonnet, to strict constraints that Baudelaire, for example, had ignored. Mallarmé converted to the doctrine formulated in 1872 by Théodore de Banville in his Short Treatise on French Poetry. In 1876, he publishes “The Tomb of Edgar Poe,” his first sonnet “à la Banville.” In 1887, he corrects his 1864 sonnet “The Chastened Clown” to bring it into conformity with Banville’s rules. And then in 1895, he calls it pedantic. This judgment applies, as we shall see, to the principles that presided over the most important of his poems. It does not imply a disavowal of the poems themselves; in 1894, Mallarmé is even preparing a new and expanded edition. It will appear after his death in 1899. However, the principles of composition are rejected. “The Roll of the Dice” does not just 32
Jacques Roubaud, “Sur la forme du sonnet mallarméen.” Cahiers de l'Association internationale des études françaises, vol. 56, N° 1 (2004) 217–229. 102 announce a new literary form; it also entails the abandonment of the forms in which Mallarmé previously wrote. Some might readily use the term renegade to designate those who no do not consider themselves bound to think, after years of reflection, as they thought before having reflected. The author of “Crisis of Verse” expresses himself as a renegade with regard to the poetic principles that had been his. This decisive break, at once profound and serene, will give birth to the “Roll of the Dice.” Between “Scribbled at the Theater,” which dates from 1893, and “Crisis of Verse,” times have changed. In 1893, the second phase is still underway, though coming to an end. In 1895, the third phase has just begun. Hence the differences with regard to verse that mark the two texts. In Mallarmé’s mind, the “Roll of the Dice” must attest to a new era, not only in the poem itself, but also in the preface he gave to the journal Cosmopolis.33 As the final expression of the Mallarméan doctrine, it bears particular import. It is organized around two positions: that traditional verse be set aside, reserved for rare occasions; and that thought belong to Poetry — on which the text concludes: “Poetry, unique source.” Far from excluding one another, prose and versification come together to found a genre — or rather, Mallarmé hopes they will found one, comparable to the genre of the symphony in music.34 “The endeavor takes part, unexpectedly, in some specific pursuits … of our time, free verse and the prose poem.”35 The conflict of the 33
“Observation relative au poème Un coup de Dés jamais n'abolira le Hasard,” OC I, 391–392. In the Pléaide edition by B. Marchal, the facsimile reproduction of the 1897 version published in Cosmopolis is qualified as the “pre-­‐original edition.” It should not be taken as a replacement for Mitsou Ronat’s edition, conceived on the basis of her own research and realized typographically by Tibor Papp (Paris: Change errant/D'atelier, 1980). 34
“Observation,” 392. 35
“La tentative participe, avec imprévu, de poursuites particulières … à notre temps, le vers libre et le poème en prose”(“Observation,” OC I, 392). 103 previous phase with regard to the breakdown of verse is thus brought to a close; “unexpectedly,” because nothing about the pedantic Mallarmé would have led us to expect such a gesture on his part. I do not rule out, in a reader of Hegel, a recollection of the classic ternary: following the thesis, incarnated by Hugo, a moment of antithesis had to ensue, placed beneath the sign of multiplied contradiction; finally, we arrive at the synthesis, also multiplied. In short: Poetry is reached by means of prose, not verse. A more complete reversal of the Hugolian faith is unimaginable. Where prose was driven into the domain of verse, verse is now driven into that of prose. In order to speak in prose rather than verse, Poetry requires outside assistance: Music. “Influence, foreign, I know, that of Music heard in concert.”36 Verse no longer offering the possibility of its linear perfection, the “perfect line,” Music proposes the organization of the page — the score and staves — as well as a sonorous play: the rise and fall of the voice, the greater or lesser intensity of delivery. While verse is addressed exclusively to the ear, Poetry, supported by the example of the musical score, adds sight: “so that people will open their eyes.”37 The Page is substituted for the line as the minimal element of Poetry; but, the Page, in the critical terminology, was reserved for prose — more precisely, a prose in which style reigned. To praise a page of Chateaubriand was to grasp the essence of the great prose writer and master stylist. The chronology of “Crisis of Verse” comes into focus in the preface to “A Roll of the Dice.” As long as Victor Hugo had to be fought, verse stood at the center, as did the sonnet. Free verse and the prose poem, though respected, fell to the margins. For verse, the stronghold of the Hugolian empire, to be re-­‐conquered, it had to be disconnected from thought and restored exclusively to the 36
“Influence, je sais étrangère, celle de la Musique entendue au concert” (“Observation”). 37
“pour que s'ouvrent des yeux” (“Observation,” 392). 104 play of sonorities. Only at this price did Poetry escape from the disaster its unlimited expansion promised to bring down upon it. Henceforth, the situation is reversed in its entirety. Poetry can and must think. Such is the task of the new genre inaugurated by Mallarmé. His concluding sentence merits careful reading: Mallarmé “maintains the worship” of the old verse; to it he allocates the empire of passion and reverie; but, he adds, the time has come for other pursuits: “one might treat, preferably (as in the following) such subjects of pure and complex imagination or intellect.”38 This is precisely what Mallarmé says he has done: the parenthetical “as in the following” refers to the poem. Two words are significant here. The first is intellect; formerly, verse did not think, but Poetry, henceforth, makes use of prose and the greatest resource thereof: thought. The second important word is preferably: Poetry not only can think, it should. Hence the pivotal sentence: “Never will a roll of the dice abolish chance.” It is incomprehensible unless put in relation to another sentence, the one that closes the “Roll of the Dice”: “Every Thought emits a Roll of the Dice.” But what, in turn, does this sentence mean? The answer becomes clearer if we recall the fundamental theorem and its lemma. By means of which the sentence might be translated: prose is but a succession of roll of the dice after roll of the dice. And indeed, the “Roll of the Dice” is in prose, the “Roll of the Dice” thinks, the “Roll of the Dice” is a roll of the dice. The pivot sentence bears the form of a wise maxim; it articulates a thought. Truth be told, it articulates a tautology: a roll of the dice is a mechanism designed to generate chance; it would be contradictory to imagine that it could abolish it. Mallarmé isolates the weakest possible thought. Descartes sought the 38
“ce serait le cas de traiter, de préférence (ainsi qu'il suit) tels sujets d’imagination pure et complexe ou intellect.” 105 minimal thought in much the same way; he found it in the Cogito, which he himself considered a tired saying; hoc tritum, he says, “this worn-­‐out phrase.” Mallarmé could hardly confer a more favorable judgment upon his own pivot sentence. Like the Cogito, it folds back on itself; in so far as it is a thought, it casts a roll of the dice; saying that a roll of the dice does not abolish chance, it says of itself that it is a roll of the dice and that it does not abolish chance. The words that compose it obey the law governing encounters of sound and sense; as in any prose sentence, they give rise to the principal effect of prose: thought as non-­‐abolition of chance. But unlike all the other sentences, the pivot sentence states the effect it produces. In this respect, it could be called performative, just as, according to certain logicians, the Cogito is performative. Mallarmé’s sentence announces the Cogito of a poet who can say I because he has attained impersonality and achieved his own “elocutionary disappearance.”39 When combined with the terminal sentence “Every Thought emits a Roll of the Dice,” Mallarmé’s pivot sentence might be said, more precisely, to update his transformation of the Cogito: it thinks, thus it is a roll of the dice. One is inclined to recall Lacan’s aphorism: “I think where I am not,”40 except that the I has been erased. The pivot sentence contains thirteen syllables. These thirteen syllables do not merely serve to establish that the sentence is in prose. They go to greater lengths than that; they articulate a stifled line in the way that prose writers had, until just recently, been trained to do to avoid alexandrines. The Autodidact in Nausea still subjects himself to this exercise. One who begins with six syllables, it was said, should follow up with seven or five. For if the first part of the sentence bears an even number of syllables, the second should not do so as well, nor should it be too obviously 39
“disparition élocutoire,” “Crise de Vers,” 211. “Je pense où je ne suis pas,” Jacques Lacan, “L'instance de la lettre,” Écrits I (Paris: Seuil, 1999) 515. 40
106 shorter — elimination of four, three, two and one — or longer —
elimination of eight and nine. Moreover, it would take precious little to make the pivot sentence an alexandrine; a change in verb tense from future to historic past would have done it. Just as Boileau, in The Lectern, writes in the historic past tense “A reheated dinner never was worth anything” (Qu'un dîner réchauffé ne valut jamais rien), Mallarmé could have written “A roll of the dice never abolished chance” (Un coup de dés jamais n'abolit le hasard); a particular use of the historic past that recalls the gnomic aorist of Ancient Greek would have constructed a saying that could pass for a proverb. Beneath the thirteen syllables lurks the phantom of a disfigured line. Closer to Laforgue’s mutiny than to Régnier’s games, the pivot sentence rejects the versified line that presents itself. In the second virtual hemistich’s inclusion of an extra syllable, six is sacrificed at the altar of seven. The terminal sentence counts seven words. The seven letters of Anatole return, “sparse hallucination of agony,” the poem says.41 In the attentive ear, a plaintive silence resounds; no sentence will abolish the chance that brought the boy’s death, and each thought repeats the blow. The number has laid the cornerstone upon the grave. “Nothing of the memorable crisis will have taken place.”42 This crisis is none other than the crisis of verse. Mallarmé retracts the name that he himself had forged. We have touched the line: it is still news, but it is no longer a current event. Verse lost the battle, but Poetry won the war. Urgent concerns have changed; abolishing the chance in language no longer figures among them. What has happened that the theater of operations should make such an about-­‐face? Quite simply the end of the war of liberation fought against Hugo. Poetry no longer needs to impose the rigorous asceticism of the versified line upon itself; it can and must 41
“hallucination éparse d'agonie” (“Coup de Dés,” 383). “Rien de la mémorable crise n'aura eu lieu” (“Coup de Dés,” 384). 42
107 explore the new avenues that afford it thought and imagination. Hugo having been definitively conquered, there is no longer any reason for Poetry to maintain the divisions, prohibitions and ambitions that combat required. For its ambitions have also been extinguished. The preface does not just declare a victory; it also enacts a renunciation. Verse having been left to the past, the chance in language, in the new genre, takes up its usual course. And what of the chance of the crowd? Mallarmé had, at one point, imagined arithmetical procedures to combat it; if one trusts the notes on the Book, no concern was more pressing. If Mitsou Ronat and Quentin Meillassoux are indeed correct, the calculations were put into practice in the “Roll of the Dice”43; but there they sought merely to organize the page, without any aim of organizing a collectivity. Mallarmé had invoked Wagner and Bayreuth to illustrate what one could expect from an abolition of the crowd. And while Music is present in the preface, opera is not; the concert appears instead. And the concert, quite explicitly, is a happenstance gathering: dependent upon chance and the crowd.44 So be it. The pivot sentence announces the end of a plan of action. We are back at the political nihilism that I previously identified in my commentary on the swan sonnet.45 Mallarmé himself consents to it; one need read him with but little attention. In “Bucolic,” we recall that crowd and chance are identified with one another; but the context is nonetheless important: “The artist and the man of letters, who goes by the unique name of poet, has no business in a space devoted to the crowd or chance […]. But perhaps it was necessary for him to have gone there and even to 43
Mitsou Ronat, “Le « Coup de Dés »: forme fixe?” Cahiers de l'Association internationale des études francaises, N° 32 (1980) 141-­‐147; Quentin Meillassoux, Le Nombre et la sirène (Paris: Fayard, 2011). 44
“Plaisir sacré,” Offices, OC II, 237. The text dates from 1893. 45
Jean-­‐Claude Milner, Mallarmé au Tombeau (Lagrasse: Verdier, 1999). 108 have held fast; in order to return, wiser and, anywhere, to bury as if useless, his precious tribute, with the certainty of [no/some] use (avec la certitude d’aucun emploi)…”46 Is the aucun negative or affirmative here? Is the certainty that no use will ever be found for the poem, or that one day a use will emerge? By chance, the language permits both readings. Mallarmé is careful not to offer any indication that would authorize a decisive one, as his prose does not abolish the chance in language. The Book, in any case, with its capital letter, is henceforth nowhere to be found. Nowhere to be found, “buried as if useless,” so what difference does it make whether it exists or not? To which the “Roll of the Dice” adds that, in fact, it does not exist. A page has been turned. Combining “Bucolic” with the “Roll of the Dice,” we can draw three equations. Two are explicit: thought = roll of the dice; crowd = chance. The third is implicit: roll of the dice = chance. By means of synonymic substitution, we can retranslate the pivot sentence into a number of equivalent propositions. Some are overtly anti-­‐political or even anti-­‐messianic: never will a thought abolish the crowd; never will a crowd abolish the crowd; never will a chance occurrence abolish chance. Other equations come to mind. It is merely chance that a speaking being is born, chance that he dies, chance that his name — the seven letters of Anatole — is what it is. And it is chance again that he should speak this language or that, chance that he should meet his fellow human beings, chance that he should take part in this particular world. Chance just like the chance correspondence of the sets of seven. And they are merely a crowd, the congregations that existed before to him. A crowd, the groups 46
“L’artiste et lettré, qui se range sous l’unique vocable de poète, n’a lui, à faire dans un lieu adonné à la foule ou hasard; […] cependant, nécessaire d’y être venu et même d’avoir tenu bon ; pour s’en retourner, docte et, n’importe où, enfouir comme inutile, précieux son tribut, avec la certitude d’aucun emploi …” (“Bucolique,” Grands faits divers, OC II, 252). 109 he organizes. A crowd, the interiority that he discovers in himself. A crowd, the starry sky that he contemplates outside. The speaking being is in every respect like a roll of the dice. A roll of the dice is nothing but another name for a speaking being. And just as a roll of the dice, because it both supposes and produces chance, is incapable of abolishing it, so is the speaking being incapable of abolishing the chance of which he is a product. It is not just the Revolution, not just the Book, but also Verse that cherished vain aspirations. Poetry alone speaks the truth: in the end, the only winner is chance. 110 Mallarmé and the Tension of Timbre Liesl Yamaguchi In the winter of 1894, Stéphane Mallarmé traveled to England “bearing news.” “The most surprising kind.” Judging from the opening lines of the lecture that was the reason for his voyage, he was fairly bursting with it. “I do indeed bring news,” he declared to the crowd assembled at Oxford’s Taylorian Institution on the first of March: “Verse has been tampered with.” A fissure had emerged within the ancient unity long known indifferently as verse or as poetry, and Mallarmé, tracing it, had deduced the magnitude of its implications with astonishing prescience. Standing before the fault line that would bring untold reconfigurations, he marked the moment. He pointed. “That is where we are, right now,” he observed. “The separation.”1 The separation Mallarmé’s lecture describes is binary in nature: it identifies, on the one side, the “very strict, numerical, direct, two-­‐part meter, from before,” and on the other, “the development of that which just recently obtained the name of prose poem.” The separation divides meter from all the prose poem has inspired. It does not place the two elements in a relation of succession; it merely separates them. For despite the qualifier “from 1
“Sûr, nous en sommes là, présentement. La séparation.” In Stéphane Mallarmé, “La Musique et les Lettres,” Oeuvres complètes, ed. Bertrand Marchal, Vol. II (Paris: Gallimard, 2003) 64. Henceforth OC II. Translations of Mallarmé refer to Barbara Johnson’s Divagations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007) when applicable. I have silently modified these translations throughout. Other translations are mine unless otherwise noted. before” (antérieur) beside “meter,” and the “just recently” (naguères) that characterizes the recognition of the prose poem, that which exists on either side of the divide persists into the present. As the derivatives of the prose poem flourish, “meter, from before, carries on; nearby.”2 From a twenty-­‐first century perspective, the division Mallarmé describes seems readily recognizable as that which exists today between “verse” and “poetry.” Poetry, a porous and essentially undefined category, is as contested in scope and validity as were the prose poem and its derivatives in Mallarmé’s day; verse, on the other hand, is just language set to meter.3 That meter may be syllabic, accentual, tonal, quantitative, or indeed any combination thereof, but whichever it is, it is the defining feature of the form we call verse, as it has been since antiquity. In the writings of Stéphane Mallarmé, however, this definition of verse is not self-­‐evident. And if Mallarmé’s “verse” is not, in fact, synonymous with “meter,” the separation he identifies in the Taylorian lecture differs appreciably from the contemporary division between “poetry” and “verse.” In the interest of clarifying 2
“l’épanouissement de ce qui naguères obtint le titre de poème en prose” ; “Très strict, numérique, direct, à deux conjoints, le mètre, antérieur, subsiste ; auprès” (OC II, 64). 3
I am aware of two challenges to this definition. In his 1974 essay “Reflections on the Mechanics of French Verse,” Jean-­‐Claude Milner argues that “a poetic sequence is not only a meter, … but also a line (vers), which is to say a set space within which specific procedures can be defined and whose exterior limits possess characteristic properties” (“Réflexions sur le fonctionnement du vers français,” Ordres et raisons de langue (Paris: Seuil, 1978) 285). Hence Milner’s argument that the line, or rather the phonological break that the end of the line creates in language, be considered the defining feature of verse. That which defines verse from non-­‐verse, for Milner, is thus not meter, but the possibility of enjambment (300). The other challenge is brought up, but not resolved, by Giorgio Agamben in his reflection on Milner’s hypothesis. “For if poetry is defined precisely by the possibility of enjambment,” he writes, “it follows that the last verse of a poem is not a verse. Does this mean that the last verse trespasses into prose?” In The End of the Poem, tr. by Daniel Heller-­‐Roazen (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999) 112. 112 the contours of Mallarmé’s separation, the pages that follow explore the form called “verse,” in so far as Mallarmé understood it at the moment it broke with “poetry.” They advance two propositions: first, that for Mallarmé, verse is not defined exclusively by meter; second, that in his account, verse can exist in the absence of meter if it engages another aspect of language, which he calls “timbre.” I. THE SEPARATION Let us begin with the first proposition. We recall that the separation Mallarmé describes in his lecture creates a binary division between the “very strict, numerical, direct, two-­‐part meter, from before,” and “the development of that which just recently obtained the name of prose poem.” The substantives established as mutually exclusive are thus “meter” (le mètre) and “the development” (l’épanouissement). An asymmetry is immediately apparent. These substantives are not alike in kind: “the development” refers to a subset of literary production; “meter,” to a formal constraint. In the case of Mallarmé’s announcement, framed as a field report from a neighboring nation, the meter at hand is the meter of French; more precisely, it is the “very strict, numerical, direct, two-­‐
part meter, from before.” Very strict, because bound by inviolable rules of syllable placement, rhyme type, and word boundary; numerical, because it demands a procedure of counting; direct, which is another way of saying “linear”; two-­‐part, bifurcated by a mandatory caesura, or perhaps coupled by rhyme; “of before,” having dominated French verse in previous centuries. It is, ostensibly, the alexandrine, although nothing in Mallarmé’s description precludes the inclusion of other versified French lines, such as the octosyllable or decasyllable. Mallarmé’s punctuation and word order are significant: while the adjectives “strict, 113 numerical, direct, two-­‐part” precede “meter,” the temporal modifier “from before” is placed after the substantive and separated from it by a comma. Thus, it is pointedly not “the previous meter” (le mètre antérieur), which would be both singular and specific. Mallarmé’s construction suggests “meter” in a more general way, as a more capacious category: “meter, from before” (le mètre, antérieur). The specification “two-­‐part” (à deux conjoints) indicates that this meter is capable of internal division. The “part” to which Mallarmé refers is most likely the hemistich, indicating a total measure of one line; but it could also refer to the line itself, as within French, according to Mallarmé, “lines of verse go by twos or more, due to their terminal accord, that is, the mysterious law of Rhyme.”4 In either case, the meter from before is tied to a total measure derived from that of the line. On one side, then, we have meter and the line. And what is “the development of that which recently obtained the name of prose poem”? Mallarmé explains its contours at some length: “[V]erse is everything, as soon as one writes,” he reports, less with the air of the author than with that of the surprised onlooker. There is “versification as soon as there is a cadence.”5 Verse, evidently, has broken with meter: though meter falls to one side, “verse” turns up on the other. And not just verse, but indeed “versification”: a term that, by its conventional definition, should designate precisely the art of composing in accordance with the metrical dictates across the divide. All that remains in terms of constraint upon “verse” is “writing” (dès qu’on écrit) and “cadence.” The two constraints, at first glance, would appear to be mutually exclusive. Cadence, whether understood in the phonological sense of “vocal stress upon accented syllables, dividing a sentence into rhythmic units,” or in the musical one of 4
“les vers ne vont que par deux ou à plusieurs, en raison de leur accord final, soit la loi mystérieuse de la Rime” (“Solennité,” OC II, 201). 5
“…le vers est tout, dès qu’on écrit. Style, versification s’il y a cadence” (“La Musique et les Lettres,” OC II, 64). 114 “the progression of chords, according to certain harmonic rules, that concludes a musical phrase,” would seem to pertain to the production of the voice;6 “writing,” to that of the pen. The two constraints, then, if they cannot be jointly applied, must be understood in parallel: in spoken language, verse exists as soon as a voice expresses a cadence; in written language, verse exists as soon as someone writes. We have a tautology. The constraint “as soon as one writes,” in context, can only be understood if “to write” is read in a narrow sense.7 In other words: “Written language is verse as soon as someone writes literature.” But what is the difference, for Mallarmé, between verse and literature? Is this statement not also a tautology? If the defining feature of this particular prose is, as yet, obscure, one thing is certain: it is not to be confused with “writing” as a general category. “The prose of any sumptuous writer” falls within this domain specifically because it is “withdrawn from habitual haphazard usage”; such writing is “as good as a broken line, playing with its timbres and even hidden rhymes.”8 Mallarmé dissolves the distinction between the broken line (le vers rompu) and the prose poem (le poème en prose); prose and verse are no longer opposed. In the absence of meter and the line, verse and prose are one in the same; between the two forms, there is no longer any distinction. Thus, the exact date of the Taylorian lecture is important: March 1, 1894. It represents a decisive moment not just in the history of verse, but also in the history of the poet’s thinking about 6
“CADENCE. 1. Appui de la voix sur les syllabes accentuées, marquant la répartition rythmique des éléments d'une phrase […] 2. Succession d'accords selon certaines règles harmoniques, terminant une phrase musicale” (Trésor de la langue française). 7
See Jean-­‐Claude Milner, “Mallarmé Perchance,” 87–110 of the present volume. 8
“toute prose d’écrivain fastueux, soustraite à ce laisser-­‐passer en usage, ornementale, vaut en tant qu’un vers rompu, jouant avec ses timbres et encore les rimes dissimulées” (“La Musique et les Lettres,” OC II, 64). 115 it. For just fourteen months before, Mallarmé had published a book entitled, precisely, Verse and Prose.9 Neatly organized into two sections, plainly labeled Verse and Prose, the book features Mallarmé’s versified poems in the first half, his prose writings in the second. And although the “Prose (for Des Esseintes)” appears in Part I and “Poe’s Poems” in Part II, the apparent contradiction is in fact none at all. For Mallarmé’s title “Prose (for Des Esseintes)” belies a strictly versified poem; “prose” in this context refers to the Latin hymns sung in Catholic services.10 And the poems of Edgar Allan Poe, though versified in English, appear exclusively in Mallarmé’s prose translations. At the time of Verse and Prose, the formal division remains intact. By March of the following year, however, this is no longer the case. In place of the formal opposition, which relates two elements alike in kind, an asymmetrical division has emerged. Within the vast realm of prose, there exists a sub-­‐category that partakes of poetry and even of verse; it plays with cadence, timbre, and rhyme; it is distinguished from the versified poetry that preceded it by a singular absence: the metrical line. The separation does not divide verse from prose, nor verse from poetry; verse, stretched to the point of breaking, falls on both sides of the divide. This separation forms the basis of the title “Crisis of Verse” (“Crise de vers”), Mallarmé’s watershed essay of 1897.11 The word “crise,” in other words, bears the full freight of its Greek root (κρίσις), by which it designates “a separating” — a sense still palpable in certain English words of shared derivation (“discern,” “discriminate”).12 The topic of the essay is thus the separating, or scission, of le vers, itself the bearer of two distinct meanings. Le vers 9
Vers et prose (Paris: Perrin et Cie, 1893). See Bertrand Marchal’s commentary in OC I, 1177. 11
The text, an amalgamation of several previous essays, was published in its definitive form in Divagations (Paris: Charpentier, 1897). 12
“crise” (Trésor de la langue française); “κρίσις” (Liddell & Scott, A Greek-­‐English Lexicon); “crisis” (Oxford English Dictionary). 10
116 is the versified line: once known in English as “a verse” and most precisely described in this context as “the metrical line” in the process of breaking apart. “Crise de vers,” in this sense, might be translated as “the fragmenting of the line.” Were this the only sense in which the title were intended, however, it might have been better formulated as “Crise du vers”: a construction whose slight change of emphasis preferences a reading of le vers as “the line.” As it is formulated, however, “Crise de vers” announces vers less as quantity, more as category: and le vers also bears the meaning of “verse,” the genre comprised of literary works composed in metrical lines. It is from this reading that we arrive at the standard translation “Crisis of Verse.” This “crisis” designates a decisive stage, “a sudden rupture” in the history of verse, to be sure.13 But so, too, does it articulate, by means of its etymological root, a separating: of le vers (the line), and of le vers (verse). II. OF VERSE WITH VERSES, & VERSE WITHOUT If le vers (verse) need not be comprised of vers (lines), the question arises: what, if anything, makes it verse? “Verse is everything, as soon as one writes,” Mallarmé declares — but only to follow that capacious definition with a number of statements that obscure its apparent extent. Verse is not limited to writing, as “versification” exists as soon as a voice expresses a cadence; everything written is not verse, only that which is “withdrawn from habitual haphazard usage.” But how does some prose “withdraw” from “habitual haphazard usage”? Some prose, the passage tells us, such as the prose of the “sumptuous writer,” is as good as (vaut en tant que) “a broken line, playing with its timbres and even hidden rhymes.”14 13
“crise” (Trésor de la langue française). “toute prose d’écrivain fastueux, soustraite à ce laisser-­‐passer en usage, ornementale, vaut en tant qu’un vers rompu, jouant avec ses timbres et encore les rimes dissimulées” (“La Musique et les Lettres,” OC II, 64). 14
117 The precise construction is significant. The verb valoir (“to be worth”) confers a judgment of value, placing this prose — let us call it “prose verse” — on a level with the broken line (le vers rompu). The conjunction en tant que (“as”) assumes an aspect shared between the elements conjoined. This aspect allows us to understand the first element within the more established terms of the second. “As,” to be sure, is not “is”; Mallarmé does not say that this prose is a broken line. Such a statement would introduce the problem of the line, a precise measure, for which Mallarmé has not, in this text, established any prose equivalent. What Mallarmé says is, rather, that prose verse operates as the broken line does, using an aspect proper to both of the elements conjoined by en tant que. This aspect is stated: “playing with its timbres and even hidden rhymes.” That which distinguishes this prose from all prose is, or at least can be (for we do not know if the aspect stated is singular or merely an illustrative example) the play of timbres and rhymes. These rhymes are “hidden” (dissimulées) because the measure of the line no longer announces when they will fall. Mallarmé’s recognition of such rhymes in French is also worth noting: for, prior to the separation, Mallarmé had admitted no such possibility. Rhyme, though endowed with particular and extraordinary powers in French verse, was absolutely tied to the line, metrically defined. A French reader might perceive the alexandrine “to be devoured by its rhyme as if that sparkling cause of delight triumphed from the very first syllable,” but the Mallarmé of 1887 argues that, in fact, a rhyme is “but one with the alexandrine” (ne fait qu’un avec l’alexandrin).15 It is not rhyme that makes the line, but the line that makes rhyme. After the separation, 15
“On a pu, antérieurement à l’invitation de la rime ici extraordinaire parce qu’elle ne fait qu’un avec l’alexandrin qui, dans ses poses et la multiplicité de son jeu, semble par elle dévoré tout entier comme si cette fulgurante cause de délice y triomphait jusqu’à l’initiale syllabe” (“Solennité,” OC II, 199–200). The text was first published in February 1887 and also appeared in Vers et prose. 118 however, rhyme is no longer “one with the alexandrine”; rhymes may be “hidden”; rhymes appear in prose. “Verse,” then, it would seem, admits of at least two definitions. It may be language ordered by meter into the unit of a line, or it may be language that plays with timbre and rhyme. Language can demonstrate one or the other of these behaviors and constitute verse; it may also demonstrate both. The definitions are not mutually exclusive. Prose verse cannot avail itself of the metrical line, but metrical verses can certainly make use of timbre and rhyme. Indeed, they are better when they do: “This is the superiority of modern verse over ancient verse,” Mallarmé contends, “which forms a whole but doesn’t rhyme.”16 Rhyme is not necessary to metrical verse, at least not in all languages, but it is preferable. Timbre, too, appears within the confines of meter. Those who remain “faithful to the alexandrine, our hexameter,” Mallarmé writes in “Crisis of Verse,” “are loosening the childish, rigid mechanism of its length from within; the ear, freed from a gratuitous inner counter, feels the pleasure of discerning, on its own, all the possible combinations and permutations of twelve timbres.”17 The play of timbre can and does take place within the confines of the metrical line. Yet it seems, at least here, that timbre can suffer from the excessively “rigid and puerile mechanism” of the alexandrine, or more precisely its “measure” — one meaning of the word “meter.” The play of timbres becomes apparent to the ear only when that ear has been “liberated from a gratuitous inner counter.” By Mallarmé’s account, timbre and meter would appear to be 16
