Copyrigltl O 192 bt lhr Regenls of tne UniveBitv of Minnea.ra

AU rill]l6 rclerued. No pan or rhis publiccrron may be reproduced. lored ina rdrielal syslen, or rra$milled. in any form or by anv means, el€clronici

m.charical, photocoprins, recoiding, or othdwke, wnnonr the prior wlittenpermisrion of the Publishe!

Ubruy of ColCEs C tlqlng-ln-Plbllctllon D.l.

van De. Abb€ele, c€org4.lts\rl ds meiaphor : from Mo.t.ie.e lo Rous*au / C€or3es Van D€n

ltuludes biblioxraDhical EfeRnces and inder.L Philospbx Fr€nch-l6tb enlury. 2. Philo$phy, Frcnch-l?th cenlutv

3. Philosophy, Fench-lslh.e.tu.r, 4. Trav€I, 5. Monraisne, Michel de, l5l3-1592-virys on travel, 6, De$afles, Ren6, 1596-16t0-views on favel.7. Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, l7l2-l'778-Views on lrad. l. Tille.

Bl80qTr2v35 192

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A CIP c alos Kord for Ihis book is available froo rh. British Library

Publisb.tl by the Unir(siry ol Minnesta PBs2037 Unive$ity Alenue Southea$, Mian.apolis, MN 51414

PriDtcd ii! rhe united Sht.s of Ameiiaa on acid-f!€e paper

Th. Uni8siry ol Minnesota is an€quahppo(uniry €ducaror and enploye.

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1&,.,'s

In memoriam Robert Ma€s

per lo ,luliona e la Chfistina

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voYA(E, s.m. (Gftm.\ Uanspoft de la personne d'unIbu oi I'on est, dans un autrc assez iloicnd. On fait Ieyoy^ge d'Italie. On Jait un voyage d Parb. Il laut tousfaire une lois le grand voy^ge, Allq ayant le temps de\)otre ddpatt ddposet dans votre tombeau Ia prcvision de

yorlcr, (Commerce.) [es alldes & les lenues d'unmercenaire qui tansporte des meubles, du bled & autreschoses. On dit qu'il a fait dri voyages, v,nga voyages.

voyrcE, (Educaiion.) les grunds hom es de I'antiquitdont jugd qu'il n'! ayoit de meilleurc dcole de la yie quecelle des \oy^gesi dcole oi I'on apprcnd la diwrsitd de tantd'auttes ies, olt I'on trouw sans cesse quelque noulellelecon dans ce grund li\)re du monde; & oi le changementd'air avec I'exercice sont prcJitables au cotps & d I'esprit.

-Encyclopddie

IvoyAaE, masculine noun (Crammar,) tronsport oJ ape6on from the place where one b to onother place thatis Jat enough awaj. One makes the yoyage to Italt Onemakes a voyage to Pafis. It is necessa), Jot eyeryone tomake the great voyage once. Ahead of ,ow depaftwetime, go depos into low tomb rhe protisions fot loutvoyage.

voYacr, (Commerce.) the comings and goings ol amefcenary who transpotls fumishings, wheat and othefthings. One says that he has made ten \oyages, lwentt

voYrrcE, (Education.) the grcat men of antiquity judgedthal lhere Nras no berter school fot lik than that oJvoyagesi a school yr'hefe one leams about the diyercily ofso man! othef lives, v,'herc one incessantll finds sofie newlesson in that grcat book of the wo d; and wherc thechange of ait along with the exercise k of proJit to thebod] and lo thz mind.l

I

Contents

AcknowledSmentslntroduction: The Ecodomy of TravelChapter l. Equestrian Montaigne

Circulating in Italy: Trawl JownalUnbridled Leisure: "Of Idleness"An Accidental Body; or, The Paternal Limit:

"Of Practice"All Roads Lead Back to Rome: "of vanity"

Chapter 2. Cartesian CoordinatesFinding One's Footing: Second Meditationwandedngs in Errori Discourse on Method,

MeditalionsChapter 3. Montesquieu's Gmnd Tout

A View ftom the Top: Jou e! frcm Otuz toThe Hague

The Occidental Tourist; or, The Drift of History:The Sqitit of the Lau'ts

Chapter 4. Pedestrian Rousseau

Pedagogy and the Teleology of Ttavdt EmileOedipal Returns; The Law of Successiont Emile and

Sophie; or, the Solitary Oneswaiking and wrhing: conle$ionsThe "Fall" of Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Second

PromenadeNoteslndex

xt

I6

t2l9

32394l48

6262

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85

8597

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II

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Acknowledgments

A number of persons and institutions have encouraged the realization ofthis book. Initial research on the topic was begun under a Sage craduareFellowship at Cornell University. The Andrew Mellon Foundation at Har-vard University later gave me leave time rc pursue morc intensive work,Faculty research grants from the University of California at Santa Cruzand from Miami Universi8 in Ohio were also invaluable. william Raydeseryes thanks for first suggesting the topic of iravel to me. Philip Lewis,Richard Klein, Piero Pucci, Jonathan Culler, and Louis Marin were crucialto the elaboration ofthe project from its earliest moments. Further encour-agement alld helpful criticisms came from Michel de Certeau, Fred Jameson,Jean-Fran9ois Lyotard, Tom Cor ey, Dan Brcwer, Harry Berger, TomVogler, James Creech, and Mitchell creenberg. I wish most especially tothank Peggy Kamuf and Tim Munay for thefu scrupulous and supportivereadings of the final manuscript. The University of Minnesota Press wasextraordinarily helpful in preparing the book for publication, and I par-ticularly wish to thank Biodun lginla and Terry Cochran for their editorialassistance. Ann Klefstad was an excellent and instructive copyediltr.

An early and much abbreviated vetsion of the second chapter was pub-lished in Brrli.a 17: Rdcits et imaginairc (Actes de Montrdal) | Q984r,3-14; and a portion of the third chapter initially appeared in Z rsplitCftatefi 25 (no. 3: Fall 1985), 64-?4. I rhank these two journals for per-mission to rcprint.

Xii AC(NOWLEDGMENTS

Finally, t wish to thank my grandfather Robert Maes, for inspiring meto study French literature, Christina Schiesari-Safron for bringing her exu-berance and spirit into my life, and Juliana Schiesari for her conceptualclarifications and queries, her exhaustive srylistic suggestions, and her end-lessly caring love.

Dwi' Catifonia

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

IntroductionThe Economy of Travel

when one thinks of travel, one most often thinks of the interest andexcitement that comes from seeing exotic places and cultures, Likewise, theapplication of the metaphor of travel to thought conjures up the image ofan innovative mind that explorcs new ways of looking at things or whichopens up new horizons. That mind is a critical one to the extent that itsmoving beyond a given set of preconceptions or values also underminesthose assumptions. Indeed, to call an existing order (whether epistemolog-ical, aesthetic, or political) into question by placing oneself "outside" thatorder, by taking a "critical distance" from it, is implicitly to invoke themetaphor of thought as travel.

The following study aims to investigate the rclations between criticalthinking and the metaphor of the voyage in th€ context of French philo-sophical lirerature from the la(e Renajssance through the Enlighlenmenl.Before considering the specificity of that conte,\t, I would like, however,to reflect upon the travel motif as such at the more abstract level of itsgeneral epistemological presuppositions. Despite its association with theinteresiing or the innovative, the motif of the voyage counts among themost manifestly banal in Western letters. From Homer and Virgil, throughDanie and Cervant€s, Defoe and Goethe, Melville and Coqlad, Prousi andCeline, Nabokov and Butor, and on up through the mosi "postmodem"writers, one can scarcely mention a piece of literature in which the themeof the voyage does not play some role. The very image of thought asa quest is a commonplace in the history of philosophy and f€aturcs

INTRODUCTIONTNTRODUCTION

prominently in such canonical r;'otks 4s The Republic, The Citf of God,the -Esra/s of Montaigne, Vico's Ne)r Scierce, Hegel's Phenomenologt oJMind, Frcttd's Belond the Pleasute P nciple, Heideager's Bei g and Time,Levi-Strauss's Tirter ?opiqler, and Lyotard's The Postmodem Co dition.But if one grants the banality of the genre commonly associated withinnovation, the question that ne€ds to be raised is whether th€ commonplacequality of the metaphor of travel does not at some point constitDte a limitto ihe freedom of critical thought.

This question might be rephrased at a still more abstract level in tetmsof the relationship between an institutional or ideological framework andthat which claims to call it into qu€stion. What if the critique of a sysremwer€ itself encoded as an institutionaliz€d part of the system? It wouldseem, in fact, that the ways in which we question our world are themselvesproducts of that world. Should one conclude pessimistically, ther, thatcritical thought can never escape its entrapment by that which it supposedlycriticizes? h is difficult to answer the question when it is phrased in soabsolute a form. The hypothesis this study instead attempts to support isthat the critical gesture is always entrapped in some ways and liberated orlib€rating in others. The assumptiod, in oth€r words, is that no liberatinggesture, no theoretical breakthrough, is absolute. Rather, there is always aconcomitant degree of entrapment, which t suspecr ro be rh€ condition ofpossibility for the liberation that does take place. Moreover, the elemenrof enlrapment may ev€n function in certain writ€rs as a d€sired safeguardthat keeps the critical advenrure within certain bounds. Granted this par-adoxica, status of the critical act, it is incumbent upon the critic to explorethe conditions for critical discourse, ro locate and describe the specificmoments where entrapment or radical innovation takes place,

The metqp[olf !mv_elqs,!!i!cal trope is at l€ast as paradoxical in itsdeterminations as lhe critical act. If w€ are obliged to speak of the voyageas the most common of commonplaces in the Western vadition, a toposof the most fixed, conventional, and uninteresting kind, rhen such a for-mulation is paradoxical to the €xtent that a voyage cannot be restricted toor circumscribed within a place unless it is to cease being a voyage-thatis, what necessarily implies a crossiflg of boundaries or a change of places.A voyage that stays in the same place is not a voyage. Indeed, the verynotion of travel presupposes a movement away from some place, a dis-placement of whatever it is on€ understands by "place." For literature thento make of the voyage a commonplace ii to deprive it of its very movement.But then again, if literature returns with such frequency ro this topos (ifit can still be considered ro be one), the rh€me of rh€ voyag€ must not besimply one [l€rary theme arnong o(hers bur one rhar in some way or orherraites the qilenion of Lhe \rarus ol Iirerary diqcourse ir\elf.

It would s€em, moreover, that the very banality or banalizing of travel

to be found in literature both veils and unv€ils its importance for western

culture. The voyage is undoubtedly one of the most cherished institutions

oi rut "iuiti""tion,

and banal as it may be, travel is p€rsistently perceived

as exciting and interesting, as liberating, and as what "opens up new

. toriront.:ft. dearesl nolions of lhe wen nearl) all appeal to lhe molil/ of Ihe loyage: proSress. the quest ior kno$ledge. lreedom ai lreedom lo

mou", seli-u*aren""s as an odyssean enterprise, salvation as a destination

lo b€' attained by following a prescribed pathwav (typicallv straight and

narrow). Yet if there is such a gr€at cultural irvestment in the voyage' that

locus oi innertment is nonetheless one whose possibility of appropiation

also implies the threat of an expropriation. The voyage €ndangers as much

as it is supposed to assur€ these cultural values: something can always go

wrong. The "place" of the voyage cannot b€ a stable one'

,q.tbssicai appreciation of the probl€m of trav€l can be found in the

Encfck)pddie arli;le of l?65, "vovage"' written bv th€ Chevalier de Jaucou

uni*hore opening pu.ueraphs figure as the epigraph to this volume ': This

uli"-pt to a"fin" *iut one means bv a vovage at the high-water mark.of

ift" age of aiscon"rv, at a time when the likes of Cook and Bougainville

*e." -prepu.ing to circumnavigate the gtob€, analyzes lravel accordin€ to

three ca;gories: grammar, commerce, education The explication of the

concurren;e of th;se three definilions, or rath€r their mutual conjugation

and articulation, should provide an inirial sel oft€rms with which to pursue

an analysis of travel in early modern French philosophical literature'

A voyage is initially defined in grammatical terms as the "transport of

a person frorn the place where one is to another place that is far enough

away:' Travel is th;s first defined fiom an anthropological perspective: itrefeis to the movement of human beings, of "a person," from on€ place

io another. To be sur€, the agent of this transportation remains unclear:

rhe Der'on is rran\porLed. lhe follo$ing Ihree senlence! in this article ale ,eouirnea ;n french Uy the impersonal forms on and il Jaut and maljtain

ihis depersonalized anthropology even as they present three examples ofuoyagei.

.fhe fir"t t*o designate a persistent axis of the specifically French

.eileition on t.uuet f.oln before Montaigne to after Butor, namely' the axis

between ltaly and Paris, one to which I will repeatedly return Th€ third

example brings an abrupt switch from the literal to the figural: "lt is

.""".ru.y foi "u".yoo"

to make the |Jeal voyage at some point:' The

metaphorical voyag€ that is death is not simply something "one does;'.su€h

as t.au.t to ttay, lut *ttat "it is nec€ssary for everyone to do " This ultimale

"transport of the person" induces the imperative form of a moral pre-

scription by which ale Jaucourt closes this initial definition: "Ahead ofyour departure time, go deposit into your tomb the provisions for vour

I

XVi INTRODUCTION

'voyage." Beneath the anthropological perspective that guides the gram-matical definition of travel lurks a risk and an anxiety, the risk-bothnecessary and inevitable-that the limit to the motion of the anlhropos isto be found in the limit to the latterls existence: "le grund royaEe." Theauiety is an economic one, that of not being prepared on time, of nothaving set aside the necessary "provisions."

As if to follow up on this economic anxiety, the second definition ofthe word is stipulated as "commercial": "the comings and goings of amercenaty Imercenairel who transports furnishings [merlr/er], whear andother things." If death is a voyage with no return, commerce is predicatedprecisely upon the going ard coming of movable objects (the etymologicalsense of me4rles): lurnirure lor the house. $hear lor rhe bod). and so on.In the commercial sense of lravel, it is not so much lhe person that ismoved, but things that are moved back .rn.t forth, the lafier being shuntedabout by a particular typ€ of person, a "mercenary," a word whose primarymeaning at this time was still simply rhat of someone working for monetatyremuneration, His "mercenary" activity or reyerte thus depends upon hisreturn, upon the successful completion of his circular movement, bv whichthe voyage can be counted as such: "One says that he has made ten yoJages,

The third definition of "voyage" posits another kind of increment,namely, the educational value oftravel: "The great men of antiquity judgedthat there was no better school for life than that of yolager. " Here, andin the ensuing paragraphs of the article, rhe great masters of learning (ina long catalogue from Homer and Lycurgus ro Montaigne) are themselvesenlisted to support the value bf travel as befter than any actual school, norunsulprisingly because it brings one ro read the grandest textbook of themall: "that grcat book of the world" wherein "on€ incessantly finds som€new lesson." As the anthropological agent of the voyage is thus securedby the revenu€ (in profits, in knowledge) of a rerurn, so does the space ofthat trajectory becom€ available to be read as the grammar of a topography.

And in a claus€ that impressiv€ly recombines rhe triple definition of thevoyage as it brings this paragraph to a close. rravel is stat€d to benefir thebody as w€ll as the mind: "The change of air along with rhe e,\ercise is ofprofit to the body and the mind." Th€ profits to be gained from travel areqji corpor€al as they are intellectual or commercial. If rravel posits rhe riskand anxiety of death, it also signals the way to healrh, wealth, and wisdom.The triple definition of the voyage thus triangulates its objecr as a zone ofpotential loss or profir. Bur if one wants to economize on rravel-that is,to minimize its risks and reappropriare any possible loss as profit-onesoon discovers that the notion of economy already presupposes that oftravel. Fothe exchane€ of objecrs rhat defines commerciat activity implies

by its back-and-forth movem€nt some kind of travel. Historically, rh€ greateconomic and commercial powers have been tbose most successful at manip-ulating the means of travel, and vice versa. If there is a great investmenrin travel, it is perhaps because travel models the structure of investmentitself, the tdr62r of assets rhat instituies an economy, be it political orlibidinal, "restricted" or "g€neral."r

Now, if there is an insecuriry or anxiery associated wirh travel, it is thatinsecurity associated with the menace of irreparable loss. This loss canaffect not only one's monetary assets but one's very life or sanity. Or onecan simply los€ one's way, since the possibility of there b€ing no return isalways implied in travel. Every voyage is potentially a voyage into exile, avoyage to the "end of the night." La Fontaine's famous fable ,,The TwoPigeons" providgs an eloquent statement of this negative notion of travel.ln this satire of the urge to travel, one of the two pigeons, ,.crazy enoughto undertake / a voyage to some faraway land," suffers one disaster afteranother in his journey until, "half dead and half limping,,' he decides toreturn home.4 Voltaire's Candide (1759) takes a similar point of view: afterrecounting the horrendous series of brDral misfortun€s that befall bothmajor and minor characters in their peregrinations around rhe globe, the"philosophical tale" ends wirh the famous didacticism, .,ir is necessary tocultivate our garden," the epitome of sedentariness.r

But just as travel poses th€ danger of loss so also does it propose thepossibility of gain (whether this gain be in the form of grearer riches, powet,experience, wisdom, o{ whatev€r). Otherwise, there would be no incentiveto travel. Semiotic r€search on tourism has d€monstrated how. in even rhisapparently most innocent and innocuous mode of travel, strong economicand ideological motives are at work: tourists accumulate ..cultural expe-riences" that then increase their social value within rheir home commu-nities.6 A positive evaluation of rravel likewise occurs when the voyage isseen as an €scape either in the banal urSe to ,'get away from it all,, or inthe Baudelairean flight from ennui. Perhaps the mosr explicjt-and brutal-form of travel understood as opporrunity for gain is to be found in impe-rialist or colonialist ventures, of which those described in the narratives ofthe Spanish conqu€st of the New World offer a particularly forcefulrendition.r

Both ofthese evaluations oftravel, however, remain circumscribed wirhinan economic point of view Whether the voyage be loss or gain, whar isat stake is a certain prope y, something that cd, be lost or gained. To beable to talk about loss or gain, however, also requires that something inthe transaction remain unchanged, something in relarior to which one canregister a loss or a gain. In orher words, in order to be able to have aneconomy of travel, some fixed point of r€fercnce must be posited. The

Xviii INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION xix

economy of travel requires an ol*o.s (the Greek for "home" from which is

derived "economy") in r€lation to which any wand€ring can be comprc-

,ended (enclosed as well as understood). In other words, a home(land) must

be posited from which one leaves on the journey and to which one hopes

to retum-whether one actually makes it back home changes nothing, fromthis perspective. The positing of an orfo.t, or dom6 (the Latin translationol oikos), is what donesticates the voyage by ascribing certain limits to itThe oikos defines or delimits th€ movement of travel according to that oldAristotelian prescription for a "well-constructed" plot, namely, having abeginning, a middle, and an end.3 Indeed, travel can only be conceptualized

in+rms of the points of departure and destination and of the (spatial and

temporal) dislance betwe€n th€m. A traveler lhinks of his or her journey

in terms €ither of the destination or of the point of departure.Whil€ the oitos is most €asily understood as that point from wh;ch the

voyage begins and to which it circles back at the end, its function couldtheoretically be s€rved by any particular point in the itinerary. That pointthen acts as a transcendental point of reference that organizes and domes-

ticates a given area by defining all other points in r€lation to itself. Such

an act of referml makes of all travel a circular voyage insofar as thatprivileged point or oiftos is posited as the absotute origin and absolule end

of any movement at all. For instance, a journey organized in terms of itsdestination makes of that destination the journey's conceptual point ofdeparture, its point of orientation. Thus, a teleological point of viewremains comfortably within this economic conception ol travel.

The economic conception of travel thus implies the attempt to keep

travel enclosed within certain limits, that of the closed circle of the home,

the o,kos. On the other hand, so circums€ribed a voyage can no longer be

considered a voyage, since it never goes outside the range of the oikosHome, the very antithesis of travel, is the concept through which the voyage

is "oikonomized" into a commonplace. Hence, while the voyage can o y

be thought through this "economy of travel," the economy is precisely thatwhich conceptually stops or puts an end to th€ voyage by assigning it a

beginning and an end in the form of the oikor. To economize on something,or as the French say, /airc l'dco o ie de quelqu€ crose, is to try to reduceor.dispense with the object of that economy, to avoid or evade it. Thevoyase, it would s€em, can only be thoueht at its own risk.

lf, however, a voyage can only be conceptualized economically in t€rmsof the fixity of a privileg€d point (ottos), the positing of a point we cancall home can only occur retroactively. The conc€pt of a home is needed(and in fact it can only be thoushi) only a/,er the home has already beenleft behind. Int strict sense, then, one has always already left home, since

hom€ can only exist as such at the price of its being lost. The oilos isposited aptas-coup. Thus, the voyage has always already begun.

Such a voyage, however, is lit€rally unrhinkable if ir is pre-posirional,that is, anterior to the positing of rhat originary position which I havebeen calling the oitor. What is commonly called ,,tmvel,, is but an afiemptto contain that other prototravel rhrough a kind of reverse denegarion rhatdenies travel precisely by affirming it. When I say I am raking a trip, If€el confident in my ability to define it according to an itinerary betweenpoints. This "d€finition" is a conrainmenr of travel which allows ir rhennot only to be thoughr but to be thought as a narrative, as a story-rharis, if we accept the idea that it takes at least two movem€nis to constitutea narrative. Th€se two movemenrs, according to the narratology of ThomasPavel, include th€ "transgression" ofan iniriat situation and its ..mediation',or attempted resolution.e The travel narrative is then one in which thetransgression of losing or leaving rhe home is mediated by a movementthat attempts to fill the gap of thar loss through a spatialization of time.Thh articulation of space with rime smoorhs that initial discontinuity intothe continuity of a line that can be drawn on the map. Through rhisinstituted continuity, the voyage is found not only ro confotm ro the rulesof a narrative but also to be one of its canonical forms. Mich€l de Certeauhas even gone so far as (o declare that,.every narrative is a rravel

What cannot be shown, however, in the drawing of such a line is theconcomitant temporalization of space effected by rrav€I, so the home thatone Ieaves is not the same as that to which one retums, The very conditionof orientation, the o,to& is paradoxically able to provoke the greatestdisorientation. One need only cit€ here the srereotypical image of the rrav-eler, who, a la Rip van Winkle, returns home only ro find that it (or rhetraveler) has changed beyond all recognition. Such a disorientation at thepoint of reiurn indicates the radical noncoincidence of point of origin andpoint of r€turn. For the point of retum as repetition of the point ofdeparture cannot take place withour a difference in thar repetition: thedetow consritutive of the voyage itself. Were the point of departure andthe point of return to remain exactly the same, that is, were ihey the samepoint, there could be no travel. Y€r if the or,tos does nor remain selfsame,how can one f€el secure in it, especially given the fact that rhis identity ofthe oikor is what is n€cessarily presupposed by rhe economic view of rravel,the only way we can think a voyage as such?

,Be they real or imaginary, voyages seem as often underraken to restrainmovement as to engaAe in it, to resist change as to produce it, to keepfrom getting anywhere as ro artain a destinarion. The rheorv of an economvof rralel is an aaempr to erplain via recouhe lo an aiternati\e sel oi

INTRODUCTION

metaphors the paradoxical and contradictory ways in which travel is under-

srood and practiced in our culture. The establishment of a home or olkorplaces conceptual limits on travel, supplies it with a terminus d 4lo anda terminus ad qr€rl which allow on€ to conceive of the pot€ntially dangerousdivagation ol travel within assured and comfortable bounds. The economyof rravel thus domesticates the transgressive or critical possibilities impliedin the change of perspective travel provides. Nev€rth€l€ss, th€ very activityof traveling may also displace the home or prevent any return to it, thusundermining the institution of that €conomy and allowing for an infiniteor unbounded travel. This cornplex economics of travel rehearces once moretl\e paradoxical play of entrapment and liberation evinced in criticalthought.

The probl€ms raised in the analysis of trav€l also recall those commonlyencountered in recent theories of textual analvsis: the blurring of identityand difference, the undecidable effects of repetition, and a structured ina-bility to isolate the object of discours€ (that is, to talk about either textsor travel without becoming embroil€d in another text or without embarkingon a voyage, be it only a discursive one).r' But if one finds the sameanxieties and the same pleasures in both, it is not, in my opinion, because

of a mere coincidenc€ or accident. On the contrary, it is difficult to escape

the impression that both problems are part ofthe same problem, ore rootedin the decision of Western metaphysics to privilege presence over absence,

voice over writina, and hence the near over the far What I have been callingthe economy of travel is but a moment in the history of meaaphysics, whichis also distrustful of language and which similarly s€eks an economy ofsignification such that the persistent mediation of the sign is reduced 10 aminimum in the conveyance without residue of "full meaning."rz

Not only, however, do both text and voyage raise the same set of prob-lems, but one finds with surprising frequency that the problems associatedwith one are posited or described in terms of the other It is as if thedomeslication or economy of the one proceeded from the other. On theone hand, one finds topological theories of language in which utterancebecomes a question of choosing ihe right "route"; on the other, a tex-tualization of topography such that travel requires the interpretation ofsigns; the ability, for jnstanc€, to "read" a map. This interpretation canalso be written down in ihe form of travelogues or what the French writersof the Classical period refetred to as relations de yoldg€. This latter appel-lation well denotes the domesticating aim of such \Ntitinl. A rclation detoJdge is what r€lates the events of a voyage! it re-lates the voyage, bringsit back by way of the narrator's discourse.rs The "relation" (from rckto,to brina back) itself acts as a voyage that brings back what was lost in thevoyage. tt insiltut€s an economy of th€ voyaee. If it acts as a voyage, it

is because 4rd relarion it repeats the voyage by recounring the itinerary inchronological order at the same time qrd rclation (frcm ldrrr, borne ortransported) it displaces rhe ropography inro a topic of discourse.,r Theresult is a mimetic narrative, which is nonerheless instiruted by the veryloss of what it claims to bring back, to rclate. The relation de yoyage canonly mime and recount (can only mime as it recounts) what is already lost,what has already transpired. Nor everything can be included or even shouldbe. The most thoroughly detailed travel narratives can be the most boringand tedious, At the other extreme, som€ amount to little more than an€numeration of dates and place names,rr

But if the narrative can be constituted by such a repetition and dis-placement-that is, if it is as much a tran.rlation as it is a /elarion-theconstitution of that narrative can only take place if the voyag€ is somehowalr€ady a kind of text, that is, if rhere is already in place a differentialstructure of relationships that allows rhe ,,voyage,, to b€ cognized or rec,ognized as such. This structurc can be a map or any similar system con-taining points ol reference ("reference" frcf;l reIerc, the same word fromwhich "relation" derivet. The idea of a reference point refers back ro theoitor as the transcendental poinr of r€ference ro which all orhers arereferred. We can now add, though, the further qualification rhat this ref-

. erential economy is of a textual order. In other words, a place can only"take place" within a rexr, thar is, only if ir can be marked and re-markedfrom the area in which it is inscribed.'6 Only in ihis sense can we speakof

^ topogrupht, for insofar as rhe very perception and cognition of a

landscape requires an €ffect of demarcation, the latter can only be constjtuted as a space of wriring. This space of writing is borh the preconditjonfor the referentiat mastery of rh€ oiio.r and that which impties rhe inevirabledecentering of this referential economy into an endless chain of reference.Such an eventuality, however, implies the loss of whatev€r mastery wasthough! to be gained through the posiring of travet as text, even as it bearsunwelcome wirne\\ ro rhe jusrice ol lhat rhesi\.

Conversely, the seemingly irresistible propensiry of theories of languageto use topological termsi? suggests again that the relationship drawn betweentraveling and wriling is not necessarily unwarranred, although once againperhaps it is not the relalionship one wor d like. For whar does Ctassicalrhetoric with its network of ropics and its catalogue of tropes pretend to,except, as Cic€ro declares in rh€ fopr'cs, a ..disciplinam invendiendorumargumentorum, ut sin€ ullo errore ad ea ratione et via perveniremus,' [asystem for inventing arguments so thar we mighl make our way ro rhemwithout any wandering abourl,3. The rheiorical treatise presents itself as akind ofguidebook to the traversal of linguisric space, a discursive Baedeker.The metaphor is literalized, so ro speak, in ihat division of rheroric known

INTRODIJCTION xxi

I

Uii INTRODUCTION

^s 6emor\ (memo a) wherein a prescribed technique to help one remember

Lhe ooints one wishes to make during one's discourse consisrs ol associaring

each of rhose poinls wilh a familiar place One can lhen reproduce ones

arcument by imaginarively traversing lhe designaled places " NeverLheless'

Lh; hisrory of rheLoric, conslituted by the interminable haggling' down lo

our own day, over the correctness of the divisions and schemata proposed

by various rhetoricians, stands as a monument to the failure of its attempt

to master language, a failure due not to the particular weaknesses of indi-

vidual rhetoncians but to the structure of language iiself.

Nowhere is this inability to maintain th€ stability of the rhetorical map

more €vident than in the problems encountered by theor€ticians of figural

ftinCuage. Agreement cannot ev€n be reach€d on the number of tropes or

fig;res to be classified. Now, what a theory of figlral language in principle

proposes is a complete enumeration and consequent mastery of the ways

in which language can mean something other than what it habitually means'

ways in which meaning departs from itself. As Du Marsais writes, "Figuresare manne$ of speaking ./isldrced from those that ar€ not figurcd."'zo The

presupposition is that something like the literal or "proper" m€aning of aworal can b€ precisely determined, in relation to which all figural meanings

can then be underctood, contained, and mastered. For such a system to

work. however, the "proper" meaning must be a stable one, an unchanging

point of ref€rence that dominates the field of figural meanings' which can

then be grasped as wanderings, deviations, or depaftures from that proper

meaning. At this point, the rhetorical problem of figural versus literal

meaning is congruent in structure to the €conomic problem of travel, with

"proper" meaning in the place of the ortor. The very language Classical

rhetoric used to talk about figurcs would itself be bo o\ied from the

vocabulary of travel. A more recent theorist of rhetodc has likewise written:

"Ev€ry structure of 'figures' is based on the notion that there exist two

languages, one proper and one figured, and that consequentlv Rhetoric, in

its ;locutionary part, is a table of devialrons of language. Since Antiquity,the meta-rhetorical €xpressions which attesi to this belief are countless: ine/ocrtro (field of figures), \\ofis arc 'transpotted,' 'struled" 'deviated' frcfittheir normal, familiar habitat."'?r

Given such an understandine of figural language as divagation, it is nolsurprising that there should have arisen early on ahe possibility of seeing

in a particular trope, the metaphot the general form for all figural language'

especially if we accepi the Aristotelian definition of metaphor as the "appli-cation of an alien name by trunsference (epiphotd).":2 "Metaphorrr comes

frcm metaphorcin, to transfer or lranspo . What b€tter word to denote

the transport of meaning than a word whose mod€rn Creek equivalent'metoforu, .onilmonly rcfers to vehicles of public transport, such as buses?

INTRODUCIION iii

But if the concept of metaphor can be used to effect an economical reduction

of tropological difference-that is, if metaphor is to become the prcre,'name for every figural impropriety-it can only attain that status meta-phorically, by transporting th€ concept of transportation to that of the

text-such a transportation taking place nonetheless within a text and as

a text. Tlavel then becomes the metaphor of metaphor while the structure

of the metaphor becomes the metaphor for the travel of meaning.':r Andif, as we have se€n in our analysis of travel, the identity of the home is

breached by the very movement that constitutes it, are w€ not entitled toask if tbe metaphorcin of meaning does not have similar consequences forthe notion of prcper meaning? In his commentary on Aristotle's definitionof metaphor, Jacques Derrida suggests just such an eventuality:

lMdraplorl risks disrupting the semantic plenitude to which itshould belong. Marking the moment of the turn or of the detour

Idu tout ou d, ddloutj during which meaning might seem toventure forth Is'aventurctT alone, unloosed from the very thing itaims at however, from the truth which altunes it to its referent,metaphor also opens the wandering Lerrancet of the semantic. Thes€nse of a noun, instead of designating the thing which the nounhabitually must designate, carries itself elsewhere Ise poie ailleutsl.If I say that the evening is the old age of the day, or that old age

is the evening of life, "the evening," although having the same

sense, will no longer designaie th€ sam€ things. By virtue of itspower of metaphoric displacement lddplacementl, signification willbe in a kind of state of availabilily, between the nonmeaningpreceding language (which has a meaning) and the truth oflanguage which would say the thing such as it is in itself, in act,properly. This trurh is not certain.zr

Both the homelin€ss of meaning and meaningfulness of the home can onlybe constituteal at ihe risk of an infinite detour.

In the view of this slippery path leading one back and forth between

text and travel, it is my suspicion that what might otherwise b€ constru€das idle statements on travel in a writer's discourse allow on the contraryfor the elaboration of a critical discoume of considerable force. And inlight of the congruencies between the pmblems of travel, textuality, and

critical thinking, the following study aims to discern the role played by themotif of travel in the economy of critical discourse. lt is appropriate thatthis study should tak€ place on the terrain of early modern French thought,since in that historical periodthere occurs a remarkable conjunction betweenthe vogue of exoticism and imaginary voyages, on the one hand, and thephilosophical trends of skepticism, relativism, and libertinace, on the other.

INTRODUqTION

It might well be argued, at this point, that such an analysis would bein no way historical. The figure of travel is so generally implicated inWestern metaphysics that it becomes difficult to grant any kind of historicalspecificity to the texts or analyses that appropriate thar figure. The decon-structive potential of the voyag€ would be lodged in rhat figure irself andnot in any particular or historical uses of it. Just as the privileging of voiceover writing could be said, after Derrida, to define the epochZ ol logo-centrism in the West, so the privileging of the oi&os in rhe economy oftravel not unsurprisingly und€rpins the ethnoc€ntrism and imperialism tharhave consistently marked W€st€rn thought even in irs best efforrs ro "com-prehend" the other.,8 In fact, th€ very use ofthe terms ..same" and ..other,"

drawn as th€y are from Hegelian dialectics, with irs systematic reduction-"sublation"-of differences in the progressive development of th€ subjecrof absolut€ knowledge, reinforces rhe problem whenever nonwhites, non-males, or non-Europeans are designated as "others," a designation thatpresupposes th€ poina of view of the white, the male, the European. Theformer are, of course, no more (or l€st "other" to themselves than thelatter are "self-same,"

Another, perhaps less immediately obvious, centrism is also at work inthe economy of travel: the phallocentrism wh€reby the "law of the home"(oikonomia\ organiz€s a s€t of gender determinaiions. One need go nofurther than the prototypical travel narrative thar is the Odlsse/ ro find amodeling ol lhe.e\ual division of labor: rhe domeviilaredl woman.Penelope, maintains the property of the home againsr would-be usurperswhile her husband wanders about. Away from home, the latter encounters"other" women, who remair, at least for him, alluring and/or menacing,seductive and/or castmting. The call of the Sirens is a dangerous pleasur€only for the sailor not securely lashed to the iixity of his phallic shipmastor whose ears are not made deaf to the cry of women. From the perspectiveof such a gender€d topography, it is not hard to read the unpredictablepleasure/anxiety of trav€l in terms of a male eros both attracted andrepulsed by sexual difference. Wh€n travel is not explicitly invested witheros such as in the male fantasy production of exotic/erotic enchantedislands such as those of Circe, Cyth€ra, or Tahiti (populated by eagerlywilling but fatally attractive womer), desire is displaced onro the land itself("virgin" territories to be conquered, "dark continents" to b€ €xplored) oronto the very means of transportation: the at once womblike and phallicenclosures of boat, plane, train, or carriage that allow the explorer to"penetrate" the landscape. At the same time, such vehicles fosrer mal€bonding to the exclusion of women, srereotypically left at home or soughtaiter as objects abroad.,, And while there is nothing inherendy or essentiallymasculine about travel (women have most ceriainly traveled as well as

So if ever the motif of travel inhabited the criticd spitit or espfit ctitique,it would have been in the classical age.1r

In exploring, then, the articulation of the discours€ on travel with the

critical tradition leading up through the prrTosoprer, I find that a wdtertsustained recourse to the ligure of trav€l inevitably points to underlyine

conc€rns with the status of his position, vis-a-vis his own theories as wellas in relation to earlier thinkers. Rather than att€mpt, howev€r, a full-blownhistorical study of the relation between exoticism and the rise of Frenchfree thought,':6 the following study implements a rhetorical or textualapproach in order to test the strength of the relationship between theoryand travel in the discourse of particular writers of the Classical era. In

\order ro see how lar one could pursue an analysis of rheir qrirings b)lollowing the roure indicated by their use ol lhe lolage motif. I have

accordingly chosen philosophical writers who also traveled as well as wrot€on travel: Montaigne, Descartes, Montesquieu, and Rousseau. Needless tosay, the choice of such a corpus is arbitrary to the extent that the problemunder consideration extends well beyond the area circumscribed by theseparticular writers. On the other hand, the names of these writers have beentraditionally associat€d with the notion of iravel (Montaign€ has even beenchristened by one critic the "first tourist":?) as well as the related issues

of exoticism and philosophical relativism. As such, their names denoteparticularly sirong or emblematic moments in the development of prerev-olutionary French thought. I have limited myself, then, to a set of €xt€ndedreadings based upon what each writer says about travel (whether explicitlyin the form of travelogues or implicitly in tbe travel metaphorc used intheir nominally philosophical writingo. And if the theme of (ravel is com-monly accepted io be at work in all these wdters, my reading intends tocorroborate another kind of filiation that binds them together at the levelol what we can call their textual production. In each case, traits linked bythe writer to travel trigger an associative chain that inevilably leads toconcerns fundamental to the wdting of the text itself, to ihe €conomy ofits discourse, and to its authorial propri€ty. Hence, the writert discourseon travel is found ir each case to allow for the elaboration of a powerfulmetadiscourse opening onto the d€construction of the writ€r's claims to acertaln prcpertt (of his home, of his body, of his to\i, of his name). Forif the property of th€ home is put in doubt by the voyage as lhe propernessof meaning is by the figurality of discours€, it should not be too surprisingto find that what is at stake in rhe discourse of our writers is that mostfundamental of all properiies, the property or prop€rness of the propername, a name whose properness becomes suspect the moment its signatureis stamped with the sign of the voyage.

INTNODUCTION

written about travel),3o Wesiern ideas about trav€l and the concomitantcorpus of voyage literature have g€nerally-if not characteristically -trans-mitted, inculcated, and reinforced patriarchal values and ideology from onemale generation to the next, whether by journeying conceived as the riteof passage to manhood or by the pedagogical genderization of children\literlrture wbgreby little boys are led lo tead Robinson Crusoe, rhe rovelsof Kipling and Verne, or lhat modern corollary of advenrure literature,science fiction. As such, the discoume of travel typically funcrions, to useT€resa de Lauretis\ term, as a "technology of gender," a ser of ,,techniques

and discursive strategies" by which gender is constructed.3,The workings of such a technology can be found, for example, in Melanie

\Ilein\ psychoanalysis of the case oflitdeFritz, a young child whose attitudetoward motion, as exemplified by his daily walk ro school, vacillates betweenpleasure and anxiety. Not unsurprisingly, Klein finds at the core of rhisaffective dilemma the castration anxiery of an unresolved Oedipus complex,wherein the boy's pleasure in morion, sense of orienlation, and, moregenerally, his interest in learning are inhibited or motivated by the degreeto which the "sexual-symbolic" determinant of these activities as coituswith the mother are r€pressed. Situated at rhe home, as what can be lostor regained by the daily excursion to that institutionalizing locus of parernallaw that is the school, srands the morher. And, as if to underscorc thephallic dimension of the road ro school, the child,s anxiety is especiallyevoked by its being lined with large and menacing trees. Interestingly, thelifting of the repression and rhe reconversior of anxiely into pleasure aremarked by the apparently simultaneous sexualization of rhe ropography asmaternal body and of the mother's body as a fantasmaric landscape whosevarious "entrances and exits" elicit in the child a desire for ,.exploration.,'r,

To the extent, then, thar little Fritz is caught between a good and a badeconomics of travel, Kl€in's analysis rhus provides a psychoanalytic recon,firmation of our own initial insights regarding the economy of travel evenas it further elaborates the gender paradigms of th€ journey in the Westernmale unconscious. That Oedipal narratives of farhers and sons shouldaccordingly emerge repeaiedly throueh rhe discourse oI1 travel in the textsof the male philosophers analyzed in this study obviously points l€ss totheir escape from than to their enrrenchment within phallocentrism, andtherefore to another limit on ih€ crirical possibilities of their discourse. Onthe other hand, such a conjunction berween rravel and phallocenrrism alsoreveals a motif that invites a rereading of these rexrs from more explicitlypolitical, psychoanalytical, or feminist points of view: the disruptive lim-inality women are represenred as occupying in such texts. The analysis oftravel in the writers srudied here is inrended to prepare the ground for such

And here it does seem pertinent to reintroduce a certain historicism intomy reading of the problem of travel. There is a particular force to such an

analysis wh€n it is carried out in the context of French Classical thought.A deconstructive opportunity is provided by that era's strong.and insistentrepreseniation of the think€r as tl4t'-e-!g! concr€tized in such literaiy st€-

reotypes as the prtaro, the knight errant, and the prudent navigator, ormore abstractly in the Baroque theme of the iomo viatoirr Such represen-tations, as well as the desacralization of the traditional Christian image ofthe path to salvation (typified in the notion of pilgdmage), themselves takeplace within the postmedieval crisis of f€udal soci€ty, whose institutions,among other things, situate the lord's name as the name of his home, Itis in the early modern texts of Montaigne, Descartes, Montesquieu, andRousseau that we are told the manifold cons€qu€nces of setting adrift the

.!-- sisnifying relations that define where one is, who one is, or what is one's_ own. The so-called age of discovery (roughly spanning the fourt€enththrough ninete€nth centuries) is also the €ra during which "economics"itself is discovered by European society and formulated progressively intoa discernible obj€ct of knowl€dg€ and discipline of thought. The "scienc€of wealth" was one that developed by discontinuous reactions to unprec-edented and unsettling phenomena such as rapid inflation and suddendevaluation. Only through successive critiques of political economy does

there eventually occur (after mercantilist theory, after Colbert, Law,Montesquieu and the Physiocrats, after Smith, Ricardo, and Marx) a theoryof the production of value thal is abstracted frcm its simple repr€sentamen(money, precious metals) and that is able to explain the unexpectedly dis-astrous effects of the mer€ accumDlation of precious metals, effects made

manifest by Spain's ruinous importation ofvast quantities of gold and silverfrom its American empire.ra

Concomitant \rith the initial period of European €xploration and expan-sionism is the development and r€finement of the new printing technology,which enabl€d both vast new liquidities through the inv€ntion of printedpaper money and the commodification of knowledge itself in the form ofthe printed book. As has been amply demonstrated elsewhere, this newphase of t€xtual objectification triggered an eltirely new set of probl€msrelalive to the property (as w€ll as propriety) of the book, notably the issue

of author's rights and privileges.rs ln the last two decades and in the wakeof even newer technologies ofsymbolic reproduction, it has been fashionableto speak ofthe death ofthe author, but this very notion of writerly authoritythat links name and t€xt in an author's signature and whose wake we row

thoroughgoing critiques of the institutional roles and complicities assumed

INTRODUCT!ON

celebrate is one bom and circulated during an age that dislodaed the bondbetween name and land.36

Another,kind of name aggressively figures in preindustrial Europ€, thepatemal surname! whose instance points to a distinct inflection within thehistory of Westem patriarchy. If the aristocrat's name is his title (to a pieceof land), the prototypical bourgeois surname designates the farher as such,whether it be in terms of his trade, physical appearance, or place of origin.The sumame linguistically consolidates a family unit headed by a father,the king ofthis diminutive body politic, just as the king in post-Renaissancepolitical thinking is characteristically designated as the father of thatextended family which is the nation.rr Concomitant with the new, publicrole played by the father was the increased privarization of women's world,\ihat Sarah Kofman (in a transparent allusion ro Foucault,s ,,great con-finement lgrand rcnfemementl" of madmen in the seventeenth century)calls the "great immurement lgrand enfememerrl" of wom€n carried ourin the Classical era.ri The same age that saw the birth of nation-srates andthal sent men scouring the four ends of the earth atso shut women upwithin the home, a historicai coincidence perhaps but one that legirimatedthe gendered topography of the male imaginary in the very organizarionof daily life. The birth of the modern family, marked by the patrilineariryof the surname, and reproduced on the macropolitical level by the con-solidation of the "fath€rland" under the royal paternalism of absoluiemonarchy, sustained the economics of the home as an ideological comple"\at a time when the traditional relation to land, concretized in rhe feudalinstitution ofth€ fief, underwent a slow but seismic upheaval. That domesticeconomy headed by an unyielding parerfamilias and typified by rhe pro-ductive mode of cottaAe industry casrs an imporlant historical bridgebetween manor and factory, berween feudal and capiralist worksites.

Within this context of a fundamental dislocation of property relations,a dislocation affecting almost everything rhat can be comprehended withinthe figure of the ortor or home, it does nor seem sufficienr to limit ananalysis of the travel motif in early modern French philosophical literatureto the mere unveiling of rhe obvious (mis)representations of cultural otherssuch as Montaign€'s cannibals, Lahonran's ..good savage,,, Montesquieu'sPersians, or Diderot's Pacifi€ Islanders. While rhe critical analysis of such(mis)representations is of crucial import to any undersranding of rhe ide-ological self-justification for European expansion as w€ll as of the oftensuspect development of the discipline of anthropology,se the enrire discourseof travel in these writers can be seen to thematize a fundamental economicanxiety in the widest sense of the word .,economic,', an anxiety whoserepression is coincident with modern forms ofsubjectivity: selfhood, author-ship, patriarchy, proprierorship. So not only are their texts particularly

available to a reading of th€ir preoccupation with travel as indicative ofsome larger anxiety, but that reading, g€nerallv applicable as it may be, is

also precisely what leads us to account for the specificity of these texts. In

each case and in each chapter of this study, the same problems and anxieties

are traced in a way specific to the text under consideration. Each time, anew point of departure leads to a different point of arrival, although the

steps along the way indicate the existence of a set of associations and

assumptions common to all the writers studied, a set that, at least in the

limit€d context of this study, sketches a tale ol the history of Fr€nch

philosophical wdting as a continual rewiting and retraveling of the text

of Montaigne. The belated discovery, in l7?4, of the latter's journal of his

trip to ttaly historically closes the period under study here even as the

writing of that travelogue pinpoints its beginning. And, as if to underscore

this Montaignian frame, it is by citing from the Estals that de Jaucourt

closes the Encyclopddie article, "Voyage," with which I chose to begin these

introductory r€marks:

The main thing, as Montaigne says, is not "to measure how manyfeet there are in th€ Santa Rotonda, and how much the face ofNero on some old ruins is bigger than it is on some medallions;but what is important is to rub and polish your brains by contactwith those of others." It is here above all that you have anoccasion to compar€ ancient and modem times, "and to fix yourmind upon those great changes that have made each age so

different from every other, and the cities of this beautiful countryUtalyl, once so populated, now desert€d and seeming to subsistonly to mark the places wher€ those powerful cities, of whichhistory has said so much, were."{

The above passage from the EncycbpAalie also demarcates a geographical

limit that doubles the historical frame of this book: all four of the writ€rs

studi€d here traveled to ltaly, and their relation to Italian (especially Roman)

culture is particularly charged with intellectual and €motional energy. Averitable subgenre of European travel narrative, the voyage to ltaly enjoys

an exemplary status among travelogues, as it does in de Jaucourt's text.

Not only do€s it appear as the first example given of a voyage ("One makes

the voyale to ltaly") but the articlet close rcinforces Italy's prestige as a

prime locus of historical, a€sthetic, and moral reflection as well as the

stereotypical place to finish ofi a young g€ntleman's education. The early

modem and secular equivalent of the medieval pilgrimage to Jerusalem,

the voyage to Italy was a cultural institution that accredited transalpin€

travelers (typically but not exclusiv€ly from England, France, and G€rmany)whh a knowledge both exotic and familiar. No longer the religious,

economic, or artistic center of Europ€, post-Renaissance ltalv became the

INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTTON

continenr\ inrernal,jtller. a place where Norrherners could come ro gawkal the e\ ideiiiE;f Rooun decline. and rhus leel smug in Lhe superioriryof their nationalities, and could acquirc th€ cultural sensibility to assumepositions of power at home. Whence their delight in the spectacle of ltaliandecadence, a traveler's commonplace passing itself off as a bit of histodcalwisdom, as in the passage de Jaucourt attributes to Montaigne. Acquiringsone blt of the impefium Italy had lost, these travelers drew a high revenuefrom the relatively low-risk excursion to the peninsula, and with rarely anyother experience abroad these same trav€lers returned home to help for-mulate their countri€s' political and cultural responses to the discovety ofvast new lands, peoples, and cultures beyond the confines of Europe.Mbntaigne never visited the America he describes, nor Montesquieu persia,nor Rousseau Oceania, yet their writings are of obvious significance in thehistory of European colonialism. Critics of the later typically fail to drawthe relations betw€en these texts and their authors' exp€riences in ltaly, aswell as their powerful fantasy investments in that country as a privilegedexotic locale. Countless more French travelers made the trip to Italy thanever set foot outside Europe. By insisring on the dialectics of the relationbetween home and abroad in the texts I analyze, I hope to rcsituat€ someol Lhe gilens in our undersranding of European expansionism.

Finally, my reading of theor€tical or philosophical rexts through rhe playof a certain figure or motif-that of rravel-raises rhe question of the statusof those texts as literature. This is especially the case when the figure inquestion is on€ that not only permeares the history of lirerature but caneven be construed as fundamentally characr€ristic of literary discourse. Thisbook can be read then as an embarkation upon a poetics of philosophicalor theoretical writing.

As the very drift of rhese r€marks should demonsrrate, it is difficult tosaay in one place when mediraring on the issue of lravel. To talk abouttravel is inevitably to engage in ir, to mime through the movement of one,swords tiat which one is trying to designate with thos€ words. Discourseon travel is thus inexorably coniaminated by its obj€cr. Ir is not sufficienr,however, to conclude that a rigorous analysis of travel is a fundamentalimpossibility. Rarhet ir should be acknowledged that the voyage (even whenit appears to be well r€strained wirhin rhe limits of an ,,economy," or evenwhen it is but an object of conremplation) has a powerful ability ro distodgethe framework in which it is placed or understood, ro subject it to criticaldisplacement-although rhat displacement is nor always to where oneexpects, nor is irs criticism nec€ssarily whar one expecrs to find. The voyage,in other words, always rakes us somewher€. The following study can aisobe read as an advenrure to see what some of those ,,somewheres" mishrlook like.

Chapter IEquestrian Montaigne

We con'l alfotd to lake the horce out of Monraigne'sEssays.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Montaigne's Journal de rq)age e ltalie opens with a wound, or perhapswith a couple of wounds, namely those suffer€d by an unnamed count inthe liminary episode of the journal and those suffered by the "Ior,,ral itself,given that the first page or pages of the manuscript have been lost. we aretold in the lext that the count's wounds "were not mortal."r lt remains tobe seen what we are 10 make of those suffered by the text.

Thanks to them, we find ourselves as readers of Montaigne's Jorrrdlaheady en route, specifically at Beaumoni-sur-Oise and not at Montaigne,ihe presumed point of departure. But even if we could retrieve the missingpages, there is no reason to believe that the writing of the journal beginswith th€ beginning of the journey. We know from other sources that afterleaving his home on June 22, 1580, Montaigne went to Paris to presentHenri III with a copy of the just-published first edition of the Er.ra],J. Hethen took part at the king's requ€st in the siege of HuguenoFheld La Farebefore continuing on in the dir€ction of Italy via Basel, Augsburg, andInnsbruck.'1 Barring the discovery of the missing page(s), there remains,howevet no way to be sure exacdy wh€n and where Montaigne began tohave a journal kepr. The writing could have begun jusi as easily at LaFare, or in Paris, or anywhere in betwe€n, as at Monraigne.

Now, if I se€m to belabor this accident suffered by the manuscript, itis because-accident as it is-it non€theless points to a necessity inherentin any travel narrative, namely that such narratives are always fragmentary.A voyage has always already begun; its startitg point can only be d€cidad

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

no earlier than 1579, a few months before the publication of the ts.ralsand the departure for Italy.a The essay is framed by its opening critiqueof contemporary cosmographers, such as Andr6 Thevet, whose descriptionsof foreign lands are said to contain more fiction than fact; and by theclosing anecdote of Montaigne's conv€rsation with the Tupinamba tndianshe met in Rou€n, the directness of which is marred by the mediation ofan incompetent translator: "I had ar interpreter who followed my m€aningso badly, and who was so hindered by his srDpidiry in raking my ideas,that I could ge( hardly any satisfaction from rhe man" (I, xrlxi, 214). Theinterpreter's poor performance of his oral crafr srands in conrrasr wirh theidealiz€d orality of the Brazilians, whos€ designation as "cannibals" fore-grounds the issue of what is appropriat€ for incorporation. Not only doestheir poetry bespeak an eloquence that is "altogether Anacreontic" buttheir anthropophagic practices remain strictly limited by a rirualisric frame-work that underscores personal honor and respect for one's ancestors. Suchbuccal propriety appears far less barbarous than the butchery or "bouch-ede" carried out between "civilized" Europeans in rheir contemporaryreligious wars: "I think therc is more barbarity in eating a man alive rhanin eating him dead; and in tearing by tortures and rhe rack a body stillfull of feeling, in roasting a man bit by bir, in having him bitten andmangled by dogs and swine (as we have not only read bur seen wirhin fr€shmemory, not among ancient enemies, but among neiehbors and fellowcitizens, and what is wome, on the pretext of piery and religion), rhan inroastins and eaiing him after he is dead" (I, xxxi, 209). If erhnocentrismcomes down here to a difference of taste ("each man calls barbarism whaFever is not his own practice,rr I, xxxi, 205), European savagery or "ourcorrupted tast€" (1, xxxi, 205) can be defined in terms of an indigestionthat stems from overindulgence: "We have eyes bigger than our stomachsand more curiosity than capacity. We embrace everything, but we clasponly wind" (I, xxxi, 203). The Am€rindians interviewed by Monraigne arRouen are shocked to discover in France "that there were among us menfull and gorged lpleins et goryezl with all sorts of good things, and thattheir other halves were beggars at their doors, emaciated with hungerIdacharnez de faim) and poverty" (I, xxxi, 214). The exploirarion of oneclass by another appears as a cannibalism in disguise that eats not the deadbut the living. European injustice as perv€rse digesrion can also be readalong the essay's geographical code, where colonialism is allegorized asregurgitation: "ln M6doc, alongthe seashore, my brother, rhe sieur d'Arsac,can see an estate of his buri€d under the sands that the sea vomits [vontl4before itself. . . . The inhabitants say rhat for some time the sea has beenpushing toward them so hard that they have losr four leaguesrof land.These sands are ils harbingers [/orr.ie,"sl; and we see sreat dunes fmortb,?r]

upon arbitrarity and after th€ fact. Even were it intact, Montaign€t joumal'

insofar as it is an account of his trip, could only begin a/ler he had set

out. Montaigne's voyage begins in a radical discontinuity, one doubly

marked by the accidental mutilation of the manuscript. lt is th€ possibility

of such a discontinuity (accidental or noo that puts into question the v€ry

idea of marking the beginning of a voyage, of inscribing it to contain it'On the other hand, the happy coincidence by which the mutilation of the

manuscript makes the text begin precisely with the storv of the count's

wounals tells us not onlv that th€se wounds "were not mortal" but that

they are the very condition for the narrative\ life. lt is only because a cut

has been maale (here o( els€where, it matters little) that the story can begirri

that there can be acorpus ofwriting. It is under the sign ofsuch abeneficent

wound that Monlaigne\ discoruse on travel will take place-and will take

place in a persistent relation with a discours€ on the body

A wound, though, even if construed as salutary, implies a c€rtain loss

of property: of the blood of one's bodv, for instance' or the (at l€ast

provisional) loss of one's home, which inaugurates the travel narrativ€'

Another kind of properly is also at stake in the Joumal, that ol a]Jlhotial

prcpriety, for about half of this text att buted to Montaigne is not written

by him but by an anonymous scribe ("one of my men" says Montaign€;

p. lll). This scribe refers to his master, Montaigne, in the third person,

as in the opening words of the manuscript in its current, tatter€d condition:

"M. de Montaigne." In February, 1581, about midway through Montaigne's

first of two stays in Rome, the scrib€ is mysteriously given his teave (p'

lll). No explanation is offered as to why this leave was granted, as 10

whether the scribe left willingly or unwillingly, or whether he had somehow

displeased his lord, Montaigne. Noting that the work is "quite advanced"'

the latter simply stat€s the necessity of his taking over the writing of ithimself. To the extent ihat Montaigne does noi simply hire a new scribe

the way one would change hors€s on a long.iourney such as his, and insists

that "whatever trouble it mav be to m€, I must continue [the writing]

myself" (p. 111), one is led to ask whether the sudden' uno(plained appro-

priation of the scriptural task do€s no1 point to a desire in Montaigne to

appropriate as his own this discourse that speaks of him' and that is "sofar advanced" as to constitut€ a separate work on him, a separate work

capable therefore of rivaling his own tssdls. Such a separate work would

be separated from him and therefore would not be "consubstantial withits author"r ls it a qu€stion of cutting off his servant's words at the moment

they threaten to cut his own words off from themselves, that is, off fromhimself?

A manifest impatience with linguistic mediators is alreadv evidenced inMontaigne's most celebrated essay on exoticism, "of Cannibals," written

4 EQUESTRAN MONTAICNE

of moling sand thal march hall a league ahead of it and keep conq ering

i*l'ir",?,"i'li;;g rr' r\\i' 204r' rhe imperialisr advance' or rhe ocean'

ii- ,ii" i*"ar"' conoui\tadols reprerent an approprialion lhar i' nor a

llli"ii .".. .l'iie"i,r* bur a Irulv di(g*Ii'a anrhropemv rhat threarens

i"'T""ri"." ,* rerv boal ol rhe $orld in a pa\lage rhar can be read in

il,i;';;i,;.; runa toii.' or bodies poliric: rleem' rhar rhere are

;';i";.;,.: ;;;.",".a1. orhers f€veri(h' in rhe'e s'|€ar bodier lcs( 8r4'd5

ll"'"1i,*i^ r" oul orn. \ hen l consider the inroad' thar m) river' the.*:j:"'::' ,. ;;.';; t"rnr lirerime inro rhe right bank in irs de\cenr' and

I'Jl"i'i '*".,' ".",i r' ha. gained 'o much ground and nolen aqav rhe

';;i";';;;: if";;;.",'l or 'everar buirdines' I crearrv see IhaI rhi' is an

"i'.,".;i'^.t aiorts""ce; lor ii ir had al$av' gone at rhi5 rare' oI qas ro

i."'* I" ti.'ft"t". '1"

lace ol rhe uorld qould be Lurned lopslrurv\ [14

7"-,i) )', ^i,a" rn., t? wrsael" tt rxi\i 204r' whrle rhrr la'( pa*ag€

"i::';#;;i;';; ijis.tti'on ot tt'' Es-us rh".i': *:rr 1'l:l'l.' i1l:l:

;;t;;;'.. ltal). it also conrinuer ro make explicjr Ihe rnrer'ecrroni rn

in".,^f"".'' wriling bet$een rralel lhe e\olic and corporeal propriery lo

"rl.'..?,'.,t'. ",ri*r.t I'eeping rhe bodv uplighr' unscarhed' and prop

.rl! delimited.' l, *. i.".4.' no$ rhe nruarion ol Montaigne s travelogue qiLhin the

"fr.".f"tt'"1 ttit *"tt, we find that the voyage to Italv cuts the writin^g

ii'il'""i"?i,yr-r"i. *" periodsi namelv, the first period from 1571 to 1580'

i".'"1 "

r.].rt time Montaigne wrote rhe primiri\e venion ol rhe ftr't I$o

i..i].r iil i.,,rt ,"r,ar-Montaiene crirrc' rradirronallv rerer ro as rhe '."",".i, "ti ,* *-"d period leadins up to rhe publication in 1588 oi

,i.'tnir,i i""* a*t *,it' nurnt'o" addltion' to rhe lir'r tqo {rhe b

l'',"'-i r, ;i '" ,erm' ol rhis cap occasioned b\ Monlaisne s \ovage thar

;' ;:#':;;'*; '' M;"i"ie". i'iii'r''n ha' 'een an opporrunirv ro e\prain

ih::i;;;rs:';; e*r,i." .r rhe F(ra'vj An opposirion I' rhereb)

".rrteii?i**" ir,. l58o Lcrarr and Ihe t588 L"''vs wirh rhe latrer con-

il.d ";;;t i'h.';perior bur al'o rhe linali/ed \er\ion or \4onraisne\

.;"1"..," t'." rhal al'o dimini(he' or belillles lhe importanlr of Lhe

iri1.""."' Jai'i."' included b) \4onrarsne on Ihe "Bordeau\" cop\' or

. 'rtarum) According ro this schema rhe eatlier e'\avr ale \een a\ urF

".i";""r:: ""a impei,onal compared ro rhe orisinalir\" and "penon-

"ir,""::], '1.'"e'-l'".'" the rovage ro lral) rhen become'responsible at

i."i r" t",i '., inr' '''rking

ruin in Monraigne ( Y't .t" hi: lhiTl:ization." The \o)age can rhen become rhe melaphor Ih'ougn wnrcn rs

"?""i u.*"1*". ' opu' a' a qhole: hi' 'long medirarive journev ' a'

ir" "."r. ""i'

i,: l r,l cur in rhe wrirel s producuon occasioned. b) rhe

".""* ,ft* becom€s the beneficent wound that would defin€ the verv

essence of his corp s

The main problem with such an interpretation is not so much that it is

wrong but that it does not cut far enough. At the same time, it attribulesxo the voyage a value of presence. Montaigne\ voyage would be what takeshim away from his tower and his writing to brins him back enriched withexperience in the "real" world. While I certainly do not wish to quarrelwith the well-documented fact that the observations made by Montaign€in his journal serve as material for his later writine and rewriting of theEssaJ.r,3 one of the points I hope to make in the following pages is that asimilar logic is at work in both Montaigne's travels and his retreats to thetower, in both his voyaging and his writing, and in both the early and ih€late tssa/J (I view the latter, th€n, less in opposition to the early E salsthan as what renders explicit ihe problems already posed in the €arly work).What Montaien€ brings back from his travels may be what led him awayin th€ first place.