“Là est la suprématie de modernes vers sur ceux antiques formant un tout et ne rimant pas” (“Solennité,” OC II, 201). 17
“Les fidèles à l’alexandrin, notre hexamètre, desserrent intérieurement ce mécanisme rigide et puéril de sa mesure; l’oreille, affranchie d’un compteur factice, connaît une jouissance à discerner, seule, toutes les combinaisons possibles, entre eux, de douze timbres” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 206). 119 engaged in a certain rivalry, just as rhyme and meter are. But while Mallarmé, in 1887, insisted upon the supremacy of meter over rhyme, in 1897, his sympathies seem to align with “timbre.” A “timbre,” though not explicitly defined, is established here as occurring twelve times within an alexandrine; its length therefore is, or can be, equal to that of a syllable. We might provisionally say that a “timbre,” in Mallarmé’s vocabulary, consists of a vowel or diphthong optionally flanked by accompanying sounds — or, consonants. A relation emerges: a timbre is the minimal element required to form a rhyme. For poor rhyme requires, at minimum, the matching of two vowel timbres; there can be no play of rhyme without a play of timbre. Our second definition of verse may therefore be simplified further still. Thus: verse may be language ordered by meter into the unit of a line, or verse may be language that plays with timbre. But what, more precisely, does it mean to “play with timbre”? Mallarmé offers an extended reflection on the topic in “Crisis of Verse.” The dating of the passage is, again, significant. Absent from the 1892 essay “Concerning Verse” (“Relativement au vers”), a prototype for “Crisis of Verse” that appeared in Verse and Prose, the paragraph on timbre appears for the first time on September 1, 1895.18 Which is to say, after the separation. It then reappears, in its definitive form, in “Crisis of Verse,” an essay whose title, like its paragraph on timbre, announces a significant development in its author’s understanding of verse. The passage is well known: … but, at times, in turning to aesthetics, I regret that discourse fails to express objects by means of strokes corresponding to them in coloring or bearing, which 18
The paragraph first appears in “Averses ou critique” in La Revue blanche (OC II, 1643). 120 exist in the instrument of the voice, amongst languages and sometimes in one. Beside the opaque ombre [shade], ténèbres [shadows] is not very dark; what a disappointment, before the perversity that makes the timbres of jour [day] and nuit [night], contradictorily, dark in the first case, bright in the second. The wish for a term of brilliant splendor, or for a dark one, the opposite; as for the simple examples of brightness — Only, be aware that verse would not exist: it philosophically remunerates the deficiency of languages, superior complement.19 The clash described here takes place between elements alike in kind: the “coloring or bearing” (coloris ou allure) of “objects” and the coloring or bearing that “exists in the instrument of the voice, amongst languages, and sometimes within one.” The specific vehicle through which this coloring or bearing appears in the voice, and in language, is “timbre,” as evidenced by the poet’s dismayed lament, “what a disappointment, before the perversity that makes the timbres of jour and nuit, contradictorily, dark in the first case, bright in the second.” The vehicle through which coloring or bearing manifests itself in objects is more obscure. This is at least partially due to the fact that the “objects” of Mallarmé’s formulation are not precisely objects in the conventional sense of “things in the world.” The “objects” that Mallarmé cites are more accurately “facts of nature” or even “natural occurrences” (faits de nature) understood from an 19
“… mais, sur l’heure, tourné à de l’esthétique, mon sens regrette que le discours défaille à exprimer les objets par des touches y répondant en coloris ou en allure, lesquelles existent dans l’instrument de la voix, parmi les langages et quelquefois chez un. À côté d’ombre, opaque, ténèbres se fonce peu ; quelle déception, devant la perversité conférant à jour comme à nuit, contradictoirement, des timbres obscur ici, là clair. Le souhait d’un terme de splendeur brillant, ou qu’il s’éteigne, inverse ; quant à des alternatives lumineuses simples — Seulement, sachons n’existerait pas le vers : lui, philosophiquement rémunère le défaut des langues, complément supérieur” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 208). 121 anthropocentric perspective and structured by the semantic divisions of the terms that designate them (jour, nuit). Thus, they are not precisely objects in the world, nor explicitly linguistic constructs; they are indifferent to the distinction. A pre-­‐Saussurean thinker, Mallarmé does not make the three-­‐fold distinction between the word (the signifier), the linguistic construct (the signified), and the thing in the world. For Mallarmé, there is only “the term” (the signifier) and “the object” that refers indifferently to the linguistic construct and the thing in the world.20 The opening lines of the paragraph, which directly precede the excerpt cited above, articulate the source of the “objects” to which Mallarmé refers: Languages, imperfect in that they are many, the supreme one is lacking: thinking being writing without accessories, nor whispers, but still tacit immortal speech, the diversity, on earth, of idioms prevents anyone from uttering words which, otherwise would be found, through one, unique strike, materially truth itself. This prohibition rules precisely, in nature (one brushes up against it with a smile) so that no one has any reason to consider himself God.21 The barrier encountered here arises from the will to express thought in linguistic form. Thought, described as “writing without accessories, nor whispers,” precedes any putting into language. It is 20
See Gérard Genette, “Le jour, la nuit,” Cahiers de l'Association internationale des études françaises N° 20 (1968) 158; as well as Jean-­‐Claude Milner’s “Mallarmé Perchance,” 87–110 of the present volume. 21
« Les langues imparfaites en cela que plusieurs, manque la suprême : penser étant écrire sans accessoires, ni chuchotement mais tacite encore l’immortelle parole, la diversité, sur terre, des idiomes empêche personne de proférer les mots qui, sinon se trouveraient, par une frappe unique, elle-­‐même matériellement la vérité. Cette prohibition sévit expresse, dans la nature (on s’y bute avec un sourire) que ne vaille de raison pour se considérer Dieu » (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 208). 122 in the effort to articulate “immortal speech” (l’immortelle parole) that the thinking being runs up against a “prohibition.” That prohibition stands not against uttering words that would correspond perfectly to an objective reality, but upon uttering words that would materialize one’s own thought.22 Only one person gets to do that, Mallarmé notes with a smile: God. “This prohibition rules precisely, in nature (one brushes up against it with a smile) so that no one has any reason to consider himself God.” God does not exist for Mallarmé at this point, hence the passage’s initial assertion that “the supreme [language] is lacking.” The supreme language, for Mallarmé, is not lost, broken, or forgotten, it is simply “lacking.” It does not exist and never has — except, of course, as a “Chimera, attested in our having thought of it.”23 In the supreme language, objects, understood in Mallarmé’s sense, correspond perfectly with expression. This correspondence is not attested as a whole, but one catches glimmers of its possibility now and again, by which to infer what it would be. These glimmers appear not just in language, but in many forms of human expression, and when he spots them, Mallarmé tends to call them “poems.” Hence his confession that, “I never sit on a concert bench without perceiving amid the obscure sublimity the sketch of one of 22
Maurice Blanchot disagrees on this point. In his reading, the supreme language Mallarmé describes would be one in which language coincides with “the reality of things” (la réalité des choses): a reality inaccessible to language because language can only ever partake of “this fictive reality that is the human world” (cette réalité fictive qu’est le monde humain). In L’Espace littéraire (Paris: Gallimard, 1955) 32 fn; tr. by Ann Smock, The Space of Literature (Nebraska University Press, 1982) 40 fn. The textual basis for Blanchot’s separation and implied hierarchy between “the reality of things” and “this fictive reality which is the human world” is not stated, and, indeed, dubious. Mallarmé would seem to be interested in “the reality of things” only in so far as it is mediated by humans: he writes in “Crisis of Verse,” for example, that “Speaking has to do with the reality of things only commercially: in literature, one contents oneself with alluding to it or disturbing it slightly, so that it yields up the idea it incorporates” (Parler n’a trait à la réalité des choses que commercialement : en littérature, cela se contente d’y faire une allusion ou de distraire leur qualité qu’incorporera quelque idée) (OC II, 210). 23
“Chimère, y avoir pensé atteste” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 211). 123 the poems immanent to humanity or those poems’ original state, all the more comprehensible for being silent,”24 or his account of a ballet dancer as a “poem detached from any scribal apparatus.”25 For Mallarmé, these “poems immanent to humanity” are nothing less than that by which “humanity” can be said to exist at all. Like the constellations that exist only by means of the viewer who, in one and the same act, both reads and writes them,26 “poems” constitute the sign by which the human being evidences and asserts the very category of “humanity.” Many arts afford glimmers of this sign, but for Mallarmé, it is ultimately language that holds the greatest potential to realize it. “It is not the elementary sonorities of brasses, strings, or woodwinds,” he writes emphatically, “but undeniably intellectual speech at its apogee that must evidently, opulently, result, as the totality of the relations existing in everything, Music.”27 The greatest hope of realizing the “totality of the relations existing in everything” — and “everything,” for Mallarmé, includes humanity — lies in “intellectual speech at its apogee.” And “intellectual speech at its apogee,” is, or at least can be, “verse”: 24
“je ne m’assieds jamais aux gradins des concerts, sans percevoir parmi l’obscure sublimité telle ébauche de quelqu’un des poèmes immanents à l’humanité ou leur originel état, d’autant plus compréhensible que tu” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 213). 25
“poème dégagé de tout appareil du scribe” (“Ballets,” OC II, 171). 26
See Jean-­‐Claude Milner, ”Les constellations révélatrices,” Elucidations 8–9 (winter 2003–4) 3. 27
“ce n’est pas de sonorités élémentaires par des cuivres, les cordes, les bois, indéniablement mais de l’intellectuelle parole à son apogée que doit avec plénitude et évidence, résulter, en tant que l’ensemble des rapports existant dans tout, la Musique” (OC II, 212). For Mallarmé, “Music” with a capital M is clearly distinguished from “music” the art form; ‘Music’ is synonymous with Chimera, Idea, “poem immanent to humanity,” or what we have referred to as a “sign” of humanity. See, for example, Philippe Lacoue-­‐Labarthe, Musica Ficta : Figures de Wagner (Paris: Christian Bourgois, 1991) 91–160. 124 Thus launched out of itself, the principle that is none other than — Verse! drawing inward no less than releasing for its full flowering (the instant they shimmer and die in a rapid bloom, on something transparent like ether) a thousand beautiful elements, hurried, rush together and order themselves in accordance with their essential values. Sign! in the central gulf of a spiritual impossibility that nothing belong exclusively to everything, the divine numerator of our apotheosis, some supreme mold that does not exist as any object: but it borrows, to burnish a seal, all the scattered ore, unclaimed and floating like riches, and to forge them together.28 The “Verse” of this passage, to be sure, is verse in meter: the words whose recitation prompts it are explicitly “arranged according to an absolute meter.”29 The “drawing inward” and “releasing” of the “thousand beautiful elements” described as “hurried” suggest linguistic elements engaged in a sort of tension with time, “rushing” into an “order” dictated by “their essential values.” The instant that order is attained is also the instant it perishes: “the instant they shimmer and die in a rapid bloom.” But the instant, brief as it may be, is nonetheless a “Sign,” furnished by “an absolute meter,” attesting to “some supreme mold that does not exist as any object.” The supreme mold, like the supreme language, attests to a human vision of language ordered in a non-­‐arbitrary, “absolute” way. Borrowing from the world of objects “scattered ore, unclaimed and 28
“Ainsi lancé de soi le principe qui n’est — que le Vers ! attire non moins que dégage pour son épanouissement (l’instant qu’ils brillent et meurent dans une fleur rapide, sur quelque transparence comme d’éther) les mille éléments de beauté pressés d’accourir et de s’ordonner dans leur valeur essentielle. Signe ! au gouffre central d’une spirituelle impossibilité que rien ne soit exclusivement à tout, le numérateur divin de notre apothéose, quelque suprême moule n’ayant pas lieu en tant que d’aucun objet qui existe : mais il emprunte, pour y aviver un sceau tous gisements épars, ignorés et flottants selon quelque richesse, et les forger” (“Solennité,” OC II, 200). 29
“appareillés d’après une métrique absolue” (“Solennité,” OC II, 200). 125 floating like riches,” the absolute meter restores the order that is absent in words spoken without it. It will “burnish a seal”; in the terms of the passage with which we began, we might say that it “philosophically remunerates the deficiency of languages, superior complement.” What is the deficiency (défaut)? Implicitly, the order in which the elements find themselves before they “rush,” at the impetus of the absolute meter, into their “essential” order. There are, in other words, two orders: “brute and immediate here; there, essential.”30 This passage, first published in February 1887, dates from before the separation; it appears in Verse and Prose; it gives no indication that anything besides “absolute meter” could generate the vibrant tension it describes. But the “verse” that appears in “Crisis of Verse” — the verse that explicitly can “remunerate the deficiency of languages” — is not described in terms of meter, absolute or otherwise. That without which “verse would not exist” is articulated in entirely different terms. By 1897, verse, stripped of none of its remunerative powers, has been reconfigured into something that we have yet to grasp. III. “EN COLORIS OU EN ALLURE” That without which verse would not exist is articulated in terms of a tension between the wish for a term endowed with certain properties and an encounter with a term lacking those properties, wholly or partially. While the sonic properties of nuit and jour seem to be fully opposed to the degrees of brightness inherent in the meaning of those terms, ombre constitutes an instance of partial correspondence, implying an object nearly as dark as the “opaque” timbre Mallarmé perceives it to bear. The properties inherent in objects and in the voice thus admit of degrees; “opaque” and “not 30
“brut ou immédiat ici, là essentiel” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 212). 126 very dark,” are not binary and oppositional, but rather degrees of realization of the same quality, measured along the same axis. If the degrees of realization were always to correspond, verse would not exist; so would it cease to exist in the absence of the potential for correspondence. The potential for correspondence resides on the existence of the common axis: a property common to both objects and language. That property seems to be of capital importance. Let us take a closer look at what it might be. To begin with, Mallarmé articulates it not as one property, but as two. The voice has the capacity to correspond to objects either en coloris ou en allure — in “color or movement,”31 or perhaps, “shading or bearing.”32 He offers four examples of insufficient correspondences, all four of which are discussed in relation to the axis of “brightness.” And “brightness” is not precisely “color,” “coloring,” “movement,” “bearing,” or “shading” — though this last term certainly seems to come the closest. Originally a painting term, coloris appears in French in 1675 to designate the “manner of using and manipulating colors, and, by metonymy, the effect obtained.”33 Of the definitions offered in the Littré, the one that lends itself most readily to Mallarmé’s text is the metonymic use of the term as extended into the realm of music: “the effect resulting from the use of instruments, sounds, and timbres.”34 The precise construction of Mallarmé’s sentence reinforces this reading: coloris does not exist “in the voice,” but indeed, “in the instrument of the voice.” Thus, we might say that 31
Rosemary Lloyd translation, in Mallarmé: The Poet and His Circle (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999) 230. 32
Barbara Johnson translation, in Divagations, 205. 33
“coloris,” Dictionnaire historique de la langue française, ed. par Alain Rey (Paris: Le Robert, 1993) 450 ; “coloris,” Trésor de la langue française, ed. par Paul Imbs, Vol. 2 (Paris: CNRS, 1973) 1068. 34
“coloris,” Dictionnaire de la langue française, ed. É. Littré, Vol. 6 (Versailles: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1994) 1009. 127 coloris refers to the qualities of the voice that it shares with musical instruments: its sounds and timbres. Allure, a derivative of the verb aller (“to go”), began by designating “speed and manner of movement.” Used particularly to describe the gaits of horses — walking, trotting, galloping — the term can also be used in reference to the gaits of other creatures, including humans, as well as the progress of the sun. English translations in this sense might include “speed,” “rate,” or better still, “pace.” Used figuratively, allure can also refer to the general aura of people or things, as well as the overall pace or rhythm of a work of art.35 In twentieth century phonetics, the term serves as the technical designator for the speed or rhythm of speech: “the rhythm [allure] of the utterance (sometimes referred to as movement)” may be “slow” “rapid” or “staccato.”36 It is time, perhaps, to reconsider our translation of allure. While the English “pace” or “pacing” bears the advantage of the walking movement at the origin of the French term, it lacks any capacity to suggest the “staccato” rhythm of the technical designator. The best term available, then, would seem to be “rhythm.” The two properties Mallarmé identifies as common to objects and language are thus quite distinct. Although we cannot say with certainty what they are in “objects,” we can say with considerable precision what they are in the voice. The first, coloring, refers to the sounds and timbres of the voice; the second, rhythm, references the rhythm of utterances. As to the category to which Mallarmé’s examples pertain, we have little choice but to say “coloring.” For while “brightness” is not precisely “coloring,” it is “rhythm” even less. Thus, the answer to the question, ‘What is that without which verse would not exist?’ is dual in nature. There are two answers. Mallarmé explains one of them in considerable detail: it is 35
“allure,” Trésor, Vol. 2, 593–5; “allure,” Dictionnaire de la langue française, 172. “allure,” Trésor, Vol. 2, 593–5. 36
128 the tension that arises between one’s desire for a term with a particular coloring and one’s encounter with a term lacking that coloring. The desired coloring is the one inherent in the object named and inheres in meaning; the encountered coloring is that of the timbre in the term pronounced and inheres in linguistic sound. This is the answer afforded by coloris. Let us call it the tension of timbre. The second answer lies in the term allure. Considered beside the numerous examples provided to illustrate “coloring,” the lack of explanation with regard to “rhythm” suggests that the author assumes the matter to be self-­‐evident. He does not explain it. We know of its presence only because of the inclusion of “allure” in the expression “en coloris ou en allure.” And because, in the line directly following the passage under consideration, Mallarmé names it. Concluding his reflection on the desire, necessary to verse, to make the coloring of meaning correspond to the coloring of sound, he writes, “Strange mystery; and, from no lesser intentions, meter appeared in incubatory times.”37 The second answer is meter. For meter also generates a tension in language; meter also awakens a human desire to see fragments of language “order themselves in accordance with their essential values.”38 Those values, in the case of meter, are not colored, but rhythmic — they have to do with the forward march of speech sounds in time. If the tension of timbre may be defined as the tension that arises from a discrepancy between one’s desire for a term of a particular hue and one’s encounter with a term of a different color, metrical tension might be described as the tension that arises between one’s desire 37
“Arcane étrange; et, d’intentions pas moindres, a jailli la métrique aux temps incubatoires” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 208). 38
“les mille éléments de beauté pressés d’accourir et de s’ordonner dans leur valeur essentielle” (“Solennité,” OC II, 200). 129 for an expression with a particular rhythm and an encounter with an expression lacking that temporal structure. To summarize: prior to the Taylorian lecture, the only aspect of language Mallarmé recognizes as capable of stamping the forger’s seal upon an utterance to make it verse is meter. From March 1, 1894 onward, however, “verse” admits of two definitions. It may be language ordered by meter into a line, or it may be language that engages the tension of timbre.39 IV. A THEORY OF VERSE Let us return, once more, to the passage. Can we really say that there are two, and only two, answers to the question “What is that without which verse would not exist?” The difficulty, to begin with, is one of syntax. The verb of the italicized warning appears in the conditional: “verse would not exist.” It seems to partake of a hypothetical if-­‐then structure, such as one typically finds in the form “If X __, then Y___.” But the first clause is missing. X, therefore, remains an enigma. We infer from the context that the missing clause concerns the wish articulated at the beginning of the sentence: “The wish for a term of brilliant splendor, or for a dark one, the opposite.” The missing clause, we hypothesize, would be: “If that wish were realized.” Thus: “If we had a term of brilliant splendor, or for a dark one, the opposite, verse would not exist.” This seems reasonable enough. But taken literally, it would imply that meter is not capable, on its own, of creating verse. In this reading, verse resides on one aspect of language and one aspect alone: the tension of timbre. Which is manifestly false. 39
Despite the prominence of the passage on jour and nuit, the inclusion of this second term within Mallarmé’s conception of verse has been overwhelmingly overlooked. See, for example, Philippe Lacoue-­‐Labarthe’s argument that Mallarmé’s “verse” may be reduced to “a principle of rhythm” in Musica Ficta, 91–
160, and particularly 155–9. 130 Might we, then, read the missing clause in a different sense? Perhaps by taking into account the component of the sentence that we have thus far ignored: “as for the simple examples of brightness”? This phrase, which refers to the desired “term of brilliant splendor” and its dark opposite, reduces those entities to illustrations of a general idea. We have assumed this idea to be the tension of timbre. But the categories to which the examples pertain are multiple: they are “simple examples of brightness,” of which other examples might be, and indeed have been, offered; but the principle of “brightness,” according to our current understanding, is itself but an example of the larger category of “coloring.” This categorization, however, was made only reluctantly; “brightness” was said to partake of “coloring” only because it could not be assimilated into “rhythm.” But might not “coloring” and “rhythm,” too, partake of a larger category, a category into which “brightness” might more comfortably fall? For just as we read the “term of brilliant splendor” and its opposite as indications of a general principle, so might we also read “coloring or rhythm” as examples pertaining to a shared category. By this reading, that without which verse would not exist might be understood in terms of a single principle, of which rhythm, coloring, and brightness are three examples. They are not even, necessarily, the only possible examples. Nothing in Mallarmé’s syntax, when thus understood, precludes the possibility of yet other linguistic phenomena capable of instantiating the principle they enact in verse. So what is the principle? It would have to partake of that which is structurally common to the tension installed in language by meter and by timbre. Let us return to the two passages that describe these experiences: “Solemnity” and “Crisis of Verse.” The force that drives the passage on meter is the listener’s perception, and expectation, of an order to be realized: the “thousand beautiful elements,” we read, “rush together and order 131 themselves in accordance with their essential values.” We understand this “order” to be that of the “absolute meter”; it operates in accordance with the elements’ “essential values.” Referred to as the “divine numerator of our apotheosis,” this order partakes of a system based on number. Placed in parallel with —
even, arguably, granted the appositive of — “some supreme mold that does not exist as any object,” it also partakes, unmistakably, of the supreme language. This supreme order exists in a state of tension with another force: it “draws in” and “releases”; the elements are “hurried”; they “rush.” In moving to the meter, the earthly language reveals the presence of other constraints against which it must work. We infer these constraints to be those that govern language in non-­‐meter: the rhythm and word order governed less by sound and more by syntax. The particularity of the experience of meter seems to lie not only in an awareness of the metrical order, but also in a heightened awareness of this order: the one dictated by sense. This order, although ever present in non-­‐
metrical speech, is usually unconscious because unchallenged; meter, whether it actually disrupts this order or not, introduces the possibility of disruption. And it is the possibility, not the violation, which creates the tension constitutive of verse. Metrical verse awakens the speaking being’s awareness of the arbitrary rhythms of everyday speech: the pauses and groupings that have been uttered so often as to seem necessary, inviolable, and absolute. Meter, in furnishing another order, exposes the contingency of the one that was already there. The same might be said of the passage on timbre. It, too, asserts the existence of an order intrinsic to language: an order that stands at odds with the order inherent in everyday usage. It, too, resides on a human expectation of the linguistic element. Only someone who expects a particular timbre can be “disappointed” “before the perversity that makes the timbres of jour and nuit, contradictorily, dark in the first case, bright in the second.” This 132 perversity reigns in non-­‐verse, but no one particularly notices because no one thinks to expect otherwise. That which distinguishes the experience of timbre as recounted by Mallarmé is merely the heightened perception of an order intrinsic to linguistic sound — this time articulated not in terms of rhythm, but in terms of brightness — that is different from the order governing non-­‐
verse. Timbre, in offering a glint of this order, reveals the arbitrary nature of the one governing everyday speech. That which distinguishes verse from non-­‐verse would appear to be nothing more than an idea of order: an awareness of the arbitrary principles governing everyday speech, coupled with a desire to replace these principles with non-­‐arbitrary ones. Both the awareness and the desire are generated by the emergence of the non-­‐arbitrary order, internal to language, which holds the potential to disrupt the mechanisms governing non-­‐verse. For Mallarmé, this other order is singular and absolute: it is the supreme language. Its singularity is implied by the singularity of the “supreme mold” in the passage on meter,40 and by that of “the supreme one” in the passage on timbre.41 Mallarmé simply assumes that the “essential values” of the elements will be universally perceived and uncontested, just as he assumes his readers will hear jour as dark and nuit as light. The idea that some fortunate soul might perceive the timbre of jour as something other than dark does not appear to cross his mind, any more than the possibility that someone might think of days as dark. Because there is only one supreme language, the values accorded its timbres are universal and not specific to the phonology of any single language. Thus, the supreme language, for Mallarmé, is in no way particular to French. It inheres “amongst 40
“quelque suprême moule n’ayant pas lieu en tant que d’aucun objet qui existe” (“Solennité,” OC II, 200). 41
“Les langues imparfaites en cela que plusieurs, manque la suprême ...” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 208). 133 languages”; it is “absolute.”42 For Mallarmé, the principle of verse based in a relation to the supreme language therefore defines not only French verse, but all verse.43 Verse exists as soon as a speaking being is sensitive to the existence of the supreme language: as soon as that being, expecting it, can be “disappointed” by the language that comes in its stead. This seems to be the fundamental difference distinguishing verse and non-­‐verse: the tension installed in language by its non-­‐
correspondence with the supreme one. This tension is premised merely on an idea of the supreme language in language. It resides, therefore, on a “Chimera, attested in our having thought of it.” The poet can attain the supreme language, in a way, in the metrical line. The metrical verse in “Solemnity” does achieve its 42
It is interesting to note that from the perspective of modern linguistics, Mallarmé’s formulation is asymmetrical. For timbre inheres in vowel sounds, rather than vowels as such; which is to say, measurements of timbre consider language in acoustic, rather than linguistic terms. Timbre is therefore universal, not language-­‐specific. Meter, on the other hand, is language-­‐specific: organizing a language by means of phonological units, meter necessarily differs in accordance with the phonology of the language at hand; hence the syllabic-­‐
accentual meters of English, the quantitative classical meters, the syllabic meters of French, the tonal meters of Chinese, and so on. In Mallarmé’s formulation, however, there is such a thing as an “absolute meter.” This meter seems to refer to that by which “meter” can be said to constitute a category across languages. Yet a definition of meter that makes no reference to phonology seems difficult to formulate; one would begin, presumably, with the principle of number. 43
This orientation, manifest throughout Mallarmé’s theoretical texts, is also discernible in his correspondence. In setting a title for his Taylorian Lecture of 1894, for example, Mallarmé first proposes the title “Les Lettres et la Musique.” The English organizers, gently reminding him that the event will form part of a lecture series on French Literature, respond by requesting that the word “français” figure in the lecture title. Though Mallarmé’s letter of response to this request is now lost, it is attested by the response of Oxford tutor Charles Bonnier; Bonnier confirms that Mallarmé’s lecture has been announced, in accordance with the author’s wishes, as “Les Lettres et la Musique.” The absence of any national or linguistic marker in the title thus appears to have been not only considered, but indeed, insisted upon. In Correspondance de Stéphane Mallarmé, ed. by Henri Mondor & Lloyd James Austin, Vol. VI (Paris: Gallimard, 1981) 176; OC II, 1599). 134 “full flowering” and the “thousand beautiful elements” do, at that instant, align to form a “Sign!” Whether the poet can attain the supreme language through the tension of timbre is less clear. Mallarmé does not offer us any such gratifying moments of alignment when it comes to timbre; the closest he comes to providing an example of fulfilled correspondence is the rather lackluster example of “ombre, opaque.” It is not even clear, in the case of timbre, over what unit the poet would make the timbres of sense correspond with those of sound. In the case of meter, the unit was the line; but after the separation, the line has been withdrawn. A timbre inheres in a single syllable, we know, from Mallarmé’s mention of the “twelve timbres” of the alexandrine; and a single timbre can color an entire word, even one of multiple syllables (ténèbres). But the unit over which the poet’s timbres could attain a perfect correspondence of sound and sense, conquering the “perversity” that mis-­‐assigned them, remains almost entirely obscure. In what sense then, we might well ask, can the play of timbre be said to constitute verse? For verse, in Mallarmé, negates chance. That is its role. As Gérard Genette, amongst many others, observed half a century ago, Mallarmé “assigns to poetic language the precise task of suppressing, or more precisely of giving the illusion of suppressing, the arbitrary nature of the linguistic sign.”44 In the poet’s own words, it is “verse which from many expressions makes a total, new word […] negating, in a sovereign sweep, the 44
“assigne au langage poétique la tâche précise de supprimer, ou plus exactement de donner l’illusion qu’il supprime l’arbitraire du signe linguistique” (Genette, “Le jour, la nuit,” 160). See also Roman Jakobson, “Linguistics and Poetics,” Selected Writings III, ed. by Stephen Rudy (The Hague: Mouton, 1981) 44–5. 135 chance that remains in terms.”45 If the tension of timbre does not do this, what does it do? Mallarmé tells us: it “remunerates the deficiency in languages.”46 The formulation merits a moment’s reflection. For despite the resemblance by which rémunérer has, for centuries, been misspelled in both French and English as rénumérer (“renumerate”), the verb bears no reference to number and thus, no reference to meter. And despite the superficial similarity by which it might be taken as synonymous with “giving the impression of suppressing the arbitrary nature of the linguistic sign,” to “remunerate the deficiency in languages” is not to “eliminate chance,” nor even to “negate” it. In order to read the expression rémunère le défaut des langues as synonymous with “nier le hasard” we would have to understand le défaut des langues as “chance” and rémunère as “negate.” The word défaut, however, suggests an absence, not a presence; the word is defined as “the absence of a thing or person whose presence is necessary or desirable (generally, for the formation of a coherent whole).”47 Chance is not absent in languages, but present; its presence is not necessary or desirable —
on the contrary, it inspires “regret.” The equation le défaut des langues = hasard is therefore imprecise. That which is “absent,” but whose presence would be “desirable,” is not le hasard, but la suprême. It is not chance that is lacking in languages; it is the supreme language. The question, then, is what distinguishes rémunérer l’absence de la langue suprême from nier le hasard. The verb rémunérer is primarily an economic one; it means “to pay someone 45
“Le vers qui de plusieurs vocables refait un mot total, neuf, étranger à la langue et comme incantatoire […] niant, d’un trait souverain, le hasard demeuré aux termes …” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 213). 46
“rémunère le défaut des langues” (“Crise de vers,” OC II, 208). 47
“défaut,” Trésor de la langue française. 136 a sum in exchange for work or services rendered.”48 In the medieval period, it carried a strong religious connotation, as le rémunérateur was another name for God: he who “rewards Christian virtue.”49 In both economic and religious usage, the structure of the verb involves two steps, two parties, and two elements: an initial transaction, in which party one renders a gift, service, or work (element one) to party two, and a second transaction, in which party two compensates party one, typically but not exclusively by means of a financial or spiritual reward (element two). Whether the transactions be religious or economic, an element of faith is required from party one: that party two will carry out the second transaction. Mallarmé’s sentence conforms to a derivative use of the verb, by which element two serves as grammatical subject and “remunerates” the direct object, element one, in the sense of “constitutes the remuneration of.”50 In this usage, the parties disappear, causing the transaction take place between elements alone. The giver, be it the economic power that pays or the God that rewards, has been eliminated; so, too, has the laborer or believer. Mallarmé’s verb enacts a very simple equation that takes place entirely within language: verse compensates for the absence of the supreme language. While this formulation does entail a principle of equivalence and a gesture of compensation, its structure does not emphasize, nor even necessarily entail, a “negation.” The action entailed in rémunérer is clearly distinguishable from that of say, annuler or supprimer: paying someone for services rendered is not the same thing as canceling the whole transaction. Accounts are settled in both cases, but in the second, nothing will have taken place; in the first, something will. In Mallarméan terms, it is the difference 48
“rémunérer,” Trésor, Vol. 14, 780. Ibid. 50
Ibid. 49
137 between “NOTHING / WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE” and “NOTHING / WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE / BUT THE PLACE.” “BUT THE PLACE” acknowledges that something has taken place, even when by another measure, nothing has. We need not even reach possible alignment found within a constellation — which is not necessary, but optional: “EXCEPT / PERHAPS / A CONSTELLATION.”51 Even without the appearance of a legible constellation, something will have taken place. And that which will have taken place is the rémunération of language unto itself: the site (le lieu) it furnishes in compensation for the supreme language that it lacks. The verb Mallarmé selects to articulate that which verse offers “in return” reveals the impossibility of the initial offering: the prefix re-­‐ belies the absence of any such noun as munération or verb as munérer. The supreme language was never offered, because the supreme language never was; the remuneration is the second transaction to an absent first. The element of faith, therefore, has been eliminated. Unlike the economic equation and unlike the religious one, the remunerative equation that produces verse relies not on faith in a “supreme one,” but on the supreme one’s absence. To summarize: there has been a separation of le vers. The line, ordered by meter, negates chance. This is the “antique verse” whose worship Mallarmé maintains in his preface to the “Roll of the Dice”; it is the vers of the quotation previously cited, which might be better translated not as “verse,” but indeed, as “the line which from many expressions makes a total, new word […] negating, in a sovereign sweep, the chance that remains in terms….”52 But the line, for Mallarmé, is no longer synonymous with “verse.” The line is but one instance of the greater principle whose defining feature is its capacity to expose the supreme language in language: not 51
“RIEN / N’AURA EU LIEU / QUE LE LIEU / EXCEPTÉ / PEUT-­‐ÊTRE / UNE CONSTELLATION” (“Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard,” OC I, 384–7). 52
“Observation relative au poème,” OC I, 392; “Crise de vers,” OC II, 213. 138 necessarily to give the impression of having attained it. Thus, there can be such a thing as a “free verse” (vers libre); verse can exist in the absence of the line, “playing with its timbres, and even hidden rhymes.” This verse cannot suppress, eliminate, or negate chance. Severed from the line, it can only “philosophically remunerate the deficiency in languages” by calling attention to what it is not, but which we, in noticing, attest to be. 139 Mallarmé « proselibriste » Jean-­‐Nicolas Illouz Dans le Prière d’insérer des Divagations, Mallarmé indiquait avoir voulu réunir en un volume « des morceaux rendus célèbres par les hauts cris qu’ils causèrent », et il résumait son effort de prosateur en disant qu’il avait « simplement exclu les clichés, trouvé un moule propre à chaque phrase et pratiqué le purisme ».1 Commen-­‐
tant ces lignes, Albert Thibaudet forgeait le mot de « proselibriste » pour caractériser le Mallarmé des Divagations : Avec ce moule propre à chaque phrase, son pou-­‐
droiement de coupes, la prose de Mallarmé paraît être à la prose normale, en tant qu’il en existe une, ce qu’est le vers libre au vers régulier. Ce fervent du vers régulier s’est fait un proselibriste, et cela avec la même logique, le même zèle de « purisme », oppo-­‐
sant à son carmen vinctius un carmen solutius.2 Le terme de « proselibrisme », quelque allusif qu’il soit ici, est sug-­‐
gestif. Sans doute s’agit-­‐il encore, pour Thibaudet, de concevoir la prose de Mallarmé en termes d’écart par rapport à quelque « prose normale » supposée (« en tant qu’il en existe une », nuance-­‐t-­‐il) ; 1
Ce prière d’insérer est cité par Bertrand Marchal dans sa notice des Divagations, OC II, 1610. [Notre édition de référence est l’édition établie par Bertrand Mar-­‐
chal : Mallarmé, Œuvres complètes, t. I (Paris : Pléiade, 1998) t. II, 2003. Abrévia-­‐
tion : OC suivi du numéro du tome]. 2
Albert Thibaudet, La Poésie de Stéphane Mallarmé (1912) (Paris : Gallimard, 2006) 305–306. sans doute aussi s’agit-­‐il de la distinguer d’autres styles de prose qui lui sont contemporains, — que l’on songe par exemple au style de Flaubert et sa « beauté grammaticale3 », — ou encore, dans les dé-­‐
bats de l’époque, aux proses décadentes qui défont la cohésion « organique » de la phrase,4 — ou bien à l’écriture artiste, laquelle est sans rapport en effet avec la recherche mallarméenne, parce qu’elle découle a priori d’une esthétisation superficielle du discours, et non d’une « refonte » plus profonde de la langue au foyer de ce « mystère dans les lettres » que Mallarmé découvre en chaque geste de langage. Toutefois, le terme de « proselibrisme » peut faire entrevoir — d’une manière qui serait cette fois plus spécifique à la pensée et à l’écriture de Mallarmé — un déplacement dans le champ de la prose des effets de la crise de vers consécutifs à l’émergence du vers libre : une crise de prose5 viendrait à son tour revivifier le jeu des lettres, de telle façon que la prose, en s’auto-­‐différenciant d’elle-­‐
même pour se désigner comme « poétique »6, porterait l’individuation des formes littéraires jusqu’à l’extrême des possibles de la langue. 3
Marcel Proust évoque la « beauté grammaticale » du style de Flaubert dans « À propos du style de Flaubert », article recueilli dans Contre Sainte-­‐Beuve, édition établie par Pierre Clarac avec la collaboration d’Yves Sandre, (Paris : Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1971) 587 : « En tous cas il y a une beauté grammati-­‐
cale, (comme il y a une beauté morale, dramatique, etc.), qui n’a rien à voir avec la correction. » 4
Voir Paul Bourget, Essais de psychologie contemporaine, « Baudelaire » (1881) (Paris : Gallimard, coll. « Tel », 1993) 14 : « Un style de décadence est celui où l’unité du livre se décompose pour laisser la place à l’indépendance de la page, où la page se décompose pour laisser place à l’indépendance de la phrase, et la phrase pour laisser place à l’indépendance du mot. » 5
Voir Jean-­‐Nicolas Illouz et Jacques Neefs (dir.), Crise de prose (PUV, 2002). 6
Voir Henri Scepi, « Mallarmé et la surface réversible : esquisse d’une poétique de la prose », in Henri Scepi (dir.), Mallarmé et la prose, La Licorne (1998) 93–97 (étude reprise dans Henri Scepi, Théorie et poétique de la prose, d’Aloysius Ber-­‐
trand à Léon Paul Fargue, Champion, Unichamp,-­‐Essentiel, 2012). 141 « IL N’Y A PAS DE PROSE » On connaît l’affirmation de Mallarmé selon laquelle, en vérité, « il n’y a pas de prose » : Le vers est partout dans la langue où il y a rythme, partout, excepté dans les affiches et à la quatrième page des journaux. Dans le genre appelé prose, il y a des vers, quelquefois admirables, de tous rythmes. Mais, en vérité, il n’y a pas de prose : il y a l’alphabet et puis des vers plus ou moins serrés : plus ou moins diffus. Toutes les fois qu’il y a effort au style, il y a versification.7 À l’opposition traditionnelle du vers et de la prose, Mallarmé subs-­‐
titue « le double état de la parole8 », — son état « brut ou immé-­‐
diat » (ici « dans les affiches et à la quatrième page des journaux »), — et son état « essentiel », où tout se ramène au vers, — si du moins le vers est compris, non plus comme un principe métrique relevant d’une convention extérieure au sujet, mais comme un principe rythmique, qui ressource le vers à la parole, et la parole à l’âme, — « parce que toute âme est un nœud rythmique », écrit Mallarmé dans La Musique et les Lettres.9 La crise de vers, en résolvant ainsi le vers dans l’accentuation d’une « diction » (« vers il y a sitôt que s’accentue la diction, rythme dès que style »),10 a donc reconduit le vers à son principe plus profond ; et, ce faisant, elle a permis la « diffusion » de ce prin-­‐
cipe bien au-­‐delà de la forme métrique, — dans le vers libre bien 7
Sur l’évolution littéraire, OC II, 698. Crise de vers, OC II, 212. 9
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 64. Cf. lettre à Émile Dodillon, 15 novembre 1896, Corr. VIII, 288 : « près de l’âme, ou notre rythme ». [Pour la Correspon-­‐
dance de Mallarmé, nous renvoyons, sauf indication contraire, à l’édition de Henri Mondor et Lloyd James Austin, Paris, Gallimard, NRF, 1959–1983. Abrévia-­‐
tion : Corr., suivie du numéro du tome]. 10
Crise de vers, OC II, 205. 8
142 sûr (compris par Mallarmé comme une « prose à coupe médi-­‐
tée»),11 — mais aussi dans la prose, dans la mesure où la prose et son « courant de volubilité12 » participent tout autant, quoique d’une façon différente, du libre déploiement d’un sujet dans la langue. Si donc « on a touché au vers », comme l’écrit Mallarmé dans La Musique et les Lettres,13 c’est en ce double sens que la main sacrilège qui a porté atteinte à l’idole, l’a aussi éveillée, par un tou-­‐
ché musicien plus subtil, à un chant nouveau et singulier, propre à en « diffuser »14 la « majestueuse idée inconsciente».15 La prose ap-­‐
paraît alors à la fois comme la dissolution du vers, et comme le lieu de sa revenance, quand le principe du vers anime plus intimement la parole au-­‐delà de toute forme réglée. Mallarmé peut donc réaf-­‐
firmer que « le vers est tout, dès qu’on écrit », en ramenant la prose à un « vers rompu » : […] le vers est tout, dès qu’on écrit. Style, versification s’il y a cadence et c’est pourquoi toute prose d’écrivain fastueux, soustraite à ce laisser-­‐aller en usage, orne-­‐
mentale, vaut en tant qu’un vers rompu, jouant avec ses timbres et encore les rimes dissimulées, selon un thyrse plus complexe. Bien l’épanouissement de ce qui naguères obtint le titre de poème en prose.16 11
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 75. Mallarmé place donc le vers libre du côté de la prose (elle-­‐même définie comme « vers rompu »). Cf. lettre à Charles Bonnier, mars 1893, où Mallarmé définit « la notation émotionnelle proportionnée » (c’est-­‐
à-­‐dire le vers libre) comme une « prose, délicate, nue, ajourée » (OC I, 808). 12
Divagations, « Bibliographie », OC II, 277. 13
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 64. 14
Mallarmé voit dans le rituel de la Messe catholique une « diffusion » du Divin dans la « Présence réelle », — celle-­‐ci faisant que « le dieu soit là, diffus, total, mimé de loin par l’acteur effacé » (« Catholicisme », OC II, 241). 15
Crise de vers, OC II, 205. 16
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 64. 143 Entre vers et prose, la différence s’est ainsi déplacée au sein du seul Vers, selon que le Vers (écrit pour l’occasion avec une ma-­‐
juscule) apparaisse dans son « intégralité », ou qu’il se « dissimule » sous mille tours dans la prose : Visiblement soit qu’apparaisse son intégralité, parmi les marges et du blanc ; ou qu’il se dissimule, nommez-­‐
le Prose, néanmoins c’est lui [le Vers] si demeure quelque secrète poursuite de musique, dans la réserve du Discours.17 Si le Vers subsume la prose, si donc il est le tout de la langue dès lors que quelqu’un la parle, ce tout demeure toutefois lui-­‐même in-­‐
timement duel : il est simultanément nombre et rythme, même si, en chaque formule d’écriture, rythme et nombre sont diversement proportionnés entre eux, — le vers pouvant être plus ou moins pro-­‐
sé, et la prose pouvant plus ou moins démarquer le patron invisible du vers. Cette dualité interne se propage à son tour ; — et elle se re-­‐
trouve dans cet autre couple que fait alors apparaître Mallarmé à la place de l’opposition du vers et de la prose quand il fait jouer en-­‐
semble « la musique » d’un côté et « les lettres » de l’autre, celles-­‐ci et celle-­‐là étant compris comme « la face alternative » de « l’Idée » : La Musique et les Lettres sont la face alternative ici élargie vers l’obscur ; scintillante là, avec certitude, d’un phénomène, le seul, je l’appelai l’Idée.18 Écrire, au-­‐delà de tout partage formel donné et fixé par avance, re-­‐
vient alors à « quelque secrète poursuite de musique » ; — et lire, au-­‐delà de toute convention de lecture reçue, revient à 17
Quant au livre, OC II, 220. La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 69. 18
144 l’interprétation musicienne de quelque « air ou chant sous le texte ».19 PROSODIES DE PROSE Il existe donc des prosodies de prose, différentes sans doute des prosodies de vers, mais participant du même principe, — chaque fois que la phrase se refond dans un phrasé singulier et chaque fois que l’écriture « se retrempe » dans la parole — c’est-­‐à-­‐dire dans la « vie » même, écrit Mallarmé.20 En prose, cette oralité qui sous-­‐tend l’écrit a pour modèle, non le « chant » que vise d’emblée le vers21, mais, selon un registre moindre, « la conversation », — telle que la magnifia l’art des sa-­‐
lons dans la période classique,22 et telle aussi que l’illustra Mallarmé dans les soirées de la rue de Rome. Quelque chose de cet art de la conversation passe en effet dans certaines proses des Divaga-­‐
19
Le Mystère dans les Lettres, OC II, 234. L’image d’une « retrempe » du langage en la « vie » apparaît dans un article de 1895, [Sur le vers], OC II, 474 : « Un vocabulaire appartient en commun, cela seul ! au poète et à tous, de qui l’œuvre, je m’incline, est de le ramener perpétuel-­‐
lement à la signification courante, comme se conserve un sol national ; dites, le dictionnaire me suffirait : soit, trempez-­‐le de vie, que je devrai en exprimer pour employer les termes en leur sens virtuel. » Cf. lettre à Émile Verhaeren, 23 février 1897, Corr. IX, 82 : « Il y a l’intimité de la vie, là, en sa forme suprême, le chant ». 21
Voir Crayonné au théâtre, « Solennité », OC II, 200 : « hors de tout souffle per-­‐
çu grossier, virtuellement la juxtaposition entre eux des mots appareillés d’après une métrique absolue et réclamant de quelqu’un, le poëte dissimulé ou chaque lecteur, la voix modifiée suivant une qualité de douceur ou d’éclat, pour chan-­‐
ter ». 22
Mallarmé évoque les emplois littéraires de la conversation dans Le Mystère dans les lettres, OC II, 233 : « Un parler, le français, retient une élégance à pa-­‐
raître en négligé et le passé témoigne de cette qualité, qui s’établit d’abord, comme don de race foncièrement exquis : mais notre littérature dépasse le “genre”, correspondance ou mémoires ». Dans sa thèse de linguistique, Mallarmé envisageait de prendre pour objet d’étude la conversation, dans la mesure où celle-­‐ci, en mettant le langage en situation d’énonciation, le retrempe en la vie. Sur ce point, voir Jean-­‐Nicolas Illouz, « “sur le nom de Paphos” : Mallarmé et le mystère d’un nom », in Olivier Bivort (dir.), La Littérature symboliste et la langue (Paris : Éditions Garnier, 2012) 89–110. 20
145 tions, — mais il s’y rejoue d’une manière beaucoup plus abstraite qui écarte, autant qu’il les rappelle, les « tours primesautiers »23 de la parole directe : ce phénomène — sorte d’oralité intérieure ou idéale — a bien été perçu par Albert Thibaudet qui remarquait que la prose de Mallarmé, distincte en tout point de la période oratoire, déjoue la possibilité d’une lecture à haute voix en même temps qu’elle requiert, contradictoirement, « l’épreuve orale »,24 — réali-­‐
sant de la sorte « l’hyperbole d’une prose parlée ».25 En chaque prose, le rythme d’un sujet ordonne une prosodie, différente des prosodies de vers en ceci surtout que la prose se dé-­‐
ploie selon une temporalité ouverte, qui ne peut pas être ressaisie mentalement ni objectivée « sous la compréhension du regard ».26 Alors que le vers, par le mètre et par la rime, garde mémoire de son effectuation et « réduit la durée à une division spirituelle propre au sujet », la prose engage le « développement temporaire » de la phrase, qu’elle laisse aller « d’un élan précipité et sensitif », impré-­‐
visible et, en partie, aléatoire.27 Si la différence entre vers et prose n’est pas une différence de nature (puisque la prose participe du vers), elle est donc une différence de degré quant au traitement de 23
Le Mystère dans les lettres, OC II, 233. Cf. [Sur le vers], OC II, 474 : « Le Vers et tout écrit au fond par cela qu’issu de la parole doit se montrer à même de subir l’épreuve orale ou d’affronter la diction comme un mode de présentation extérieur et pour trouver haut dans la foule son écho plausible, au lieu qu’effectivement il a lieu au-­‐delà du silence que traversent se raréfiant en musiques mentales ses éléments, et affecte notre sens subtil ou de rêve ». 25
Albert Thibaudet, ouvrage cité, 314. 26
Crise de vers, OC II, 208. 27
Cette distinction des deux genres est posée dans La Musique et le Lettres, OC II, 75 : « Le vers par flèches jeté moins avec succession que presque simultané-­‐
ment pour l’idée, réduit la durée à une division spirituelle propre au sujet : diffère de la phrase ou développement temporaire, dont la prose joue, le dissimulant, selon mille tours. / À l’un, sa pieuse majuscule ou clé allitérative, et la rime, pour le régler : l’autre genre, d’un élan précipité et sensitif tournoie et se case, au gré d’une ponctuation qui disposée sur papier blanc, déjà s’y signifie. » 24
146 la dimension temporelle et de la dimension spatiale de l’écrit :28 le vers, selon la dynamique interne de sa « dialectique »,29 donne une unité spatio-­‐temporelle a posteriori à « tel fragment ordinaire d’élocution »30 qu’il isole et fait rimer ; la prose, comme le veut son étymologie, va de l’avant, mais de telle façon qu’en s’étirant, en multipliant les coupes et les incidences, et comme en affrontant ses propres turbulences, elle court le risque « de la pulvérisation » et « de l’émiettement sans synthèse, ni sens31 ». Il y a cependant un garde fou à ce risque de déliaison de la phrase de prose : il s’agit de la syntaxe, qui maintient, dans une structure fluide mais prégnante les jeux labiles de l’écriture, à la fois pour les catalyser en quelque sorte et pour les endiguer, quand le « balbutiement » initial des mots s’illumine aux « primitives foudres de la logique » et s’enlève « en quelque équilibre supé-­‐
rieur » : Quel pivot, j’entends, dans ces contrastes, à l’intelligibilité ? Il faut une garantie — La Syntaxe — […] Les abrupts, hauts jeux d’aile, se mireront, aus-­‐
si : qui les mène, perçoit une extraordinaire appro-­‐
priation de la structure, limpide, aux primitives foudres de la logique. Un balbutiement, que semble la phrase, ici refoulé dans l’emploi d’incidences multiple, se compose et s’enlève en quelque équi-­‐
libre supérieur, à balancement prévu d’inversions.32 28
Voir Serge Meittinger, « Mallarmé en vers, Mallarmé en prose : une question de temporalité », in Raoul Klein (dir.), Mallarmé (Eurédit Éditeur, 2000) 23–38. 29
Crayonné au théâtre, « Solennité », OC II, 200. 30
Crise de vers, OC II, 213. 31
Serge Meittinger, article cité, 33. 32
Le Mystère dans les lettres, OC II, 232–233. 147 En ce « moment grammatical de la littérature française »,33 où la grammaire est l’enjeu de pratiques d’écriture tantôt puristes tantôt transgressives, Mallarmé est bien, comme il le dit lui-­‐même, un « syntaxier »,34 — en ce sens que sa syntaxe, renouvelée de fond en comble et profondément subjectivisée,35 maintient cependant la possibilité d’une lisibilité commune du texte. De la même façon que les vers-­‐libristes symbolistes inventent des formules prosodiques nouvelles, Mallarmé « proselibriste » invente pour chaque texte de prose une syntaxe neuve : il en « use à part », et la « dédie » finale-­‐
ment « à la Langue »,36 — qui s’agrandit ainsi d’une nouvelle ma-­‐
nière grammaticale découlant elle-­‐même d’un mode singulier d’énonciation. Lire revient donc à interpréter (musicalement) la syntaxe de Mallarmé, telle que celle-­‐ci s’invente sur le motif en épousant le surgissement de l’événement et en captant à vif l’impression du lo-­‐
cuteur. La ponctuation notamment joue un rôle expressif accru37. Ainsi dans cette apparition de la danseuse : 33
Voir Gilles Philippe, Sujet, verbe, complément. Le moment grammatical de la littérature française, 1890–1940 (Paris : nrf, Gallimard, 2002). 34
Cf. Villégiatures. Un coin de Seine au pont de Valvins — Samois, Entretien re-­‐
cueilli par Maurice Guillemot, OC II, 715 : « Il y a à Versailles des boiseries à rin-­‐
ceaux, jolis à faire pleurer ; des coquilles, des enroulements, des courbes, des re-­‐
prises de motifs — telle m’apparaît d’abord la phrase que je jette sur le papier, en un dessein sommaire, que je revois ensuite, que j’épure, que je réduis, que je syn-­‐
thétise… et, si l’on obéit à l’invitation de ce grand espace blanc laissé à dessein au haut de la page comme pour séparer de tout le déjà lu ailleurs, si l’on arrive avec une âme vierge, neuve, on s’aperçoit alors que je suis profondément et scrupu-­‐
leusement syntaxier, que mon écriture est dépourvue d’obscurité, que ma phrase est ce qu’elle doit être — et être pour toujours, puisqu’elle a été faite ainsi pour être imprimée, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire revêtir une forme définitive… sacrée. » 35
Cf. lettre à Verlaine, 23 juillet 1895, Corr. VII, 247 : « Cher grammairien, dirai-­‐je, vous tenez votre syntaxe ». 36
Cf. Crise de vers, OC II, 207. 37
À la question « que pensez-­‐vous de la Ponctuation ? », Mallarmé répond : « au-­‐
cun sujet certainement n’est plus important. L’emploi ou le rejet de signes con-­‐
venus indique la prose ou les vers, nommément tout notre art : ceux-­‐ci s’en pas-­‐
sent par le privilège d’offrir, sans cet artifice de typographie, le repos vocal qui 148 Quand, au lever du rideau dans une salle de gala et tout local, apparaît ainsi qu’un flocon d’où soufflé ? furieux, la danseuse : le plancher évité par bonds ou dur aux pointes, acquiert une virginité de site pas songé, qu’isole, bâtira, fleurira la figure.38 L’impression — « un flocon […] » —, suivie aussitôt de l’étonnement du sujet qui coupe la phrase — « d’où soufflé ? » —, précède la compréhension globale et la diffère, tandis que l’adjectif « furieux » au masculin, en caractérisant le « flocon », caractérise aussi, par proximité, « la danseuse », accomplissant de la sorte la fusion du comparant et du comparé ; les deux points qui suivent n’ont pas la valeur grammaticale ordinaire : ils disjoignent la propo-­‐
sition circonstancielle de la proposition principale en créant de l’une à l’autre une sorte nouvelle de conséquence, plus abrupte, qui dit la répercussion de l’événement, — lequel en effet, en se propa-­‐
geant dans l’espace (« évité par bonds ou dur aux pointes »), trans-­‐
figure le « site » même qui l’accueille (« une virginité de site pas songé ») ; on remarquera en outre que Mallarmé sépare d’une vir-­‐
gule le sujet (« le plancher ») du verbe (« acquiert »), — comme si les choses existaient en elles-­‐mêmes, antérieurement aux règles de subordination que la syntaxe conventionnelle surimpose au réel ; quant aux trois verbes qui terminent la phrase (« isole, bâtira, fleu-­‐
rira »), le passage au futur manifeste cette « apparence fausse de présent »39 où se tient la danseuse, alors que le déploiement à venir de son geste ou de sa course est, quoiqu’imprévisible, déjà tout en-­‐
tier contenu dans le premier ébranlement de son pas et dans la mesure l’élan ; au contraire, chez celle-­‐là, nécessité, tant, que je préfère selon mon goût, sur page blanche, un dessin espacé de virgules ou de points et leurs combinaisons secondaires, imitant, nue, la mélodie — au texte, suggéré avanta-­‐
geusement si, même sublime, il n’était pas ponctué » (Divagations, Grands faits divers, « Solitude », OC II, 258–259). 38
« Autre étude de danse. Les fonds dans le ballet. D’après une indication an-­‐
cienne », Crayonné au théâtre, OC II, 175. 39
Crayonné au théâtre, « Mimique », OC II, 178–179. 149 première émotion suscitée par son apparition. Ce faisant, la phrase retrouve en elle le mouvement qu’elle évoque : précipitée, élancée ou arrêtée, légère ou ferme, elle fait ce qu’elle dit, — et danse elle-­‐
même. Ailleurs, dans le portrait d’Édouard Manet, ce sont les touches, rapides et « furieuses », du peintre que la prose, par son rythme lui-­‐même heurté, semble imiter. Mallarmé croque Manet comme celui-­‐ci saisissait ses modèles, sur le vif : […] une ingénuité virile de chèvre-­‐pied au pardessus mastic, barbe et blond cheveu rare, grisonnant avec esprit. Bref, railleur à Tortoni, élégant ; en l’atelier, la furie qui le ruait sur la toile vide, confusément, comme si jamais il n’avait peint. Ce « portrait en pied » de Manet compose en outre avec le genre de l’éloge funèbre, comme s’il s’agissait, par l’hyper-­‐expressivité de la syntaxe, de ravir Manet aux « griffes » de la mort, tout en célébrant déjà sa gloire posthume, — tandis que les effets d’illisibilité que produit le texte suscitent une incompréhension analogue à celle qui accueillit les toiles des premières expositions impressionnistes : Souvenir, il disait, alors, si bien : « L’œil, une main… » que je resonge. Cet œil — Manet — d’une enfance de li-­‐
gnée vieille citadine, neuf, sur un objet, les personnes posé, vierge et abstrait, gardait naguère l’immédiate fraîcheur de la rencontre, aux griffes d’un rire du regard, à narguer, dans la pose, ensuite, les fatigues de ving-­‐
tième séance. Sa main — la pression sentie claire et prête énonçait dans quel mystère la limpidité de la vue y descendait, pour ordonner, vivace, lavé, profond, aigu ou hanté de certain noir, le chef-­‐d’œuvre nouveau et français.40 40
Quelques médaillons et portraits en pied, OC II, 147. 150 Une pièce d’Anecdotes ou poèmes dans les Divagations, Le Nénuphar blanc,41 expérimente mieux encore les possibilités d’une prose impressionniste. Le thème du poème emprunte manifeste-­‐
ment aux peintres : une rivière ; par un « juillet de flamme » ; un rameur dans sa yole, « comme le rire de l’heure coulait alentour » ; une femme imaginée, indéfiniment réfléchie dans le paysage, quand par exemple « la buée d’argent des saules » se confond avec « la limpidité de son regard habitué à chaque feuille ». Au sujet nar-­‐
rateur, « les yeux au-­‐dedans fixés sur l’entier oubli d’aller » et en quelque sorte absenté de lui-­‐même, répond, au-­‐delà de tout visage défini, quelque femme elle-­‐même appréhendée dans « la vacance exquise de soi » : la dissolution des identités laisse place à de pures impressions, où les choses ne sont ni totalement imaginaires, quoique les fantasmes érotiques s’y insinuent, ni tout à fait réelles, quoique le paysage y apparaisse en claire lumière. Cette lumière, comme chez les peintres impressionnistes, est toute d’immanence, même si le poème reçoit obliquement le reflet d’anciens mythes : ici la figure implicite du faune épiant l’apparition de quelque nymphe, quand le narrateur se décrit en « maraudeur aquatique » ; là le mythe d’une Léda qui serait demeurée virginale, quand le nar-­‐
rateur compare le nénuphar blanc imaginairement cueilli en mé-­‐
moire de la mentale apparition d’une femme à « un noble œuf de cygne, tel que n’en jaillira le vol ». Partout, l’ordre des mots dans la prose tend à épouser l’ordre des choses, telles que celles-­‐ci se pré-­‐
sentent à la perception d’abord, puis à la conscience. Ainsi dans cette évocation de la rivière, révélée à chaque coup de rame, « pli selon pli42 », selon un mouvement large d’abord puis ralenti, quand l’eau vive s’alanguit en un « nonchaloir d’étang », lui-­‐même faisant bientôt pressentir la présence d’une « source » : 41
Anecdotes ou poèmes, « Le Nénuphar blanc », OC II, 98–101. Poésies, « Remémoration d’amis belges », OC I, 32. 42
151 Sans que le ruban d’aucune herbe me retînt devant un paysage plus que l’autre chassé avec son reflet en l’onde par le même impartial coup de rame, je venais échouer dans quelque touffe de roseaux, terme mysté-­‐
rieux de ma course, au milieu de la rivière : où tout de suite élargie en fluvial bosquet, elle étale un nonchaloir d’étang plissé des hésitations à partir qu’a une source. Cette « prose de yoleur »43 mime dans son rythme le rythme des rames, et les plis de son phrasé reproduisent quelque chose des on-­‐
dulations de l’eau, — celles-­‐ci étant amples d’abord quand les pay-­‐
sages défilent en arrière en se réfléchissant, — puis multipliées en rides infimes dans une eau presque immobile alors que le yoleur atteint le « terme mystérieux de sa course ». Quand il s’agit de « dé-­‐
ramer », une fois mentalement cueillie « l’idéale fleur », l’ordre des mots traduit le départ à reculons du rameur, — lui-­‐même entre-­‐
voyant dans l’écume qui se propage jusque vers le rivage quitté une ultime métamorphose du nénuphar blanc : […] partir avec : tacitement, en déramant peu à peu sans du heurt briser l’illusion ni que le clapotis de la bulle visible d’écume enroulée à ma fuite ne jette aux pieds survenus de personne la ressemblance transpa-­‐