Montaigne never published-and probably never intended to publishhis Joumal de yolage. The Jounal was not published until its accidentaldiscovery nearly two c€nturies later, unless one consid€rs it to have beenby dint of its influence on the later E"ffd.l,s. lndeed, enrire passag€s fromthe "/ounal are textually reproduced in rhe,gssols. The Jownal de.rotagecan be said to be both inside and outside rhe text of the E'rsc/s to rheextent that much of what is said in the Jorzal finds its way into the Ersdlswhile the Jorrndl as a whole is to be distinsuished from Montaigne's majorwork. In the familiar ierms of Derridean deconstrucrion, the Joumalappears th€n as a "supplemenf' to th€ Essdl.s, an excrescence that is bothvital and superfluous to it.q But this is to assume rhat the tssal.r itself canbe considered to constitute a complete work, a notion impugned by thevery structure of the E sals built as it is on the practice of a ceaselesscommentary only ended by Montaigne's d€ath, and any part of which isindecidably essential and inessential. The E]ssdls is built on a mass ofexcrescences, on the text as excrescence, a growth that can be cut offanywhere and nowherc.ro Such a situation makes it difficult to know whatto consider as in or out of th€ text, and accordingly demands a rethinkingof the category of travel, which normally rests on the assumption that onecan decide betw€en what is inside and outside-of the text, of the home,ofthe body. And ifii is the cut ofacertain rrip thar defines rhe Montaigniancorpus, the effects of that cut should be legible in the text whose inauguralscars led us to question the status of wriring and rravel in MontaiAne, thehavel journal of his trip to ltaly. A preliminary descriprion of that joumalin terms of its endpoints, the topography traversed, and the foregrofndedmodalities of displacement should set our bearings on the symbolic functionof travel within the tssars itsetf.

4.

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

Circulating in ltalli Ttavel lourndl

The destination of this voyage is Italy (reached by way of Swiizerland and

cermany). Italy, however, is no ordinary spot on the map in the context

of French literature. Rather it is the destination p at *cellence. Any attemptto constfuct a list of French travelefs to Italy would be tantamount tocompiling a who's who of French writing. In the sixteenth century, a con_

siderable number of writers besides Montaigne mad€ their way to the pen_

insula, among them Erasmus, Rabelais, Marot, Calvin, Joachim du Bellay,

Montluc, Brant6me, and Henri Estienne. A few of the mosi prominentFrench writ€rs after Montaigne to make the journey were Descartes, Mon-tesquieu, De Brosses, Rousseau, Sade, Chateaubriand, Stendhal, N€rval,Taine, Zola, Cid€, Proust, Butor.Lr To study Montaigne's travel in thiscontext would require a study well beyond ihe scope of this one to discern

the significance ltaly holds for French culture in general, and for that ofRenaissance France in particular.

A few remarks might be ventured, however, for the current purpos€. To

the €xtent that French culture is not only the younger of the two but the

one ihat finds its mythical and historical origins in the othet one can detect

in the French a desire to appropriate ltaly and to make that other culturetheir own. This desire can.just as easily take the positive form of what

Roland Barth€s has called an "ilLJ€lred racisd'r: as that of military con-quest (repeatedly attempted from medieval times through Napoleon III)The ambiguity of this desire is demonstrated, for instance, in the article

"Voy^ge" of t]lle Encyclopddie. TtHe, what begins as a description of aFrench traveler\ first view of ltaly evokes and then swiftly gives way to along development on Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon. After this conden-

sation of tourist and conqueror, the article ends by citing a long passage

from none other than Montaigne on the educational value of travel toItaly.,3 And if Montaignet visit to ltaly may be seen, therefore, to be

€xemplary of such voyages, it is not mer€ly because he obliges so manv

after him to follow his footsteps. There is also found in Montaigne botha great lover of ltaly (a "reverse racist" driven to seek and obtain Roman

citizenship) and a writer whose work was judged even by some contem-poraries to be on a par wiih that of the ancient Latin writers. EtiennePasquier called him "another Seneca."r4 Montaigne's name can be linkedthen with a victory in the French battle for an autonomous lilerature ofequal stature wirh that of ltaly. Perhaps it is here that we are to find thegenesis of the unsubstantiated myth of Montaigne's trip to ltaly as a spy

mission for the French king, ever intent on conquering ltaly.i5 In any case,

Montaigne's joumey rakes place in rhe context of th€ Italian wars under-taken by Charles Vtll, Louis XII, and Frangois I, wars in which Mon-

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE

taigne's father took part.16 These wars eventually led to the massiveimportation of ltalian art and artists, the tradiiionally ascribed cause forthe spread of the Renaissance into France.r' The contemporaneous revivalof interest in antiquity brought about by the Humanists could be shownto display the same ambiguous attitude toward that antiquity as does Frarcetoward Italy: a mixture of lov€ and rivalry, both of which are express€din the desire to appropriare the Latin orher,i

Bearing in mind what we have said about travel to ltaly, let us turn nowto the way Montaigne proc€eds to travel in and describe that already over-determined landscape. The Jorr"ndl is punctuat€d and divided by the namesof places where Montaign€ stayed, and which are placed in the order ofhis itinerary. A typical entry includes, after the place name, the amountof distance traveled since th€ previous place name and some comment onthe locality's situation (what Montaigne calls its dsrlel/e, or site) in termsof its political allegiance as well as its topography (characteristicallydescribed in terms of the vertical difference betw€en plain, vallex andvarying levels of mountain heiaht): "CasrELNUovo, sixteen miles, a littlewalled village belonging to the house of Colonna, buried away among hillsImontaiqnetesl in a site lhat strongly reminded me of the fertile approachesto our Pyrenees on th€ Aigues-Caudes road" (p. 135). The travelogue as

narative eenre is anchor€d by what would seem to be the most steadfastreferentiality, that of the map. This ref€rential system, however, only func-tions as a grid to pinpoint another sel of references, which includes thehistorical facts, literary reminiscences, and other bits of rrivia by which'Montaigne grasps the topography he is traversing.', In other words, acomplex process of recognilion is set in motion such that the landscape heencounters is a significant one, one that signifies. The literal inscriptionsand monuments encountered by Montaigne only render explicit the semiosisimpli€d in the topography.

But if the topography turns out to be a sort of text, how then shall onecharactedze the activity of travel? At a certain moment, Montaigne seemsto lean toward the metaphor of reading: "He also said that he seemed tobe rather like people who are reading some very pleasing siory and therefor€begin to be afraid that soon it will come to an €nd, or any fine book; sohe took such pleasure in traveling that he hated to be nearing each placewhere he was to rest, and toyed with several plans for iraveling as hepleased, if he could get away alone" (p. 6J). Bur if to travel is to read thetext of a certain topography on the one hand, it is also to make certaininscriptions in that text on the other: ihe tracks left on the ground, forexample, by horse hooves or the "evidences of having been rhere" (p. 68)that Montaigne leaves behind him, such as rhe family coar of arms he haspainted at the baths he visits. The trail ofthe rraveler obliges us ro supersede

IT .l

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE 9

to disiinguish from "chez moy." For the sub.iect who occupies this place,

the mastery of one\ geography is impljed in the mast€ry of one's language,and vice versa. kr both cases, we are dealing with the circular structure ofa return to the same through th€ process of identificatio : identity of place,identity of name, id€ntity ol the subject. We will have occasion to returnto the implications of this identification of place with name ir our analysisof the tssals.

For th€ moment, we need to insist upon the fact that an identificationdoes noi go without saying. One can be mistaken about a name as well as

about a place. The reference can be lacking or be made with difficulty orremain doubtful. One cannot always be certain that the walls that surroundRome are in fact vestiges of the ancienr walls (Jorndl, p. 135). Moreovetth€ referent itself can have changed, as in the case of the ruins encounteredby Montaigne all along his route but especially at Rome: "An ancienlRoman could not recognize the site of his city even if he saw it" (p. 105).

The half-effaced inscriptions ard the monuments in ruin resist as much as

they encourage the act of reference. The ruin remains as an index of whatit once was at the same time that its very state as ruin blocks the fullrecovery and r€construction of that anterior siate. Even if one could recon-struct the monument, it could never b€ exactly the same as it once was.The inevitability of loss works against the hermeneutic appropriation wehave posited as the basis of the economy of lravel.

This loss denotes a fundamental alteration that at the limit rendersimpossibl€ any r€turn to th€ same and that alters the voyager as he proceedson his voyage. Such a conception is also to be found in Montaigne's text,especially in such anecdotes as that of th€ ltalian become more Turk thanItalian merely by spending too much time amons Turks (pp. 163 64) andthe story of the young girl transformed into a man after having made aleap (p. 5)2'-an act we can read as ihe ellipsis or ultimate abbreviation ofthe voyage. In these examples, we find an interpretation of travel as lossof that identity which should have been assured by the economy of ref-erential identif ication.

The precariousness of the economy of travel is €specially io be remarkedin Montaignet auiety about his "colic" aa the baths of Lucca. For hiscondition to improve and for the mineral warer to purge his body of kidneystones, the amount of mineral warer drunk must be exactly rendered in hisurine. Any imbalance between the rwo prompts a state of anxiery rhaidrives Montaigne to note down his ev€ry urination and ro check ir againsthis intake of mineral water. Nor rhar Montaigne is unaware of the comicalaspect of such an obsessive norarion: "Ir is a srupid habit ro recounr wharyou piss" (p. 165). It is noneiheless Monraigne,s very health thar is ar srakein the ingestion and elimination of a cerlain quantiry of a certain kind of

8 EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

'h. ^nnnsirion bet\r\een r€ading and wriLing and Io underrtand in iLs sLedd

; :#fi';';";;;;;a 'igns-a' much $rirren 2c read which modiries rhe

""*iJ' rt.*h as he modilie' the terrain in an endless dilferenLial posi-

l;;;;.;i .o.i.-.

;" i;tt"ire derour or rhe re\I and rhe re{r or an inrinile'j:::::;;'--

'. , nrntnecL embraced bv a Montaisne whose potential for

ii"iJ*r'. t.*'1t""r"i' prove' daunlins ro hh oqn scrrbe and lellow rrav-

ff;;:::;'';;i;i';';ih'"i ir von'i'u' a' Montaigne had been arone sith

iil u,t""i"",t rt. *otra rather have gone to Cracow or toward Creece bv

iiiJ'*- -"i" irl"'tu." toward ltalt; but the pleasure he took in visitins

;;#; ;;;;G' which he found so sweet as to make him forsel the

i,""ir"r, "i r'L

^t.j -a of his health, he could not impress on anv or his

""r.r. u"a .t*uo". a.hed only lo relurn home tp 65)'*''i: ;;;,"';;;; ;;',;r Ihis diirerenriar networr wrirren b) rhe rra\erer

".;;;;;,;.. ""eds to appeal to a c€rtain notion of referentialitv'

:"":',;;, ;;';;';i. ;;Jirirv or an idenriricarion-such a' Ihe rdenrirication

iili. .r'""i i. "

r,i.r' one linds oneselr' ro make an idenLirlins relerence'

lL.

"".'i'ii '.ti' "^. tli,rrion to another tbe ir onlv in rhe acr ol consuhing

]'-""i "...'ii"ti" "'r,ermeneurical schema thar brins! one term back ro

l': :iil:";;:i;;;; 'h"i;

,,..ne" tt''ouen he ai ot identirication rhi'lli Ji i.r.'".*. iir"t' iire unLnown baci ro the known' the srranse bacl

ii',i" r".u"..-tr" ,ip*nines near castelnuovo' as we saw' are understood

i" ,"..t .f ,rt. famiiiar French Pvr€nees Th€ referential act (that is' a

..ti"i" .n'*ot.,"in. *r) aims lo inrlirule a 'ignifving econorn) inlinir€lv

."puir" .' "pptopri",i"g

the orhel or the neq 5uch an economy rmplre\

it'i o".i,i* l,it"'i ,*^ a same. to uhich evervlhing and an)4hinscanbe

."i"i"a u"-"r. The vovage can then accumulate a certain capital (monev'-t"o*i"ag",

""p-i.*"' ind so on), a process that goes hand in hand with

"'i"-".i'it, i"ai'ra"^ristic, or anthropoc€ntric ideologv lt should not be

i"."'i.]"". ,r'.". i, -*.mporaneous q ir h rhe unfoldins ol ruch an ideologv

i;,:;;;;. i;;;t;;. se lind descrrprions or rand<capes in anrhropo

morohic lerm'. lor Renar$ance man concei\ed ol his posilion in the qolld

i;i"iJ;;';;;l;;;,i;; 'etur;on ue'".en him'etr and rhe universe rhar or

-l"ro"oa- "nO-u"ro"osm.- The voyage aims at such a speculation and

."*;i",.' ,;';;, ;;J, 'thi' s'ear world shich rome mulriplv rurrher ac

ilill'I"'. , '"""r- ""aer one genu'' i' the "i'o" in which we must look

ii "i,..ri.' -i '...*o. ouneiie' trorn rhe proper ansle" rl \\ri l5':

my emphasis).''''ri""."J "i,rr"

**rlarire vo)age i5 Ihe rerurn to rhe beginnine rolhe

t"#-itt" r.tr'"i.p.. naontaigne;s trip' as noted in his '/o'l'dl' is Mon-

;;;;,^il;; iav' ttre 6acJ that bears his name' or rather the place

fr; which he takes his name. The name' Montaigne' is as much tr4on-

iti*t"t-ot"p"i t"-" ".

it is the name of his prop€rtv "Mov" is difficult

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNEEQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

tioujd. a \irculation lhir aim\ al dome{icat:ng 5omelhrng inle'ior Io Mon_

;:];';l'-o*n body. Ihu',he need ro md\rel rhe circularion or an errerror

.i.ir.n,. nr..rv in. .i"eral '^

arer' e\rr' onlv in vie$ ol I he nced ro ma'rel

".-i"i"i"^i a,*"i""' the growth and movement of his slone Such a

f.tar"r,i", ft exceedinglv diliicult 10 master' He mav be able to drink as

,iu"fr *u,", ut ft" *unrt but he cannot so easily "make water'" Somewhere

i. tfr" .i."tr"i.t "f tt"se liquids, something radicallv unmasterable inter

"".* * " t.a of blockage that places this movement out of the control

of th€ subject, Montaigne."- ii"r" "i.""L.., *inomies of landmarks and bodv liquids shed light'

-....r"t. ." Montaiene's fascination with the fantastical hydraulic tech-

..f"a" ft" t""t in Augsbure, at ihe Praliolino, in Tivoli' and elsewhere'

ri;ir"i'".'ri t"r". ruirl rh;drearns of an ailing Montaigne than the closed

rtr*r*.f " fountain in and out of which circulat€s water withour loss

^ri ir

" o-i"" .otntorium; in other words, rhe figure of an absolute self-

"irci*ivi w" ""-. t ack to the desire for something propcr that would

eiuae tfr" it.u"tu.ut ne..ssjty of a lundam€ntal alienation But in the econ-

omies we have been analvrng (rhos€ of wriring, of travel ' oi the monum€n!'

Jiift" rtva-tLi"t "f,n. todv as well as ofrhe fountain)' the verv opposition

U.,\v"* ift. apparently contradictory terms of appropriation and disap-

pr.".i^ir".''.J'i,' . i put in question Montaigne lravels to improve his'heaittr tut the minerat walers seem !o aggravaie his condition as much as

,-i'"ialt.';,1" for the appropriation implied bv the wriiing of a journal

i" i"ri.L. ".a

l..p "

*cord oi events, that approprialion is further.subject

i. qi"tt;"., as we trave atreadv seen, bv an inrermediarv' a scribe who

,..-, u, ,i."t ,o l" *,iting under Montaign€t dictation and at other times

to be writing for himself:l* ii. pt"ti". oi an appropriation that is simultaneouslv a disappropria-

tioni, p..ttupt *orr a.u;ari;allv brought into reliefbv Montaiene's decision-

i. *.tti-" oi.t;". .r tne Journal ttt ltalian as lf to mime the progress of

itr" uoyug"-tv writing in ihe same language as that spoken in the area

ir*".*al Ir"t"", rt" .,urns 1o the Fr€nch languase upon crossing the Alps

l""t iri" e**" Il bv such a mimetic device he seeks to master ihe

t.a"et".ls .ltuarion, rtt" text noneiheless escapes all rhe more lrom his grasp

irt"i"r "t

u".oig." f trving to use a foreign languase which' as he himself

"r *"if ^ f,;t co;menlators have pointed out' he manipulaies wilh.con-

i".r"'tt" iirri'l,n- fthis problem is at once effaced and strangelv mimed

i' i" i.iurity ;n "ir

e*"ch ;dirions' which replace the halian text of Mon-

i"tt."'lt nf"t*f.t u. Ouerlon\ French lranslation, daiins liom the '/o'r-,d/'s first Publication in 1774.)'-

flnarly, anotrra fina of appropriatins devicc can be located in the means

"r i."*p.""ti..,

" p-ticular rn;de oi which mav be phantasmicallv priv

ileged by the individual trav€ler. Oppositions may be set up between dif-ferent ways to travel: a modem traveler may consider trains to be good,

safe, and pleasant while planes are bad, dangeroDs, and unpleasant, or vic€

versa. In other words, a certain vehicle of mastery may define the good oreconomical voyage, as opposed to lhe bad or risky one. ln a well-knownpassage near the beginning of "of coaches," Montaigne states his pref-erence for horce travel: "Now I cannot lorg endure (and I could endurethem less easily in my youth) either coach, or litler, or boat; and I hateany other transportation lhan horseback, both in town and in the country"(III, vi, 900). And once again, the discourse on travel comes under thesign of the body. According to Montaigne, coach or boat travel upsets hisstomach and aggravates his kidney stones while horseback riding actuallygives him relief (Essd/s lll, vi, 899 901 and III, xiii, 194; Joumal, p. 58).1s

The slrength of Montaigne\ feelirgs on the matter can be judged by hischoice, upon returning from Rome, io go to Milan by the more arduousland route of Pontremoli rather than by way of Genoa because the lafterwould require a sea journey (p.22'7). He does, however, agree to take abarge into Venice, "since the boat is drawr by horses" (p. 73). What is tobe feared in the boat is the motion of water (p. 73), for if Montaigne adoresthe well-ordered and well'master€d flow of founlain watet what he abhorsis the unbridled and uncontained water of the sea, the water caught up ina perpetual llux. Such water upsets his stomach, rhar is, it upsets thehydraulic equilibrium of his body. Such a flux means that travel iakcs placeas much inside the body as outside of it, with the result that the very notionsof inside and outside are jeopardized along with that of the body itself asproper to itself.

The horse, on the other hand, is not only what does not leave tertafirma but also that mode of transportalion whose movement ideallyresponds to its master's bridle- Indeed, masrery over the horse exemplifiesmastery in gen€ral. Crevarzr is a title ofnobiljty, ihe sign ofone's adherenceto a ruling class. lt is to this class that Montaigne belongs. In the Latinalocumenl proclaiming him a Roman citizen, Montaigne is noted down asan eqres, a m€mber of the eqDestrian class (lII, ix, 999). And if mountinga horse signifi€s one's ascension to the rank of the high and mighty, it isalso what allows a man of small height, such as Montaigne, to attain arotherkind of stature: "Since my early youth, I have not liked to go exc€pt onhorseback. On foot I get muddy right up to my buttocks; and in our streetssmall mer are subject to being jostled and elbowed" (III, xiii, 1096). Beinsin the saddle puts one in a position of borh physical anal political domination. Small wonder, then, that Monraigne should say rhar were he allowedto lead the lile he desires, "I should choose to spend ir wirh my ass in rhesaddle" (III, ix, 987). Such is rh€ kind of life he trjes ro lead in his rrip

12 EQUESTR1ANMONTAIGNE

',ir*ffiF*t$lffiffitirp,-ffiHi'i: :li:i; ;:',i'J::li:lii r:l i"*:L:*::;'*rut ;:l'*ll'*nor be cavalierlv dismi'sed as ol merelro^gr oP','#"'i. 'o.iuir* . ""u.

o-

*i::li:,[:T:'L'[.,i:::i"*i$L#*;lx*l;i$::;.The consequences of such an inlestmenr'm '"cf, ,n",r.iii"i,fr. h-* it'"lT:,1;;: :",T::l;.:'":[*i::: f#fffi ll dmi::**Jor{t al. the insistence ol lhe body' (ne rer

s).rnbolism of Rome'

Unbridled Leisur€: "Of ldleness"

where should we begin our reading ol lhi< prolilic horse i[ nol in an essay

i]il'rJii *.i"ott"'i'* " "enain per\er<e proulicacv? The essav in quesrron'

Ii'ilji*"- iri. r."rr,"ter' (r. viii, invites such Hli'il:"",|['jJil::

$ell. lt is probablv one o[ rhe earueslei'.1'.]i;," ".i lrr. 1..0. 'rr. "'urllrtwell as one o[ Ihe firsr chapters rn.lne-lii'ii'r",

,i. ii,.i *'"v r" ;;.r'essav of the firsl book More srgnrlrcanl

ii'J,i ** 1,i.' i" ",'r.,* j*l!.llii::1,:Li:.'llX'lf iff"ftK

The e,sav correspond5 then to a momenl u o"nl"""i"iar*onn" ortr..,

discourse wh€rein he beg,nt 'o.t?'t-un1..1," ,n" nisrory o[ ]rench wflrng..

that is rhe key ro the <uccess ol rhe tisd)rr*ri.. -i i -n", is. if nor rhe

Funhermore. rhis merad':'*'1":-i:TTl,;l'l';l'i.",,'r,. r'"i ."""1".afiJst appearance ol lhe horse ln tne trrecourse Io lhal figure'3'"i"n".r*" * tL*" beginr wilh whal appears to be a comm€ntarv m

'n"",i"i#i ;;;;" ""

rhe danger" ot 't''r condition r Now il lnere De

anv risk in idleness. one ltould lhrnk lhar lhis risk qould be a funclio^n ol

iii *-.i'ir," i*"ir"o in such a lrare or repo'e and would take the rorm

iiitillil."i 'ii", "'arter rradirion qourd carl ennui Monraisn€ now-

l.llilJ."ii ii."i t'r"riries for the danger he see\ in idlenes\ i' celtarnrv

li'Jiili .i.ii!'-'it ; tomestication Raiher' idlene*s' ror Montaisne' rar

ii""i'i.r"" ".tiii 'r t*mobilitv is a srate ol "agiration " The danger'or

ilil; l,:'i" ;" o,"o'"sirv ro produce an unmasrerable movemenr' shrcn

catr itself lead to nradnesr: "And lhere is no mad or idle l^ncv lftvenel

;iil ilil;-i "ff;il;;ns ro'th in this asitation" (r' viii' 32) 30 ldreness'

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE t3

despite the connotation of the word, is paradonically what sets one inmoiion, but in a bizarre, unsettling kind of motion, a motionless motion

or a mad motion that sends the idler or a journey going nowhere'rl

Such a voyage raises an economic problem, since it is the oikos itself

that is at stake when th€ home becomes unstable and the familiar becomes

unfamiliar. Th€ need to establish a certain domus or domestication is there-

fore precisely what is put into relief by the metaphors Montaigne uses to

describe the dangerous state of idleness: "Just as we se€ that idle land, ifdch and fertile, teems with a hundred thousand kinds of wild and us€less

weeds, and thai to set it to work we must subjeci it and sow it with certain

seeds for our service; and as we see that women' all alone, produce mere

shapeless masses and lumps of flesh ldes drdt et pieces de chai infomesl,but that to create a good and natural offspring, they must be made fertile

with anoth€r kind of seed: so it is with minds. Unless you keep them busy

with some definite subject that will bridle and control them lqui les bride

et contrcignel, they throw themselves in disorder hither and yon inlo the

vague field of the imagination" (I, viii, 32). Althoush' at first glanc€, itsee-ms possible to understand these examples in terms of the opposition

b€twee; nature and cultur€, a closer r€ading plays havoc with the distinc-

tion, since the state of nature reveals hself to be less a terrestial paradise

than a condition chamcterized by a kind of perverse excess. In the firstsimile, uncultivated land is not marked by sterility or the absence of veg-

etation but rather by an overabundance of plants. The second simile repeats

the same argument, this time in relaiion to women. Women, says Montaigne

as if it were an incontrovertible fact, requir€ the male seed only for the

purposes of assuring a "good and natutat offspring;' Without the inter_

veniion of the man. thev would still produce "shapeless masses and lumps

of flesh."r'] One sees in both these examples that nothing is more unnatural

from the point of view of culture than nature itself. The state of nature

(and of idleness) is dangerous, ihen, since it implies an unchecked process

of useless and vertiginous propagation.

This perverse gelmination man will try to domesticate and cultivate

through ;griculture and attention to conjugal duties. Culture can then be

defined as ih€ institution of a certain kind of procreative labor, ihe antithesis

of idle perversity, of idleness as perversity So it is a particular kind ofactivity or motion which is to bring into bounds the mad motion ofidleness'The metaphor used by Montaigne is that of a certain "bridling" of the

idle minal, an image that presages a mor€ elaborate horse metaphor at ihe

end of the essay. Here, however, the domestication of ihe horse is the

metaphor for dom€stication itself, th€ domestication that consists in thebstablishment of a proper domus. what role then does the domesticatingbddle play in the institution of this dol rs if not that of ensuring a certain

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE

teleological or proleptic creation, a pro-creation (and it is for this reason

that the bridle can be compared to the seed)? In other words, the doa{tis what is pro-created to the extent that the bridle domesticates by keeping

the idle mind headed to a particular destination. The movement is mastered

by the setting up of a goal: "The soul that has no fixed goal loses itselfifor as ihey say, to be everywhere is to be nowhere" (1, viii' 32).

The danger raised by idleness is that of the loss of one's bearings, that

is to say, the loss of the property or properness of the oikos This loss

takes place because idl€ness makes it impossible 10 establish any kind ofproperty or differentiat€ between what is proper and what is not. Even the

word jdleness' (orsrvelP) ilselt seems to ha\e lor( any propel meanrng itonce might have had save to denote impropriety itself. Rather than con-

noting such notions as those ofrcpose, €ase,leisure, solitude, or immobility,idleness is interpreted in this essay as if by design in terms of agitation,madness, and perverse overabundance. The problem of idleness' as evi-

denced by Montaigne's ensuing citation of Martial, is that of property

itself, of property as the proper habitat: "Quisquis ubique habitat, Maxime'nusquam habitat [He who dwells everywhere, Maximus, nowhere dwellsl"(I, viii, 32).

Itis immediately after this quotation from Martial that Montaigne reveals

that the slate of idleness he has been describing describes, in fact, his own

experiences upon taking up his rctreal. The preceding negative description

of idleness should not lead us, however, to conclude that Montaigne detests

idleness as in itself a pernicious or particularlv damaging vice. Far frome\cluding idleness on moral grcunds, Montaigne often takes pleasure indescribins himself as an idle or even slothful person (see, for sxample, II'xvii, 642 43i III, ix, 969, 992). Furthermore, the very reason for which he

took up his famous rctreat, or so he says, was to find the kind of rest and

tranquillily one would normally associate with a state of idleness But' as

he continues, this was not what he found: "Latelv when I retired to my

home lchez motl, determined as far as possible to bother about nothingexcept spending the little life I have left in repose and seclusion, it seemed

to me I could do my mind no gr€ater favor than to let it €ntertain itsellin full idleness and stop and s€ttle in itself, which I was hoping it mighthenceforih do more €asily, having becom€ weightier and riper with timeBut I find-idleness always makes the mind distected lvariam semper dantotia menteml-th^t, on lhe contrary, like a runaw ay hotse Vaisant le chevaleschapp4, it gives itself a hundred times mor€ trouble than it took forothers, and gives birth to so manv chimeras and fantastic monsters [ern'enlante tant de chimarcs et monstrcs fantusquesl, one after another,without order or purpose, that in order to contemplate their ineptitud€ andsfiangeness ll'ineptie et I'estraneetal at my pl€asure, I have begun to put

EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE I'

Ard here, the hors€ comes back although precisely in the guise of ahotse that refuses to come back. The horse, *hich had earlier afpeared asrha mcr4nh^r ^f i^6;--the metaphor of domination and domesrication, now em€rges ui il" a"-_inant metaphor in a piece of wriring rife with mixed meh;hors. And it is

them in writing lles mettrc en rclkl, hopirlE in time to make my mindashamed of itself [&), e'? fairc honte d lut mesmesl" (I, viii, 33). Montaienesought r€pose in idleness, but whar he found was just the opposite: ins;adof rest, a ceaseless agitation; instead of a mind in peace, ihe frantic pro_duction of tempestuous thoughts which are compared to ..chimeras andfantastic monst€rs." The monstrosity, if there is one. is that idleness rurnsinro iLs opposiLes. This monnro.iry is engendered by the idle mind jtselt,which is compared to a ,.runaway horse.,,

somehow in the positing of rhe problem of idleness as J runaway horselhar Monraigne is able ro conceptualize his predicamenr. The meraphor oflhe horse definei the dangerous divagaLion of idteness. fhe soluLio;, rhen,if we recall the first part of the essay, should b€ a certain bddling-

Beforc drscussing how this bridling rakes place or why rhe retur; of rhehorse spurs or is spurred b) VonLaigne\ mo\e into selt_rellection. we needto concede that the very desire to bridle the horse implies the persistenceof Montaigne,s desire ro be ,,idt€." For if Monraigne,s proplt to writeseems a reaction against the idleness he atescribes, it is because what heseeks is anoiher idleness, th€ absolure idleness of pure repose. If the actof putting "en rolle,, (of recording) rhe producrions of his idle mind issupposed to master mental activity by directing ir toward some goal, thatgoal is nothing other than th€ repose ofthe mind. The mind will supposedlyi stop running like an unbrjdled horse when ir confronts the ,,rolle" or scroilof its monstrous acts, an event ihat will .,mak€ my mind ashamed of itself.,,Tbe bridling of rhe hors€ or the r€cording of oneh thoughts comes downto a therapeutic project that takes the form of a self_analysis. A dialogue

'1 is instituted in which one part of the self, or ..moy,,' strives to domesti;eir the other ('make it ashamed of itself',) through a rhetorical strategy thati consists of making that other confront its owr babble. This discursive

co-nfronralion will. in principle. prcvoke a heighLened sell_awarenes. rhar

, Yl,.ll !"*, bring abour peace of mind or rhe iepose of absoture idteness,' which Montaigne calls wisdom or ..sagesse... Now. Lhis quesr for repose isnot a mere anecdotal derail from Montaigne\ personal liie: it is somethrngtundamenral ro the very basis of ht rhought and a consrant elemenr in itclespiLe the.Essdli ' ofren nored vagaries and vicissirudes. lo tollow Villelftriparrire division o-f Montaigne s ciree..", ue could argue rhar in each periodMontargne: $ought is teteoloAicall) focused upon a concepl of repose astlre summum bonumi rhe rranquillny of rhe sout and rhe catm in rhe faceor dearh posied as lirrue in his Stoic period: rhe spiin al rcpose ot atoraxia

16 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE

ro be obtained by Ihe suspension ol judgment in lhe skeplicism o[ his

second period: and Ihe praise of ignorance as lhe greaLesl value ln llle ln

his last or so-called naturalisl period'"'"it'" i""i"otive o*r"ct, the", of "of ldleness" is the prescription for

""fti""f* .u.ift"

-o"l"tude, or "idleness"' in the mind The Montaigne

*-tr" *.ii"" a"""tit". rti" thoughts in order to silence them ln other wods'

;;;;;;; hi. thoughts in-order to have no thoughts we are in the

t ;;.;;;-i."i ,,,u"1;sn f,J 5e who seeks repose Ihrough acrivirv This aclive

I".ri r- ."0.t" i\ paradoxrcal to lhe exlent lhar lhe desire oI effort Io

l".j" r.o.ti '"*,i.* "s Ihe immediate obslacle Io the allarnmenl ol thal

*..r.. ifi*.tou"fv speakinS. lo make a movemenl Ioward a slate ol resl

;';;;;;';i;;. o"'-";.'.lr ri motion rhar is to do the oppo'ite or putting

;;;;ii;i,.',: And it thar <raLe o[ resr. once attained \hould turn oul

i."" *"* i. i" " ""*

.f agitalion, one runs th€ risk of being condemned

i"l o".o"tJ .*r"" and -an

impossible quest for r€pose' one needs to

-ove'in o.a"r o "top,

but when one stops one finds ones€lf all the more

in motion.--- rift"i ft* b€come of our bridle? For if the horse as the dominant

..iaoft., of rfte essay is whal should be lhe meraphor of dominalion il

l;J;;;;.t" "", M;nraigne who holds rhe bridle on idleness bur idleness

i"f't"itr"fat f-L*"ig* tv tie bridle. It is the horse, in short' who leads the

tiJ*,-""a lft. f"uif" hope to tame that horse remains just that' a ftopq

;il.;i;c"" prolepticaliv susgests in the last line of the essav: "I have

t"g"" i" i", imv iate dLouehtsl in lniting' hoping in time to make mv

mind ashamed of itself."*;;i;;; Montaigne savs he ftas besun to write is also' evidentlv' the

*r" r.,,, ""

ut. r.uaitg. l he thsL parr ol the essav is thus given a retroactive

ri"iiii**.. Ttre "rotte' n rhe lexr of lhe ErstJs rhe wriling Monlaigne

oi"l"".i-i" tlit t***rs ellorls to alrain a 'tate ol repose Bul again this

i'mise en rotte" itself perpetuai€s the motion it is supposed to restrain The

ouiiinn;nro *riring oi rh; idle rhoughrs can onlv masler lhem Io the exrenr

ir,*-ii'..o"u't,rt.ri, tu, Lhis reperirion is simulLaneouslv whar makes lhem

;;;"bl'..;"; the "mise en rolle has besun. one is rolling" in a

fi;il.*t. ". wav to \top. lr is nei(her an accidenr nor a mere quir\

;i;;,"tc."" personalitv that he should keep writing and r€writing the

ioi oi ftit-"iar" tftougttts" until his aleath The economv of this textual

joumey is thus opened onto an infinit€ divagation'" IiiL writine is also a "rolling," it is because the function of that writing

is to retrac€ tlie steps of the hoise's itinerary The effort is to describ€ or

note down the tho;ghts d€scrib€d or traced out bv the movement of the

horse, But if the Essavs then describ€ the same trajectory as the horse'

ther€ are at least two differ€nces to be remarked. First, the writing /o//olts

EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE I?

after the horse, thereby instituting the regimen of repetition alr€ady alludealto. S€condly, the "mis€ en rolle" follows exactly the same path as the horseonly to the extent that it is motivated by the hope of bridljng the hors€.If it accepts following the horse, it is only because it counts on eventuallybeing ahead of it, on being ar the endpoint to which the horse will ideallymove. The endpoint of the voyage is fie hoped-for (but only hoped"for)moment when the hors€ stops after having come back to itself, seen whatit has produced, and felt shame thereupon. The discunive voyage of theEssd),r is tel€oloSically closed by the ,ope of teleological closure, of thebridle, of a proleptic creation or "pro-creation" of the self as domrs.

The jest here h connecting these terms is nonetheless in earnest. Wehave already seen the connection at work in the firsi part of the essay.More to th€ point, what underlies the passage in question is precisely theissue of a certain p,.ogerl,, namely the .,chimeras and fantastic monsters"to which the "runaway horse . . . gives birth.,' Thes€ offspring are, accordineto Montaigne, characterized by "ineptitude and strangeness,, and invitecomparison with the rrshapeless masses and lumps of flesh" Montaignesays women produc€ when they are wirhout the bridle of the male seed. Itis these offspring of which the idle mind should be ashamed. The problem,necessarily stated in terms of hope since one cannot easily predict the natureof one's offspring, would be that of engend€ring a body that is ,,good andnatural." Such a body would presumably be not inappropriate or foreignIinepte ou dlrungel but proper and one,s own.

What kind of body are we talking about? Or more exactly, whose bodyis it? Following what we know from "Of ldleness,,' we can already deducethat that body is a "body of thought" proper to its rhinker Such a notionis, in fact, not at all uncommon to Montaigne if w€ remember, fot instance,the long development at the end of "Of the Affection of Fathers for theirChildrcn" (II, viil,399-442) in which Monraigne compar€s the relarionbetween writers and their books to thar between fathers and their childrer.Moreover, Montaigne privileg€s the lormer of thes€ relations because, sohe says, literary offspring are "more our own" (II, viii,400). To supportthat contention, he adds that "we are father and mother borh in thisgeneration." Elsewher€, Montaigne makes claims for his own book thatwould seem to make it even more proper to him than one's own child: .,abook consubstantial with its author" (II, xviii, 665); ..I am mys€lf therMtter of my book" ("To the Reader,,' p. 3). Leaving aside for the momentthe question of the validity of Montaigne's claims, we can conclude tharihe body we are dealing with is a corpus of writina, which is understoodto be a body proper to its author. Whether rhat body is the wrirert ownor that of his "progeny,' is an issue of lesser importance-once rhe claim

18 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE

to property has been made. That body is always cal/ed on€'s own no matter

what shape it takes.If we ieturn once rnore to "of ldl€ness," we must conclude that if there

is a proper body produced there, it must be related to that "mise en roll€"

of the 'ichimeras and fantastic monsters:' The implication, though, is that

the proper body is made out of improper ones. The paradox can be r€solved,

at Gasa momentarily, if we remember the exampte of the "idle" women'

The "shap€less masses and lumps of flesh" they produced became proper

human b;dies if they were "worked ov€r" Iemr€soigne4 by "another kind

of seed lune autre semenc€1." The male seed would give form to feminine

matter. l:r the case of the shapeless bodies produced by idl€ thoughts' that

other se€d must b€ the writing itself, which forms lhose ideas inio a body

of writing. In phallocentric terms, the pen(is) would delne the properness

of the body.illfthe productions of the mind, as they are retraced in writing, constitute

ih€ body of writing as Montaigne's own, what "property" is described or

circumscribed by that idle wandering if not the territory proper to Mon_

taigne, namely his domarn of Montaigne? Thus, the lext of the -6srd)J

co;sdtut€d as a pro-creative journey aims to institute an orkos as the habitat

proper to Montaign€. This "property" is that topographical body carved

;ut by th€ text, a mountain or Monta(i)gne in writing.rJ "Montaigne" is

the name affixed to that property, wh€ther it be a text, a place, or a body'

These thrce terms can ihen function and do function in "Montaigne" as

melaphoric equivalents. So if Montaigne describes his text as a body, he

can also describe his body as a space, even as a room or building (when

it is not the very particular space of the third-story room in his tower where

he wdtes surrounded by his library).36 Perhaps no single expression better

captures ih€ flexibility of Montaignian space than the prepositional clause'

chez mor, whitch appeats for the first lime in "Of ldleness" ("Lately when

I retired to my home lchez moyl . . ."1 ^nd

which d€signates an interiorityas vasi as the entire surrounding region of Gascony or as r€stricted as the

innermost core of Montaigne\ private b€ing, his "back shop lanierebou'tiquel:' l deed, the metaphorics of interiority ihat construct the space ofth; self Inoll

^s a place lchez moll reaches its height in such expressions

as "As for me, I hold that I exist only in myself lMoy, ie tiens que ie ne

sub que chez moy)" (lI, xvi, 626), or "If I am not at home, I am alwavs

very near it [Si je r,e rris chez moy, i'en suis louiours bien presl" (III' ii'8ll).

what the Essal,s of Montaigne seeks to do then is to delimit an anthro-pomorphic or corporcal topography in and through a text whose economy

is proleptically assured by the signature of the proper name' MontaiSne'or the mo, whose name appears right from th€ title page. The signaturc

I

EQUESTRIANMONTAiCNE 19

would thus appear to be the stroke of the pen(is) or bridle which pro-creates the proper body of Montaigne by defining the bounds of tharproperty.

The bounds of the signature, however, only offer the teleological closurefor what we can already see to be an autobiographical project. The signatureis the iop€ of property, its procreation, which nonetheless still leaves abody to be defined or produced through the writing that delimits or demar-cat€s that textual cotpus. But if Montaigne,s discourse d€scribes the limitsof his body or his property, the Iimits of that proper body are rhe limirsof his discourse. The body or the properry of Monraigne about which weare speaking is of a textual order. ln other words, ,,Montaigne" is whathe sldles himself to be: "Ii is not my deeds that I wrire down; ir is myself,it is my ess€nce lc'est mo!, c'est mon essencel" (It, vi, 379). Henc€. hecan add elsewhere that all arguments "are equally good ro me" since ,,every

movement reveals us" (I, l, 302). Monraigne,s discourse is rh€ /6cr^ r,or runnirg through, of his discourse. Anyrhing can be said, then, sinc€anything Montaigne says describ€s him and can be aftributed to him aspart of his proper body, the corpus of writing of the Es.rdls.

Yet it is at this very point that Montaigne's claims to property begin robreak down, for what could be less his own than the discourse thar delimitsMontaigne's property? Carried to the limit, Montaigne,s project, despitewhat he writes in "Of Repentance" OII, ji, 804-5) would not so muchtrace th€ limits of "a particular man," or even those of ..man in general,"so much as the limits of discourse itself. The discourse thar claims anirreducible personality tends toward an absolure impersonality. The cita-tional mania of Montaigne th€n only exemplifies this problem inherent tohis project, namely, the appropriation of a discourse which ro rhe extentthat it comes from elsewh€re (a sociolect can never be fully called one'sown. Or should we say that it can be called one's own in name only, or yby crl,nA ir proper in the assignation of the proper name to it?r'

An Accid€ntal Body; or, The Paternal Limitt ,,Of Praclice',

It should be remembered that if a "proper body" has been procreated, it\ras in order to seek a certajn stability or rcpos€ in accordance with aproject of self-analysis as self-rherapy. This self-reflexivity in irself poinrs,howevet to a break in the subjecr. Such doubling, in itselfa loss of propertysince it separates the self from itself, is noneth€l€ss the condition for theengenderment of a proper body, sinc€ the split altows the subjecr ro be a/otce "fath€r and mother" (or, as Mitchell creenb€rg has more accuraretyput it, at once fath€r, mother, and child).rt Strang€ly enough, the authorialcorpus or proper body is self-engendered by two very improper parents-

EQUESTRIAN MONTATGNE EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE 2I

namely, improper, idle thoughis and writing ^s

"another kind of seed."

we may know whose body this is, but lt dt it is still remains unclear.

The rudiments of an answer are laid out by Montaigne in the essav "OfPractice" (ll, vi), near th€ end of which he undertak€s to defend his work

against th€ charge of another kind of impropriety-that of the self-indul-g;nce implicit in on€t talking onlv of oneself One passage in this discussion

;articularly merits attention because it reformulates Montaigne's project interms pertinent to this analysis: "I principally poftray my cogitations, a

shapeless subject Isubiect informel that cannot be brought into artisanal

proaluction. lt is all I can do to couch my thoughts in this airy body ofspeech lce corys aifte de 1d voinl l expose myself entire: it is a sKElrroswherein the veins. muscles. and tendons are seen with a single glance [d',nererail, each part lodged in its place lchaque piece e',.to, siiegel . .Itisnotmy deeds that I write alown, it is myself, it is my essence" (ll' vi' 379)

we again have the inlercourse of two improprieti€s, unformed thoughts

and linguistic matter, which together produce a proper body: "lt is mys€lf,

it is my essence:'A crucial qualificarion is suppli€d, though, by the fact

ofihat body being a "sk€letos." we have indeed arrived at a state of repose,

the uttimate repose of death. Death defines th€ body as absolutely proper!

it puts ev€rythiDg "in place" ("each part todged in its place"). But this

absolute property is, at the same time, absolutely improper to th€ extent

that the body is a dead one. In other words, it is cut off, separated ftomthe subject to whom it is supposedly proper' For if the proper body is one

thar can be contemplat€d "with a single glance," the distance implied in

the possibility of such a vision itself implies a subject disconnected from

its own bodx$ a proprietor without his property. The proper body is onlyproper because it is absolutely improper' One can only have a truly proper

body, it would seem, if it is a dead oner or one to which one is dead.

Il my somewhat heavy_handed use of the Derridean problematics ofthe proper is allowed, ahe apparent absurditv of a "proper" that is onlyproper because it is improp€r foltows coherendy from the Montaigniannotion of idleness as what is persistentlv turning inio its opposite This

inalterable €xcitation can only be consined by the delimitaiion of that

matter within the formal bounds of the self-definition authorized bv the

signature of the mol, the inscription of whose unformed, idle ahoughts is

said to be the matter of his book: "lt is myself, it is my ess€nce." If the

proper is what is defined as proper, then d€ath is the limit case of that

definition, the definitive form of a risor mortis: an improper delimitationthat takes away the properness of the definition itself. Montaigne's "skel-eton" is of a very particular kind; not only is it not to be construed as a

mer€ bone structure, but it is described as a full_fledged cadaver ("whereinthe veins, muscles, and tendons are seen with a single glanc€") missing

only one significant part of its anatomy, the skin. The proper body of thewritet is an dcotch6, literally de-limited, shorn of its limit, stripped of its

At the same time, th€ morbid metaphorization of the textual body as

Wo-crcaled lcotchd circumscribes a site of corporeal and rhetorical excess.

Curiously, if the textual body has no skin, it is also, insofar as it is buttll,€ trucings of th€ unbridled mind, nothing but the line of the limit itdescribes in its meanderings. If the limit of Montaigne's self-portraiture isthe icotchd, the volu,fie it generates is the eff€ct of an accumulated layeringwhose depth remains crucially at the surface: namely, the limif of words.This layering, lik€ th€ incongruous sedimentation Montaigne sees in theruins of Rome,ro is textually rehearsed as the strata of the E sdl.r philo-logically designated a, b, and c. This effect of volume gives the propername its weighr even as that proper name is what gives the layered sedimentof words its profundity. Concomifantly, Montaigne's rheloric of sincerityis thematized as a pe€ling off of layers to reveal the self's intimate and trueinterior, the naked core of its being.ai That the sense of the latter is itselfbut an €ffect of the metaphorics of undressing is emblematized by the limitcase of a self-representation as textual skinning. As Montaigne says else-where, "We cannot disti guish the skin from the shirt" (lII, x, 10ll).

"Of Practice [De I'exercitation]," the essay that closes with the imageof the lcorcftl in the course of an apology for the autobiographical contentof th€ ElJd/s, opens with a meditation on the experience of death, followedby the autobiographical narrative of a near-fatal horse accident that leavesMontaigne "dead" dnd "skinned lescolch€1" (ll, \i,373). The sixth €ssayof the second book thus further explores the lerrain charred in "Of Idle-ness," even as its title seems to denote the very opposite of idlenessi inFrcnch, exercitation can mean exercise or activity as well as practice. Theunpredictable convertibility of idleness into its opposite, howevet wasalr€ady thematized in the earli€r essay. Likewise, th€ runaway horse of l,viii r€turns in ll, vi not as one who refuses to rcturn but as one whoseuncanny r€turn is nothing short of catastrophic: the danger of idleness, anunbridled horse, scarcely diff€rs from the danger of excitation, still a wildand untamed horse. And whil€ "Ofldleness" is probably earlier with respectto date of composition and is certainly prior in the order of presentation,being near the beginning ofthe first book, "Of Practice" r€counts an eventprior to the composition-or perhaps ev€n to the conception of the Esra/J.

Turnina now to the first section in "Of Practice," we asain encounterthe problem of consiructing an anthropological space, a body, whose iden-tity and properness is to be assured by rhe precise demarcarion of the limitb€tw€en its interior and exterior. What seems to be the best way to assurethis limit and ther€by th€ integrity of rhe space it defines is to 'tesf ir,

EQUESTRIAN MONTATGNE

a verb that might translate what Monlaigne varionsly calls dptouver, etpdt-imenter, exercer, a\d of course essarer By such an erperience, we determineour own limits and thus'?r.m our soul" (ll, vi,370; my emphasis):

That is why, among the philosophers, those who have wanted toattain some greater excellence have not been content to await therigors of fortune in shelter and repose, for fear she might surprisethem inexperienced and new to the combat; rather they have goneforth to meet her and have flung themselv€s deliberately into thetest of difficulties. Some of them have abandoned riches to pmctice

b,ou s'exercerl a voluntary poverty; others have sought labor anda painful austerity of life to harden themselves bou .re drrcr4against hardship and toil; others have deprived themselves of themost precious parts of the body, such as sight and the membersproper to generation, for fear that th€se services, too pleasant andsoft Imo4 might relax and soft€n th€ firmness lftrmetZ] of theirsoul. (II, vi, 370-71)

These experiences "form," "fortify," "harden" and "make firm" one's"soul" through the contact they provide with some fearful exteriority, thethreat of which is som€how preempted by a strategy of direca confrontation.This willed ex-perience defines the inlerior of the soul ("[we] &fm our soulthrough experience") and appropriates that exterior as part of the veryprocess by which that inierior is defined or delimited. One can no Iongerfear a danger one has already inflicted on oneself. At the same time, thiswilled experience is that through which the philosopher engenders or pro-creates himself, since it is what defines and forms his body as somethingproper to him. ln other words, the movement outwards of expltience, ofexercitation, of dprcuve (from ex-ptobdr€, to appraise), of the es,tal (fromexsgiut ot exagerc, to weigh) makes proper an improper interiority by amovem€nt of disappropriation that is construed as an appropriation.i': Thatone of thes€ words, essdi, is also the titl€ of the book suggests that whatwe are rcading is also to be understood as such an attenTpt, or coup d'essa!,to define Montaigne's proper body through its expropriation or expressioninto writing.

Ifthe expropriation makes proper, it is because that threat to the integrityof the interior comes not from without, bul from within the inside itself.If the experience forms and defines an inner self, it is because the latterleft to its own devices alters and destabilizes itself: "Here is what I exper-ience lesprcur)el every day: if I am warmly sheltered in a nice room du nga stormy and tempestuous nighi, I am appalled and distressed for thosewho are then in the open country; if I am myself outside, I do not evenwish to be anywhere else. The mere idea of being always shut up in a roomseemed to me to be unbearabl€. Suddenly, full of agitation, changes and

weakness, I had to get used to being there for a week, or for a month.And I have found that in time of health I used io piiy the sick much morethan I now think I deserve to be pitied when I am sick myself; and thatthe power of my apprehension made its object appear almost half againas fearful as it was in its truth and €ssence" (II, vi,3'72r. lf imagining thedanger is worse than experiencinS it, then imagination is the impropere\propriation that takes place when on€ remains "inside," "shut up in a

room." On the olher hand, expedence is the proper expropriation that putsth€ self back in its home, so to speak, by taking il out of it. Montaignethus radicalizes the Stoic contemplation of d€ath or the tekne alJpias ofthe Gre€k soprros, which rely on a strategy of mastery through the imaginaryrepres€ntation of th€ event to be feared.l3 To be sure, Montaigne's critiquetakes a contradictory formulation. On the one hand, as he says in the veryfirst sentence of the essay, he bases his discussion on an unquestionedopposition between an "impotent" discourse and the "reality" irnplied byexperience: 'rDiscourse and education, though we are willing to put ourtrust in them, cannot be powerful €nough to lead us to action, ur ess

besides we exercise lexerconsl and lotm Vomorsl ouI soul through exper-ience to the way we want it to go; otherwise, when it comes to the timefor action, it will undoubtedly find itself iniibited" (II, vi, 370). On theother hand, we are certainly invited to r€ad the ,E sdls themselves as aradical experience of the self, by which is formed Montaigne's corpus inthe guise of the skinned cadaver found ai the other end of this same essay.

lf experience can be said then to define rhe body, it is b€cause it doesnot leave the latter intact. We should not be surprised then if self-mutilationbecomes exemplary of the experiential appropriation: "Others have deprivedihems€lves of ihe most precious parts of the body, such as sight and themembers proper to generation, for fear that these services, too pleasantand soft, might relax and soften the firmness of their soul." Castrationemerges as what defines the body most properly by protecting ii againsttlre danger of castration itself by assuring a certain "firmness" or"hardness." Castration is thus paradoxically what erects the body, what(im)properly rcnders it proper Expedence is a self-procreation predicatedupon the loss of one's procreative faculties, a castration that is not to bedenied, but rather affirmed as th€ only hope of denying castration. lnLacanian terms, the loss of the penis would b€ the prerequisite for gainingthe phallus by means of an asceticism that scarcely disguises the displacederoticism of its sublimation.'

There is a limit, though, to this structure of expropriation as phallicappropriation, namely, the limii to be found in the definitive definition ofdeath. One cannot "test" or experience death because death forever remainsa radical ext€riority. Death, as we are told by the name of the thid of the

EQUESTRIAN MONIAICNE

EQUES'IRIAN MONTATGNE

rhree Fates, A-tropos (1he one who cuts the thread of life), is that which

cannot be "troped," or brought into a relation, figural or literal, with life.The radical discontinuity of death makes its appropriation impossible. Onthe other hand, this very inaccessibility of death and the limit it places on

the project of experiential appropriation make death a privileged topic ofdiscourse for Montaigne: "Through habit and experience, one can fortifyoneself against pain, sham€, indigence, and other such accidents; but as

for death, we can try lessalerl it only once: w€ are all apprentices when

we come to ii" (tl, vi, 371). The ultimate task of philosophy is somehow

to be able to preempt death without being able to experience it The titleof the twentieth essay of the first book says '1hat to philosophize is tolearn to die." And if, as has be€n often noted, Montaigne should change

his mind and contradict himself by first advocating the value of always

keeping on€\ mind on deaih and then insisting, on the contrarv, tha! one

never think at all about death, this change simply rcpresents a change intactics regarding the best way to domesticat€ death (which remains as always

essentially impossible to domesticate).45

There is. nonetheless. at least one way in which an attempt is made tothink the unthinkable, one trcpe continually called upon to trcpe the a-

tropici "It s€ems to me, however, that there is a certain way of tamingourselves to death and trying it out [estdyel] io some extent. We can hav€

an €xpedence of it that is, if not entire and perfect, at least not usel€ss,

and that makes us mor€ fortified and assured. If we cannot reach it, we

can approach it, we can reconnoiter it; and if we do not penetrate as faras its fort, at least we shall see and becomes acquainted with the approaches

to it" (II, vi, 372). ln this passage, the radical discontinuity of death ismade continuous through the introduction of a topography that places death

on its farther side. To die, then, is to undertake a journey, what the E c),_

c/opldtu euphemistically refers to as "the great voyage " As Montaigne says

at another point in the €ssay, death is like a "passage" out of which thos€

who enter "have not come back to tell us news of it" (ll, vi,37l).a6 Death

is the voyage of no r€turn, a radical and irrevocable "dislodging ldesloae-menll of the soul" (II, vi, 371). The image of death as travel is a conv€n-

tional one in expressions such as "to pass away," "to depart," "tr€passer,"or {lunt€rgehen," and in mythological images such as the crossing of rivers(Styx or Jordan). If all ihis is true, though, then the image of death as a

voyage must inevitably coincide with an understanding of travel as con-taining within itself the possibjlity of death. According to Freud, "'deparFing' on a journey is one of the commonest and best authenticated symbolsof death."a7 Travel is deadly, and to be f€ared to the extent that it raises

the possibility of there b€ing no return, bui without the possibility of noreturn (of death), there could b€ no such thing as travel.

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

Wh€n in "That to Philosophize Is to L€arn to Die', Monraigne representsa sedes of events in which to contemplate one's own death, the first onthe list is the "stumbling of a horse" (I, xx, 86). But if we are to see deathin th€ figure of the horse, Montaigne's equestrianism is what will allowhim, in the ensuing narrative of II, vi, to travel right up to the brink ofdeath and to return alive, though not efltirely unscathed.

The story of Montaigne's scrape with death begins in a srate of consid-€rable uncertainty that leaves a good deal to be defined: "During our thirdcivil war, or the second (it doesn't quire come back to me which ir was),I went riding one day about a league ftom my hofirc lchez moyl, who amsituated at the very hub [qr]i rris assis dans le /rofull of all the turmoilof the civil wars of Franc€" (II, vi, 373). Considering the imporranceMontaigne attaches to the ensuing incid€nr, it is rather striking that he isnol able to be more specific about the time it occurred. That he cannoteven rcmember during whjch ofthe religious wars it took place is surprisingin someone who, in the very same sentence, situates his dwelling place atthe very hub (nolar) of these conflicls. It is as if he wer€ not even involvedin these events, or as if he were talking about someone other rhan himself,a hypothesis given credence by the impersonal construction of ",? ne mesouvient pas bien de cela Ul doesn't quite come back to me which it wasl."If the ,nol is defined at all, it is in t€rms of the p/ace where it is, namely,"a league from my home lune lieue de chez motl:'But if the rro] firstappears as not bel'rg chez mot, the grammatical construction of the suc-ceedina relative clause identifies mol ytith chez. mol.. "my home, which dmsituated in the v€ry hub lchez mot, qui suis assis dans le moiaul;' In othetwords, the place where I am rs me. "1" am situated in a particular partof France. To depart ftom chez nor, which is situared in th€ "noiau," isto depafi frcm oneself. Moniaigne leaves Montaign€.43

Such a departure is not without consequ€nces. To leave oneself does notmear on€ can retum easily. For Montaigne, ir is pfecisely in returning thathe encounters some difficulties:

On my r€turn, when a sudden occasion came up fol me to use thishorse for a service to which it was not accnstomed, one of mymen, big and strong, mounted up on a powerful workhorse [!/npuissant rcussinl who had a desp€rate kind of mouth and wasmoreover fresh and vigorous Ivko .erxl-rhis man, in order toshow his daring lpon fone k hardtl and g€t ah€ad of hiscompanions, spurred his horse at full speed Id toute bn(lel slj,^iehtinto my path, and came down like a colossus on the little man andthe little horse, and hit him like a thund€rbolt with all his stiffnessand veieht Vondrc comme un colosse sut le petit homme et petitcheyal, et le foudrciet de sa .oideur et de sa pesanlerrrl, sending us

26 EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE

borh head over heels: so that there lay the horse bowled over and

stunned, and l, ten or twelve paces beyond, dead lmof dix oudouze pcts ou delit, mottl, spread out on my back, my face allbruised and skintrcd llout meuftry el lout escorch4, my s\\ord.

[esple], which I had had in my hand, more than ten paces away'my bett in pieces Ima ceinturc en pieces), having no more motionor feeling than a stump [sorcre]. (II, vi, 373)

As th€ highlighted words show, the accident is recounted quite explicitlyin terms of a castration sc€nado (continued in later passages, such as thatinwhich Montaigne mistakenly believes that he is the victim of "a harquebus

shot in the head" [II, vi, 3?4] or when h€ desctibes himself as "disarmed"

tll, vi, 3751). But if Montaignet fall at th€ hands of this rather phallic

horse is described in terms of castration, that fall is similarly to be under_

stood as the death of Montaigne. MontaiSne does not say that his state is

/itre death; he says that h€ i.t dead: " I, t€n or twelve paces beyond, dead."

What follows then as Montaign€ "comes back to himself," is a kind ofresurrection: "I came back 1o life lie tirs d re\rivrel and regained mypowers" (II, vi, 37?). That we are in fact dealing with a tale of resu ection

is strangely confirm€d when Moniaigne later fears that he will "die again

Vemouri4" fiomthe aftereffects of the fall (II, vi, 3?7) Montaigne's eques-

trian calvary, however, ends with an arduous iourney to a mountain, forit is in coming back np the hill to Montaigne ("chez mov") after havins

fallen down that Montaign€ "comes back" to himself ("moy"). Not untilhe has returned home, thoueh, is he fully himselt ln describing this interim'Montaigne nonetheless evinces great d€light in recounting all the movements

of his body (and ever of his mind) that transpired without his knowing it.Thes€ actions "cannot be called ours" given that "they did not come fromwithin me Icftez not\" (11, \i,376). Since "mov" was not "chez mov"when "moy" did these things, they cannot be attributed to "moy." Thepleasure in all this lies in being able to appropriate or at least "come close

to lavoisine\" (lI, vi, 377) death ev€n at the cost of one's own utterdisappropriation. As in the case of the proverbial piec€ of cake, Montaigne

can thus both have his death and know it too, a situation replicated by the

skelelos of the text as dead body, a body claimed neverthetess bv Montaign€

Th€ resurrection of the body in the t€xt, though is that not too the

result of an accident, th€ risk incurred by a certain horsing around? In a

passage just a few lines befor€ the ste/elos appears, Montaigne describeswritina as a metaphorical riding of horses: "to fling oneself well out intothe pavement Ise jetter bkn avant sut te trcttoitl" (lL, vi,378; ttottoit itsixteenth-century French m€ans a place to trot hors€s). we can no longerlook at such horseplay without seeine in it the threat of castration and

EQUESTRIANMONTAICNE 2?

death. But if the horse not only castrares bur writes, it now seems ro bein a position opposite to that of the horse in ..Of ldleness," which waslinked to the idle thinking rhat needed to be formed or cut inro shapethrough writing. We srill do nor know, afrer having seen rhese wild andimproper horses and th€ consequences they entail, why Montaigne shouldIove nothing better rhan to rid€ horses. Therc musr be still something elseat work in Montaigne\ equestrian obsession.

An answer mighr be found in that orher casrrating accident that letsMontaigne hold death by the hand-or in his lap. I refer to Monraigne'skidney stone condition, of which, in the final essay of rhe original 1580edition, he writes as being "of all the accidents of old age, the one I fearedthe most" (II, DL\vii,759). In the same passage and continuing along rhisline, Montaigne describes his encounter wirh rhe stone precisely in termsof an accident suffered during the course of a voyage, the voyage of hislife: "I had thought to myself many rimes thar I was going forward toofar, and that in making such a long journey, I woutd not fail to get embroiledin some unpleasant encounter" (II, xxxvii, 759). The ,,accidenl, ol thestone is nothing short of deadly, so deadly in fact that els€where Montaigneapprovingly cites a passage from Pliny rhat mentions the stone as one ofonly three illnesses rhe evasion of which jusrifies suicide (II, iji, 35J). yetit is precisely because the pi€re is in many ways worse than deaih tharMontaigne takes comfort in the expetience it offers: ,,I am ar grips withthe worst of all maladi€s, rhe most sudden, the most painful, rhe mostmortal, and the most irr€mediable. . . . I have at least this profir from thestone, that it will complete whar I have still not been able to accomplishin myself and reconcile and familiarize me Im'occointerl completely withdeath: for the more my illness bears down on me lmep.essem] and bothersme, the less will death be somerhins for me to fear" (tI, xL\vii, 760). The"profit" derived from the stone is in the ceaseless o:dLeat ot dprcuye ofdeath it provides, in th€ proximity ir brings one to the limit case of expe-

ence its€lf.Furlhermore, if Montaigne can once again claim to appropriate death

in this €xperie[€e of the stone, that experience of death is, like that in ,,OfPractice," described in terms of castration. Since the stone by irs veryformation blocks rhe urethral passage, it effecrively purs an end to anycarcs one may have about procreation. Moreover, one of the few cures forkidney ston€s in Montaigne's tim€ involved an almost invariably faral oper-ation that required that one ,,have oneself cut Ise fairc taille4,, Il, xxxvji,?73). At its best, the expulsion of a stone is a source of erotic pleasure("that dreamer in Cicero who, dreaming he was embracing a wench, foundthat he had discharaed his srone in the sheers" [It, x).xvii, 7621). Morc

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNEEQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

typically, Montaigne complains that "the sharp points press into me Ues

aigres pointures me ptessertl" and his stones "diswench me strangelv lmedesgarcent estrungemen ll" (II, xxxvii, 762). Finallv, the stonet phallic sig-

nificance is made explicit when in the course of his trip to Italy, Montaigne

claims to have rendercd a stone that had "exactly the shape of a prick"(Jou al, pp.20'l-8).