rente du rapt de mon idéale fleur. Le rapprochement avec l’impressionnisme est éclairant à plus d’un titre. De même que les peintres impressionnistes, par le choix du « plein air » et par le « déconditionnement » du regard, ont appris au public à voir les choses quotidiennes comme s’il les voyait « pour la première fois »,44 — de même Mallarmé, en boule-­‐
versant dans ses proses la syntaxe ordinaire, invite le lecteur à lire comme si jamais il n’avait lu. Les impressionnistes, en cherchant à 43
Michel Sandras, « La prose critique ou l’éventement de la gravité », Recherches et travaux, n°59 (2001) 251. 44
Les Impressionnistes et Édouard Manet, OC II, 466. 152 rendre sur leurs toiles la transparence même de l’air, ont donné à voir la lumière comme la condition d’apparition de toute chose sous le regard ; de même Mallarmé, en réinventant la langue hors des règles communes, oblige le lecteur à prendre conscience des opérations mentales que la lecture implique et fait apparaître alors le langage comme le substrat commun de ce seul « mystère » qui se joue dans « les lettres ». De la peinture impressionniste, on pourrait dire qu’elle hystérise la rétine, en captant les impressions visuelles avant toute recomposition intellectuelle de la vision de telle façon que le sujet de l’œuvre (des nénuphars par exemple) ne cesse d’apparaître et de disparaître sans jamais se fixer ; de même, on pourrait dire de l’art de la prose chez Mallarmé qu’il hystérise la lecture, en entraînant le lecteur dans une pratique empirique (« Lire — / cette pratique — […]»),45 tâtonnante ou fulgurante, vir-­‐
tuose ou égarée, naïve et réflexive à la fois, où le sens, par éclairs, ne cesse d’apparaître et de disparaître quand l’esprit applique à la « virginité » toujours recommencée de la page quelque « ingénui-­‐
té » — ou génialité — retrouvée46. Pour autant, chaque art demeure avec l’autre sans commune mesure, et c’est en écrivain que Mallar-­‐
mé rivalise avec les peintres : son instrument est, non la couleur — « moyen de prestiges directs » écrit-­‐il à propos de Berthe Mori-­‐
sot47—, mais « l’intellectuelle parole à son apogée »,48 moyen de prestiges « indirects » pourrait-­‐on dire,49 parce que l’écriture, sans support sensible immédiat, opère en toute abstraction et joue sa partition pour l’esprit seulement. Si la peinture impressionniste et la prose mallarméenne poursuivent le même effet, elles le font donc 45
Le Mystère dans les lettres, OC II, 234. Ibid. : « Lire — / Cette pratique — / Appuyer, selon la page, au blanc qui l’inaugure son ingénuité […] ». 47
Quelques médaillons et portraits en pied, « Berthe Morisot », OC II, 151. 48
Crise de vers, OC II, 212. 49
Voir Barbara Bohac, « Berthe Morisot selon Mallarmé, ou la féerie quotidienne au féminin », Impressionnisme et littérature (Presses universitaires de Rouen et du Havre, 2012) 73–82. 46
153 par des voies différentes, ici plus abstraite et là plus sensible, en sorte que chaque art, renvoyé à lui-­‐même, ne dialogue avec l’autre que dans et par leur séparation. TYPOLOGIE DES FORMES ET DIALECTIQUE DES GENRES Comme le vers libre, la prose de Mallarmé est ainsi associée à une hyper-­‐expressivité des formes littéraires. Symptomatique, à ce titre, de cet « inexpliqué besoin d’individualité50 » qui caractérise l’époque contemporaine, elle témoigne d’un moment critique dans l’histoire des formes, qui instaure un déséquilibre, et attend sa réso-­‐
lution en enclenchant un mouvement dialectique qui fait passer du vers à la prose, et de la prose à quelque forme poétique inédite qui procéderait à la fois d’une logique de vers et d’une logique de prose. Le premier moment de cette dialectique est en effet celui du vers régulier, — que l’éclosion du vers libre ne doit pas, selon Mal-­‐
larmé, périmer. Un emploi générique spécifique lui est attribué : découlant de la « tradition solennelle », dévolu aux « occasions amples » et gardien des « échos vénérables51 », il est plus particuliè-­‐
rement apte à célébrer « l’empire de la passion et des rêveries52 ». Toutefois, son maintien jusque dans la crise qui semble le nier lui permet de revenir « fluide, restauré, avec des compléments peut-­‐
être suprêmes53 », — tels ceux que Mallarmé recherche dans L’Après-­‐midi d’un faune, où, écrit-­‐il, il a ajouté à « l’alexandrin dans toute sa tenue » « une sorte de jeu courant pianoté autour »,54 et où il a combiné « le grand vers initial avec une infinité de motifs em-­‐
pruntés à l’ouïe individuelle ».55 50
Sur l’évolution littéraire, OC II, 697–698. Crise de vers, OC II, 207. 52
« Observation relative au poème Un coup de dés […] », OC I, 392. 53
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 65. 54
Sur l’évolution littéraire, OC II, 701. 55
Sur l’évolution littéraire, OC II, 699. 51
154 Le second moment est le moment du négatif, soit celui de la crise elle-­‐même. Le vers se libère du mètre, en ajoutant au « canon hiératique » 56 de l’alexandrin le jeu non réglé par avance des « mo-­‐
dulations individuelles », — de telle façon que le vers libre, ou « no-­‐
tation émotionnelle proportionnée »,57 se voie dévolu à l’expression de quelque « sentimentale bouffée »58 ou à l’expression du « chant personnel ».59 Le « desserrement » du vers peut aller en s’accentuant, chaque fois que la prose, au-­‐delà même de tout vers libre reconnaissable, amplifie la diffusion de la subjectivité dans la langue. Ces nouvelles formes de prose accomplissent l’idée du « poème en prose » telle qu’elle est héritée de Baudelaire et telle qu’elle a déjà été développée par les symbolistes ; mais la catégorie du « poème en prose » apparaît maintenant trop indéterminée pour caractériser avec assez de précision toutes les formes de prose qui découlent du libre jeu de la parole. C’est pourquoi Mallarmé in-­‐
dique en pointillés une typologie plus fine des proses qu’il expéri-­‐
mente et desquelles pourraient découler, pour l’avenir, autant de genres nouveaux. L’étude sur Richard Wagner est dite « moitié ar-­‐
ticle, moitié poëme en prose »,60 comme si le journal et le poème, quoique relevant de deux « emplois » de la parole a priori irréconci-­‐
liables, comportaient une zone d’intersection possible qu’il s’agirait d’explorer. Si « nul » alors « n’échappe décidément, au journa-­‐
lisme »,61 un des enjeux des Divagations consiste à donner forme à un journalisme idéal, où les nouvelles de l’actualité la plus immé-­‐
diate seraient reconsidérées du point de vue du rêve,62 de telle fa-­‐
56
Crise de vers, OC II, 206. Lettre à Charles Bonnier, mars 1893, OC I, 808. 58
Crise de vers, OC II, 207. 59
« Observation relative au poème Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard », OC I, 392. 60
Lettre à Édouard Dujardin, début de l’été 1885, citée dans la notice de Bertrand Marchal à Richard Wagner. Rêverie d’un poëte français, OC II, 1622. 61
Divagations, OC II, 83. 62
Voir Anecdotes ou poèmes, « Un spectacle interrompu », OC II, 90 : « Que la civilisation est loin de procurer les jouissances attribuables à cet état ! on doit par 57
155 çon aussi que la prose parviendrait à rédimer en elle le flot de « l’universel reportage » : 63 d’où des indications génériques en ap-­‐
parence oxymoriques comme Anecdotes ou poèmes, ou bien comme Grands faits divers, qui suggèrent que telles choses vues (à la façon de Victor Hugo) peuvent d’elles-­‐mêmes susciter un regard poétique et que la prose du monde peut elle-­‐même se laisser transmuer en poème ; d’où aussi Crayonné au théâtre qui fait du genre de la cri-­‐
tique théâtrale, non une simple chronique des saisons dramatiques, mais une sorte d’équivalent poétique, plus distancié cependant, de ce qui se joue sur la scène ; d’où surtout le genre du « poème cri-­‐
tique » annoncé dans la « Bibliographie » des Divagations, — lequel non seulement joue du blanc et du fragment dans un espace qui fut d’abord celui d’une revue (« l’amicale, à tous prête Revue Blanche »), — mais qui surtout ne laisse pas la pensée dans une po-­‐
sition d’extériorité par rapport au poème, celui-­‐ci trouvant en celle-­‐
là « tels rythmes immédiats […] ordonnant une prosodie »:64 cri-­‐
tique et poésie, poésie et pensée se rejoignent dans la prose, selon un entrelacement de la fiction et de son « démontage »65 qui im-­‐
plique que la réflexion soit interne au poème, et donc qu’il n’y ait pas en poésie de position métapoétique possible, — comme il n’y a pas, selon Lacan, de métalangage pour dire l’inconscient. Le troisième temps de la dialectique du vers et de la prose est celui de la synthèse, telle que peut l’illustrer le dispositif formel exemple s’étonner qu’une association entre les rêveurs, y séjournant, n’existe pas, dans toute grande ville, pour subvenir à un journal qui remarque les événements sous le jour propre au rêve. Artifice que la réalité, bon à fixer l’intellect moyen entre les mirages d’un fait ; mais elle repose par cela même sur quelque univer-­‐
selle entente : voyons donc s’il n’est pas, dans l’idéal, un aspect nécessaire, évi-­‐
dent, simple, qui serve de type. Je veux, en vue de moi seul, écrire comme elle frappa mon regard de poète, telle Anecdote, avant que la divulguent des repor-­‐
ters par la foule dressés à assigner à chaque chose son caractère commun. » 63
Crise de vers, OC II, 212. 64
Divagations, « Bibliographie », OC II, 277. 65
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 67. 156 qu’invente le poème Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard.66 Celui-­‐ci en effet participe à la fois du vers et de la prose : — à la prose, il emprunte son unité grammaticale, — celle de la phrase-­‐
titre, maintenue dans sa cohésion première, quoique distendue par les blancs qui s’y insinuent et par l’insertion d’incidentes multiples qui déposent autour d’elle « un semis de fioritures» ;67 — et au poème versifié, il emprunte une certaine proportion de noir et de blanc, non pas « transgressée » mais seulement « dispersée »,68 ain-­‐
si que le principe d’une coupe, déplacée seulement de l’hémistiche du vers au pli de la Page. Cette double logique imprime au poème un mode de déploiement complexe, — plus temporel que spatial selon la prose, et plus spatial que temporel selon le vers, — de telle façon que la « mobilité de l’écrit »69 d’abord aléatoire, se ressaisit « sous la compréhension du regard »,70 — et de telle façon que les « subdivisions prismatiques de l’Idée », d’abord évanescentes ou intermittentes, se rassemblent finalement dans quelque « mise en scène spirituelle exacte71 ». À ce genre nouveau — « que c’en de-­‐
vienne un », nuance Mallarmé72 — correspond un emploi lui-­‐même nouveau de la parole : non plus seulement le vers impersonnel em-­‐
prunté à « la tradition solennelle »,73 ni seulement le « chant per-­‐
sonnel74 » dévolu au vers libre, mais, dialectiquement, « tels sujets d’imagination pure et complexe ou intellect »,75 qui apparaît 66
Sur la forme et le genre d’Un coup de dés, voir Michel Murat, Le Coup de dés de Mallarmé : un recommencement de la poésie (Paris : Belin, 2005). 67
Quant au livre, « Le Livre instrument spirituel », OC II, 227. 68
« Observation relative au poème Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard », OC I, 391. 69
Ibid. 70
Crise de vers, OC II, 208. 71
« Observation relative au poème Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard », OC I, 391. 72
Ibid., 392. 73
Crise de vers, OC II, 207. 74
« Observation relative au poème Un coup de Dés jamais n’abolira le Hasard », OC I, 392. 75
Ibid. 157 comme l’expression du « Soi », à la fois personnel et impersonnel, par quoi le monde s’apparaît musicalement à lui-­‐même dans et par la fiction qui le réfléchit. Il faut ajouter que cette résolution dialectique de l’opposition du vers et de la prose est très précisément historicisée par Mallarmé, qui distingue trois moments chronologiques corres-­‐
pondant aux trois phases logiques de l’Idée de poésie. Le moment intermédiaire de la crise est celui de la « séparation76 » des parnas-­‐
siens, partisans d’un vers reconduit à sa stricte « intégrité » mé-­‐
trique, et des symbolistes, partisans du vers libre et, à ce titre, ini-­‐
tiateurs de la dissolution du nombre dans le rythme. Cette « sépara-­‐
tion » ou « scission77 » suppose, antérieurement et ultérieurement, deux moments de « fusion », — avec, en amont, le vers souple de Victor Hugo (soit un vers « qui serait bien aussi beau que la prose » écrivait Victor Hugo lui-­‐même dans la préface de Cromwell),78 — et, en aval, l’« œuvre suprême à venir » dont Mallarmé attend qu’elle remplace un jour « les deux formes »79 et dont Un coup de dés pourrait être « un fragment d’exécuté ».80 Le XIXe siècle résume et condense ainsi tout le développement historique de l’Idée de poésie : — le passé de la « fusion » hugolienne du vers et de la 76
Voir La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 64 : « Sûr, nous en sommes là, présente-­‐
ment. La séparation. / Au lieu qu’au début de ce siècle, l’ouïe puissante roman-­‐
tique combina l’élément jumeau en ses ondoyants alexandrins, ceux à coupe ponctuée et enjambements ; la fusion se défait vers l’intégrité. » 77
Voir Sur l’évolution littéraire, OC II, 699 : « Il y a scission [entre Parnassiens et Symbolistes] par inconscience de part et d’autre que les efforts peuvent se re-­‐
joindre plutôt qu’ils ne se détruisent. Car, si, d’un côté, les Parnassiens ont été, en effet, les absolus serviteurs du vers, y sacrifiant jusqu’à leur personnalité, les jeunes gens [c’est-­‐à-­‐dire les vers-­‐libristes symbolistes] ont tiré directement leur instinct des musiques, comme s’il n’y avait rien eu auparavant ; mais ils ne font qu’espacer le raidissement, la construction parnassienne, et, selon moi, les deux efforts peuvent se compléter. » 78
Victor Hugo, « Préface » de Cromwell, in Théâtre complet, édition de J.-­‐J. Thierry et Josette Mélèse (Paris : Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1963) 441. 79
À Gustave Kahn, 22 septembre 1897, Corr. IX, 276 : « une œuvre suprême à ve-­‐
nir remplacera les deux formes ». 80
À Paul Verlaine, 16 novembre 1885, OC II, 788. 158 prose, — le présent de la « séparation » parnassienne et symboliste du mètre et du rythme, — et, pour l’avenir, à nouveau la « fusion », cette fois du Nombre et du Hasard, telle que la projette l’œuvre de Mallarmé, devenue alors en effet, comme le suggère Bertrand Mar-­‐
chal,81 un tombeau de Victor Hugo, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire à la fois l’élucidation de l’« idée inconsciente »82 du vers et sa revenance, jusque dans la prose. 81
Bertrand Marchal, « Pour (ou contre) un Tombeau de Victor Hugo », in Henri Scepi (dir.), Mallarmé et la prose (Poitiers: La Licorne, 1998) 121–128. 82
Crise de vers, OC II, 205. 159 Aside from essays, reviews, and interviews, since its inception in 2006, Hyperion has featured translations into English from Russian, French, German, Turkish, Hungarian, Italian, Romanian, Arabic, Farsi, & other languages. Hyperion is now expanding its language-­‐
base to include translations into French, German, Hungarian, Ital-­‐
ian, Romanian, or Turkish and welcomes proposals for such. Additionally, we have published special issues on James Purdy, Miklós Szentkuthy, Gherasim Luca, Gellu Naum, & with this issue, Mallarmé. Hyperion is concerned with aesthetics, with the value of art and the ways in which it can be transformed and renewed. We are looking for applied criticism — critical essays that are evaluative of specific artists and specific works of art. Hyperion will also soon begin featuring a section called Artists on Artists & another called On Translation, both of which will in-­‐
clude dialogues/interviews. These are not limited to English but can be in French, German, Hungarian, Italian, Romanian, or Turk-­‐
ish. Write to us at [email protected] if you wish to contribute a translation, essay, interview, or review. All previous issues are available to download for free on our website by going to the HYPERION tab or via ISSUU.COM. Musicalité du Coup de dés Jean-­‐François Puff Tu récites pour toi seul des vers anciens… Lionel Ray Certain jour, assez lointain déjà, nous nous sommes trouvés quelques-­‐uns réunis dans une salle de séminaire pour une disputatio portant sur la question difficile de la part musicale du poème de Mallarmé Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard : occasion provoquée par une recension du livre que Michel Murat1 venait de consacrer à ce poème, rédigée par mes soins.2 Ce livre, comme son compte-­‐rendu, avaient suscité un débat qui sans doute n’est pas clos.3 Le texte qui suit est celui que j’ai prononcé à l’occasion de ce séminaire. « Je voudrais, pour introduire ma position sur la question de la musicalité du Coup de dés, rappeler d’abord que la postérité de ce poème, son influence sur la modernité poétique française a au premier chef joué sur la question de la mise en page, sur l’usage de la typographie et de ce qu’il est convenu d’appeler le blanc ; via 1
Michel Murat, Le Coup de dés de Mallarmé. Un recommencement de la poésie (Paris, Berlin : coll. « L’extrême contemporain, » 2005). 2
Ce compte rendu est lisible sur le site Fabula, à l’adresse suivante : http://www.fabula.org/revue/document929.php 3
La réponse qui a été adressée au livre de Murat ainsi qu’à mon compte rendu est également lisible sur le site Fabula : http://www.fabula.org/revue/document974.php Reverdy entre autres intercesseurs en effet, l’usage du blanc n’a cessé de se généraliser et de croître sa proportion sur la page, dans la poésie française du XXe siècle. On peut en effet, dans une perspective cavalière, évoquer pour l’après-­‐guerre d’une part certains poètes du groupe qui se constitue autour de la revue L’Éphémère (André du Bouchet au premier chef), et d’autre part ce qu’il est convenu d’appeler « la modernité négative » (Claude Royet-­‐Journoud, Anne-­‐Marie Albiach notamment) : dans les deux cas, la descendance est nombreuse.4 L’usage du blanc chez ces poètes opère le plus souvent à deux niveaux : à un niveau syntaxico-­‐
sémantique, il favorise la composition d’une poésie de l’ellipse (dans laquelle la continuité mallarméenne de la phrase est le plus souvent perdue) ; au niveau de la mise en page, il s’inscrit de manière privilégiée dans le cadre d’un rapport à l’art pictural. En cela, l’usage du blanc en poésie se conforme au rapport dominant dans la poésie du XXe siècle, dès lors qu’il s’y établit une relation entre les arts : tant la question de la musique est devenue, dans la poésie du deuxième vingtième siècle, problématique — voire taboue. C’est donc le point de vue d’un lecteur et d’un praticien de la poésie de ce temps que j’expose ici, et ce long préambule n’a pour autre but que de déclarer que, s’il est une habitude de lecture du Coup de dés dans la modernité, elle se situe dans les deux dimensions du syntaxico-­‐sémantique et du visible, et non pas du sonore. Cela pour faire justice d’un reproche : penser la question de la musique dans ce poème de Mallarmé, ce ne peut être le lire dans la perspective passéiste du rapport originel de la poésie et de la musique, et vouloir en faire à toute force ce qu’il n’est évidemment pas, à savoir un chant. C’est pourquoi la lecture du livre de Michel Murat a eu sur moi l’effet d’un éclaircissement soudain ; il m’a 4
Le point limite de cette pratique se situe cependant indépendamment des deux mouvements que je viens d’évoquer. Il a été atteint par le poète — et grand lecteur de Mallarmé — Roger Lewinter dans ,vers (Ivrea, 2001). 162 semblé — et il me semble toujours — qu’une dimension fondamentale de ce poème était d’un coup restituée : « le Coup de dés se produit à l’ouïe en même temps qu’à la vue, comme un orage avec foudre et tonnerre ».5 Or il est remarquable que la modernité poétique n’ait précisément pas entendu ce poème. Il faut donc préciser de quelle musique on parle : qu’entend-­‐
on par musique lorsque l’on désigne la « part musicale » du poème ? Je vais ici évoquer seulement de manière oblique le concept mallarméen de musique, de même que le rapport du poète à l’art musical proprement dit : la musique joue un rôle important dans la poétique de Mallarmé, en cela qu’elle est conçue comme ce que Bertrand Marchal appelle « une transmutation alchimique, une évaporation idéale de la nature » ; 6 cependant cette idéalité est condamnée à demeurer latente, à la fois exprimée et retenue dans le sortilège des sons ; aussi le poète toujours accorde-­‐t-­‐il un privilège à la parole. Cela laisse intacte la question de la part musicale du poème ; un des points en effet que Michel Murat met en avant et qui me semble fondamental, est que nous avons devant nous avec Le Coup de dés un très singulier objet de langage, un poème hors normes, et qu’il faut en envisager les « usages possibles ».7 Le poème se propose à nous, lecteurs peut-­‐être « ingénus » : comment allons-­‐nous en user ? De cet étrange jeu de langage, quelles sont les règles, que nous devrons bien découvrir puisqu’elles nous sont encore inconnues, nécessaires à en dévoiler l’intelligibilité ? Quelles règles donc mettre en œuvre pour comprendre le poème, dit-­‐on communément, ce poème difficile, qui remet totalement en cause les habitudes de lecture de la poésie comptée-­‐rimée ? Je postule volontiers, en m’appuyant sur les propositions avancées avec prudence par Michel Murat, qu’il faut 5
Op. cit., 160. Bertrand Marchal, La Religion de Mallarmé (Paris : Corti, 1988) 281. 7
Michel Murat, Le Coup de dés de Mallarmé. Un recommencement de la poésie, 105. 6
163 savoir exécuter la partition du poème pour le comprendre, au sens où Wittgenstein écrit : « Et on parle de comprendre la musique ; c’est bien dans le moment où on l’entend qu’on la comprend ».8 Mallarmé lui-­‐même donne quelques indications, quelques règles pour l’exécution, dans l’ « observation » qui précède l’édition Cosmopolis ; ce sont ces règles que certains soupçonnent d’être autant de leurres. Peut-­‐être est-­‐ce vrai dans la perspective du discours théorique de Mallarmé et de ses poèmes critiques, dans certains aspects ; il s’avère pourtant qu’elles sont opérantes dans la lecture du poème : je parle non seulement des quelques règles données par Mallarmé, mais aussi de leur mise à l’épreuve et leur déploiement par Michel Murat. Pour en revenir à la question du genre de musique dont il est question, il faut tout de suite préciser ceci : ce que le livre de Michel Murat montre, c’est que, s’il est question de musique à propos du Coup de dés, ce ne peut être au sens de « l’ancien souffle lyrique ». Séparée de l’art musical depuis la fin du Moyen-­‐Âge, la poésie maintient son lien à l’oralité par le vers ; et, dans le cas spécifique du vers français, la « pierre angulaire » de ce qui sépare le vers de toute autre forme de parole c’est le e dit atone. Mallarmé, comme le montre M. Murat, déconstruit l’édifice de l’ancien système, et il recompose un nouveau système, « hors d’anciens calculs ». Radicalité qui n’est d’ailleurs pas sans évoquer celle de Schönberg abandonnant le système tonal, en passant par la phase turbulente de l’atonalité libre avant d’édifier le système nouveau du dodécaphonisme. Cela pour dire que ce n’est pas parce que Mallarmé construit une métrique nouvelle, comme le montre Michel Murat, ce n’est pas parce qu’il retire au e atone son rôle principiel dans la constitution du vers qu’il ne vise à aucune musique ; peut-­‐être vise-­‐t-­‐il aussi à constituer une musique 8
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Fiches (Paris : Gallimard, 1970) 47 (§ 159). 164 nouvelle : 9 et il me semble que si la question de la réalisation sonore ne se posait pas avec acuité, alors il n’était pas nécessaire d’être aussi rigoureux dans la neutralisation des hésitations entre vers et prose que M. Murat le montre ; en somme, la rigueur signalerait l’intention. Il se serait agi de produire un certain résultat sonore, une musique sèche puisque décrochée de l’usage traditionnel du e atone dans le vers : si l’on songe que ce e est qualifié avec justesse de « pneumatique » par le poète Jacques Réda ; figure dont se saisit un autre poète, Jacques Roubaud, pour parler de ce e comme le pneuma, le souffle qui anime le vers de la poésie lyrique.10 Cette musique nouvelle repose sur le vers libre d’un genre inédit que décrit M. Murat, qui se constitue soit par segmentation, soit par l’agglutination du vers comme « mot total refait ». Cette « subdivision prismatique de l’idée » impose bien des relations de temps, non plus par « valeurs égales » comme dans le vers métrique, mais par l’établissement de relations entre valeurs inégales ; il faut d’ailleurs remarquer que, dès lors que ce vers ne repose plus sur une structure métrique, sa seule définition possible est typographique. L’usage de « valeurs inégales » n’empêche en aucune manière qu’un rythme soit créé : or le rythme est la composante fondamentale du langage dans son rapport à la musique ; il n’y a de « mélodie » en poésie que par actualisation des hauteurs de la voix au moment de la performance du vers, qui procède de l’usage de tournures syntaxiques telles que l’interrogation ou l’exclamation. Or la notion de rythme est fondamentalement attachée à la poésie, chez Mallarmé ; Mallarmé n’est pas Francis Ponge, pour voir dominer absolument le « modèle de l’écriture. » On peut entendre la notion de rythme en poésie au sens que lui donne Ezra Pound dans son ABC de la lecture, qui le 9
C’est sans doute le manque de culture musicale de nombre de critiques ou de lecteurs de poésie qui leur fait juger toute référence à la musique en poésie sous les catégories, parfois peu définies, de l’harmonie et du chant. 10
Voir à ce propos Roubaud (Jacques), La Vieillesse d’Alexandre (Paris : rééd. Ramsay, 1988) 200–201. 165 définit comme « une forme découpée dans le temps, de même qu’une dessin est un espace déterminé ».11 Dès lors qu’il ne repose plus, dans le Coup de dés, sur le vers métrique, vers dans lequel le rythme est assez aisément formalisable, la création comme la mise en œuvre de ce rythme neuf reposent plus que jamais sur l’intuition ; cela ne neutralise pas la question rythmique, car le rythme ne dépend pas d’une seule forme, et c’est toujours la maîtrise intuitive des relations de temps qui fait, selon Ezra Pound, le poète : « le mauvais poète fait de la mauvaise poésie parce qu’il ne perçoit pas les relations de temps. Il est incapable d’en jouer de manière intéressante, par le moyen des […] diverses qualités du son qui sont inséparables de son discours. »12 Dans cette perspective on ne peut je crois opposer le sens du terme de « partition » chez Mallarmé — chez qui il aurait le sens littéral d’un découpage — à son sens en musique : car c’est au fond le même. La partition en musique représente en effet la mise en œuvre de l’écriture musicale, dont la fonction première est de discrétiser les sons (hauteurs, durées), c’est-­‐à-­‐dire d’opérer, précisément, un découpage dans le continu de la matière sonore. Il me semble dès lors que l’analogie du Coup de dés avec une partition musicale doit à la fois être entendue et circonscrite. La première analogie est d’ordre visuel : comme l’écrit Michel Murat à la fois elle est inévitable et elle doit être dépassée, puisque la partition « résulte » de l’oralisation du poème.13 Je voudrais juste indiquer au passage que l’analogie établie par Mallarmé a pris une pertinence qu’elle n’avait sans doute pas du temps du poète, dans la mesure où, dans la musique de la seconde moitié du XXe siècle, l’extension du domaine sonore, la complexification de la combinatoire, l’évolution des moyens de production du son et des techniques de jeu ont conduit les compositeurs à développer une 11
Ezra Pound, ABC de la lecture (Paris : Gallimard, coll. « Idées », 1967) 178. Op. cit., 179. 13
Michel Murat, op. cit., 106. 12
166 multitude de modes de notation nouveaux, qui font de leurs partitions des œuvres à part entière, dans lesquelles la part visuelle est essentielle. On peut y voir, littéralement, la musique (notation des glissandi, des clusters dans les Klavierstücke de Stockhausen par exemple). Cela dit cette part visuelle vise toujours à produire un certain résultat dans l’ordre du sonore. C’est donc aux modes d’oralisation et à la question du « monde sonore »14 ouvert par le poème qu’il convient de s’intéresser. Il faut tout d’abord opérer une mise au point sur la question de l’allographie, qui serait une caractéristique de l’œuvre musicale : dans cette perspective la partition n’est pas l’œuvre, mais une écriture de l’œuvre ; l’œuvre elle-­‐même est l’exécution de la partition. Considérer le poème comme une partition aboutirait donc à privilégier de manière tout à fait exagérée une oralisation qui effacerait le dispositif visuel. Cela dit, en musique, l’œuvre n’est tout à fait ni la partition, ni son exécution : elle se situe dans le rapport dynamique et toujours renouvelé de l’une à l’autre, aucune interprétation du texte musical ne pouvant être considérée comme définitive. Cela nous conduit directement à la question des « usages » du poème, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire, en l’occurrence, du mode d’exécution, ou d’oralisation, du poème, qui se distingue effectivement sur ce point assez décisivement de l’art musical, sauf dans un cas précis : celui de l’instrumentiste qui interprète la partition tout en l’ayant sous les yeux, ou qui se la représente de mémoire ; ou de l’auditeur musicien qui fait de même. Je vais y venir à travers une série d’étapes. Michel Murat évoque dans un premier temps deux modes d’oralisation distincts, qui semblent au premier abord s’exclure mutuellement : celui de la cérémonie initiatique que le maître offre à son disciple, et c’est bien sûr le récit célèbre de la présentation du poème à Valéry par Mallarmé lui-­‐même ; et celui d’une représentation devant un public, qui implique la participation d’un 14
Op. cit., 107. 167 diseur professionnel. On retient le premier cas pour évoquer le caractère secondaire, accessoire, de l’oralisation du poème, dans la mesure où Mallarmé lit le poème à Valéry d’une « voix basse, égale, sans le moindre "effet", presque à soi-­‐même… ».15 Mallarmé lit d’abord, il faut quand même tenir compte de cela. Mais on peut effectivement voir dans cette lecture la neutralisation à la lecture des effets de variation de volume sonore ou de modulation de la diction que pourraient traduire les différentes tailles ou formes de caractère qui composent le poème. J’y vois pour ma part avant tout une opposition stricte — d’ailleurs affirmée par Valéry dans son récit — à la pratique de la déclamation poétique, sans aucun doute dominante à l’époque et qui n’est pas près de disparaître. Cette pratique de la déclamation procède sans aucun doute de « l’ancien souffle lyrique » ; or la poésie de Mallarmé impose, la première, le mode de diction poétique qui est en usage aujourd’hui. Mallarmé inaugure le mode moderne d’oralisation de la poésie, celui de nos contemporaines « lectures », qui se sont multipliées tardivement en France, sous l’influence de la poésie américaine. C’est dans cette perspective qu’il faut l’entendre, et là encore, le point de vue qu’on peut avoir sur la question de l’oralisation du Coup de dés dépend largement de l’expérience qu’on peut avoir de ce mode de lecture. La formulation la plus nette de cela se trouve chez Roubaud, dans la « prose existant oralement » de Dire la poésie : « la diction que j’expérimente / est / […] / monotone / répétitive / imperméable / indifférente ».16 C’est-­‐à-­‐dire que pour faire entendre la musique du poème lui-­‐même, soit son rythme propre, sans lui surimposer les effets grossièrement expressifs de la déclamation, il faut, si on le dit, le dire ainsi. La poétique de Mallarmé appelle ce mode de diction, comme l’indique ce passage connu de tous : « L’œuvre pure 15
Paul Valéry, « Le Coup de dés. Lettre au directeur des Marges » (1920), Variétés, OC t.1 (Paris : Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade) 623. 16
Jacques Roubaud, Dors, précédé de Dire la poésie (Paris : Gallimard, 1981) 15. 168 implique la disparition élocutoire du poète… »17 Valéry le suit en cela (qui prendra pourtant le contrepied du Coup de dés dans sa poésie, dont l’un des modèles avoués est le récitatif d’opéra). C’est de cette manière que l’on pourra faire entendre ce qui « va de soi » dans le poème, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire, selon Mallarmé, le « rapprochement euphonique des mots », qui prend dans le Coup de dés la forme plus complexe de ce que M. Murat appelle « un réseau harmonique de la large emprise », mais aussi rendre sensibles « tels rythmes immédiats de pensée ordonnant une prosodie ». Dans cette perspective, l’opposition entre la cérémonie initiatique privée et la représentation publique du poème perd de sa pertinence : toute dimension cérémonielle ou théâtrale évacuée, il reste la lecture du poème pour soi seul ou quelques-­‐uns, selon les modalités qu’évoque Roubaud : « parce que / seul / vous dites la poésie / comme si vous aviez une foule devant vous / ou / symétriquement / parce que vous parlez devant un auditoire comme si vous étiez seul. »18 Pour poursuivre dans l’exploration des « usages » du poème, j’aurai une fois de plus recours à Roubaud, qui développe des conceptions permettant dans une large mesure de dépasser la scission entre lecture optique et lecture orale. Roubaud conçoit en effet la poésie comme s’adressant à un « œil-­‐oreille » et déployant dès lors « un quatuor de formes ».19 Ce quatuor est divisible en deux couples, un couple externe et un couple interne : le couple externe est formé de la page écrite ou imprimée et de la voix, réalisation orale de la page écrite ; le couple interne est formé de la page « éQrite », qui est l’image-­‐mémoire de la page écrite,20 et de la voix « aurale, » qui est une voix intérieure disant la poésie. Selon le 17
Mallarmé, « Crise de vers », OC t.2 (Paris, Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade) 211. 18
Jacques Roubaud, op. cit., 22. 19
Jacques Roubaud, Poésie et cetera : ménage, « Œil-­‐Oreille » (Paris : Stock, 1995) 126–127. 20
Cette graphie est forgée par le poète, dans Poésie et cetera : ménage. 169 poète, « omettre […] le couple interne, c’est couper la poésie en deux, la vider de tout sens. » En effet si « l’une des composantes externes peut être vide, non réalisée », cela ne devra jamais être le cas des composantes internes : entendant le poème lu à voix haute, j’en développerai dans ma mémoire la forme éQrite ; lisant en silence, j’activerai en moi la voix aurale. Dans cette perspective, et comme l’indique d’ailleurs M. Murat, on ne peut séparer la dimension spatiale du poème de sa dimension sonore : elles ne cessent de passer l’une dans l’autre (comme l’indique la comparaison de Pound, citée plus haut). On peut dès lors objecter qu’il faut déjà avoir vu le poème qu’on entend pour en avoir une représentation éQrite adéquate : c’est d’ailleurs la condition que pose Valéry à l’oralisation du poème — or cette condition, nous la remplissons tous. Par ailleurs, il serait possible de donner à un lecteur au moins une intuition de la forme éQrite, en lisant le poème de la manière que décrit avec tant de précision et de pertinence M. Murat : « Les paramètres typographiques, comme la théorie l’indique, jouent un rôle prépondérant dans la "partition." Ils hiérarchisent de manière suggestive les intensités et règlent les valeurs tonales qui correspondent aux valeurs modales de l’assertion. »21 Il se trouve que Mallarmé n’en use pas ainsi avec Valéry ; mais on peut imaginer qu’il s’agit avec cette lecture avant tout, comme l’écrit Valéry lui-­‐même, d’une « préparation à une plus grande surprise », qu’il ne s’agissait pas de déflorer. C’est le côté prestidigitateur de Mallarmé, celui qui fait apparaître et disparaître des objets. Quoi qu’il en soit, dans notre usage, contemporain, du poème, nous nous retrouvons dans la position de qui sait lire la musique, connaît une partition, et l’exécute ou l’entend, soit l’ayant sous les yeux, soit se la représentant, de mémoire. On peut même imaginer le cas limite où le poème se limite à ses formes internes, pour qui le saurait par cœur : dès lors celui-­‐là l’exécute 21
Michel Murat, op. cit., 161. 170 intérieurement, en déroulant les pages éQrites et se le disant auralement ; comme Glenn Gould, paraît-­‐il, se jouait intérieurement tout L’art de la fugue de J.-­‐S. Bach. Il est temps d’en venir à l’homologie du poème avec l’art musical proprement dit ; non pour l’y résorber, mais pour tenter de montrer comment le « monde sonore » ouvert par le poème permet d’en approcher le « sens formel » — c’est une expression de Roubaud — encore lui. Lisant le livre de M. Murat et plus particulièrement le passage dont j’ai lu un extrait tout à l’heure — soit les pages 157 à 162, le début de la section intitulée « Une partition » — un certain nombre d’analogies avec des œuvres musicales me sont venues spontanément à l’esprit ; aucune de ces œuvres n’est une œuvre symphonique : c’est pourtant la musique d’orchestre qui constitue le thème privilégié de la réflexion mallarméenne sur la musique. L’analogie s’établit principalement dans la correspondance entre la dimension spatiale du poème (disposition sur la page, taille et police de caractères) et l’établissement de plans sonores en musique. J’ai été particulièrement frappé par cette citation de Quant au livre qui figure dans l’ouvrage de M. Murat, à la page 84, où il est question d’une phrase principale et d’un « semis de fioritures ». Le terme de « fioriture » appartient au vocabulaire plastique et musical ; dans ce dernier cas, il désigne la pratique des ornements, dans la musique baroque : le type d’ornement vers lequel l’imagination est conduite implique la distinction de deux plans, un premier plan qui est celui de la ligne ornée, qui pourrait correspondre aux propositions rectrices du poème, et un second plan, celui des ornements, qui correspondrait aux incises, aux groupes « secondairement, explicatifs ou dérivés » ; l’ensemble constituant « la totale arabesque » que nomme La musique et les lettres. Ce type d’ornement existe effectivement, il s’agit des reprises en écho d’un motif, qui sont assurés par une deuxième source sonore, éloignée de la précédente, de manière à créer un 171 sentiment de l’espace (car la musique, elle aussi, est un art de l’espace) : on trouve ce procédé chez Monteverdi, dans l’adresse d’Orphée à Caron et la ritournelle qui le suit, à l’acte III de l’Orfeo ; ou encore dans le Magnificat des Vêpres de la Vierge. Autre exemple, plus décisif quant à mon propos, toujours dans la musique baroque : celui des sonates et partitas pour violon seul de Bach, dans lesquelles il s’agit de créer une polyphonie, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire un entrelacement de plusieurs lignes mélodiques, qui consonent sur le plan vertical (celui de l’harmonie), avec un instrument monodique, qui de ce fait ne le permet pas : dès lors cet entrelacement doit être rendu, non plus dans la superposition, mais dans la succession des lignes ; il revient à l’interprète, par variation de l’intensité de son jeu, de faire entendre ces différentes lignes en les disposant sur deux plans sonores différents, créant ainsi un sentiment de l’espace qui favorise la lisibilité de la musique. Cette équivalence, purement sensible, pourrait sembler de peu d’intérêt quant à l’interprétation du poème : il me semble au contraire qu’elle en manifeste le sens formel — je rappelle ici la formule de Mallarmé, « tels rythmes immédiats de pensée ordonnant une prosodie. » Pour l’établir, il me faut faire un détour par la fiction du poème, qui renvoie à cette idée, exposée par M. Murat, selon laquelle la « constellation » à quoi aboutit le poème, représente « l’activité de la pensée humaine, qui est confrontation risquée avec l’aléatoire ». L’aléatoire que manifeste tout coup de dés produit un résultat dès lors que le processus — en l’occurrence, le mouvement des dés jetés — aboutit à son terme : on peut penser ici aux « Trois stoppages-­‐étalon » de Marcel Duchamp. L’œuvre est le résultat d’un processus dans lequel l’artiste laisse tomber d’un mètre de haut trois fils d’un mètre chacun, puis en fixe les formes aléatoirement produites à l’aide d’un vernis, sur des règles de bois. On songe aussi à l’introduction de l’aléatoire dans le processus d’interprétation d’une œuvre musicale, au XXe siècle, ce qui fait que jamais l’œuvre n’est définitivement fixée. Cela dit, l’aléatoire se 172 situe dans le poème de Mallarmé sur le plan de la fiction, non sur celui du processus de création lui-­‐même, qui fut lent et patient. Si le poème pourtant touche à cette question majeure, soit celle d’une confrontation de la pensée humaine avec l’indéterminé, alors la dimension formelle et musicale que j’essaie de décrire ne se distingue plus du sens de la fiction. La confrontation du poème avec l’indéterminé est fort ancienne, en poésie : dans la tradition lyrique occidentale, elle remonte aux troubadours, et à leur concept de mezura, qui est simultanément un concept esthétique et éthique.22 Cette confrontation met en œuvre les divers instruments de la technique poétique : le vers, la rime, leurs configurations réglées, bref ce qui permet de tenir dans des formes l’indéterminé du désir amoureux, chez les troubadours, chez un Pétrarque, un Ronsard… ou ce qui devait permettre à Nerval de « fixer » ses chimères. Telle serait pour partie le « sens formel » des instruments hérités. Mallarmé, lui, dans son « acte de démence », compose son poème « hors d’anciens calculs » : dans sa confrontation avec l’indéterminé, il ne peut faire fond sur aucun héritage. Cela ne signifie pas qu’il sombre corps et biens ou encore qu’il se livre au pur jeu de l’aléatoire tel un poète dadaïste ; l’instrument nouveau qu’il forge, et que décrit Michel Murat, lui permet me semble-­‐t-­‐il d’approcher au plus près des configurations mouvantes de ce qui est pour lui l’indéterminé, cet espace où pensée et sensation sont encore indistinctes : « chiffration mélodique tue, de ces motifs qui composent une logique, avec nos fibres » ; cette approche des configurations mouvantes de la sensation-­‐pensée est tout entière intuitive, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire qu’elle n’est pas formalisée a priori par le poète qui y navigue « à l’estime », comme disent les marins. Dans cette tentative toute une série de décisions doivent être prises concernant la conduite du poème — ce qui n’est d’ailleurs pas sans évoquer le processus de la composition musicale, tel que les 22
Voir J. Roubaud, La Fleur inverse (Paris: Ramsay, 1986) 278. 173 compositeurs eux-­‐mêmes le décrivent — et ce sont ces décisions, ces hésitations, incises, apartés, que manifestent le « semis de fioriture » ornant la ligne principale du poème, et qui sont en même temps rendues sensibles, musicalement. Le rythme d’une pensée qui se déploie ici s’entend, se perçoit sensiblement, jusqu’à frôler la folie. Il en jaillira un « rire » inquiétant. C’est que, comme y insiste avec raison Michel Murat, cette pensée est un drame, le drame d’un seul, dans toute sa dimension existentielle et affective : et je me permets pour conclure de revenir sur les sonates et partitas de Bach : musique nocturne, et solitaire, créant autour d’elle une absence ; musique d’une voix seule qui cherche un improbable écho, elle consonne pour moi avec ce poème qu’il faut faire résonner pour soi-­‐même, passant d’une voix forte, posée, mais toujours d’intonation neutre, au chuchotis en écho, du fortissimo au sotto voce, allant diminuendo dans la page ; cela, dans la solitude d’une chambre entourée de nuit ; musique d’un « prince amer de l’écueil », et ce sera pour nous malgré tout, des « fêtes à volonté, et solitaires. » 174 The Mystery of Pendentif Mallarmé’s Book & the Poetics of Suspension Kuisma Korhonen There is nothing certain about Stéphane Mallarmé’s Grand Oeuvre or the Book. It first appears as a megalomaniac dream of a young man who is clearly too responsive to external influences. It devel-­‐
ops itself into a work plan of a writer who tries to fit all parts of his diverse projects into one major scheme. During the years that fol-­‐
low, it gets buried under everyday obligations until it is almost for-­‐
gotten, present only as an obscure desire. In the end, it has become a new literary ontology, a new vision of what writing could be.1 Sometimes, the ideal of the Book is like a cupola of a Tem-­‐
ple, a stable and premeditated representation of the Universe. Sometimes it is a mobile and changing piece of jewelry, scintillat-­‐
ing in the evening lights. 1
For the evolution of Mallarmé’s ideas on the Book, see Jacques Scherer, Le “Li-­‐
vre” de Mallarmé: premières recherches sur des documents inedits (Paris: Gal-­‐
limard, 1957). I I was asked, some fifteen years ago, to translate Mallarmé’s essay “Crise de vers” into Finnish. Not really realizing what I was doing, I agreed.2 During the following weeks and months, I plunged into a very strange world, full of eccentric visions, bizarre chimeras, and staggering prosody — sentences that sometimes, at the first read-­‐
ing, seemed to make no sense at all. How do you translate some-­‐
thing that wants to remain in obscurity? I remember one sentence, among many others, that caused me serious trouble. It was in a fragment where Mallarmé talks about his ideal of structure. In often quoted words, Mallarmé mus-­‐
es how (and here I refer to Barbara Johnson’s translation that was not yet available for me at the time) “any cry possesses an echo — motifs of the same type balance each other, stabilizing each other at a distance.” And he continues: Tout deviant suspens, disposition fragmentaire avec al-­‐
ternance et vis-­‐à-­‐vis, concourant au rhythm total, lequel serait le poème tu, aux blancs; seulement traduit, en une manière, par chaque pendentif.3 Everything is suspended, an arrangement of fragments with alternations and confrontations, adding up to a total rhythm, which would be the poem stilled, in the blanks; only translated, in a way, by each pendant.4 2
Stéphane Mallarmé, “Säkeen kriisi,” tr. by Kuisma Korhonen, in Oi Runous, ed. Tuula Hökkä (Helsinki: SKS, 2000). A revised version of the translation was later published in Estetiikan klassikoita, eds. Ilona Reiner et al. (Helsinki: Gaudeamus, 2009). 3
In Stéphane Mallarmé, Igitur, Divagations, Un coup de dés, éd. Yves Bonnefoy (Paris: Gallimard, coll. « Poésie », 1976) 249. 4
In Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, tr. by Barbara Johnson (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2007) 209. 176 The beginning of the sentence was somehow understanda-­‐
ble — the total rhythm of the book is born from “alternations and confrontations,” just as there are motifs that balance each other from distance, like echoes in the space. The blanks of different siz-­‐
es between the fragments of Divagations itself — which unfortu-­‐
nately are not visible in Johnson’s otherwise admirable translation — made evident how the total rhythm can be created with empty spaces. The last words, however, were mysterious: “seulement traduit, en une manière, par chaque pendentif.” What was “pendentif”? A native speaker of modern French would probably have automatically thought of a type of jewelry that people wear hanging in a necklace, “a pendant,” just as John-­‐
son later translated the word. If you nowadays search online for “pendentif,” thousands of pages referring to jewelry appear. But what sense would that make? I was not a native speaker so I checked almost every word in a dictionary. In the case of Mallarmé, consulting dictionaries is, in fact, quite recommendable even for those who think they have mastered French — as Jacques Scherer noted in his classic study,5 Mallarmé often plays with some little known archaic meanings of otherwise well known words. And indeed, I found out that in the 1870’s, the famous dictionary Littré defined “pendentif” as follows: “Portion de voûte sphérique placée entre les grands arcs qui sup-­‐
portent un dôme, une coupole, dite aussi fourche et panache.” In other words, in the terminology of religious architecture, pendentif referred to a triangular construction that supports the cupola of the church. Usually there are four triangular pendentifs that allow the quadrangular space between the columns to be “transformed” into a round cupola. Also, in English, the word 5
Jacques Scherer, L’expression littéraire dans l’oeuvre de Mallarmé (Paris: Nizet, 1947). 177 “pendant” is sometimes used in architecture, but with a slightly dif-­‐
ferent meaning, referring to more or less “hanging” ornaments of the late Gothic style. Many dictionaries gave both meanings, but it seemed that the first dictionary entry of “pendentif” for a piece of jewelry was in Larousse from 1903 — several years after Mallarmé wrote the first versions of his essay. Given the conservatism of dictionaries, I thought it was quite probable that both meanings of the word were already known in the 1880’s when Mallarmé wrote a series called “Variations sur un sujet” for Révue Blanche — a series that, in Diva-­‐
gations, formed the basis for “Crise de vers.” It is obvious, however, that in 19th-­‐century literary French it was still much more common to use the word for architectural construction than for a piece of jewelry.6 So, how should I translate “pendentif”? And how does this pendentif then translate, in its own way, the “total rhythm” of the book, or “the poem stilled”? The stakes were high. After all, it is clear that Mallarmé is, in this sentence, shifting from normal poetry collections towards the Book, the Grand Oeuvre, the “orphic explanation of the Earth.” Should we search for the ideal Structure of the Book from religious architecture — or from the scintillating jewelry in women’s necks? 6
th
While writing this article, I made a brief search for the word “pendentif” in 19 -­‐
century sources, and while most of the results referred to architecture, there were also some references to jewelry, for example in Ambroise Comarmond’s Description de l'écrin d'une Dame Romaine trouvée à Lyon en 1841, chez les frères de la doctrine chrétienne, et donnée par eux au Musée de cette ville (Paris: Ch. Savy, chez Dach, 1844) 37. 178 II Hundreds of books and articles have been published on Mallarmé. Thousands of authors have cited him, taking sentences out of con-­‐
text, transforming his oeuvre into a mobile army of floating cita-­‐
tions that have been used in order to defend or illustrate every im-­‐
aginable poetic or philosophical position. The sentence I quoted has also been cited numerous times. Certainly someone has re-­‐
solved the enigma for me, opened the meaning of these words? In fact, this does not seem to be the case. These words have been quoted, again and again, but hardly anyone has made any comment on their possible meaning. Mallarmé is an oracle whose words are repeated as they have once been written, without neces-­‐
sarily any need or effort to explain them. This is especially true in the case of Divagations, which is usually read as a secondary source, as a collection of theoretical essays where Mallarmé ex-­‐
plains his poetics. They are read as commentary, not as primary texts that would need interpretation.7 However, for Mallarmé, the texts of Divagations were critical poems — texts that combined the genres of the essay and prose poetry.8 Verse and critical prose both belonged to the literary existence of a poet. In her essay on Mallarmé and Boulez, Marcella Lista does attend to the word “pendentif” and calls it “la métaphore éclairante” — nonetheless, she does not truly clarify in any detail what light the metaphor casts, but only refers, vaguely, to the “sus-­‐
7
There are some notable exceptions, especially Jacques Derrida’s “The Double Session” in Dissemination, tr. by Barbara Johnson (London: Athlone Press, 1981). 8
On the genre of “poème critique,” see for example Kuisma Korhonen, “A Flow-­‐
er? Stéphane Mallarmé and the Poetic Essay” in The Modern Essay in French: Movement, Instability, Performance, Andy Stafford & Charles Forsdick (eds) (London: Peter Lang, 2005). 179 pension généralisée des forms.”9 Fabien Vallos also interprets the word “pendentif” in general terms, seeing it as a strophe or wind-­‐
ing-­‐up of language that is being suspended on some form.10 “Pendentif” is, then, linked to “sus-­‐pension” — another am-­‐
biguous word originating from the Latin root pendēre. What does “tout deviant suspens” mean? Does it refer, as Encyclopedié uni-­‐
verselle (that takes Mallarmé’s sentence as an example on the word “suspens”) lets us understand, to “attente angoissée,” a synonym to the English “suspense”? Or does it refer more to uncertainty, inde-­‐
cision, things that are “hanging in the air,” so to say, waiting to be decided? Or, more literally, does it refer to some element that is being suspended on some other, hanging from, or dependent on some other element? While it is clear how a pendant is suspended on a necklace, it is less clear how, and on what, an architectural pendentif is suspended — however, as Henri Maldiney has sug-­‐
gested, in some sense, pendentifs alone do not support the cupola, they are also are suspended on the cupola.11 9
Marcella Lista, “Esquisse, fragment et modernité: un parcours de Pierre Boulez,” in Pierre Boulez, Henri Loyrette, Marcella Lista, Pierre Boulez, Oeuvre: Fragment (Paris, Gallimard/Musée du Louvre, 2008) 54. 10
“Cette langue existe comme poème, comme traduction (comme transposition, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire passage d’une structure à une autre), dit Mallarmé, selon la manière, c’est-­‐à-­‐dire en fonction du style qui, matériellement, suspendra, la langue, en quelques « pendentifs », c’est-­‐à-­‐dire en quelques strophes : figure de la langue comme un enroulement qui se suspend dans une forme.” Fabien Vallos, Théorie de la fête: festivité, inopérativité & désoeuvrement. Thèse pour obtenir le grade de docteur de l’université Paris iv — Sorbonne, 2010. http://www.chrematistique.fr/wp-­‐content/uploads/2014/03/the%CC%80se-­‐
[email protected] 11
“La coupole est établie sur pendentif. Il y a cette chose extraordinaire, que les pendentifs la portent, eux-­‐mêmes portés par tout le mouvement des deux longs murs et des deux grandes coupoles, mais ils sont cependant suspendus à la cou-­‐
pole. C’est elle qui tient en suspens tout l’édifice qui la soutient.” “Rencontre avec Henri Maldiney, entretien du 26 mars 1996,” in Chris Younés; Philippe Nys; & Michel Mangematin (eds) L’architecture au corps (Bruxelles: Ousia, 1997) 16. 180 So, a pendant can be seen as both an object that one wears and an architectural pendentif that supports a cupola, and each is an example of the “suspension généralisée des forms.” Before we try to understand how the Structure of the Book is being translated by each “pendentif” in this large sense of the word, let us first ex-­‐
amine the two more restricted meanings of pendentif. III A cupola in a Christian church is an image of the heavenly sky, a spiritual sphere above us. Pendentifs allow this image of heaven to rise from the earthly quadrangular walls. Given the quasi-­‐religious position that Mallarmé grants to poetry,12 and many architectural references in his poems and es-­‐
says, the interpretation of “pendentif” as something that supports the cupola of the Temple of the Book does seem plausible. After all, the figure of the temple already appears in one of the first frag-­‐
ments of “Crisis of Verse” when Mallarmé presents the “exquisite and fundamental crisis” that is taking place in French poetry: “we are witnessing, in this fin-­‐de-­‐siècle, not — as it was during the last one — revolution, but, far from the public square: a trembling of the veil in the temple, with significant folds, and, a little, its rend-­‐
ing.”13 Mallarmé uses the figure of the temple also elsewhere. Al-­‐
ready in 1866, in a letter to A. Renaud, Mallarmé uses the figure of the Temple for his own ideal of the Grand Oeuvre, calling the po-­‐
12
See, for example, Bertrand Marchal, La Religion de Mallarmé (Paris: José Corti, 1988). 13
Divagations, 201. 181 em “Hérodiade” that he had been working on as one of the “splen-­‐
did and solomonic colons of that Temple.”14 In the preface to Divagations, Mallarmé refers to the book as “scattered and with no architecture.” However, at the end of the preface, he does hint at some hidden architectonic rule beneath the scattered fragments: “they resemble an abbey that, even though ruined, would breathe out its doctrine to the passer-­‐by.” I have elsewhere suggested that there is, in fact, some archi-­‐
tectonic structure to be found in Divagations, in spite of Mallar-­‐
mé’s proclamation.15 Just as Holger Thesleff once found a “pedi-­‐
mental structure” in Plato’s dialogues, leading the reader from earthly world up towards the world of ideas and then back,16 so in the overall structure of Divagations one can discern a movement at the beginning of the book from earthly pleasures towards more spiritual topics in the middle, and then a kind of descent back to the social reality in the last part of the book, “Grands faits divers.” One can also discern some conscious symmetry of motives in Divagations. For example, Mallarmé has placed the text “Conflit” at the end of the first part, “Anecdotes ou poémes,” although it was originally written much later than the other texts in that section, among the “Variations sur un sujet” in La Revue blanche — texts that otherwise are situated at the end of the book. Is this because Mallarmé wanted to create a certain symmetry between “Conflit” at the beginning and “Confrontation” at the end of Divagations? After 14
”Hérodiade que je n’abandonne pas, mais à l’exécution duquel j’accorde un demi-­‐temps, sera une des colonnes torses, splendides et salomoniques, de ce Temple.” Stéphane Mallarmé, Correspondance générale, eds. H. Mondor & L.J. Austin, tome 5 (Paris: Gallimard, CXX bis, 1981). 15
Kuisma Korhonen, “Le Temple et le papillon blanc: la pensée structurale dans Divagations de Mallarmé,” Méthode: revue de littératures, vol. 2 (2002). 16
Holger Thesleff, “Looking for Clues: An Interpretation of Some Literary Aspects of Plato’s ‘Two-­‐Level Model,’” in Plato’s Dialogues: New Studies and Interpreta-­‐
tions (Rowman & Littlefield, 1993) 19, n. 4. 182 all, both texts seem to describe a similar kind of event, an encoun-­‐
ter between the artist and workers. Is this an example of editorial choices that Mallarmé has made in order to “eliminate chance”? To push the figure a bit further: perhaps we can see the “as-­‐
cension” and the “descent” in the structure of Divagations, with motives that seem to be balancing each other, as kind of pendentifs that create symmetry in the whole and that support the cupola, the spiritual ideal of the Book. Or, perhaps we can find at least some traces of that structure from the fragmentary whole, in the way one can sense the holy architecture from the scattered ruins of an ab-­‐
bey — “certain symmetry” that links the place of the verse in the piece to the “authenticity of the piece in the volume” and further, on “spiritual space, the amplified signature of genius, anonymous and perfect, giving art existence and being.” IV But what if “pendentif” refers to a piece of jewelry? Not to the holy spiritual order of the Temple and its premeditated, stable architec-­‐
tural order, but to the world of evening dresses, of jewels swinging and glimmering against the soft feminine skin in the twilight of Pa-­‐
risian salons? How would that translate the Structure of the Book? In fact, this world is evoked in the immediate context of the sentence, just a couple of sentences before: L’oeuvre pure implique la disparition élocutoire du poète, qui cède l’initiative aux mots, par le heurt de leur inégalité mobilisés; ils s’allument de reflets réciproques comme une virtuelle trainée de feux sur pierreries, remplaçant la respiration perceptible en l’ancien soufflé 183 lyrique ou la direction personnelle enthousiaste de la phrase.17 The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet speaking, who yields the initiative to words, by the clash of their ordered inequalities; they light each other up through reciprocal reflections like a virtual swooping of fire across precious stones, replacing the primacy of the perceptible rhythm of breathing in the classic lyric whisper or the personal feeling driving the sentence.18 Poetic words are here likened to precious stones that reflect each other, not so much their “ordered” (as Johnson translates) as “mo-­‐
bilized” inequalities, just like one can imagine pendants fluctuating with their precious stones reflecting candles, gaslights, or the new-­‐
ly invented electric lights of Parisian evenings. As we know, Mallarmé was deeply fascinated by women’s fashion and jewelry. The first article that he published in La Dernière mode, under the pseudonym Marguerite de Ponty, was a long and inspired article on jewels.19 There “Mme. de Ponty” com-­‐
pares jewels to flowers — and indeed, flowers and jewels both be-­‐
long to privileged figures of poetry for Mallarmé. Here he was not alone in his age —authors like Huysmans and Lorrain had also compared the work of the poet to that of the goldsmith.20 But, of course, a pendant is not just any jewelry — it is marked by its incessant movement, by its aleatory vacillation back and forth, following the movements of the person who wears it. A pendant translates the movements of its carrier in a way that re-­‐
17
Igitur, Divagations, Un coup de dés, 249. Divagations, 208. Translation modified. 19
Stéphane Mallarmé, La Dernière mode (New York: Institute of French Studies, 1933). 20
Sophie Pelletier, “De l’orfèvre à l’écrivain: poétique du ‘texte-­‐bijou’ à la fin du XIXe siècle” in Études littéraires, Vol. 40, No. 2 (été 2009) 79–91. 18
184 minds one of how Mallarmé describes the “cascades of cloth” that translated the movements of Loïe Fuller in her dance — both pen-­‐
dant and floating textiles referring erotically to the feminine body.21 One is also reminded of many other images of writing in move-­‐
ment in Mallarmé, like boats, wings, or butterflies, not to forget the several poems that he wrote on fans. Indeed, in his late writings Mallarmé seems to have moved from the ideal of static and premeditated architecture to poetry as music or dance. From the icy perfection of the early sonnets he moves to the stormy lines of “Coup de dés” — to lines that float through the pages as, indeed, Fuller’s dresses floated through the air.22 And if we believe Scherer’s interpretation of the notes, which he published as the notes to Mallarmé’s Book, it seems that the Book itself had in the end transformed itself into a kind of moving set of pages that were to be read in highly ordered reading sessions — to a calculated but at the same time living and ever-­‐changing ritual.23 In these evenings, the worldly atmosphere of literary salons would transform itself into a Temple of art in a perfect marriage between the mundane and the holy. V I am convinced that Mallarmé was well aware of the extreme ambi-­‐
guity of the word “pendentif.” The word is radically indecisive, just as Derrida argued in his “La Double séance” that the word “hymen” in “Mimesis” had a double meaning, referring both to the sign of 21
In “Another Study of Dance”, Divagations, 135. In her Literature, Modernism, and Dance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), Susan Jones believes that “Coup de dés” was directly influenced by Fuller’s dance. On the centrality of dance in Mallarmé’s thought, see also Alain Badiou’s Petit manuel d’inesthétique (Paris: Seuil, 1998). 23
Scherer, Le “Livre” de Mallarmé. See also Mary Lewis Shaw, Performance in the Text of Mallarmé: The Passage from Art to Ritual (PA: Pennsylvania University Press, 1993). 22
185 virginity and consummation.24 It represents identity in difference, a hinge that turns a closed space into an open space, inside to out-­‐
side, stability into movement. It is already in itself a source of re-­‐
ciprocal reflections, a firework of semantic potentialities. It is a perfect example of dissemination, as Derrida defines it: “dissemina-­‐
tion affirms the always already divided generation of meaning.”25 However, as a translator, I had to choose. There was no word in Finnish that could have sustained the double meaning of religious architecture and swaying jewelry that the French word contains. Even the English “pendant,” the word that Barbara John-­‐
son chose, saves something of this polysemy, although its architec-­‐
tonic meaning in English somehow differs from French. Finally, I made my choice: I chose the word “riipus,” which refers to a piece of jewelry. I lost the sacred atmosphere of the temple, but somehow I saw “riipus” in itself as a figure of double meaning — as it sways back and forth, it reveals now this side, now that side. It is like a coin, with two different sides, suspended be-­‐
tween sacred and profane meanings.26 And it need not be only pro-­‐
fane: often pendants display some religious signification, such as a cross, which one wears close to one’s heart. It is a moving prism, reflecting different colors and meanings each moment, thus creat-­‐
ing a significant space where new meanings are continuously cre-­‐
ated. 24
Derrida, Dissemination, 229. Referring to Gödel, Derrida calls this kind of term “indécidable,” which is usually translated as “undecidable” in English. However, as Hugh Silverman once pointed out to me, the term “indecidable” would in fact be a better translation, since the term does not actually refer to the impossibility of interpretation as such, but rather to the oscillation between different interpre-­‐
tations. In other words, hymen and pendentif are terms that are continuously “in” decision. 25
Derrida, Dissemination, 268. 26
As Mallarmé notes, “The coin, exhumed from coliseum floors, presents, heads, a serene face, and, tails, the brutal universal number,” Divagations, 284. 186 On the one hand, a pendant is a carefully crafted piece of art, often containing some internal symmetry. On the other, the movements of a pendant create a perpetual dance around its cen-­‐
ter, contingent vacillation that reflects the lights and colors of the outside. This dialogue between stable, premeditated structures and mobile, anarchic and surprising pirouettes around it is, in fact, something that can be seen in all of Mallarmé’s poetry, especially in his prose. Traditional syntax is, for him, only a starting point: the stable structure of French is set in internal movements by the careful choice of commas and other punctuation that suspend the meaning and enable the coexistence of different, sometimes con-­‐
tradictory interpretations.27 The structure of Mallarmé’s Book sways back and forth, sometimes reflecting visions of a premeditated whole, sometimes those of aleatory play. And in a way, as “Coup de dés” lets us un-­‐
derstand, chance and order are two sides of the same cosmic vi-­‐
sion, the process of becoming. The dice are thrown, words enter into play of aleatory and contingent chance, until they stop, and become a constellation — constellation that does not, however, cancel the chance. 27
As Derrida notes, it seems that Mallarmé has often added polysemy to his sen-­‐
tences only in later editorial stages — in the case of “Mimesis,” the first versions of the text display no ambiguity, and only in the third version does the unortho-­‐
dox punctuation create the radical and unstable polysemy that Derrida so care-­‐
fully analyzes in “Double Session.” Dissemination, 225–226. See also Jean-­‐Pierre Richard, L’Univers imaginaire de Mallarmé (Paris: Seuil, 1961) 548–555. 187 Dedicated to the value and the indispensable importance
of the individual voice,
to testing the boundaries of thought & experience.