The stone points back, then, in the direction of Montaigne's voyage toItaly, where we found Montaigne desperat€ly trying to master the movement

of that phallic stone through his r€gimen of mineral water. In a passage

of the trsd,t he comments in typically skeptical fashion on the advantag€s

and disadvantages of this use of mineral water:

Aperients are useful for a man with the stone because by openingand dilating the passag€s [pass4ges], they move along Iacheminentlthat sticky matter of which the gmvel and the stone ar€ built andcofivey Iconduisentl downward what is beginning to harden andaccumulate in tbe kidneys. Aperients are dangerous for a man witha stone because by opening and dilating the passages, they movethe matter of which the gravel is built along toward the kidneys,which, being apl to s€ize it by a natural propensity U)ropension),will hardly fail to stop much of what has be€n carried lchaniel Lo

them. Moreover, if by chance there comes along some body a littletoo large to go through all those narrow passages that r€main tobe traversed in order to discharge it outside k arsel tor't cas

destroicls qui rcstent it fta chit pow I'eryeller au del,o]'sl, thisbody, being set in motion Iesbrunl€l by th€se aperients and castinto these na ow channels Uetti dans ces canaus ertroitr!, will stopthem and expedite la.hemineral a certain and very painful death."(II, xxxvii, 775)

what is implied in thepfuffeis a kind ofinner travel that, if not mastered,

threat€ns to dis pt the equilibrium of the body. Exterior travel, a trip toItaly for instance, might be seen as an attempl to master this improperinner divagation.a'Th€ only way to be rid of that impropriety is to etpelit. Once again, the movement outwatds defines and preserves the inside.

Self-castration, as we have aheady seen, insures that one will not be cas

trated; witness the deadly operation ol the tdille.The movement of the stone as phallus castrates by delimiting or tearing

the skin off of the irrer parts of th€ body. In other words, that castrationis worse than the death by skinning w€ saw in the case of the dcotchd

because the stone does not define the body as a proper interior set offagainst an improper exterior, Rather the stone suggests something exteriorthat is at the same time inh€renl to the body's interior. From where does

Not for nothing does Montaigne make these extended remarks on hisillness in an essay entitled "Of the Resemblance of Children to Fathers"(ll, xxxvii): "It is probable that I owe this stony prcpens.ity lcette qualiripieteusel lo my fathe\ for he died extraordinarily afflicted by a large stonein his bladder" (Il, xxxvii, 763). Montaiane resembles his father throughtheir common affliction, the pfure. This resemblance beiween father andson becomes all the more int€resiing, however, if we take note of the phonicsimilarity in Fr€nch b€tween the words pier'rc and pare, "stone" and"father." li is even more interesting when we recall the name of Montaigne'sfather: Piene.50

. I come then to the question of Montaigne's resemblance to his father intheir common bearing of the p/e/re. This res€mblance, however, allows forthe transmission of something other, namely the name of the father, Pierre,which through the prere takes on substance in the very body of the son.The earlier interpretation of the pieffe, as something radically exterior thatis at the same time somehow inherent to the very interiority of the body,is then borneout. The travelingprerre leaves in its wake a certain patronymicinscription that defines properly or improperly the body of the son. Thatpiere is, ihen, what is both €xt€rior and interior to the son, what is in factthe origin of the son, what makes him what he is. The pierle contained inthe farher's "seed" ("that drop of water lthat] lodgelsl this infinite numberof forms" [I, xL\vii,763]) defines the son as a certain property belongingto the father, Montaigne.

Procreation as th€ transmission of the seed-stone maintains the father'sproperty (his name, his body, his land). For this property to remain intact,howevet it must b€ transmitted by the son to his son and so forth. But ifthe son has no progeny the father will die: if the prog€nitor is regeneratedthrough his being incorporated by the son, then the son engenderc thefather as much as the father does the son." No simple betrayal ofhis fathetMontaigne's lack of male offspring n€eds to be reappraised in view of thefact that the very thing the father tmnsmiis to his son to transmit is itselfwhat makes that further transmission impossible.i, Montaigne's p,?rre isnot only what proves his filial attachment to his father but also what, inits painfuln€ss, is equated by Montaigne with death and castration. But ifth€ pr'ere defines (the son as son) as it delimits or castrates the body, thenit would seem that to procreate is to castrate. What is castrating, then, ifnot precisely the way in which the son resembles the father? I1 is repro-duction as resemblance then which castrates, for it leaves the son able onlyto repeat the father and to stand for him as a kind of tombstone or pfuletombale. The metaphor is not uncalled for since the castration of the son,in th€ Montaignian imaginary, implies the death of the farher. The fathercan live only as long as his seed is transmiited. lf it is the seed itself,

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE EOUESTRIANMONTAIGNE 3I

howevet which cuts off the transmission, as in th€ pr?re Montaigne's fathergives his son, then the continuity of the resemblance between father andson which is supposed to assure patriarchal continuity only takes place

through a radical discontinuity, the castration of the son, the death of thefather. To procreate is to risk death even as that death allows for a certainreincarnation or resu ection. In fact, for th€re to be the possibiljty of a

resurrection, there must be a prior deaih. One can only live on in drotrgl.bodg as other, as son. If the seed cuts, it cuts both ways; the cut thatengenders cannot leave the body intact.

We can now retum to that other petrifying scene of castration andresurrcction: Montaigne's horse accident. The collision, we should note, is

between tlu horses, each with its rid€r. Montaigne's horse is a "little horse"described as "very €asy but not very firm"; its counterpart is "a powerfulworkhorse" that is "fresh and vigorous." While Montaigne describes him-self as "litde," the other horseman is "big and strong." The only differencesnoted by Montaigne are those of size and strength, with the advantage inboth thes€ ar€as granted to his opponent. In the accident that leaves Mon-taigne in the described state of castration, the overpowering size and forcethat hits him is compared to "a colossus" in its "rieidity" and "weight."This colossus of a horse hits Montaigne with the force of a pillar of stone.

where does this horse come from? Would we have reason to suspect acertain Pierre? If we consult the language that the father forcibly imposedon the son and in which that son was raised, namely Latin,i we find thatthe word for horse is eqros and the word for horceman, eques. At thisjuncture, I do not feel it would be unwarranted to place th€ signifiers ofthese words (and even more pertinendy that of the accusative of e4rer,eqrrem) next to the family name of Montaigne's father: Eyquem.

To be sure, I am not for a moment arguing thai the man whose horsehit Montaigne was in empirical or referential terms Montaigne's father.Rathet what our analysis seems to be unraveling is the logic behind aphantasm-and if Montaigne's accident is noi in itself phantasmic, thedescription of it, with its memory lapses and wordplay, certainly is. Someassurance of the validity of this deciphering of the father's name can behad ifthe play ofthe patronymic will, in turn, give coh€rence to our readingof Montaigne.

If we reflect on the insistence with which words particularly cherishedby Montaigne begin in e or ex-exercer, experimente\ expdrience, dprcuve,and of course ?ssai and essajer (as :Jvell as exercitation)-^nd on his eques-trian obsessions, we can draw some interesting conclusions. The patronympoints to a movement outwards, as in the riding of a horse. The ek ot exof this movement outwards includes in its very movement the thrcat ofcastration and d€ath. Insofar, however, as the €r. of that movement outwards

is what defines or delimits an interior it is the ey itself, the ex-cursion,which castrates, as in the ex-pulsion of the stone. Th€ movem€nt of theprere defines the son as son but only at the cost of internal damage. Thebody defined by casiration is never intact since rhis defining wound is alsoa mutilation. Not only is what defines rhe proper self improper (insofar asit is excentric) but its vety mov€ment ensures that that proper is never fullyproper. As we saw earliet the inside (of the body, of rhe home) can onlybe assured through the movemenr outwards which leaves that inside behind,a movement the absolute limii of which is death or the complet€ loss ofthat inside. The appropriation that renders the proper proper (or definesthe interiority of the inside) is at the same time a disappropriation. yetthat appropriation as disappropriation is the only hope of ever havingsomething that is proper, a propeny. To stay inside (.,shut up in a room"),to guard the stone inside ihe body, is to jeopardize the very property andproperness of that inside. For Montaigne to stay at home is ro invire thechaos of an utter dispossession, beginning with the dispossession of whatone would think to be most one's own. Only rhrough a radical movemenrof expulsion can any claim to property be made: the evacuarion of thestone, the experienc€ of travel, or for rhat mauer, the externalization ofthoughts into writing as excrement.s4 The pro-crearion of his proper bodycan only take place if he assumes his castrarion, that is, if the se€d curs.The home can only be dom€sticated, "bridled,', if he rides off on a horse.Pushed to the limir, this logic suggests that absolute domesticiry is to befound in an infinite excursion, to Italy and beyond. To repear whar thescdbe of the voyage to Italy writes, if Montaigne ,,had been alone withhis attendants he would rather have gone to cracow or toward creece byland than make the turn toward ltaly; but the pleasure h€ rook in visitjngunknown countries, which he found so swe€t as to make him forger theweakness of his age and of his health, he could not impress on any of hisparty, and everyone asked only to return home,, (Jounal, p. 65). \Ne

remember that this equestrian excursion is also accompanied by the ,.expul-

sion" of the stone. In fact, Montaigne repeatedly states that it is on horse-back that he finds the greatest relief from rhe storrc (Jouma!, p. 58i Essa/slII, ix, 974, and III, xiii, 1094). And if rhe rwin phalliciry, ar once internal(kidney stone) and external (horse rravel) to rhe body, is ar work in definingthe proper limits to that body through the violent exceeding (excision) ofthose limits, the saddle iurns out also to be a privileged locus of ercticfantasy, where Montaigne experiences his ,,most profound and maddestfancies and thos€ I like the besC' (III, \ 876). If our analysis has movealback and forth between the horse and th€ srone (even in our first glancesat the Ttsvel Joumar, ir is because rhe stone and horse G,ierre arld equem)

32 EQUESTRIANMONTAIGNE

play into th€ same phantasmic expulsion that in its very enactment wouldobsessively inscribe the father's name into the son\ bodv+ext

All Roads Lead BNck to Rome: "Of Vanity"

Now, this ex'centricity through which the son castrates himself in the name

of the father cannot be withoui consequences for the father, the death otwhom is implied in the son's castration For the son to assume his own

castration. then. is paradoxically to celebrate the fathert death. Such an

Oedipal dil€mma can be found at work in the essay "Of Vanity [D€ lavanit6l" 0ll, ix), wh€re Montaigne, in an essay written entirelv a/aer his

trip to ltaly, also makes his most €xtended observaaions conc€rning his

interest in travel. The voyage as ex-cursus remains massively oedipalized

"Traveling hurts me only by its expense," says Montaigne near the begin-

ning of the essay (lll, ix, 949). The only pain in trav€l is the e-xpense. Sucb

a loss is to b€ discounted, though, continues Montaigne, since he has no

male heirs for whose inheritance he would need to provide (III, ix, 949)

Already castrated, Montaigne can set out on his travels with no fear ofcastration. Someone else, though, does stand to lose trom both of Mon_

taigne's losses:

My father loved to build Montaigne, where he was born; and in allthis administration of dom€stic affairs, I love to follow his exampleand his rules. and shall bind my successors to them as much as Ican lautanl que ie pou a!1. lf I could do better for him lsiiepouvois mieux pout luyl, I would. I slory in th€ fact tha( his willstill operat€s and acts through m€. Cod forbid rhat I should allowto fail in my hands any semblance of life that I could [4re Jeprrirel r€store to so good a father. Whenever I have taken a handin completing some old bit of wall and repairing some badlyconstructed buildins, it has certainly been out of regard more tohis intenlions than io my own satisfaction. And I blam€ myindolence that I hav€ not gone further toward completing thethings he began so handsom€ly in his house; all the more because Ihave a good chance of being the last of my race to poss€ss it, andthe last to put a hand to it. For as regards my own personalinclination, neither the pleasure of building lce plaisir de bastit),which is said to be so atluring, nor hunting, nor gardening, nor theother pleasures of a retired life, can amuse me very much [n? m€peultent beaucoup amuserl. (IIl, ix, 951)

Antoine Compagnon makes much of this passage, in which he justifiablvsees that Montaigne "through a subtle play of den€gation . . marks himselfoff from his father while protesting hjs loyalty."$ Montaigne's ambiguous

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIONE

attitude toward his father is nonetheless not simply a product of his guiltfor having no progeny, as Compagnon would have it. Montaigne says helikes to follow his fath€r's example and presents himself as a faithful imageof his beloved falher in all respects save on€, namely his i,?drlrr, to "build"Montaigne. This inability is underscored by the use of the verb pouvoir,which appears three iimes in the passage. Montaigne says he would encour-age his inh€ritors ("as much as I cfl,") to follow his father's example, anircnic statement considering Montaigne's precise lack of successors, He thenadds thai he would do more for his fath€r if he could ("si je pou,rois"\,implying that he is incapable of doing more. Finally, he insists that '1hepleasure of building" and associated domestic pleasures "canlnorl amuseme very much." What is at stake in this inability ro "build" the familychateau? As Compagnon demonstmtes, the word baJtir is also used byMontaigne to denote the act of procrearion.r6 Montaigne is like his fatherin every respect except in his inability to produce offspring, to maintainthe family property. Once again, though, if Monraigne is a castrated,impotent clone of his fath€r, his father nonerheless stands to lose on thesame count. With Montaign€\ death, the Eyquem family will come to anend, and its property will pass into other hands. Morraigne himsetf knowsthis very well.

If Monraigne is thus forced to view his own inad€quacy vis-A-vis hisfathet he can nevertheless assum€ that castration and celebrate his father,sdemise not only by leaving the home unfinished but also simply by leavingthe home. The long passage above is preceded by a long development onthe joys of travel, of being elsewhere, of the eroticism of the exotic: "AndI seem to €njoy more gaily the pleasures of someone else's house lrremaison estrangiercl" (III, ix,95l). ln facr, what is continually assertedthroughout this essay is that the home is less of a hom€ than is its negalion,travel. Only by leaving the hom€ can Montaisne eer "inside" himself.Montaigne systematically denies all the possible dangerc and inconveniencesof travel and reinterprets them as advantages. Travel itself is what is properinsofar as it remov€s one from an improper, undomesricated home. Andsince it is proper in itself, or autotelic, the voyage needs no oth€r goal rhanitself and can thus take th€ form of an infinite wandering.

Before concluding, though, that Montaigne siruares himselfas a nomadicson rebelling against a homebody of a father.5r we should oote that Mon-taignel willful cutting off of himself from the home still follows the traceof his father's footsteps. For that Eyquem whose name points to the outwardmovement of th€ horse was himself a gr€at araveler, one who in so doingwent so far as to jeopardize his health as well as "his life, which he nearlylost in this, engaged. . . in long and painful journeys" (lll, x, 1006). Else-where, we are told not only that he wenr to lraly bu1 also rhar, like his

son, he kept a journal of his trip there: "[My farher] had raken a verylong part in the Italian wars, of which he has left us a journal, in his ownhand, following what happened point by point" (II, ii, 344). lt is also worthrcmembering that Montaigne or y decides to return home from ltaly when,during his second stay in Rome, he receives word of his election to rhemayoralty of Bordeaux (Journal, p. 221\, a position which his father toohad once held (lll, x, 1005-6).

Now, if there be any direction to the wandering of rhe essay "Of Vanity,"it is precisely from the bad home of Monraign€ to irs antithesis, the "onlycommon and universal city" (lII, ix, 997), Rome. Rome fo! Montaigne ismore of a home than home itself: "I was familiar whh the affairs of Romelong before I was with those of my own house: I knew the Capitol and itslocation before I knew the Louvre, and th€ Tiber beiore the Seine" (lll,ix, 996). At the same time, though, Rome is a city of the dead, a veritablenecropolis with its monuments and hisrorical sires, "the tomb of that city"(III, ix, 996). Amazingly, it is among these dead rha( we find Monraigne'sfather: "I have had the abiliti€s and forlunes of Lucullus, Metellus, andScipio more in my head than those of any of our men. They are dead. Soindeed is my father, as completely as they; and he has moved as far fromme and from life in eiahteen years as they have in sixleen hundred" (III,ix,996). In retracing his sreps, rhe voyage to Rome €nds by celebrating thedeath of the father. Rome, death, the father: "Irs very ruin is glorious"(III, ix,99?). For Montaigne, then, all rcads Iead to Rome, whether rop-ographical, symbolic, psychological, historical, or literary. If Montaigne isexemplafy of Fr€nch rourists to ltaly, as we suggested earlier, then rheambiguous French attitude toward rhat land is implicitly Oedipal. Ir is arthjs moment too, howevet that Monraigne chooses ro affirm his casrrarionas a virtue: "l have never thought thar to be without children was a lackthat should mak€ life less complete and less conrented. The srerile professionI'lacation stetileT has its advantages too. Children count among th€ rhingsthat are not particularly to be desired" (III, ix, 998). Finally, Monraignedefends his administration of the home againsr his father\ accusations:"He who left me in charge of my house predicred rhat I would ruin it,coflsidering that I was of so unhomely a humour lrnon humew si peucasaniarcT. He was mistaken; here, I am as when I firsr came into it, ilnot a little bett€r" 0II, ix, 998 99). Marking within Montaisne's imasinarythe realm of symbolic fatherhood, the ruins of Rome are also described in

r a passage or rhe Jorrral {urillen doqn by rhe.cribe bur said b} hrm ror" be rhe \ery $ords ol Monlaigne, ar rhe locus oI a corporedt (and implicirtypatricidal) violence, not wirhour srriking parallel in the scene ofMontaigne'shorse accident in "Of Practice": ,,Those who said that one at least sawlhe ruins of Rome said roo much. for rhe ruins of so awesome a machine

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIONE

would bring more honor and reverence to its memoryi this was nothinabut its sepulcher. The world, hostile to its long domination, had first brokenand shattered all the parts of this wonderful body; and because, even thoughquite d€ad, thrown on its back, and disfigued lmo ,ranye$i et ddfigut6l,it still terrified the world, the world had buried its \ety ttrin" (Joumal,103-4). If "Of Vanity" imaginatively retraces the itinerary of Montaigne,strip to Italy, itself a retracing of Pierrc Eyquemt journey there, the tracesof the father have been buried under the monumentality of the son. Whichis not to say that the old, dismembered, departed Rom€ does not remainan object of nostalgia, the recovery of whose ancient values is what moti-vates Montaigneh praise of Amerindian cultures in his essays "Of Can-nibals" (I, xxxi) and "Of Coaches" (III, vi).

"Of Vanity" ends with Montaigne's citation in toto of a documentofficially declaring him a citizen of Rome. Interestingly, Montaigne,s nameappears on the document without his family name. Indeed, as pierre Villeyhas noted, "Michel would be the first to abandon definitively the familyname of Eyquem to bear only the name of his land."r3 Cutting off partof his proper name, Montaigne denies his father's paternity to set himselfup instead as self-engendercd. But the documeni also adds that Montaigneis an "Eques sancti Michaelis [a knight of the Order of Saint Michael],,(lll, ix, 99), an award he covered as a youth (II, xii, 57?). Montaigne hasceased to be an Eyquem in order to b€come an e4rem, unless we shouldwant to read this switch as an attempt to dhlodge the patronymic from itsposition of domination and to press it inro the service of the son, Michael.Having l€ft home to cure himself of his "pierre," Montaigne returns hometo Montaigne as Montaigne.r, Rome is also rhe place where Montaigne takesover the wdtine of his journal after dismissing his secrerary.

what is inevitably affirmed in all rhis traveling is the value of inner /,retreat and the finding of a home (be it the final home of dealh: ,,a death '

all my own" [Il, ix,979]), which for Montaigne must be sought in tmvel,away from the home. lnteriority is attained through the excursion itself inall its castrating d€finitude. It is only because of this Oedipal d€terminationof travel, which makes of it the very condition for property, that Montaignecan underwriie so willingly the "expense" ofthe voyage as an incomparablegain. Th€ name of the father thus serves as the reference point, or pointde rcpirc, that guaranteees an economy in which the more one loses, themore one gains, and the farther off one wanders, the closer one gets tohome. Such a perversity (in the erymological sense of a rurning over) makesMontaigne's equestdanism as much a comfort for him as it is a bane fora rationalist like Descartes, for whom, as we will see, rhe horse needs tobe kept within strict bounds.

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

To the extent, though, that this rather carefree assumption of castration

is the prccondition for an always phallic definition of self, the often debated

"liberalism" or cullural rclativism of Montaigne finds its axiomatic pa

rameters.60 Th€ skeptical discours€ of the tssals deploys a wondrously

recuperative machine, orc able to posit maximal diversily to the precise

€xrenl that diversity is reducible to the same, to the extent ihat the thesis

of proliferating differenc€s results in indifference (€ven as th€ -EssdJt remain

one of the West's greatest clitiqu€s of such reductionism) Montaigne's

criticism, for instance, in "OfCannibals" ofthe "barbarity" of considering

all those different from oneself 10 b€ "barbarous" finds its limit in his

simultaneous praise of Tupinamba culture for its replication of ancient

values, for its moral proximity to Roman greatness as the Dnsulli€d youth

of the Old World. Favorablv citing a line from Juvenal, he ev€n finds a

precedent for-and hence defense of cannibalism in th€ archaic Gascon

;ulture from which he himself d€scends (I, xxxi, 210). While "of Canni-

bals" and "Of Coaches" repr€sent importani early moments in the defense

of autochthonous American cultures, their hermeneutics of analogical recu_

peration (whereby the other's thr€atening otherness is domesticated by the

;ystematic recoding of cultural differences as veiled similarities) also helped

crystallize the alternative myth ol the bon sauvale' a myth whose perni_

ciousness remains masked by its veil of ben€volent idealism.6l

Lik€wise, if Montaigne can seem to take an apparently "progressive"position toward women's rights in "On Some Verses of Virgil" (UI' v),

that too can be sho n to be in function of a denial of gender difference

that veils a fundamental misosvnv. Unsurprising in this regard, given Mon-

taigne's Oedipal scenarios, is the telling absence throughout the tssafs ofwhat one would think to b€ the significant women in Montaigne's life: his

mother, his wife, and his one surviving daughter' No doubi they remain

the occluded force of stability, maintaining house and hearth (the menage

whose upkeep Montaigne finds wearisome in IIl, ix), while the lord of the

"mountain" pursues his lravels abroad or remains ensconced in the phallic

to\rer of his library, writing the text of his immortal dcor"c/rL62 Curiously'it is in a moment of absence, upon his return from the famous hone

accident, at a time when his thoughts "did not come from withh me" (ll'vi, 376), that his wif€ makes one of her f€w appearances in the text:

Montaigne asks, oddly enough considering the conlext, thal she be given

a horse because he sees her "stumbling and having trouble on the path'

which is steep Imontueuxl ^nd

rugged."6r Woman appears' then, only as

she who cannot walk for herself up the hillv path to Montaigne's height

and is in need of his equestrian assistance.

But then horsemanship was already invoked when it was a question ofeiving "form" to those shapeless masses ldmar el pieces de chair infomes)

produced by women in "Of Idleness.', Unbridled as Montaigne,s thoughrmay be, the form it takes js not withour its share of (ar leasr, irnplicir)exclusions even jn thar apparently mosr inclusive and democratic of human,ist truisms: "Each man lromme] bears ihe entire form of rhe human condition" (IIl, ii, 805). It the lat€ Renaissance marks the hisroricat momenrwhen the privatized inner spac€ of individualism is firsi demarcared, rhatmom€nt also witnesses the codemarcation of exteriorized zones of otherness(femininity, savagery, madnest that reciprocally implicare the new interi-ority as exclusivist and limired to rhose empowered by European masculinity.If the assumption of castrarion allows for the demarcation of a privilegedpsychic interioriry, Monraigne\ .,ruling form Vome maistrcssel,' (tlt, ii,8ll) as a secure space of selfhood or chez moy (or, ar its limit, a phallicfortress),s the drawing ol rhose boundaries borh requires at Ieast a glancebeyond those walls and enables the gazer\ self,confidence in confrontingthe €xterior beyond. Aristocratic largesse could occur because of the privileged political and economic starus ir also signified in irs practice. Doesnot the condition of possibility for the radical skeptical cririque lie in rheOedipalized heiehrs of Monraisne, in the securiiy of the iower walts ihardominate the landscape below?6J

h is with a similar confidence or lack ofintimidation before rhe symbolic,then, that Montaigne can conceptualize writing irself in terms ot travel:"Who does not see rhat I have iaken a road along which I shall go, withoutstopping and withour effori, as long as there is ink and paper in rhe world?,,(lII, ix, 945). To the infinite wandering corresponds an infinite discourse,one whose bounds are nonetheless proleptically secured or preser by thereiNcription of the rext as book of the self. And if Montaigne can notonly describe writing and travel in rerms of each other bur also swirch backand forth between thos€ rwo experiences, going as he does in and oui ofhis towet would we nor be justified ir assuming that rhey are similarlyOedipalized? What do we find in the ,Assdf,r if not the experience, or erpAre-ience (to rc\fiite the title of Montaignet last essay), of writing as thatmovement ouiwards that celebrates the fath€r\ death in the son's castration?Montaigne's firsr writing experience, his translation of Raymond Sebond,sTheo[ogia naturalis, came in rhe form of something imposed on him bythe father, be rhar father described in rhe same breath as rhe ,,the bestfather ther€ ever was": .,lt was a very strange and a novel occupation forme lto translare Sebond]; but being by chance at leisur€ ar that rime, andbeing unable to disobey any €ommandmenr of th€ best father there everwas ldu meillev pere qui fut onques),I got rhroueh ir as besr I coutd: al$hich he wd\ (inguld'l) plea,ed. and ordered it to be printed; and rhis wa.erccuted after his dearh lce qui fut execurd apfts sa mo l,, (tI, xii, 41O).The "execution" of the writing comnanded by rhe farh€r iollows upon rhe

EQUESTRIAN MONTAIGNE

EQUESTRIAN MONTAICNE

father's alemise, an execution in print that also enshrines the son's shift-in the very act of translating-from paternal Latin to French 66

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

in the very mov€ment of experienc€ that reenacts the father's name' some_

thing else is nonetheless procreated in that castration. What is produced,

andln this the son pushes to the limit his resemblance to his father, is a

castrated son, namelv that definitively defined proper body of the text as

ecorchi, ^

ptoper body that as we remember, can only "live" (if that word

can have any meaning in this context) by its progenitor\ d€ath. This body

of writing bears a name, though-that of Montaigne, its author' Such a

name, which defines Montaigne, can only be assigned aptas'coup An

author's name can only be assigned or affixed if there is olrcad, ^

body

of writing, a text. The author's name can only take place if the "author"has a/readl succumbed to the castration and death of writing. Montaigne's

Essd,yr finds its or*os in this "name of the author," only if it is conceded

that this ultimate point of ref€rence is found along the Oedipalized paths

of writing a5 the ex-cursion that repeats (as it entombs or encrypts) the

father's nime. What the Esslllt performs as a death of the body is also,

then, ihe birth ofthe author, the prop€rness ofwhose proper name bespeaks

the inauguration of a new historical order, a new set of ploperty relations

\rherein the feudal proper name as the name of the land the lord owns

gives way to a prccapitalist name, functioning as a d€signatum of individ-

;aliiy, to be found in the self as locrd of its own production The play ofMontaigne's name straddles these two orders by its metaphorization ofbody, text, and land within a set of equivalences that reinstitute patriarchal

law as a n€w kind of autarky: having no male offspring, Montaigne ends

his familial line even as he. as author, situates himself as the fath€r ofFrench philosophy.

The last entrv in Montaignet travel journal is headed "Montaigne,"where he arriv€s on Novembel 30, 1581 (p. 239), but the last line of the

preface to the Essa),J had already reinscribed this name, indecidably sig-

nature and place name, not too long beforc his initial departure: "Sofarewell. from Montaigne, this first day ol March, fifte€n hundred and

ei}htt IA Dieu donq, de Montaigne, ce prcmiet de Mars mille cinq cens

qualrc vingtsl;'

Chapter 2Cartesian Coordinates

In the histoty of thought, Descartes wi!! alv)oys be thatFrench caysliet who set olJ at so JirE a pace.

-Charles peguy

:C::.ll_e]leoraneous with the grear era of voyages ot discovery h rhe impres_

srve ano perrstenr alignment of lhe motif ol rravel $ith the crilical momentin French philosophical literarure. In its most positive aspect, the advent

:il,Y^l:T:i :lll"" *',h oLh€r.cutrures ensased a generalized quesrioning

:l-^T.-,:-r1'1"*. as embedded in sanclifi ed Greco_Chri*ian paradigmJ

^1T- T: ,,.1. ol medieval synthesis. Augusrine and fhomas Aquinas, hadsucceeded m graliing (respecrively) plato and ArisLotte onlo th; Christiannarrarrve ot redemption. fhis redoubling ol the pilgrim,s partr ro sauarion:y:: socrat'c quesl for rhe absoture generared lhe gred a egorical journeysround rn Dante and the various legends of the Arthurian .ycte. iar f-msereKtng new horizons. though. lhese narratives were organized by rhe fearoflosing onel way. of srraying away fmm the right road, olf inro erroraEd transgression.

, When travel runs lhe risk of rransgression tellnologically speaking. acrossin€ or sLepping over), rhen voyages to exoric placei ."n'qui"lif o'p."o-nto. rhe rransgression or ca ing into question of recelvea iaeas in'rletraleler's }omeland. {s ceoffrot {rkinion has shown, criticisms of rra_drtio-nal theological and philosophical posilions abound in the rexrs JfITls:ance e.xelgrer: a"d e.os;;t;;; iJ u.ro,. ,,.r, criricisms surracetmosr dramadcally with Montaigne) in more phitosophicalprose. tn Uoni_:?:::nr-?!i!! !.: *,"mond

.sebohd and other **v.. "

r, " "e*pr,i.

i"i"r^_rDarion. irea;;; t.;,,;;;-',k,;;#: ;:i,'1Tl'fJ:"?';Tlllil:;behavior pla)s a teadins role in lhe debunking.f,h. W..r;;";*;;;i;;

39

CARTESIAN COORDTNAIES

to know. With the Baroque, there even appearc a certain pleasur€ in the

li".*.".ii"t* r'^iliv, .etl-delusion. and instabiliLv one's drifrins in

"r.ni l..o*at ta"

" .oral (or morlall danger Io be eladed lhan one s own

i."".""r "'lai.sy*ra'rc)

experience ro be lhed and €njoled lnstead ofn".i"ll "rii uur oat*"v we have the mordanl ironv of cervanres\ deluded

l.r"'r" .ii""i- s* ii, l"'the wake ol Montaignian skeplicism dnd Ielalivism'

itr.'uovug" of a;"ou.tv is whal ailows philosoph! 'in$e guise ol libe inage

or_free t-ftougftt,t to ;avel out of its accustomed ways of thinking' it can

U" ".f,"a

to -*tt",

o,"n, the risk of that philosophical ioumey issuing in a

nihltirtl" a.ift It forestalleal bv the verv wav in which the travel proj€ct is

iorrn.rtatea. Wnen tn" aesire to call a system of thought into question by

".i"" ou,tia" i, becomes a recognizable. lopot or conllgld3ce' is nol lhat

ir.ruJ-enr o,rttnutas lhen what delines the very ;nside one is supposedly

"Vr.g t f"**f h this not, after all, the lesson of Montaigne's

-"itr"t. q"""i.tt also confronL u! $irh an inleresling imbricalion o[ lhe

"triioroofri."f (sleplicism, relarivism) with lhe lilerary {spalial metaphors

iraveinarraritesr. ro, philosophy Io think its way oul of irs oqn scholas-

ticism, it would seem to have recourse to celtain figures or mfl'oi of travel'

ii ine' t"cnnai ot "^oring oulwards," among which is the writing of imag-

ir"rv *otfa. or utopiasi which proliferated in the aftermath of More's

.r"ti"-i. "-r. Yet it can be asled to uhal extenl Lhe ulopic lexl can offer

a'critique rfrar exceeas rte analogical reductionism Ihat describes its generic

rl.ii, iu" cv.-o de Berserac'i lunar fantasv of the "other world"' for

inri"n"", *". u" .ual""lly oiher so long as that other world is said to be

i:iir" ti. ot""l' s""rt ufiirmations of otherness are simultaneouslv denials

of i[, to the extent thai differences are marked only to be neutralized bJ

"n ou"a"t"tting t"-"n""r.r In order' however, to posil this otherness outside

itself, philosophy as pure conceptual cogitation must have recourse to

"norfr"i otft"t,- to

"n outsid€ that is alrcady inside itself, to what we could

"uti t.." ttt. ilt"."ty, the figures and uses of language it appropdates to

plot its mental itinerarY.' while the texts of imaginary voyages or utopias are manifestly informed

r' 'o.iiii.r-" "on..tn.ihe lormal and linguisLic framing ol philosophical

".,n,.n .o,rtO'ulso be demonstrared in philosophical syslems' \uch as the

"tofi.ir. .o rtiu.ptt"nr in Creal Brilain. thar $ould deny (heir literariness

;; Aill;s "

,run,pur.n.v of signilication and an immediacv ro realitv

tliai*oofa-enatf" tfri- to step out of schotastic obscurantism and formalist

p*"i.siv.' r" n**", tfte besi-known advocate of such a "common-sense"

rationatisrn is, of course, Ren6 Descartes, a thinker who claimed to have

"p"t"a;*i"d.*"" una "l"a

Uglt into the dark "c€llar" into which phi-

l;sophy had obscurely descenaled with Aristotelian scholasticism (Dr:sco'r'te'

CARTESTAN COORDINATES

VI, 105). Descartes was as opposed to the writers of utopias, whom heconsidered seditious ("1 could in no way approve of these turbulent humors,,lVI, 431), as to skepticism, crystallized in the figure-never named-ofMontaigne, the refutation of whose work constitutes the principal alrivingforce behind the Cartesian opus.6 Yet metaphors and oth€r figures of speechabound in the writings of this exponent of ,,clear and distinct,, ideas, inparticular a prolific use of travel metaphors. The latter have been the objectof a magisterial study by Nathan Edelman, for whom Descartes,s obsessionwith finding the right road to truth is to be understood ar a reflection ofhis "native uncertainty" and concomitant desire for ,,utmost certitude."th the following pages, I would like to demonsrrate, by looking first at twopassages in the Second Meditation, and then morc generally through theDiscowse on Method as well as the Meditationr, how Descartes,s recourseto travel and topographical metaphom not only betrays, as Edelman argues,a fundamental anxiety in Desca es but also, through the presuppositionscontained in the use of those metaphors, actively functions to allay thatinsecurity.

Finding One's Footing: Second Meditation

A key passage in which the play of spatial metaphors seems to informDescartes's metaphysical speculations occurs at the very beginning of theSecond Meditation, just a little before the truth of the cogrlo is presented.In this passage, Descartes descdbes, in an autobiographical vein, his reac-tion to the first dayt meditation and comments upon his meditative method:

Y€st€rday's meditation has fill€d my mind with so many doubtsthat it is no longer in my power to forget them. And nevertheless,I do not see in what way I can resolve them; and as if I had fallenall of a sudden into a very deep water lune eau tris profondel, Iam so astonish€d that I am able neither to find footing on thebottom nor swim to hold myself up above Ini assuret mes piedsdaN le fond, ni naget po r me soutenri dr-l?lsrsl. I shallnevertheless make an effort IJe m'efJorceru4, and I shall oncemore follow the same path as the one upon which I enteredy€sterday by distancing myself from all that in which I can imaginethe slig:htest doubt, just as if I knew it to be absolutely false; a;d Ishall continue always along this path until I have encountetedsomething ce ain, or at least, if I cannot do anything else, until Ihave Iearned \rith certainty that nothing is certain in ihis wortd.s

Following the dominanr metaphor here, rhe state in which rhe subject isplaced after the First Meditation is understood as a loss of footing, thesudden disappearance of the terra firma on which he felt secure in sranding:

CARTESIAN COORDINAIES CARTESIAN COORDINATES

he feels as if he had suddenlv fallen into a deep pool of water and can

neither touch its bottom nor swim back up to the topThe Latin iext is even more explicit in linking the concept of doubt to

a metaphorics of disorientation, which is itself oriented according to acertain topography. The previous day's meditation has "thrown" (cotJ?car'ls

.rrm) the meditating subject "into" so many doubts (In tantas dubitationes)

that he can neither forget about them nor see a way to resolve them (vll,23-24). This implied figural dislocation effected bv doubt is made explicit

in the second half of the fi$t sentence, which merits being cited in the

original Latin: "sed, tanquam in profundum gurgitem ex improviso delap-

sus, ita turbatus sum, ut nec possim in imo pedem figele, nec enatare ad

summum [but, just as if I had unexpectedly fallen into a deep abyss' so

am I thrown into such confusion that I am abte n€ither to place my foot

on the boiiom nor swim out to the topl." But even as this abyss is opened

up in all its thrcatening vertigo for th€ doubting subject' it begins to be

filled in or out by the very act of iis representation A bottom is placed

under this abyss (8ur€res. a bottomless abyss), a bottom that cannot be

touched with the foot, but a bottom nonetheless. The void itself acquires

a certain consistency, that of water, in which one can swim even if one

cannot swim all the way out to the top, but again there is (now) a top and

a way to get there even if one cannot actually get there. And if one cannotget there, it is not even because of any objective timitations but solely

because the doubting subject himself is simply unable to do it, as the firstperson subjunciive, possrr?, (the verb that governs the last two clauses ofthe sentence in question), indicates.

The changing of a single letter is now all it takes to complete this fillingof the abyss and to turn the abyss itself into the very bedrock of certaintyI refer io Descartes's reprise of the verb "enatare" 0o swim out) as "enitar"lthe futur€ indicative of enilor, literally "to mount up" or "to climb" and

figuratively "to exert oneself" or "to make a great effott"-s'effotcet' as

Descartes's translator, the Duc de Luynes, chose to wriie in the French

edition). Thechange ofverb figuratively puts Descartes's feet on the ground,

on terra firma. To climb out of something implies that one already has at

least a place on which to stand. Descartes can thus assert in the futureindicative that he will c/imb orr of what, a moment ago, using a verb

governed by the present subjunctiv€ he said he could not.utim out of: "lwill climb out, nonetheless, and I will again try out the same path as the

one I had ent€red upon y€sterday lEnitar iamen et tentabo rursus eandem

viam quam heri fueram ingrcssud."What Descartes will attempt to do in his efforts 10 climb out of the

abyss is 10 try out or test out (lerto, lenldre, closer to the vetb essalet as

used by Montaigne in the Essa/s than modern French lenter or English

attempt) the same road as that upon which he had enaered the previousday. Descartes's logic seems to have taken a strange if nor illogical twist:the road that is to rake one out of the abyss is paradoxically the same astle one that led into it during the previous day's meditation. In other words,the way out is the same as the way in. Nevertheless, a certain ,roglesj, oradvance toward a destination, has already been made insofar as we arenow dealing with a defined pathway, one that can be recognized as ,r,esame. A, voyage can now be undertak€n .,into and out of" doubt wherepreviously the very state of doubt involved the loss of anv kind of firmfooting. A Lopograph) of doubt i! now affirmed where p;eviousty doubrhad been linked on the metaphorical level with the loss of all possibletopological bearings. The abyss of doubt is now som€thing that can betraversed in the seatch for truth ard certainty, for the certainty of the truth.This certain truth then becomes the telos of a philosophical journey whereindoubt ard uncertainty are seen as mere detours or obstacles on the pathto truth and certainty. And so it is that in following the road of doubr toits very end, one arrives at absolute certainty; again, by following the roadthat leads into the abyss one comes out of it: ..I will again try out thesame path ihat I had entered upon yesterday; removing, that is, all thatwhich allows even a minimum of doubt no less than if I had ascertainedthat it was wholly false; a d I will proceed onwards until I know eithersomething certain or, if nothing etse, at leasr this itself for certain, thatnothing is certain" (Vll, 24).

Such a teleological closure allows the doubt to be methodical, and allowsbelief in the fiction of a ,,point that is certain and vr.{,hak^ble lpunctumcertum et inconcussuml" before it has been discovered. In other words,the very act of positing certainty as a desrination already puts rhe philos-opher on fitm ground and keeps him from slipping into rhe ahift of aimlessnomadism. To say where one is going is to orient one's position in relationto that destination, to define one's position d,r a position in relation to thedestination, toward which one can th€n proceed teleologically. Once sucha preliminary positioningor pre-positioning has taken place, the philosophercan then proceed with grear assutance (,,pergamque porro donec aliquidcerti"). The subjecr of the meditation ,'will proceed onwards" to certainty.He will proceed onwards ro certainty, one mighi add, lrrlr, certainty.

The Latin phrase pergamque pono rcveals something else, howevetabout this progression or journey to certainty, something effaced by rheFrench translation ("ei je conrinuerai roujours dans ce chemin,,, IX-I, l9).'lhe adverb porro, which I have translated as ..onwards,,' could. in facr.if we follow Le*is and Short't I arin Dictionaty. be transtared here in rhreedifferent ways. The first meaning ofpor.o, that of..forwards,, or ,,farrheron," refers to movement in space and thus corroborates once more the

CARTESIAN COORDTNATES

metaphorics of the voyage so far unearthed in this passage The second

mea;ng of polo, "hereafter" or "in the future," rcfers to movement in

time. Ii the passoge under analysis, this second meaning is nonetheless

readily reconcilable with the first meaning since a volage, such as that

unalertaken by our philosopher, moves forward in time as much as it does

in space. Bui porro has another meaning, a meaning found in logic and

rhetoric, that of a conjunctive adverb that can be translated as "further_

morej' "moreover," or "besides," in order to indicate a discursive prc_

gression. That the meaning of polo is left ind€terminate in this passage

ircrn the Meditations indicates that the .iourney through hyperbolic doubt

is as much a aliscursive movement as it is a movement in space and time'

lf it is granted that Descartes's philosophical project is tantamount to

a quest fo; shbility and fixity in a post-Montaignian world of "perennialmovement" (Essays lII, ii, 8M), it should be remarked that this quest takes

place via the discursive voyage of tie metaphysical meditation, via the

it:nerary, ot methoitus (a Creek word for a pathway), of methodical doubt'

tmplied, ho*ever, in this metaphor of the road is a certain security, the

secu ty by which the subject (of doubt, of travel) can map out whele th€

rcxr (oi his doub0 is taking him, can domesticat€ the te\t (of his doubt)

through a representation of it in spatial or topographical terms But then

the mitaphoi of the voyage applies to the text of the meditalion as well

as to tht process of doubt. The text like the abyss of doubt (if it is not

the abyss of doubt itself) becomes a space to be traversed on the way to

"what is ce arn anal unshakable lquod ceftum sit & inconcussuml" (Vll'24). This search for what is certain and stable is comparcd by Descartes

to Archimedes' request for a "firm and immobile" p oinl Qtunclum fimum& immobile), from which place he could move the entire wotld (intecram

terram loco ilimovefit t24D What is "certain and unshakable" will be a

point Q)unctunl), from which can be mastered the (discursive) space ofioubt.ls the course of the meditation will shoq the conditions for such

a "point of certainty" will be found in the enunciation of the coSito. "Egosum, ego existo: certum est lt am, I exist, that is certainl" (27). The positing

of the cogito provides the Cartesian coordinates fol the discursive mean_

derings oithe doubting subiect, that is, it provides a transcendental refercnce

point (oikos) in relation to which he can always locate himself e

' Once posited, the cogito should allow for the mind to find rcpose after

its peregiinations through doubt, which were "upsetting" it so: "conjectus

sum," "turbatus sum." Th€ €xpected repose is not to be had, however, as

we can see if we turn to a passage a few pages later' after the cogito has

been discovereal. Althoush the proof of the coaito has been arrived at'

there remains some difficultv in believing its truth: "But I cannot help

believing that corporeal thines, whose images are formed bv mv thought

CARTESIAN COORDINATES

and which occur to the senses, are known more distinctly than this unknowrpart of myself that does not fall under the imagination: €ven rhough it isin effect a v€ry strange thing that those rhings I find doubtful and faraway are more clearly and easily known to m€ rhan those things which aretrue and certain, and which belong to my own nature" (IX-I, 23). Theprobl€m here is less that of the mind\ doubring the transcendental realityof the subject as evidenced in th€ coaito than it is that of the persisienceof its desire to beli€ve in empirical reality as being the morc certain andtruthful of the two: "BDt I see what ir is: my mind enjoys wandering offIs'dgarcr; abeftorcl, and it cannot yer contain itself within the limits ofthe truth. Loosen its bridle one more time [RelAchonsJui donc encore unefois Ia btide; laxissimas habenas ei petmittamusl, so thar, after awhile,when it is led back, it will lei itself be ruled more easily" (IX-l, 23, VII,29-30). The mind will not hold steadfastly to the truth of the cogro becauseit "enjoys" straying among the suspect objects encounrered in empiricalreality. Even though it recogniz€s th€ truth, it persists in its €rror. Ii knowsone thing, but wants to believe something else.1o

In an image fraught with the shades of Montaigne, such a perversepersistence is metaphorized as a runaway horse thar refuses ro sray wirhinits assigned limits, those of the truth. The \n^ndetings (s'dgarer abefia4of this horse are its errors. Error, in other words, is a wandering (dberrare)from the truth. This metaphor is all the more striking given that the Latintext often cannot distingrhh between the two senses of the verb er.o,. towander or to err. (The French text obfuscates this ambiguity in Descartes'slanguage by translating erro by s'dgaret \rhet its meaning is deemed ro bethat of wandering.) What is at stake in this passage on the horse's "error"is the return of the mind to the repose of the cogilo,. rhat is, irs willingnessto let itself be restrained within th€'rlimits ofthe truth." Th€ tactic involvedis basically that of letting the mind indulge in its "extravagance," ihat is,to let the horse run its course so that after the reins have been broughtback in, the horse-mind will allow itself to be ruled or led more easilnWhat is projected is a circular journey, a wandering ihat is not at all aimlessbut in fact always already circumscribed such that it must inevitably returnto the point of departure. As the Larin text specifies, the reins are onty iobe loosened to their laxest (laxissimas habenas\, not let go of entirely. Thehorse can be allowed to wander as far afi€ld as it likes, to persist in irs"error," because there is no danger of its actually wandering away; thebridle can always be suitably drawn back at rhe appropriate moment (,,afterawhile").

All that will happen in rhe wake ol rhis wandering is th^t the cogitowill be proven true once again, bur rhis time nor by hyperbolic doubt but,as it were, by a hlperbolic creduliry. Instead of examining what can or

cannot be doubted, we are to see what-if anything-can be believed. The

mind will be provisionally allowed io believe whatever it pleases; thai is,

to b€lieve the evidence of the senses ot if one prefers, to believe in theprimacy of "external" reality over the "realitv" ofthe subj€ct. Our passage

thus pr€faces Descartes's ensuing and famous argumenl about the piece ofwax, whose purpose is to demonstrate that the clarity and distinctness ofobjects does not so much prove their reality as the reality of the mind thatperceives them. Extracted from th€ honeycomb, the wax has a certain color,

shape, size, and texture, all of which are altered when the same piece ofwax is melted by fire. One believes that the piece of wax remains the same

despite contrary evidence frcm the senses. The philosopher concludes thatit is not the piece of wax that is "clear and distinct" but the activitv ofthe mind perceiving that wax, not through the senses but through the

understanding (ure1lectr6, enlendement). Havir'g compl€ted this meditative

tra.jeciory, Descartes can then conclude, "here am I imperceptibly brought

back to where I wanted" (lX-I, 26). The losic of the argumenl, in followingthe grapplings of th€ mind in the latter\ effort to understand what it takes

to be reality, com€s back around "imperceptibly linsensiblementl" to thetruth of the cogito.

Clearly, this argument presupposes the prior demonstration of the

coSito.lLlnde€d, it is only because the rogllo has already been ensconced

that Descartes can feel safe in savins "loosen the bridle." It can be deduced

that the wanderings of the horse must lead back to the point of origin'given that the proof of the cogito rests not on objective criteria but on the

very fact of the subject\ thinking. For the coSro to be true requires onlvthat the subject think (cogitate), whether rightly or wrongly, whether intruth or in error. So whatever enors the mind indulges in, the truth of the

cogilo remains unchallenged-so long, that is, as the mind engages in errot'as the horse continues to wander.1'] In oaher words, it is the vety wandering

or erring that constitutes the snbject J'erre donc ie s i.t'r But if it is the

wandering that defines the truth of the rogito as the certain and unshakable

point*the place from which all the instability and loss of grounding occa-

sioned by radical doubt can be stabilized and resolved-then one is led towonder if this wandering of the mind is still a wandering. What the cogtodoes, in fact, is to neutralize this wandering, to turn it into nonwandering,to ensurc in short that this wandering will not wander anywhere, that this

error not be decisively in error but rather accompanied by the truth Whatthe cogilo provides is an economy of error such that there is nev€r anvpossibility oflossto th€ subject, whose mental expenditures can only provideit with surplus valu€ in the shape of an ever increasing belief in his ownautonomous existence. In other words, the more he thinks, or the more he

errs, the more he knows he is. There is thus no danser in relaxing or lettins

C"{RTESIAN COORDINATES

off on the mind's bridle, and the aesture that would seem to allow for thecogito to be put in question only paves the way for rhe continued affirmationof its truth.

Even the very metaphor of the errors and delusions of the midd as thewanderings of an unbridled horse points to rhe containment (in both sensesof the word) of the error within 'the limits of truth." For the very under-standing of that error as "wandedng" implies a topography or space ofwandering, which, be it ever so vague, already sets limits to the wandering:veitatis limites, the limits of the truth. The horse,s very field of movementalready in itself substilutes a comforting horizontality for the ve iginousverticaliry of the initial plunge into rhe boftomless waters of doubt. Thevery metaphor of wandering precludes wandering; rhat h to say, it excludescertain radical "wanderings" of the mind thar, for exampler by not respec!ing the spatialization ofthe t€mporal continuum the meraphor ofwanderingimplies, would begin to call inro question the assumptions and presup-positions upon which th€ cogilo and its attendant aopographical metaphorsrest. In other words, only certain lypes of enor can be admitted: rhosethat allow th€mselves ro be undersrood by or within the meraphor of wan-dering. In this sense, an l{error" is merely a deviation from an assutedtruth and not what, for instance, aggressively calls into question the starusof the truth itseli

It must be said, however, thar the metaphor of wandering as deviaiionfrom the truth is the only way to pur the securiry of the cogiro to the testonce we have accepted rhe rruth of rhe co8ilo as a topographical point.The calling back into question of the cogito that Descartes claims to beundertaking at rhis juncture of the Meditdtions further supposes rhat meFaphot insofar as we are dealing wirh a certain rransgression of whar haspreviously been established. in the Meditations. Instead of examining whatcan or cannot in fact be put in doubt, we are to see what, if anything,can be believed in. But this deviation from the rherodcal strategy of Des-cartes, as in the case of any such transgtession, is always already framed,comprehended by some more encompassing bounds that take the very trans-gression of the bounds into consideration. No notion. in sum. is morecircumscribed rhan the noLion ol rransgression-indlet ho\r else can the

of-transgression be understood? Like the error of Descartes. atransgression can only be affirmed or posited as such if it has somehowalready been n€utralized, conrained, or codified within a certain preestab-lished structure, and this is the case even when such boundary-crossing ispositively valued for its own sake and affirmed in a sincerity. Such is not,to be sure, the €ase in Descartes, wher€ the unbridling of mental .,error"remains heuristically and manifesdy in rhe service of a srrategy to containor resrrarn such elor. $ander;ng. or transgre\sion.

CARTESIAN COORDINAIES

48 CARTESIANCOORDINATES

Ar€ we not also invited to read in Descartes's preoccupation with the

rniriAr"a rto^" of error the scene of his confrontation with Moniaigne'

i;. "..a*"t*, or spirilual falhel, lhe lhinler mosl linked wilh lhe ikep_

.i.ir'tn n. it 'tvi"g

I; relule? ln lhe lighr ol sDch an OedipaliTarion' Des-

"uri"r'r "ituution t"".. tess happy than Montaignet Er'ror is what is proper

,o Uonr"ig*, improper as that may be lf Montaigne cheerfully assumes

ii" "*t"t_i.".r "i_p*l"nce,

Descartes seeks inst€ad to deny that castration'

"ra-*i ft i ,ft" paiental example set by Montaigne' by resorting io the

ir""".".i ;"'"ii;"", con\lrued as whal is mosL inner and proper ro lhe

irri"ii"i ""tf.,' his own lhoushrs a' Ihev presenr themselves Io.him

iiui ii -r'a.ntuig*

rid€s off on his horse while Descartes slavs at home

-nitu,inn in his celebrated po?k or slove-healed loom' it is because each

inil. o"_. "uv ."*..'tte same claim to lheir o$n property or properness l

Wanderings in F,rroti Discourse on Method, Meditatio'ts

Desca es's economy of error (wher€in no wandering or illusion would lead

t'to.. t"""o." ttt" u"rv tact of its occurr€nce would prove lhe cogllo right)

ir ir-tft*p ""*.*, to ttt" nsetett wanderings and €rrors he d€scribes in

ii"-""i.ii.g*prti"a first part of the,iscotrse on Methotl ln faci' it is

u.."ur. or ii't"r" "tto."

thai Descartes shuts himself up in his poele in order

i" "ft""* "*n"ft paths I ought to follow" (VI, l0) Implicit in the full

iitf" oi,ft" *-t tl;r"o urs de la mdthode pout bie conduire sa rubon et

,iiriin to ,erii dans les scie ces: Discourse on the Method for well

"onau"ting on.t Reason and for seeking Truth in the Sciences)' the meF

"rtror .i ,_r'o""ft, ^,*vel

appears almosl lrom rhe beginning Right afler

iir'..r.iru,.a-oo*ine t.*ari uuo,'r rhe equilable di'rribulion ot good

r.nr.;' i".*, iescartes reverts to ttre travel metaphor in order to be able

i. l"pf"in aifi...*.t in intelligence: "The diversitv of our opinions does

noi aiise because some men are more rational than others, but only because

we lead tcordariozsl our thoughts along different ways ho'?sl and do not

""""ia".ift" same things" (Vl, 2). While €vervone has the sam€ quantitv

oi ilgooa ,"nt.," *" utiuse it in different ways, giving rise to the diversity

oi o,], opiniont. sut ttt"se different ways are also different "ways" or patbs

iuoi"rl, "t n.""".t." i.plicitly proposes a topography of thought in which

each person follows a diff€rent itinerary'Bui not all itineraries are good ones, as Descartes is quick to point outi

his description of the various uses to which the mind may b€ put takes on

"ifri""i .*""*", "The great€st souls are capable of the greatest vices' as

*"tl as ttt" g.eur""t virtues; and those who walk only verv slowly may

J;;";; farther, if thev alwavs follow the straighr path' ihan those

*ho.un una go u"t.uy r.om it" (Vl,2) A certain moral imperative surfaces

CARTESIANCOORDINATES,l9

in Descartes's resuscitation of the Christian dead metaphor of /€ toitchemin, the "slJaight and narow" path. Those that wander off the pathare in error, they err in their wandering, like ihe Second Meditation'sunbridled horse. At this point in the D6corrse, however, error is stillsomething to be avoided as opposed to something in which one can indulgefreely and safely, knowing that that erior will always lead back to rhe truth.ln the Discourse, the problem for Descartes is how to g€t on the righr pathand stay on it, or ev€n how to recogniz€ it when one stumbles upon it.Only by finding a sure solution to this traveleas dilemma can this error oraimless (and by implication both stupid and sinful) wandering be avoided.'5

And it is Descaries's story of how h€ found a "method" (methodus: anitin€rary) to arrive at this solution which we are told ii the Discourse onMethod: "l shall not be afraid to say thar I think I have had a lot of lucklnerrl, for since my youth I have found myself on cerlain palLr, whichhave /ed me to considerations and maxims, out of which I have found a

ethodt thtoluEh which it seems to me that I hav€ th€ means to increasemy knowledge rlep ,/ step" (Vl, 3; emphasis added). Something has hap-pened, however, to the organization of Descartes's topography. Here, thephilosopher's position is not merely the resula of a moral and intellectualchoice, but it is also an effect of oneh good fortune (/,err). Descartes hasmerely had the good luck, or bonheur, to find himself on certain parhsand not others, in certain ways of thinking and not orlers. Now, too,differences between peopl€ are said to be "accidenral": "Only betweenoccidents is there'more' or 'less' and no( between the furrlB, or natures,of indiriduak of lhe safie rpecles" (Vl, 2-3; Descartest emphasis). Civenthis revision of the topographical schema, one is always already in errorto the extent that one finds oneself on certain paths, good or bad, out ofwhich one must find on€'s way 1o the "dght" on€. Latet in the third partof the ,,isco../rse, while Descartes is developing his "provisionary" moralsby which to guide his actions in the world until such time as he can undertakea global and systematic reappraisal of his opinions, th€ finding of the rightot straighl path (dtoil chemin\ merely b€comes a question of followingslraiEht on ot tout droit the path on which one is: "ln this, I would imitaretravelers lost llgdrid in a wood! they must not wander about [er.e/] turningnow to this side, now to that, and still less must they stop in one place;but they must keep walking as straight as rhey can in one direction lnd]'creltoujouts le plus dtoil qu'ils peuyent yers un meme c6t6l and nor changecours€ for sliaht reasons, ev€n if ar the beginning rh€ir choice was det€r-mined perhaps by mere chance; for in this way, even if they do not arrivejust where they wish, they will at leasr finally ger somewhere where theywill probably b€ beuer off than in rhe middle of a wood,, (Vt, U-25\.^While the meditations leading up ro rhe dhcovery of rhe coai o require th€

CARTESIAN COORDINATES

rejection of the probabl€ as well as the improbable, the moral of this

extended analogy is that, in the conduct of one's day-to-day affairs, one

should stick mercly to what is most probabl€, at least until the time when

a true and definitive morals will have been found to replace its provisional

counterpart. More generally, what the sought-for method should do is

propose a definitive way out of this labyrinthine and stereotypical forest

of e or. Part One of the Discorrs? accordingly prcsents the narative ofan exemplary education, of the "progress I think I have already made in

the search for truth" (vI, 3). To the extent, though, that everyone finds

himself elsewhere in the topography of thought and must follow a different

itinerary, Descartes can only tell of those paths he himself has taken. The

exemplary narrative is also or only an autobiography, the tale of Descartes's

personal odyss€y in search of truth, "a la recherche de la v€rit€," an

exemplum that, as he is at pains to remind his readers, is not g€neralizable.l'

The journey is a solitary one.To find his own way out of the Iabyrinth of errot Descartes tries three

solutions or paths. The first involves the pursuit of scholarly erudition, a

task itself compared to a journey: "For il is almost the same thing to

conve$e with men of oth€r centuries as to travel- It is well to know

something about the manners of different peoples in order to judge ourown manners mofe sanelv, and not think everything contrary to our own

fashions absurd or inational, as do customarily those who have never seen

anything. But when one spends too much tim€ traveling, on€ finally becomes

a foreigner in one's own country; and when one is overly curious about

the kinds of thines pursued in ceniuries past, one typically remains very

ignorant about those things that are pursued in this one" (VI,6). Reading

the scholarly masterpieces of aniiquity is the temporal equival€nt of ttav-eling through space. But while Descartes does not want to d€ny a certain

utility to both literal voyages and the figural trav€l of scholarship, there is

a certarn economy in the use of one's time that must always be taken into

account. At the time he is writing ihe Discorrse, Descartes believes he has

already "given enough time to languages, and likewise to reading"'3 Then,

there is the danger of spending too much time on either kind of travel:

that of becoming a foreigner in onet own land in the case of literal travel,

that of becoming a stranger to one's own time in the case of scholarly

travel. The threat would be that of an eror so sweeping as to prevent the

very possibility of return. In the case of the overty diligent reader, there is

the danger of a Quixotic folly: "Those who govern their conduct by exam_

ples drawn fmm ancient histodes and fables are liable to fall into the

extravagances of the paladins of our rcmances and to conceive designs

beyond their powers" (VI, 7).

Confionted with the danger of such errot Descarres tells how he aban-doned the course of his studies and began to wander literally: ,,Resolving

not to seek any knowledge but what might be found within myself or int}le great book of the world, I spent the rest of my youth in travel, invisiting courts and armies, in frequenting people of various dispositionsand ranks, in col/eclr,g a wiety of experiences, in testing myself in thecircumstances fortune dealt me, and in reflecting ev€rywhere upon rhe thingsthat prcsented themselves in a way that might enable me to derive someprofil frorn them" (VI, 9; my emphasis). Suddenly, the topogmphy ofthought has becom€ the map of Europe, and the latter in turn a book,"the great book of the world:' But if literal travel is a figural reading,that reading is unalerstood to be more literal thar its literal equivalenr: ..Itseemed to me that I could encounter much mote truth Iplus de y6it6l i\the reasonings that every man nakes about the affairs that concern himand whose issue will very quickly punish him, if he has judged badly, thanin the reasonings of a man of letters in his srudy, about speculations rhatproduce no effect" (VI, 9"10). There is an implicit economics that qualifiestlrc "profit" that Descartes dedves from hh ..variery of experiences." Thercasonings he encounters in the book ofthe world hav€ ..much moretruth.,,thus confirming the latter booki economic superiority orer literat books.For once in Descartes, it is the error of rhe mind which is undone bv rheerror, o( sandering. of the bod). But while rhe prolir derived from lireraltravel is said to deliver him..litrle by little from a lot of errors,,(VI, l0),it cannot itself arrive at the assurance of certainty. Consequ€nily, a thirdsolution is attempted: ,,After I had spent some years studying thus in thebook of the world, and in trying to acquire some €xpedence, I r€solvedone day to study also in myself and ro use all the powers of my mind tochoose which paths lcftoisir les cheminsl I ought to follow. This succeededmuch belter, it seems to me, than it would have, had I never distancedmyself [si / ne me fusse jamais dtoignl] ftom my country or fiom mybooks" (VI, 10-11).

Following the narrative put forth in the Discorrse, Descartes decides toput an end to both kinds of error in his life (menral and corporeal), firstby enclosing himself in the po€le, aIId then by embarking upon an intro-spective meditation rhat will decide once and for all .,which paths I oughtto follow" This moment of retreat, out of which we are invited to believethe entire Cartesian system, Gi,nding the rules of the method and theprovisionary morals, suddenly sprung forth,,e has all the rrappings of anevent, databl€ to the winter of 1619, at which rime the young Descarteswas serving as a volunteer for the Duke of Bavaria in rhe early stages ofthe Thirry Years' War. Some of his earliest €xtant writings date from thisperiod, as well as the occurrence of his famous dream (November 10). for

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CARTESIAN COORDINATES

if his da)'iime cogilations successfully attain the security of a method tofollow, the opening section of his dream vividly rcpresents the anxiety ofdislocation in pointedly theological terms:2o blown about by a powerfulwind and enfeebled on his right side, Descaries "turns over onto his leff'and hobbles along, fearful he may fall "a1 every step," until he managesto attsin t]le shelter of a college chapel. As he turns back around to greeta passerby, the wind "violently" pushes him back against the church. Heis told that someone has a gift for him, which he believes to be "a melonbrought from a foreign country." He also notices that everyone else isstanding "straight and firm on their feet" while he is still "benl over andtottedng on the same terrain" (X, 181). The wind dies down, and he wakesup with the uneasy feeling that some "evil genius" has wanted to "seduce"him. Interpreting his own dream, Descartes decides that this wind wasnothing other than "the evil genius who was forcefully trying to throw himinto a place *here his design was to go of his own wilt" (X, 185). Insteadof leading him astray (se-drcere), presumably by allowing movement onlyalong Descartes's left or "sinister" side, this diabolical agent forces himtoward a saintly destination, a church inside a school. Despite the symbolismof the yia si istra, Desca es does end up on the "right" road. What doesit mean, though, to be forced to go where one wants to go? Descartes'sown interpretation suggests an oneirical refiguration of the rhetorical moveswe have already noted in Descartes's meditations: the way out of the abyssis the way back into it, the hype olic doubt is rhe vehicle to certainry, rhepursuit of error leads to truth. And is it nor by letting himself be "blownaway" by the radical skepiicism enabled by the malin gdnie at the end ofthe first meditation that he is brought, via the indubitability of his nec-essarily being something, no matter how fooled he is by this almightytrickster, to the "rational" proof for the existence of cod, itself based onthe intuition of a being more perfect thar he? The question of which wayto go is repeated later in the dream when Descart€s finds himself before abook, an anthology of Latin poetry entitled the Coryus poetatum, vhichhe just happens to open up to a verse from Ausonius: "Quod vita€ sectaboriter? [What path of life shall I follow?]." Oddly, this question of where togo is esteemed by Descartes to be "the good advice of a wis€ person, oreven Moral Theology" (X, t82-84). The "wise" prescription is the questionitself, the relentless pursuit of which, in turnt provides the answer. Thedreamwork with its symbolism of left and right thus presages the lessonof the meditation, that wandering in error does not fail to lead back tothe truth. In the rendition given some eighteen years later in the Drrco

^e(1637), no mention at all is made of this dream, and whaiever insights mayhave been aleaned nocturnally are credited to the diurnal intensity of

CARTESIAN COORDINATES

Descartest raiionalist contemplation within the poAk, a locus curiouslyunmentioned in the same Cogitationes ptivalde that contains the dream.

But if the positing of the coAr?o is what will €ventually allow Desca es

conceptually to contain or comprehend error and in fact to derive furtherproof of the cogilo from the latter, the entire practice of meditation leadingup to the cogito was called for precisely because the problem of error had

inserted itself so pervasively not only in Descafies's writing and thinkingbut also in the text of his life. As if to recapitulate Part One ofthe Discorffein an utterly elliptical way, the very first paragraph of the Medilations,published four years later, once again states the necessity of a rctrcat intooneself in order to undo all the "false opinions" acquired in the course ofone's life (IX-I, t3; VII, 17-18). The tim€ for this meditative exercise isgiven as "today" (hodie, vll, l?), rot the "one day" or "all day" (vI,10. 11) of a November long past. Nonetheless inscribed within the same

trajectory of a self-extrication from error via a conscious deliberation overthe right path to follow, the m€taphysical meditation is thus paradoxicallyat once a voyage of discov€ry, a refusal to voyage, and a quest for theproper way to voyage. It is a journey undertaken to find on€h bea ngs so

that the voyage can be undertaken with assurance, so that the movementof error can be definitively mast€red. As in the unbridling of Descartes'shorse, the travel metaphor seems to be invoked not as the occasion for a

critical appraisal, but as precisely the move that reaffirms what has pre-

viously been supposed. Strangely, it is by indulging in error that one hopes

to do away with it, by pursuing a kind of travel that one hopes not totravel.

The labyrinthine topography of error in its threat of an infinite anderingfigures Descartes's predicament as one that is inextdcably textual. Con-ftonting this predicament, Descartes has rccourse to the supremely logo-centric gesture of lhe cogito, of a scientific method grounded in innateideas and intuition; in th€ declaration, that is, of the subject's unmediatedand pure prcsence to itself as thought, an insight made s€cure by what hepoetically calls "natural light." That the problems of travel! or errorr andof the text are construed by Descartes as facets of the same problem is

evidenced by the metaphors noted earlier in Part One of the D,rco,/6e.the danger incurred by working too much with te,\ts is that of a certainestrangement that is "almost the same" as the estrangement that comes

from too much travel. And in the case of tmvel, errors are corrected throughonet wandering in the book of the world. But these errors are only corrected

"little by little" through the slow, painful work of int€rpretation. AlthoughDescart€s does not say it in the Drsco!rue, th€ danger, which he witl reckonwith it the Meditations, is that th€ interpretation will be infinite, that is,an infinite wandering to undo an infinite number of errors. Such a prospect

CARTF,SIAN'OORDINATFSCARTESIANCOORDINATES 55

is suggested by the imperfect tense of rhe verbs Descartes uses: ,,I waslearning U'apprcnokl not to believe anyrhing too firmly"; "ihus I wasdelivering myself [./e me dlliyrdis] lirlle by litlle from a lor of errors" (VI,l0). Descartes does not want to gel involved in rhe kind of ceasel€ss bal-ancing and weighing of issues marking, for example, Monraigne's thinkingin the EssdJ,r. Such an infinite wandering would also be an infinire squan-dering, a squandering, that is, of Descartes's mental and physical r€sourceslor a doubLlul "prolir."

The metaphysical meditation must, therefore, also answer an economicimperative, and in fact the purpose of hjs "merhodical', doubr is to avoidthe "infinite labor" eniail€d in examining every issue case by case to derer-mine i(s trulh or talsehood: "I shall apply myself, seriously and freely, rothe task of destroying all of my former opinions. Now, in order to arriveat this end, it will not be necessary ro prove that they are all false, a raskI would probably never bring to an end...there is no need for me roexamine each one in particular, which would be an infinire labor bur,because the ruin ofthe foundation necessarily brings down wirh it the wholeremainder of the edifice, I will firsi auack the principles upon which allmy former opinions were set" (Firsl Meditation, IX-I, 13,14; VII, l8). Hereas in the second patt of the Discowse (ll l4), Descartes uses an archi-tectural metaphor, representing th€ economic value of leveling the entjreedific€ of one's thought at once rather than rrying to rebuild it piecemeal.And it is by sucn a claim ro €conomy that Descarres continues to ward offor plug up the infinities that reDearedly rhreaten to intrude on his discourse,to l€ad it astray, to lead him into an infinite e/ro[ In the following passagesalone, taken from the Second M€ditation, Descartes upholds his resistanceto being snared by a search thar would be infinite and rhus inconclusive:

But what is a man? Shall I say "a rational animal"? Cerraintynot: for then I should have to go on to ask wha! an animal is, andwhat "rational" is, and so from a single question, we would tallimperceptibly into an infinity of oiher questions thar would bemore difficult and cumbersome, and I would not wanr to wastethat small amount of r;me and l€isure that remains ro me, by usingit to unravel subtleties of this kind. (lX-I, 20)

Can I assure myself of having the least of all rhe rhings I havehere above attributed to the nature of a body? I stop to ihinkabout it attentively, I review and review again all these ihings inmy mind, and I encounter none rhar I can say is in me. There isno need for m€ to slop and enumerate them. (IX-I, 21)

Is it noi that I imagine the wax being capable of passing from around to a square shape, and lrom a square to a triangular one?Certainly nol, since I conceive it capable of receiving an infinity of

such changes, and I cannot run through this infinity in myimagination. (lx-l, 24)

And so many other things arc encountered in th€ mind itself,which may contribute to clarifying its nature, rhat rhose which arederived from the body scarcely merit cotrnting Ine mifitent qussipa5 d'ew nombftesl. \lx.l, 26)

We cin conclude, then, that error appears in its most threatening form asinfinity, whether as infinite wandering or infinite text, and that it is rhebroad purpose of the Cartesian project (including not only the coSito itselfbut also the provisional morals, the rules of the method, and even theinvention of coordinate geometry), ro comprehend and contain thatinfinity.rl

It is interesling rhat the infinite error rhat Descartes seeks so vigorouslyto avoid res€mbles closely whar Kant calls in the Citique of Judgment the"mathematical sublime"r:-with the qualification that such a mathematicalinfinity appears to D€scarres as anything but sublime. The sublime doesappear in Descartes, howev€r, and in conjunction with a recLrrence of thenotion of infinity, specifically in that sublim€ infinity evoked by Descartesin his proofs for the exisi€nce of God. For what is Descarres's Cod if nota positive infinity that guarantees rhe Cartesian sysrem against the bad ornegative infinity of errot a "good genius" set over and against the evilgenirus ot malin gdnie? Cod can do this because He is not only an ,,infinitesnbstance" (Meditations, IX-I, 35) but also because He is the firsr causenot only of "me who thinks" and rhe rest of the univ€rse bur also ofHimself. He is at onc€ the guarantor of rhe cogilo and of ih€ workings ofthe universe.:r God is at once incomprehensible, because infinire, and abso-lutely comprehensive, once again, because infinite.:a

But the proof of an infinite and perfect Cod, far from laying to restthe problem of error, only puts it inio greater relief. For after rhe longThird M€dilation proving the existenc€ of God, Descarres is obliged in theFourth Meditation to explain why, given the infinire perfection of cod,the phenomenon of error, on the basis of which the entire Cartesian systemseems to have been built, should exist ar all. Suddenly, the notion of cod,which should have put an end to error, now needs ro be def€nded andprotected from error. To maintain the perfection of Cod and the perfectionof His cr€alion, Descaraes is constrained io deny the existence of errcr evenin the faculty of human understandin9 (intellectus, entenclement)i ,,Forthrough the understanding alone I neither assure nor deny anything, butI only conceive the ideas of things, which I can neither assure nor deny.Now, in thus consid€ring it precisely, one can say that no error is everfound in the understanding, provided one rakes the word, error, according

CARTESIAN COORDINATES(]ARTF,SIAN COORDINATES

to its prop€r meaning" (45). Acting as if it went without saying' Descartes

offers no explanation as to what he thinks the "proper" meaning of the

word "error" is. a semantic problem whose solution, as our reading sug-

gests, is far from being "clear and distin€t." In fact, if th€ word "error";an be said to be naming anything in D€scartes's discourse, it is the lack

or loss of what is supposed to be proper: epistemological impropriety, a

wandering from the proper path Like Montaigne\ "idleness," the ambi-

guity of Cartesian error (im)properly names the deferral of the proper'

itrere is neuer any error if one underslands the word in its "proper"signification, but that is to say that there is never anv error if there is a

proper signification for it. There are no "proper" errors. Th€re will only

Le error if it is improper. And it is as a certain kind of impropriety that

error will be und€rstood. Such a conclusion will only come' however, once

D€scartes has atso €xcluded error from being a problem proper to the will(volrrlar): "From all this, I recognize that the power of willing, which I

have r€ceived from God, is not in itself the cause of my errors, for it is

very ample and perfect in iis kind; nor yel is it the power of understanding

or conceiving: for since I conc€ive nothing save by means of thal power

Cod has siven me to conceive, there is no doubt that whatever I conc€ive'

I conceiv€ it as il must be. and it is not possible for me to be deceived in

this" (lX-1, 46).But if error has been judg€d proper neither to the understanding nor to

the will, where do€s error com€ from if not from their inieraclion?:r

"Whence then are my errors let o.ed born? It can only b€ from this one

thing lnempe ex hoc uno qubdl lhe scope of the will being ampler and

wide; t/dlirsl than thal of the understanding, I do not contain it within

the same limirs Inon intru eosatem limiles contineoT' b\tt I extend lextendolit also to thinas I do not understand, which things being indifferent io the

will, it easily turns away b'egcre, defleditl and takes evil for goodn€ss,

or falsehood for truth. And so ii is thai I make mistakes and that I sin

lque je me trcmpe et que ie pAche; & falor & peccol" (lX-I, 46i VII' 58)

Given that the will holds over a wider (/arlrs) domain ihan does the under

standing, they cannot be contained within the same botnds (non inlraeosdenl limites contineo) Error occurs when instead of reducing the exercise

of the will to the compass of the understanding' one "extends" one's

judgments beyond the realm of the understanding to objects one does not

understand. Once this happens, it is easy for the will' as it is indiffer€nt

to what it pronounces upon, to "turn away" (deflectit) from the true and

the good. This solution to the problem of error, which Descartes offers

with great confidence (nempe ex hoc uno 4rdd), is curious in a number

of ways, Once again, there occurs a convergence between the moral and

th€ conc€ptual similar to what happens at the beginning of the Discourse

and in the dream. In the remaining pages of the Meditation, thecommitmentof an errot that is, the making ofjudgments on matters beyond the capacityof the understanding-an act implying a misuse of our God-given faculties-takes on the air of a sin, and more particularly of the sin of hubris:

"Forit is surely no imp€rfeciion in God that He has given the freedom tojudge or not to judge upon certain things of which He put no clear anddistinct percepiion in my und€rstanding; but it undoubtedly is an imper-fection in me not to use this freedom well, and recklessly to makejudgmentsabout things which I only conceive obscurely and with confusion" (IX-I,48). An error is therefore an incontinence, a transgression, or an overslep-ping of the bounds of propriety. Descartes seems to have defined one sense

of the word "error" by another; that is, a mistake is the result of awandering (of the faculties), it is the inability to keep (them) within certainlimits.

We do not need to repeat our previous argument about how the verymetaphor of a topography of error is itself a way of containing that notionof error, a notion lhat, nonetheless, keeps intruding into Descartes's dis-course even after so many attempts to do away with it once and for all.']6The struggle could be followed right up !o the final sentence of the sixthand lasr meditation: "But since the necessity of things to be done oft€nobligates us to make determinations before we have had the leisur€ toexamine these things carefully, it must be conlessed that the life of a manis subject to many errors lest sujette d lai it fott souven, saepe erroribusesse obnoxiam) in particular matters; and it is ultimately n€cessary torecognize the infirmity and weakness of our nature" (lx-l, 72; Vll,90\.

In the course of this narative of error, ther€ is nevertheless one particulartype of enot which is foregrounded and designated as '.the chief andcommonest error"r "Now the chi€f and commonest error [erol] that is tobe found consists ir my judging that the ideas which are in ne len motresemble, or conform to, things which ar€ outside me lhots de moil: fotif I were to consid€r ideas only as certain modes or manners of my thinkingwithout r€ferring them to some othet external thing Isans les vouloi rup-porter d quelque autrc chose d'extArieur; nec ad quidquan aliud teJeffenl,they could hardly give any occasion for etrot loccasion de Jailtit; ena dimateiaml" (Thitd Meditation, lx-l, 29; VIl, 37). The error is that ofestablishing l.es€mbldnces between what is inside the subject (his ideas) andwhat is oulside (things). These resembla[ces are furthermore understoodas equivalences: one errs in believing that one\ ideas not only conform butalso apply to things, coincide with them. More than a simpl€ relarion ofcomparison, then, this structurcd error, as the positing of resemblancesmislakenly perceived as id€ntities, corresponds to the figure of a metaphor.Metaphor would be the "chief and commonest" error. But again, to pursue

CARTESIAN COORDINATES

this denunciation of metaphot Descartes is obliged to use metaphors, sp€-cifically the spatial metaphors that allow him to speak of wbar is..inside',or "outside" him.

Within this metaphorical scheme, metaphor itself is defined, true ro itsetymological sense of transferral (meta-phorar, as the movement betweeninside and outside, an act of "referral" ("rapporter nes id6esl a quelqu€autre chose d'ext6rieur" [IX-I, 29]; "ideas . . . ad qridqram aliud reIeftem"IVII,37; my emphasisl), that is, a bringing or carrying back over (re-le//e).This referral or exchange between inside and outside is also a. materiamerfondi, an occasion for error or wandering, Efiot is the wandering ov€rthe border, the going ov€r from one side to rh€ othe\ the metaphorcinbetween self and other. The eradication of error or meraphor seeks toestablisb a self-sufficient economy of the self, one that does not borrowfrom or engag€ in an exchange with what is brought over (metaphorcin)from the other. But to instirute this ideal economy, ihe self must markitself off from all €lse, trace a clear and distinct line of demarcation betweenitself and what is other. The tracing of such a divider, howevet alreadyimplies its lransgr€ssion. To define an inside is by rhe same srroke to defineor delimit an outside as whatever is nol;nside. Therefore, one who defineshimself as an inside apart from that outside is, in rhe ad of thal definition,both inside and outside (or, if one prefers, neirher inside nor oulside, sinceone posits oneself as ihe origin of that opposition, rhar is, as what precedesit). The situation recalls the pun that is the title of Maurice Blanchor's bookLe pas au-dela, in which the "step beyond" is raken ar the same rime thatit is denied (the "not beyond").:r ln order to secure the inn€r sancruary ofthe cogto, the subject must already be in "error."

Having failed to eradicate th€ problem of error rhrough rhe literalizarionof the metaphor in his itinerant existence, does Descartes not, by enclosinghimself in the mythic space ol the poAb,28 come to perform a curiousenactment of the pas au-deh? The self-enciosure is simultaneously theinaugural step of another journey: through the m€raphysical meditation hewanders from the cogiro to the infiniry of cod, whose relationship toDescartes does not €xclude that of resemblance: "But from the mere factthat God has created me, it is highly worthy of belief rhat He has in someway produced me according to His image and likeness, and rhat I conceiveof this resemblance, which includes the idea of Cod, rhrough the samefaculty as enables me to conceive of myself" (IX l,4l). And is there nolalso a ceraain resemblance betw€en th€ spatial metaphors by which thesub.,ect is understood as an "inside" opposed ro all that is "outside," theCartesian separation of mind and body, and rhe situation of Descarres inthe poele, wherein he has closed himself off from the "outside"? And rowhat is the Cartesian anatomy, wirh irs curious rheory of rhe circularion

CARTESIAN COORDINATF,S

of the blood as generated by the heart's production of heat, comparableif not the radiant warmth of the stove?'ze Is lhe poCle not a foundationalmetaphor as well as the physical and historical frame for the Cartesianinvention of subjeclivity? But the very establishment of such a metaphoralready puts the inside of the subject into a rclation with its outside, alreadygives it a mate am errqndi, without which it could not constitute itself as

"inside," as self. In the opening section of Part Four of the Discorr.re, theprocess of methodical doubt implicitly empties out all of the errors orunjustified "opinions" that *e inside Descartes (",n my belief len mqci.ddncel," "the things that had entercd into my lx.ind lles choses . . . entrdesen I'esptitl: Vl, 31-32; my emphasis), but ir is rhe very acr of emptyingthe container that the mind is, that is, the very activity of doubting, orthinking, that constitutes the indubitable first ground of the truth for thesubject.ro So if the positing of an outside ihrough the unbridling of thehorse of error is allowed only in order to secure ihe inner truth of thesubj€ct of the cogiro, the prior establishment and delineation of that insidenecessarily presupposes an outside inherent to that inside.r'To do withouteffor, one must indulge in it,

Reemerging from his po€le Descartes's subsequent travels could, ihen,appear to offer the prospect of a methodical flight from eror: "Winterhad not quite ended before I began again to travel. . . . during this time Iuprooted from my mind all the errors which had been able to slip into itbeforehand. Not that I imitated in this the skeptics, $ho doubt only forthe sake of doubting and affect to be always undecided; fot on the contrary,my whole aim was to find assurance, and to cast aside loose earth andsand so as to feach rock ot.lay" (Discou6e, V[,29).3, While left unnamed,Montaigne figures here as a negative model, as precisely he whose doubtingpractices Descartes is rot imitating. Unlike his skeptical pr€dec€ssor, whosemovement would end up in something resembling quicksand, Descartes'stravels allow him to r'uproot" his errors but in such a way as to locate thesolid bedrock below Chief among the post'po€le joumeys, and as if toe"\acerbate the parallel with Montaigne, was Descartes's trip to ltaly, pro-jected for as early as the end of November 1619, in the very aft€rmath ofhis dream and groundbreaking meditations. Seeking divin€ assurance, hehoped to gain in particular the aid of the Virgin Mary by unalertaking apilgrimaee to her shrine in Loreto, a site visit€d not forty years earlier byMontaigne. Delayed for over thr€e years, Descartes or y left for the pen-insula in 1623, _after having sold off his inherited wealth.' As far as weknow, Descartes kept no journal, and what little information remains tous about his trip has to be gleaned principally from allusions scatteredthroughout his correspondence. While th€ outline of his itinerary oeavingFrance via Basel and Innsbruck; passing throueh Venice, Florenc€, and

CARTESIAN COORDINATESCARTESIAN COORDINAIES

Rome; returning by Torino and Susa) would roughly replicate Montaigne\passage,r4 Descartes's impressions of ltaly are decidedly negative. In a letterto Guez de Balzac (May 5, 163l), he vocif€rously complains about rheclimate: "I don\ know how you can lov€ so much the Italian air, wirhwhich one so often breathes in ihe plague, where the heat of the day isalways unbearable and the cool of the ev€ning unhealthy, and where thedarkness of the night gives cover to thefts and murders" (1, 204). On morethan one occasion, he actively dissuades his friend Mersenne from a pro-jected trip south of the AIps: "Your trip to ltaly worries me, for it is avery unhealthy country for Frenchmen; above all one must eat parsimo-niously there, for their meats are too rich. .. . I pray to Cod that you mayreturn from there contentedly" (November t3, 1639; II, 623). Following rheskeptic\ footsteps in the saindy destination of Loreto (although no proofexists that Descartes ever actually accomplished his pilgdmage rhere, onceagain in contrast to the elaborat€ painting of his family wirh rhe Virginleft behind by Montaigne as a votiv€ offering and memento of his visitITroyel Jowndl, l4l 421), Descartes finds ltaly hot, unsafe, and unhealthy.

Far from seeking the assimilation of Roman citizenship, Descartes takesup nearly permanent residence (broken only by three brief trips to Franceand the final. fatal move to the cou of Sweden a few months before hisdeath) in Holland, a country that stands in virtual opposition to ltalywithin his psychogeography. Not only is the Dutch climate deemed"healthy" by Descartes bul, as he explains in the letter to Balzac, it is alsothe home of th€ philosopher's favorite heating device: "lf you fear northernwinters, tell me what shade, what fan, what fountain can as well preserveyou from lhe discomforts of th€ heat in Rome, as a stove-heated roomIpoCIel a\d a grcat lire .an keep you from being cold here?" (I, 204). Theland of the poele is a healthy one lor the body of this thinker, whose owntheory of the body, as we have noted, describes the circulation of ahe bloodas an effect of heat transfer emanating from a central source, the heart.As ihe local€ from which the drift of error can be mastered and convertedinio truth, the secure solitude of the poele also pinpoints a high land(Holland) within the Lowlands, a Dulch oven of self'hood where Descartesseeks a refuae in which to write and from which to mas(er the presentationof his public persona (first unveiled whh the inirial, anonymous publicarionof the Discourse in 1637). Resolving to "distance myself from all placeswhere I might have acquaintances" (riscor^e, VI, 3l), Descartes discoversa land of comforting reversals where th€ hyperbole of constant warfareasymptotically attains a state of perpetual peac€, and where the very factof the population\ crowded overabundance enables supreme solitude: "Thelong duration of the war has led to the establishment of such an ordetthat the armies that are kept up there seem to be used only in order io

make the enjoyment of the fruits of peace all the more secure; and amidstrhe masses of this greal people, extremely industrious and more concernedwith their own busin€ss than curious about oth€r people's, while I do notlack any conveniences of the most frequented cities, I have been able tolive a life as solitary and retired as though I were in the most remote deserts

Idans les ddsetts les pl[s dcdrlds]."rr we should not be surprised if, havingfound a proper home in a foreign place, Descartes should inscribe hissignature into the last few words of this passage, which closes the third ofsix pa s and thus stands at lhe very heart or hearth of Descaries's firstpublished work, appearing eighteen years after his intial retreat into thepoe[e: "dans les Drserts les plus 6cARTEs." Des-Cartes, as his biographerBaillet spells his name, would seem to be born again (Re-n6) as authorialpersona from the mapping of ce(ain spatial relations (Holland, the poAle)that delimit a warm and privileged interior from which the exterior can beprogressively, methodically, appropriated as on€'s own. Such is, of course,the narrative of Cartesian science announced in Part Six of the D/icorlse,a narrative by which the systematic acquisition of knowledge that is ceriainwill "thus make us as the masters and possessors of nature" (vI, 62).

Descartes's metaphorical economy of "inside" and "outside" thus bothposits and denies (or conlains) the outside. And if rhe figure of travelneutralizes the other that philosophy posits for itself or prevents that otherfrom posing any serious threat to the philosophical system, recourse tosuch a metaphor also necessarily draws philosophy into a complicity withthe literary, that is, with a radical other within itseu. For the philosophythal represents itself as a voyag€ of discovery, or as a meditative journeyfrom the obscurity of error into the light of truth, th€ risk is not that itwill be called into question by what it discovers but by rolr it discovers,by the discourse it is obliged to use to discover what it discovers, by thevery representation it gives of itself as a narrative of discovery.r6 The phil-osophical may be safeguarded by the literary, as Cartesian "error" confirmsby leading back to thetruth (ofthe cogilo), butthis shoring up ofphilosophyimplicitly converts philosophy into a (literary) discourse among others: aparlicularly successful (and timely) story for a European age of newly foundand putatively self-generat€d wealth at hom€ and relentless expansionismabroad.

{

Chapter 3Montesquieu's Grand Tbur

We burn u'ith the desite b rtnd a stuble place and a final,constant base upon h,hich to build a btrct ising toinfiniry, bur ow entire foundation splits and the eofthopens onlo the abyss.

-Pascal

A View from the Topi l/oyage ftum Gruz to The Hague

ln 1638, a year after the publication of Descartes,s Discouqe on Method,there appeared another dhcourse, one writien by a certain Yves Dugu6,the Discows de la fianiAre de vologet. As Normand Doiron has argued ina recent article, the appearance of this text (itself but a vulgarized trans-lation of a Cerman work) signals rhe rise of a subsenr€ d€riv€d from theperception in seventeenth,century France of travel narrative as an accred-itable genre of writing.r This new genr€, acrually a metagenre, whicb Doironcalls the "art of travel," would lake rhe form of a didactic treatise ourliningthe rules by and manner in which one should travel. Such treatises wouldprescribe who should travel and when, what baggage one should take along,the company one should or should not keep, and the goals one should s€r.rJust as Descartes's method would indicate the sreps to rake in pursuit ofon€'s mental itinerary, so thewriters ofrhese "arts of travel" would sripulalethe rules by which io move on€t body in space. The domestication of effolthus becomes the €ommon goal of trav€l literature and philosophy.Crounded in the foundational security of a method (ot meta-hodos, whatis alongsid€ a road), solutions found in the one could have pertinence forthe other.

Yet in the course of traditional literary history, travel journals, likediaries, notebooks, or letters, seem predestined to the ancillary role ofsupport or background material for the comprehension of a wrirerh accred,

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 63

ited masterpieces. Rare is the critic who would argue the superiority ofMontaigne's Travel Journal ovet lhe Essals or who would re d The Chartefiouse of Patma h ord.€r better to understand the Menoirs of a Tourist.Mor€ commonly, the text of a travelogue is treated as an unproblematicdocument, a source of apparendy empirical information with which toexplain a wdter's major production. Concomitantly, the claim that suchwriting was not destined for publication or does not match the aesthericquality of a "finished" \rork is used to deny the possible validity if notthe frank necessity-of interpreting such material in terms of the text thatit indeed is, whether finished or not, published or not.

Such is the temptation for that collection of notes and observationswritten a century and a half after Montaigne's rrip to haly by anotherBordeaux nobleman, Mont€squieu, and Dosthumously published as his Zol-age de Cntz d lo Hale.r Initially leaving Paris for Vienna in April 1728,Montesquieu traveled through Austria, Italy, cermany, and Holland untilhis departure for England in late October l?29, wh€re he resided unril hisspring 1731 return to France. As for the extant travelogue, a good thre€-fourths of it describes Montesquieuh stay in Italy, with only a few scatterednotes r€ferring to his passage through other countries. Commencingabruptly in August 1728 and ending just as abruptly in October 1729, thesequence of notes chronicles neither the rrip\ beginning nor its end. Hardlythe juvenalia of a gentleman's fomation, this manuscript was written wellafter the publication of the Persian Lette6 (1121, and Le Tbmple de Cnide(1725) and prior to the composition of the Considerutions on the Causesof the Crandew and Decadence of the Romans (l'734), The Spitit o.f rheLaws (l'748), and the Essai sw le gott (175?). Chronologically separatingMontesquieu's literary production from his later rheoretical and politicalworks, the voyage can be seen to bring about the transition frcm belleslettres to political theory, from youthful frivolity to mature seriousness,. aview that conveniently forgets about Montesquieu's early scientific essaysfor the Acad6mie de Bordeaux, on the one hand, and such late literaryeflorls as A6ace et Ismdrfu (written sometime between 1734 and 1?54), onthe other hand. Some eren credit the travel experience with effecting changeswithin Montesquieu's political thinking, such as a heightened skepticismtoward the r€publican form of government or even the origin of his rheoriesconcerning the influence of climate on society.r The literal voyag€ doublesas intellectual odyssey, the empirical experience of which is deemed suf,ficient to explain a Derceived change in style or thought, a change rhatcould be emblematized by a text Montesquieu is reputed to have wrifienduring his voyage, th€ Riflexions sur les habitantr de Rome, whose osten-sible dhcussion of th€ contrast between ancient Roman "intemperance"and latter-day Roman sobriety seems to double rhe Pr€sident\ putative life

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR

change on the occasion of his peregrination, Montesquieu's travels io var-ious for€ign lands become lhe sociological €quivalent of so many laboratoryexperiments, whose data then b€comes systematized in the later politicalwritings as the putativ€ "triumph of the experimental method" in socialsci€nce.6 While it would be foolish to discount the manifest reprise ofMontesquieu's on-the-road observations in his ulterior writing, such a cril-ical perspective does nonetheless neglect the possibility that th€re mayalready be a theory or method that orients the practice of Montesquieu'straveling, that is, thal there is an int€rpretation of the voyage in Montes_q,rien's Voyage which iniersects with other interpretive practic€s of the

That there is a method to Montesquieu's peregrinations is signaled aboulhalfway through the manuscript wh€n he writes: "when I arrive in a city,I always go up onto the highest steeple or the highest towet in order 10 .

see the entire ensemble lle tout ensemblel" (1,671\. ln a bold move thateffectively lev€ls the hierarchical relation between travel journal and politicaltreatise, Jean Starobinski has read in the totalizing gaze from th€ tower ametaphor of Moll!9lqqieu:s Be,lilLoL4q,lbCQIELin relation to his object ofsttrdy in The Spitit of the ldlts, namely the "entire ensemble" of humaninstitutions. For Starobinski, the v€rtical perspective from on high impliesboth that "everything holds together, everything is conneca€d" and that"the order ofthe demonstration matters very little."'Whence the €elebrateddisotdet of The Spirit o.f lne lalrr, a disord€r ihat, according to Starobinski,is but "the expression of ihis v€rtical gaze." The disorder is thus only anapparent one, Starobinski's project being to restore the texds hidden otder,something that he can do by positing the contradictions in Montesquieu'stext as the differ€nt moments of a dialectic.3 And although such a dialecticimplies a narrative through which a concept is arriv€d at, it is precisely

this narrative aspect of thought that is denied by the totalizing gaze fromabove: "Montesquieu sees everything ftom the height of his tower; his gaze

knows the distance from on€ point io another without having to follow outany pathways lsans avob aucun chemin d parcouirl" (p. 40, emphasisadded), Apparently, Montesquieu\ dialectic is to be understood as so total-izing in its embrac€ that it neulralizes or annuls the very temporality ofits mov€ment through what Starobinski calls "a massive simultaneity"(p. 39).

To be sure, the belief in such a total vision is metaphysical to the ext€ntthat it remains blind to the narrativity of vision (what Louis Marin has

called the "trajectory of the aaze lparcou$ du rcgardl"l'In order to viewthe "€ntire ensemble," one musl not only move one's eyes but also turnone's entir€ body around-or else risk missing part of the surroundingpanorama. Now, this metaphysics of total vision is implicit to the kind of

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

critical discourse practiced by Starobinski insofar as he supposes the notionof a unity or totality of the work; thal is, that everything in the workcoheres through a kind of organic logic. To find the possibility of such atotalizing view alr€ady inscribed in Montesquieu's text would thus legitimateStarobinski\ critical perspective. we can then see in the image, whichStarobinski develops at great length, of Montesquieu's all-encompassingview from the tower an image of Starobinski's own totalizing vision in hiscapacity as a read€r of Montesquieu's €nrire discursive production.

But whatever one may feel about the pertinence of Starobinski's appli-caaion of the passag€ from the travel journal to the wider work, his readinghas the great merit of signaling Montesquieu's "desire to see" as a moti-vating force throughout. In the context of a travel journal, such a desireto s€e interestingly corroborates recent work on the social insrirution oftravel in its most cultivated form-tourism, a practice whose visual dimen-sion is rendered explicit by jts synonym, "sightseeing." As opposed to thediscoverer or the adventurer (who collects experiences)! the tourist is acollector of sights seen. To sightsee is to see sights, to s€e what there is tobe seen. As sociologist Dean Maccannell argues, sights€eing implies asemiotic aciivity wh€rein the toudst arrives at the tourist attraction via theintermediary of "markers." These are anything that point 1o the touristattraction: maps, road signs, advertisemenas-signifiers to the sight's sig-nified.r0 More significartly, th€ act through which the sight is seen impliesan int€rpretive gesture whereby the tourist places every sight into a relationwith the other sights seen as well as with ihe point of d€partur€. lt isthrough the consiruction of an imaginary univ€rse that revolves aroundhim that the tourist finds himself reintegrated inio th€ society from whichhe left to go on his tour. As Maccannell writes, this integration requir€s"only that one attraction be linked to on€ other: a district to a community,or an €stablishment to a district, or a role to an establishment. Even ifonly a single linkage is grasped. . . this solitary link is the starting pointfor an endless spherical system of connections which is society and iheworld, with the individual at one point on its surface" (p. 56).

But if sightseeing thus implies an interpretiv€ construct, it also becomesdifficult to distinguish between such a vision of the world and a aheory,especially when one recalls lhat the etymological sense ofthe word 11theory,"

from Creek rfteola is that of a vision or sp€ctacl€. Theory, insofar as itassumes the rendering pres€nt to oneself of a conceptual schema (we saythat we "see" something \rhen we understand it), becomes a kind of sighGseeing. Both theory and tourism imply a d€sire to see and to totalize whatis seen into an all-encompassing vision, an ambirion simulraneously servedby an Enliahtenment epistemology embedded in vhual metaphors and rhecontemporaneou^s social ritual of rhe "8rand rour.!'ri

'L,. ,. - r,,.r:c..-r .t )

66 MONTESOUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

To return ro Montesquieu, we find him practicing a very methodicalform of sightseeing, his own brand of tourism requ;ring noi only ,,un tour,,(a tour) but also "une tour" (a tower). Montesquieu,s ,,tourism,,involvesa vision both all-encompassing and from on high, from the top of the tall,est tover The best perspecrive on the city is the one that is lirerally superior.But the superiority of the view does not necessarily mean that its perspectiveis a sufficient one, that everything is seen fron rhe vantage point of thisultimat€ rorlls/e. A wider glance at the passage lrom Montesquieu, ofwhich I, after Starobinski, have only cired the firsr halt, reveals, however,that it is nor a quesrion of a single, all-embracing view but rarher of avision consrituted in reperirion: ,,When I arrive in a city, I always go uiiinto the highest sreeple or the highest rower, in order to see the intire€nsemble, befor. seeing the parts; and, upon leaving the city, I do the samething, in order to fix down my ideas.,,There are ar leasr three differenrviews of the city: (l) the initial, elevared view of the .,entire ensembl€,,;(2) the sighr of rhe..parrs" seen up close and one at a rime in rhe orderof a tourist's itinerary; (3) the repetition of rhe first view in order to ,,fixdown [one's] ideas." Inst€ad of a single perspecrive, Monresquieu,s tourisricmethod deploys a pluraliry of poinrs of view.

Strictly speaking, there is never an absolut€ point of perspective fromwhici everyihing can be seen. Every perspective is necessarily limited,mediated, and consriruted by a certain opacity or distance of vision thaican, at the limit, annihilat€ rhar vision. This distance consrirutive of sighris exemplified by the position of Montesqui€u on the tower. Here, it is o;lyby seeing less-rhrough the acr of moving away from the object of visionin the ascent to the top of the tower-that one can see more. the lientireensemble of rhe area.urrounding rhe toqer. the atent.tu.s dc Io tour. fhemediation rhrough this persp€ctive which is esrablished is rhus a kind ofvoyage, insofar as ir involves a movemenr away from the object of sight.

Moreovet the play of perspectives articulared by travel can Ue seen tofound an €pistemology in complicity wirh exoricism, a complicily alreadyexploited in the Persian Lefte\, published in 1721. Seeing and knowin!refer to the same problem:,, rhat of taking a disrance sufficie]rt to constitutithe "proper" perspecrive on a given obj€ct of study. Th€ truth the persiansare supposed ro see is a ,truth,, revealed as a function of their foreignnessot if one prefers, of their extreme (culrural) disrance from the Fiench.They notice, says Montesquieu in the preface io the persian Lefte&, ,,thingswhich, I am sure, have escaped many a cerman who has traveled througihFrance. " lo pursue rhe.ame loeic, lhough, blindness $outd be a funcli;nol culLural pro\imi(). The same philo.ophic U5bet who so tucidlr debunk.all manner of Werrern mores i. reloturet) incapabte of percei\in; ht oqnrole as desporic oppressor of rhe wom€n and eunuchs lept in ;e harem

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR 67

he rules back in Persia. The novel's fillal sequence of letters, detailing rhebrutal suppression of a revolt in the harem, and culminating in the eloquentanger of Roxane's suicide missive, rcmains unanswered by the globe-trottingpdnce to whom th€y ar€ addressed. The empowering mobility of the latter'sgaze thus finds iis correlative in the veiled and immobilized status of thewomen k€pt back home. lnde€d, one of the earli€st forebodings of troublein the seraglio occrlrc when the harem women go out on a trip into thecountryside, where they say "we hoped to have greater freedom" (1, 196).Caught by a sudd€n storm whiletraversing a rivet they face a choice betweendrowning or the dishonor of being seen ourside the veiled boxes in whichthey are transported unseen and unseeing. Concludes Zachi, aurhor of rhisletter, "What troubles journeys cause for women! The only dangers rhatmen ar€ exposed to are those which threaten their lives; while we, ar everymoment, are in fear of losing our lives or our virtue" (I, 196-97).,a Thephilosophical insights aleared by Usbek turn out to be as inescapablypredicated upon his own blindness (or castration, to follow the other the-matics of self-limitation reaisi€red in the P?rsia, telle by rhe figure ofthe eunuch) as upon the blindness he tries unsuccessfully ro impose uponhh subjects. As Montesquieu will later wrire in the preface to The SpititoJ the Laits, "it is not a matter of indifference that rhe people be enlightenedI6claift1" 0t,23o\.

To return to the scene from his travelogue, ir can be seen that the dialecticof vision hnd displacement remains a persistent concern of his. For if roascend the tower is to s€e less in order to see more, one must by the samelogic descend from the towet that is, see less in order ro see even more.Th€ towering vision from the torr cannot do withoui a cerrain de-rour. Itcannoi do without the inferior parrial vision from down below of he whohas descended from ihe tower to see the "parrs" of the city because onecannot, in fact, see everlthing ftom the top of rhe tower. The detour intothe city wjll, in any case, not b€ aimlbss, since it is already regulated bythe preliminary sight of the "entire eds€mble" fiom the rower. The viewfrom on high should accordingly be ihe /irsr view of rhe ciry: "When Iarrive in a city, I always go up onto the highest steepl€ or ihe highest tower,in order to see the entire ensemble, beforc seeing the parts.,, The towerodents the traveler's movements, frames them and gives them a certainsense or rerr (a meaning as well as a direction, whar French tourisr attrac-tions designate as the.rens de la risile). One could argue here rhar rhe viewfrom the towfl is of all the possible views of a ciry, the one that cannotbe the first view, for one does not simply arrive in town perched on ropof a tower. One must first enier a city by the ,,parts," that is, one mustlose oneself down below, beior€ one can even find the tallesr row€r orsteeple-something not always as €asy as all rhat.

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOU,{

Assuming, though, that such a monument can be located, ibe space ofthe city will be oreanized around the tower aurow de la tour. There willb€ no fears of being lost in the detours as long as one's coordinates canb€ situated in relation to that privileged point of rcference that is the highesttower. The tower is the orios that economizes the tourisas itinerary 10 theextent that the latier is bounded by an inevitable relour to the tour Assuch, the foreignness ofthe tenain can be apprcpriated or rendered familiarthrough a glimpse whose elevated perspective is especially conducive toappraising the layout of a town's tortifications, an observation Montesquieurarely fails to make on his visits.ir This "visionary conquesl" of Ilaly seems

hardly innocent for someone who aspir€d at the time to a high diplomaticappointment and whose scanning activiiies proved suspicious enough forat least one French consul to wdle back to Venailles, asking if Montesquieuwere not a spy sent oul on a foreign mission.r6

Even the combined vision of the entire ensemble and of ihe parts is notenough, though. Something exceeds this totality, something MontesquieLlcalls his "ideas," and wh;ch he needs to fix down l/ixerl before leavine thecity by viewing it again from the tower's initial vantaAe point. These ideasare themselves the product of the tourisl's detour into the city, the returnon his ambulatory inveshenl. That intellectual r.ereare renders inadequatethe inaugural view of the "entire ensemble," so that upon relurning to thetower, we are not at all d€aling with the same "eniire ensemble." That theseideas need to be "fixed down" t€lls us that th€y are neith€r stable norprecise. Presumably, this rendering precise will occur through the repetitionof the initial gaze, which will superimpose the new matedal of ideas overth€ previously scanned lopography. These ideas are thus affixed to thelandscape in an operation reminiscent of the merroria of ancienr rhetoric,a practice we have alr€ady s€en to be itselfrooted in a projection oflanguag€as topography.rl

Throush the stereoscopy ofa superior vision constituted out ofthedoubl€distance Gpatial and temporal) enabl€d by a second view from the tower,Montesquieut touristic method gives rise to a literal theory, whose signifiedis the ens€mble of ideas (what the mind's eye has seen), and whose signifieris the contour ot the landscape (what the physical eye has s€en). And hereindeed can be found a striking parallel wirh th€ theoretical practice of flreSpitil of lhe Laits, for in that work, Montesquieu's aim is not merely toconstruct an abstract theory of law bul also to produce an exhaustive andmethodical d€scription of aciually existing political systems. In other words,the illustration of Montesquieu's theoretical principles does not take placethroueh the then traditional construction oi a utopia in the style ot a More,a Campanella, or even a Fenelon, bul through th€ projection or reprojectionol rhe lheor) back onro rhe world. The re(ulr i, a kind ol polilical lopog.

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND 7?UR

raphy made most evident in the celebrated passages on climate as an influ-ence on social customs and forms of government, As if io underscore thispolilics o{ topography, maps were added to the text begjnning with thesecond edition (1749). The map of the world becomes the sisnifier for thesignified of theory and is thus, nor surprisingly, €nrirled ..Carte pour I'in-telligenc€ du livre intitul6 De I'esprit des /or.', On€ should be able toundersrand rhe theory on the basis ol the map. What i.imptied in ruch acartography, howe\rer, is rhar the pariitioning of rhe world is not innocent;on the contrary, ir takes on a considerabl€ political significance. Everygeographical demarcation-coastlines, mountain ranges, rivers-has untoldpolitical consequenc€s. Indeed, the very size of an area delimited by top-ographical factots has a determining influence on the nature of that eov-ernm€nt: as Montesquieu concludes in book VIII, chapter xx, large areassuppose despotism, medium,sized ones monarchy, and the smallesr onesrepublicanism (ll, 365). Republics are accordingly ro be found in the ancientcity-states of Greece and lialy; monarchies in rhe contemporary narion-states of France, England, and Spain; and desporisms in the vasl empiresof Persia, Turkey, and Russia. Montesquieu's formal systematicity in thisregard is so inflexible thar he is constrained, in the final chaprer of bookVIII, to argue the despotic character of rhe Chinese governmenr over andagainst the Sinophilic tradition of rhe Jesuir missionaries, whose leters hadspawned the popular contemporary stereotype of the ..Chinese sag€.,,i!

Moralily itself is inscribed by Monresquieu inro the landscape, firsi interms of the climatic opposition between cold and h€ar, bul then even moreegreaioudy by the opposition between north and sourh: .,In northern climates, you shall find peoples who have few vices, a sufficienr number ofvirtues, and a lot of frankness and sincerity. Draw near the sourhern coun-iries, afld you will think you have lefr morality irself far behind: the liveliesrpassions proliferate crimes; each person seeks to take advantage of everyoneelse in ways that favor these same passions" (tt, 477).,e Other conceprualoppositions spring from this same moral ropography. tn rhe north can befound activity, work, courage, masculiniry, and fre€dom; in the south, onefinds passivity, laziness, cowardice, femininity, and servirude. I doubt thaithere ;s any need here ro insist upon the markedly ethnocentric and racistcharacter of the geogmphy proposed by Montesquieu-who undoubtedlyconsidered himself to be a northerner ensconced in a superior laritude.dWe need to add, however, rhar it is precisely by projecring hjs political

^{ategories onto this torography ahar Moaiesquieu is able ro indicate thep'iffiL;i ea.h kind of sovernmenr. Asia is thus found (o be theplace where despotism is ,.naturalized" (II, 296). Consequemty, every exisr-ing government is the righr one-including those thar are desporic. Theimplication is that nothinA should be changed, since things are as rhey

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

should be, a manifestly conservative thesis. As Montesquieu srares in thepteface to The Spirit of tie ,d}'s, "every nation will here find rhe reasonson which its maxims are founded" (II, 230).

Montesqui€ut putative impartiality does not keep him from grantinggreat pdvilege to what is near (the theorist\ homeland) as opposed to whatis far. Everything is organized around the plac€ where the theorist is found-perhaps we are now no higher than the tower of his home, the chateau ofLa Brtd€, near Bordeaux. This is to say that The Spit of he Laws can

llbe r€ad in terms of a touristic theory insofar as it is a question of "fixing"ila c€rtain number of ideas to precis€ topographical references (which them

selves only have value in rela(ion to an ultimate point of reference, theoitor of a tower or the place of one's castle). If the elaboration of thistheory takes place, it is because we are not at so high an altitude thateverything below becomes undifferentiaied, but at a medium altitude whereonly what is far away remains undifferentiated (Monresquieut desporism,for example, is characterized both by its being far away-or "Asiatic"and "uniform throughoul' lII, 2971).,r The siiuation of an intermediaryheight allows us to read a certain partiality in Montesquieu, a partialityseen in his distrust of the lowly populace who must be kept from taking'1oo much the upper hand" (ll, 291). ln his Norer srl I'Anglete e, healso cautions that if'1he lower chamber became supreme" in England,that country would lose jts freedom (I, 884). As for the election of parlia-mentary representatives, "all citizens, in the various districts, ought to havethe right of voting at the election of a representative, except such as arein so low a state lbasres.re] that they are reputed to have no will of theirown" 01,40O). And if it is in the high€r latitudes-that is, in the north-that all positive values, including liberty, are found, we should not be toosurprised to learn that liberty "reigns" more in mountainous r€gions rhanin the plains (ll, 532), the lowly plains being a terrain mor€ associated with

I despotism. Despotism is noa only the lowest form of government, it is also

- what is down below: "Th€ danger is not when the state passes from onemoderate to another moderate government, as from a republic to a mon,archy, or from a monarchy to a republic; but when it falls and is prec;pitated

Iquand il tombe el se pftcipil?l from a moderate to a despotic government"(II,356). Despotism is effectivelythat into whjch one "falls" ifthe principlesof a moderate government are not respect€d and begin to erode: "The\rivershasten to mingl€ iheir waters with the sea; and monarchies lose themselvesin despotic power" (II, 364). While rhe valueladen opposition between"high" and "low" is, of course, a widely sanctioned and banal ,opor ofWestern thought, Montesquieu's systematic recourse to a scale of v€rtical

. value in passages such as these indicate the direction and force of rhepolitical discourse 1o be read in the theoretical fallout of his rorism: "One

only looks at the parts Ipdrriesl in order io judge the enlire ensemble ltorlensemblel:' he \ nites in rhe pr€face ro The spiit of the Laws (ll, 230).,,

Such corroborations of the homology between theory and tourism leadus back to Starobinski's vision of a theory in which everything is literallyin p/ace, fixed by the fiction of an all-seeing eye. But what are these ideas

that Montesquieu brings back up to his tower? The expression "to fix downmy ide s lJixet mes iddesl" is a curious one, laconic, which points to theambiguity of a double pun. For in addition to the literal explication I havealready proposed, the French verb rirel is not infrequently employed (in ausage already attested in ihe eighteenth century):r as a verb ofvision usuallytranslated as "to stare." Moreov€r, the etymological sense of the word,"idea," from Greek dea, is that ofsomething "seen." An alternative readingof the exprcssion /rrel mes iddes might be "to see whar I have seen." Inreturning to the top of the towet Montesquieu can see what h€ has seen.And it is in revising The Spitit of the Laws for a later edition, that is, "byfixins down my ideas yet again len.fixa encore plus les Mdesl: thatMonlesquieu is able lo shed more light on hjs topic, to give "a new daylightupon all these lhjn9s lun nouyeau jour d toutes ces chosesl" ("Avertisse-ment," Il,228). The tourist's itinerary is only complete when he has seennot only the sights but also the seeing of rhe sights.

It is not difficult to s€e that what will consrirurively elude rhe gazer\sisht is the sisht of his own gaz€. Everything could conc€ivably be seenexcept for the sight of on€self seeing, and the attempt to catch up withthat sight always leaves mor€ to s€e. Interesringly, the bulk of Montesquieu'stravel manuscripl (remarkably devoid of €vents one could class in the realmof personal adventures") is made up of the enumeration of sights seen,wheth€r th€y be public monum€nts, famous or noFso-famous persons,,5 orthose visual objects par excellence, works of art.,6 As Pierre Barridre hasnot€d, "the great and master word is 10 see' [vor4,", and the mosr pre-dictable sentence order begins with ihe anaphoric j'at vl/. la is as if thefact of the seeing prevailed over whalever was seen. A particularly signif-icant moment occurs when Montesquieu revisits the city of Verona, statingthat "I had the curiosity ol seeing again whal I had aheady seen in orderto see the differ€nt impressions" (p. ?98). What the repetition of the gazereveals is differenc€, whether thought of as "ideas" or as "impressions."Hence, Montesqui€u can write of his subsequent desire to see Paris again,"for I have flot yet seen it."I

But that increm€ntal difference, which prevents the a€complishment ofa fully synoptic closure between a siaht and its seeing, is in itself engenderedvia the spalial and temporal displacement that is travel, an aclivity thateludes a proper perspective. The sight of th€ voyage cannot do without avoyage of the sight, since on€ can only take a perspective on th€ voyage

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

' by taking a c€rtain distanc€ from it, a disrancing thar presupposes rhecontinuation ofthevoyage, ihe prolongation of irs course. This prolongationof the voyage can its€lf only be included in the perspective rhrough recourseto another prolongation and so forth. The ariiculation of disrance andrepetition that gives ris€ ro rh€ rourist's rheorerical mastery of thc landscapecannot itself be master€d. The repetition of the view is already a repetitionof what happens elsewher€, and, in fact, everywhere ir Montesquieu,s jour-ney, if it is true, as he says, that when he arrives in a town, he goes "ah,alsup onto the highest steeple or the high€st iower." Each town becomes thedisplaced repetition of every other. Ir is the 10 / irself (the supposedlyimmovable reference point or orkor upon which resrs the economy of rravelas touristic theory) which begins to travel or go ..on rour', which is displacedin its repetition, repeared in irs displacemenr. This ,,rour,, ol the touteng€nders an infinity of perspectives, none of which can claim rhe supe-riority of an all-embracing view over the orh€rs. There is no rallesr tower.Montesquieu's travel not€s have no clear beginning or end: there is not€rminus to his wanderings, no way ro enclose rhem within the comfortablecircuit of return signaled by a continuous narrarive. The text remains acollection of disconnected fragments, often repetirious, full of inexplicableAaps and even capable of such chronological illogicaliries as his arrival inHeidelberg on August 26, 1729, and his departure rhe day before.,e Sucha loose textual conglomerate is further exploded by Mont€squieu's habir ofwriting his observations sometimes in his travelogue bur at orher rimes ino(her notebooks such as Mes Pensies, Sptu7age, or the special one he usesto describe Florentin€ art 0, 923-65).r Narratively disordered, rhe veryplurality of perspectives even seems ro depersonalize the writing subjeci,

, as the J? of lhe observer often dissolves inro rhe or? of a merc point ofview A case in point occurs when Montesquieu describes a visit to theVatican (I, 686-93). The autobiographical narrative evoked by the opening,"l went today to see rhe galleries of the Varican," a sentence whoseannouncement is bizarrely repeated for no discernible reason some six pageslater, yields only an impersonal itinerary wherein rhe or, who ,,passes', frcmone gallery to the next merely enumerates the arlworks and orher curiositiesto be seen there-by an, passing observer. Carrying to an extrem€ rheCartesian grounding of subjectivity in the Archimedean poinl of rhe cogilo,the traveling subject is here reduced ro rhe impersonal ascriDrion of a mere

It is surely no coincidence that Monresquieu should lay out his tourisricmethod during that parr of his text rhar perrains to his lengthy srey inRome. For ol all lhe ciries !isiled by \4onre(quieu, Rome rs rhe one mostclearly not dominated by some cenrral carhedral spire or other rall mon-ument. The city of the seven hills offers a number of differenr perspectives,

none of which is manifesdy superior to the others.r: Even though he spendsnearly half his y€arlong halian adventure in Rome (from January 19

rhrough July 4, 1729), a stay broken only by a three-w€ek excursion toNaples, Montesquieu's touristic theory cannot grasp Rome: "One is neverfinished seeing [Or? n'd jdmais fini de wn1" L 695). And as Montesquieutauthorial persona is scattered through a p€rspeciivism such that whileabroad, he says, "l attached myself there just as to what is my own" (Mespelsler, I,976), so Rome's multiplicity englobes all nationalities: "Everyonelives in Rom€ and thinks to lind his homeland therc" (Vorage, l,676\.Thestat€ment echoes the words w tlen nearly 150 years earlier by that otherGascon nobleman who pursued a similar itinerary and who even went so

far as to acquire an official document granting him Roman citizenship.The echo ol Montaigne's charact€rization ol Rome as "the only commonand universal city" (ErsdJs lll, ix, 997) alerts us once again to the factthat Montesquieu's trip is alr€ady th€ r€petition of many a French trip toItaly, a veritable lopos spanning the history of th€ lit€rature, from DuB€llay on up to Stendhal, Nerval, Gide, and orhers. ln Montesquieu's€entury, among the most noteworthy travelers were Misson, Deseine, Mont-faucon, Silbouette, Labat, De Brosses, Lalande, as well as Burnet, Addison,Gibbon, Smolleu, and of course, Goethe.' Since "all roads" are prover-bially said to lead there, Rome is everybodyt home, and everybody wantsto go ther€. The superimposition of itineraries m€ans thai one is also alwaysseeing what others have seen, making Rome, the sight of so many sightings,the tourist attraction par excellence. lt is truly rhe "eternal city" (1,676),as Montesquieu can only say aft€r (and before) so many others. The historyof famous visitors to Rome produces a cul(ural sedimentation on a parwith the traditionally mentioned seological sedimentation that physicallysuperimposes the Rome of one historical period over another,r4 Rome is

what one can never finish seeing because ever new layers of sedimentationcov€r over the layers below even as th€y point to the existence of thoselayers. The cily is on the move, building upon itself in an upward directionas jf to catch up with the tourisl on his hypothetical tower: "One can makeconjectures about how much the ground of th€ city has risen in Rome bythe Colosseum, the Arch of Severus, the Tullian Prison (which is underneatha church), th€ Column of Trajan, that ones sees sunken into the groundby lweniy feet. ln general, all cities are moving upwards [toures /es yil/€ridrsserll: streets are paved over ancient pavement. Thus, in Rome, ancientpavjng stones are lound twenty or thirty feet underground" (1, 706). Or isit that the tourisls path, in adding a further layer to rhe strata of so manyvisits to Rome, also makes him a part of the city's history, a bit of thesediment itself? Whence the universality of Roman citizenship, a conditionMontesquieu fre€ly assumes and appropriates, in contrast to Montaignek

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR

anxious quest for the oflicial document formally grantins him civic statusin lhe et€rnal city.rs In her lerers to him, Mme. de Tencin, for instance,addresses Montesquieu as "my dear Roman.',r6

As for Montesquieu's desire ro see, rhe endlessness of rhings to seeendlessly maintains rhe pleasure of seeing by denying the ulrimate satis-faction of the desire ro see everyrhing. This is rhe aestherics later formulat€din his Essai sw le Coitt (Essdt on Taste, 175?) and epitomized by noneother than the sight of Sainr Perer's in Rome: ..As one examines it. theeye sees it grow bigger and th€ astonishment increases,' (lI, 1256).r? Notunsurprisingly, the basic premise of Montesquieu\ aesrhetics, first publishedin the article "Coit" in the Encyctopldr'e, Iies in rhe desire ro see more:"Since we love to see a great number of objects, we would like /o err€rdout sighl, to be in sereral places, to truterse more space,.in short, our soulflees all confines, and ir would like, so ro speak, to erlerd rhe sphere ofour presence: it is thus a grcat pleasurc fot it to set its sight in the distonce,,(ll, 1244, emphasis added). The aestheric experience is underslood as atrav€l of lhe gaze, whose pteasure is guaranteed by an indefinire extendingof the soult "sphere of presence." Und;srupr€d by any of the displacemen;or repetition required by the limired vision of rhe tourisr in his iower- thisappropriarve ae\rherics ol visual pted(urc geomerrica y describe5 rhe(asymptoiically unattainabl€) ideal of a pure, unobstrucred view in everydirection and with every poinr along iis circumfer€nce equidistant from rheocular ol&or of its center

The Occidental Tourist; or, The Drift of History:The Spirit of the Laws

But this same pleasure can jusr as easily be reversed jnto rhe anguishpoignantly expressed in the later books of The Spiit of the Laws by anagina Montesquieu gone blind from roo much reading and painfully awareof the ways in which his vasi subject mafter-the roralitv of laws andhuman insrirurions-ex(eed. rhe pur!'ew ol hts rheorelrcal gd/e. lntere\t-ingly enough, the theodst's dilemma is themarized, once again, in rermsof tourism: "l am like that anriquarian who set out from his own country,arrived in Egypt, cast an eye Ljeta un coup d'oei\ on the pyramids, andreturned home" (II, 865). tn this passage, rhe theorisr sees himself as atourist in the pejorarive sense of someon€ who undertakes a great voyageonly to take back a partial, superficial view of what he has seen. What he5ees wirhour really Jeeing {,ince ir is onlv a glance, ot coup d.opih is seenaL Ihe co\r ol a grear etlort. ol an e\pense rhar ludicrousty erceedi ther€venue. It is €qually to be remarked that rhis partial view is a view thatlooks out at ihe monumental height of the pyramids fron below. We haye

strayed from the economy of a theoretical vision that sees everything fromth€ height of its tower

The imaae of the theorist as tourist returns a few pages later: "Whenone casts one's ey€s upon the monuments of our history and laws, it seems

that it is all op€n sea ltout est 1erl, and that this sea does not even have

bounds. All these cold, dry, insipid and hard writings must be read anddevoured" (ll, 894-95). Here, the touristic vision sees not too little bu( toomuch, a situation €voking the disorientation of being set adrifi in a bound-less sea. which is none other than ihe infinity of text in which the theoristfinds himsell lost and engulfed. The vision is not only excessive, but itsvery excess is lurned back against the spectator and erodes his position,so much so that in s€eing too much he ends by seeing too litde. Themovem€nt or travel of th€ vision no longer "fixes" anything down; rather,it is what erodes any possible point of reference, what undermines theeconomy of travel as method. This radical estrangement within erudition,warned against by D€scartes in the rrscorrse on Method, is also signaledby the egregious mixing of metaphors in this passage. The casting of one'sgaze upon (he material to be read in Montesquieu's research on the lawsoddly converls that maierial into a dauntingly boundless s€a. The sea oferudition isthen described as what must be not merely read, but "devoured."