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Claude Mouchard Writing “with” — Mallarmé, Near & Far Mary Shaw Why compare a contemporary French poet who spends his life en-­‐
suring that others can be heard to Mallarmé, whose voice by its very singularity tends to overwhelm others if not reduce them to silence? Because, as I hope to show, the peculiar integrity of Mou-­‐
chard’s work and its framing of poetry as a space for writing with other voices (a framing that continually threatens to erase the po-­‐
et’s own song) suggest at once a striking contrast and a proximity to the Symbolist master’s work: a parallel and an equally dramatic performative departure, which can be grasped through certain shared formal traits. It is the intriguing mise à jour of poetic free-­‐
doms unthinkable without Mallarmé that makes Mouchard, for this reader, one of Mallarmé’s most authentic and exciting heirs. I came to know this profoundly stirring poet in 1996, during one of his first trips to America to teach, shortly after the publica-­‐
tion of “Enchevêtrée” (the first piece I translated by him) in the French journal Le Nouveau Commerce. An unassuming, self-­‐
effacing man, Mouchard has managed to avoid recognition from most French-­‐ and English-­‐speaking readers alike, though he has long served as associate editor-­‐in-­‐chief of Po&sie, France’s leading poetry journal, and has published countless important critical writ-­‐
ings, as well as three beautiful collections of poetry: Ici (1986), Per-­‐
dre (1979; 1989), L’Air (1997); the poetic pamphlet Papiers! (2007); and several series of Notes (in Po&sie and elsewhere), two of which are abridged in the pages that follow: Du Darfour à la Loire avec Ousmane pour commencer (2008) and Tout seul, Khaled? (2015, here appearing in French as well as in English for the first time).1 Yet Mouchard is not reclusive, and his poetry, like Mallar-­‐
mé’s, is as deeply and inventively engaged with what is happening around him in the world as it is conceptually abstract and attuned to his inner experience. His most recent poetic writing focuses on the plight of the exiled and homeless in France, an urgent problem of global consequence, and also constitutes a kind of lyrical sup-­‐
plement to his last critical opus, Qui si je criais...?, a reflection on testimonial writings around 20th-­‐century political catastrophes; it is also a natural extension of the editorial work he has performed over the last two decades — tirelessly translating contemporary po-­‐
ets, from several languages and many different parts of the world (Japan and Korea in particular), in collaboration with the poets themselves or with other native speakers. Thus, though Mouchard is now only beginning to receive the recognition he deserves in the West, he is quite well known in other parts of the world (a book of his translated work was published in 2015 in China, and another will soon appear in Korea).2 His current primary project and con-­‐
cern has been to translate and publish in Po&sie poets from all over the African continent. Mouchard’s work as editor, translator, and critic is in fact interwoven with his poetic writing, which he himself characterizes 1 Enchevêtrée, in Le Nouveau Commerce, n° 100 (1996) 47–67; Ici, Le Nouveau Commerce (1986); Perdre, 2nd ed. (Point-­‐Hors-­‐Ligne, 1989); Papiers! (Laurence Teper, 2007); “Du Darfour à la Loire avec Ousmane pour commencer,” in Po&sie, o
n 125 (2008) 113–123. The pages from this last text presented here comprise a minimally corrected and substantially abridged version. 2
Qui si je criais...? Œuvres-­‐témoignages dans les tourmentes du XXe siècle (Lau-­‐
rence Teper, 2007); Chinese translation by Li Jinjia, Shui, zai wo huhan shi... ershi shiji de jianzheng wenxue (Qui, si je criais... Littérature de témoignage au 20e siè-­‐
cle) Shanghai, Presses Universitaires de l'Université Normale Supérieure de Huadong, March, 2015. 190 as a ceaseless effort to capture a reality that is constituted by words, but not only by words, so as to give voice to “political sensations.” And one of the most basic traits of Mouchard’s writing, which im-­‐
mediately recalls Mallarmé’s, is that its hybrid character often de-­‐
fies generic boundaries (even the loose ones we tend to hold to-­‐
day), so that many of his poems are so infused with political or crit-­‐
ical commentary and vice-­‐versa that they cannot be easily under-­‐
stood within either of these categories. Indeed, Mallarmé’s curious designation of his own prose poems as “Anecdotes ou poèmes" (cu-­‐
rious given the supposed impersonality and unworldliness of his poetics) and his reference to the whole of his Divagations, journal-­‐
istic texts devoted to topics at once timeless and current (literary, theatrical, and socio-­‐political events), as “poème[s] critique[s],”3 points to a crucial link between his writing and Mouchard’s. I will return to this link, which manifests both poets’ attention to the typ-­‐
ically hidden “other half” of Aesthetics, what Mallarmé calls “l’Économie politique.”4 I would like to begin, however, by address-­‐
ing what first focused my attention on Mouchard’s writing and immediately suggested a parallel to Mallarmé’s: the inextricable re-­‐
lation it establishes between music and literature, through its inno-­‐
vative use of textual space and complex typography. ENTANGLING ANOTHER’S VOICE: A MOTHER’S ANTI-­‐TOMB As a mere glance at the Notes presented here will show, typography and textual space are essential elements of Mouchard’s poetic com-­‐
position. The 1996 poem Enchevêtrée, written right after the death of the poet’s mother, commemorates the last words uttered by her, precisely as she exchanged them with the poet, during a visit in which she lost her ability to speak due to Alzheimer’s. The typo-­‐
3
Stéphane Mallarmé, Divagations, in Œuvres complètes, II, ed. Bertrand Marchal (Gallimard, 2003) 277. 4
La Musique et les Lettres, OC II, 76. 191 graphical arrangement of that text, its spacing and the alternation between roman and italic type — which variously recall two of Mal-­‐
larmé’s most explicitly musical texts, L’Après-­‐midi d’un faune and Un coup de dés — expresses both the difficulties and the desire to communicate that the poet is talking about and yet ultimately helps to carry us beyond these: the lines work together in what Mouchard himself characterizes as a kind a requiem, an “oratorio,” to release and purify the spoken words (along with the mother’s spirit) into a realm of pure sound, light, and silence. Is this not a fundamental dream of Mallarmé’s, articulated in numerous texts of his? What is more, Mouchard’s textual arrangements are as cru-­‐
cial to the unfolding of their complex ideas as to the visible mark-­‐
ing of a progression toward the sublime through rhythmic and dy-­‐
namic (or musical) effects. Thus, in Enchevêtrée, although the po-­‐
em recounts a relatively simple, if fettered, and heart-­‐wrenching final conversation between the poet and his mother, there are mul-­‐
tiple levels and lines of reflection, description, and narration un-­‐
folding at once, which are themselves both syntactically and graph-­‐
ically “entangled.” The function of this visual arrangement is first and foremost performative rather than static: it presents itself at once as a score for the voice, for oral presentation, and as dynamic staging that assists us in the comprehension of its meaning, con-­‐
forming perfectly to what Mallarmé described as his own ambition when he presented the lines of Un coup de dés as “subdivisions prismatiques de l’Idée” providing “une mise en scène spirituelle exacte,” and “pour qui veut lire à haute voix, une partition.”5 What is acutely original to Mouchard’s performative writ-­‐
ing, however, and where it diverges most sharply from Mallarmé’s, is its extreme dialogical character. For as revealing as Mallarmé’s texts may have been on the fundamental sameness-­‐in-­‐difference of 5
Mallarmé, preface for the 1897 Cosmopolis edition of Un coup de dés, in Œuvres complètes, II, ed. Marchal (Gallimard, 1998) 391. 192 the world and the text and on the poetic self’s own inner divisions and radical equality with all others, most typically therein, a single if intrinsically torn poetic voice almost always speaks for others. This remains true even in such ambiguously theatrical texts as the Faune, Hérodiade, and Igitur, where dialogue is for the most part suspended.6 This is not surprising, for Mallarmé, no matter how experimental he became, always ultimately responded to what his time expected from the lyric poet: the articulation of an individual subjective reality that can also stand for or represent that of others. This is what is aimed at even in plans for his most ambitious, unfin-­‐
ished texts, where the presence and participation of others seems most crucial: whether this be in the Notes en vue du “Livre,” where an impersonal “operator,” Mallarmé himself in the guise of a top-­‐
hatted mc figure, shows in a secular rite the equality of all oppo-­‐
sites and the “communion ou part d’un à tous et de tous à un”7 through an all-­‐encompassing Book; or, on a more intimate plane, in the Notes pour un tombeau d’Anatole, where the poet commits his life’s work to carrying further into the world, through his con-­‐
sciousness and writing, the presence of his own deceased child — a dream that he did in some sense realize, since the “ombre puérile” of Un Coup de dés,8 often interpreted as an avatar of Hamlet, is clearly also a haunting figure of Mallarmé’s young son. Born of the Master’s virginal union with the Idea and ancestral battle with the sea, this ghostly presence also dies with him in the cosmic ship-­‐
6
For previous developments of ideas alluded to here, see my Performance in the Texts of Mallarmé: The Passage from Art to Ritual (Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993), and various articles: “Le dialogue suspendu: Mallarmé et sa postéri-­‐
té,” in Dialoguer. Un nouveau partage des voix, Études Théâtrales, Vol. II, n° 33 (2005) 19–29; “Parody and Metaphysics: Le Coup du ‘Livre,’” The Romanic Review, Vol. 93, n° 4 (2002) 445–456; “Apocalypse et modernisme: le Livre de la fin,” tr. by O.A. Duhl, Revue des sciences humaines, n° 234 (1994) 35–46. 7
OC II, 241. 8
OC I, 374. 193 wreck, sinking back into the “vague / en quoi toute réalité se dis-­‐
sout,” where “RIEN/[…] N’AURA EU LIEU /[…] QUE LE LIEU.”9 In Mouchard’s writing, by contrast, the continual winding and unwinding of the poet’s own words written “with” those of others seeks not only to preserve fragments of reality and self-­‐expression, whether those be of another or his own, but also to represent the necessarily open-­‐ended exchange that takes place as one tries to move (in) language between disparate voices, different ways of speaking. Rather than to seize a certain, definitive reality within a fixed and sealed monument as happens traditionally in poetry and still does, certainly, within Mallarmé’s finished texts, Mouchard’s current writing seeks, like Mallarmé’s unfinished Notes for “the Book,” primarily to set a work in motion and remain open in time. It also seeks, however, to embrace and convey realities articulated by others. Thus his poetry, in its typography and other salient fea-­‐
tures, aims at creating, for the reader, an experience that is auton-­‐
omous and yet takes into account and supplements (represents, and yet also adds itself to) actual conversations, encounters be-­‐
tween voices in the world. This ambitious poetic project, which is ongoing, he first formulated for me in a 2003 letter concerning Enchevêtrée: What am I trying to do with such sentences? “Realize” is the expression that comes to me. The lasting hope, which makes me write around them and for them, is that of realizing. Might it be in the sense that we can say, when witnessing certain events or hearing certain words, that we hadn’t at the moment “realized,” that time was needed to “realize” what had been seen or heard? But the words quoted are precisely the ones I don’t need to realize. If they stay in my memory, it is by radiat-­‐
ing — wounding, unresorbable — with an excess of reali-­‐
ty. 9
Ibid., 385. 194 It’s rather all of the rest of language and thought, which seems to me affected by a lack of reality. And it is in relation to those words — cited as inclusions —, that I try to realize, to create sentences that realize, that realize themselves. Or rather it is a whole volume, which should then, around these quoted words, take form, and hold, fragile, but real. This volume should be made of sentences that move in relation to one another, balance each other and suspend each other reciprocally. Some actually should be whispered, hardly audible, others should be felt in one blow — yes, like a vibrating blow —, even while remaining obstinately, as sentences, unfoldable (so as to deliver, if one wishes, a whole con-­‐
tent). And this volume, finally, would not be exactly closed. At least it should leave the impression that other sentences could still come there to play with those that are written and printed. Thus, as we shall see, in a paradoxical development that can-­‐
not but strike one as being wholly natural yet unexpected and sur-­‐
prising, Mouchard’s intimate, moving preservation of the mother’s words, which gives form to Entangled, ultimately gives rise in his works to a space that preserves and embraces other lives, other voices, within the poet’s own community, in a dramatic opening of poetry to the world. Similarly, as we shall see, the above comments on the poetics of that matricidal poem continue to resonate, shape, and take shape in the last pages presented here, which respond to the death and capture the final words of another person most dear to the poet, a refugee from Darfur who became both a close friend and an anchor for his writing, through a long and careful process, undertaken by both men, to establish an intimate, familial relation-­‐
ship without ceasing to recognize their differences, in culture and language as well as in life situations. 195 Ousmane/Khaled: Leaving the initiative of words to ... others “partitions, (de)partitionings” partitions have slowly collapsed “in me” through the years […] yes, blind or dumb each to the other were the two zones: that (all of practices: gestures and conversations, behaviors of all kinds, problems to resolve) concerning life “with,” and that of writing (and of readings, of course, and of con-­‐
frontations within a certain “intellectual” homogeneity) […] this repartition was undone, like a wall which no longer needs be, and collapses like a partition that one no longer sees the internal walls of the heart cooked by emotions browned and purpled disaggregated they dissolved themselves10 A fascinating comparison could be developed between Mou-­‐
chard’s political poetry (the pamphlet-­‐poem Papiers!, Notes of the kind presented here) and texts such as Conflit and Confrontation, where Mallarmé reflects on chance and somewhat difficult encoun-­‐
10
These quotations from Mouchard’s Notes are not drawn from a previously pub-­‐
lished series; they are preparatory notes shared with me for a longer work, which may be combined or regathered with many others from the mass of over 1000 pages of notes taken on conversations with his friend, to be titled Avec Khaled. 196 ters between himself and manual workers, non-­‐intellectual, non-­‐
writing others he comes up against, digging and building within his writing space. Perhaps Mouchard, who intimately knows those pieces, will write of them himself one day? I only will allude to a striking situational inversion that especially binds Conflit and the Notes below, mainly to emphasize that as crucial as the concept of “conversation” is to Mallarmé’s theory of language,11 and as im-­‐
portant as the notion of exchange between the poet and the ouvrier or the masses is to his vision of the Book, actual verbal conversa-­‐
tions between himself and such others are avoided rather than in-­‐
cluded in his most politically oriented writing. Conversation with the homeless, though reported in the media and from other texts, and also variously represented as attempted, does not really happen either in Papiers!, Mouchard’s first explicitly political poem, pub-­‐
lished in 2007. But it will be important for me to introduce that work, because it contextualizes and leads to the open-­‐ended per-­‐
sonal/political Notes that follow, and prepares us for the peculiar weaving together of the poet’s own words with those of Ousmane / Khaled, in the unique serial way shown in the fragments presented here. In Papiers!, Mouchard simultaneously registers what was be-­‐
ing reported at the time, what was happening around him, and the effects he observed within himself and on others of the increasing tightening of borders, the difficulty of obtaining shelter, and the ever-­‐worsening conditions of those left or arriving homeless in his country. He thus ultimately reflected in that piece as much on what it means to have as not to have identity “papers.” So Mouchard’s pamphlet-­‐poem, emphasizing the equivocal significance of papers even from the title’s exclamation mark, leads us to feel and under-­‐
stand that such documents, necessary and life-­‐defining as they can be, say very little about who we are. But contrary to what one might 11
OC II, 508–509. 197 expect, poetry is not at all for him a vehicle for “identity” politics. “Nothing,” he stated in a recent Médiapart interview about his work, “is, perhaps, so anti-­‐identitary as poetry and the translation of poetry.”12 Thus, in Papiers!, the tension involved for him in the paradox of composing a political poem — the text is political because it clearly points to a problem and moves us to wish to resolve it, but remains poetic insofar as it does not pretend to resolve the problem in this way — becomes especially trenchant in the last pages. The poet’s most moving and striking encounter is with a mysterious “frozen man,” of African origin, who never speaks a word, who may or may not have papers, and whom the poet ardently wishes to help, but feels he cannot begin to know. The motif of the poet’s ev-­‐
er accumulating debt to those he reaches out to is thus explicitly and supremely developed in an encounter that is doomed to re-­‐
main mute. And the pamphlet-­‐poem literally closes as the poet re-­‐
alizes that his drawing of our attention to the problem of political outcasts in a verbal outcry is not just a rhetorical positioning or a manner of poetic writing; it converges also, as through a “demon of analogy,” with a momentary, pure outcry that actually escaped the poet himself (he recounts the “anecdote” though it felt to him like a dream; a shouting-­‐in-­‐frustration at the border, which might not only have been vain, but have had a negative effect). This involun-­‐
tary cry broke out when, returning from a visit to China, the poet saw his fellow passenger with whom he had literally tried to break bread, impeded from entry and hassled by Customs officers at the airport. The gentleman was detained, Mouchard realizes, not be-­‐
cause he had no papers, but because he had insufficient ones. Con-­‐
scious that the most powerful gesture a writer can make is to move us in front of a problem whether or not he can resolve it, Mouchard 12
Claude Mouchard: “Par le poème, il y a des événements qui ne cessent plus d’arriver,” interview with Patrice Beray, August 11, 2014. http://www.mediapart.fr/print/438793. 198 highlights at the end of this poem the all-­‐pervasiveness of Papiers! — the huge crisis these documents symbolize and entail both with-­‐
in and outside every border, raising endlessly complex questions for us all. And so, in the last “movement” of Papiers! (44–46), we again see the crucial role of typography in Mouchard’s musical-­‐political poetics; for the details of the event unfold in an especially complex pattern, combining the effects not only of verse and prose and sev-­‐
eral different sizes of roman and italic print, but also a passage of verse justified on the right, where the voice seems actually to come from a different place, to be situated elsewhere, as it conveys the poet’s efforts at “fraternization” with his traveling companion on the plane. Sewn through this ending — as happens throughout the 11 double-­‐pages of Un coup de dés — and meaningfully underscored by the boldface, we find rather clear if reflexive language, a primary motif articulating what the poet has been grappling with through the whole poem. The boldface begins by positing a two-­‐part ques-­‐
tion around which various other lines and styles of type are dissem-­‐
inated: what took hold of me? […] a grasp on […] It was […] not […] a matter of undocumented persons, but of insufficient documents…[?] And ends with an answer so then it was […] really crying out […] Nothing not even the question […] ends there 199 The text resolutely refuses to close the question (even as it gathers the complex narrative that unwinds all around it), thereby asserting as much, I would venture, about the edges or boundaries of the po-­‐
em — its simultaneous need for and rejection of strong lines (and thus partitions) to be drawn — as about the strictly political papers to which it also refers. As in Mallarmé’s writing, correspondences between life and its representation in writing in Mouchard’s work must somehow be inscribed on the page, or realized in part, even if any grasp of the whole of them will by definition be recognized as impossible, just as socio-­‐political problems and differences are irresolvable once and for all. They demand our ongoing attention even as they divide it, just as borders and boundaries separate “we” who supposedly belong within certain places from others who are invariably, inex-­‐
tricably in there with “us” too. The political dimension of Papiers!, its action, which dares to assert itself at a certain moment in time, and yet in a way that is somehow enduring, announces then the creation of a new open-­‐
ended form of “œuvre-­‐témoignage,” which Mouchard has been pur-­‐
suing and intends to continue pursuing. It is this series that em-­‐
braces the words of Ousmane/Khaled. “Se percevoir, simple, infiniment sur la terre”13 — the poet’s joy, so beautifully expressed in Mallarmé’s critical poems, whether he pursues it in Nature or on asphalt streets (cf. the end of “Bu-­‐
colique” & “Solitude”), must always, ultimately, be sought alone: &
in this quest, the presence of another, whether this be that of a child (“Don du poème”) or that of a peer or supposed promoter of poetry’s interests, cannot be experienced otherwise than as an in-­‐
terruption to the ancient calling & “sole duty” of the poet, which is “[l]’explication orphique de la Terre,” in a book that becomes by its very rhythm, “impersonnel et vivant, jusque dans sa pagination.”14 13
OC II, 256. Autobiographical letter to Verlaine, 1885; OC I, 788. 14
200 How then can the intrusion of the other into one’s own poetic space that Mouchard welcomes be productive for such an endeav-­‐
or, how does it shape or inform the poet’s explanation of the world? Mallarmé nearly tells us this in Confrontation, where increasingly frequent encounters with workers in the field, digging holes in the earth beneath the morning sun, make him feel compelled to justify his presence. Thanks to the mute question “Toi que viens-­‐tu faire ici?”15 formulated by the ditch digger’s gaze, the poet is able to es-­‐
tablish his equality with him, showing that he too is somewhat re-­‐
moved from usual capitalist exchange, is not so much a proprietor as someone also paid to dig, create holes in, move around & pro-­‐
cess the earth’s resources, if not with his hands, with his head. In Conflit, Mallarmé, having discovered a team of road-­‐
workers and well-­‐drillers occupying part of an abandoned house in Valvins (which he does not own, but to which he customarily re-­‐
treats to write), expresses his initial hesitations to still inhabit that “malheureuse demeure” in a countryside where solitude, once whole, is now “offended” by the laying of a train track. But by artic-­‐
ulating his differences with these men in passages that include an actual insult, “Fumier!,” received from one of them, drunken & an-­‐
gered, as well as an imagined conversation between himself and the group, the poet ultimately reconciles his own need for quiet to work in the house and the noisiness of the workers, who need to rest, eat, and drink there too. And the “conflict” created by this chance-­‐determined cohabitation is ultimately resolved, since the poem ends with quiet returning, the laborers having fallen asleep, succumbed (thru drink) to a pause & necessary pursuit of some-­‐
thing beyond bread, & with the poet grateful, for his part, to be able to return to the elaboration of his own dreams, which he rec-­‐
ognizes cannot be extricated from those of these soon to be consid-­‐
ered anonymous workers.16 15
OC II, 260. OC II, 104–109. 16
201 What Mouchard does by inviting those who have no work and no home into his house and making it in part theirs is extremely different, suggesting a world where the definition of differences that were still in place for Mallarmé, and in particular the notion that one, anyone, could speak for all, no longer pertains. Is this be-­‐
cause, in a very global sense, others are always already inside any borders, including those of our own subjectivity, that can possibly be drawn? How to begin? That is the question that Mouchard asks in the following pages, as he begins to draw for us a picture of just such a world, where solitude is still crucial, but essentially for ex-­‐
plaining a fact that surely most contemporaries acknowledge: “to perceive oneself, [as] simple, infinitely on earth” today paradoxical-­‐
ly requires representation of intimate and far-­‐reaching communica-­‐
tion with the other; global culture has evolved so that identity is always “imbricated.” Since this is true for all, all truths should per-­‐
haps be exchanged ones. Thus, in Mouchard’s recent poetic texts, we always find ourselves confronted with a voice that interrupts and fragments itself in the presence of at least one other voice, which owing to one form of alienation or another risks not being heard. The aim of Mouchard’s work is to make us hear that other voice, and through ruptures, interstices, and textual spaces that transpose real political and social differences, to bear witness to everything that has imposed these ruptures, and yet still emerges from their silences. This infinite, open-­‐ended dialogue, which the Notes capture in a deliberately partial way — Mouchard insists they should not be published as a whole and presents them serially, with occasional reworkings of certain passages, to prevent their mutation into a closed “work” —, reflects the poet’s deep concern with the central fact and dynamic of relations in human life, not only relations among people and texts, languages, and cultures, but also relations between the various states within the subject and thus the poetic 202 self. The “other” within (like the other without) is not only shown, but warmly welcomed, given a home in Mouchard’s poetry, and this corresponds to a fundamental feature of the man. “no,” says Ousmane: “this not-­‐my-­‐a-­‐life.” This striking feature of Mouchard’s Notes, which conceive of poetry as hospitality and as an ongoing debt to the lives and voices of oth-­‐
ers, appears all the more crucial when we recognize that their pub-­‐
lication, or their emergence as creative works for others, has so closely accompanied the poet’s concrete day-­‐to-­‐day efforts to help a refugee from Darfur, actually retrieve a life that could be somehow partly his own, a worldly effort, which also implied a poetic process or a commitment of Mouchard’s whole person to explore and cap-­‐
ture in the moment, in a kind of feuilleton, what this refugee’s life was along with his own and that of others. If the internal and outer structure of the Notes can’t be wholly fixed, so as to retain their openness to the contingencies of life, the structure of the various fragments must be set to an important de-­‐
gree at the moment of publication in order to fulfill another aspect of their function, which is to welcome readers as well, and embrace them in the dynamic of a work-­‐in-­‐progress. The original open-­‐
ended movement of the work must be somehow preserved even as its parts are revisited and presented in print; lines must be drawn and redrawn in the sand, somehow conveying their own potential for displacement so as to ensure that they will be taken up again. 203 “WITH OUSMANE”: A SERIES? Since his arrival here — July 2007 — “at home,” even his story has been a series which day after day I will have tried to follow with “notes.” These notes have been enmeshed with what has happened, and doesn’t stop happening… Heterogeneous and jumping — under the impact of various and unexpected news. Enmeshed with deci-­‐
sions which life with O has demanded. Or “localizing”: insisting day after day on recreating and cautiously testing the “here and now.”17 The tragic truth of this “here and now” presented in the se-­‐
cond Notes fragment below is that this man died of a sudden heart attack in the Spring of 2015, so that the poet is faced with entan-­‐
gling his last words with his own, and wondering whether and how he will be able to continue. Certainly he will, though the day-­‐to-­‐day notes recorded will have to embrace the words of other persons, as they already have begun doing. The only crucial change that occurs between the first and the second series of Notes presented here is that Mouchard no longer has to shield his friend’s identity. And so Ousmane, a fictional name (which, we learn in the first series, the refugee had chosen for himself), emerges as Khaled, true interlocu-­‐
tor of the poet, and co-­‐author of the truth and value of his poems. 17