That this feat of oceani€ orality is as inhabited by the ghost ofindigeslionas the vadous mouths in Montaigne's "Of Cannibals" is made clear bythe mythological allusion made in the passage's final clause: "All these

cold, dry, insipid and hard writings must be read and devoured, in the same

manner as Saturn is fabled to have devoured the stones." Montesquieumisreads the ancient myth. What Saturn devoured was his children, untilhis wife Cybele saved one of them, Jupiter, by substituting a stone for thechild's body. The eating of this one stone (not the plural stated by Mon-resquieu) meanr rhe subcequenl ri\e of a powerful progeny who $ould one

day overthrow Saturn and send him into exile in, of all places, Italy.Progent in fact, is v€ry much at issue in a work \tthose epigraph, prclemsine matre crcatam, celebrat€s an "offspring created without a mother."Circumventing the maternal, Montesquieu's authorial self-generation stemsnot, as in the case of his literary forefather Montaigne, from the expulsionof the pfure but from its ing€stion. Not only must the tssa),r count amongthe aextual monuments the ardthot of The Spitit of rfte tdlrs has to "devour"io write his opus, but the placement of the passag€ thai expresses thetourisi's digestive disaster in the penultimate book (XXX) bespeaks Mon-tesquieu's anxi€ty, and his personal inv€shent in lhe concluding topic ofThe Spirit of the Laws: the historical origin of the French aristocracy inthe innovations in Roman and Gallic law that helped organize the handingdown of fiefs along patrilin€al lines, eventually determining the privil€ged

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR

status of a landed nobl€man-such as Montesquieu-born inro herediiarywealth and power ("Our farhers, who conquered th€ Roman Empire," It,380). Perhaps the infiniry ol perspectiv€ derives from the observer's posi-tionirg within his own fi€ld ofvision, an unlocalizable locarjon thar undoesthe iixity of an assured or objective pojnt of view. The continuum of h;sroryblurs the putatively objeclifying dis(inction between the wriring subjecr andthe geopolitical map set forth in The Spitit of the Lolrs, and siruates rhespectator of gov€rnmental forms lritii, what he is observing.

Indeed, the category of hisrory is precisely \rhat erodes all kinds ofboundaries in The Spirit of the Lavts. However one considers rhe spatialsetup of political possibiliries, the diachrony of history is whar inevitablymust disrupt the pure synchronicity of th€ geographical projection, and ifMontesquieu can be seen, in the eyes otmany acrilic,rs to have..discovered"history, this discovery takes place through a concomirant denial of history.When Mont€squieu speaks of history, what is mosr ofren implied is a kindof immaneni teleology: the history of a nation is rhe unfolding or devel-opmenl of what is already inscribed wirhin the founding condirions, or"principles," of {hat nation.re The end of a nation is rhus atready foundin its origin: "I have laid down the firsr principles, and have seen th€particular cases bend to them as if of rheir own accord; rhe histories ofall nations are merely the consequences of rhese principles" (II, 229). The-or€tically, everything one needs ro know abour a country should accordinglybe deducible, in a manifestly Carr€sian manner, from its map. On rhe orherhand, a history rhat would remain identical to irs orjgin would nor behistorical, would not be hisrory.{) In rhe eighth book ol The g)irit of theZa)rq Montesquieu is thus obliged ro propose anorher kind of hisroricalforce, a sociopolitical clinamen referred ro as the .,corruption" of th€founding principles, by which one form of governmenr would ,,tall,, intoanother The exact source of such corruption remains somewhat unclear inMontesquieu and presents him wirh a number of rheoretical problems_ Hisdilemma is most acute in the case of despotism, which is a governmentdefined as "by its nature corrupt" (II, 35?), for how can whar is alreadycorrupted become corrupr?a, More generally, the paradoxical consequenceof the concept of corruption is that rhe pivoral founding principles arethemselves rcvealed as fragile, precarious, and in need ol preservation. Thequ€stion raised ar rhe end of the eighth book, rhen, is, how ro conservethese principles. Montesquieut answer is thar ..in order to pr€serve theprinciples of the established government, rhe srale must be mainrajned inthe size it already has; and that the spirit of this srate will alrer in proporrionas it contracts or extends irs lirnits,, (It, 365). To change rhe size ol acountry is to change rhe principles of its government. Ir is to changeeverything given rhat rhe size of a country is one of rhe founding condirions

of the state. To change the government is to change the map, and to change

the map is to change the government. Ceography is political and politicsgeographical. The map begins to move, but it is no longer the same map.

A country changes its borders, bul it is no longer the same countryThe diachronical geography that is historical chang€ also provides the

conceptual apparatus underpinning the entirely of Montesquieu's earlierConsiderutions on lhe Couses of lhe Crundeur and Decadence of theRon dr?s (published in 1734, soon after his relurn from abroad), where itis argued lhat the very expdrsto, of Roman power abroad is what triggeredthe demise of the Republic and precipitated the despotism of lhe Empire.As a cause of the fall inlo despotism, excessive expansion thus provides aspatial correlativ€ for the temporalized "corruption of pdnciples." As Mon-tesquieD states in thai work, "lt was solely the great size of the republicthat did it in" (II, ll9). Rome's shifting frontiers thus propel it throuslall three of Monlesquieu's governmental "natures," a historical metamor_phosis thal makes of it l€ss th€ explicative paradigm of politics than itsvanishing point, the unfathomable sourc€ of leeal and social history, as

inexhaustibly in need of interpretation as the traveler's Rome is of seeing:

"One can never leave the Romans: thus still today, in their capital, oneleaves ahe modern palaces to seek out the ruins; thus, ih€ eye, after restingupon flowery meado$'s, loves to se€ rocks and mountains" (ll, 414).1:

But if history redraws the map, then hisiory-at least since the demiseof the Roman impetium-ca\not be understood to be internal 10 onecountry (as if one could even begin to speak about the history of a nationwithout speaking of its relations with oiher countries)."r Hislory can onlybe conceived as the history of the relationships bellree, nations, as thetracing of the lines that dercribe the map. It could probably even be shownthat the notion of a nation-state is complicitous with that of its carto-graphical representation, to the extent that each is conceived as a positiv€€ntity and not as defined negatively by what is outside it.r'One needs tounderstand history as the writing and rewriting of th€ map. What happenson the border exceeds the spalial entity that is defined by it (the fixity ofthe map, th€ "natural boundaries" of the nation-state).

what ihen iakes place on ihe border? we can answer this question ifwe turn to that book of fhe Spitit of the Zalts for which the map issupposed to serve as a reading aid, book XXI: "Of the Laws in Terms oftheir Relation to Commerc€, Considered According to the Revolutions ItHas Undergone in the world." what is proposed is a history of comm€rce,a history Montesquieu defines as follows: "The history of commerce is thalof rhe communication of peoples. Their various destrucrions, and the fluxand reflux ol populations and devasrations, form its greatest events" (ll,604). Obviously much more than a simple dialogic exchange betw€en two

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOAR T

78 MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUF

societies, each of $hich conceived as a distinct entit, Montesquieu's "com-munication of peoples" describes the very ebb and flow of the border thatseparates them and defines them as separate entities. What Montesquieucalls commerce involves the "flux et reflux" of peoples, their intercom-munication, in th€ sense that one speaks of the communication of liquids.Populations intermingle and flow into one another in a perpetual €rosionof national distinctions. Thus Montesquieu can speak of the barbarian"inundation" of Rome (ll, 526,709, and Persian Letters, I, 335). But thiscommunication is also what defines new social entities as it is a questionof the "flux and rcflnx" of populations. Beyond the chronicling of mer-cantile laws announced by the title, Montesquieu's history of commerce,und€rstood as the communication of peoples, takes as its object the verycreaiion and d€struction of nations, a history whose "greatest events" arerothing l€ss than the vast migrations and transformations of societies. Thishistory of comm€rce is, ther€for€, indistinguishable from history in general,with "commerce" or "communication" as its driving force. What, then,do€s Moniesquieu tell us in this history of commerce, which presents itselfas a history of the world? What are we told about in book XXI?

Boats. We ar€ told all about them. Page after page is devoted to r€count-ing the advantages and disadvantages to be found in various ways to buildboats. We are told, for instance! that two boats, each of a different speed,do not accomplish their journey in a time proportionate to their relativedifference in speed; {hat boats made out of wood tmvel faster than thosemad€ out of reeds; that boats with a wide and round bottom are slowerthan those with a deep and narrow hull that makes them lie low in ihewater; that large boats survive tempests with greater ease than small ones.Admitting the obsessiv€ pull tbis ropic has on his imagination, Montesquieuw tes: "I cannot leave this subject" (ll, 610). He then goes on to list thetechnical accomplishmenrs achiev€d through boats, namely the voyages ofdiscovery undertaken by the Greeks, rhe Romans, the Phoenicians, and

The inflation of the history of commerce into a history of the worldseems to have dellated into a mere history of navigation. Need we takethis conclusion, that history is contained in navigation, seriouslyl To theextent that it is consequ€nt to a topographical theory of Ia\ yes. For howcan one understand the relationship between two geographically determinedentities without having recourse to a certain concept of travel? Navigationwould be what esrablish€s this relationship, what puts it inlo a r€lation.The voyage institutes a relationship between two geographical entities,which, to the extent that they are thought through the differences of adistance in spa€e, only exist in the wake of the voyage. In other words,there is no map before the voyage. lt is the voyage that produces ihe map-

MONTESQUTEU S ORAND aOUR

and produces it as what tries 1o map out or comprehend the voyage. Thevoyage defines and delimits the map by its rrace at the same time that themap retroactively appears as what defin€s or contains the voyage withinthe limiis it imposes. Th€ map is whar frames rhe movement of travel,giving it the legibility of a linear inscription within the longitudinal andlatitudinal parameters set forth by the map. At the same time, the very€stablishmenl of the carrographic frame is ihelf an effect of the travel thatplott€d its coordinates, and rhar replots th€m wirh every succeeding -ioumey.In other words, the voyage always exceeds the map, and by extension,exceeds any theory conceiv€d in spatial rerms as a map.

The privileging of navigational technology is also in keeping with wharwe have seen to be the preponderance of aquatic imagery to represent thedislocating effects of history. The popularion movements that make andunmake societies are compared to tides and floods. The corruption ofmonarchies into despotism is described as the flow of rivers inro the sea.Even Montesquieu's mosi srructural theory of hisrory, that ofthe progrcssiveunfolding of founding principles, cannor s€em to evade the liquid metaphor:he concluales book I wirh rhe boast that if he can establish the principleof a governm€nt, "the laws would then be seen ro flow as from theirspdrehead" (II, 238). Phrases such as "inrermediate channels thrcughwhich power flows" (ll, 247); "the force of rhe principle draws everythingalong with it lentruine tout)" (11,357), and "everyrhing flowed from rhesame principle" (lI, 361) punctuare rhe elaboration of his polirical ideas.a,

In the penultimat€ chapter of book XXI, the tidal forces of commercialhistory acquire the catastrophic dimension allegorized by one of Montes-quieu's favorite examples, one already discussed at length in his "Consi,derations sur les richesses d€ I'Espagne" (1728) and in chapter xvi of"R6flexions sur la monarchie universelle" (1734), namely, th€ paradoxicalimpoverishment of the Spanish economy by its very acquisition of goldfrom overseas. For Montesquieu, the problem lies in a lundamental mis-comprehension by the Spaniards about the nature of wealth: ,,Gold andsilver are a wealth based in fiction or signs. These signs are very durabl€and Iittle subject to decay, as suirs their natur€. But the more they ar€multiplied, the more they lose their value, b€cause they reprcsent fewerthings. The Spaniards, after rhe conquest of Mexico and peru, abandonedthe natural riches in pursuit of riches in sign, which degraded by them-selves" (II,646). Hence, ihe more gold rhey import, rhe more rhe Spanishexacerbate the inflationary spiral triggered by the explojtarion of the Amer-ican colonies: "Th€ Indies and Spain are rwo pow€rs under the same master;but the Indies are the principal, while Spain is only an accessory. . . rheIndies always draw Spain roward themselves" 0t. 648). Furrhermore. thisbad weallh found overseas is not gratuilous: ir mu\r be paid tor: ..To e\tracr

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND IOUR MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 8I

gold from ihe mines, 10 give il rhe requisire prepararions, and io transporrit to Europe, necessiiated a certain expense', ( , 646). This expendirure isthat of taking rhe gold out of American soil and bringing il to Europenamely, the cost of transportation. This extra expenditure means, though,that the Spanish suffer nor only from the effects of inllarion but also froman incremental loss of profit. Since rhe real cost of transportation remainsthe same while th€ value of gold depreciates, rhe percentage of profirs losrthrough the cost of lransportation will necessarily increase unril the minesb€come unprofitabl€ (this loss of profit having nothing to do, ot course.with the empirical amounr of gold conrained in the mine).

The Spanish economy is an economy of travel (which precisely does notsucceed in economizing on that travel), in which naurical voyages are undertaken to bring wealrh back ro ihe homeland, ro rhe oilos. The reperirionof this travel, the insistenr circljng of irs circular rrajeciory beiw€en Spainand the New World, eniails an incremental loss sfch rhat ihe rravel thatonce seemed profitable brings about nor just some financiat losses buteventually and inexorably the loss of the o,kos itself, ihat is, the loss ofthe home ar home. The underminine of rhe economy brought aboui bytravel instigates the rrav€l of the o,tos, set afloar in a continenral drift ofcataclysmic proportions: "ihe Indies always draw Spain roward themselves."Th;s setting adrift of ihe Spanish ship of state bespeaks a catasrrophic endto the world history wriuen in book XXI, a ftoundering manifestly incontmst with Roman srability: "Rome was a ship hetd by rwo anchors,religion and rnoraliry, in rhe midsr of a furious rempesl" (II, 361). Whencelhe ambiguity of Montesqui€u\ appraisal of the Europ€an explorations: alone moment, he writes that the grear voyages ol discovery have led Europeto "arrive at so high a degr€e of power rhat nothing in hisrory can becompared wirh it" (11,644), and ar anolher, thar rhese same voyages havebroughl about a decentering such that',Iraly was no longer the center ofthe trading world" (II, 642).6 And in a completety different context, heevokes the possibility of an eventual d€mise of rhe arts and scierces inEurope concomitanr with their reestablishmenr in America in imitation ofthe revival of letters in Europe afier their fall in ancient Creece (Spjcilege,ll, 1435-36). The voyage makes and unmakes economic prosperity, rhrougha mov€menr rhal is as unmasterabl€ as the drifr of conrinenrs in the erosiveebb and tlow of history.

This erosive drift ofhistory ultimately must implicate th€ writer himself.J,Noi only, as we have noted, is Montesquieu,s name and class status aresidual effect of the barbarian ,,inundarion" of Rome that Ieft the feudalsystem in its wake, bur th€ very narrarion of the principled flow of poliricalevents also eneulfs ils would-be author:

I am running a long course IJe courc une longue caffiArcl: L amoverwhelmed with srief and iedium. (ll, 584)

The following subjects deserve to be treated more extensively; butthe nature of this work will not permit it. I would like to flowdown a gentle rivet but I am carried away by a torrent. (ll, 585ithis is the opening paragraph of book XXI, on comm€rce andnavigation)

When one casts one's eyes upon the monuments of our history andlaws, it seems that it is all open sea, and that this sea does no1even hav€ bounds. (ll, 894-95)

Whal cosls most to ihose whose minds float amidst a vasterudilion is to seek out their proofs in places rhar are not foreignto the topic. (II, 898)

So if, ai the beginning of The Spitit of the Laws, the theorist positionshimself at the source or fountainhead of the laws, that is, metaphoricallyin the high mountains, what springs or flows from this source ends byswe€ping him right down into the sea. As opposed to Descartes's conversionof the watery depths of doubt into the firm ground of the Second Medi-tation, Montesquieu\ method seems progressively to uncover more waterbelow the apparent terra firma of his principles (history as er.rorl). Thetheorist's high ground is eroded until its submersion in the boundless sea

of erudition is desperately brought to a close by his r€calling an earlier,perhaps more epic, nautical journey to every French philosopher's preferred

desllnation: "Italiam, Italiam...l finish my treatise on fiefs at a pointwher€ most authors commen€e theirs" (II, 995).

The final lines of The Spitir of the Laws thus evoke the comforting,opos of the end of the book as the end of the voyage, signified by theciting of the shout of Aeneas's shipmates upon spying the ltalian coast,their place of destination. A telling note in the Pleiade edition of Mon-tesquieu naively or inadv€rt€ntly qualifi€s this shout as taking place "althe end of their long voyage" (ll, 1540), an €rror all the more curious siventhat MontesqLrieu himself provides the book and vers€ number in a footnote(Aeneid lII,523). Far from marking an end to the rravels and hardshipsof Aeneas and his company, the sailors' shout of joy is laden with irony,as the sighting ol lhe ltalian coast marks only a stage in Aeneas's voyage,not its end.4 W€ are, afier all, still only in th€ third of the ,4ererd's twelvebooks. Moreovet ihe very repetition by the sailors of the name of theirdestination ("lraliam, ltaliam") already points ro the biiter disappointmentof its loss at the very moment of its sighting, and more generally to theloss of any kind of finality 1o or exit from the r€gimen of repetition thalstructures th€ voyag€ narrative as an unending seri€s of episodes. And while

MONTESQUIEU'S CRAND TOUR

the context of the shour does nor exactly connote rhe ideas of a safe rerurnor of an end to wandering, the very acr of ciiing that tine from Virgjl asthat which is ro denot€ rhe end of rhe texr only ends the iext by conrinuingit, by referring us ro the rext of Virgil and an even wider jnrertext. Th;lext is only closed by its opening onro more texr. Such a maneuver is. inracr, $har happens in rhe clo,ing $ords of lre Sptit oJ the La\s: *t l;nishmy treatis€ on fiefs at a poinr where most authors commence rheirs,,(lI,995). While the line besp€aks a triumph over rivals, it also places Montesquieu's work in relation to the others: the continuation of rhe hisrorvol leudali\m i, ro be found

'n rhe\e other t\rilers. Noq, uhile rhis conrrnl

uation might seem secondary;n relarion to Montesquieu's work, it is alsothat which, as Montesqui€u says in rhe penulrimate paragraph, !,1 do nothave the time to develop." The other wrirers, wrirings are at once whar iscomprehended by or within Montesquieu's superior grasp of the subjecrand what cannor be includ€d in The Spirit of the aalrs because of theauthor's own finitude.a,

But wirhin the framework of Montesquieu,s parriarchal concerns. a cer_tain shore has indeed been sighred: fre SprirT o-f the Laws ends its tegalhistory at the momenr fi€fdoms become her€ditary. No longer a mere recompense lor political or military service, the fief began ro be considereda "genre" of commercial good and hence fell under the jurisdiction of civillaw' The category of history, so erosive of Monresquieu,s psychogeographyin the central books of his opus, could at rhe work\ close have led to anew ground on rhe farrher side of the ,,boundless sea," not rhe high groundof an all-encompassing or encyclopedic gaze bur rhe assurance of a"descent" rooted in rhe proper transmission of a plot of land trom fatherto son: the baronies of La Brade and of Montesquieu. In keeping with theonomastics of Western feudal nobiliry, rhe proprjety of rhe proper namehas as its enabling condirion the property of rhe land, a property rhat isalso a patr;mony. Indeed, Montesquieu\ personal attachmenr to his nameand patrimony, far from being the,.very si y thing ltt.:s sole chosel" hecalls it in Mer Persles (1, 989), was so srrong that in oder ro preserve iiand to "reestablish our family which is fall;ne,"so he arraneed for hisyounger daughtet Denise-said ro have been unwilling_ro marry an eldercousin of his: "What I had principally in view was ro have heirs ro mynam€."rr In laci, rhe very last legal detail discussed in The Spilit oJ theZa)r.r concerns the right of feudal lords io control rhe jnheritance of theirterritorial holdings by deciding rhe marriages oi rheir offspring: ,.Marriagecontracts became in respect to the nobiliry both of a feudal and civitregulation" (Il, 995). And here, at the end of Monresquieu's long textualperegrination down from the heighr of the theorerical sprinshead whenceflow his principles and across the sublim€ expanse of historicat drift, a new

MONTESQUIEU'S GRAND TOUR 83

height is achieved in the sol€mn rilual of rhe marriaee contraci. whichpositions the lord's gaze at an altirude from which he can securely watchover his desc€ndants: "In an act of this kind, made under rhe eyes of rh€lotd Isous les te x du selgrerr], regula!;ons wer€ made for the succession,with the view []rel thal rhe fief would be serviced by rhe hejrs,' (It, 995).And if one of Montesquieu's principles is the axiom rhar ,'the laws are rheeyes of the prince" (ll, 315), then given the srakes of such a patriarchalsuneillanc€! La Brede may not b€ all that far from Usbek's harem, whoseproprietor incidentally remarks on rhe "bizarreness" with which the French"have preserved an infinjte number ot things from Roman law rhar areuseless, or worse, and they have failed ro preserve the power of farhers,which it afiirmed to be the firsr legitimai€ type of authority" (t. 323-24).The error of history would be contained by a fidelity ro Roman law underthe walchful eye of patriarchy and its anendant narrative of genealogicaldescent. In Mes Pe,sd?s, Monresquieu anricipares his descendanrs not beingable to look back up at him, immortally nestled in the monumenral heightol his repulation: "Ir will require all of their virrue for them ro acknowledgem€; they will see my tomb as the monument ol rheir shame.... t will b€the eternal slumbl;ng block of ilaftery and I will cause embarrassmenr totheir courtiers. Twenty rimes a day, my memory will be uncomfortabte,and my unhappy ghost shall incessantly rorment the living,, (t, 1292).Unless, of course, such a phalli€ domination from beyond the srave wouldrisk the same castrating selflimirations and blindness that it does in rhePersian prince, or in the tour;st on rop of his tower-rhai is, the inexorablenecessity ol one's separarion from "rhe parts down below',; or the specrreof the family that "falls" for lack of progeny, with or wirhou! arrangedmarriages: "I can believe thar rhey will nor destroy my tomb wirh rheirown hands; but undoubtedly, they would not raise il back up aeain if irfell ro earth."5r

But if the predicament of political rheorist or feudal patriarch is the-matized in terms of the quest for perspective, then our inaugural passagehom \4onresquieu\ Vo))age i. nol merely anecdotal, bur rarher eneasespersistent concerns ihroughout Montesquieu's work, wilh probtems ofvisionand positioning as meraphors of dominance (whether texrual, theoretical,political, or fam;lial). Whar lhe passage does is dramatize th;s concem byproposing the image of rh€ appropriate place for Montesquieu to mo\nthis eyes, a Montes )eux, if you will. And rhe fantasy of a rowering the-oretical vision could thus be read as the insisrenr inscription of rh€ writer,sproper name. Th€ tourislic method would operate as a kind of signatureover the landscape, through which, as the framing process enacted by iheorganization of perspectives already suggesrs, rhe slrangeness of the foreignland is rendered farniliar. As Monresquieu writes in Mar persl€s, ..when

34 MONTESQUTEU'S CRAND aOUR

I traveled in foreign lands, I a(ached myself there just as to what is myown" 0, 976). But if he "attaches" himself to the foreign country as if itwere his own, could it be that the foreign land is appropriated, renderedproper to him, through a praclice thar mimes, in a distorted but rebudikefashion, the proper name of Montesquieu?

That proper name, though, derives from th€ place name of the propertyor piece ofland whose ownership ce(ifies the nobleman\ aristocratic status.What is the place called "Montesquieu" l According to the etymology proposed by Robert Shackleton, Montesquiet would mean a "wild or barrenmountain."i Esqrrerr, however, is also an adjective from Old French, which,according to Godefroy, qualifies something as what has been either takenfrom or forbidden to someone. A montesquieu would be a forbidden moun-tain, forbidden for instance to agriculture and rhereby barren, or forbiddento travelers because of its inaccessibility and therefore wild. ,,Montesquieu,,

would be a forbidden heiehi, rhat is, both the heighr dd its to(biddenness:the "monl des yeux" of which one is deprived or the "monr-esquieu" ofth€ory as an impossible vision, as an inaccessible position. Would theheights of Montaigne, his compatriot and intellectual farhet be too grearto scale?

Or is the very failure to achi€ve such an all-encompassing vision fromon high not the condition of Montesquieu's success as a critic of humaninstitutions?5. In seeking to establish rhe fixity of the political landscape,he ends up demonstraling its historical changeabiliry, and hence the po.r-slriliry of its being chang€d by those who become not m€rely the subjectsbut also th€ agents of history. lr is in this sense that a provincial patriarchand nobl€man, nosralgic for rhe preabsolutisr glory days of the feudalaristocracy, could have become the father of modern social science and aprecursor of the American and French revolutions, evenrs whose radicalnewness was as often as not thematized by the return to Roman garb andcustom immortalized in the paintings of David.J5

Would not the proper name of Monresquieu then designate an improperplace, orc not readily appropriated? The scene of appropriation takes placeelsewher€, in another place, in a foreign land-Italy, for example. Thetraveler is as at home abrcad as he is away at home. This is the dilemmaplayed out throughout Montesquieu's work and life and with myriad per-mutations and combinations along the twin paths ofexoricism (in his travelsand literary works) and internal emigration (the retrear from public lifeinto the long solitude of his chateau), neither of which can lead to anyabsolute or final, much less definirively elevated, perspeciive. To repear thelesson of Rome, "one is never finished seeins."

Chapter 4Pedestrian Rousseau

What setves to deceive othets v,as for me the pathwa)to trulh.

-Jean-Jacques R.ousse n, Emile and Sophie: ot,

The Solitaty Ones

Pedagogy and the T€leology of'Ir'yeb Etuile

One of the most consistent themes of travel literature in the Age of Discoveryis that of the pedagogical value of voyages for those who undertake them.At least since Montaigneh "Of the Education of Children" (ElJltJJ I, xxvi),travel has been grasped as literalizing the etymological s€nse of educationas an e-ducarc, a leading out from receiv€d prejudices and customs. Theact of travel becomes pedagogically justified as "pleasurable instruction."iThe correlation is massively underwrilten by the Lockeian epistemology ofunderstanding gained through accumulated sensory perception, by the cul-tural practic€ ofthe young gentleman\ "grand tour," and by various strandsin the emergence of the novel, such as the picar€sqte, the Eildungsroman,and aurobiography, which tend to posit wisdom as a function of accu-mulat€d experience and to prescribe th€ formation ofthe individual throughhis progressive contact with social, sexual, and cultural others. The edu-cational value of voyaging, which, according to Montaigne, should takeplace "at a tender age" (EssdJs I, xxvi, 153), becomes so pronounced inEnlightenment thought that lhe Enctclop4die

^rticle "Voyage" f€atures a

special subsection devoted to the particular "educational" sense of the word

Gee the lntroduction). As I have argued throughout this work, howevetany such "accumulative" theory of travel must posit a privjleged point otrefer€nce in relation to which the increment of profit (here, wisdom) can

PFDESTRIAN ROI]SSEAIJ

be measured. The educational voyage is thus especially dependent upon itscompletion, upon the rctum home of the neophyte who sets out on th€grand tour; otherwise, the value of its formative lessons may be lost orreduced to naught. ln this regard, th€ self-discovery of Descartes in thewake of his wanderings is to be preferred 1o the ambiguous percpective ofMontesquieu/Usbek, just as the conlinuous narrative progression towardclarity must prevail over a discontinuous set of insights, whose peak lucidityalways risks a corollary fall into p€rsonal blindness and civic decadence.It is against this background that one can measure ihe rather different viewof travel set forth in the era's most influential pedagogical treatise: Rous-sear's Emile (1162\. Th€ final section of that work is headed by the title:"Ofvoyages," and once again, the concerns uttered und€r that rubric evincea d€monstrable p€rtinence to other aspects of J€an-Jacques's varied anddisparate opus, and more sp€cifically, to that economy of critical nostalgiathat circulates throughout it as the desir€ for an impossible return, as wellas to his longstanding need as perpetual wanderer for some point of fixity.:As such, a close reading of that section should point in the directio:r ofwhat underlies ciiizen Rousseau's ambulatory concerns.

Concludins the presentation of Rousseau's pedagogical ideas, the loposof education acquired through travel is thus the final phase of Emile\educaiion; it is what is to complete his education before his final reunionwith Sophie. Yet this last step in Emile's €ducation is made io se€m ines-seniial. The voyage is only undertaken, in fact, after Emile has alreadyb€en sufficiently educated so that the voyage will only have those effectsintended by Emile's tutor Emile's education is what allows him to unde akea voyage, at the same time as that voyage is all that r€mains for his educationto be completed. On the one hand, if, as Rousseau tells us right at thebeginring of Emile, '1he first education is the one that matters the mosl,"ithen we might conclude that the final lessons arrived at through Emile'strip must be those that matter the least. On the other hand, th€ deferralof the voyage until the last possible moment suggests rhe difficulry andseriousness of the lesson and attach€s a certain importance to it, sinceEmile must be thoroughly prepared before engaging on this last leg of hisschooling.

This ambiguity of the voyage's place within the pedagogical hierarchyis reinforced by an ambiguity in the moral value of traveling, an ambiguitybeyond the lutor's ability to control unless it is put off until the last possiblemoment. The section entitled "Of Voyages" begins, in fact, by taking noteof this problem in considering the voyage's ability to do €ither good orham to the traveler,

^n ^lternative the very statement of which complicates

the traditional pedagogical value of travel as an unquestioned benefit.Rousseau will finally corclude, though, that "voyages impel one's natural

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAIJ

character toward its bent, and finish making a man good or bad,' (IV,832). Traveling merely completes a !.natural" tendency, makes one,s char_acter definitive, defining therefore what has already been defined, althoughnot definitively. How is this possible?

Rousseau begins by arguing rhat th€ quesrion of the value ofrravel shouldnot be posed in terms of wheth€r or nor voyages are good. Insread, hepropos€s that on€ think in rerms of wherher or not it is good rhat one l?aretraveled. Thh immediately changes the issue from that of the value of theactivity of the voyage to that of irs end resuh. Value can onlv be obrainedlrom rravel once lhe tflp i\ o!er. the implication being rhar rra!el can ontybe judged in teleological terms. One of the objecrs of this discourse onvoyages will thus have to be the delineation of the proper telos of anytraveling,

But instead of moving roward rhis end, Rousseau immediately embarksupon a deiour that moves the ropic of discussion from the value of tripsto that of books: "The abuse of books kills knowledge" (Iy 826). Theworld of books is opposed, as in Descarres, to th€ book of the world, thelatter neglected as a result of the proliferation of the former: ,'So manybooks make us neglecl the book of rhe world" (Iy 826). Bu( in the par-ticular case of travel narrarives, this obfuscarion is exacerbared bv a doublemediation or veiling of rhe rrurh: ..tt is too much, in order ro arrire ar rhetruth, to have to pi€rce through the prejudices of rhe authors as we asour o\rn....This would be true in the situation wher€ all travelers ar€sincere, only rell whar rhey themselves saw or whar rhey believe, and rharthey disguise the trurh only rhrough rhe false colors it takes in rheir eyes.But how must it be when you furrher have ro unravel rhe truth from theirlies and bad faith!" (IY 82?). Rather than spurring an inquiry irro rhiscomplex €pistemological problem, however, such an exacerbated mediationleads Rousseau to dismiss ihe entirc g€nre of rravel literature with the ratherunsatisfying conclusion that "in rhe mafier of all kinds of observations,one must not read, one must see" (IY 827). He then drops the subject andreturns to his iniiial question regarding rhe value of voyages in ihemselvesaft€r a pariing shot at the decadence of contemporary society: !!Let usth€n leave the vaunted resource of books to those who are made to becontented by them. . . . Thar resource is good tor training fifteen-year-oldPlatos ro philosophize in circles and for instrucring company in the customsof Eglpt or the Indies, on rhe faith of paul Lucas or Tavernier" (tV, 827).Exotic knowledge gleaned from travel books oike wisdom in ihe ThirdReverie) seems principally used tor oyenrarron. whelher ir be rhar of rhewrirer \^ho wanrs ro tell a good \Lory or rhe reader sho can rete rhe \ror!in polire company ro his or her own credit.

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

Why this detour then, through the value of writlen accounts of voyages?Why should the pedagogical justification of travel entail a critique of travelliterature unless there is some possibility of confusion between them? whyshould the problem of travel immediately come up against a problem oftexts? Perhaps it is because what is at stake is the ability to read a particulartext, the "book of th€ world," which can only be read through trav€l(otherwise, "ev€ryone keeps to his leaf" [V 826]). Travel, to pursue themetaphor, is what allows one to "turr the pages," an ability essential ioany reading. But if travel is a typ€ of reading, then r€ading travel literatur€only serves to superimpose another r€ading, which would get in the wayof one's journey to "arrive at" the t.uth 0V, 827). This superimpositionof texts, moreover, would make it difficult to distinguish between the two;or rathet to be precise, the reader of travel literature runs the risk offorgelting that what he or she is reading is but the text and not the tripitself.

We rejoin one of the persistent fears of Emile's teachet that of theconfusion between sign and rcferent: "In whatever study it may be, withoutthe idea of represented things, the representative signs are nothing. Nev-ertheless, childrer are always kepi to these signs without any of the thingsthey represent explained to them. In thinking to teach a child a descriptionof the earth one only teaches him about maps lqu'd connolqe des ca es);he is taught the nam€s ofcities, countries, and rivers that he doesn't conceiveof existing anywhere else than upon the paper where they are shown tohin" (IY 347). To know only about maps ("des cartes") would be to fallinto an epistemological error (that of Descart€s?), for in contradistinctionto the Cartesian grounding of truth in the self-evidence of intuition, Rous-seau's pedagogy stresses an experientially oriented meihod of learninethrough the presentation of the thing in question, while deferring as longas possible the child's encounter with signs in gen€ral and with writing inpariicular. But we should not forget that in the above passage, the exampleRouss€au uses to illustrate the suspension of the referent is drawn fromcartography, a field whose pretension is to th€ utmost precision in rcfer€ntiality. A map is nothing, if you will, but a collection of points ofreferenc€s, and y€t th€y remain just poira.r of references, that is, emptysigns, unless the user of the map is able to attach some other bit ofinformation to it, whether it be from having seen the place, or pictures ofit, or whatever. The map can only become meaningful if one already hassome idea of that to which it refers. On the other hand, ;f one does notalready know what the refer€nt is, then the reference point loses its capacityto carry out fully the semiologi,ral funciion that cartography ascribes to it.The map becomes an aesthetic object in the same way as the tool missingits handle in Kantt famous example: bolh have be€n cut off from their

purpose while continuing to indicate that they do have a purpose. Thatthey do have a purpose, though, keeps them from being "pure" aestheticobjects in th€ Kantian sense-that is, havina a purposiveness without apurpose.4 Perhaps that is why maps, like archeological artifacts, are usuallyconsid€red lesser aesthetic objects, and ar€ placed in museums less oftento be seen in their own right than as backdrop to "pure" works of art.

But if the structur€ of the map allows for the possibility as well as theeventuality of the suspension or undoing of its referential function, thes^rne is a fottiori the case for travel narrativesr with their proliferation ofstrange names and places. If travelers are or have been accused of lying-and this is not to excuse them of it-it is because the account of an exoticplace suspends as it names ias referent, b€cause its implicit claim to veracitycannot be verified.s The names are empty signifiers, indefinitely availableto what€ver significations are chosen,6 And it is because accounts of voyagesare potentially unverifiable thar rher€ is such an artempt to verify them.One trip to the North Pole or the moon demands anothet and each mustbring back more "authentic" documentation of irs itinerary by way ofphotographs, geological samples, and so forth.r But as this attempted ver,ification takes place on the one hand, th€ voyage's potential unverifiabilityshunts the account of it, on the other hand, in rhe direction of the lil€rary.Even basically believable or verifiable travel sro es come to be read asliterature (Xenophon, Marco Folo, Bougainville, Cook, and more rccentlyL€vi-Strauss, to name only an obvious few). It is easy to see, then, whyRousseau should extend the same negativ.a criticism ro travel stories thathe persistently addresses to literature. In the corrupt realm of culture, allrecounted facts inevitably become tainted by rhe corosive €ffects of fiction.The educator's principle, consistent then with the larger view of pedagogyin Emile as a resistance to the corruption that is societal culture, is thatthe knowledge to be gl€aned from travel, if there is any, must be acquireddir€ctly and alone. Hence, Emile is to Iearn his way around not throughmaps but through the p€rsonal experience of his wanderings with his teacherGuch as their famous outing to Montmorency). ln the same way, if voyagesare to be ofvalue, it must be through one's own voyaging and not vicariouslythrough another's account.

So much for the mode, but the contenr of what is to be studied throughtravel remains as yet unclear, ln "Of Voyages," Rousseau rephrases hisinitial question in such a way as to make the end of travel clear: "ls itsufficient that a well-educated nan know only his compatriots, or does itmatt€r that he know men in general?" (IV 827). Knowledge of humankindin general means surpassing one's particular perspective. The pedagogicalfunction of travel has to do, it would seem, with overcoming ethnocentrism,and with the corresponding establishmenl of a general anthropology. But

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

while Rouss€au says that it is not necessary to know every man in orderto know man in general, he also assefis that ev€ry nation has its "properand specific character" (IY 827), and just as this "proper character" canbe deduced through the comparative observation of individuals, so can thecharacter of man in general by obseNine diff€rent nations. There ensuesa comparative study of the way various nations travel and whal they gainor lose from it. Rousseau proposes that just as "the least cultivated peoplesare generally the wisest, those that travel the least travel the besf' (IY828). This is because, less concerned with "cjui fiivtjlous inquiiies" and"our vain curiosity," they pay attention only to what is "tr!y useful" (lY828). In contemporary Europe, only the Spanish so Rousseau says canclaim this expertise (or lack of it), while rhe ancienrs are consid€red rhemasters at knowing how to profit from travel. This mastery is immediatelyqualifi€d, howev€r, by the assertion that "since the o Ainal characters ofnations are being effaced from day to day, they are becoming for ihe sam€reason more difficult to grasp" 0Y 829). If the ancients w€re b€tter eth-nographers, it would have been because national characters were moresharply delineated in the past. On the other hand, the blurring of nationalities occurred precisely because of the act;vilies engendered by and relatedto travel:

As races become mixed and peoples fused into one another, ones€es disappear little by little these national differences which oncestruck the observer at lirst glance. FormerlI each nation remainedmore enclosed within itself, there was less communication, lesstraveling, less in th€ way of common or opposed interests, less inthe way of political and civil liaisons berween nations . . . great seavoyages were rare. (IV 829)B

But then again as intersocietal distinctions were lost, anthropological obser-valion was done "more negligently and more poorly" (lY 831) becaus€ rheinstruction (in the study of man) d€riv€d from voyages became of lessinterest than the "object" of their mission: "When this object is a philo-sophical system, the traveler only sees what he wants to see: when th;sob.ject is personal interest, it absorbs the whole artenrion of those who givethemselves over to it. Commerce and the arts, which mix and blend peoples,prevent them from studying each olher When they learn the profits thatcan b€ reaped from each othet what more do they need to know?" (lV,831). Modern travel is condemned by Rousseau because it has become onlyself-serving. Wh€reas "primitive" man, who is sufficient in himself andne€ds no one else, "does not know and does not seek to know countriesother than his own" (IY 831), modern man in his dependency on othersdescends to a kind of cannibalism: "But for us to whom civil life is a

PEDESTRIANROUSSEAIJ SI

necessity and who cannot do without earing men, the interests of each oneof us is served by frequenting rhe lands where one finds th€ most men.That is why ev€rything flows inro Rom€, paris, or London. Human bloodis always sold ar a b€uer price in capital cities. Thus, only the great nationsare known, and the gr€at nations all resemble each another" (ly 831). Theinvention of travel has resulted in the establishment of commetce as acannibalism that destroys all national disrinctions. Such a formulation caneasily be rearticulated into the more received Rousseauist theses concemingthe opposition betwe€n nature and culture, with travel clearlv on the sideol cukure. ln addition. Rou\(eau ha5 exrended lhe Montaig;ian cririqueof imperialism as a higher,order cannibatism onto that paragon of moderncultur€, the urban commercial center (ihe first example of which is noneother than Montaigne's and Montesquieu's beloved Rome).

Yet Rousseau is not prepared to dispense entirely with travel: ..There isquite a difference between traveling to see other lands and traveling to seeother peoples. The prior object is always chosen by curiosity seekersi theother object is only ancillary for rh€m. For h€ who would philosophize, itought to be just rhe opposit€. The child observes rhings until he can observemen. Man must begin by observing his leltow men, and then he observesthings jf he has the time" (IY 832). The philosopher's journey is opposedto that of either the curiosiry seeker or the child, and ir alone is capableof making travel useful or valuable, because it is the only one correcrlyc€ntered on the study of man: "It is bad reasoning to conclude thusly thattravel is useless because we rravel badly" (IY 832). Traveljng can be prof-itable but only for a particular kind oftraveler belonging to a sort of moralelite: "lvoyages] are suitable only to men firm enough in themselves rohear the lessons of error without leuing rhemselves be seduced by them,and to see the example of vice without being dragged into ir" (Iy S32).The prerequisite for travel is a cerrain inability to travel: one must be stableor "firm" enough in oneself not ro be ,,seduced', or carried away by thelessons of error, just as is the Ulysses who remains unmoved by Circe,scharms in the frontispiece plate for book V in the first-edition printing oftmile. The Cartesianlike self-groDndedness ofthe would-be traveler rejoinsRousseau's earlier comments in the long t€nth note to the Discource on theOrigins and Foundations of Inequality among Me, (1755), where he suggeststhat only trained philosophers should be voyagers (III,213ff.). For Rous-seau. insread of tralel being an access ro philosophicat \ irdom, as it $a\tor MonLaigne or Descafles. ir i. rhe status of phitosopher lhar makes onequalified to travel in a manner profitable ro both self and society.e Werewe lo study a ne$ world rhrough rhe erpe eles of philosophers .,weshould learn rhereby ro know our own world. { I. 2ttr. tn the ..happytimes" of antiquity, ordinary people neirher traveled nor engaeea in phi_

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEATJ PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

losophy, leaving both tasks to "a Plato, a Thales, a Pyrhagoras, [who,]impelled by an ardent desire for knowledge, undertook ihe most extensivevoyages solely to instruct themselves, and trav€led far in order to shakeoff the yoke of national prejudices."lo Through the comparative study ofcultural differ€nces, philosophers are abl€ to "learn to know men by theirresemblances and their differences, and to acquire a universal knowledgewhich is not that of one century or one country exclusively, but being thatof all times and all places is, so to speak, the universal science of the wise

Ila science commune des sdg€sl ."r' So, if the Second Djscourse coroboratesthe anthropological aim s€t for travel in Emile-namely, the establishmentof a common conc€pt of man-it further qualifies that intellecrual pursuit,not as a wisdom common to all, but as a knowledge common to but alsoreserved for "the wise."

ln short, the value of travel rests upon the proper training of the phi-losopher, that is, upon a question of pedagogy, which brings us back toEnile, wherc we remember that "voyages impel one's natural charactertoward its bent, and finish making a man good or bad" (IY 832):

Whoev€r returns from running around the world is upon his returnwhat he will be the rest of his lif€; more of them retum wickedthan good, because more of them leave inclin€d to evil rather thangoodness. In their voyages, badly raised and badly led youthcontract all the vices of the people ihey fr€quent, and not one ofthe virtu€s with which these vices are mixed: but those who arefortunately born, those whose good natural character has been well€ultivated and who travel \rith the true design of instructingthemselves all return better and wiset than when they left. Thuswill my Emile travel. (IY 832)

If travel merely completes one's €ducation and moral upbringing, albeitdefinitively, then only those who ar€ well educated should travel. The welleducated, though, are those who see the voyage as a way to continue theireducation ("who travel with the true design of instructing themselves").

The next paragraph qualifies, howev€r, this ideal of pure self-instruction:"Ever)thing which happens according to reason must have its rules. Takenas a pari of education, voyages must also have their rules. Traveling forthe sake of traveling is to wander [c'€s1 erel], to be vagabond; travelingfor the sake of instructing oneself is still too vague an object: instructionwhich has no set Boal is nothing" (ly,832, emphasis added). Now it seemsthat it is not enough to pursue one's education through travel. For Rousseau,to wander, erei: would be an error. It does not suffice to be a lover ofknowledge, a philo-soph€r, or even a lover of "Sophie" herself, such asEmile. Travel as €ducation, like Montaiane\ idleness, must b€ teleologicallydetermined, although probably not as much so as the self-interested travel

of the urban cannibal. The proper lelos of travel that Rousseau then proposes is the study of one's €ivil relations with others, a surveying, afterMontesquieu, of the political landscape, including the nature of the gov-

ernment under which one was born: "Now after having consider€d himselfin his physical relations with other beings, in his moral relations with othermen, he still has to consider hirnself in his civil relations with his fellowcitizens. To do this, he must begin by studying the nature of govemmentin general, the va ous forms of governments, and finally th€ particulargovernment und€r which he is born in ord€r to know whether it is suitablefor him to be livjng under it" (IV,833). Behind the disinterested study ofvarious political systems that ensues in the next few pages lurks a motiveof s€lf-int€rest: the search for the most advantageous place to live. Thepurpose of embarking on the journey is thns to find a home. Emile is toleave home to find a home-the loca{ion of which, however, has alreadyb€€n determined, if the tutor has successfully implemented the pre€epts of"negative education": "Either I am dec€ived in my method, or he oughtto answ€r me more or less in the following manner: 'To what do I fixmyself? To remaining what you have made me be"' (lY 855). Emile r€pliesthat he wiu fix himself by being fixed to nothing. The tutor elaboratesl

"Freedom is not in any particular form of government, it is in the heartofrhe free man; he bears it everywhere with him" (IY 857). For the runawayfrom Geneva with a plebeian name,i': freedom is irrespective of one'slocalion within Montesquieu's tripartite topology oi republics, monarchies,and despotisms-wher€ver the fr€e man happens to be; home is defined byon€'s current "coordinaies." Yet, despite this disjoining of the feudal linkbetween surname and place name, another kind oflink to place is introducedby way of the "attachment" for onet place of birth, an attachment takingthe form of a "duty" owed to one's birthplace: "So do not say: what does

it matter where I am? It matlers that you be where you can fulfill yourduties, and one of these duties is an atta€hment for the place of your birth.Your compatriots protected you as a child, you must love them as an adult"(lV, 858). This politics of the birthplace as oitos conforms to the choice

of religion suggested earlier by ihe Savoyard vicar in book IV of Emre.'although religious experi€nce is said to be particular to every individual,one should practice the faiih into which one was born.'r A curious privi-leging of the home is effected: it is best to stay home, although one mustbe equally prepared to l€ave it without regret. Emilet voyage is circular;he decides to stay where he is and to do what he is doing. The voyagesucceeds in immobilizing him, in making him cftoo.re to stay at home. Onesees why, for Rousseau, the value of voyages is not a question of travelingbut of having traveled.ra

PEDESTRIAN ROIJSSEAU PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

Emilet trip is thus quite obviously a rit€ of passage; ir completes hiseducation and d€fines hin as a full member of society (in his acceptingthe rights and obligaiions entailed in living within that society). It is rhroughhis trip that Emile acquires manhood. But this trip is a guided one, inwhich the tutor lakes care that Emile does rot spend too much time incities ("where a horrifying corruption rcigns" [Y 8531) or run the risk ofdebauchery in the company of women. The tutor leads Emile on a guidedtour designed to make sure he will stay at home. "If there be happinesson €arth, it is in the refuge lazilel wherc we live that one must find it"(tV, 867). But this tour is itself only the final step in that other, morecomprehensive guided tour which is Emile's education under the tutor'spanoptic guidance and which is designed to keep Emile "natural." Travelthus names the risk of an excursion outside the pastoral patriarchy envi-sioned by Rousseau's tutor, a risk, however, that cannor be circumvent€dif the p€dagogical project wishes not only to check on its own efficiencybut also merely to claim the status of an education,

One of the principal strategies of the negative education is to keep thechild "natural" by keeping him as close to the home as possible. Hencethe importance of the mother as the only wet nurse and of the father as

the child\ teacher. What is considered "natural" in Emile is what is asso,ciated with the home or the principle embodied in it Gelf sufficiency,independence, innocence, etc.), when the subject makes himself his ownhome. But if the "natural" education ensures the p macy of the home, itis not surprising that travel should be restricted. To underwrite this avoid,ance of travel, however, requires recourse to its language. Very near thebeginning ofthis voluminous work, a meraphorical topography is delineatedthai obliges the teacher to choose betw€€n th€ "route" of nature and thatof its other (humaniry, society, culture, art, etc.). Emil€'s education is seenas an alt€rnative journey (one that stays "within" or does not stray '{out-side" the stat€ of nature), or as a nonvoyage, th€ natural route being onein which the traveler stays put, anchored against th€ imp€rceptibly coFrupting crosscurrents of cultural drift: "To form this rare man lthe manof naturel, what do we have to do? A lot, undoubtedly; ir is a matt€r ofpreventing ant'thing from happening. When it is a question only of goingagainst the wind, you change tack; but if the sea is strong and you wishto stay in place, you need io cast anchor. Watch out, young helmsman,that your cable doesn't pay out or that your anchor doesn't drag along thebottom, and that the ship doesn't drift before you notice it" (IY 251).

A problem €nsues, though, for this reactiv€ travel, to the €xtent that itis still a question of "forming" this "natural" man that is, of enteringinto a temporal process, which, if any educational practice, even a negativeone, is to succeed, must b€ negotiated in such a way rhat the srudenr knows

more afterwards than before. There is no n€ed to insist here on the ineeniousmanipulation of Emile's character undertaken by the tulor to keep Emile"natural."rJ Rather, what I would lik€ to point out, keeping in mind thetopographical model of the educational situation, is that a ciriain travelingi5 n€ed€d-in order lo maintain-irs e\clusion, thar a certain accommodationwith the outside must be made to preserve the inner domesticity of the

Emil€\ first geography lessons c€nter on the position of the home (IY434-35). The location of one's home or of oneselfalready demands a ceriaindepa ure from home, from self. One can only learn what home is byknowing what it is not. Even earlier, one of Emile's firsl lessons involvedlearning the disposition of objects and distances around him, a lesson thatcan only be learned through on€'s movement in relation to them: "Onlythrough movement do we l€arn that there are things which are not us, andonly through our own movement do we acquire the ideaofspatial extension"(lY 284). Travel occurs as part of a strat€gy designed to d€ny it, the explicitpurpose of the liteml voyaeins at the end of Emile's €ducation. The "nat-u(al" education involves a succession of voyages, then, each of whichinvolves a return lo home. An economy of travel is establ;shed that wouldseem io allow for the possibility of a more adventurous journey al eachsucc€eding outing in Emile's education. The riskier voyages are not taken,however, until there is some certainty that their roule will lead back to thehome. It is not surprising, then, that the last two of these figural excursionsshould involve women and literal voyaging, the "transporls" of eroticismand the jorissarc€ of trav€I. These only occur when all else is "in place"and the strategy ilself of leav;ng the home to find it can be made evident$irhour risk. Ihere would 'eE6 ro be a prescr ibed succe"'ion ro the sequenceof thes€ voyages such that should one fail in its aim, all the succeedingones would fail too, assuming, that is, that they could still take place atall. Such a hypothesjs is borne out by Rousseau's statemenr rhat the firstlessons are the most important, since they determine everything that follows,and again by his assertion thai voyages do not change a percon's moralcharacter bu( only confirm and reinforc€ what is already there. If the firststeps are taken properly, all the rest follows, which of course recalls Rousseau\ insistence that the mother be the child's wet nurse and the father hist€acher. That neither of these prerequisites to the natural education is m€iby Emile already indicates that that "natural" education is a fiction, sinc€not even in its exemplary case, that of Emile, can its conslitutive conditionsbe met. The student is always already "urnatural," always already out ofthe home.

Even were its cond;tions fully met, though, the "nature" in question isless natural than cultural, namely, th€ soc,a/ institution of the family, here

PEDESTRIAN ROI]SSEAU

already nuclear in srructure. The security of the home is assured by itsconjojning of patriarchal pedagogue, nursing mother, and male child. anarrangement whose beneficerr pastorality is elaborately played out in thefourth part of Rouss€au's nov€I, Julie, ou ta nouyelte Hdlolse (t't6}\, h,ythe idyllic triad of Wolmar Julie, ard Sainfpreux (rhe childishness ofwhom is, of course, not a function of age but of his excessive sentimentalityand narcissistic self-indulgenc€). Now if the value of travel lies in thecomparative study of "man" and his insrirutions (which leads the son rorealize that there is no better place to be than the parriarchal home), ihedanger of Irdvel is linked lo contact wirh women. who epiromire lor Rous-seau that urban corruption and "cannibalism,' whose metaphorizarion alsoevokes the phantasmic specter of the yalina dentala. The anxiety of rravel,underscored by the need for rhe tutor's lireral .,guidance," is lundamentaltva diqplacemenr of Rou\\eau s deep-rooted and we documented an\ieriabout women and sexualiry.,6 Women figure rhe potential disruprion of thehom€ and of its fundamenial dyad of father and son, the preservation ofwhich is indeed the ultimat€ aim of rhe..natural" educalion; hence, anddespite the excoriarion of mothers who do not br€ast-feed th€ir children.the virtual disappearance of the mother herself, or ev€n of any surrogatesof her, from Emileh early trainins.

And at the other end of the pedagogical itinerary is found the perfectgjrl for Emile: the uneducated, decorporeatized, and domestically enclosedSophie,l? the sense of whose name further bespeaks her allegoricat reduc-ibility to the abstracr "wisdom" Emile is supposed ro have acquired fromhis education. Even so, Emilet encounter with her is carefullv m€diatedby mulliple cominS. and going\. who.e dangers are themset\e. curbed byrhe ad!enr ol Sophie as rhe pri!rleged object ot lhe,tudenr'5 allection\.This double domesticarion, issuing in the final apotheosis ofthe patriarchalhome blessed by wife and child, provides rhe narrative backdrop for Rous-seaut pedagogical ruminarions in book V We first spy Emile and his teacherreturning from Paris, wh€re they had thought ro find Emile,s future wif€.This being the obvious place rol to find her given Rousseau,s aniiurbanprejudice, the quesls failure ar rhis poinr reddunds io the pedagogue,sbenefit as he inveighs against rhe ciry as the the very locus of vice: ,,Farewell

then, Paris, you famous city, ciry of noise, smoke and mud, where womenno Ionger believe in honor nor men in virtue. Farewell parh, we seek love,happiness, innocence; and we will never be far enough away from you,'(IY 691). Sophie is predetermined to be a counrry girt, and ir is onty afrerteacher and pupil have urterly lost theil way ..in vall€ys and in mountainswhere no path is perceived" (tY ?73) rhar rhey find her, in a ptace soremote that it reminds Emile "of Horner\ time [when] one hardly traveled,and travelers we.e well received by all,, (IY 774). Setring up rheir residence

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

at a half-day's foot journey away, the iuror is able to fine tune his pupil,saffective investment by a carefully controlled schedule of visiaation privi-leges. When, after several months of courtship, wedding proposals arefinally made, the tutor whisks Emile off on a rwo-year long grand tour!the ostensible purpose of which, as earlier noted, is to help Emile decideon his civic status by "d€ciding" to sray in th€ land ofhis birrh, an outcomeall the mor€ predictable, of course, rhanks to Emile's amorous as well ascivic attachment (see IY 853-55). His desire to return home ro his belovedSophie also preserves him from the temptarions of the ciiy and of orher,less innocent women. As for Sophie, she does not accompanv her husband-to-be on this trip or on any of his p€regrinarions, but awaits his rerurnhome, as the desexualized keeper of his hearrh and intended mother of"his" children (the "proper destinaaion" of women, writes Rousseau, Iy698). Only in this way can the oifos be preserved from the detour or ,,per-version" that women signify in the Rousseauian universe. As such, Rous-seau's celebrated desire for a return to nature is perhaps less a yearningfor some pre-Oedipal marernity rhan a desire for that t)ltjmate point der€pale, the fathet for whom Sophi€ is but ar imperfect stand-in, one whoseprecarious substiturabiliry can be seen ro follow whar Derrida has describedas the "logic of the supplement."'3

Oedipal Returns; The Law of Succession: E ile and Sophie;or, The Solitary Ones

lf the pedagogical logic ofsuccessive voyages can be consrrued as a srraregyto master the dangerous detour of otherness emblematized by women,another kind ofsuccession is equally iargeted by the turor's method, namely,the son's succeeding to the father's place as ruler of the home. At rhe sametime that Emile is able to go voyaging ard gains the righr ro accept orrenounc€ his citizenship, he also gains the righr to accept or renounce ,,his

father's succession" (Enile, lV, 833), the r€nunciation of which can becarried out simply by leaving the home and not coming back. The successionof travel in Emile leads ro Emile's righr of succession, thar is, ro rheestablishment ofhis own patemiry, consecrat€d in rhe child he begers. Emilewill then face the task ol educating his child according to the preceprs ofEmile, all of which means thar his own educalion is complered by hisbecoming a simulacrum of his father/teacher.Le Falherhood is futfitted hvmaking one s son another larher. thu, e\tabli,hing a ,rructure ot repet itionaltlough to the ext€nt that ihe anterior term (rhe father) is consideredsuperior to and hasjurisdiction over the tarter (the son), the r€laiion r€mainsmore what th€ text irself calls ..succession,,, a term implying nor ihe dis_continuity of repetition bur a remporal conrinuity achieved by the posiaing

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

of a first t€rm as the cause or precondition for the second t€rm. At thesame time, the second term is seen to build upon or add to what is alreadyimplied in the firsr rerm. A resutt of this relation of succession is rhe sonhdependency on th€ father Emile still ne€ds his turor,/farher at the end ofEmile as an advisor and as a model to imitare: ..Stay the masrer of theyoung masters. Advise us, govern us, we will be docile: as Iong as I tive,I will need you, I need you more than ever, now that my functions as aman ar€ beginning. You have fulfilled your functions; guide me so thar Imay imitate you, and rake a resr, i1 is rime for rhal, (Em,/e, IV. 868).These are the linal $ords ol lhe te)\r ol Enile. A, re rha see in rhe sequei.disaster arrives when the father abandons the domls (to the ion).

The father, therefore, incarnares the good economics of rhe home asorio.r.,o Hence, it is nor surprising that travel abroad should be seen as adenial of the father concomitart with a seduction bv \romen. And if iherighr lo royage i, conculenr qirh (he nghr ro ren;unce Lhe tarher, rheaccomplishment of th€ voyage wirh the rerurn home aflirms in a positivefashion the son's relarion to his father. The return home makes the sonworthy of becoming a farh€r in his own right, rhat is, of succeedins th€father. The succession of farher and son rhen plays jtself out through thenarrative of the prodigal son.

It is surely no accident ihat the only two works of literature th€ rurorallows to become a parr of Emile,s educarion, nobinson Crusoe and Ferre-lon's TAemaque, borh confront the question of the father in terms of rhevoyage. The slory of Rorinson Crusoe (1718) explicitty relates travel to rherejection of th€ fathet for the hero's misfortunes ar sea leading up to hisshipwreck on the famous island wh€re he remains a castawav for rwenrv-iour years are consequenr ro his disobeling his tarher\ advice and com-mands not to travel. This disobedience of rhe paternal law of rhe oitos isconstru€d as sinful. It is only through establishing and maintainirg a homeon his island, by domesricaring ir, thar Robinson Crusoe is able ro redeemhimself in God's eyes (through his conversion) anal to learn the lessons ofthe father. Robinson Ctrsoe is thus easily read as an allegory of atonementfor sins against (cod) the father.

Fenebnt Tdldnaque (1699) offers ih€ story of a voyase rhat is simul-tan€ously a s€arch for rhe father and th€ means by which rhe son acquir€shis maturity or manhood. This maturarion is accomplished preciselythrough the son's imitation of his father,s voyages. T€l6maque musr becomeworthy of his father by undergoing a series of advenrures reminiscent ofthose in the lliad and the Odlsse]. T€t€maque borh gains wisdom inexchange for his pains under rhe tutelage of Minerva, the goddess ofwisdomdiseuised as Mentor,r, and learns to valxe his own father and homelandthrough the contrast provided by orher farhers (kines) and counrries. But

if the end of T€l€maqu€'s travails is to make him a worthy successor toUlysse through th€ establishment of a mimetic relation between them, whatis F6nelon's work if not a text that attempls to be a worthy successor tothe Odfsset by miming it (a mimicry, though, that also opens rhe texr upto the long tradition of its parody, from Marivaux's Le Tdlimaque trovesli11736l rhrough Aragon's Les aventures de Tdlimaqre [966])? This mimeticvertigo is further €xacerbated by Rousseau's describing ihe voyage of Emileand his teacher as jtself an imitation of Til'moque, one whose itinerarycan accordingly be supplied by th€ reader: "So I fi ke hill:. tead Tdldmaqueand follow his route: we seek happy Salentum and the good ldomeneusmade wise by dint of misfortDnes. Along the way, we find many Protesilasand no Philocles. . . . But l€t us leave the reader to imagine our travels, orhave them undertak€ these rrav€ls in our place, a copy ol Tlldmaque inhand" (lV,8a9). To make matters brief, in th€se texts, and on severaldiff€renl levels within these texts, the resolution of the son's relation to thefather is effect€d through the former's imitation of the latter. The destinyof Emile is in emulation.r:

Emile's negative education is thus predicated upon a law of parentalsuccession, which is itself a law of resemblances that nonelheless mainlainsa hierarchy of the res€mbled (father) over the resembling (son). The soncan only succeed ihe faiher iI he can establish a relation of resemblancebetween himself and his father. But this states the necessity for the son ofmakirg himself like the father, of making what distinguishes the fatherparl of himself, of internalizine his fatherliness. Thus the institution ofthe law of the father in such a way rhar ir makes rh€ son worthy ofsucceeding him, that is, of becoming a fath€r in his own turn. And yet,this metaphorical process of internalization or incorporation, this institu-tiomlization of the father through such ceremonies as rites of passage andtests of lineage, must take place without the father.:r lt is up to the sonto prove himself worthy of succeeding the falher, because it is only if theson succeeds in resembling the fath€r that he can be the son. Paradoxically,one must move away fuom the father in order to come near him, and herewe begin to return to the problem of travel in Emile. just as one must tumoneself into one\ home, so must one rurn oneself into (ihe image of) one'sfather, but both of these transformations can only be effected by leavinehome and father. The succession to fatherhood has th€ structure of a voyage(as the succession of places defining an itinerary to or from a home) insofaras the father becomes the point of reference (olkor or home) for the sta-bilization or domestication of family relationships. The succession of travelcan or y take place because (or b€ understood if) there is a home; the lawof parental succession can only be carried out if a father is posited as aporrt of reference. The educatjon of Emile altempts 1o ensure a smooih

PEDES-TRlAN ROUSSEAU

succession in both by maintaining (he privilege of home and father evenif it m€ans that one must assum€ for oneself rhe role of home and father.We need 1o consid€r, though, whar happens in the abs€nce of home orfather.

ln Emile's moral topography, the self-sufficient and parriarchal home inthe country is opposed to the perverse, €annibalistic, and feminine inrer-dependence of city life. Self-sufficiency and enclosure characrerize the idealdomus to the point that the (male) subject must be willing and able toassume that oi&onomr'\. self-sufficiency in himself should the dom6 be lost.The sequel to Emilq the unfinished novel tmrle dnd Sophie; or, The SotitoryO',er can be read as an allegory of the loss of the orfo.t, Thtsuccess storvof lmile rurns our in the sequel ro be itturcry and p,ecariouJy fragile. tttakes little more than the rutor,s abs€nce and Emile and Sophie,s move tothe city for all the peace and security gained through rhe',natuml,, edu-cation to be lost. On the most general level, one could resume the plot ofEmile and Sophie as follows: because Bmile ard Sophie hav€ left the par-adise of home, th€y fall into a series of misfortun€s rhat leaves Sophieprcgnant by another man and Emile a vagabond who eventually findshimself a slave in Algiers. The denial of home, of rhe reachings of En i/e,of onet origins, of rhe fathet lead to disasrer morally, economjcally, polit,ically, and even physically. One can easily read onro this narrative thetypically Rousseauisr plot of the fall of man from nature as it is elaboratedmost explicitly in the rwo Discourses. Ifon€ were to follow rhe aitegorizarionof lhese narratives as voyages, on€ would be t€mpted to conclude that theeconomy of trav€l in Rousseau would be one of loss; such an assertionwould seem to be borne onr by the negative pedagogical principles of Emrkwhich would try to pres€rve rhe ..nalural man,, from such loss and thereforefrom travel (even if it means undertaking voyages as a means of keepingthem from taking place).

A closer reading of the function of trayet ir Emite and Sophie rcvealssomething more complex, however; for it is the strucrural ,ec€rsit, of rravelthat is nol considered in this first reading ofthe novet, which only considersthe voyage as a contingenr or accidental fall (that is, as an unwise butessentially urmotivared decision). Why do Emile and Sophie leave paradisein th€ first plac€? A combinarion of circumsrances: the departure of thetutor, the death of close family members (Sophie,s father, mothet anddauAht€r). In short, rhe Edenic happiness of the home has been losr. Homeis no longer quite home, and whar stands jn its place serves onty as areminder ofits loss: "All rhe objects which reminded Isophiel of lher tamilylworsened her sorrows" (lY 885). The onty way to prese e home is to leaveit, a so Emile resolves to "remove [d/oianer] her from these sad places,'(IY 885). The home is to be conserved by its denial, a movement suesestive

PEDESTRIAN ROTJSSEATI

of the Hegelian Aufhebung by the negation of the home leading to its ,',-tdialectical resolution at a higher level, that of travel as home. Nevertheless,the voyage away from home does not lead in this novel to a dialecticalresolution of the problem, as the denial of the home does not succeed inpreserving it bua only provides the mom€ntary illusion of preservation: thehome away from home tums out to be even less of a home than its pte-decessor, and the flight to the city only triggers new and more irreparabledisasters. These disasters in turn occasion new alights, new voyages on thepart of Emile. We can thus detect the basic narrative structure of Emr'leand Sophie: the rccuperation of the o,/<o.r through the flight away from it,a recuperatjon whose success is at best ambiguous. The loss of the homeis denied by the affirmation of its loss, an affirmation the very enunciationof which is supposed to relocate or reinstate the home. It is as if by castingoneself out of the home one were casting oui of th€ home whatever wasinterfering with its homeliness. The problem is that it is still oneself whois being cast out. As such, this narrative structure of mediation throughflight is not simply infinitely rep€atable; it implicitly requires that it ,einfinitely repeated as each loss (of home) can only be repaired through astrategy entailing a further loss, which in turn leads to further loss and soforth. Thus the voyage that is supposed to r€gain the home only leads togreater and greater losses (from Sophie's initial sorrow over deaths in thefamily to Emilet final captivity), even if all these losses are supposed robe recovered in the final proposed reunion of Emile and Sophie "in a desertisland lune tle ddsettel;',a Emile's ex-ile is to be brought to a close by ther€covery of the home in the form of a utopic insularity that can alreadybe read in his proper name: Emile.

Such a conclusion would assert a redemptive return that closes the spiralof loss. It is ahe positing of such a circular movement thar allows for theundertaking of the journey as an economic bid for the recovery of theoifos. On€ only sets out on the voyage because ther€ is some assurance ofrecovedng what one has lost or will have lost. Jean Starobinski speaks ofa "joy of return" in Rousseaut work wherein the grief of departure isaccepted insofar as it is a step or detour toward the pleasure of return orreconciliation.'zs While this hypothesis may be corr€ct on the level of theme,it ignores a more complex structure in the economy of travel as circularcompletion, as what is asserted \n Emile and Sopire is rh€ paradoxicalnotion of d€parture as an arrival. Such ar ass€rtion disrupts any possibleeconomy of travel by an uncontrollable proliferation of departures andarrivals, and therefore inevitably states the impossibility of coming to anyfinal destination, and hence of completing the stotyt Emile and Sophieremains an unfinished (and unfinishable) novel.

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

A particularly strong example of this indeterminacy of departure andarrival occurs when Emil€ sets out on his journey away from Paris afterSophie's confession ofinfidelity. There it is that Emilecomes back to himself(revena A moi IIY 8981) whil€ leaving. The departure is a return to theself, in this case to the Emile formed by the lessons of the tutor, an Emilebotb more "natural" and morally superior to the one putatively depravedby city living and female infidelity: "l quietly /e/t the house resolved neverto go back. Here ends my lively but brief madness, and I came back intomy sood sense [./? renlldi dans non bon sensl" (IY 894, emphasis added).Eschewing madness by reentedng the "good sense" Descafies claimed noone ever found wanting in oneself, Emile is able 10 regain both meaningand direction in his new existence thanks to the "force" of the educationgiven him by the tutor At the same time, it allows him io return to a

moral purity associat€d with that period in his life. Thus his voyase is alsoan allegorized moral journey in which he finds goodness and truth aft€rthe detour of error. But this is to forget that th€ d€tour is constitutive ofth€ r€turn, as error is of truth. lt is only because one has set out on thejourney that one can return, and so the flight from home or self becomesa necessary moment or movement in finding either one. But ifthe departur€is paradoxically an arrival, then arrival calls for the perpetual departureemblematized in Emile's subsequent vagabond existence.

On the other hand, if one leaves ilt order io arrive where one supposedlyalready is, then the departure has already taken place before one leaves.One is neither at the point of departure nor at the point of arrival, andso one needs to affirm a departure and define a point of arrival in orderto maintain the economy of the damrs and of the voyage, of the voyage

^s domus. To repeat a point already made, Emile and Sophie only leave

home when hom€ has left them (the d€parture of the lutor and the demiseof Sophie\ parents and child their d€parture, that is, on '1h€ great voy-age" that is death). Emile complains of a "repose worse rhan agilation"(Y 894). As in the case of Montaigne's idl€ness, what one thought was rest

turns out to be anoiher motion, and one all the more thr€atening becauseit takes place in the supposed place of rest, ihe home. According !o thelogic we have r€peatedly seen, that motion in the home can only be immo-bilized if one affirms th€ motion of travel by leaving the home, by embark-ing on a voyage. To affirm travel is to eive oneself th€ illusion that themotion (of travel) is caused by and therefore under the domestication ofthe traveler-with the implication rhar one is also €apable of stopping thaamovement entirely. But this logic can easily be reversed to sbow that if restis to be atlained through travel, th€n the notion of rest is only an aftereffectof the movemenl of travel. It is only because one is already in motion that

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

rest can or need be posited as a goal. What Emile do€s nor realize whenhe speaks of taking "a grear step toward repose" (IV, 905) is rhat any stepin that direction must involve a step away from it: ro move roward a stateof rest means that one has moved away from it, since on€ is now morethan ever in a state of motion-

What I would like to sugg€st is that even if the don 'ls

could be preservedin its domesticity, rh€re remains something inherenrly undomesticatable or\nhomelike (unheimlich) in the home, something that could be called a"repose worse tban agitation;' \Nhat Emile and Sopiie enacts is the prob,Iem, only surreptitiously posed in Enile, of rhe inherent instability of rbehome. It is as if the home could nor itself even be irself. It needs to bed€fended and protected (i.e., maintained as home) through whar we sawin Emile to be a theory of parriotic dury.:6 Bur if the home is weak andcannot be depended upon to fulfill its very function of being home, rhenEmile's tutor is right ro insist thar Emile be able to survive even withoutthe home. Whar does the home Iack such that it cannot be depended uponor cannot even surviv€ indep€ndendy as home? An answer mighr be foundif we turn back for a moment to the place in Emle where rhe studentrecounts to his tutor what he has learned in his voyages:

In my travels, I searched if I could find some corner of earthwher€ I could be absolutely mine; but in what place among mendoes one no longer depend upon their passions? All thingaconsidered, I found that my wish was irself contradicrory; for hadI nothing else ro hang onro, I would at leasi hold onto rhe land inwhich I had fix€d myself: my life would be attached ro rhis land asthe land of the Dryads was atta€hed to their trees. I have foundthat power and liberty were two incompatibte words; I could onlybe the master of a thatched cottage by ceasing to b€ master ofmys€lf. (IY 856)

An opposition is drawn here b€tween mastery of the home G)oh,er, mastetof a thatched cottage, and of the self (frcedom, mastet of mlsetk. Eachof these tasks precludes the other. A home needs ro b€ maintained as home,and thus demands a certai[ "atrachment,, that ties the subject to it, impair-ing his liberty. lt is only a home ro the exrent to which it is matle to beone. On the other hand, any instability in the home means rhe same forthe subject dwelling in it. Witness Sophie's infidelity. The home is unreliablebecause it mak€s the sub.iect dependenr upon it, rhat is, upon somethingelse besides himself.,? Like the women enclosed within it or encounreredoutside it, the home itself becomes a rreacherous detour in the economvof a {male) sell. desirou\ ol an absoture immediac} and auronom}.

Th€ solution would seem to be for rh€ subiecr ro declare himself hisown home, which means rhar he becom€5 hi\;", In**. t-or Rouiseau,

IO4 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

this is clearly the morally sup€rior goal, which Emile achieves paradoxically

only at the moment he loses his civic freedom. "I am freer than before,"he concludes while locked in a Barbary prison (Enile and Sophie, lv,916).This conclusion is sustained through a Stoic morality, which accentuates

the difference between self and world by leveling all external influences orcoercions to the same "law" or "yoke" of necessity: "From these reflec-

tions, I drew the consequence thai my change of state was more apparent

than real, that if freedom consisted in doing what one wanted, no man

would be free; for all are weak, all are d€p€ndent upon things and uponharsh necessity; that he who most knows how to want what necessity

commands is the freest, since he is never forced to do what he doesn'twanf' (IV, 917). Such Stoicism, patterned aft€r Montaigne and the thirdrule of Descartes's provisional morality, allows the self to ass€rt its auton_

omy at the very momeni it accedes to all that it cannot master. lt is a merequestion of desiring what is alrcady the case, a logic already implied inEmile's desire to travel as a way to mastef a movement already underway.

That such a logic shoutd become so clearly formulated at the time of Emile's

captivity may seem ironic, y€t it is nonetheless a proposition characteristicof the Rousseau who requested that he be kept in "perpetual captivity"on the island oi Saint-Pierre. and who stated elsewhere that he could be

free and happy even were h€ locked in the Bastille.:3 The advantage of the

morality of self-domestication is that it can adapt to any coniingent cir'cumstances while claiming that contingency as will€d: "The time of myservitude was that of my reign, and never had I such authorily over myselfas when I bor€ th€ fetters of the barbarians" (lV, 917). This servitude gives

rise to a pedagogical experience rivaling that of the tutor himself: "Theirdeviances were for me livelier instructions lhan your lessons had ever been,

and under these rough masters, I took a course in philosophy much mor€

useful than the one I took with you" (lY 917). why is this education "moreuseful" than the first, if not because it is not dependent on another'sinstruction? Emil€ leams philosophy by attaining the ideal of the autodi-dact. After this apprentic€ship, he begins his rise in Algerian society as aparvenu, using only his owr wits. Everything is to the subject's credit, his

los5es as sell as his gains.

The same stance allows for a leveling of all geographical and culturaldifferences: Emile's adaplability is credit€d with making him "a man whofeels in his place everywh€re" (IY 906). Emile is everylvher€ at home because

he is his own home. The qualification of always being "in mv place"

corroborates this thesis: "Thus, I was always in my place" (IY 913); "Whatdid I do in being born if not commence a voyage which should only finishwith my death? I perform my task, I stay in my place ld ma placel" GY,914). This last citation clearly states the paradoxical economy of travel as

PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU IO5

nontravel. ln fact, travel can no longer be rigorously understood when alllands become one's homeland: "Everywh€re I passed for a native inhabi-tant" (lY 913); "In breaking the knots that attached me to my country, Iextended it to include the whole earth" (IV, 912). Ii is inreresring rhar rhegap between the self as home and th€ entire world as home should be sosmall. It is as if the self being assured, all else could be domesticated.Rousseau thus follows the itinerary charted by Montaigne, Descartes, andMonlesquieu.

Concomitantly, though, the problem of rhe self has become a topo,graphical one: "ln order to know the universe in every way that couldinterest me, it sufiices for m€ to know myself; wirh my place assigned, allis found" (IV, 883). If the assignation of one's place founds self-knowledge,which in turn suffices for knowl€dge aboul the universe, rhen all knowledgedevolves from the answer 10 the question "v)herc am l?" (as opposed ro"who" or "what am Il")-" But if one finds oneself (to be at home)anywhere and everywhere, one only finds on€self wh€rever one looks. Theself reduced to locating itself by its topographical position is a solitary one.No one €lse is there when one is everywhere. P€rhaps this is the sense ofth€ story's subtitle, The Solitary Ones.lt seems that for Rousseau, to findor refind oneselt;s to find oneself alone, and it is this solipsistic implicationof the topographical understanding of the self thar is descrjbed most srrik,ingly in the strange world of the Reyeljes of a Solitary Walkea \\hichbegins, "Here am I, then, alone upon the €arth" (I, 995). The bleak worldin which the narratot Emile, finds himself al the beginning of Emile andSoprfu thus prefigures that of the Firsr Reverie. Both describe the worldaround the narrator as a nowher€ in which it is difficult, if nol impossible,to find one's bearings. The nartutot of Emile on /t Sopr,e describes himselfas being in a "land of exile" (lY 882); in the First Reverie, the narratorsays that he is "on this earth as upon a foreign planet" (1, 999).

But if in th€ First Reverie, this disorientation would seem to be domes-ticat€d through a recentering of the discourse onto the speaking subject,in Emile ond Sophie lhe only point of reference the narrator can find ishis old tutor, whom he addresses as both "master" and "father":

But you, my dear mastet do you liv€? Are you still mortal? Areyou still in this earthly land of exile lcette tere d'dxi4 with yourEmile, or do you already with Sophie inhabit the fatherland of justsoi'rls IIa pattie des ames jrslesl? Alas! wherever you ar€, you aredead for me, my eyes will never see you again, bul my heart w;llincessantly be preoccupied with you. Never have I betrer known thevalue of your caring as after harsh necessity had so cruelly madem€ feel its blows and had taken ev€ryrhine from me except me. Iam alone, I have lost everything, but I remain to mvsetf, and

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAIJ

despair has nor overwhelmed me. These pages will not reach you, Icannor hope rhar_rhey do. Undoubtedly, itJy *ttt p..i.f, ,n."!. jy'an) man: but ir doe\ nor ma er. rhey have been wrirren, t collarelhem. I bind them. I continue to $rire them. and it is to you thatI address rhem: ir is to you thar I wanr to trace rhese pre;iousmemorie. rhat nouri,h and break m) hea : ir i, ro )ou thar I wanlto gi\e an account ol mysel. ot my leetings. of m] behavior, otthrs hea,l thar you have given me. rlV. 882)

If Emile is lost in a ,,land of exile,', thar is, away from the istand or ,,ile,,he would love as "aime-ile," the tutor is either also in this land of exite(in which cas€ he is srilt .,wirh,, Emile and can be invoked), or already in"thr larherland ofjusr.out\, a periphra.is tor heaven. But it rhe t;rorrs deacl and in heaven, he r. also in lhe ..lalhertand of lhe juql,.. whfre a\falher he justly belongs. civen rhat the morality of the tutor cannot beput into question at the level of Emile,s comprehension of him, and giventhar the turor is called'.my father" by Emile, rhen rhe tutor,s locatiin in"the fatherland of jusr souls', becomes a rautology to rhe exrenr thar thejust father is wher€ he belonas, in the farherland oi the just. So if the tutoris dead and cannor be reached by Emjte,s discourse, it is because he is inhis proper dwelling place, rhe safe home or isle of refuge which is ort of(or not in) th€ ex-ile. The farher is ar hom€, where the son would like robe but is not.

But then, in a surprising move, it suddenly turns out thar it does normaiter to the son where the farher is: ,'Wherever you are, you are deadfor me, my eyes wiu never see you again.,, It does not even mafter if Emile,sword. never reach lhe tutofi..These pages $ill nol reach you, I cannorhope rhat lhey do. Undoubledty. rhey wilt pcrish unseen by an, manj bulrl does nor mdller. rhe) have been sri en. Icollare (hem, I bind lhem, Iconlinue ro srile lhem. and it i\ to you lhar I address them: ir is ro lourhar I want to rrace rhese prcciou, memories... The tarher ir rherefore ontvlhere ro lill rhe di(curcire po,ilion ol addre.see. U nerner rne me*age e,e'rreachf\ lhe rece'ver or nor i. of le,s impoflance rhan rhar rhe me"sage beaddre$ed ro hin, in other words. that the enuncia on ot rhe discou,,etake place. In addressing rh€ farher, who as far as the speak€r is conc€rned("you are dead for ne") h oul of exile and back ar lhe home to which rhespeaker has no hope of returning, rhe speaker's task seems less thar ofattempting a hopeless communication rhan of finding a point of referencetoward which the discourse can be addressed and around which it can bearliculared. Ih€ .pealer: predicamenl. a\ rerruat a. ir Lopographrcat,ljnd5 issue in rhe po.iting ol a cerlain o/*oj llhe {arher a. inredocuror;, a/ol,er around which the discourse can be domesricared within rhe safe con_fines ol a communicarive act produced by and under the mastery of rhe

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

speaker. The father, then, is the fatherland in r€lation to which the speaker'sdiscursive wandering cari take place without fear of loss or infinirude. Inother words, because there is an addressee, there can be an addressor whosends a message to him. The speaker can speak because rhere is someoneto speak to. Rousseau's grounding of the possibility of discourse in thedetermination of the ddd,,ess€e would thus seem to rcverse Descartes's dis-cursive grounding in the place of the dddressor'.

This formula(ion of the problem suggests another, however, in which rhesub.ject of the discourse entirely eludes the necessity of an interlocutor forthe constitution of his own subjectiviiy by positing the addressee as a fictior,albeit a necessary one.ro 11 is this fictionality ofthe addr€ssee, of rhe father,ol rhe oikos, that Rousseau's texi demonslrates at the very momeni thatthos€ principles are invoked as origins. It seems to mafter less ihar rheseterms exist than that they be posited as such, as poinrs of reference inrelation to which all else can be placed and thereby mast€red. At the sametime, such rccessary or theoretical fictions pose what seems ro be an insur-mountable dilemma: How can th€ fiction be recognized as borh necessaryand fictive, for the fiction would only fulfill its function of domesricarionif it were denied as fiction, that is, if ir were accepted as truth? ln otherwords, one must act ds y' the fiction were true in order to make it work-A necessdry fiction cannot be posited as ficrion. . . and yer rhis is preciselywha( Rousseau's text works to do whether that fiction b€ called nature,origin, home, or father.sl

To make of the fathet such a necessary fiction cannot be without con-sequ€nces, though, for the law of succession that posits the father as rhesont ultimate refer€nce point. lf it is up to the son to become the fatherin the latter's absence, does this not mean that the son either makes himselfinto the father or himself mak€s the father (a problem of self-engenderm€nrnot unlike that posed by the autobiographical project of Moniaigne)? Is iinot the son who, in the rite of succession, defines the law of the faihernot by defining himself as son but by defining his father as father? But ifthe father is only defined as such so that the son can constitute himself asson, then at the same time that the father is privileged (as origin, as law)he is denounc€d as a fiction engendered by the son. The son turns out tobe the father of the father, but to say this is to upser ahe very law ofsuccesion set up by th€ son as the rule of the father. Somehow, for thepaternalistic pedagogue thai is Rousseau (whose own farher had abandonedhim before he, in turn, had notoriously abandon€d his children ro a publicorphanag€), the father must not be denied the authority and anteriorityattributed to him by the son, for it is those attribures thar define him asfather. Nor must the father appear as a fiction of the son, and yer this iswhat happens iL Emile and Sophie, borh when Emile addresses his tutor

PEDESTRIAN ROTISSEAU

as his father (since we know from Emle that the tu(or is nol Emile\ fathetand when he addresses him regardless of his being alive or dead, or of hisbeing able to receive the message or not. At the same lime, however, thatthe rule of the faih€r seems to become in Emile's discourse only a fictionenabling that discourse to take place, Emile\ invocation of his "father"takes on a note of pathos as Emile credits his own abilities to withs(andmisfortun€s to the p€dagogical work of his "father." The relation of suc-cession thus implies both a nostalgia or desire for the an(erior term andan assertion of its loss. ln terms of travel, a desire for a rclurn (to thehome, lo nature, to the origin) is u(ered at the same time as the impossibilityof the return, In lerms of Rousseau's pedagogical project, the "natural"education, as he himself admits, is "from its first steps already outsidenature" (IY 259).

Walking and WJiting:. Confessions

To recapitulat€, the placement of travel within the succession of experiencesthat make up Emilet educatio! not only bespeaks the latter\ larger itineraryas being itself a voyag; but also reveals in its successive displacements theworkings of an Oedipal nostalgia, of an impossible desir€ ro rerurn to a(paternal) home that, like naturc in the Second Discoune, no longer is.and no doubt never was, because ii can only be posited after the fact andin the wake of its loss. This logic or movement of succession. which ret-roactively posils a first term (origin, nature, father) as the cause or temporalprecondition of a second one (history, culture, son), is endemic not onlyto Rousseau\ pedagogical and political theories but also to the g€nre ofautobiography practic€d (or even, some would say, invented ) by him.rzRousseaut Corlessior?s differ from the kind of self-portrajr exemplified,for example, in the tssals of Montaigne by the desire to explain his lifethrough the rccounting of its events in the order in which rhey rook place.The notion of succession allows, then, for the hypothesis that because aparticular evenl took place in one's youth or childhood (the mother's deathin childbirth, a broken comb, a stolen ribbon) any subsequent misforlunesare but the inevitable consequence of that event.I (Such moments aremarked in the Confessio s by the refrain, "Here begins the tale of mymisfortunes," whose v€ry repetitiveness begins to deconstruct the posl l?oq2/opler ,oc fiction of succession.)

The first of these "misfortunes" Rouss€au describes in the Corlessior.tis his birth itself, which brings about his mother's death, but the resultantmotherless hom€ also remains a marvelous object of nostalgia for a JeanJacques who remembers the warm closen€ss of a father whos€ sentimentalbond to his son was grounded in th€ latter's resemblance to his lost wife

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU 109

and solidified by their joint reading of novels until lale at night. This won-drously idyllic symbiosis between father and son is brok€n when Rousseausenior, embroiled with a French olficer and threatened with iime in prison,is obliged to flee Ceneva and "expatriate himself ls'arpolrier] for the resiof his life" (1, l2), leaving his son to the tutelage of his brother-inlaw,who pensions the young Jean-Jacques in Bossy with the Lamberci€r family.The succeeding events of book l, culminating in the famous closing of thecity gates of Ceneva on the hapless adolescent out for a walk "not evendreaming of returning" (1, 4l), progressively distance Rousseau from Ihepaternal home, thus expatriating him inlo (\ 'hat he considert greater andgreater misfortune. The subsequent books of the Corlesslors can thus beseen to constitute a vast journey, roughly broken between the vagabondyears of his youth (books II Vll) and th€ unending series of flights from"persecution" in the aftermath of his sudden rise to celebdty as the authorof the Dlscorlse of l75l (books Vlll-XIl).

Book II already plots out a psychogeography that enframes in generalRousseau's iiinerant existence ("my ambulatory mania", [, 54]) and thatis commensumte with what was found inEzile. Pursuant to his expatriationfrom Ceneva, Rousseau wanders abour U'errdl until he meeis the womanhe will later so affectionately call "Maman," Mme. de Warens, living inAnnecy amidst the Savoy mountain peaks and vall€ys, not unlike the terrainwhere Emile finally locates Sophie. Noi only does this Alpine terrain con-note a maternal and rural innocence (erotically evoked ;n such images as

his fanrasizing "vats of milk and cream on the mountain sides" [, 58])but it inviaorates the young Jean-Jacques with an almost literal sense ofsupedority: "For me, it seemed lovely to cross the mountains at my age,and to rise superior In'dlevet au dessusl to my comrades by the full heightof the Alps lde toute Ia hautew des alpes\" (t,54).ra This sense of elevationcontinues as Rousseau cross€s over on foot ;nto ltaly, a traversal he cannotresist describing \vith the kind of imperialistic allusion typical of Frenchtravelers to the region: "To be traveling in Italy so young, to have seen somany countries alr€ady, to be following in Hannibal's footsteps across themountains br,ivre,4rnibal i lruwts Ies nonsl, seemed to me a glory abovemy yea$ Iau dessus de mon aqel" (1,58). lndeed, the entire experience issaid to explain one of Rousseau\ lifelong passions: "This memory has leftme the strongest laste for everything associared wirh ir, for mountainsesp€cially and for traveling on foor lles wyaqes pedesl/€sl" (1, 59).

Rouss€au's Alpine epiphany is brought ro a sudden halt, however, by hisarrival in Turin, the great city ar the beginning of the Northern lralianplain carved out by the Po riv€r. Il is here thar ihe young Swiss runawayhas be€n sent in order formally to abjure his Calvinisr faith in favor ofRoman Catholicism. A most powerful ser of boundaries is thus already

IIO PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU PEDESTRIAN ROIJSSFAII

sketched out as country meets city and mountain encounters ptaint withthe difference between religions redoubled by the difference belween rheFrench and the Italian languag€s. Small wonder rhat a high hill overlookingTurin should have provided the setting for rhe moralistic injunctions serfofih by Rousseau in the Profession of Faith of a Sayofard Vicar (lV, 565),or that his spirited defense of that work against the attack spearheaded byJean-Robert Tronchi,n's Leures dcrites de la campagne (1761) should haveseized the moral high ground with its rejoining title of Lettres dcrites deIa montagne (1764). But if for the Iikes of Montaigne, Descartes, andMontesquieu, th€ Alps could only represenr a nuisance, a geographicalobstacle to be overcome on their way to cisalpine adventure, for Rouss€authey are that from which there is literally nowhere to go but down: ..Mvregret at reaching Turin so quickly was tempered by the pleasure of seeinga great city and ihe hope of soon cutting rhere a figure worthy of myself.For the fumes of ambition \rcre ising to m), hedd, and already I regardedmyself

^s infinitelf aboy€ my old position of apprentice. I was far from

foreseeing that in a very short time, I should fall considerably ,e/olr it"(I, 59; emphasis added). And indeed in rhis land of piemonre, situared atthe foot of the mounrains, Rousseau only finds what he views as base andugly. To his horror, he finds himselflodging with both cultural and religiousothers ("Jews and Moors," and all kinds of Catholic Itatians) and sexualothers (homosexuals, couriesans, '|tthe greatest sluts and most villainouswhores" [I, 60]). If for Montaigne rhe charm of lraly was not far removedfrom a blissful morbidity, Rousseau's peninsular experience is thar of afearful and perverse sexualiry, which he discovers in himself as well as inoth€rs. Residing in Turin at the very same rime as Monresquieu, who sawit as a rathet dull town in comparison to the tudic excitement of Veniceand Milan,rr Rousseau undergoes one perverse misadventure after another(leaving him, as h€ says, "not my virginity, but my n idenhead Inon mal,itginiri, mais mon pucelogel" tI, l08l), from his being the objecr of ahomosexual passion, to his unconsummated adult€ry with Mme. Basile, tohis exhibitionist antics, ro rhe inception of his onanism. It is also duringthis time that he falsely accused the servanr girt Marion of having stolenthe ribbon he had himself pilfered, and so commirted the heinous deed thatwould forever weigh on his conscience. And years tater, during his soiournin Venic€, Rousseau's view of Catholic Italy as urban depravity was nodoubt reconfirmed by his disastrous adv€nrure with the courtesan Zuliena,the sight of whose malformed or "blind,' nipple (tdton boryne) leavesRousseau impotenr, as if the blinding absence of the maternal nippte trig-gered a return of his repressed fear of women: ..I saw as clear as daylighrthat instead of ahe most charming person I could possibly imagjne I heldin my arms some kind of monst€r" (I, 322).16 It is in Venice roo that

Rousseau claims to have gotten the idea for making Emile fatl in love priorto his departure on the grand tour, whose st€reotypjcal destination wasItaly. The governor of a young Englishman would have prevented the latter'scorruption at the hands of a Venetian lady by the lad's prior engagementwiih an English woman, news of whom would have k€pt him true to her(Enile, lv, 853).

Georges May's celebrated analysis of Rousseau's relation to women as

split between asexual blonds and ove(ly sexual brunettesrr would thus seemto find a g€ographical corollary in the opposition between Switzerland andItaly. The third country in which the peregrinations described in the Con-/esrrbns occur is France, where there is a conjugation of the two poles,rural tranquillity and Parisian decadence, blonds and brun€tt€s, Mme. deCh€nonceaux and Mme. de Larnage, Th€rese Levasseur and the Comtessed'Houd€tot. The Cor?2ssior,.s end with Rousseau's d€partur€ for England,a country wher€ no women at all figure in Rousseau\ imaginary; there hewas uniquely preoccupi€d by his shifting relations with powertul men suchas David Hume, James Boswell, and even King George III.TB What onecould call Rousseau's "Carte du Tendre" is again amply played out in taNouvelle Heloiie, where the rural sanctity of Clarens contrasts boih withthe corruption of a Paris dominated by "loose women" and \rith MilordEdouard's erotic misadventures in Rome. More sianificantly, the moralpurity and "goodness" of that Swiss lopos is secured by that sternest oiRouss€auian father figur€s, M. de Wolmat who panoptically stands behindthe ethereal and blond Juli€ as the unquestioned ruler of Clarens andguarantor of the home.r! That this ultimate return to the patriarchal homecan only lake place in or as a fiction reconfirms the logic oI successionadumbrated by rhe traveling in Emile and its sequel.

To understand the Conlelsiors as a kind of ex(ended voyage narrativenonetheless also requires accounting for another kind of return. Rousseau'sautobiography is not a travelogue, like those written by Montaigne andMontesquieu, whose notations were compiled while on the road or shortlythereafter; it is a narrativized sequence of recollections, written years later,that mimes the succession of€vents in Rousseau's life, their return in writjngas the accumulated exp€ri€nce of the book's signaiory. If travel, pursuantto the logic of succession, simultaneously posits a desire for a return andthe impossibility of its realization, then in terms of autobiography, thedread detour of travel would correspond to what risks not coming back tothe autobiographer's memory, to what escapes his consciousness: themoment of forgetfulness that is the temporal precondition for the remem-brance of a memory to occur as an event. This dilemma is explicitly dis-cussed in a passage of book lV of the Conle$iors in terms of Rousseau'sregretful failure to write a travelogue: "In thinking over the details of my

II2 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

life which are lost to my memory, what I mosi regret is that I did not keepjournals of my travels,' (I, 162). Because his travels were nor written dow;at the time they took place, they can no longer be remembered. But iftravel takes place outside of memory and wriring, one thing is remembered:"Never did I think so much, exist so much, live so much, be myself somuch-if I may speak in such a way*as in the journeys I have taken aloneand on foot." Rouss€au's voyages imply a momenr of plenitude (of intel_leciion, of being, of selfhood) thar no Ionger exists. Hence the nostalgicdesire to remembff them and the frustratior at not being able ro. Nothaving been put inro writing, these moments of epiphany can no longerbe recollected except for rhe mere fact that they were momenrs of epiphany,and as such, deserving to be rcmembered.a0

On€ further derail does srand our, tholrgh-these voyages were of a spe_cific kind, namely "alone and on foot.,, The celebrated image of Rousseauas promeneur solitaire (solitary watker) surfaces in rhis passage and impuresa powerful immediacy ro the act of walking alone: travel wirhout themediation of a means of transportation or even of companionship. Lackingthe cultural as well as the physical etevation and chivalric ease a horse ca;give, or the prot€ctive enclosure found in boats and carriages, walking isthe l€ast socially presrigious mode of transportarion, the most plebeian wayto get around, bur ir is also the most independent and least r€liani uponsome vehicular means of propulsior rhat could bring about the rravetertdownfall or standsiill:

I can conceive of only one means of traveling thar is mor€agreeable than going horseback, and that is ro go on foot. youleave when you want, stop at will, do as much or as tittle exerciseas you {ant. Yon see the whole country; you turn off on rhe right,or on the left. You examine everything that pl€ases you, you st;pat every Iookout poinr. If I norice a river, I coasr bv it. A rhick;r?lgo under ir! shade. A Bro o? I virir ir. A quarry? I e\amine lhestone. Wherever it pl€ases me, I stay. The moment I am bored, Ileave. I depend neither on horses nor on postilion. I have no needto choose finished roads or convedent rour€s. I pass wherever aman may pass; I see all that a man can s€e, and since I depend onno one other than me, I enjoy all th€ freedom a man can mjoy.(Emite, IV,771-72\

Loq slow, and exposed but utrerly self-reliant, the walker,s apparentdependence on no power other rhan his own \rould seem ro make him anideal image for the autotelic fiction of an absolute rerurn ro oneself, forthe positing of oneself as home, which is able to sidesrep even the alreadyvery limited derour rhrough fatherhood. Such unmediared bliss is none-theless placed inevocably in the pasr by rhe Rouss€au of the Corl€ssrons..

PEDES'TRIANROUSSEAU II3

"I traveled on foot only in my prime and always wirh delight. Duries.business and luggage to carry soon forced me to play the gentleman andto hire carriages; then gnawing cares, rroubles and anxiety climbed in withme, and from that moment, instead of feeling as I once had only rhepleasures of being on the road, I was conscious of nothing but the need10 ardve at my destination" (Confessions, l, 59). If the aduh world ofhorses and carriages has replaced rh€ childt pleasure in walking, ir isbecause the immediacy of the lafer has given way to the mediatory injunc-tions of the former, which tums transportation into a mere means to anall-consuming end. This kind of t€leology, already denounced by Rousseauin th€ "Of Voyages" section of E'/rile is what the tutor r€sists when travelingwith his young pupil:

We do not trav€l then as couriers bur as trav€lers. We rhink noronly of the two endpoints, but also of the inrerval rhar separatesthem. The journey itself is a pleasure for us. We do not underrakeit grimly sitting and as if imprisoned in a little, tightly closed cage.We do not travel with the ease and comfo of women. We do nordeprive ourselves of the lresh air, nor rhe sight of the surroundingobjects, nor the convenience of conremplating them ro our likingwhen it pleases us. Emil€ never entered a posGchaise, and scarcelytravels post-haste unless he is rushed. .. . When all you wanr to dois to arrive, you can dash in a posr-chaise; but when you want totravel, you must go on foot. (IY 771-73)

The nostaigia for walking bespeaks the subject\ insertion wirhin a socialsymbolic whose id€ology of "arrival" is viewed by him as imprisoning,feminizing, suffocating, blinding, unhealthy, and disruprive ofthought. Burif this horsedrawn world thus encodes a meraphorics of castrarion, it alsoevokes that period of hurri€d carriage flights from arrest and persecution,when the urgent "need to arrive" ar some safe place drove Rousseau aftet1762 across wide stretches of France, Swirzerland, and England. This also,interestingly enough, corresponds to the period of his dressine up in"Armenian" style, whose loose-fitting robes inscribed a certain femininityinto his attire even as they allow€d €asier access for rhe catheter he neededto treat the urinary retention from which he suffered. Long convinced, upuntil the medical examination urged upon him by the Duke of Luxembours,that he suffered frcm gallstones (Confessions, t, 571-72), Rousseau couldalso no longer stand to read his philosophical forebear and that lover ofhorse travel, Michel de Montaigne."'

In contrast to this world of sickness and melancholy, wherein one bringson€'s woes along with one's baggage, the youthful ambjance of walkingappears healthy, emorionally uplifting, and morally tiberatina: .,How manydiffercnt pleasures one brirys rog€rher by this pleasant way to travel! Nor

II4 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

to mention firmer health and a more pleasant humor. I have always se€nthose who traveled in good, soft carriages to be distracted, unhappy, scold-ing or suffering and pedestrians to be always gay, lighthearred and conrenrwith everything" (]q/rrle, lV,1'73). ln the Confessionq Rousseau adds: "Thesight of the countryside, the succession of pleasant views, the open air, asound appetite, and the good health I gain by walking, the free atmosphereof an inn, the disappearance of everything that makes me teel my depend-ence, of everylhing thal recalls me to my situation-all this serves to dis-engage my soul, to lend a great€r boldness to my thinking, 10 throw me,so lo speak, into the vastness of beings, so that I might combine them,select them, and appropriate them as I will, withour fear or resrrainf'(I,162). We have here an enumeration of the positive qualities of walking:the successive contact with the aesthetic beauty of nature, improved res-piration and appetite, good health, fr€edom, and the feeling of one\ ownindependence. Basicatly, these can be broken down into three qualities-aesthetic pleasure, corporeal well-being, and self-sufficiency which aregained through this type oftravel. Freedom, independence, and good healthare link€d with a sense of the self's autonomy before a "natural" worldreduced to an object of aesthetic pleasure. Th€ stroller's sense of selfsufficiency, which throws him into the "immensiry of beings," allows hissoul to be released ("all this serv€s to disengage my soul") and his rhoughrsio become more "bold." Walking is further linked to th€ producrion ofphilosophical ideas (and (herefore io ihe walker's status as a philosopher):"Walking has something that animates and enlivens my ideas: I almostcannot think when I stay in place; my body n€eds to be in molion lor mymind to be there." As opposed to the corporeal stability required forDescartes's meditative iourn€ys. Rousseau's locomorion of rhe mind canonly be triggered by that of the body: "I can only mediiate while walking;as soon as I stop, I stop thinking, and my head goes only with my feet"(t,410). In fact, the philosopher has his finest hour in Rousseau as acontemplative walker: "To travel on foot is ro rravel like Thales, Plato,and Pythagoras. I have difficulty understanding how a philosopher canbring himself to trav€l any other way and to iear himself lrom rhe inves,tigation of the riches that he tramples underfoot and thar ihe earrh lavishesfor his gaze.. . . Your salon-dwelling philosophers lphilosophes de ruelleslstudy natural history in their studies; they have all sorts of fancy goods,they know names and they haven't got an idea about nature. But Emile'sstudy is richer than those of kings; this srudy is th€ whole earth" (Emr'le,lV, 772r. The recurrence in this passage of the same three philosopherswhom the Second Discourse named as examples of the kind of philosophical€xpertise trav€l€rs sho'rld have ,€/ore s€tting out on iheir travels begs thequestion of what it takes to be such a philosoph€r, if it is not alrcad) Lo

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

engage in a particular mode of travel, rhar is, walkine. Would it not bethe very immediacy of the walker within rh€ walking environment and hisall-encompassing view of it-"You se€ the ,o/e country.. .. You examineewrtthinS that pleases you; you stop at 41l the lookout points" (Emi1e, lv772; emphasis added)-that ultimately brings home the lesson that one doesnot have very far to go, that home is where one is and that one's task isto retirc into oneself (as in the Rousseauist refrain of "to go back intooneself lrenqet en soi-me el\ :ath than vainly artempting to arriv€ atsomething beyond it? Rejecting the equine world of rhe symbolic, Rousseauflees irto the imaginary world of the solitary pedestrian, the impossibilityof whose retum to the pleasures of €hildhood is circumvented by the tri,umph of his fictional autonomy. lmaginarily "popularing" this world with"beings after my own heart," as he writes in the rhird Lerter ro Maleherbes,Rousseau locates the source of his fictional works as well as of his phil-osophical ideas in the practic€ ofwalking.a, As he writ€s in th€ Corfessiors.'"I dispose of all nature as its master. My heart, as it strays from one objectto another, unites and identifies itself with those which soothe it, wrapsitself in pleasant imaginings, and grows drunk on feelings of delight. If,in order to fix them down, I amuse myself by describing them to myself,what vigorous brush strokes, what freshness of colol what expressive energyI bring to them!" (I, 162). The charming objects and delicious feelingsencounter€d during the walk through natur€ are thus "fixed" through aninner description ("describing them to myself"). Horizontalizing Montes-quieu's visual "fixing" of the landscape by postulating its movement notas up to down bua as outside to inside, Rousseau also implies an aestheticefficacy to this "fixing," that is, to the subject's ability to produc€ a faiihfulrepresenlalion to himself of the charming obj€ct through his recourse tometaphors of painting (brush-strokes, color). The teprcsentation is faithful(true to life) insofar as it renders present the life of the object (vigorous,fr€shn€ss, energy) ev€n though that presentation of the object's life is cr€d-ited to ihe subjecfs demiurgic masr€ry: "What expressive energy I bringto them." ls it not ihis vitalistic pow€r of representing the world to oneself,of "fixing" internally whar is perc€ived externallx that is the source of thesubjecl's pleasure in his solitary walks and what he later graces by theappelation "reverie"?

This power of representation is lurther stared to be characrerisric ofJean-Jacques's writings: "All this, I am told, people have found in myworks, although they have been w uen in my declining years. Oh, if onlythey had se€n those of my early youth, those I sketched du ne my travels,those I composed but never wrote down.',"i Whatever rh€ expressivity orvivaciousness of Rousseau's wriiings, rhey are neverrheless said to lack rhevitality of his travel thoughts as old age lacks the vigor of yourh. tn

116 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

accordance once again with the toAic ofsuccession rhat privileges the earlierbut also irrecoverably lost term over its successo., tfre ea.lie.-,,"o.npos"a;but unwri en works are con\idered superior to lhe taLer "rirren and pub_lrshed ones, even as lhe tormer impt;cirl' appear ar irrerrierable ai rtrelaller arc paler and less inspired: .'Why do I nor qrire lhem, you $i ash?But why should l?. I reply. \\ h) rob mylelf of rhe presenr charm ot rherrenjoymenr. to tellotheru lhal lenioled lhem once? WhaL did readers malrerto me, or a public, or the whole world, while I was soaring in the skies?,,aIf the unwrinen works were not wdfien, it is lecause tne writing oi ifremwould have desrroyed their obviously autoerotic ctu.rn. fo,tut" tnJ.uU;""i;.enjoyment would be to do away with ir. As Rousseau notes in the FifthReverie. one can ne\er sa) one i\ happy qithouL ptacing onesetf oursidelhe slate ol happiness (t, 1046r.r Furthermore. insotar as rhe,ubjecl5pleasure in his ficrion is thar of the sense of U. o*n uutooo_y, ii'.uribe a solitary pleasure. If the pleasure h to be maintained, the fiction m;;;be left uncommunicared. but rhen rhe pteasure of the licrion is such thaLru mares qhatever remains outside of it inconsequential: _What did readersmatter to me, or a public, or the whole world, while I was soarina in theskies?"

, Bur there is another red\on Rousseau gi\es in lhis same pa\\age tromthe Contctsions [ot nor $riling rhe walleas relerier ..ee.raei. aij t carrypaper wirh me, or pens? It I had thoughr of alt *,at,

"othiog *ould h;u!

come to me. t did not foresee rhat I would have ideas. Thei arrive whenthey please, nor when it pleases me. Either they do not ".-" " uU, .,rhe),come_in a swarm, oler\hetming me wirh rheir .,,""g,h ;;;-;;.,;numbers. Ten votume! a day would nor have been enoughi {1. t62_61).The text of- the voyage depends upon rhe absence of *.iirg in.t_.*i.and even of rhe inrenrion Lo wriLe. The ptume as pen pre\ents rhe u5e olthe p/4me as feather in-themelaphorical flrghr ol rhe subjecr.s reverie, andrhus arso prevents the fulfiltment of ir. inscriprional luncrion d( pen- Thecharm of the walk cannot be writen down ;ithout a writing i"ri;;;;but it cannot even occur if there is so much as rhe threat of writing: ,.IiI had thouglr of al thar, norhing would have come to me.,,6 The s;bjectcannot foresee thar ideas will come to him. It is, in facr, not up to hi_to produce fictions or ideas, to charm himself; rather, it is the ideas orficrions rhaL.come ro him ..when the) pleare. noL when please! me,.. lhatrs, rr r\ ror him to be chatmed. So rhe walter does n61 ge ro his reverie;the latter comes to him. All rhat he can do by his watk is ," p"; ;il;;iiin a position of receptivity vis-i-vis rhe rev€rie. Contradjcring hi; asserrionsthat his id€as are animated by his walkins, th" ."ul p..-"";" ort t;;l;;when the promeneur has stopped moving: ,,The movement which joesiotcome ftom withour, then, is made within us,,(Reyer,ies, I. 1048). Suc; js

PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU II7

the lesson of the Fifth Reveie, which attempts ro prescribe the conditionsfor the occurrence of a reverie: "It is true that these consolations cannotbe felt by all souls, nor in all situations. lt is necessary thal rh€ heartshould be at peace and that no passion should come to trouble the charm.Certain dispositions on th€ part of the man who experiences rhem arenecessary; it is also necessary in the getting rogether of the surroundirgobjects. Ther€ is needed neither an absolute r€pose nor too much agitation"(r, 1047).

If and when the reverie occurs, it is overwhelming, as the Con"fessionsnote: "Either lideas] do nor come at all, or they come in a swarm, over-wh€lmirg me with their srrength and their numbers. Ten volumes a daywould not have been enough" (1, t62-63). Instead of roo few ideas. thereare now too many.rr This situation in which th€ influx of ideas or theproduction of fictions is ov€rwhelming in force and number turns theproblem of writing into one of adequation. So even if the subjecr wantedto write down these unwritten but composed works, and even if his intentionto write and the availability of writing insruments did not prevenr thethoughts from being triggered, there would srill be n€irher time nd placeto write everything down: "Where could I have found tim€ to write them?When I arrived, my only thought was for a sood dinner. When I set out.I thoDght only of a good walk. I felt rhat a new paradise awaired me arthe door; I thought only of going out ro find it', (1, 163). The success ofwriting depends upon the s€dentary just as the succ€ss of rhe promenadedemands th€ lack of writing. So, it on rhe one hand the Rousseau of theCorlessiors r€grets his not having written down his travel experiences sothat he could remember them, on the orher hand he explains how rhoseexperiences could never possibly have b€en wriften down, or even havetaken place had an att€mpt been made to \rrite them down. Once again,and following the same logic as evinced in Rouss€au's rhoughts on travelin En i/e, the nostalgia for these momenrs of pleasurable insight is positedat the same time as the impossibility of rheir being retained.4s

In any case, th€ urgency ofretaining the lost charm of foot tMvel surfacesthroughout the autobiographical wotks, for no maner how overwhelmingthe reverie may be said to be, it is nonetheless understood as having a valueof presence: "Never have I thought so much, existed so much, lived somuch, been myself so much" And ir is nor only the subject,s presence tohims€lf and his sense of mastery that are concerned. tt is also essentiat tothe philosopher b€cause the reverie provides him wirh a stock of ideas thatthen defines him ar a philosopher: ',I never do anything except during mystrolls, the countryside is my study" ("Mon portrait,,, l, 28). Bui if rh€walk provides th€ philosopher wirh ideas, rhen he is dependent upon thecontinu€d vitality of th€ walk's charm. This viialirx however. is on the

II8 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

decline, as evidenced by Rousseau's asserrion rhat his currenr experiencesdo not compare with "those of my early yourh." Civen his logic of suc,cession, that "vitality" or "presence" is no doubr always alr€ady on rhedecline, incomparably b€low th€ heights of his yourhful Alpine hike toTurin.

Th€ "Fall" of Jean"Jacqu€s Rousseau: Second Promenade

h the Reyeties, written at the very €nd of his life, Rousseau is especiallyhaunted by the f€ar thai these charming experiences will disappear alto-gether,leaving him with no possibility ofconsolation. Doffing his Armeniangarb upon his return from England in 1767 and then reestablishirg hisresidence in Paris in t7?0, the sexagenarian Rousseau begins io assume hisfinal identity as the r'solitary walker," as if in a desperate reprise of theyouthful strength and innocence he would have had prior io his ,,fall,, into$,riting and celebrity and prior to th€ forming of a "universal conspiracy,,against him. It is at this moment too that Rousseau decides to ,,fix downin writing" th€ "charming contemplations" thar have filled his daily walks(1, 999). An attempt will be mad€ to reconcile the irreconcilable categoriesof writing and walking, an attempt morivated by the economic desire tosave those charming moments of reverie so that they car be reused by himfor his own pl€asure: "Each time I rer€ad them will give back rhe pteasureI had."a' This attempted economy of pl€asure will be the Reyeties of oSolitaty Wa[ker: "In order to fulfill the ritle of this collection, I shouldhave b€gun it sixty years ago: for my whole life has hardly been more thana long reverie divided into chapt€rs by my daily prom€nadesJ, (,{Ebauchesdes Raver,?s," I, 1163).

So if, on the one hand, th€ state of mind produced by walking, rhat is,the reverie, is the origin of the philosophert discourse and the conditionthat makes him a philosopher or "contemplarive soul,,'on the other hand,the only writing that can ad€quately retain thos€ stares would be one thatthinks of itself rs a "reverie" or a "promenade," borh of which nameshave been used indiscrimimt€ly by tradition to r€fer to rhe divisions orchapters of the Reve es of a Solitaty Walket lRAveties du promeneulror'tarel. Each of these would accordingly take the form of a rev€rie or aprom€nade, a sort of excursion in or through writing, at the same rim€that it is supposed to bring back or preserve for future use the pleasure ofthe reveries.so But this double recuperation (mim€tic and mnemonic) of thereverie in writing makes ir difficult to distinguish between text, reverie, andpromenade, since €ach term would refer to the oth€rs as well as to itself.The Second Promenade or Reverie being rhe only one in which a singlepromenade or reverie is r€counted (as opposed to being evoked in the

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

frequentive mode: his "reveries" on the island of SainFPierre in the FifthReverie, his walks through Paris in the Sixth and Ninrh Reveries), rhar texrshould offer an exemplary articulation of the relations between t€xt, reverie,and promenad€, or if on€ prefers, between wriring, thinking, and walking.To th€ extent that th€ Second Reverie also bears an uncanny r€semblancein both th€me and structure (o Montaigne's essay "Of Practice," irs analy-sis should also allow us to reach some conclusions on the specificiry ofRousseau's plac€ in the economy of travel,

. The first paragraph of the Secord Prom€nade resumes and elaboratesupon some of the same themes as those fould in Emile and i the Coz-/essrions. The "reveries" thar "fill" Rousseau's prcmenades solitsircs *eassociated with his beirg "fully myself and for myself, wirhout diversion,without obstacle, and where I can truly say I am that which narure wantedJ,(I, 1002). The rcverie is understood as a mom€nr of plenitude, of self-possession, of the abolition of all differences in rhe self or between theself and itself, and it comes therefor€ to be associared with being in tbestate of naturc, The thought that takes place in the reverie, insofar asRousseau states, "l leave my head enrirely free and ler my ideas followtheir bent without resisiance and withour rrouble,' (I, 1102), would be rhenatural state of thought (as opposed to rhe painful or anal),tical rhinkingfrom which the walk would provide an escape).,1

Once again, there sutfac€s the desire to ke€p a written record or ,,reg-

ister" of the walk, so that, as Rousseau says, he can describe to himself"the habitual state of my soul in the mosr srrange position in which amortal can ev€I find himself" (1, 1002). Bur rhe stakes involved in thisrecording of one's idle thoughts turn out to be considerably higher rhanthat of self-analysis (for either a narcissistic or an analytical knowledge ofthe self) since it is the self's very exisr€nce that is at stake jn its ability tocont€mplate itself. Civen the subject's temporal predicament, ro conremplateoneself means to rernemrer what one was like in one,s ..tru€" or ,,natural"state, that is, to r€member the (earlier) reverie. At the limit, the self wouldprolong its existence by remembering itself: ,,I would exisr only ihroughmemories" (I, 1002). The nec€ssity of sustaining oneself rhrough one,smemories is occasioned, we are told, by a "d€cline,' in the revede,s strengthassociated with the loss of on€t vitality. Thus the rcvetie as the creativiryof the imagidation Guch as it was d€scribed in rhe Corlessio,s) gives wayto the reverie as rcmembrance (of former reveries).,: lt is rhis qualitativechange in the revede that now simulraneously allows for and renders uselessthe writing down of the rcveri€: "How k€ep a faithful register? In tryingto recall to myself so many sweet reveries, instead of describing them I fallback into them again. It is a slate which irs memory brings back" (I, 1003).The probl€m is no longer that the moments of writine and daydreaming

I2O PF,IJESTRIANROIJSSEAU

are incommunicable but that their communication takes place through a

shorFcircuit which makes that communication superfluous. The mere desire

to rem€mber the r€verie so that il can be written down for later remembrance

is sufficient to plunge the subject back into the reverie. The desire to writethe reverie is what brings it back, an effect that th€n makes the writing ofit unnecessary. The reverie can now be rememb€red at will, if it is notremembrance itself.

What is implied in this revision ofthe reverie is the possibility ofachievinga full self-sufficiency, since, as we have been told, the self can survive on

memories alone. The olher, earlier reverie as imaginative production stillrequired a convergence of different factors ("Certain dispositions on th€

pa of the man who experiences them" and "the getting together of the

surounding objects" lReve es, I, 10471) in order to take place Now, the

self is dependent only or its own memories, that is, on itself. These mem-

ories are said to constitute a store of "wealth" and "treasures" (1, 1003),

the capital for one's self-p€rpetuation through reveries. This self-sufficienteconomy or autoerotic autarky is also described through an alimentarymetaphor: "Losing all hope here below and finding no mor€ food for myheart upor €arth, I accustomed myself little by liltle to nourish it with its

own substance and to seek all its pasturag€ within myself" (1, 1002). Andin the famous p€roration to the Seventh Promenade, the practice of col-lecting flowers is revealed to be an €specially efficacious m€ans of perpet-

uating ihe self through memory, Rousseau's own version of the /oci of ihec73:ssic^l d6 memoria: "All my botany excursions, the different impressions

of the locality of obiects which have struck me, the ideas which they have

called up in me, the incidents which are mixed up with them-all this has

left me impressions which arc rcnewed by th€ aspect of plants gathered inthe same places. , . , but now that l c4n no more tmverse those pleasant

lands, I hav€ only to open my herbariu{n, and soon I am transported there

The fragmenrs of plants whicii I hlive collected there suffice to tecall tome th€ entirety of that magnific€nt spectacle" (I, 1073). H€re, the memorv

is fixed down by uprooiing the plant that was fixed in the soil where thewalker trod and by affixing it to a pag€ in the herbarium, whose perusal

in turn allows the reader to trav€l once more through all the times andplaces literally anthologlzed (ftom anthos + /ogi4 a collection of flowers)within it.rr What such a local memory makes possible is a self{ransportingfor a henceforth immovable or s€dentary self, a transpo ing of the self toitself, that is, to what is found in th€ places that are recalled by the flowers:

the selfitself. As J.-B. Pontalis has astutely observed, "for Rousseau, places

are so many fiaures of himself."raWhether self-sufficiency is metaphorized as herbarium, as treasure chest'

or as autocannibalism, what is implied is a return to ihe self, the r€turn

PEDESTRIANROIJSSEAU I2I

of the self to itself exemplified in the Rousseauist injunction, "Go backinto yourself," which appears in the Second Reverie as "the habit of goingback into myself" (1, 1002). Such a reentedng into oneself posits the selfas the identifiable space of a home, whose temporal continuity is assured

by the revede's function as ranembrance: the self can define itself as alileas long as it can live off its memories, that is, by a perpetual return untoitself. But if what defines the selft existence can be reduced to the func-tioning of a struclure of return or autosuccession, th€n we see implied a

notion of the self as the aftereff€ct of that structure, even though it mustalso proclaim itself the origin and end of the cycle of return. Such adefinition of the self is structurally indistinguishable from the notion of atranscendental home or oitor. This congruence of the notions of self andhome can be seen to organize the ensuing narrative of Rousseau's walkand accident, and to provide retrospective confirmation of the ethics pro-posed in Emile of the self as home.

Insofar as it is a narrative or ftcit, lhal account of on€ of Rousseau'spromenades is the return in writing of a memorable event in Rousseau's

life: an accidental and nearly fatal collision with a dog during a walk inthe outskirts of Paris, near M6nilmontant, on October 24, 1776. To theextent that what is remembered is the trip back home after the accident,what the text recounts then is not.iust a return, but the return o/a return,which itself4l]a return (rerorr) requires that there be a prior detour (ddtorl):

"I took a detour to return via the same meadows by another path" (1,

1003). Another kind of detour is presaged by Rousseau in regards to theeffect this event has on his thinking: "An unforeseen accident came tobreak the thread of my ideas and to give them for some time anotherdirection" (I, 1003). The t€xt, moreovet places a detour before the descrip-lion of the accident itself, a detour giv€n over to recounting the pleasures

of return. Among thes€, we might count th€ collecting and recognition offlowers ("whose aspect and classification, which were familiar to me, nev-e heless still gave me pleasure" II, 1003-41); Rousseau's refinding despitehis accident ol his rarc cerastium aqualicum "in a book which I had onme" (I, 1003); the remembrance of the past ("I recapilulated the movementsof my soul since youth" II, 10041); as well as an exlended analogy betweenthe aDtumn landscape and his own situation "at the decline of an innocentand unfo unate lif€" (I, 1004).

In this last case, the entire topography becomes a metaphor of the selfsuch that Rousseau can see himself mirrored in whal he sees. This meta-phorizing of the landscape by bringing the "ensemble" of observed phe-nomena back to himself is also what effects rhe return to himself of himself,unlike the elision of the self that occurs in Monresquieu's ropographicalvision. Th€ explication of the analogy betwe€n himself and rhe landscape

122 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

brings Rousseau\ lhoughts back to himself. It is then that he recapitulates

"the movements of my soul since youth, and during my matDre age, sinceI have bee sequestered from the so€iety of men, and during the long retreat

in which I must finish my days. I returned wfuh pleasure over all theaffections of my hearf'(1, 10M). Th€ movement of the reverie is that ofa return to the self (through the detour of the contemplation of nature)which constitutes that self as a single entity, which can be grasped in allof its multifarious manifestations both metonymically (in relation to thedifferent moments or temporality of his existence) and metaphorically (inrelation to th€ external world, which is reduced to a specular image ofhimself). The self produced by such a totalization would seem to be thevery image of self-sufficiency (since literally e\)erything is inchrded in it),but this entire production is itself to be retained by the self for later use

as Rousseau prepares himself to remember his reveries "sufficiently todescribe them" (I, 1004). Th€ whole experience, like the collecting of flow-ers, is brought back to the self, back lo the home, \rhere it will be r€servedfor the time when th€ self's imagination will have declined and ii will have

to subsist solely or its memories. lt is in his latter situation that we findth€ narrator at the beginning of the Relerler, he is now precisely returningto what was stored up at the time the reveries took place. In other words,the Rousseau pictured in the narrarive of th€ reverie, who sees himself inthe autumn of his years, is one who is stodng up for the analogous winter,in which we presum€ ihe narrator already is. So Rousseau returns from hisforaging expedition, like a successful hunter: "l was returning very contentwirh my day" (1, 1004).

But this lasl return is to be delayed by another detout whose repercussionwill not be felt, as Rousseau says, until "I cam€ back to myself [,ie revrrrii moil." ln other words, the detour cannot be grasped as such until it has

been brought back in or by the movement of the retum. Cognition willonly take place as recognition, a play on words warranted by the gap inthe story between the moment prior to the accident and Rousseau's returnto consciousness aftef wards:

I judged that the sole means that I had to avoid being throwndown to earth was to make a great leap, so that the dog shouldpass under me while I was in the air. This idea, more swift thanlightning, and which I had not even the time to reason out or toexecute, was the last before my accidenl. I did not feel the bloqnor th€ fall, nor anything of what follow€d, up to the mom€ntwhen I came back to myself loi je rc\rins d moil.

lt was almost night when t regained consciousness l4rdnd isrcpns connaissancel. L toos')

PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU 12]

The gap betw€en paragraphs acts as a sign poinring to th€ gap in Rousseau'sconsciousness, the gap that functions as the absent center of his narrative_the !:|and rrcu at rhe center of hi\ not-so-grand ro4r.. The purpoqe ot thenarrative is then to fill in rhar absence by returning to it (by rememberingit or /eciting it as a rlcir), by placing it within the successive movemenr ofthe return. Bur this is to forget that rhel.lct is itself rhe rlcir of a return,the exemplary return of Rousseau ro himself, which, as it happens; andlrue to the shades of Montaign€, is parallel to the return of himself ro hishome. The "I came back to fiyselt Lje reyins d moil" is curiously replicaredin a "l came back home lie lerins chez mojl.,, This replication, how€ver,is not a contingent mirroring or metaphorization of one return in the other.Rather, the return ro self and rhe return home are rcad as beinl the somerc/rrr. Forgetting who one is and where one is se€m to be conflat€d intothe sam€ problem: "I did nor know who I was nor where I was lri 4ajj'dtois ni oit j'6toisl" (I, 1005). Similarly, it is rhrough the esrablishmentof topographical reference poinrs rhat both the home,s location and rheself's name can be rediscovered: ..They ask€d me where I lived; it wasimpossible for me to say. I asked wher€ I was; they said, ir la haute bome;i1 was as if they said to mei on Mount Atlas, lt was necessary for me toask successively th€ country, the city, and rhe n€ighborhood where I was.Still this did not suffice for me to recognize myself. Ir was necessary lorme to walk the whole disrance from there ro the boulevard in order torecall my home and my name" (t, 1005-6). Refusing ro rake a cab for fearof catchina cold and rrue to his ambulatory preference, Jean,Jacques isbrought back to self and home under the assured self,propulsion of hislegs, the supr€mely self,rerrieving a€i of walking.