This fragment comes from a series of Notes published in Poezibao (November 2012) under the title “Avec la peau d’une autre vie” (poezibao.typepad.com/poezibao/2012). 204 Du Darfour à la Loire avec Ousmane pour commencer Claude Mouchard Qui sollicite ton avis au sujet de cet étranger? Et si sans qu'on te le demande tu le donnes, alors va-­‐t'en de nuit en nuit avec ses ulcères aux pieds, va! et ne reviens pas 1
Ingeborg Bachmann « allez » : il fait un geste du tranchant de la main dans l'air blanc. Régulièrement, depuis des mois, nous parlons — dans la cuisine, en général. Lui ai-­‐je fait croire que, sur les trois ou quatre récentes an-­‐
nées de dénuement qu'il a vécues, nous pourrions, dès lors qu'il vit chez nous et que nous prenons le temps qu'il faut, rabattre jour après jour, des paroles, comme un pli apaisant de couverture? « Allez vas-­‐y. » De sa voix, terreuse-­‐amère, et du bras (silhouette sombre à contre-­‐jour), il mime qui vous libère ou vous chasse. Dans une rue, naguère, en Libye. Ou, après une nuit de garde à vue, dans une rue de Paris ou d'Orléans. Ou à la porte d'un centre de réten-­‐
tion, au bord d'une route dans la forêt d'Orléans, à des kilomètres de tout (« Comment je fais? » a-­‐t-­‐il dit au gendarme. . . « Pas mon problème . . . Allez vas-­‐y. » ) 1
Poèmes, tr. par F.R. Daillie (Actes Sud 1989). « Allez va. . . » Il expulse dans l'air des phrases qui, depuis des mois, sont restées incluses en lui comme des dards. Mais soudain c'est lui-­‐même qui, debout devant la porte vitrée lu-­‐
mineuse, face à moi, s'adresse à lui-­‐même ces mots : « Allez vas-­‐y.» « Allez. . . » Il n'a nulle part où aller, sinon cette famille « de blancs » (comme il m'a dit), cette maison où il habite depuis bien-­‐
tôt un an, cette cuisine. . . Lui avons-­‐nous donné de faux espoirs ? Papiers, travail : son ou notre impuissance — administrativement entretenue — a trop de chances d'être définitive. « Ici, dit-­‐il en se rasseyant lourdement, c'est pas la vie » — ou (je transcris) « pas ma la-­‐vie ». « Claude, dit-­‐il en regardant le carrelage gris, je vais partir. » Vers où? Pour risquer de disparaître dans une prison à Khartoum ? Ou, s'il en sort au bout de plusieurs mois, afin de tenter de retrou-­‐
ver sa mère, ses sœurs disparues. . . ou ne serait-­‐ce que l'endroit dévasté de son village, ou les débris de sa maison ? « Ici, martèle-­‐t-­‐il — et je n'aurai rien à lui répondre —, c'est pas-­‐
ma-­‐la-­‐vie. » ––––– Paroles d’Ousmane — ou O. — , exilé du Darfour … Pourquoi avoir commencé par celles-­‐ci — parmi tant d’autres que, de sa bouche, j’aurai entendues depuis près d’un an, et que je continue (au moment où j’achève ces lignes) d’entendre ? Il les avait dites voilà des semaines… Mais elles étaient jusqu’alors restées en l’air — imminentes. Ce n’est que tout récemment — 20 mai 2008 — que je me suis résolu à les écrire — ou à les laisser, par mes mains, s’abattre, noires. ––––– 206 Noter ce que dit O., depuis bientôt un an qu’il habite ici et qu’il vient régulièrement parler — dans la cuisine, en fin d’après-­‐midi —, j’ai scrupule à le faire pendant qu’il parle. Il hésite, il se heurte moins à des manques de vocabulaire ou aux défaillances de sa syn-­‐
taxe qu’à sa rugueuse prononciation. Et puis soudain, ses phrases se bousculent, et voici que, sur la table encombrée (journaux, lé-­‐
gumes, miettes), je ne trouve pas de papier; j’attrape un bout de journal, ou une enveloppe déchirée, un crayon qui traîne — pour ne griffonner que mal, de côté, à la dérobée, gêné. Et puis je répugne à l’interrompre. Ne faudrait-­‐il pas, pourtant, re-­‐
prononcer ses mots, ou lui retourner, recomposées, ses phrases ? ––––– O. s’interrompt souvent lui-­‐même, visage tourné vers le sol. S’il relève soudain les yeux, je suis gêné d’être surpris à le regarder trop attentivement. Et que penserait-­‐il s’il avait accès à des phrases qui, comme celles-­‐ci, le décrivent ? Il gratte de l’index le cadre en bois — grossier vernis qui pèle, fibres de pin — de la table (le plateau est de métal émaillé : mode d’il y a bien trente ans). Bruits, alors, arrivant à travers les vitres — variant selon l’heure du jour ou la saison. Vent, clochette au coin du toit bas de la cuisine… Ou, par la porte entr’ouverte sur le jardin, cris d’aiguilles de mé-­‐
sanges… Ou… Mais qu’est-­‐ce qui, émanant de son existence si longtemps quasi muette comme de la mienne souvent verbeuse, s’épaissit au-­‐dessus de la table, entre nos visages ? De l’impuissance double, redoublée. ––––– Parfois, je lâche le crayon, renonce. . . 207 Je n'arrive plus à noter quand il arrive qu'à la tombée du jour (il va sortir : jamais il n'accepte de manger ici, il ira plutôt à une distribu-­‐
tion de nourriture dans la rue, ou à un foyer, ou se fera lui-­‐même une « petite cuisine »), il se mette à parler avec emportement. Demain, au plus noir de la préaube, certaines de ses paroles, au-­‐
delà des ruptures du sommeil, réapparaîtront-­‐elles, m'imposant de les transformer en phrases miennes. . . encore, il est vrai, à l'état d'ébauches... ? ––––– « Allez vas-­‐y » ... « ...pas la vie », « pas-­‐ma-­‐la-­‐vie...» : paroles épuisées d'impuissance, coups de la main ou du bras ou de la voix, contre quelles masses environnant de toute part... Ces paroles-­‐là pourquoi a-­‐t-­‐il fallu — au moment où (début mai 2008), j'ai entre-­‐
pris de commencer à « fixer » (aigre et bête, ce mot) les notes que j'ai prises de nos conversations depuis bientôt un an — qu'elles me reviennent en pleine figure et au risque de me rendre incapable de remplir la promesse que je lui avais faite il y a des mois, celle de rendre un jour lisible — mais pour qui ? — ce qu'il dirait ... sans, il est vrai, qu'il ait jamais l'air de se soucier de ce projet sinon, une fois, par une remarque peut-­‐être ironique sur mes délais indéfinis — comparables (me suis-­‐je dit vaguement amer) à ses rendez-­‐vous parfois manqués, ses oublis ou négligences? m'arrêtent? –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 208 Mais d'abord, il ne s'appelle pas « Ousmane ». C'est lui qui, soudain, le 23 avril 2008 (alors que nous conversons depuis plusieurs mois), m'a demandé de ne pas écrire son « vrai nom » — celui qui figure, désormais, sur ses papiers. Quel nom lui donner dans ce que j'écris ? lui ai-­‐de demandé. Il m'a proposé celui d'un ami : Ousmane. Ne serait-­‐ce pas gênant, ou, qui sait, dangereux pour l'ami en ques-­‐
tion ? Cet ami, m'apprend-­‐il, est mort. Ousmane a été tué en octobre 2003, dans le nord du Darfour, du côté d'El Fashir, alors qu'il cherchait à passer en Libye. Personne, dit O., ne sait vraiment ce qui est arrivé. Tout le groupe avec lequel Ousmane voyageait, dans « un gros camion », a été tué. Les tueurs étaient sans doute des jenjawids, qui devait savoir que ces voyageurs partaient pour la Libye, et qui ont voulu « l'argent des gens pour leurs passages » — et le camion. Tout le monde est mort, répète O. Mais la mort d'Ousmane, comment l'a-­‐t-­‐on sue ? Il avait une carte d'identité (lui qui avait vécu en ville) que la police a retrouvée. Le responsable du village (« t'as vu, c'est pas exactement le maire, mais c'est un peu comme ça ») a été averti et a lui-­‐même annoncé la mort d'Ousmane au village, à la famille : son père et sa mère, sa femme, ses deux enfants. « Il avait 35-­‐36 ans quand il est mort Il avait été mon ami pendant près de deux ans. Il avait fait des études, il était intelligent. Il aurait pu trouver du travail. Il avait travaillé à l'Est du Soudan, au bord de la Mer rouge, dans un port. Il s'était marié là. Puis il avait emmené sa femme jusque dans l'Ouest du Soudan. Au village, il habitait pas loin de chez moi. Pas la même famille, mais juste à côté. Mon grand père connaissait sa famille. » ––––– 209 « Allez »... comment avancer enfin ? Devrais-­‐je reconstituer l'itinéraire d' « O », et — au prix de recom-­‐
poser ce qu'il m’en a dit (ne parlant presque jamais dans l'ordre chronologique, mais allant et revenant dans le temps) — faire s'en succéder les étapes réelles? Ou bien faudrait-­‐il que la succession, ici, se réduise à être celle des notes que j'ai prises depuis des mois (avec, souvent, quelques heures, voire une nuit de décalage) d'après nos conversations? _________________________________________________________ Ce qu'il a commencé à me dire de ses nuits dehors, si, à tâtons, j'essayais d'en dire moi-­‐même encore quelque chose, ce ne pourrait se faire sans incorporer ce que j'ai entendu vu ou imaginé autrement des mois plus tard, en le suivant sur les bords de la Loire, ce jour de novembre 2007 où nous sommes retournés sur des lieux (une maison vide squattée quelques jours en plein hi-­‐
ver) où ne subsistaient certes pas ses traces mais où il m'en a montré d'autres, à peu près semblables, disait-­‐il, pour lui, en tout cas, trop reconnaissables, étrangères-­‐familières creux de couchage éphémère, nids d'herbes sales, formes de corps, débris : le très peu que laissent, en repartant le matin, ceux qui doivent toujours tout emporter avec eux dans les rues (couvertures, rares vêtements, un minimum d'aliments : rien ne peut être laissé sur place — les employés municipaux ont instruction de tout ramasser ou détruire) et chaque soir tout reformer dans un minimum d'enroulement de soins de soi ––––– 210 et si c'était un enfant mien, adulte, déjà vieux, qui, par impossible, serait rencontré, épuisé, sans regard, au détour d'une rue étrangère (ou trop familière ?) (terreur confondue dans la tendresse) le temps s'est effondré devant lui il ne cesse de tomber dans un fossé plein de feuilles noires pourrissantes... ( puanteur d'une tristesse absolue où se laisser submerger) « ALLEZ VIENS », « tu vas pas rester là comme ça »... (et... impuissance se redouble — il ne désire plus rien — il n'est plus accessible) « VIENS DON »... impossible de l'arracher à cette décomposition de lui désormais trop connue, trop goûtée... « MAIS JE T'EN SUPPLIE VIENS. » « ALLEZ. ––––– Le 16 juillet (première conversation complètement seul à seul), sous le regard vaguement inquisiteur de la patronne du café (qui déjà nous reconnaît), j'ai interrogé O. sur sa vie au Darfour, avant que les violences — exercées par qui, au juste ? la question va courir dans ses propos ultérieurs — ne commencent ou, du moins, ne deviennent insupportables. Il travaillait la terre, a-­‐t-­‐il dit, avec son père. (Non, me suis-­‐je dit plus tard en reprenant et entre-­‐confrontant certaines de mes notes, son père, à l'époque, était mort. Et dans des conversations ultérieures, c'est de son grand-­‐père qu'il parlera. Ou plutôt il aura d'abord dit : « grand-­‐mère » puisque, m'expliquera-­‐t-­‐
il, il parlait du père de sa mère.) Ce qu'ils faisaient pousser, j'ai du mal à le comprendre. De la main, il me montre la hauteur des plantes. 211 On élevait des moutons. Il a insisté sur les agneaux, sur la possibili-­‐
té de les vendre. Il a parlé du marché, et je n'ai pas bien compris ce qui pourtant paraissait important... un véhicule... Soudain O. glisse — comme un rapide message en surplus, et en ajoutant que c'est la première fois qu'il le dit (vais-­‐je tout à l'heure, en rentrant chez moi, tirer de ces mots-­‐là une satisfaction, celle d'inspirer confiance... nimbe rosâtre ému) — qu'il a songé à mourir. Il parle encore des îles de la Loire, autrement que la fois précédente — d'une, particulièrement, qu'il aime bien. Belle, pour lui ? « Oui ». Là, des gens viennent — des jeunes, des couples de jeunes — jusque tard dans la nuit, deux trois heures du matin... Gentils? « Oui, oui » — « je les écoute ». ––––– Après notre rendez-­‐vous du 16 juillet, une chambre, un studio récemment aménagé (douche, WC, coin cuisine) et que nous louons, s'est trouvé libre au deuxième étage de notre maison (vaste vieille construction d'au moins deux siècles). Nous avons pris la décision (qui restera active — dangereusement abstraite ? — dans toute la suite) de lui proposer d'habiter là. Le 23 juillet, du Lutétia, où nous nous sommes retrouvés — de nou-­‐
veau avec Hamid —, nous venons, traversant la Loire, à la maison. Je lui montre l'endroit. Il dit très vite, ou plutôt ( visage baissé, larmes — d'humiliation? — perlant) il fait dire par Hamid: « Je peux pas payer » (pendant que Hamid traduit, il fait un geste d'impuissance des deux mains), « même pas l'eau ou l'électricité ». Silence où se fait soudain trop sensible, en connexions vitales, le plus banal. Bruits dans les murs... Trépidation douce des continuités-­‐permanences, des connexions coûteusement partout entretenues : l'eau qui arrive (au bord de la 212 Loire, la municipalité avait coupé l'eau...) ou les eaux (« usées »: évier, WC), qui s'évacuent, les câbles électriques (on en voit quelques-­‐uns, lourds et noirs, par la fenêtre de ce second étage. « Peux pas » — « Bien sûr ». Silence. Cris de martinets ou, dans la lumière affluant horizontale du dehors, zébrure du vol d'une hirondelle s'engouffrant sous la gouttière proche... ––––– « J'ai eu peur »... « Au fond du grand bateau, j'ai vomi, j'étais en sueur, j'ai cru que j'allais mourir » Commencer par des phrases comme celles-­‐ci, entendues des se-­‐
maines plus tard? Un début au milieu de la Méditerranée (entre Libye et France), in medias res... Du pathos? O. ne savait pas ce qu'était le mal de mer. « Si on me donnait une cigarette, elle me tombait de la bouche ». Il rit. « J'ai pensé qu'on m'avait peut-­‐être donné quelque chose avec la nourriture. Je n'osais plus manger. J'avais peur qu'on nous donne quelque chose et puis qu'on nous jette à la mer. » « J'ai pensé que je reverrais jamais ma famille, ma mère, mes soeurs. Je pensais à mon grand-­‐père. » C'était en mai 2004, et la traversée a duré 8-­‐9 jours : 2 jours sur un petit bateau (de pêcheur) (« en plastique » — est-­‐ce bien ce qu'il a dit ?) et 7 jours sur le grand bateau. Sur le petit bateau où il s'est trouvé 7 personnes : 4 Soudanais, 2 Somaliens, 1 du Burkina Faso (le seul francophone). Puis on se retrouve sur le grand bateau avec d'autres clandestins — 40 ? 50 ? 213 Sur le grand bateau, bien sûr, les clandestins ne sont pas tous en-­‐
semble. Ils sont cachés dans plusieurs endroits. Dans chacune des petites cabines destinées au repos du personnel, et prévues pour une ou deux personnes, on s'entasse à 7. On a peur. On vous crie des choses qu'on ne comprend pas. On a peur que la police arrive: tout le monde alors irait en prison, même les gens qui travaillent sur le bateau. Pas parler, pas tousser, pas éternuer. (O. s’efforce de retrouver... de se souvenir de lui-­‐même. Il sent bien que je cherche à m'approcher au plus près des sensations d'alors.) « Lui il a peur », « moi j'ai peur », « c'est pas quelque chose nor-­‐
mal». « On t’a pris le portable, la montre, le briquet, les papiers d'identité si tu en as, avant de monter dans le petit bateau: tu prends rien! » On mange une fois par jour. Comment fait-­‐on... pour pisser et pour ... — c’est moi qui de-­‐
mande..., je suis un peu gêné — quels mots employer... Nos propos sont toujours retenus, pudiques. Gêné, mais pas trop, il rit: on pisse par un petit trou (un hublot?). Et pour... le reste... dans du plas-­‐
tique ... et tu jettes aussi par le trou. Au moment d'arriver en France, en prenant un autre petit bateau, il a dû enfiler un uniforme de « la compagnie ». Après débarquement, vers 21 h, on attend jusqu'à trois heures du matin. On boit un café. Un type nous prend en camion, nous em-­‐
mène à la gare, paie le ticket jusqu'à Paris. (Une autre fois, ou plutôt plusieurs fois, O. m'a expliqué le système compliqué de garantie avec les passeurs.) Si j'ai bien compris, dans le train pour Paris, ils ne sont plus que deux. ––––– À Paris, c'est le matin, on est là sur le trottoir, on connaît rien. 214 On voudrait un « petit service », un peu d'aide, un renseignement. On s'adresse, plusieurs fois, à des gens qui passent. On choisit tou-­‐
jours quelqu'un qui a l'air arabe, qui doit parler arabe. Mais tou-­‐
jours il se méfie, il a pas le temps, il sait pas. Quelqu'un, encore, passe, parlant à son portable : en arabe. On es-­‐
saie encore, on s'adresse à lui. Il s'arrête. Il écoute. 215 Tout seul, Khaled ? amorces dans le désarroi, début juillet 2015... en attendant de vrai-­‐
ment essayer, dans les semaines qui viennent, de soulever, ressoulever, faire tenir, mais comment ? ( une voûte à la Kleist — lettre à Wilhelmine — : celle qui ne tient en l’air que parce que toutes ses pierres veulent tomber en même temps) un excès de matériaux-­‐bribes, hétéroclites et monotones, terreux, ne cessant de s’effondrer notes immédiates, « réalistes », factuelles, prises jour après jour du-­‐
rant les huit ans de vie « avec Khaled », conversations innombrables, évidences brèves, peurs et colères, rires, questions sans réponses, doutes perpétuels sur tout, mais transpercés d’une certitude irréduc-­‐
tible, celle d’une vérité que nous partagions * « je veux pas rester tout seul » a dit Khaled et ces paroles-­‐là, je ne finirai jamais de les réentendre ... et surtout la voix, sourde, granuleuse, combien familière — et ai-­‐
mée * ces paroles, Khaled avait-­‐il sourdement peur à l’instant où il les a prononcées ? et moi aurais-­‐je dû deviner la catastrophe que sans le savoir elles annonçaient ? * c’était le 15 mars 2015 vers 11 h, il venait de descendre de sa chambre il était inhabituellement hésitant, le regard tourné au-­‐dedans 216 aurais-­‐je dû me dis-­‐je en écrivant ces mots être alerté ? il s’était assis dans le vieux fauteuil vert et c’est alors qu’il les a dits, ces mots: « je veux pas rester tout seul » * il était assis là et j’ai alors eu peur qu’il ait froid (ce matin de prin-­‐
temps était gris et froid) je l’ai ramené à sa chambre (qu’en général il surchauffait), j’ai préparé une tisane, la lui ai présentée et * Khaled Mahjoub Mansour, l’ami soudanais, est mort le 18 mars 2015, un peu après 23 heures, au bout de trois jours en salle de réa-­‐
nimation à l’hôpital de La Source (au sud d’Orléans) le dimanche 15 mars un peu après 11 heures il avait été frappé, de-­‐
vant moi, d’un infarctus * le samedi 14 mars, il était revenu d’un séjour de près de deux mois au Soudan séjour au cours duquel il avait fait un voyage épuisant a-­‐t-­‐il dit dans notre conversation brève (il était si fatigué) du samedi soir de Khartoum à Nyala (sa ville natale, au Darfour) en camion (pour économiser le coût de l’avion ?), un trajet coupé par une longue interruption du fait d’on ne savait quelles escarmouches. 217 trois ou quatre jours, donc, dans l’extrême chaleur... parfois sans eau, etc. * samedi 14 mars, vers 15 heures, après des semaines d’absences (et de trop rares appels à partir d’un portable ... régions souvent sans ré-­‐
seau m’a-­‐t-­‐il dit, à la maison, quelques heures plus tard ...) il avait enfin appelé il était gare du Nord « allo allo c’est le connard Mansour » il avait évidemment repris le fil de nos plaisanteries ritualisées (canards et connards sur ce bord de le Loire où neuf ans auparavant il avait dormi dehors par des nuits glaciales). * c’est chez vous qu’il a voulu revenir mourir, m’a dit affectueuse-­‐
ment l’ami sénégalais Samba Touré : auprès de vous comment saurais-­‐je ? certitude larmes... * nous ne l’aurons donc pas eue, cette conversation que j’attendais ... non pas seulement celle, au jour le jour, que nous aurions tranquil-­‐
lement reprise ce dimanche 15 mars et puis dans les jours et se-­‐
maines et mois et années qui auraient suivi ... mais une autre aussi, différente, supplémentaire, celle qui m’aurait accompagné, 218 celle par laquelle Khaled m’aurait parfois guidé dans le retour que je voulais entamer — que je vais commencer, certes, dans les mois qui viennent, mais seul désormais je ne pourrai recourir à Khaled, ses paroles ou, aussi bien, ses mo-­‐
ments de silence, pour revenir sur tant de minutes partagées, sur toutes les paroles échangées ou du moins ce que j’en aurai noté, jour après jour, au fil des huit années où il aura vécu ici dans cette maison * depuis une quarantaine d’années, un certain nombre d’ « étran-­‐
gers» ont vécu dans cette vieille et vaste maison, avec nous pour huit jours ou six mois ou quatre ans ou un mois tous les ans ou Ibrahim l’ivoirien Linda l’Américaine Kim le Cambodgien Pedram, Farhzam, Mahssa, frères et sœur iraniens. brièvement Laura angolaise. l’ami japonais (qui devint et demeura l’ami de Khaled) : Masatsugu et Jinjia, de Chine et de passage, Gôzô... ou... etc. c’est avec Khaled seul que l’impulsion me vint (et qu’elle me revint jour après jour huit années durant) ou plutôt la volonté têtue 219 de parler et de noter de parler régulièrement, obstinément, avec l’intention, il le savait, de noter, non pas sur le champ, mais le lendemain, après avoir laissé passer une nuit, mais avant le jour * Khaled s’est effondré dans mes bras le 15 mars à 11 heures. Sa tête, yeux révulsés, s’est affaissée ; elle pesait dans ma main ; j’ai senti sa salive s’écouler. Je l’ai quitté quelques secondes — pour crier dans la cage d’escalier (vers les amis, Jinjia, Aya, vers Hélène). Je suis revenu à ce corps effondré, et le soulevant, et pleurant. (et puis très vite les pompiers, brusques d’abord : « Vous êtes qui pour lui ? », puis le SAMU, un dimanche matin, un médecin, noir par hasard, et soudain parlant, lui, avec précautions et douceur : « c’est très mauvais... » « le cœur » ) Il est mort après trois jours de soins donnés par une équipe qui fut toute d’attention pour lui, pour ce corps que n’animaient plus que des impulsions artificielles, et en même temps, de surcroît, envers nous, hébétés, ou pour les amis Soudanais, pour celui qui se char-­‐
gea de téléphoner à sa mère, à Khartoum. C’est dans cette maison où j’écris ces quelques phrases qu’il est mort. * De quel droit écrire des phrases comme celles-­‐ci ? Au risque .... Qu’en aurait-­‐il pensé — dit —, Khaled : c’est ce que je me sur-­‐
prends à penser en ayant cru une seconde que le craquement dans le couloir c’était son pas et qu’il allait arriver mi-­‐subrepticement... 220 en feignant de me surprendre devant l’ordinateur, celui où j’écris ces phrases. Est-­‐ce que je me serai emparé de quelque chose — et jusqu’à sa mort. Ne suis-­‐je pas en train de tirer quelque bénéfice — pathos, mise en scène — de ce qui est arrivé dès lors que je l’écris, le donne (éven-­‐
tuellement) à lire ? * Non. Rien de lui ne fut ici, par nous, approprié. Rien n’avait été programmé, même si avant lui d’autres... Il y eut nouveauté et altérité irréductibles. Dans le multiple le plus ordinaire : celui de vies ayant à durer et à se nourrir de liens, à s’en faire substance se différenciant. Rien n’avait été programmé. L’événement — deux rencontres (l’une fut celle d’Hélène et moi avec tout un groupe au bord de la Loire, et de l’autre Khaled en eut l’inititaive, reconnaissant Hélène dans la rue, l’abordant, etc.) — se changea en la force d’une interruption non refermable et qui, préci-­‐
sément comme telle, devint une part de notre lien, et la puissance même de celui-­‐ci jusqu’à l’orée de la mort. * nulle « assimilation », bien sûr (je vomis ce mot qui est celui, ignoble, digestif, fécal, des politiques cherchant à s’attirer l’adhésion de tous les imbéciles s’identifiant à leurs replis auto-­‐adhésifs) * Des phrases comme celles-­‐ci, qu’espèrent-­‐elles ? Sur qui ou quoi voudraient-­‐elles faire quel effet ? 221 Elles cherchent, grossièrement, à réaliser ce qui est arrivé. Réaliser ? Appeler une attention de très loin, du fond du temps, pour la ra-­‐
battre, couverture se déposant en plis sur les instants dont on dirait doucement l’avoir eu lieu... ou plutôt sous elle, sans ces plis, si ces instants eux-­‐mêmes tels qu’ils eurent lieu se mettaient à parler, à dire enfin ... * Trois coups de sonnette, à plus de 22h., le samedi soir, curieuse-­‐
ment rapprochés, pressants. Il était sur le trottoir devant la maison. Après une absence de près de deux mois, il ne retrouvait pas ses clés. On a ri. Joie de se retrouver. Embrassades. Je l’ai aidé à monter ses deux lourdes valises, ses sacs. Quand on est entré dans sa chambre, je n’ai pas pu m’empêcher de lui demander : « ça fait combien de temps depuis la première fois que tu es entré là ? » — « Huit ans, presque exactement » — « Et qu’est-­‐ce que tu as pensé la première fois ? » — « J’avais peur de pas trouver les bons mots. » . * « Je veux pas rester tout seul » : Ces paroles, je l’ai découvert quelques instants plus tard, étaient en train de devenir celles d’un homme qui, pour un instant encore, voulait — aurait voulu... (déjà c’était trop tard) — ne pas s’avancer seul dans l’aridité de la mort. 222 C’étaient les mots d’un homme devenant, en cet instant, contempo-­‐
rain de tout ce qu’il avait pu être : de tous ses âges et, bien sûr, de l’enfant qui jadis avait cherché, regard dilaté dans l’obscurité, une main à tenir. * ai-­‐je eu peur ? de m’être trompé ? de l’avoir trompé ? souvent, oui, mais une certitude me survivra (et j’ai tenté ou tenterai de la faire vivre dans ces phrases-­‐ci ou dans celles que je pourrai former encore ) : la réalité de ce qui a eu lieu ici avec Khaled recélait — bloc in-­‐
fime mais irréductible par son extrême densité — un peu de cela faute de quoi plus rien, rien au monde, rien jamais, ne compterait * ... il devint ici ce que personne d’autre n’avait été * « J’avais peur de pas trouver les bons mots ». Les bons mots, à la Maison de la Poésie. (Lui seul savait que c’était de lui qu’il était question). « Oui, tu prends mes mots, tu mets des mots à toi, tu trouves les bons mots. » j’ai peur, je vais avoir peur, dans les mois qui viennent, de ne pas trouver les mots, les phrases et l’ampleur qu’il faudrait pour ce qui a eu lieu, inoubliable. *** 223 Au bord : des mots doués d’une réalité autre que celle des mots, ou d’une pré-­‐
sence qui se métamorphoserait continument elle-­‐même ? des milliards d’humains, me dis-­‐je dans le doute de l’aube, en auront rêvé des mots, du moins, échappant à qui les aura dits et assez libres et puissants pour se retourner à mesure vers l’individu qui les forme-­‐formule et pour le soulever de la place où il est, où il se sait ou se croit être, ou plutôt, pour soulever simultanément, par pulsations se propa-­‐
geant, quiconque de sa propre place, du fait ou de la croyance d’occuper une place, n’est-­‐ce pas — sur le fond ou dans l’élément encore d’un énorme et multiple passé inapaisable — ce que continuent à tenter (héritant d’un immémorial délire, et en toute vanité) des poèmes ? mais n’est-­‐ce pas alors — à chaque fois qu’ils prétendent se réaliser — qu’il leur faut prendre acte d’une misère obscène qui n’est pas seu-­‐
lement la leur mais qu’ils peuvent se trouver, en certains instants, les plus propres à révéler, à laisser rayonner, et à nous faire enfin reconnaître... pour... nul ne saurait alors quelle décomposante liberté ? je ne m’attendais pas, dans la peur envahissant les premières heures de ce 8 juillet 2015, avant le jour, à écrire des phrases comme celles-­‐ci. 224 From Darfur to the Loire with Ousmane to begin Claude Mouchard Who expects a judgment from you about this stranger? And if you give it freely, walk then night after night with his sores on your feet, walk on, and don't come back. 1
Ingeborg Bachmann “go”: he makes a cutting gesture with his hand in the white air. For months now, on a regular basis, we have been talking — in the kitchen usually. Have I made him believe that on top of the three or four years of deprivation he has gone through we would be able, as long as he is living with us and we take the time we need, to lay down words day after day, like the soothing fold of a blanket? “Go, get moving.” With his earthy-­‐bitter voice, and his arm (dark silhouette against the light), he mimes those who free you or chase you away. In a street, back then, in Libya. Or, after an overnight police custody, in a street of Paris or Orléans. Or at the door of a detention center, on a road in the Orléans forest, miles away from anything (“What do I do?” he asked the policeman. “Not my problem... Come on, get going.”) 1