It is tempting to read the parriculars of this event as a virtual parodyof Montaigne's horse accident.J5 Whereas Montaigne is hit by a ,.powerfulworkhorse fpri$drt ror$rn]" (II, vi, 373), Rousseau is knocked over bya large dog in the rerinue of a carriage, whose horses are just brought toa halt before they would have trampled on the writer's body: ,,The carriageio whi€h the dog belonged followed immediately, and would have passedover my body ifthe coachman had not reined in his horses upon the instant',(1, 1005). But if a srrong rug on the bridte saves Rousseau's life, the impacrof th€ dog, whose designarion as a ,,huge crear Dane" (I, 1004-5) alreadyinvites comparison with a smatl hors€ (especially for someone on foor suchas Rousseau, as disrinct from the mounted Montaigne), sends him flyingliterally head over h€els. Unabl€ ro find his footing, in a reverse image oithe submerged Descartes at the beainning of rhe Second Meditation, Rous-seau finds solidiry again, nor at rhe rocky bottom of a warery abyss outol which he can rhen climb. but in rhe roush paving flone upon which helands head firsr. specificalty sirh his uppe, jawr ..The dos...had leapr

IU PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEAU

upon my two legs, and striking me with its mass and speed, made me fallh€ad foremost; the upper jaw, bearing the whole weight of my body, struckupon a very hard pavement, and rhe fall was the more violent because, theroad being downhill, my head was thrown lower than my feet,, (t, l0O5).Th€ severity and extent of the fall are said to be aggravared by Rousseau'saheady proceeding downhill ("on the descent from M6nil,montant"),although when he does land h€ is said to be at a place c lled la hauteborne, fignratively speaking, the upper limit. Bur he had already seenhimself "at ih€ decline," as we remember, when he had conlemplated hislife in the landscape seen from the iop of '1he heights of M6nil,montant',(1, 1003), a place at that time jusr outside the Paris ciry walls and rodayincorporated into the city's 20th arrondissement, a place whose name means"the house uphill." lndeed, the locarion of Rousseau's outing situales himin the hills overlooking Paris from rhe northeasr, in rhe viciniry of thesoon-to-be iounded cemetery of Pere Lachaise, whose spectacular view ofthe entire city was to be illustriously rendered by Balzac in the famousconcluding scene ftom Pite Gotiot.56 Rarher than "fixing" his ideas onthe city from that height as Montesquieu might have done, Rousseau couldsee only himself in the autumnal ambiance of fatling leaves and declining

Perhaps it is this pre,Romanric collapsing of rhe disrinction betweensubject and object (or more precisely, rhe reduction of all objecriviry to anabsolute subjectivity whose self-sentienr autonomy exudes a feeling of onen€ss with the world) that allows Rousseau ro experience his iniurious fallas a genuine rebirth, and not, as it was for Montaigne, an appropriationof the liminal experience of death. Like Monraigne, though, and unlikeDescartes, Rousseau's utter disorientation in the wake of his accident isseen to be a pl€asurable experienc€: "I perceived the sky, some stars, anda little grass. This first sensarion was a delicious moment. I did not feelanything except that of being there. I was born in rhat insrani to life,, (1,1005). What is "delicious" is the sensation of firstness (,this firsr sensaiion"), of origin, or birth, yet whar gives pleasure to Rousseau is less rheoriginality or firstness of this moment of birth than the sensalion of beingin a stat€ prior to the distinction between selfand oiher, and prior io sparialand temporal distinctions, a state, in sum, prior to difference: ..lt seemedto me that I filled with my lighr ex;stence Ima lAgirc eristencel

^ll the

objecls I perceiv€d. Entirely aiven up to the present moment, I did norremember anything; I had no distincr norion of my individuality, nor theleast idea of what had happened to me. I did not know who I was norwhere I was. I felt neither evil nor fear, nor worry. I saw my btood flowingas I might have looked at

^btooklet lcomme j'aurcis w couler un ruisseaul,

without even dreaming rhar rhis blood in any way belonged ro me" (t,

1005). While plenitude and pleasure ar€ sustained in this primal indiffer-entiation, what appears to Rousseau in this moment of self-presence andrebirth, of the absolute return to home, is a part of himself not thouahrof as belonging to himself. This expropriated part of himself is a streamof blood, a rur:r.tea, de song, ftom which we can d€rive the phantasmicsignature of a "rcuge rnisseau" or "rousseau." What is most proper toRousseau (whethff his blood or his proper name) is not seen as proper.Yet this expropriation ofihe self is simultaneously understood as the greatestself-appropriation. Nev€r is the self more its€lf than when it is not, thanin the aftermath of this catastrophic walk.53 Rouss€au's greatesi loss is hisgreatest gain, what is most (im)proper to him. But if Rousseau's pleasureis in this state of indifference (the indifference, for inslance, with whichhe is able to watch himself bleed), then the return of difference wouldimply a loss of pleasure even though it is, as we have seen, only throughthe reintroduction of spatial, temporal, and linguistic differences that Rous-seau can indeed rcturn to self and home, or even remember his name, Tospeak, then, of a pleasure of return (a la Starobinski) becomes highlyproblematic in relation to a discourse like the Second Promenade (ot aswe saw earlier, the sequ€l to

'.n r'le), in which different rctums are at stake

such that a return somewhere is a departure from somewhere else. ls Rous-seau, in other words, more "himself" and more "at home" in the wakeof his accident or upon returning to his domicile? Without an easy answerto this qu€stion, one must conclude either that not all returns are pleasurabl€or that r€turns are not all that pleasurable.

For Rousseau, as for Montaigne, the narntive of the return home issucceeded in the text by the writer's reflection on th€ imas€ of himself asalready dead, a reflection that ultimately bears upon the question of th€property of his text as well as ofhis body, upon the question of his signature.While Montaigne appears as dead to himself in the image of the text aslcorcrd,re Rousseau discovers to his horror that it is olrers who considerhim dead: "PDblic rumor had it that I was dead of my fall; and this rumorspread so rapidly and so obstinat€ly, that over two weeks after I learnedabout it, it was being spoken as certain fact by the queen and the kinghimself" (I, 1009). The literal disfigurement of his face on account of theaccident ("Four teeth were bent back in the upper jaq the whole of thatpart of th€ fac€ which cov€req it extremely swollen and bruised" [, 10061)is less distressing than the story's mutilation in the mouths of others: "Ina few days, this story spread about Pads, so chang€d and disfigured lddlg-wee] lhat it was impossible to recognize anything of it" (I, 1006-7). Asth€ story travels through the city, Rousseau's pleasure in not being able torecognize th€ distinction between subject and object jn the rouge ruisseauof his blood turns to dismay at having to recognize not only his subjectivityt

PEDESTRIAN ROUSSEATJ PEDESTRIAN ROTISSEAIJ 121

lack of autonomy bur also the derermination by others of what seems mosthis. Not only is he pronounced physically dead by,,public rumor." but th€subsequent announcemenr of a subscriprion fund for rhe publication of hjsposthumous works reveals the expropriaiion and disfiguremenr even of histexiual production: "A subscriplion had been opened at the same time toprint the manuscripts which might be found in my house. I understood bythis that a collection of fabricated writings were being kepr ready expresslyfor the purpose of attriburing rhem ro me afrer my death; because to rhinkrhar anyone would prinr faithfully any of those which would be acruallyfound, was a stupidity which could nor enter into the mind of a sensibleman" (I, 1009). While rhe postaccidenr bliss of indifferentiation and rhepleasurable reverie may offer the triumph of an imaginary that can reduceor "fix" all externaliay into a meraphor ofthe inreriorized setf, the symbolicauthority of the external!-that is, the sociat-world would se€m to have"fixed" Rousseau\ image ahead of time and beyond any possibiliry of self,determination on his part. For Jean-Jacques, his return .,home,, from hisaccid€nt on his way down inro the corruption of ihe city, after having found.ioy in the height of ihe counrry, only underscor€s rhe extenr of his exilefrom the very society he inhabits. His texr, as well as his body, can ontysurvive (or so jt would seem, and once again following in rhe steps ofMontaigne) at the cost of its disfiguration.

Ever the validity of his signarure, that inscriptional act that would seemto authorize on€'s text as one,s own, as whole, and as proper to its author,sint€rt, is called into qu€stion by Rousseau's postaccidenr dealings withMme. d'Ormoy. Bearing a name that uncannily juxraposes weahh (o/) andsell rmo./r, Mme. d Ormo) was rhe author ol Let matheuts de ta icun?Enelic. pour senir d'in\rru.tion aux dam?' ver!ueuses er \ensibte, \t17j),a book written, she would have told Rousseau, for !.rhe reestablishment ofher fortune" (1, 1007). Obviously inspired by Rousseau,s Emite, Mme.d'Ormoyt book was also, whether winingly or unwjttingly, conrrary tothe view of woman portray€d in the formet nor only for its rrearment ofwomen's education but also for its being writren r) a woman. In book Vof Emile, Mme. d'Ormoy could'have read: ,,I would a hundred rimes stiltprefer a simple and coarsely educared girl, than a knowledgeable and wittygirl who would s€r up in my house a lirerary tribunal of \rlich she wouldmake herself the presiding judge. A woman of wit and jnte igence is rhescourge of her husband, childr€n, friends, s€rvanrs, and of everybody.. . . Every lettered girl will remain an old maid her entire life, ,vhen thereare only sensible men upon the earrh,,(IY 768). And in response to hergifts, visits, and requesrs for support from him for her novel, Rousseaucould only remain unmoved: '.I told her what I rhought of women aurhors,,(1, 1007). His suspicions about her were brouehr home upon the pubticarion

of her book, to which was appended a compromising flote about kings andaheir ministers whose inclusion in the volume cre^ted a succZs de scandale.Reflecting upon Mme. d'Ormoyt visits, Rousseau concludes that '.all thishad no other goal than ro dispose the public to atrribute rhe note to me,and consequendy the censure that it might draw down upon its author"(I, 1008). Fearful of the appropriation of his name by a woman who wasnot merely urban and seductive but also a writer, Rousseau decides to"destroy the rumor" about the appended note by himself writing a noteto Mme. d'Ormoy whose incipit was none other than his name: ..,Rousseau,

not receiving any author at his home, thanks Madame d,Ormoy for h€rkindness, and prays her not to honor him any more wirh her visits," (I,1008).

Once again, the detour of woman as embtematized by the episode wirhMme. d'Ormoy is negotiated by a relurn to the father, but this time, wroteRousseau, "I went further lj'a ai plus loinl', (I, 1009). By hyberbolizingthe universality of the conspimcy against him, he takes irs direction outof the hands of any parricular men or mere mortals and attribures its (tohis mind) prodigious efficacy to the will of none other than cod the Farh€rHimself. Cod acts, then, as the final referent, the haute bome that prcvidesan upper limit to the delirium of paranoid interprerarion: ,,This idea, farfrom being cruel and lacerating io me, consoles me, calms me, and helpsin resigning myself IA me rdsienerl" (I, l0l0). The notion of Cod allowsfor repose from lhe movemenl of interpretation, which was constantlyhaving to explain away {{so many bizarre circumstances" or "the singu-larities of this epoch" (I, 1007), since it allows for rh€ explanarion of allpossible contingencies or singularities, rheir return into a comfortable andcomforting order. As such, the positing of Cod as the ultimate explanationof his woes puts an end to Rousseau's discourse,'composirionally bringingthe promenade to a close: "Cod is just, He wills that I should suffer andHe knows that I am innocena. Ther€ is the motive of my confidencej myheart and my reason cry out that ir will never deceive me. Let men anddestiny do what they may; Iet us learn to suffer without complainr; every-thing must in the end return to order, and my turn will come sooner orlatet ltoul doit A h fin rentrcr dans I'odre, et non tout viendru tot outarc\" (1, l0l0r.If God is jusi, ;t is because he exercises just /erriburion;that is, He is the guaranior of a just economy in rhe circulation of humansuccess, But if Cod guarantees the r€turn to ordet it is because He isnolhing more in Rousseauh discourse rhan lhe principle of rerurn irself.God as the pat€rnal law of return srates thar 'leverything must in the endr€lurn to order.!' In ahis ulrimare grand rour of the divine escharology,Rousseau's turn (mo, tor./r) will come "sooner or later.,,

I28 PEDESTRIANROUSSEAU

The telos of the traveler's journey is rhus proleprically secured, not bythe instructional prophylaxis set forth in Emilq but by th€ divine order ofa predestination. Such a Christian allegory can also do for Rousseau wharhis narrative of the historical fall from nature into culture could never do-namely, engineer the return of the innocence and happiness that was lost,As both absolute origin and absolute end, as th€ fundamental oitos fromwhich alt divagation can be measured, Cod allows for a way around thelogics of succession and supplementarity that lead Rousseau ever furthetaway from himself, and humanity ev€r further away from the state ofnature. As Julie writes to SainFPreux, Cod is "the Being for whom timehas no succession nor space any distance" (La Nou\)eIe HAbise, 11,613).Yet if God turns out to be the \ltimrte point de rcpirc in (his discoursewhich talks of nothing but return, that point of absolute return can onlybe posited through an act of faith, a "profession of fairh" if you will. 11

is an act of faith because the positing of rhis rranscendental point ofrcference, to the extent that it is governed by rh€ deonric mod^l devoit,cannot assure that there is such a place of rcturn, only that there ought ao

be one. In more general t€rms, for there to be any such thing as a pointof reference or of return, that point can only funcrion in its referenrialcapacity if and only if it is not immediately pr€seni, rhar is, if ir is nothere and not now. One's b€arings can only be set by something spatiallyand temporally distant. That one can refer 10 a point of reference alr€adystates that it is far away or in the past or in the future. There is a referenibut it is always already abs€nt. Such an absent referenl is Rousseau's God,a principle of return situated at an unsp€cilied moment in the futurc:"Everything m$l in the end return to order, and my turn will come sooneror later." The return can only be had on faith, on rhe faith that there willbe a rctum. On the other hand, a rcferen€e point is not merely a fiction,since it does in fact exist by reason of its being posited. A point of referenceexists the moment reference is made to it. Ii exists b€carse it is referredto. A reference point is then paradoxically both real and a ficrion, borhfound and lost. What Rousseau\ Cod points to is rhe theological characterof all points of reference, of the ortos (whose gods, the penates, as wercmembet wer€ rescued from burning Troy by Aeneas in order to assurethe return of the home in another place, the New Troy that he would foundin Rome).o But if the believ€r must then be said to creat€ Cod by his veryb€lief in Him, then God plays the same ambiguous role (a progenitor whois the "progeny" of ils progeny) as ahat of rhe fathet in Emi[e and Sophie.Cod is Cod the Father, the \tltinate point de rcpare and a necessary fiction,a supr€me addressee who h€ars the viclim's every woe and whose invocationgrounds the writer in his text, giving him rhe securiry of an ullimate endand purpose to his discursive meanderings, a ropo,r oi solace and return.

PF,DF,STRIAN ROTJSSEAIJ

His faith affirmed that there will be a return, Rousseau can then rrresign

himself" to whatever further misfortunes may befall him: "This idea, farfrom being cruel and lacerating to me, consoles me, calms me, and helpsin resigdng nyself [ane ftsiqnet]" (1,l0l0). To resisn oneselfto something,though, is to giv€ up one's claims to mastery or ownership, to deny one'sauthorship. To r€-sign is paradoxically not to sign. The Rereries ofa Solitar!,/r/ter remains an unsign€d work, one not bearing rhe wdter's signature,not simply and contingently because of the death of its author prior to thework's completion, but because its publication and concomitant ascriptionof a signatur€ could only take place henceforrh, within the wrirer\ imag-inary, as an act of God.6l

Having already signed in blood on the pavement ol la houte bonqRousseau would seem to find more solace in the return io indifferentiation,or in the indifference that is resignation, than in what for him are theundoubtedly "cruelet" more "lacerating" (dichirunte), and disfiguringeffects he suffered from signing his name in ink and on the cover of books.Either way, howev€r, the affixing of the name as rhe mark of appropriarionimplies a simultaneous expropriation, a disappropriation. While the gainof presence is paradoxically acquired through the loss of blood and con-scjousness, the fame of authorship is haunted by the limjtless fear of deceitand betrayal. Even when the ensuing paranoia is put to rest by faith andtrust in God, the promised return to normalcy is offered only in exchangefor one's "resignation," as if one could be for oneself only by being foranother. One can only be present (or absent) to oneself as other, when oneis not "chez soi" through the deferral of memory or writing. Likewise, thereturn home can never be fully sure of its point of arrival, whether it beCeneva, the lsland of Saint'Pierre (srene of the idyllic Fifth R€verie),M€nilmontant, his residence in the rue Platriare of Paris, or Ermenonville(the place of his death a few weeks after his final relocation).6, In otherwords, the promenad€ can nev€r t//), return as reverie, which, in turn, cannev€r Jirll return as text. Each return implies a disappropriation that takesaway as much as it gives, making the assignment ofthe o,kos an inescapablyretrospective and fictional gesture, one caught in the endless revisionaryprocess of what Freud calls Nacftlra;git keil.6r As such, and despite thebest efforts of Emile's tutot there can be no final end to wandering, noultimate destination or telos to travel.

Such revisionism also marks, however, Jean-Jacques's differences from theother philosophical writers studied in this volume. Despite following in theirfootsteps, Rousseau rejecls the trope of philosophical wisdom as an accu-mulated effect of foreign travel in favor of the apparently moF elitist notionthat only those already in possession of philosophical knowledeebe afowed

I3O PEDESTRIANROUSSEATJ

to undertake voyages. To the €xtent, though, rhar rhis expertise is acquirednot ihrough book-learning but through the simple experience of walking,which places a suitably sensitive subj€ctivily in a relation of immediacywith the world he traverses, Rousseau d€mocratizes thq philosopher's tourby implicitly allowing anyone who stumbles while out for a walk ro claimgreat thoughts. Certainly this is the legacy of Rousseau as it was appro-priated by the Romantics, whose generation also saw the invention and riseof the word "tourist," applied not to the aristocratic follow€rs of rhe grandtour but to the new breed of bourgeois adventurers in sentimentality suchas Srendhal (whose 1838 Mdmoies d'un toutiste fiJst gave legitimacy tothe word in French). As such, it is not the equestrian Montaigne, as CharlesDed6yan would have it, bui the pedestrian Rouss€au who should be calledthe first tourist.

In revising Montaigne, Descartes, and Montesquieu, Rousseau alsomarks his debt to them, emulating, for example, Montaigne much as Emil€does his tutot or T€l€maque Ulysse, or Monraigne his father For th€iraccidents to offer such similarities is not just a bizarre coincidence bur alsothe sign that for neither Montaigne nor Rousseau can that moment of utterself-(dis)possession be construed as one's own. No doubt Rousseau r€adMontaigne's text and was consciously or unconsciously informed by ir inconstructing the narrative of his own accidenl, yet the fact of such aninfluence is complicated when the consiirutive detour that is travel isinversely undersiood-as il is ftom ihe watery depths of Descartes ro theairy heights of Moniesquieu, on horseback with Modtaigne and on foorwith Rousseau as determinant of filiation irs€lf. One cannot simply say,for instance, that Rousseau is the successor of a tradition of the voyage,lhe father of which iradition would be Montaigne, without making of thatvery tradition precisely th€ kind of voyage of filial succession described inthe writings of Montaigne, Descartes, Mont€squieu, and Rousseau, More-ovet the question of inten€{ual appropriation is not an innocent one whenthe travel narrative assures th€ transitional smoothness of a patrilinearsuccession whereby the son can evenlually come to occupy the place of thefather. lf the signature that is the writer's particular mode of iravel wouldseem to converi ihe banal trop€ of the voyage into somerhing he can callhis own, the anxi€ties associated with that signature, as rcvealed mostov€rtly in Rousseau, poinr to the dread detour rhat the detour of travel ismeant to circumvent: namely, woman, whose difference is as unmasterablefor the male philosopher as the oitos is unsrabilizable for rhe lraveler Assuch, even th€ names (as)sign€d to the texts of Montaign€, Descarres,Montesquieu, aod Rousseau can be shown ro be caught in the drift of anappropriation that is, at some point and ar some time, also and inevitablya disappropriation.

Notes

Introduction: The Economy of Travel

l. ln fact, the v€ry movenenl belwen tie voyage and ofier ropoi it sel I sussesr s a Eadingol lhe history ol herarure as a voyase. For one ot rhese rdpoi or sloppjng places on thnitinerary ro be wbal sisniff€s rhar journey as a whote cannot be without consequences, Aswe will s*, rhe notif of the voyase h an eremplary locus ot titerary self{€flerion.

2, Loun d€ Jaucoun, "voyage:' Enclcbpedje o, dictiohhane ruietn'.tes yiacd, desa.ts et .les tuetie6 pat une e.iata de s",r de lerlEs (NeufchaEl I Sanu€l Fautche & Conpasnie,r?51-65), XV ,4?6.

3- Extensions of th€ concept ol econohy have been a key tearure oi nuch recent Flenchcriical dncoursc, since at leasr Georges Batait:te, Ld part naudite (pa'is: Minuit, 1949),especially the secrion enlnFd "La norion de d€pense," inirialy pubtished in 1933. For anincisive ahalysn of Baraille\ nolion ot economn sft aho Jacques Derrida, ..Fron Resticredto Cen€ml Economyl A H€selianism withoul Reserve,,, in wtuinC and DifJqence. t, At^nBa$ (Chicago: University of Chicaso Pre$, t9?8), 25t ?z Amons others in this t.adition,see especially: Jean Joseph 6o!x, Stnbotic Economi*: Alet Malx and Frcud, rL JeonitetCudiss Gare (lthaca, N.Y,: Cornell Univenity P.ess, t99O), and L6 onnayeu' d, tdnpapeiPc'iJ Caliltr. rs34ri lean-Frr'ncoF Llotard. t.ononp tibidtntte \ptti:: Minuir, lo-4) ,;dD6 disposnils pulsionneh (Parisr Union Cendrale d,Ednions, l9?t)j Jean Baldrillad, ao.

t12 NOTES TO PAGES Xvii-rir

o ctitiqLe oJ the Political E ononr oJ the sisn, f cha.les Levin (st. Lout. Mo_: TelosPrc$. l98l); Gilles Deleuze and FClix Cuatrari, ,-1,r:Oedrlr6, tr. Robc Hurley, Mart Seen,and Helen R. La.e (Minneapolisr Univexiry ot Minnesola pre$. 19831

^nd A fhousand

P/z/?ara t Brian Massuni (Minneapolis: Unilersity of Minnesota pres, t989), ln a moresociolosical vein, see Pierc Bourdieu, Disru.rioh: A Socia! O4itrue oJ the Judeenetu a.fArra rr. Richard Nice (Cambridse, Mas.r Harvard University press, t984it and in rcsardsto lirerary hnrory, Marc Shell, fhe Econon! oJ Lherutu.e (Balrimorer Johns Hopkins Unile6ity Pre$, r9?8), and Mo,e!, LoUuaEe, anl Thought: Lnerury ord phitosophiet Ecohonies ftutu the Medietol to the Mo.le Eru (Betketey. Universiry oi C.litornia prcss, 1982).

4. Jean de La Fontaine, Les deux piseons,, Oe,y/es.oupL.,eslparis: SeDit, 1965), t4O.Tnc poem was tust published in 16?9.

5. F.an9d-Marie Arcuer de votane, Co"di.le, ou I optinisne in Otuvres conplates,- ed. Loun Mohnd iPaihr Carnier Frercs. l3?7 85), XXl. 137-218.

6. Dean Maccannell, The Tottist: A New Theo.j of the a?6!re C/ass (New yor*lSchocken Books, 1976); see also Jonathan Culler, .,The Seniolics of Totris6;' AtudicanJoulnul of Seniotis t,no, | 2 (1981), 12? 40, a.d oy,.Sichtseers: The Tourht as Theorist,,,D,i,..trics l0 (Winter 1930), I 14. For nore prcperly ethnographic discussions oi rhe journeyas a mode of culruralj or elen politicat, ehpo*ernent, see Clalde Levj Strauss. TrislerI/olrtqr4, tr John and Doreen weishrnan (New York: Arheneun, r97l),26 l4; and Maryw. Helms, Utsr€r'5a/t ,,1, Ethnosruphi. Odlse! oJ powt, Knovledee, and AeoEruphi.Disra,c€ (Princeton: Princeron Lhivesity Pres, 1988).

7. The nost celebrarcd accounl of the Spanhh conquesr is Barlobne dc Las Casas.Revissina rclacian de ]a desttu]cion de 16 rrdi6lse\i|e, 1552). For the influencc exenedon early European liberal alrirudes toward colo.ialkm by Las CasaCs hodiyins desriprionsof Spanish arrocities, sce MichCle Ducheri /,/r.opolosie et histune du sidle .Jes tunjares,rd. ed. (Paris: Flamnarion, I971J,91 95, t49 54. See also, on the ,.dhcovery' ot lne -Ne*-Worltl, Edmundo O'Corna., rre Inwntjon ot Anetiu: Ak Inquiryintothe Histo.jcat NatureoJ the Ner wo d antl the Meunins oJ hs Historr lgtoodinston: rndiana Univesiry press!t t)t I.H.Elliolt,rheOt.l tlo dandtheNew 92 16J0 (Cambridse: Cambridee Unive6iryPie$, l9?0)l Tzvelan 'fotlotov, The Conquesl aJ Anetua: rhe eaesti.n of the Othet, 1,.Ricnard Hosad (New Yorl: Harper and Ro$, 1984), and Mary B. camDbelt. The llitnessand the Othet Wo d: Etotic Eurcpear Ttavel w lins, 100-ldoo (rihaca, N.y: Cornel Unjve(ily Press, 1983), especially 165 266. A .rucial reconrextuatizins of Las Casas and rhesubsequent nolorjery of thc Spanish conquesr can be found in Roberto Fem6ndez Reranar,sbrillia.t and novine "Asainsr ihe Btack Lescnd,, in Calrban and Othet Essars, tt, Ed*a*lBaker (MinNapolis: Unilereity oi Minnesota Press. 1989). 56 ?3. Untike othei crnics or r asCasas, Retamar is le$ inreresred in dnpurine lhe numerical accuracy ot de arrociries alleeedby Las Casas than in exposins the racism lhar has insDired his no nern Eurcpean radesrwho lail to peEeive tbar rhe eartien cdticisn oi Spanish cotoniahn qas nselt Spanish ino gin. On the oiher hand, rhis opposnionat voice turns our ro be vnruaUy absent fiom lheperhaps quieter bur no less efficient genocide carisd our in No.th America (and etsewhcE)by Eoelish, FEnch, and Dulch colonialisrs_ On €ar1y French colonialiso and rcacrions to theSpanish conquests. see Charres Andr6 Jutien, Hribne de l'upansion d de to cotoiisationfrdtcdip I: Les wlases de dao,ye e e1 les pteni.ts ttoblisen€,rs (paris: pUF, 1948)r andTon Conlex "Montaisne and rhe New world,,'firiz,i. /$res 4 (1989), 225 62.

3. The Poetics ofAtistotle, ed. a.d trans. S. H. Butcher (London: Macmi an, 1936),3r.9, La srntrye hatati,e des taca(ties de corneite \patis: Ktincksi(k, t9?6). See ako his

morc r*enl Poeti.s oI Plot tMinneapolis: Universjty ot Minnesota pre$, ,985) and F/i1ro,a/ttlo/1dr (Camb dee, Mass.: Harvard Unilenity pre$, 1986).

10. Linrention du quotidien I: A s de Jdirc (Patis.l0/la, t980),206- while de Cerreau,ssBtement oa, sound exce$ive out ol context, one can iind considerable suppon for hhhyporhesh i. tbeorelicians or natrarive, who almosr invariablt draw on rhe loyase as enhertne model nafative or rh€ model for nararile. witness Ceors LukAcs br whom fie novelis the form rhat expreses "transcendensl homele$ness (Tteoty olthe Novel. t. A. Bosto.kIcanbridse, Ma$,: MIT PEss, l97ll,4l and passim). As lor lhe systen olcharacrer luncrionsput foith by vladinn Propp, ir is possible io read fte emne sequence oi fDncrions as

constituting a journey becun by rhe very lirst funcrion, tbe depanure ol someone iron rhehome, and endins wben all the conplicarions surroundins ihe he.o\ rcturn home are resolled:Motpholosr of the Folktale, n. L, Scou, rd. Loni A- wasner (Austin: Universnv oi TexasPress, 1968). A herary hnrorical arsumenr co.cerning the Elarion between the early nodernvogue lor favel literarure and the rise of that mosr elabo(are of narradve cenres, rhe novetjis made by Peict Adams in Tnwl Literctu.e and the Ewlutiok of the Nowl \Lditston:Universitt Press of Kenlncky, 1983),

ll. No doubt lhe nost eloquenr exDe$ion of rhe imbricarion between rexr and riavelremains Micnel Butor\ "Le voyaae s I'ecrnuE," in tqerteroi.e lv (Parn: Minuit, 1974),9-29. Sinilar i.siehts ca. be sleaned iron Loun Marin, Utopiqu*: Jeux d *pace {paris.Minuit, 1973); Nornand Donon, rarr de voyase.: Pour u.e ddtinirion du r€cil de voyagea l'dpoque cla$ique," Poiri4!? 73 (1988), 83-108, and ,.De l,epFuve de I'espace au lieu du€xlel le rdcit de voyase comme senre," in Bernard Beusnor, ed., Volases: Raciis et inasinaire,Biblio t7 ll (lga$,15 3lt also, Beroard Beugnot's preiace to rhis same volume, ix xvi; cillesDeleuze, ProlJl ard Sisnr tr. Richald Howard (New Yorki Biazitler, lt2); Roland Barthes,5/2,1r. Richa.d MiUer (Nes Yorl: Hill and Wans, l9t4), 105; Michel de Certeau,l- twuro,

12, Such a cririque ol menphysics n the one offered by J&ques Derida, and fte entirecoDus of bis tro* could be cited in lbis rccad. In eference !o the arsudent I am lryins10 nake here, suflice n to mention in panicllar O/ C/znuzlo/oa:/, rn caydri ChakralortySpilal (Balrimore: Jobns Hopkins Unilersiry Pres, 1914), and Speuh and Phenotnena ondOthd Essays on H6y ! Th?o., o/ Srsru, ri David Allison (Evanstoni Northwesern Uni-

ll. A lariant oi tbe rela?io, d" rcr,ae h rhat of the voyage rcon.red throush letres.Hee, the steps in lhe votaser's itinerary are brousht back or .elated to tbe addressc (steF€otypicatly positioned at the traveler! point ofdepairlre) in the concEle forn oirhe missivesnarked by rhen .hansins dates and place nanes. The dareline lhus designars its addEsso.'sprqress elen as il neasuies rhe dhsnce tbe letter nself nust refiace on ir way back to theaddre$ee. La Fonraine! Relation d un blaEe de Patis en Llnorrt (1663) and Mne. d'Aul-tty's Relation du vorage .l'hposre (1691J eqloit thn po$ibiliry, as do, albeit in a !e.ydiferenr re8istcr, de aet€s ddrrantes et .ulieuses de Chine (l?02 ?6), conpiled and editedby Jesuil nissionaries. The dflice is also widely qploited p.ecisely to ohraih an (oien tacile)etiect of cultural and eeocraphical alienarion in sucb eighteentb-centlry eroric novels asMonFsquieu\ aerr.es p€.ra,6 (l?21), Poullain de Saint,Fo\x's Leftrcs turqta (t13()), andMne. de Craftignyt l,?t/€s d une Plwienne (t141),

14. On the translarion or trandornarion of topocraphy into topic as n rebtes to theconstitution of narative, see Louis Maiin, "Du corps au rexre: proposirions m€raphysiquessur I'orisine du i&n,'Aprn 4I (1973), 913-28.

15, Such a minimal voyase naoalive k tbe one lelt behind by Jean Jacques Rou$eau as

a "Road Norebook," dat;d 1754, uhose texl can be cned in toro:

Dined Sunday on lh€ sras close to Hermaoce.Slepr ar the chaFau oi Coud.de.

NOTES To PACES nx-xxi ll.,

NOTES TO PAGES XXi-Xrii

Dined Monday on tbe s.ass close to Ripailles.

TUesday sle ar Bex.Di.ed ar Pisse-Vache.

Slepr d Saint Maurice.

Filgal oeal off€Ed oul oi hospiraliry.ls lherc not sonelhi.s Hoderic aboul my voyage?Di.ed Tuesday al Villeneuve-

Dined Wed.esday .r Cuilli.

Dined TDesday and slept at Morges.Dined Friday at Nion and slepi at Eaur Vives.

The place nanes for meals and olernight re s descdbe an itinerary around the nost celeb.atedof Swns lates, an a.!4rs whose circle can be closed by lhe addirion ol rhe implicit poi.tol departure and returni lhe ciry ol 6ene!a. The odly nondesis.ative senrence raises lheqDeslion of a Honeric allusion putarilely capabte ol dignifying fiis nodes ouling. This text,ii it can be called ode, is rhen placed back inlo the literary radirion olepic rravel, coniortablyanchored in 1he name of its inausural Doet, 4en as Rousseau3 Alpine odyssey b nes himback hone to the liviq sareri' (Eaux-Vives), .ol ol lrhaca. but oi Ceneva.

16. Such a narking Nould qt.nd elen 10 so,called unmrked places, which are nonethelessmarted as u.darked. Ct. Barbara Johnron, "Quelqu.s consdquences de la difi€Fnce ana-tooique des iqtes: Pour une thaoiie du poCne en prose," Poehue 28 11916), 465.

17. The lopolosical conceplion of laosuase can be as erphn as in LDdNis Winsensrein\delaphor ol la.sua8e as a cit\ (Philasophi.ol lrrestieotiotu, 3d ed. retr, trans. C. E. M.Anscombe [New Yorl: Macnillan, 1958], 3) or as inplicit as the sparial metapho$ endenic10 sbucrural deoiies of lansuaee Nitb their horizonlal and lerlical qes ol sisnitjcarion,posilions oi the speakins subjN! and synchronic proj{rions. hdeed, the very norion oflansuase as a strudure inplies its conccpiualiation as a space.

18. Cicerc, Iopt4 tr H- M. Hubhell (Canbridee, Mass.: Harlard Universiry press, andlondor. He'nem,nn, l9o0r. r8)i rrdnJarion mod.ried.

19, For a derailed discussion oi rreuol,a as well as ol $e use oi topography as a memoryai.l in sen.ral, see Michel Beaujott, Mircirs d etcre: Rhetotique de l'autoporttait (P^tis, Seri]L.r98O), 79-.168; and Fiances Yares's classi.. The A o.f Menory (Chicaso: Uoilesiry otChicaso

20. C€sar ChesneaD Du Ma6ais, Ttaitd des napes ot da dtfletents sens daB lesqueb onp.ut prendre un nade not dons une nene bb, e (Patis: Le Nouleau ConmeEe, 197?), 7,

ny enpnash. Cf. Quintilian: A liope h rhe advantageous removal tnulariol ot a *od ora discourse frcn its proper sishiiication over to anorhei.... Now a.ane or a wod isrra.sferred fron thai place in wbich it prcperly is lex eo lo.o ih quo p.optiun 6tl imaanofier place, wbeE either the proper nane h in defauh or an improvemenl is oade uponthe D(oper lerd as a resujt ol rhis lenolal lr.a/ar!u1." 1,s/itutio otdtotia 8,6.1 8.6.6, ed. M.winterbouoh (Oxlod: Clarendon Press, 1970), ny rantarion and emphases.

21. Roland Barthes, "The Old Rhetoric: An Aide-M€noire;' in The Seniotic ChallenEe,tr Richard Howard (New Yorl: Hill and wans, 1988),33, Banhes\ emphasis.

22. Aristolle, Poerln ed. and ri Blrcher, ?7 Ci. lacques Derrida, ..whire Mytholoer,i'i. Mdtci"s oJ Philosophr, t. Ala. Bass (Chicaso: Universily ol Chicaso, t982), 2lt and

passim. or rhe auem to esrabhh a hierarchy or fopes, see Hans (eltner, ..The InflatableTrope as N.narive Theory: Slructure or Altesory?i, Dr?.riri.s ll (Sprins l98l), l4-2s.

21. On lhe complerity of the probleos posed by such metaphore of metaohor. se RichardKlein, "Srraisht Lines and Arabesques: Metapho^ or Metaphor,,, yate French Studjes 45(1970), 64 86.

24. Derida, "Wiitc MyrholoBy," 241.

25. An arsunent simild to the o.e I halc nade conc€rning rhe anbisuous entrapmenlliberalion in tralel and in crirical rhoughl could also be adlanced in rlation to tbat poliricatdocrrine which came to fuu iiunion sirh the Enliehtennent, namely, Iiber.tkm. The liberahposition has lradilionally bftn thar of the bad fairh otsurpolring prosressive retorm only tothe ertenr rhat such relbrm does noi jeopardize his or her own privilesed natus. O. the olherhand, liberal la€e$e must at leas make the genure of whar ii clajms to be doing if it is norto be inmediately unmasked as hypocrnical imDosrurc. To an exlenl thai .emains ro bedelernided, the liberal nu suppon the very retorns he or she dreads, .nd o.e nisnr oiterby way of an emblem rhe famous nisht of Ausust 4, t789, when the French nobles ih rheN.tional Asembly vied with one anolher to gire up as ma.y ot then fendal privileses aspossible- There is rood heE lor a nudy ot the historical relalio.s berw€en crnical rhousht,tralel lite.arure, and liberalism, On the ev€nrs of Ausnst 4, se Jean,piere Hirsch, ed., !anuit du 4 aoiil (Patis: Aallinard/lulliard, t9?8).

26, The hnrori.al importance of rhe litemru.e ot exploration for the developnenr of Fr€ncn(itical thinkin8 has been variously aigued since Clstave Lanson! infllenrial e$ax ,.Le r6tede I'experie.ce dans la fornarion de la philosoDhie du xvrl" sidcle en France..,Revre d!Mod (1910), 4-23 and 404 29, tpt. in Essais de ndthod. de.tnique er d'histoire lrtdtdi.e,ed, H. Plye (Paris: Hachene, 1965); see also, in this radirion, ceoffro! Atkinson. rr"Extraotdinar! yolase jn Fre,.h Lne.oture BeJote t7O0 tNN \oik: Coludbia Univesny prc$,1920), The Extruodinar! yoJd,e in Frcnch Lremture Frcn t70O to t72O (p^ti! Chanpion.1922), and Les aouwaux hotizons de Ia Renai$arce Jrancais? (plrisr Droz, t9l5)t GilbenChina , L'etishe atniri.oin dans la litutoture lruncais ou X/t srit/" (paris: Hachelle,tgttj, and L AhAnque et te re|e etique dons la tit&ruturc.ftuacuik au Xt4r,et au XV !s,a.& (Paris: Droz, r9l4)r Paul Hazard, Lo ctise de la .onscien e eurcpenie, t6t1 t7t5(Paris: Boilin, l9l5), especiauy chaprer one: ..De la srabitre au noulenent,', j-25t Ren6Pomeau, "voyage d lumidEsdans lalitrerature rrancahe du xyllt siecte:' Studir on voloneand the EiChtienth Cenlury 57 (1967), 1269-39; Hen.i piyre, iiR€flecrio.s on ihe Lneralurol'liavel:' in rtay.l, Quest. oad PilBinaee as a Literutr 'rhene: Sttdies in Hoiot of Reinovi anea, e.l. F. Amelinckx and J, Meeay (Ano Arbor: Soci€ly of Spanish and Spanish-Anerican Studies, 1973),7 23. On rhecorElarion berw*n scjentific prosress and theaestheticgue as aniculaled in early nodern rravelogues, see Barbara Maria Suffortl, ,/o),asp rroSubsta,.e: A/t, Science, Notute, and the lttastnted ftotet A.ctunt, t760-184o t:^6btid1e.Mass,: MIT Press, ,984). For a rendition inat insisrs instead upon rhe function ot voyaseliterarure as an erpression of bourseois cla$ consciousnes, se Erica Hatth, I.leoto!, andCulture in Seeeiteenth-Century Frcr.e ltthaca, N.Y': Corne| Unive(ity pEss, 1933), 222309. Other recent criri.s sho liksise insisr on the id@logical compbcnies berseen tra*lnarrarive and the leeirifiarion ol colonialisr aspnations includ e t richite Dtchet, Ant hropotoEjeet histoireau sii.te des Irhidres; Micbel.te Cedean, .,wririna vs. Tioe: History and Anrhro-polosy in rhe works of Lafirau," tr J. Hovde, yote Fre,.h st/dia 59lJgaq,3/-64,

^ d

The Wrniry oJ Hittorr, t.'tom conley (New Yorkr Colunbia Unirmiry press, t98s), l-5,2r5 48, and pasin; and Ceorses Benrctassa, ae .or.e,r&ue et I exce\ttique: Mary* desL,hiies (Pais: Payot. 1980), 9l-153, 2tl-24, 239-34i and, of course, Ed*aid Sai<t\ nonumehral o/ie,ralnu (Ncw York: Randon House, 1973).

NOTES TO PACES xxiii-rriv

NOIES TO PAGES xxiv xxviii NOTES TO PAGES xxviii-t

27. CnarFs D€ddyan, E$at rw le totnal d. wraEe de Mo,td?ae (Pais: Boivin, n,<t.),15,215.

28. Anong man! possible danples, se Dedidas deconsfucriod of the ethnocenfisnthar lies benedh Leli Srau$'s puratively benevolent alirude ro{ard tbe Nanbikwara ln.tianshe sfidies Qf Atunnotoloe', l0l 40). The ra.se of nisrorical possibiliries for the cririqDeol westerd repEsentalions of otbeme$ can be eaused by a nunber of recenl wo.ks whosevarious subject malte( span the ganut fron lhe ancienl 10 the modern worldr FrancoisH^ttoE, The Minot oJ Herodotus: Replesentations of the Othet in the wrning o! Histot!(Berteley: Universily ol California Pess, 1988); Mary Canpbell, The witaess ard the Othettt'otl.l: E@tic tawl witing, 100 16A0i'fzyetan Todotd, The Conquest o! Aneicdi andNous et les tun6: La ftldion ftancaise su/ la diyeBiti hunut€ (Parn: Seuil, 1989)i EdwardSaid, Oze,ra./tsu; and Christopher L, Miuer, A/a,k Du.k es: Afii.anist Discou6e in Fretch(Chicrso: Univesily of Chica8o Piess, 1985).

29. ln the case ofAmerican liteiature. at leasl one c.itic has explicily connecred the themeol lhe voyase with the evasion oi squality: Tne fisure of Rip Van Winkle pEsides over rhebirrh ol the Anerican imasination . . . the typical male protagonisl of our ficlion has ben aman o. rhe run. haried into fte forer and out ro sea. down rhe riler 6r inr. c.nh,r-anywheE to avoid 'cililization.' which n ro say, tne confronration oi a dan and a wonanuhich leads to the fall irlo sex, nafijage, add responsibihy" (Leslie Fiedte\ Loee and Dearhin the An ican Novel lttew ydt: Crilerion Books, 19601, xr xxi),

30. The bes.known French woden trrite.s ol tralel lirerarure are An.e-Loune CermaineNecker, Mme. de Stael (Colinne, ou l'kalie IlA0'l and De I Allenasne lrat'l), ad Flot^'liistan (Pddsnnations d tne pdia lla33) and Prcnendd5 darr aord€r 118401). For lheCla$ical period, one should aho especiauy note Marie de t,tncarnation (a nun vbose expedences in QDebec aE recounred in het Relations spitittela 11653l), Ma.ie,Catherine Junelde Berneville, Mme, d'Aulnoy (Relation dt yotage d Espas,e 1169ll), and Marie-Anne LePase, Mme. Du Boccage (Ia Colonbiade, ot la loi po/t4e at Nouveau Monde lr1s6l andLettres srt l Atsletene, la Holande et I'Italie 11162l),

I L 'tercsa de Lauretis, ranz,loEies oJ Aen.lel: Esols on Th@.r, Filn and Fiction 181006-ineton: Indiana UnireFi.J Pres, 198-r. l8 and pa,.im.

32. Melanie Klein, 'Eady Analysis," ad<l "Th€ Role of the School in the Libidinal Devel-opoenr oide Child,li in toya Auir, and Repsntion, and Other Essars, I92t t945(Lo don:Hosartb Pre$, l9?5), 59-105, especi.Uy 92-100.

3l- Ci Louis van Delft, a?,oruliste ctassique (Aenevat Dloz, 1982), 173-91; and JnrsensHahn, Ihe Orleins oJ lhe Batuqte Concept oJ "Pereeitarir" (Cbapel Hill Unilemity ofNortn Caroli.a Press, l9?3).

14. The delinitile study of the problem is, ol course. Pie.F and Husuetre Chaunn'smonune.tal eishr'lolume Slville a I Anattique: 1504-ft5o (Pais: Arnand Colin, 1955 59).

15. See Lucien Febv.e a.d Henri-Jeao Martin, I/p Coui,s ol lhe Book: The lnpact ofPtiktihe, 145A-1800, tt. David cerard (London: New Lei Books, 1976), esp@ially 159 {6;Henri'Je.. Ma in, Ztvre, pouwits et sociAi a Pa.is au Xtl.rsiade 2 voh. (Cen4al Drozi1969)j John Lou8h, wrilet ar.l Public in Frunce (Oxlord: Clarendon PFss. l9?8): ElizgbethEisenstein. Th. Ptintins tuess os an Ageht oJ ChanEe: Con unicatio8 and Culturul ta6-Jomatioa i4 Ea r Moden Eurore (Canbritlce: Cambridse Univereiry Press, l9?9)r RoberrD^tnto , 1'he Brsin4s oJ Enl\htenrent: A Publishins Hhtorr oJ the Encyclopedie {Canbridge, Mass,: Belknap Pre$, l9?9), and The Literutr Undeqrclnd oJ the Old Reein.(Canb.idse, Mas.: Harvard Univesity Press, 1982),

36- The lem d€ath of the aurho." derives iron Rolan.t Barlhes! iamous article of tb€same name. in Inqe-M6ic rext, tr Sl€phe. Head (New Yorkr Hill and Wans, l9??),

142-.43. Also see Peesy Kahul, Sienatu.e Pieces: On the tnstnution ofAuthotship (tth^c^,N.Y: Co.nell Uniledilv Piess. 1988),

37. On the symbolic dimension ol absolurist nonarchy, the key sudi€s are Ernst H.Kanlorowicz, Ire,(t a! Iro aodtus (Princelon: Piiocerod Universny Press, 1957); LouisMarin, Le pottroit du toi lParn: Minuit, l98t), and Le /ecil est ui piace (Patis: |Iinnir,I9?8)r a.d Jean Marie Aposlolldas. Le mi nachite (Par\s: n1inuit,l98l). More properl! psy

choa.alytic i.sishb aE dra{n by Norman O. Brown, row3 Aody (Nev York: RandomHouse, 1966), especially 3-ll; a.d by Mitchell GrenbetC, Coheile, Classi.isn, and th?Ruses oJ Slnuet] (C^mbridse: Cambridge Unilersity Pres, 1986). On rhe importan! ieladons betven theaficalit! a.d royal power, see Stephen Orsel, The llusion of Powr: PoliticalTheatq in the English Aeralsrarc. (Beikeley: Universily ol Calilornia PEss, l9?5)r $drinothy Mrt6y. Theatncol Lqitination: Alleqones oJ Aenius ih Serenteenth-Century Ery-lond and Fnn.e (Nee \ot*: Oxlord Univelsily PEss, 198?).

18. Sarah Kolman, a? respe./ derledaes (Paft: Calilae, 1982), especially ?l-83- SinceFriedrich Eneels, The OnCtu o! the Faditt, Pri,at? tuopen, and the State (1894), hisroriesol the laoily and oi the division of labor under preindustial pariaichy have burseoned.Amons recent work, see especiauy loan Kelley, "Family and State;' in her womei, Histot!ard Zr€ory (Chicago: Universiry of Chicago Pre$, 1984), tl0-5J; Eli Za.ersky, Cdprdrr-,the Fonily, ak l Petenal LiJ., rev. ed. (Ns York: Harper and Rov, 1986); Lonis€ Tilly andloanScou, Wohen, Work and Fz-it(NewYork: Holt, Rinehart and winsbn,l9r8)i PhilippeAtias, L'aJant et la tielo iliolee6I Arcien Ragitue (Patis: S€uil. 1973)i Ja.qles Donzelo!,Lo poli.e des Janilles lPatis. Minjit, 1971).

19. ln addition to the pEviously nentio.ed Dublicadons by Duchel, de Certeau, andCanpbeu, also sce rhe anicles collecred in Hisro@s de / anthtupoloeie: Xvl XIX sia.les,ed, Brita Rupp-EisenEich (Paris: Klinc*si{k, 1984); Maryater Hodgen. Earlt Anthtupoloeti, the Sixteetth ond Serenteerr, Ceutr,?s (Philadelphia: univereny of P€rnsylvania Pr€ss,1964); and ClaDde Levi-Srauss, "Jean-Jacques Rousseu, fondateur des sciences de I'honne,"in AnthapoloEie sttu.lutale ll (Parh: Plon, l9?3), 45-16.

40, De Jaucoun h either cning fron nenory or intentio.ally abbEvialing and alteringft€ passage fion Montaisne. vhich can be iound in "Oi the EdDcarion of ChildEn," a6Essis de Michet de MoataiE e, ed. Pieire villey,3ft1ed. (Pads: PUn l9?8). I, xx!i, l5l.As for the last sen&nce of rhe quotation, i! is nor to be found in Monlaiene and is €itber deJaucourfs i.venrion or taken from a text I hare so far bee. nnable 10 identify.

1. Equ$trian Montaign€

l. Michel de Montaisne, Jolrnol.le eorase a lalie pa. ta Sujse et I Aqetudghe en 1580

et 1581, ed. M, Rat (Paiis: Garnier, n,d,), l. Unl€ss olherwise noted, all subsequenr pase

references are ro lhis edition. Erulish tralslations, rilh sone nodificalions, are laken lromDonald M, Frane, Montaigne! Tluwl Jou al \l9'1i tpt. San Fmncnco: North Poinr Pr€s,1983).

2. Maurice Rat, "lnlroduclion" ro ,lou.nol de voydae ea halie bv Monraigne, ed. M.Ral (Paris: Carni€r, n.d.). iii'if, Cf. also Chanes DadCyan, Esai sut le Joumal de wlaaede MontaiEn , (P^tis: Boivan, n-d.) 27-12, 93-99; P^rl Bonnefon, Montaiane et ses amis(Paris: Arnand Colin, I898t rpt- 6eneva: Slaltine, 1969), Il, l-46; Louis Laurrey, "Inlio-dnction" to Joumal de voraE? by Monraisne (Parh: H&herre, 1906), I 5l: Donald Frane,Mohtaisne! Discowt o! Ma : The Hunoiization oJ a H4nz,dt (New York: ColumbiaUniversny PE$, 1955), ll0 20i and Donald Ft^me, MontdEne: A rtosruprl (N4 Yotk:H.rcour!,.Brace and world, 1965), 201-22.

NOTES TO PACES 2-5NOTES TO PAOES 5-7 ll9

L So do6 Monraisne de$rib€ his.elationshjo lo rhe E.ssarr jn .,OfCivi.s rhe Lie,,,ZaEsais de Mi.hel .le Monta)s,e, ed. piere vj ey, td ed. (paris: pUF, t97s), U, xviii, 66;.Unless orhcr*ise noted, all slbsquent Fhrences ro the tszr are ro rh6 ednion anl wilbe indicated by loluoe. chaprer, and pase nunbers onlyi Enslish translarjons, wnb somemodilications, ar iron fte Coapkre Estu|s o! Moitoisne, t{ Donald M. Frafre tsranr.rdUnner!r) Pre\. t9r3t. tor a Lnr(at etdm,ndUon o, rhe !e!rerar!.\ rotc rn.he prodr.r,onoi tbe journal, se especiatly Crais S. Brusb, ,.La composirion de Ia preniaB padn du'Journal de Voyase' de Monraiene:, Reete./ Histone Liudtdne de lu Ftonce 1t tr91lj. 369_84j and Fausra Caravini! inrroducrion to ner edition oi rhe Jounat de volote lpa:ls: Fotio.l98li. 7 ll. One cr,r.!. P e-re o f.pezet. in hr. ednion ot rteJ"z.a,/(pari.:( re oe, Ltr.e.l9ll), has even offered rhc rarher bizarre sussest ion that ihis secrerary was Montaiene himself,Cl- rmbrie Bufiun, llul!€rce du wruce de Montaisne sur /es tsdrs, diss., pri;ceton, t9.r2(P nceroo: privarely printed, 1946), 149.

4. Cilbert Clrinaid, L exotishe anAricoin dans lo litftrutrre .tdhcaise a, Xyr, siech(Paris: Hache €, I9ll), 201.

5. The term cones from Ctaude Levi-strauss\ dislinclion berween rvo types of socjeties:"rhose which practice anrhropophasy that is, *bich regard tne abso.ption ;i cerlain individuals posessing danserons pose6 as rhe onty neads ot neuhMins tbose pow*s and evenofrurnins then to prollt an.l rhose $hich, rikeour own socieiy, adopr whal hisht be calted$e pacti.e ol anthrcpent (kom lhe Crek lh?t, to vomit); faced Nith thc sa;e prcbhm,lh€ lalter type olsocietyhas chosen theoDposiresollrion, which consists in eFctinsd;ns ousindividuah fton tne sociat body and tecping then lehporarily or permanenrty ; isoLtion,away lron all contacl rnh lhen ie ows, in establhhnenr speciauy intended tor rhis puryose.Most of tne socierGs shich we ca p miive soutd reca.d rhis cu om wnh proroun; h;rroriir vould make us, in rhen eyes, guilry of the sane harbadty of,hich we are inctined loaccusc then because of thei symnetlically opposile behavior,, (r/r/eJ Zopiqre, tr. Johnand Doreen Weishtnan INew York: Arhenetrm, t9?31, 4.12). For a more philosophicat analysisofcannibalisn and culruml appropriation in retarion lo Monlaigne! aurobiosraphicatprcj;d,see Jean Marc Blanchard. .Of Ca.nibalism and Autobiosraphx,, MZN 93 (i9?S), e5a 76las well as hn mor rccent Tmis po rars de Montaisre: Esoi su/ td rep4ehtation d ii",a&ra,.e (Paris: Nizer. 1990), cspsialy pD. lO?-202, And on cannibalim as a misosynjsllrcpe in anthropologjcal dkcourse, see Dean Maccanncll, iicannibalisn Todax,,in h; rr?Tourist Papets tLondo Ronrledge, foihconind.

6. Such is the rhesis initially advanced by pieire vi ey in his monumenral t"r sorl.eset t'awlation .les Esais de Mo,ra€r?(paris: Hachetre, l9O8)and further .tevetooed bv DonatdFnne ,n VontaiqF?\ Dt.tovet! oJ Man. Fo, tmbre Blrun tt httutn.p du \-!qp deMontaiE"e stu les Essais), rhe Irip ro haly exptains an entne ser of opposirional reveruls inMonraigne\ opus: irom bootnh leami.s to lived experience, rrod impersonalily ro pe6on-alily. from solitude ro society, riom the c!ftique oi cunons ro their detense. from ,.dive6n!.,

'j' ,"ill. "l Io'r!'nrqueor rhe -cvotlr.ondry. dpproach ro rhe L\ou...ee RarnondC. La Charitd, ..Monraisne\ Earty personat Essays,,, Roaa,l? Reviek 62 (r9?r): and morertren'ly- llk BrodJ. ac,,rrp. de Montogn? \t e\nlton. XJ., I .ench to,um. I{82, see ahoRichard L. Recosin, .,Recent Trends in Montaisne Scholarship: A post,strucrurathr peFspe.tive;i Renoisance Qta etttT (1984), j4 54tand Steven Rendell,..Readins Monlaiene,,,Dri./ri.r 15 (no. 2r Summei 1985), 44 j3.

'1. Ftane, Montaiehe\ Discovety oJ Man, 163,

. 8. Se especially Buffun, L inlren.e dt,o!ase; DeaCyan, Essai su te Jormat, t24 5tl\,1dt.p letel.'t^r,nat dc votas. pn ltahp ot te. t.\rr. LrLde d r.,e.re$Lahre,.. rn FtoldGray and Marel Teier. eds_, Texta d irtettdt\: Etud.s st te Xt/t. siacle pout AU;e.tC/u,r?r (Paris: Nizer, l9?9), I ?l 9l I and Mo,ra,sr? (New york I Tway.e, 1974), ti4 l6j irais

B, Brush, "The E$ayisr ls L€arnedr Montaiene! Jo!r,a/ d? t/oyake ^

.t the E tuis_- Rohahi.R"ri",62 (19?l)t Lino Peiile, "Monraisne in rtaliar Ar1e, rcnica e scienza ttal.rorzalasliEseis, SaBEi e Ri.etche di Lefieratutu Fruncae 12 ttgtj), 49-92j Claude Blud, ..Montaicne,aclivain du voyas.. Notes sur I'inasinane dD loyage A Ia Renaissance," in Franqok Moureaua.d Rend Bernouilli, ,4rlorl tlu Journot de wroce de Montaisne, tSSO-t980 (Aenq^

^ndParis: Slatkine, 1982), I ll,9- The relerence is ro Jacques Denida, Of Clannototoly, t. Cayat.i Cbatmvorty Soivak

(Baldmore: Johns Hopkins Universiry Pres, t9?4), l4t 64.l0- On prolific commentary as a discu$ive practice in the Renaissance, see Terence Cave,

Th. Cornucopiah Tdt: Pmbtens oI wdins in tue Frcnch Raa,lsarce (Oxtord: t9r9). Alsosee Anloine Compaanon, la s..orde aah (Parn: Seuil, r9?9); LawEnce Kiirzman, Dprr,.tiot/Decoutprte: LeJonctionnenent de td Aotiqu dans lesEssais de Mo\taiane (Le\in$o\x I l

'ench Forum. ra8o,: Fr ancoi. P.icotot . t ? ta lp dp to Rent,,da, e De: RhaonC"eu, .

d Montaisne (C.nda. Drcz, \982); and Andrd Tourno., MontaiCne: La gtose.t t'.sai (Lyon:PFsses UniveisitaiFs de Lyon. 1983)-

Il. while, to my knovledge, rh€re exists no conplere bibliosraphy of Fr€nch trav.ls tollalx help can be fou.d in lhe bibliography oi fo.eisn votase.s 10 rraly placed ar the end otAlessandro D'Anconat edhion oi Monraignet Jolrrat: L,tlatia ala Jin. del secoto Xtt:Aio.nale del eiogqi. di Michele de Montaicre in Latia lcittA di Castellor S, Lapi, 1895), asweu as in the bibliosraphies of Ludvis Scbudt, Latialeisen in tZ uhd IB. Jahfiunden(viennaand Munich: Schroll, l9s9) and Hermann Harder,l,e prdsident de B.os6 et le wocea ltdlie au dix-h,itiane siitk (Ceneva: Slalkine, t98t). The nain problem wirh rhese bibliqraphies, bowser, is that rhey are complere only rill rhebegin.ins ofrhe nineteend century.Furthei help can rhen be found in cian Carlo Me.ichelli, Vjapsiato l,anc6i reati o i ma-ginati nell ltalia del ouocenta (Romer Edizioni di Stoda e Leueratura, 1962). See also EnitePnor L?s Frubcais ilalidnisants au Xyl. sii]cle (patis: Cnampion, t9O6).

12. On ichoue roujours a parler de ce qu on aine,, ?/ Orcl 85 (Aurunn, l98O), 33.Il. The relevant pa$ase is as follows: ..There n in particular on€ counfy, beyond rhe

Alps, rhat deserves tbe curiosity of all rhose whose educadon has been cultivated throusnleues, Barely is one on the Callic iiohrier along the road betwen Rimini and Cesena thanone linds ensraved in narble, that fmous sedatus consulrum shich consigned to the eodsbelos and d€clared ro be sacriligious and padicidat anyone vho crossed rhe Rubicon, nowcalled rhe P;sar€l1,, wilh an army, leeion, oi cohort. rr is on the edse ot this river or $eanthar Caesar stopDed awhile, and rheie irftdon, shich was aboul ro expire under his arns,srill cost hin a bit ol rcdorse. lf I delay cro$inc the Rubicon, he sai.l ro his head otiicerc,I an losti and if I cross it, how many unhappy people I shalt maLet Then, after havinareflecred on rhh a lew moments, he llings hinseli inro th€ litte river and c.osses ir, shoutins(as haplrens id rnky enrerprises) the followinsi .Think no noF ot il, rhe die is ca .' Hearrives in Rinini, takes ovei Unbria. Ernria and Rone, dounts tbe throne and pe.ishessoon after b! a tuBic dealh" (Louis de Jaucourt, ..Voyaee," Encntopedie X\ t. 1j).

14, Ci1ed in Villey\ ednion oi ihe E$ar, 1208.15, D€deyan, €$di s,. /e Jo,nal de votaEe,30,9a tos. More sugsestively. Marcel Tetel

( Montaisne e1 Le Ta$e: hlertexte €r voyage,, jn pierre Michel, Francois Moureau, RobertCranderoute, and Clande Blun, eds., Mohtoilne et t4 E*ais, .6dO /980 lparn: Chanpionand cenfla: Slattine, 19811,306-19) nas shown now Monraisne\ obsenarions on rraliancurture co.srirure a srructured .esponse lo Torquato Tasso! pa&gore del,halia alta Flancia(1572). The dvalry betNeen thc iwo culrures is dus doubled by Montaisne! rivahy as a witerqith his ckalpine contenporary.

16, 6ssaj,s Il, ii, 344,

NmES TO PACES t2-13

17. Cf. Jules Michelet. *ho besins the lolune on the Renaissance in his Histoire de Fnncewitb Charles vlll\ inlasion ol ttaly i^ t494 (Oetvtes cohptat.s, ed. P viallaneix lParis:Flannarioo, l97l-821, VIl, 113fi.).

18. As wiu be seen below, this anbiglous relationsbip can be shosn ro be enin€nlly

19. Pie.r Michel ("Le pa$ase de Montaisne dans l'est de la France," in Mourea! andBeno$lli, Autout dt Joumol de Waee.le Montaighe, 13) suegesls rhat sone oi Monraigne\de*riplions ol snes vhied may have ben le$ inlormed by dir{t observatio. than by literaryEninnences oi conrenporary seo8raphical suide books such as Cha es Eslie.net Z" Clri?ed6 .henins de F.ance (Pais, lJ52) or Sebaslien Mnnsler's CornoEruphie univekle \Pais,lt52), a copy ol whicn we know Monnisne owDed. EheNhere, his srcntary cpo s hotrMontaighe makes up for de los of a FEnch sDide in Rone by readine up hinself on theciry to the point thar "i. a iew days he could easily h.ve cuided hn guide" (./o,.rdl, 103).