Ingeborg Bachmann, “Spoken and Rumored,” Darkness Spoken, tr. by Peter Filkins (Zephyr Press, 2006) 175. “Go, get...” He expels into the air sentences that, for months, have stayed stuck in him like stings. But suddenly, it is he who, standing in front of the luminous glass door, facing me, addresses these words to himself: “Go, get moving.” “Go…” He has nowhere to go, except to this family of “whites” (as he said to me), this house where he has been living for nearly a year now, this kitchen... Have we given him false hopes? Papers, work: his or our helplessness — administratively maintained — is too likely to become definitive. “Here,” he says, plunking himself down again in the chair, “this is not a life” — or (I’m transcribing) “not my a-­‐life.” “Claude,” he says, looking at the gray tiles, “I’m going to leave.” Where for? To risk disappearing in a Khartoum prison? Or, if he gets out after several months, to try to find again his vanished mother and sisters... or just, perhaps, the devastated site of his village, or the remnants of his house? “Here,” he hammers — and I’ll have nothing to answer —, this is not-­‐my-­‐a-­‐life.” -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ Words of Ousmane — or O. — exiled from Darfur... Why did I begin with these — among so many others, from his mouth, which I have been hearing for almost a year now, and which I keep (as I’m completing these very lines) hearing still? He had said them weeks ago… But until now they had remained suspended in the air — imminent. It’s only very recently — May 226 20, 2008 — that I decided to write them down — or, by my hands, to let them fall, black. -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ Jot down what O. says, for the year, almost, that he has been living here and regularly coming to talk — in the late afternoon, in the kitchen —, it bothers me to do it while he speaks. He hesitates, stumbling less because of gaps in his vocabulary or breaks in his syntax than because of his rough pronunciation. Then all of a sudden his sentences rush out, and now, on the cluttered table (newspapers, vegetables, crumbs), I can’t find anything to write on; I grab a newspaper scrap, or a torn envelope, a pencil that’s lying around — to end up barely scribbling, sideways, on the sly, sheepish. And I am loath to interrupt him. Still, shouldn’t I re-­‐pronounce his words, or send his sentences back to him, recomposed? -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ O. often interrupts himself, his face turned toward the ground. If he suddenly raises his eyes, I get embarrassed to be caught looking at him too intently. And what would he think if he had access to sentences like these, which describe him? With his index finger he scratches the wood-­‐frame — rough varnish peeling off, pine fibers — of the table (the top is enameled metal: the style of a good thirty years ago). Noises coming, then, through the window panes — changing with the hours or the seasons. Wind, small bell hanging from a corner of the kitchen’s low roof… Or, coming through the half-­‐open garden door, chickadee cries, needle-­‐like… Or… 227 But what is it, emanating from his existence, near-­‐mute for so long, as well as from mine, often verbose, that thickens above the table, between our faces? A double, redoubled, helplessness. -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ Sometimes, I drop the pencil, give up… I’m no longer able to take notes whenever, at sunset (he is about to leave: he never accepts to eat here, he’d rather go to a bread line on the street, or to a soup kitchen, or will do his own “petite cuisine”), he starts speaking in outbursts. Tomorrow, at the darkest moment before dawn, will certain words of his, beyond the ruptures of sleep, reappear, pressing me to transform them into my own sentences… though still, to be sure, mere sketches…? -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ “Go, get moving”... “... not a life,” “not-­‐my-­‐a-­‐life...”: words bone-­‐tired with helplessness, blows from the hand or the arm or the voice, against what masses surrounding them from all sides... Those very words, why did they have — at the moment (early May 2008) when I tried and began to “set” (harsh and dumb, that word) the notes I’d taken of our conversations for nearly a year — to fly back in my face and at the risk of making me unable to fulfill the promise I had made him months before, that of making legible one day — but for whom? — what he would say . . . without, it’s true, his ever showing the slightest concern about this project except, just once, for a perhaps ironic remark on my endless delays — comparable (thought I, vaguely sour) to his sometimes missed appointments, his lapses or 228 oversights? stop me? __________________________________________________________ But first, his name is not “Ousmane.” It’s he who, suddenly, on April 23, 2008 (we have been talking for several months), asked me not to write his “real name” — the one that now appears on his papers. What name should I give him in what I am writing, I asked? He suggested the name of a friend: Ousmane. Wouldn’t that be a problem, or, who knows, dangerous, for the friend in question? That friend, he tells me, is dead. Ousmane was killed in October 2003, in northern Darfur, near El Fashir, as he was trying to cross into Libya. Nobody, says O., really knows what happened. The whole group with which Ousmane was traveling, in “a big truck,” was killed. The killers were probably janjaweed, who must have known those travelers were headed for Libya, and who wanted “the people’s money for their crossings” — and the truck. Everybody died, O. says again. But Ousmane’s death, how was it known? He had an identity card (he who had lived in the city) that the police found. The head of the village (“see, it’s not exactly the mayor, but it’s a bit like that”) was alerted, and he himself announced Ousmane’s death to the village, to the family: his father and mother, his wife, his two children. “He was 35–36 when he died. He had been my friend for almost two years. He had gone to school, he was intelligent. He could have found work. 229 He had worked in Eastern Sudan, on the Red Sea coast, in a port. He got married there. Then he brought his wife all the way back to Western Sudan. In the village, he didn’t live far from me. Not the same family, but the next one over. My grandfather knew his family.” -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ “GO” ... how to finally move forward? Should I reconstitute “O”’s itinerary, and — at the cost of recomposing what he said to me about it (almost never speaking chronologically, but coming and going in time) — make the actual stages follow one another? Or should the succession, here, reduce itself to that of the notes that I’ve been taking for months (with, often, a few hours or a night’s delay) from our conversations? __________________________________________________________ What he began to tell me about his nights outside, if, by groping, I tried to relate something of it once more, it couldn’t be without incorporating what I heard saw or imagined otherwise months later, when following him on the banks of the Loire, that day in November 2007 when we returned to the place (an empty house squatted for a few days in the middle of winter) where there were of course no longer any traces of his but where he showed me others, about the same, he said, for him, in any case, too recognizable, strange-­‐familiar ephemeral bedding hollow, nests of dirty grass, body marks, debris: the very little left behind, when moving on once again in the morning, 230 by those who must always take everything with them in the streets (blankets, a few rags, a minimum of food: nothing can stay [on the premises] — the city workers are instructed to gather up or destroy everything) and each evening reshape everything again in a minimal coil of self-­‐care -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ and supposing it were a child of mine, adult, already old, who, for some impossible reason, would be met in this way, exhausted, eyes blank, just off a strange (or too familiar) street? (terror confounded with tenderness) time has collapsed before him he never stops falling in a ditch full of black rotting leaves... (stench of an absolute sadness in which to let oneself sink) “LET'S GO, COME,” “you’re not going to stay there like that”... (and... helplessness multiplies — he no longer wants anything — he is no longer reachable) “PLEASE COME” … impossible to yank him away from this decomposition of himself now too well known, too often tasted... “COME, I’M BEGGING YOU.” “ COME ON…” -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ July 16 (first purely one-­‐to-­‐one conversation), beneath the vaguely inquisitive gaze of the café owner (who already recognizes us), I asked O. about his life in Darfur, before the violence —
perpetrated by whom, exactly? this question will run through his later remarks — began or, at any rate, became intolerable. He worked the fields, he said, with his father. 231 (No, I later said to myself taking up again and confronting some of my notes, his father, at that time, was dead. And in later conversations it was his grandfather he will be talking about. Or rather he must first have said: “grandmother” because, as he will explain, he was referring to his mother’s father.) What they were growing, I have a hard time grasping. With his hand, he shows me the height of the plants. We raised sheep. He dwelled on lambs, the possibility of selling them. He spoke of the market, and I did not really grasp what seemed important, though… a vehicle... Suddenly O. slips in — like a quick extra message, and adding that it’s the first time he is saying this (will I soon, returning home, draw from these words some satisfaction, that of inspiring confidence… halo, pinkish, touched...) — that he has thought about dying. He talks again of the islands in the Loire, differently from last time — of one in particular that he likes. Beautiful, for him? “Yes.” There, people come — young people, young couples — till late in the night, two, three in the morning… Friendly? “Yes, yes” — “I listen to them.” -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ After our meeting on July 16, a room, a “studio” recently fixed up (shower, toilet, kitchenette) that we rent, became available on the third floor of our house (vast old structure, going back at least two centuries). We made the decision (which would stay in effect — dangerously abstract? — in all that would follow) to invite him to live there. On July 23, from the Lutétia, where we met up again — once more with Hamid —, we are coming, crossing the Loire, toward the house. I show him the place. He says very quickly, or rather (face lowered, tears — of humiliation? — in his eyes) he has Hamid say: 232 “I can’t pay” (while Hamid translates, he makes a helpless gesture with both hands), “not even for water or electricity.” Silence where, suddenly, in vital connections, is too deeply felt what is most banal. Noises in the walls… Soft trepidation of permanences-­‐continuities, of costly connections maintained everywhere: drinking water coming up (on the banks of the Loire, the city had cut water...) or “wastewater” (sink, toilet) going down, electric cables (we see some, heavy and black, through this third floor’s window). “Can’t” — “Of course.” Silence. Swifts calling, or, in the light flowing in horizontally from outside, the streak of a swallow, flying and diving under the gutter nearby... -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ “I was afraid” ... “At the bottom of the big boat, I threw up, I was sweating, I thought I was going to die.” Begin with sentences like these, heard weeks later? A beginning in the middle of the Mediterranean (between Libya and France), in medias res... Some pathos? O. didn’t know what seasickness was. “If someone gave me a cigarette, it would fall out of my mouth.” He laughs. “I thought maybe someone had given me something with the food. I was afraid to eat anymore. I was scared they would give us something and then throw us in the sea.” “I thought I’d never see my family again, my mother, my sisters. I thought about my grandfather.” 233 It was in May 2004, and the crossing took 8–9 days: 2 days on a little boat (a fishing boat) (“made of plastic” — is that really what he said?) and 7 days on the big boat. On the little boat where he ended up, 7 people: 4 Sudanese, 2 Somalis, 1 from Burkina-­‐Faso (the only Francophone). Then they end up on the big boat with other illegals — 40? 50? On the big boat, of course, the illegals aren’t all together. They are hidden in several places. In each of the cabins meant for the personnel’s sleep, and designed for one or two people, 7 of us pile up. We’re afraid. People are yelling at us things we don’t understand. We’re worried that the police will come: everyone will go to prison then, even the people working on the boat. No talking, no coughing, no sneezing. (O. tries to recapture, to remember himself... He senses that I’m trying to get as close as I can to the feelings of that time. “That guy, he’s afraid,” “me, I’m afraid,” “that’s not something normal.” “They took your cell phone, watch, lighter, identity papers if you have any, before you got in the small boat: “take nothing!” We eat once a day. How did you manage... to pee and to... — it’s I who am asking..., I’m a little embarrassed — what terms should I use... Our words are always reserved, discreet. Embarrassed, but not too much, he laughs: we pee through a little hole (a porthole?). And for... the rest... inside plastic... and then you throw that also through the hole. Upon arriving in France, taking another small boat, he had to slip on a “company” uniform. After disembarking, around 9pm, we wait till three in the morning. We get a cup of coffee. A guy picks us up in a truck, takes us to the train station, pays for a ticket to Paris. 234 (Another time, or rather several other times, O. explained to me the smugglers’ complicated guarantee system.) If I got it right, in the train for Paris, there are only two of them left. -­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐-­‐ In Paris, it’s morning, we are right there on the sidewalk, we don’t know anything. We’d like a “small favor,” a little help, some information. We speak, several times, to people passing by. We always choose someone who looks like an Arab, who must speak Arabic. But he is always suspicious, doesn’t have the time, doesn’t know. Another one is passing by, speaking through his cell phone: in Arabic. We try again, we speak to him. He stops. He listens. 235 Alone, Khaled? first starts in the middle of distress, early July 2015... while waiting to really try, in the coming weeks, to raise, to lift up again, and balance but how? (a Kleist-­‐like vault — letter to Wilhelmina —: the kind that holds in the air only because all of its stones want to fall simultaneously). an excess of scraps, motley and monotonous, muddy, constantly crumbling immediate notes, “realist,” factual, taken day after day during the eight years of life “with Khaled,” innumerable conversations, brief graspings, fears and outbursts of anger, laughter, questions without answers, perpetual doubts about everything, but shot through by an irreducible certainty, that of a truth which we shared * “I don’t want to be alone” Khaled said and those words, I will never stop hearing them... and above all the muffled, gritty voice, so familiar — and loved * those words, was Khaled secretly afraid at the moment he pronounced them? and me, should i have guessed the catastrophe that, unknowingly, they announced? * it was March 15, 2015 around 11 o’clock, he had just come down from his room he was uncharacteristically wavering, his gaze turned inward should I, I ask myself in writing these words, have been alerted? he had sat in the old green armchair 236 and that is when he said them, these words: “I don’t want to be alone” * he was sitting there and so I became afraid that he would get cold (the spring morning was gray and cold) I took him back to his room (which he generally overheated), I prepared a hot tea, brought it to him and * Khaled Mahjoub Mansour, our Sudanese friend, my friend, died on March 18, 2015, a little after 11pm, after three days in intensive care at La Source hospital (south of Orléans) Sunday morning March 15 a little after 11 he had been struck, in front of me, by a heart attack * on Saturday, March 14, he had returned from a stay of almost two months in Sudan. stay during which he had undertaken an exhausting journey he said in our brief conversation (he was so tired) that Saturday night from Khartoum to Nyala (his home town in Darfur) by truck (to save the cost of the airplane?) a journey halted by a long interruption because of who knew what skirmishes. so three or four days, in extreme heat... sometimes without water, etc. * 237 Saturday, March 14, around 3pm, after weeks of absence (and all too rare calls from a cell phone... regions often without any service, he told me, at home, a few hours later...) he had finally called he was at the Gare du Nord “hello, hello, it’s Mansour the jerk” he had obviously picked up again the thread of our ritual kidding (ducks and jerks on that bank of the Loire where nine years before he had slept outside during freezing nights). * it’s to your home that he wanted to return to die, our Senegalese friend Samba Touré told me affectionately: near you how would I know ? certainty tears.... * we will never have had it then, that conversation I was waiting for not only the day-­‐to-­‐day one, which we would have peacefully resumed that Sunday, March 15th, and then in the days and weeks and months and years that would have followed... but another one too, a different, supplementary one. the one that would have accompanied me, the one through which Khaled would have sometimes led me in the return I wanted to start on 238 — which I am going to begin, surely, in the coming months, but henceforth alone I won’t be able to rely on Khaled, on his words or, just as much, his moments of silence in order to get back to so many shared minutes, all the exchanged words or at least what I will have noted of them, day after day, through the eight years he lived here in this house * over the last forty year or so, a number of “foreigners” have lived, with us, in this vast and old house for eight days or six months or four years or one month every year or Ibrahim the Ivoirian Linda the American Kim the Cambodian Pedram, Farzam, Mahssa, Iranian brothers and sister. briefly Angolan Laura. our Japanese friend (who also became and remained Khaled’s friend): Masatsugu and Jinjia, from China, and passing through, Gôzô... or... etc. it’s with Khaled alone that the urge came to me (and came back to me day after day during eight years) or rather the stubborn will to talk and to take notes to talk regularly, obstinately, 239 with the intention, he knew it, of taking notes, not on the spot, but the next day, after letting a night go by, but before daybreak * Khaled collapsed in my arms March 15 at 11 o’clock. His head, eyes rolled back, slumped; it weighed heavily in my hand; I felt his saliva leaking out. I left him for a few seconds — to cry for help in the stairwell (toward our friends, Jinjia, Aya, toward Hélène). I returned to this collapsed body, lifting it up again, and crying. (and then very quickly the firemen, abrupt at first: “Who are you to him?,” then the EMS, a Sunday morning, a doctor, who happened to be black, suddenly speaking, for his part, cautiously and kindly: “it’s very bad...” “the heart”) He died after three days of treatment by a team of doctors who were all attention, who did everything they could for him, for that body, which only artificial reflexes animated still, and at the same time, what is more, for us, dazed, and for his Sudanese friends, for the one who took on the task of telephoning his mother, in Khartoum. It’s in this house where I am writing these few sentences that he died. * Write sentences like these, by what right? At the risk... Khaled, what would he have thought — said: that’s what I catch myself wondering about having thought for a second that the creaking in the hall was his footsteps and that he was going to 240 arrive half-­‐surreptitiously... pretending to surprise me in front of the computer, the same one where I am writing these sentences. Will I have taken possession of something — and down to his death. Am I not in the process of drawing some benefit — pathos, staging — from what happened as soon as I write it down, give it (perhaps) to be read? * No. Nothing of him was appropriated here, by us. Nothing had been programmed, even though before him others... There was absolute newness, and otherness. In the most ordinary multiplicity: that of lives having to endure and nourish themselves with ties, to make themselves substantial from them, and branch out. Nothing had been programmed. The event — two encounters (one was of Hélène and me with a whole group on the banks of the Loire, and the other Khaled initiated, recognizing Hélène in the street, coming up to her, etc.) — became the force of an interruption that could not be brought to a close and, precisely as such, became a part of our link, and its very power to the edge of death. * no “assimilation,” of course not (I vomit that word, which is the ignoble, digestive, fecal one that politicians use when seeking adhesion from all the fools who identify with their self-­‐adhesive coils). * 241 Sentences like these, what are they hoping for? What effect are they trying for, on whom, or what? They try, clumsily, to realize what happened. Realize ? Call forth some attention from very far, from the depths of time, in order to fold it back, blanket settling itself in folds over the instants whose having taken place one would softly utter or rather, underneath that blanket, without those folds, if those instants themselves just as they occurred would begin to speak, to say at last... * Three doorbell rings, after 10pm, Saturday night, strangely close together, hurried. He was on the sidewalk in front of the house. After an absence of almost two months, he could not find his keys. We laughed. Joy of being together again. Embraces. I helped him to take up his two heavy suitcases, his bags. When we got into his room, I couldn’t help asking him: “how long has it been since the first time you came in here?” — “Eight years, almost exactly” — “And what did you think the first time?” — “I was afraid not to find the right words.” * 242 “I don’t want to be alone”: These words, I discovered a few moments later, were becoming those of a man who, for one instant more, wanted — would have wanted... (it was already too late) — not to enter alone into the aridity of death. They were the words of a man becoming, in that instant, contemporaneous with all that he may have been: with each age he had lived, and, of course, with the child who long ago had searched, his gaze widened in the darkness, for a hand to hold. * was I afraid? to have deceived myself ? to have deceived him ? yes, often, but one certainty will survive me (and I have tried or will try to make it live in these sentences or in those that I could still form later): the reality of what happened here with Khaled contained — tiny block, yet irreducible thanks to its extreme density — a little of that without which nothing any longer, nothing in the world, nothing ever would count [...] * ... he became here what no one else had been [...] * “I was afraid not to find the right words.” 243 The right words, at the Poetry House. (He alone knew that it was about him). “Yes, you take my words, you put in your own words, you find the right words.” I’m afraid, I’m going to be afraid, in the coming months, to not find the words, the sentences and the breadth needed for what took place, unforgettable. *** On the edge: words endowed with a reality other than that of words, or of a presence that would continously metamorphose itself? billions of human beings, I tell myself in the daybreak doubt, will have dreamed of that words, at least, slipping away from the one who will have said them and free and powerful enough to turn back one after the other toward the individual who forms-­‐
formulates them and to lift him from the place where he is, where he knows or believes he is, or rather, to simultaneously lift, in sweeping beats, anyone, from his or her own place, from the fact or the belief of occupying a place, isn’t that — against the background or in the element still of an enormous and multiple, unappeasable past — what poems (inheriting an immemorial delirium, and quite vainly) continue to attempt? but then isn’t it — each time they try to make themselves real — necessary for them to take note of an obscene misery which is not only their own 244 but which they can be perhaps, in some instants, the most apt to reveal, let radiate, and make us finally recognize... for... no one would know, then, which decomposing freedom? I did not expect, in the fear that engulfed the first hours of this July 8, 2015, before daybreak, to write sentences like these. 245 FORTHCOMING NEXT FROM
Jean-Luc Godard
PHRASES
Otto Dix
LETTERS, VOL. 1
Pierre Senges
THE MAJOR REFUTATION
Maura Del Serra
LADDER OF OATHS
& more
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to express my gratitude to the many people
involved in this issue: to the contributors, to the editors of
Hyperion, Rainer J. Hanshe & Erika Mihálycsa, and several
others who have helped this material come to light over a
period of a year or longer. The whole endeavor would not
have found its way without the work of three individuals.
Thus, particular gratitude is due to Florence Pazzottu, Liesl
Yamaguchi, and Jean-François Puff.
KH
The editors of Hyperion would also like to extend their
gratitude to Rachel Seghetchian and Pierre Senges.
RJH / EM
CONTRIBUTORS Alain Badiou teaches philosophy at the École normale supérieure and the Collège international de philosophie in Paris. In addition to several novels, plays, and political essays, he has published a number of major philosophical works, including Theory of the Subject, Being and Event, Manifesto for Philosophy, and Gilles Deleuze. His recent books include The Meaning of Sarkozy, Ethics, Metapolitics, Polemics, The Communist Hypothesis, Five Lessons on Wagner, and Wittgenstein’s Anti-­‐Philosophy. Robert Boncardo recently completed a PhD at the University of Sydney and at L'Université d'Aix-­‐Marseille 1 in France. His thesis dealt with philosophical and political readings by 20th century French thinkers, including Sartre, Kristeva, Badiou and Rancière, of the late 19th-­‐century poet Stéphane Mallarmé. At the Melbourne School of Continental Philosophy he has taught phenomenology, French currents of Marxism and literary theory. He is currently extending his thesis to include the interventions of Jean-­‐Claude Milner and Quentin Meillassoux. Christian R. Gelder is a graduate student at The University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia. His thesis examines the continuities and disjunctions between Mallarmé's poetry, mathematics, and its philosophical reception throughout the 20th and 21st century. Jean-­‐Nicolas Illouz is a professor at Université Paris VIII. He has publis-­‐
hed extensively on 19th century poetry, especially on Nerval whose works he edited and commented, on the crisis of the lyrical in modern poetry (L’Offrande lyrique), on the relationship between prose and poetry (Crise de prose), on Symbolism, as well as on Rimbaud, Verlaine and Mallarmé. At Garnier Publishing he is the editor of the series Œuvres complètes de Nerval. Kuisma Korhonen is professor of literature at the University of Oulu. He has translated Mallarmé’s “Crise de vers” into Finnish and published several articles on Mallarmé in French, English and Finnish. His books include Textual Friendship: The Essay as Impossible Encounter (2004), Lukijoiden yhteisö (“Community of Readers,” 2011), edited Tropes for the Past: Hayden White and the History/Literature Debate (2006), and co-­‐
edited The Event of Encounter in Art and Philosophy (2010), as well as Chi-­‐
asmatic Encounters (forthcoming). His work has addressed literature as a form of ethical encounter and textual community. Lately he has been working on the ethics of cultural memory. Jean-­‐Claude Milner is Professor Emeritus of Linguistics at the Université de Paris-­‐VII (Denis Diderot), as well as a former Director of the Collège International de Philosophie (1998-­‐2001). He is the author of several books on topics in linguistics and philosophy, notably L'universel en éclats (Verdier, 2014), Les penchants criminels de l'Europe démocratique (Verdier, 2003), Le périple structural (Seuil, 2002), Mallarmé au tombeau (Verdier, 1999), L’Œuvre claire : Lacan, la science et la philosophie (Seuil, 1995), Ordres et raisons de langue (Seuil, 1982), and L’amour de la langue (Seuil, 1978), which is available in English in Ann Banfield’s translation, For the Love of Language (Macmillan, 1990). Claude Mouchard is a contemporary French poet & translator, Emeritus Professor of Comparative Literature at Université Paris 8 – Saint-­‐Denis, and associate editor-­‐in-­‐chief of Po&sie, France’s leading poetry journal. He is the author of many critical works, including Un grand désert d’hommes, 1851–1885: les équivoques de la modernité (1991) and Qui si je criais...? Œuvres-­‐témoignages dans les tourmentes du XXe siècle (2007), a wide-­‐ranging reflection on testimonial works born of 20th-­‐century political catastrophes. He has published three collections of poetry (Ici, 1986; Perdre, 1979 & 1989; L’Air, 1997), the “pamphlet poem” Papiers! (2007), & several series of what he simply calls Notes, whose experimental language focuses on the plight of the exiled & homeless in France. 249 Jean-­‐François Puff is assistant professor in 20th-­‐century French literature at Université Jean Monnet, Saint-­‐Étienne. A specialist in modernist and contemporary poetry, he has written on the work of Jacques Roubaud, Reverdy, Breton, Aragon, and on transversal theoretical approaches (problems of form, vocal style in poetry reading, the theory of the subject in poetry). His present research is focused on these issues, as well as on the practice of poetry as a mode of subjectivation. His poetry has appeared to date in Formes poétiques contemporaines, Petite, Rehauts, Passages à l’Act, Geste, Ligne 13. Mary Shaw is Professor of French Literature at Rutgers University. Along with such critical works as Visible Writings: Forms, Cultures, Readings (co-­‐edited with Marija Dalbello, 2011); The Cambridge Introduction to French Poetry (2003); Performance in the texts of Mallarmé (1993), she has published two children’s books and a collection of poems, Album Without Pictures (2008). She is currently completing the translation of selected poems by Claude Mouchard for a volume to be published by Contra Mundum Press. Her poetic fables, entitled dreamscapes, appear regularly in the online journal Transitions, and have also appreared in French translations in Versants and Po&sie. Liesl Yamaguchi is a doctoral candidate in Comparative Literature at Princeton University, as well as an active translator from Finnish and French. Her translation of Väinö Linna’s Unknown Soldiers recently appeared in the Penguin Classics series (2015), and her translations of Blaise Cendrars and Fernand Léger were featured in the award-­‐winning Fernand Léger (Yale UP, 2013). A former Fulbright fellow, American Scandinavian Foundation fellow, and Honorific Procter Fellow, she holds a BA Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude from Columbia University and an MSt from the University of Oxford. She is currently based at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. 250 Le personnage qui, croyant à l’existence du seul Absolu, s’imagine être
partout dans un rêve (il agit au point de vue Absolu) trouve l’acte
inutile, car il y a et n'y a pas de hasard — il réduit le hasard à l’Infini —
qui, dit-il, doit exister quelque part.