Likely candidates anong 1he books studied by Montaigne in Rode include Lucio Mauro, ,eantichiti dello .iiit di Rond (Venice, 1542), a.d navio Biondo, Roar zitaurata et Laiatllu:t nta \venice. l<42J.

20- See, tor exanple, E, M. W. Tillyard, The Elizab.than wo d Pkturc lNee fotklRa on House, o,d,)i Mikhal B^*htln, Rabelais atd His wold, r, H,lswolsky (Camblidse,Mass.: MIT P.ess, 1968), especially 303-436j Michel Foucauh, a"s ddu.r /es c/orer. UrearchloloCie .les sciences htnater (Parn: Callinard, 1966), 32 59r Louh Marin, "Les corpsubpiques rabelahiens, ' rtrirarlp 2l iFebruary 1976), 35-51 , rpt, in La parcle nanEie \Pais:Meridia.s Ki.cksieck, 1986), 89-120; lohn C. O'Neill, Five Bodi6: The Hunan Shope oJMdd€r, Sdcpry (ltbaca, N.Y: Cornell U.iversity P.ess, l98J).

21, This srory is retold in &ra)r I, rxi, 99.22. Ci. Monlaisne\ final, ne8arile judemenr on the medici.al prope.lies ofnine.al waler:

"Only fools ler lhenselves be persuaded lhat rhn hard, solid body lhat is baked in our kidneyscan be dissolved by liquid conc@rions. Therelore. once it is i. molion, there is nolhine 10

do but sive il pa$ase; for il wiu take tbis pa$age a.y*ay" (ut, xiii, 1094). In regards toMontaigne! self rherapy and lisns b majoi European spas, see Alain Marc Rieu, "Monlaiene:Physiolqie de la ndmone et du lanaase dans le 'Journal de !oya8e,"' in Moureau andBerno$lli, Autout dt Joumal de |oNge de Mottaigre, 55 66; Jea! Claude Carron, Leclurcdt,loutnal de VoraE Ae Moalaiene: L'€ria.ce th€rapeutique de I'e$aytu€," in Michel el al,,eds., Montaig e et 16 Essais, 271 ?8i and Irda S. Maje., "Monraisne's Cure: Slones andRoman Ruins,'MZN97 (1982), 958 t4.

21, Cf, Caralini, Brush, "La conposnion de la pFoiere partie," and Ddd6yan, E$?ts.24. "An idiom thar I could.eirher bend nor tlrn out orits common course" (IlI, v,873).

Nunerous c tics have alluded, gleefully as it were, lo Montaisnel poor connand of lhlian:Dedeyan, Esrar', 162 64i D'Ancona, LLata,4l9i Fta6e. Montaign: A Biogtuphy,219.N€verthele$, sone attenpt has ben nade to a.eue rhe opposite by Aldo Rosellini, "Quelquesreoarqles sur I italie. d! 'Jour.al du loyase' de Michel de Monraighe, zeitsthrtll Jttrcna"ische PhiloloEie al <1961), 3ar4Oa.

25. Tbe essay, "Of Coaches," also offers Montaisne's stronsest crili<lue ol Europeancoloniahn in tbe New Wodd. lnteresrinslx the ho6e ficu.es asain witbin this critiqle as anunlair adlanrase lor rhe conquisndors, "mounted on sreat unknown fonsterc, opposed tonen who have never seen...a home" (ul, vi, 909). Tne v.ry lasl lin€ of lhe e$ay ahodesfibes the iau both heral and figlral of the last king of Peru at the hands or "aho6enan" sho "pulled hio ro fie ercund" (lll. vi, 915). Cf. Tom Conley, "C.taparalysis,"Drb.rtrtr 3 (Fall l9?3), .11-5q

26, The tnle Nas boushl by Mo.taisnet srcar-srandfalhet Ramon Eyqueh, only a lndeover lifiy yean belore Mo.laisnet binh. Relevanr i.fomaiion o. Monlaisnet ancestry can

be found in Fmme, Mozta€u"r A Bioeraph!, 3-2a: Ihaoohi| M^l\ezin, Mi.hel d. Mo"taisne:Sot otieire, sa fani e lBodeaux, 1395: rDi. Geneva: Slarkine, 1970); Paul Bo.n€ion, Mo,taicne et ses amis, t, 2t , and Roset'tttnqter, La jeanese de Montaisne: Ses otisines Jan iliales,son enJarce et ses aud6 (Pa.n: Nizet, 1972).

2?, while nuoerous critics have mentioned the liimpodance" of rhn essay, only a verylew hav€ siv€n nore than passinc atention !o thh text crucial to rhe cenesn ol the 6rsu./sin iis specitically dis.!6tw aspecr. The culprit no doubt n rhe (to my mind) exaege.atedenphash placed by oainstrean Montaisne criricism on lhe psychobiographical origins of theEsrars as a nourning for lhe lo$ of rhe authort friend. Esrienne de La Boetie, Anone theiN ex.epiio$ are Jean Starobirsri. Mohtoiehe.n nouvenenl (Parkr callinard, 1982), rl-l6i Richard L. Regosin, Ir? Mauet ofMr Book: Mottaighe\E*an 6 the Book o! the Se[(Berkeley: University ofCarilornia Press, l9?7), 105-6fl; and AlynP. No on,MontoiEneandthe Intruspective Mind ('the Ha8ue: Mouton, 1975), 25-28.

28. lf one discounts lhe b and . srata wiitten later, only one rierence ro a home appearsbefore I, viii. While I do nor have the space to commenr on rhh pa$age, I can reoaik brieilxlookin8 forward to th€ rcsr oi my analysis, that it is nor withou! sisnifica.ce thar the homeappears in rhe conrqt of an exemplary dearh: "[Captain Bayard] havinc fousht as lons as

he had stlenslh, and feeli.g himsell fainr and slippinc iron his horse, oideied his srewardto lay bim dorn at lhe foot of a tree, bur in such a way that he should die wirh hh laceturned toward the enemyt as he did" ll. iii. l8).

29. This lradition soes back, ol couse, !o the Classical wdte6 Montaicne knew so well,anons whom idlene$ iordr) vas borh an i.leal ro be arrained and a state whose realizationas oite. as not cojncided *ilh a paradoxical exac.rbation or lhe woes ir was slpposed to purto res. Some roucn$o.es amone Roran srites include CalullDs, 50 a.d 51, Horace, Ozl"tll, 16, and Seneca's D? Tra,4uillitdte Anini and De Otio, Cf. J. M. AndrC, rR?.lel.les rrftotirn rohain, Ahhales de ltkiveBite de BNncon, 52 (Patist aelbs Lenres, 1962). OnMonkigne\ relario.ship to the Larin noralns .orion oi o,t!d, see Hugo Frjedrich, Mo,-rats,e, ir. R. Rolini (Parisr Callinard, 1968), 269.

30. The vod.lyp.ta as here employed by Montaisne in rhe sense of foolisbne$ or sorrr?should not be confused wirh ils no.lern F.ench cqnilalent, neanine a lrance or daydleao,On rhe chansine senses ofthis*ord, sec Arnand Tripet, aa /evetje littini.e: Essaisut Routeou(Cenelal Droz, l9?9),7 13; and Robe J, Mooissey, Za ftreriejus.lu'd Rousseau: R<herchessut un topas litdaire (Lexi.8ton, Ky.: French Forun, 1984).

31. Madness as r tind of notion, dorio. as a kind of madness, is this nor what we findcry allized-prccisely ar tbe tine ol the R€naissance in rhe Branrian figure of the Nore,s.rtl or ship of fools? Ci. Michel Foucault, lttstoirp d€ /a Jolie n l'ase clasnque, 2nd ed.(Parisr Gallimard, I972), ll-55.

32. ln aU probabiliry. Montaiene lound rhis piece or information in Plltarch! "Preceptsol Madace," available b him in Anyoas Fnnch rranslation, The relevant pan of the rexlis as follows: "No wodan has ever produced a child all alone and wnnour the company oiman, bur there have

'odeed been wooen who ploduce nases lackins tbe form of a.easonable

searue ldes onas sans Jome de oeat re rcisonnablel, and ftsenbling a lunp of flesh [pie.ede .hditl:' O r@ notales de P/,rarq!e, ti Jacques Amyor, ed. E. Clavier (Pa.n: Cussac,1802). xv 30.

13. virley, Zer sorE4 et l4wfutio, des Essais de Montohne, On rhe 'theiapeutic"underpinnings oi Montaisne's ihon8ht, see Philip P Hallie. 7ne Scat oJ Montaisne: An Essa!in Pdtunal Philosoph! \Middlerown, co.n.: wesleyan University Pres, 1966).

14.WhiletheEnglishpunon"pen"and"penn"nunjustifiableonrhelev€lofMoniaianesFrcnch text,l naintain its usenee b€cause ol its explanarory power to desisnate in shorthand,as ir were, lhc phauooatically sanctioned analogy manilesrly operative in "Of ldlene$

t42 NOTES TO PA(iF,S I3.2' NOTES TO PAGES 23 29

bedveen{riline as phallic acrilily and nisoay.ist tbeori es o r senerarion enabled bv a senderedopposition bet{ee. iorn and malter

15. The pun is warranred by the iact thar do,i,!B,e was a common spellins or do as,€in rhe sixleenlh ce.t!ry, For sone considerarions on how Monbigne Dllys upon the meaninsol his nane, see Ton Conley, Caraparalysis," D? Capr,lo aorapj L*ture de Montaiene,'De trcis commerces,' I &p.tr Cri,rerr 28 (no. I: Spring 1988), 18-26; a.d Franaois Risolo!.''La Perre dD tepentir': Un exemple de remolivalion du sisnifiant dans les tsa/j de Mon-taisne," in Donald Frane and Mary McKinlex eds., Colr/bia Mohtajqne Cor,fertnce Pape6(Lqinglo.. I<x: French Forun, l98l), ll9 14,

36, Cf, l, xxxix, 241; lll, iii, 821. Many critics nale connenred on Monlaisnek use olspatial neraphors. The most ambirious an.l systenalic in lhis regard are Resosin, Ire MaueroJ Mt Book, and Rlody, Lecturcs de MontaiEne. especially 28-54: as well as Rigoloi, LaPp,/p du tepentir,"' and Conley, "De Capsula Totae."

3?. l. his study on herary seltportairute, Mnoi$ d dct : Rhetotique de I auhpoltlait,(Pads, Seuil, 1980), Micnel Bcaujour aques thar sucb a pata<loxical reversal ol personalityinlo impersonahy is a dntinctive lmir of the cenre in que$ion. The very atrempt to rcp.esenlthe self in langlage conse(ales the loss of thal self. as that rcpresenlation can onlt occurthroush recouse to a set ol coded, impeGonal schenara whose foundations Beaujour h ableto locate qlne convincinsly in lhe topics ol ancienl rherodc. Literary sell-portraitud thensrucrures itsell as an encyclopedic dlr.!/sm ot those ropor or conmon rtla.er, that h, as arnnnins throush ol rherorical posibiliries- As opposed to auiobiqraphy (Dnd.rerood as a

narradre structuE recounting lhe $riter\ life chrcnoloeically), self-podrailure would pEsup-pose a tpace,r'or topoloay, oltnesubject in la.suase. FurrhermoE,lhh topoloey is orienredby an eonony which n thal of the [uriteasl body" (334). S.li-ponrailuE dus phrases rherert as a toDosraDhical body,

33. Ddo,ts oJ Desire: Studies it the Fterch Barcque (Co nnbusr Miami Univeisity/OhioSrate University Press Joinr lmprint Series. 1984), 57-58.

19. Loun Marin has also insnted on rhe inposible vision ol the ske./er6 in his readincol "De lexeicitation'l Le lonbeau de Monlaiane." in La wit eontuuhide: Estuis.lendnoire lPatis: Aai|Ge, l98ll, 133-56)- Ci. also Tom conley, "Un test de sryle," Oazyleret Ctitiquesvttt (t-2:943), t95-209i and Timothy Murrax "Translating Monlaiene\ Cryprs:Melancholic Relarions and rhe Sites of Altarbiosraphy," fotrb.oming in Bucknell Review.

40. Jout4al, t01 5. Montaigne\ descdprion, irsell inspired by Joacbim Du Bellay\ ,6A"ti.luitas de Rore l.t'saj, models a lons series of such neditations on the Roman iuins,not rhe least significant ol Nhich is Freud! exlended netaohor of rhe unconscious as rheuninasinable sinulta.eiry of all rhe histoical Romes copr€senr€d in their archirectu.al com-pletion (Si8mund Freud, Ciu/iiation an.l lts Dis..ntents, The Standatl Edition oI the Conplete Psrcholqical Wotks lhsealrer releired to as S.E.l, rr, J. Srlachey ll-on.ton: Hosarth,1955-73) XXr, 69-70).

41. Nakednes as tbe p.ivileged neraphor ol sincerity is also explicirly linked by Montai8nelo hh primililist tendencies righl from lhe openinc "To tbe R€adea': "Had I been placedanons those naiions which are said to lile still in rhe sweet freedon of nature! tusl laws,I asDre you I should lery sladly have poitrayed nyself here enrire and wholly naked," Onlhe theme ol native nudity" in Renaissa.ce tavel literature, see Ceorrroy Arlinson, a€rNou|eout Hotizo$ de lo Renuisan.p Jnncoiy \Patis: Dtoz, l9l5), 62-73, 329 31.

42. As Dedida has arsued, rhe caresory oi experience, despne (or rather b{ause or) irsclaims 10 anainins a concrete empnicism, does nol ioi rhal mauer escape rhe meraphysics olpr€sence: 'iThe nolon ordperience, qen rhere one would like io use it to deslrcy metaphysicsor speculation, continues to be, in on. or anorher point or its runcrio.ins, lundamentallyinscribed wirhin onto theolqy: ai lean by the value of p.€s",c", whose inplication ir can

nryer rcduce by irself. Experi€nce is always the relationship wirh a pknnude, wh€rher it besensory simplicitt oi the infinite presence ol Cod. Even up to Hegel and Hu$erl, one couldsh@, for this very reason, thecomplicityolaceitain sensationalho andolacenain theolosy,The onio{heolqicat idea ofsensibility or qperience, rhe opposnion of passilily and actilily,constitute a profou.d homoseneity, hidden under the dive6ily ol neuphysical sysFnt (O/6rd4drrolosr, 281; Dctrida! emphasn).

43. Cl.PietrcP\cci,The violence oJ Pn| ih Eutipedd Medea (ldaca, N.Y,, and London:Cornell Unive6iry Press, 1980). l-l:, 34-85.

44. On rhe distinclion between penis and phauDs, see Jacques Lacan, "The Signilicationof the Phallus," in E rr$ ,4 Se/edi.,, tr. A. Sbeddan iNev Yotk: Norron, 1977), 281 91.

Useful commentaryon the penis/phallus distincion can be found in Fredric Janeson, "lmag-inary and Symbolic in Lacan: Marxnn, Psychoanalytic Crnicnn and the Problem ol theSubject;' yale Flench Sttdi4 55/56 (197?), 352-53; !^ne A^l|op, Readi4q Lacln \tthra,N.Y.: Cornerl Univesity Press, 1985i, 133 56; Ellie Rasland-Solliwn, Ja.ques Lacan and th.Philosoph] o! PsJchoatubds (Urbana and Chicaso: Unilersily ol lllinois Press, 1986),26?103.

45. rn an inportant chaprer ot his Lecttrcs de Montaisne on "Monlaiene et la norl,"Jules Brcdy has finally demonnrared rhe coherence oi thn €say, tradnionally seen in lsmsol lhe "conlradiclior" bet*een lhe early and the late Montaisne (93 144).

46. Cl. william Shatespea.e, the undiscove4d counfy fron shose bourn no travelerreturns, Ha-lel lll, i, ?9 80,

.17. Sicnnnd Freud, The lhlerpretatior oJ Dteans, 5.E., y, !85-48. Bolh Marin ("Le tombeau de Montaiane," l.1l) and Conley ("Un resi de nyle," 199)

similarly conmenl upon Montaienet overdelemined use ol fie Nord nord, in rhk contert.49- Cf. Alain-Marc Rie!\ i.fisuins hypothesh of Montaicne\ mrel as a cure ror nel

rnchob in hi. "Vonraisne: phJlolosie de la namore.i0. Since I firn wrote tnese lines, bo.h lrma S. Majer ("Montaigne\ Cure, ) and Antoine

Conpasnon (No!s, Michel de Montaiqne lParis: Seuil, 1980]) have made nucn ol theseconneaions between Piere, piere, and pre. For Compacnon, rhey mark the point at whichwhat he calk Monraisnc s "unre$rained noninalism" (1,13) is checked by a realGn whichposns aunilcnal in rhe father's nane: "Now, there is o.e.ame for which Montaigne manasesa sincular lrealdenti a nane vhich is an dception ro his rheory ard which rends 10 begranted a substance r, ?. Thh uhique nanej always thesame, wbich Nould escape the universalinco.sisrency ol the /ar!s rocir of the wind and voice, is nol in futh rhe name of justanylhins nor, moreover, ofjusr a.ybody: n is fie vely naoe of nalter itsell and furlhernore,tho name oilhe father {l",ou dr A!re1, Piere" (}71). Compasnon docunenrs how rhc wordprelB is repeatdly used to Eier to substance or mauer itselfNhile rhe name Pr'e.re is employed,in example airer exanple, as "rhe canonical lorename, th€ forenade ol ioFnanet' (l?l).Thus, at the stony subsfiatlm oi the Esrarr is lound a rock or pt€rz of slabilily upon whichcan be buill an ontolqy ol rhe soed" (184), which na*es oi iathelhood irself a univesal.Thanks to rhn onrology of rhe seed, we aE allowed to "so beyond rhe alrernatile bct$eenlile and death," to "resolle rhe fundamensl stare of disconlinuny and ro i.tesrate ride"(182), Such a conlinuitr is achieved bv the consenalion ol the fader-borh in nis name andin the materiality oi nis body-in the son, a conservation lireralized. as Conpasnon poinrsou1, in fte practice of cannibalisn, which Monlaishe desfibes virh rne urmosr fascinarion.Ir, in the fire1 noment, oothing seens mor horiible to Monraicne 1han eatinc one's father,in a seond noment, this dh8un ir reversed into a revercnrial ddgrrrarrou {hich dakes of1he son\ body'1he most worthy and nonorable sepu h uie. lthe sons]lo4ins within themselvesand, as ir were. wirhin their marow the bodies or their ia1he6 and then .emains. brineinrthen in a say back to lire and reBeneratins theo by transmliarion ihio rheir livins rlcsh by

NOTES TO PACES ,29 ]5 NOTES TO PACES 36-33

nea.s ol dice ion and nourhhment" (ll, xii, 531). Thh incorDoration by lne so. ol thelader conserves the laner ("E generates" hin) in bolh nane and body. Thh incorporationol rhe iarher qune cleany recalls Freud's analysis in Toten ahd Taboo, S.E Xlll, a wo.ktha! surprhingly n nevei nentioned by Compacnon. lt n only a ep frcm this theory of thefathe!! re incarnarion in rhe son to the positinc ofa unile6al law in Essars ll, xxxliiaccordin8to which sons Benble their lathe6.

51, Conpagnon can rhus read Monraignel inabihy ro naintain his rather\ property (hechateau and domain of Montaisne) and his nore serious inabilily to prcduce a male hen as

a kind oi befayal ol rhe lather. On the other hand, Montaisne a$ures his own innortaliryrbrough anolher rind ol pro.Eation, rhat of wririns. lnstead of the .ane ol rhe falher, we

have the name oi rhe aurhor, Michel de Monlaigne, instituted ale. r/t /4.r as "a lornalEality" al once univereal and Da iculd (229 30). Thus the solurion oflered bt lhis {ofd'a,re!.aho, accoiding ro Compasnon, allows Montaisne to superede lhe opposition belw*nEalism and nominalisn,

52. The continuiry postulated bt Codplgnons ontoloBy oi lhe sed" would then requnea ce ain dkcontinuity thal hales il virtually indisrinsnishabl€ from lhe me.eoloeical" ontol-osy ol Montaigne\ adical noninalism.

53. Ci. Ar4,s l, rxei. lTli ll, {vii, 619; lll, ii, 810! lll, ix, S96-9754. Here you have, a bit more decendy, some excrenent ol an aged mind, sometimes

haid, sonetimes loose, and always undicened' (lll, ix, 946).

55. Conpagnon, Norr, 198.

56. Compag.on, ll5 and passin.57. Compacnonk conclusion, 198.

58. Lavie et I'oeuvre de Montai8ne," in Aszys, x!ii. Cf. Mal\ezin, Michel d.Montaighe,

59. The afterellects or rhjs palronynic displacemenr Bmain almost hagiocraphically

insfibed in the reeionalropoeiaphy. Sainr Michel, rhe vjllaEeadjacenr ro rhc Eyquem chaleau,n tnown today by the nane oi ils proudest son: Saint Michel de Montaisne. I find myselfin disaeremenl with Majer's intenrelation f'Montaisne\ Cure") sheEby Monraicne\ ripto Rome would "cure" him ol an unresolved Oedipal rivahy wirh the fdlher lo the e{tenttbat Rode would synboli?e the mothei lt seems to me, howeler, thar Montaienc\ Ocdipalnake-up is considerably moe probledatic. RefeFnces lo his mother in rhe Esrarr arc no

more present afler hn trarels than before, and while some arite( nay have inagined Rome

as naiernal, I see Do evidence rhat Moniaiene did. On rhe conrrary, Monlaig.e\ Rome h an

eminently masculinized one, peopled by bis lavorite Ronan herces, rhe shade or his taiher,

and even as Dororhy Cabe Colemen bas shown (Ire Oal/o-Ronan MUR: Aspe.ts of RonanLitetary Ttaditian in Sixteenth-Century Fnnce lcambridse: Cambridee Unive6ity Pre$,19?91. 156 5?), ihe shosr ol lhe long lost and eve.mourncd La Bo€tic. wlrile Monraisne was

in rivaliywith his farhcr, tlrcrewasalso an inrcnsedesne lor hin. As lorhisnother. Antoineltede Louppes, rhe biosraphcs inlorm us nor only ihar shc ouilived hcr illusrious son bur also

that uDon rhe dearh or Pietre Eyquem in 1568, she became the oificial cxe.uror of hk eilland nanased the household aiians oi rhe Montaigne chiteau unlil abou! 1587, sben she leir

lhe domai. permanenily. Thc rcasons lor this depa ure remain unclear, but strile between

her and Michel seems Do$ible. ln any case, iaiher ihan aoing ro lind de mother in Rofre,it seens nore likely ihat Monraigne left hone precisely ro get away from hk molher and ro

refind his tather in the eternal ciry. On Monraisne\ norher, see Cecile lnsdorf, Mo,/d€,?z,z/ I'.ui,tsr (Chapel Hill: North Carolina Studies in lhe Romance Lansuases and Litera-rures, r9?7), 43 41t Ftame, Montaisne: A Biosraphr, t6 28: Malrezin. Michel de Montaisne:'tdnqtet, La jdne* de Montaiane, ttl s9.

60. Sone roDcbno.es in rbe debare over Mo.laigne\ polirics aR Frieda S. Brcwn, Fe/,ato6and Politi.al Co8ervotisn i" the Ess ts ol MohtaiBne (cenevar Droz, 196r); Friedrich,Montaisne, 195.210, Fencis le nton, MontaiEne par luinane eatis: Seuil, n-d.), 62 ?4iJefirey Meblmann, "La Boeliet Montaisne," O4fotd Littatr Reriev 4lno. l: 1979), 45-6lt Tidothy Rehs, "Montaisne and the Subject or Politr." in Paricia Parkcr and David

Q\tnt, eds., Litdary Theory/Re,arnrar.e I48 (Balrinore: Johns Hopkins Unilersity Pre$,1986). I l5 49r Maniied (itlsch , Recht und Mrcht bei Montdisn : Ein BeitruE .ut EtarchunEd4 Gturdlacen w, Staot lhd Recht (Berlin: Duncker and Hudblot. 197.1); Anna MariaB^rlist^, Alle ofti"i del pensien politico tibe iho: Montaiahe e Crdron (Milan: A. Ciuffrt,1966); Max Eorkheiner, "Monraisne und die Funtlion der Skepsis," ir Kritische Theotie:Eine Doktheatation (Franklnr! S. Fischer, 1968), ll,201-59; Sratobioski, Mottaighe en

61. Ct Tzveran Todorov, "Uerre er liaure," rr. Piede Sainr-Anand, yole French Studies64(1983),11344;and"TheMoralilyofConquest,"tr,JeanneFerguson.Diogeresl25(1984),89-102- Orher .rilics resnuaie lhe r€ductionism Todorov sees by ironizins or orher{he con-plicatinc tbe vay analoay works in Montaisne: Michel de Cerleau, The l/ritins oI Historr,tr Tom Conley (Nes York: Columbia Univesity Prc$, 1988), 209 4liand "Montaisne\'OlCannibars': The Savage'l':'in Het{oloeies: Diyourse oh the Othe, rr, Brian Masumi(Minneapolh: Univesny ol Minnesota Press, 1936),67-?9i c€rard Delaux, "Un cannibaleen haut de cha!$es: Montaigne, la difiCrence er la losique de l'iderlit€," MrN 9? (1982),919-57; Jean Marc alan.hard, "Oi Cannibalism and Autobiography," MIN 93 (19?8), 654-?61Sreven Rendell, "Dialecrical StructurcsandTactics in Montaiqne s Des Cannibales, PrcificCoast Philolos! t21t917), s6-6lt Marcel Bataillon, "Montaisne e! Ies conqD€ranc de I'or,"Stutli Flahcesi (1959),153 67; Frank Lesl ncanr, 'Le Cannibalisme des Cannibales,"' ,rlletir.lelaSociltidesAnisdeMoaloiEne9l0anlll 12 (1982),27 40. 19 38iTon Conley,

"MontaiBne and the New world," Itispani. /s&er 4 i1989), 225 62, For nore seneral con-siderations of the ro, sa,vase myth, sec Hayden White, "The Noble Savagc Thene as Fetich,"in Freddi Chiappelli, ed., F^t IhaE6 of Anerica: The Inpd.t of the Nev Wotkl on theO/d (Berkeleyi Unilesiry ol caliiornia Pre$. 19?6), I, 12l 35 i Michale Duchet, .4 rrn@polaaEet histoite tu siicle des luniires, rov. ed. (Paris: Flammarion, 197?),

62. O.e ol ine nost endearine nomenrs or Michel Buloas Asatr Jr /er E$a6 (Parn:Gallimard, 1968) is no doubl ihe inasinary dialogue he stases beiw*n Monlaicne and hiswife, who wants 1o know whal n is her husband spends all bis tine doins in the seclusionolhhlibrary.OnMontaisne\aditudesrowardwoncn,selnsdott,Montais@an.lFqinis,and Abrahan C. Keller, Monraiane o. women," ih wollg nE Lei^e\ ed,, Ot.e no vellesdtud6 sur l'inace de la lmne dans la litteratu.e Jnncdip du.lix-septiine sid.le (lnbincen:Ounler Narr and Paris: Jean Michel Place, 1984), l3 17,

63, Ersa)r ll, vi, 176.

64. On tbe relation between sieger.ft and ego-conslructio. as elaborated in terms of rhetexluar Drodlction oi cla$ical France, see Joah Delean, Litem! Fottili.ations: Rotseat,ta./oJ, Szde (Princelon: Princebn Universily Prcss, 1984),

65. Rigolol sees lhe ensconcenent ol Monraigne in ihe heishr of hn nam€ and doninionas tbe coddilion ior the very writine ol rhe Esdrr aod the reason lor lhen s€lf-deprecatorymannel "li h becausehe n'perched'up onlopolhis mou.iain'-lilerally and fisurarilelytbar he can...embra.e'a lile thal h los ahd withour lu$er'and learlessly proclain theted;,.z, of bis discouse" ("La P€,re du rcpenrir," 112),

66. Such an Oedipal ambicuily can, ol coDse, be called upon ro explain Moniaigneksynemdic undercuui.g or Sebond (and, for that marer, ol rheological discoume in seneral)i. esay ll, xii, which claims to be an apolo8y" ror hh iather\ ialorir€ tb€olosian. On rheissue ol Montaisne\ relarion ro his rather, the vast currenr of Montaisne criricism has taken

NOTES TO PACE 39 NOTES TO PACES 40-47

Coiinshan, Rober! Sloolhof, and Dusald Mur.locb (Cambridse: Cambridee University prcss,r984),

2. On the libertin€ movenenl in Fr.nch letrrs, see J_ S. Spink, Frch.h Free TheshtFtotu Cossedi to voltaire (London: Arhtone, 1960); and Ren.1 pinta'd, Le tibutihase dt;ditdans la preniale hoitiA d, d*-ypri?r" sD./e (pads: Boivin, l94t). On its literarv mnifi-!,rion..,ee loan Delean.l/,e inp Srotqie\: Ftpp.tod aar! the \opt n sewhAenti-centua'aa. p rcolumbus Ohio Srare I nnelny Pres, 198r,.

3- Savidi€n d€ Cyrano de Beryetet LAtne Mon te, ou tes esto,s et enpiw de ta lureia Oeuvrcs conplat5, ed. teq\es Pr€vot (paris, Belin, l9?7), 359, ny enphasn. Cf, Oe.a.dCenerte, "funilers r€vesible:' in F,s!rer / ipais: Selil, 1966), t8 20. The progressivelamilia.izarion of a putatively other world h also srrikidsly denonstraterl by Desca es in hisThe World as well

^s Patt Fiye ol the Discoure on Method. "rhere, fie accumularine Neatth

of detail add ever-s@rer particularity of descriplion i.elitably disclose thn ..ticrion,, of apuEly deductive physics iand physiology, in tne ensuins Treotise oa Mdn) as t systenaic*plication of rre wond in which we live. Similarly, rhe Orients ro be founrl in vohane! talesor Montesquie!\ P".sta, Ie0e6 do not succeed in beins anythina norc rhan. as Rola.dBarthes puh ir, 'tome kinds of enpry boxes, nobile silns wnh no conrent of then osn.dee?e /fl05olhuncn \. shrch one qu( v r.e. ro,igniI one,etr,. ( on. tude. Bar rhe., ..rnFn rhe paradox olrhe Voltanian votaee: ro naniiesr ad innobitiry" (,.Le rlernier des erivainsheueur," in tsaiJ crriq,6 [Pa!is: Seuil, 1964], 98-99)

4. O. the nodon oi neutralizario. in utopic discouse, see Ldis Maon, Utapiq,6: Jeuxd'e€ae (Paris: Minnit, l97l). Aho see Fredric Janeson, ..Ot Islands and Trench.s: Neutlaliarion and the P.oducrion of Uropiad Discourse,', Dia.r/,,.s ? (no. 2: Summer t9?7), 221, Other inponanr recent wor* on tb€ question oi utopias can be founrl in ciues Lapouee,Utapie et citilisation (Paris: Flammarion, t978)j Alexandre Cioranescu, a,zwrr d, parsaUtopi. et liilraturc \Patist caltinard, t9?2); Raynond Tro\ssoa, VaNCes au pars d; nukpott: Histoire littdnhe de la pe6@ rtopique (F'issets. publicatiohs de la Facujrd de phj-losopbie et Lerrres, l9?5); Mau.ic. de Candillac and Catherine pircn, eds., Le discousutopique (Pads: u,A.E. l0/t8, l9?8); Pierie Fuier and Carard Raulet, eds., Srdrlsr.es del'utopie lPatn: Calile, l9?9); witheln Vosskanp, ed,, Utopieioschuns: rntetdjzilinareStudia .v aer.enli.hen Utopie (Sruugari: J. B. Melzler, 1982)i pelei Ruppert, Rp;der da Sttunae Lmd: The Activnt ol Readinc Lnent! Urdl,r (Atbens: Unilereily of Ceoreia

5- An exeoplary Eadins thar brings oul the fisu.al underpinninss id a key rert oi tbeB.itish iradition, John Locke\ E$a]] o, A,uoa Undqstandinp, can be found in paul deMqn, _ r 4e r p,.remolosy or Meta]\o-: ..h at tnqun).,.o i Adunn t9-8J, It_10 t ola wide rangins discu$ion ol rhe ways in wnich a parlicutar metaphor (lhe oculai) has informedlhe hislory olnodern philosophy in Creat Brnain as well as on tne Codtinenr, see especiauyRichard Rorty, Prilosoprl and rhe Mnrct oJ Naturc (p:nncetonr pridceton Universitv pre$.

6. To be precise, exactly one instance of Montaigne\ .ame occurs in rhe entne Caftesiancoryus: in a letter ro Ne*castte (Novenber 23, t6.16), Descarles mentions Montaisnet nameamona rhose of philosophere who axribure ftousht and nhderstandins 1o aninals, a viewoften lamhasred by Descartes in his idfanous rheory of animals as mere ..automatons.,, Onthe dhcreer bur decisive iniluence ot Montaisne on Descartes, see, anonc otbers, LeonBrumchvicg, D.sarer er P6el, teckuE de Montai,ne (Neuchalel: La BaconniiE,rg45);Richard H, Popki., Ire t/,rol.), of Skept;.kn.ltun Ehshus to Stiroza (Berkeley: Univerityol Calilomia Pre$, l9?9), r72 213; Atan M. Boae, The Fo ures af Montoisn : A Histo;)o! the Esqs k Frurce,480-1669 (London: Metbuen,t93t. 209 j?i Benjani; woodbride;.'''the DiiouB de la nethode aod the Spnn of rhe Renaissance:, Rononic Rerie|| 25 (\s3.1),

at face value Montaigne\ desc.iprion ol him as 'lhe bes iarher iheE ever was," A rew ecentc.nics, ho*e!er, bale begnn to analyze the posibilities oi O€dip.l dval.y: Fr€de.ic Rider,fhe Dialectic oJ Se[hood in Mo,tats,? stanford: Slaniod Uniledly Pft$, 1973); AntoineComlasnon, No!s, Mt lel de Mortorsre, Mirchell CEnbers, "Monlaisne at rhe CrossroadsiTexrlal Connndruns in the E{sais, ' tn Detou* oJ Desire. 4r-59, and "L 6cho de Monraisne,"Oeueres et CtitiquesA6os. r-2: r98l), llJ-25; Denn goliet, "Le siaee," Oava et Cdiqtes8(nos.l-2:1983),45 58i and Francois Risolor, Monraig.et Purloined Letlets," vale Ftr.,9rdt6 64 O983), 145-66. While rhese cirics tend to insht. quile isbtly, on Monraigne\slruduied inadequacr vis-;L-vn his real iather as *ell as his synbolic or literary lalhere(Sociates, Plurarch, the Larin doralisls), this is to iorget lhe obviols, the nistorical lriumphof Monraisne oler his fatne(t. In tbe leminolosy advanced by Harold Bloom (ar? 'l,rielyol Iifluence lo\fotd: Oxfot.l Universn! Pre$,19?31), Montaiene h a ttrons" wriler, easily

able ro overcooe his various Dredecessos, Aiter all, nearly all we know of Piere Eyquencones frod shat hh son, Micnel de Mo.taigne, says abonl bin.

2. Cartesirn Coordin.tes

l. Les Nouveaux Hon.ons de Ia Renakerce Jnh|aik lPatis: Droz, 1935), 254-61, 402-5. a parlicular favodte for ridicule, in rhis regard, was Augustine\ contention thai lile inthe antirodes was impossible: Amons Chrntians, those who deny thal the eaith is rolnd,believe ii impossible and aeainst nalure to be able 10 Nalk Nitb one\ head belo* and onetleer above: even Ladantius and Saint Ausustine believ€ this because, anons other rcaso.s,rh€y iound no mention ol ir in Scriprure.... N€vertheless, ev€n though the Nord olCod does

nol clarify this for us, il does nor follow that rhe Anripodes do not exist- For, as it is inpiousto sek rhe a icles of one\ faith ehshere, so ir is aho a sreal superstnion ro believe andto considr lrue only what n expr$ed in lhe Sfipturet' (Henri Lancelot Dn Voisin de LaPopeli^iare. Les tais nondes lParis, 15321; cited in Atkinson,259-60). In a 1588 additionto the Apoloer lot Ralnont S?rdd, Mohtaisne lolloNs sun: ft rould hat ben Pyrrhonizins, a rhousand yean aao,lo casl in doubt the sci€nce olcosmosraphx and lhe opinionsthar were accepred about n by one and all; il sas heresy lo adoil rhe exisre.ce ol the Antipodes.Behold in our century an inli.ire extent oi reira inma. ... which has just been discorered"

Itssa)s ll, rii, 571 ?21, Should we be surprised, then, ir thh sane .ritical ropos resurfaces

in Desartess oien hanshty respo.scs to obj{rions mad€ asainst himl "One should believeasi.slepeson wbosays, with no intention oflying, rhat he has sen or understood somelhingnor rhan one ought to believe a rhousand othe^ who deny tbis only because rhey have nolbeen able lo see or undestand ilr jus! as in the discovery ol the aniipodes we bave believed

the reports of a iew sailoG who have cncumnavisared tne slobe ratber than lhousands orpbilosophers rho Elused to believe thar rbe earlh was round" (Ren€ Descanes. Lexre AL

M. Cle*elier, Januaty r 2, 1646, in Oeuetes de Descanes, ed. Charles Adan and Paul Tannernev. ed,, IParisr vrin, l9?l 821, lX l, 210). Cf, 'R€ponses aux Sixiames Objections," lX l.221,229, vt[.124,126, All stbsequ€nr relercnces b Descartes Nill be to rhh edilion and willbe narked direcrly in the terl only by page nunber and, where necessary, by rhe rnb andtbe volume number or lhe work ci&d. Since I will reiei ro fie Latin only as nsessary iortbe sake of enphasis or to underscore significant depaitures irom the French, refercnces tolhe Laln r€xr will he indicated Nith lolDme a.d pase numbes in boldface. For the sanereason, and bsause the leadins EnslGh lra.slations inelnably rely on a mix ol tbe Fr€nch

and Latin versions, all Enelish rranslations of Descaites (whetber from French or frcm Latin)are my ov.. I have, how.ver, careiully consuhed rhe lollowina tanslarions: D6.a.resr P,r,i/

osophnal WtuinC' i, and ed, Elizabeth Ansconbe and Peter Thooas Geach, E!. ed. (Indi-anapoh: Bobb$Merrill, r91t). The Philoephical wntinEs oJ D*a es,2 !oh., tr. John

'i

I

148 NOTES TO PAGES 4I-45 NOTES TO PACES '6-4R

136..421 Gilbed Oadoflre, "Le Dirouts .te ta nAhode et t histone Iirtdraire," Frer., Srrdtes2 (19.18), 301 14 iAlerandie Koyt4, Ehtrelids sur Defatt* (New York and Paris: Brenrano,

1944)i Francois Para, Descartes et Montaigne, autobiosraphes;' Etu.les lntunires t1 ltgAq,381 94; PhiliDpe Desan, Nahsance.le ld t athod? (Parh: Nizet, 1987), espcially ll5-s9.Finallx much on rhe rel.rion betteen Descane! and Monraig.e can be lound in Erienne

Oihon's ertensive comnenranes in his edilion ol the Dis.ours de la ndthode lPat\s: vtin,

7. Nalhan Edeldan. "The Mixed Metaphor in Desca es," Rodaric ,gevret 4l (1950),

61 1At tpr. io The Ele o! the Beholder: Esats in Frcnch l,t"rarr.., ed. Jules Brody (Ballinorer Johns Hopki.s University Press, 1974), 107-20. While Edelnan is not lhe lirn to

- have noticed Descanes's nelaphorical pEierences, he is, at leas! as iar as ! can tell, the firs!to have argled lor rhc decisile influence oi such elemenls in DescaneJs syle on lhe derel

opne.t ofhisrhousht. Aho see, on this sahelopic, Th, Spoeiii, "La punsance maaphoriquede Descarles, in M. Cuerouh and H. Couhier, eds., Des.ai4 (Patis: Minuit lcahiers de

Royaunonl, Philosophie No. 21, 195?), 273 87; C. Nador. MClaphores de chemins d de

rabyiinrhes chez Descanes," Rewe Philosophique.Je lo Fnn.e et de IdtlahCet t52 (t962J,

37-5rl and Pierre'Alain Cahne. Lh outre Desca ?s: Le philosophe.t s.n lotE$e \P^tis:vrin, 1980), espcially 166 71. Olher, noreiecenr works stressing lhe inportance or Desca es\use of langlage that have subsranrilely inlorned my Eading ol Descattes include: Jean'Luc

Na.cy, Eao rr, (Paris: Flamoarion, 1979)i Mi.nel Foucauh,,rtdrone de lo folie n !'43.c/asri4,a znd ed. (Paris: Callinard, l9?2),56 53,581-601i Jacques Derrida, "Coeiro and

rhe Hislory oi Madness," in Witins and Dilletehce, rr, Alan Bass (Chicaco: Universily ofChic.so, l9?8), ll 6li Jea. Frangois Bordron, La fonction slructurante,'i in S/.u.?!resilinentai6 de lo signi,ficatioh, ed. F. Nel (Brussels: Editions Complexe, 19?6), l10-42. Aloncsimilar lines, also see Sylvie Ronanowski, ZLl&slon.rez D?s.a es: Lo structurc.t, .livo Bcadisien lP^tis: Klincksieck, 19?4)t Timorhy.J, Rehs, "Cartesian Dncourse and Cla$icalldeolosy," Dla.rlio 6 (no. 4r winlet 1976), 19-27; a.d The 'Concevon' Moli I in Desca es,"

in L Van Baelen and D. L, Rubin, eds., Lo cohireh.e intitieur: Etad6 sut to littlnturclroncaise du XVll.siacle pftsent'es en hohinose a Judd D. Hubplr (Paris: .,ean Michel Plac.,l9?r),201-22;JohnLyons,'TbeCartesianReaderandtheMelhodicSubjecl,"Esp,rC.dar4l:r lno.2: Summer l98l). l? 47r and "Subiectivity and lmilation in rhe Disouts de ldnAhode," Neophilolosus 66lno. 4: ocrober 1982), 508-24; Jcan-Joseph cour, "Descadesei la pe6pective," tsptr Cri,re"r 25 (no, l: Spring 1985), l0-20i Dalia Judovitz, Srrie./ivtyond Reptesentdion: The Otisins oJ Modem Thousht in Devortes lc^mbridse: Cambridge

U.ilcreiiy Pre$, 198?).

8, Medilationson Fi6t Phitosopht lX \la 19. Ct. La recherche d? /a vlrld (The Search

ior Trurh), x,512: Such seneral doubts uould lead us straight into the isnorance olSofatesor rhe uncerlainry or the Pyrrhonist. Tbese are deep walers, wh€re it seens io me rhat one

nay lose on€\ iooting."9. Cl. The Search Ju Ttuth, X, 515: lor iron lhis unirersat donhr, just as if !tutn o

Ji*d otu innoeobte point l|eluli d Jixo innobilique pun rol, I shall deriv€ the knowledge

of Cod. ot vou vouroelf. and ol all rhe dinas in the Norld.",0. AccordinsroMa ialcueroujt, this dilenma poin$ to a sysre@tic opposition lhrcush-

out Descartes\ opus berw*nrhe peGuasiveand rheconvincing: "The liNn a deep agreemenl

and close acquiesc€nce, eirher with sensations o. habits, orNilh the fundam€nral .equnenentsof our nindr lhe second h an external con$rainr iD Nhich will, far from beins seduced, sees

ns conseni torn lrom n by the torce ol reasons, \Jr'hen conviction encounrer a persuasion

opposed io it, ir can be broughl to move asain nself *ith dittic\ny" (Desca es Phit6oph!Inte.preted o.cordins to the Oder o/R?arorr, ri Roser Ariew e1al. lMi.neapolis: unilersilv

of Minnesota Prcss, 19341 l, 299n), Cr. Henri Couhi€r's renarks on rhe diflerence berw€eh8ensio

^nd pe,tuasio (Ld pensee hetaphlsique de Deya eJ lParis: vrin. 19671, 9t-95rf).

ll. Cl- Gu€roult, Dar.o.ler' PrlTosopr).. "Tbe analysis of th. pi*e ol wax has appeared.s a d*isile and brillianl verificadon of the conclusions imposed by the o.der ol reasons '(t, r21).

12, Cf, Nancy! clain in Eso s/u 1nat the subject! conlinued qisrence is co.linsenl uDonhis co,rtled enn.ciario. of rhe .rsro. Th€ a.sumenl is based on rhe lollowjns line fronrhe Second Medilarion: "Thn prcposirion: / /ft, 1 sdr, is n{essarily u!e, every rine rhatI pro.ouce it, or thar I conceile it in ny nind' (lX I, t9). Tne &nporal problem ol thecost,t conlinuity or disconrnuity is. ofcourse, oDe offte tradnional aeas of debate anonsEade( ol Des@rtes. As his own lirsr r€ader, Descartes was himself awarc ol the problen:"lt micht ju$ nappen that if I ceased to think, I would at tne sane rime cease to be or toexisa' (lX l, 418). Early and eloquenl refonularions of this dil€nna are fou.d in DdvidH\mes Tteatie of Hunan Na,z.e, ed, L. A. Selby,Bigge (Oxtortl: Cla.en.lon, 1888) andKanrs Clniqte oJ Pure Re6or, ed. and t. N. (, Sbilh (New Yort: 51. Marlin\, 1929),341-44. In the sake of Jeko Hiotikka\ inne.sely infhendal .n<l fi€rcely co.lested article,''CoEno, EtEo

'un: Inierence or Pellormancel" lPhitosophiet Rei.w 1t 11962l, t 23),

cu.Ent debates on rhh issue have rended ro quesdon rhe tnndanental Carresian dictum interns ol perfoibadve utlerance, tn a sinil.. bnl more rigorously sediolic vein, Bodsn (..Lafonction stiuclurante") has analyrcd lhe .ogto in terns ol a slippase bersen Cror.r'ar,o,ind i,o,.d. Eve. moie rcentlx Jean,F.ancon Lyorard has arcu€d the nee$ity ol th€ subject,sproper nade to p.ovide a solution of conrinuiry betwee. the not nfteserily identical p.odounsol I think and I an (fhe DifJqen.l: Phtues in Dispute lMinneapolis: Univedily ol Minnesota

13. Ou formulalon oi an erq araa s,u turhs out to be not too tar kom 6e anbulo,e.8o rrd, whose validily Descanes denies in bn esponses to Pierre Cassendi\ daleriatisroblecdons 10 the.osro, naneln thal any oi ode! acrions, wherher inrelletual or corporeat,n sufficient to prole one's ex istence ( " Fifth O bjecri ons," VU, 259-61). P.ediclablx Descart€s'srbuttal is rbat a proposnion svn

^s I |'alk, the.eJore t od is only certain insofar as / rrt,t

rhat I am walking, since I could irosine myself walking de. donsh I nay be only dreamins,As a resuh, aU thar can be infered is the qisrence oftbe mind thal rbi.ks itselfto be waltinsand not rhat of rhc body thar is in notion (Vit, 152). Descarres's rcsponse rhus aheady calhinro action lhe ni.d/body splir not qplicitly daeloped unril rhe Sixth Mediration ro wardoil cassendi s objecrion as a naive enpiicism- Such a Fjoinder could no! so easily dispos.ol the fisurarively in.lecidable e./o, €rao slu ro the exte.i thal lne idt or ero. necessarilypEcedes any dnri.dion betwee. mind add body. The very confusion of the catesories couldonly rejnforce the proposniont validity.

14. The Dledurcs of the iahous Cartesian po€le were aneady res&d by Montaisne duringhh trip thrcugb soutbem Cermany on his $ay b Inly. His secrelary rores Monrais.etreactions: 'Monsieur d€ Montaisne, who slcpr in a rcom wnn

^ ise tn it ldans un poite).

prahed it hiehly for feeli.s aU nighr a pleasa.t and noderare warntb of aji Ar lea$ youdonl burn your iace or yoDr boots, and you are frc froo lhe smote you set i. France"(Joumol, U,, LaI{,6 rhe Esrr, Montaigne compares the rladve merits ol FEncn chimneyand Cernan poe&i "A Oe.man pleased me al Augsburs by arackins the disadvanlases ofou tueplaces l,orloryeal by the sane a.sune.r we odina.ill use 1o condemn rheir stoves

lporlerl. For in lrulh, that illins heat, and the smell or rhar naterial they are made of whenn sets hot, gives most ol those who .re nol used ro theo a headahe; not me. Bur airer all.since rhn neal is €ven, conslant and gen€ral, snhour flane, snoke, or th€ wind thar rheopenins ofour chioneys bdnss us, n has what n bkes i. orher rcsp€cts lor conparhon *ithouri' (lll, xiii, 1030). In line, horaer, witb nis predictable Ladn afrinilies, both modes or

150 NOTES TO PAOES 49 5I NoTES TO PAGES J2-55 l5l

neatins aE considered sDbservient to a highly ove.detemined rhnd: 'Why do.t w€ inirateRona. archnedure? For they say lhat in ancient rines rhe lire was made only outside deirhouses, and ar the toot of themi Nhehce rhe heat was brcarhed into tbe entire dwellinc bypipes, contrived in rbe rhicknes ol the waUs thal surrounded the rooms thal were io be

warned. This I have sen cleady indicaled, I donl know whee, in Seneca" (ibid.). As fort be horse, ir dranalically rcap pea rs in one of Descar test most notable successors, Ci a nb at thravico, who resorts to n precisely for the pliposes ol dilierentiarins himself fion Descartes:

"we shall nor here feisn vbat Rena Descanes crafiily leigned as lo lhe nelhod ol his studies

simDly in oder to exalt his ow. philosophy and narhenatics and degrade al1fic other studi€s

includ€d in divine and hunan erudition. Rather, with the candor proper to a historiad, *e- shall m.rale plainly and step by si.p rhe enlire se.ies olvicissitud€s. in order lhal the proper

and naluial causes of his lvico'sl pa.dculd developnent as a nan of letles be tno{n Jusr

as a hisb-spirir€d horse, lone and well rained in war and long afleNards let out to pasture

at will in rhe fi€lds, if he happens to hear rh€ sound of a trumpet feh again rne martialapperire rise in him and is eager to be oolnled by rhe cavakyman and led inlo banler so

Vico, rhousb be bad wandered lrom rh€ raisht course of a well disciplined early youth tassoon spurrcd by hh senius ro take up again fte abandoned pafi, and set off again on his*^y" {rhe Autabiosruph! of Aiatubsuisn vico, $, Ms Harold Fnch and Thodas CoddardBergin lhhaca, N.Y.: Cornell unilemity Pres, 194,1]. ll3 l4), vico\ ievision ol Descartes\

autobiosraphical rbetoric has beencdtically er.minedby Juliana Schiesari in an as ye! unpub_

lished paper, "Hnirory: vico\ Aulobiosiaphy in the Thnd P€ron," read rhe Modern

Languase A$ociation conle.iion in December 1988.

15. Whib n is sorth norine thar Descanes nkes thn metaphor fion medieval theolocical

auesory vhere it h iampanr (cf. Nador, MCraphoEs de chemins,'19-41), it n rhe p€culiarnyoi his discouse 10 link the allesoical ioagery or moialiry with rhe basis ol "scieDtiiic"inquny- The intelligenr dechion would seem to be lor Desca.les iddislinguishable lron the

noraUy corEct one, a slippage queried by no.e oder than the Jansenist Anrcine Amauld inthc "Fourth Objeciio.t'(tx-I, 167-68). ln Kandan leros, there would be.o dislincdon inDescades belween pure and practical leason. But il lhe road 10 God and tbe road to trurharc fte sahe road, and if the destinaiion is 10 be eached tbrcugb a nolal ralio.alily or a

ralional morahn rhen one can alEady see the possibility as w€ll as thenecessily lor Descartestprovins Cod! *isteoce by rational proof alo.e.

16. Tne dark *ood of erof is, of couise, a lonsstandins lil€rary ropdr celebtatedqanples of whicb can be fouod in lhe openins canros ol Danret ,rur€.ro and Spenser3 Fael,.q!e"re. A nod{n, paodh velslon of it cah be found in Samuel Bckelt's Mol1or, tr PatickBoNles(NewYorr: GrolePress, 1955), in which rhe he.o Ejecls Descanes s advice of iollosinga srraisbt line and seeks inslead ro cra*l oul ol the wood wnhin which he is enlrapped by

movins in an eveFwide.ing spiral ( I l5 24). Despi& tne efiorb of Ruby Cobn (sanre1 a€.kellrthe Conic Aantt INN Wtnswick. N.J.r Rliaers unive.sily Prcs, 19621, 10-16) and Hughy& ner (Santel Bdkeo: A Ctitial Studr lNew York: Orove Press, 19611, espcially the

chapter on "The Carlesian Centaur," ll7 l2), nol much seems to have been done i. ternsol Bctett as a fnical reader ol Descartes. Nor only is Ca.lesianisn a pershrehi sublexl ofhis noveh and plays, but his first published wor*, "whorcscope' (Pa.n: Hours Pre$, I9l0),was a piize Ninnins poen about Descanes, and ne did exlensive rcsearch on Desca.les forhh ma$er's desree while servinc as a visirins l*tuEr at the Ecole Normale Sup€rieure in

17. Cf. Nancx teo s,n, 104 15.

18, D6.oure, vl,6,19. The hhlorical veracily of Descartis accoun! oi nis ovn philosophical developmenl

has drawn serious eservarions lrom rve.li€th-cenlury dirics. Ferdinand Alquie, in Danicular,

has insisted on a slow, lil€lons proce$ of oaruration in De$aies's philosophy. He conse-quendt !€iuses 10 Ead any inklings ol the laler No.ks in the earlier o.es, 10 th€ point orclaimins fiar ine .oEiro of ihe DtscorBe n nor yer the 'lrue .oat , ' whose prcp€r rormulationmust await ft€ pubricario. ol the Me.titations \La dicouvette nataphlsique de l'honne chezDes.arr"r re!. ed, IParis: PUR 19661, ll3il). othefs, such as Ceorses Poulet ("Le sonse de

Des.^ttes:' in Etuds sut le renps huhain IP^t\s: Plon, 19491, I, 6l-92); Bertram D. LewinlDreahs and the Uses oJ Rearc$ior lNe* Yo*: l.lernarional Univesit€s Pre$, l9s8l): and,to a lesser exl€nr, CEsor Sebba lThe Drcah o.f D.scanes lcarbondale and Edwardsville:Sourhein Illinois Universily Press, 19871), see rhe entnety ol Descaies's pbilosophical projdinscribed in the early reieiences to the dEan- Needless to say, betw€en the two exrenes,innumerable lariations and posnions *nt. For sohe ove.vie*s ol th. crnical rerraln, seeGeneliive Rodis-Lesis, Z'o?lvte .le Dd.ades (P^ri! \tin, l9?l), 45-59, 448 5,1.

20- While rcf€rences to the dftam occur i. fte Costarior?r P.irara. (X, 216-18), {hareveitert Descanes nay hare wrirten has disappeared- Scholas aie thus obtiged lo tollow fieveBion civen by Adien Bailler i^ \is Vie ./e Monsiet Des-Carr?s {lPais: Hortbenels, l69li.p1. Ceneva: SIalkine, 19701, I, 8l-86), rcprodlced by Adan and Tanhery, Oe0B, X, l?9-88. Baillefs texl can be civen considerable credence, howse., since whal conld be called nisbiqraphical nelhod often consn$ mercly i. the verbatio lifrins of phEses fron DescarteJswrnin8s, including now-lost nanuscriprs ro whicb Bailler had access. ln f.ct, Baillefs biog,raphy could be said, in general. to retran*ribe rhe autobiosraphical passages in Descalresfrcn tu$ to third pe6on. Tqtual Droblens notwithsandins, Descanes! diean nas drawnconsiderable imerprelive auendon. See, i. parricular, Poulel, "Le sonce"; SeblJ^, Drean;Lesin, D€aar, Sigmu.d FFud, Brielan Ma:ioe Le.oy itber ci.em Traum des carresius,"in Cesdnnelte Werke (Londoni lmaso, 1948), xtY 558,60; M^rine Le Roy, Le philosophetu hosqu. (Pais: Rieder, 1929), l. 79-96; Jacques Marilain, ae ro,s€ de DeJ.arteJ (Pads:Cotrea, I932)i Henri Couhier, Les PrcniAres Pe6aes.te D6carr"s (Paft: Vrin, 1958); StephenSchijnbeiser, "A DEam of Descanes: Reflections on rne Unconscious Delerminanrs of rheSc\e ces:' hte atiohol Jou.not ol Psr.holost 20 \lanEty 1939), 45-5?; lago Calston, De$cartes and Modern Psycbiarric Thouehr." /sd 35 (Sprins 1944), I 18 28; J. O. Wisdom, ,,ThreDreams of Descartes," ,Lrel,ationat Jounal o! PsrchodnarrB 23 (194?), ll8 28i L, Feuer,

"Tbe DEam of Descarres," ,,lnqi.ah hoso 20 lr9s9), a-26: Ben-Ami Scharhein, ,.De!caneis Dreams," Philosophicol Forun I (1963-69),293 317; Rob€rta Recht, The Foun-dations of an Admnable Science': Desanes! Drcams of l0 November 1619. IJ!@r,/ks irJoci.rr 4 (nos, 2 3, Sprins Summer l98l), 203-19; Jacques Barchilon, "Les sonses de D€$cartes du l0 novembre 1619, er leur inrercretarion, Papels on French Serententh-C.nlut!Litercture t\ lno.20: 1934), 99.-rl3; J&k Rochiord Vrcom n, Rend Desca es: A Biosnphr(New York: Putnam, l9?0), 45-67t Marie-Lou& lon Fnnz, Dd Traun .|es Desca es, inZeiloe Doktnente .les SeeL (Zurich: Rascher, 1952), 49 ll9i Karl Stern, Th. Flisht frcn,/oda, (New York: Fa.rar, Stranss and Gnoux, 1965), ?5 105.

21. Here, I rind nyseli both i. asEedent and at lariance {irh Lucien Coldman's undeFandinc ol Desca es as he who opens uD lhe infinite sp&es inar alaln Pascal (ae D,e!

crcha: Etude su ta ision tnsiqLe dans la Pensaes de Pdscal et dans le hiAne de R@ihe

IParis: CaUinard, 19591, 16-45). while ny rcadi.c cotroboraFs such a discovery of infinnyin Descartes\ Nriring, ir aho naintains rhal a denial oi this iniinny is already or sinuitaneouslyundeNay rlrere. In ras, I would.go so far as to areue that lhe denial of infiniry or .,eror"is a defining ceslure of Ca esia.ism itseli. Even in nis pbysics, rhe imDlicil Doslularion ofthe infiniry of the universe is ledlced to tbe merely ,.indefinne, as Alexan4re Koyra has

sho*n, through the 'identification ol exr€nsion and ma er" lFnn !h? ctosed world to lheInlinite Uniwre lB^ltimarct tohns Hopkins Press, t95?1, to,it), To explain the exisrence oimovemeni Nithi. this voidless wo.ld, Desca es is obliged to rcsort to his inianous theory

152 NOTES TO PACES 5s-58

ol votries ltoutbilons, cl. Le Monde, Xl, tA 2lt Ptihciples oJ Philosoph, lX 2.11-44:VIU-I, 49 62), by which the novement of one objecr nece$aiily displaces anothet, *hich inrum displaces anorher and another, unlil we return lo the oriBinal object set in notion As

such, the hop ola llea would nece$arily be fell around the world. Thn ab sol ule .o snoloe ical

economy of rravel n euaranted, of couree, by Cod, who is lhe tust cause" of lhh notionNnose parhsays desribe perfecr circles a.d Nnose quanrily Enai.s consranl throusholl the

univeN€ (PrD.ipG lX-2, 81 84; VIU-I, 58 62),

22. An ohj€cl of aesthetic contenDtation h "marhemarically suhline" if ils siz n so gteat

thar fie imasinationcan no longer "comprhendi' il as a whole den qhile thal lacuhy persisls

in its atlenpts to apprehe.d" thal objsl thrcugh a pr@e$ ol sequenlial apprcximarionsrnnannel Kanl, Criti4r€ o/JzrlEnent, ft- l. H. Beinard (New York: Hatner Press, l95l),86-99

21, As Descanes slates €h4here, "Cod alone is rhe anlhor of sery movenenl in rne

Notld" (Le Monde, Xl, 46).

24. "Tne idea of infinity as conprhe.dine aU or bein8, conprenends all ol whal is lruein rhines," A. Clerselier (April 23, 1649), v, 155-56. Cl. AlqniC, La de.ouw e, 218 38,

^odRodis-Lewis, Loeurre de Desca es.28611.

25. A lons and imFlicirly pu.itanical l€dilion bas Dlaced the sole source olCarresian eforin rhe faculry ol the will: irom at least Spinoza (Pa.ts 1a".t lI ol Desanes\ Ptinciples olPllilosophy Denonstnted in the Aeodenic Marnea in Colecled works af Spinoza, ed- Edsincurley fPinceton: Princ€ron U.ilersil] Pre$, 19851, 256-60) rhrcugh Rodis Lewh, ,bezvlpde D.scofls, 3ll ll, and Slsan Boido (Irp F/,sht to Objttitiry: Esals on Ca.tesianisnzld C!/trre lAlbany:SUNY Press, 198?1,73-82). Nonetheless, il seeds !o me rhat Descartets

analvsis merely poinrs, in a ssonelrically insDn€d fashion, to a zone ol noninleredion belween

two God-siven, hence pe.f€cl, facuhies: "Since God is not d€ceitful, th€ facllly ol k.osi.stnar H€ gave us cannol fail, ,ot ewn the J@tltr oJ the dll" lPlihciples, tx-2, 4a: fll-t,2ti my enphasis). As a Esult, to follow Alqui€, L d4.o!rerle, "1he Fourlh Meditarion didnot conplerelt dculpate Ood, nor did it lully sround mn\ r6ponsibility" {236). As for hhobj€cdons to the Mldt,tio,r, the ever-rerlcit.a Cassendi ta*es rhe opposite lack: "Thetauh seems ro li€ les wnh tbe f.ee will io( nor judgins cotrectly lhan with lhe understandins

foi not indicarins corecrly" (vll, 311)- Ci also Cotlfied wilhelm Leibniz, "l do not adnilrhar eiios are no.e dependent upon the will than upon rhe ifiell.cr" (ctiti.al ThouEhts on

the Cenetul Pa of the P ciples of Des.o es 11692l, in L. Loenker. ed., Philoephi.dlPapes and Lette5lchi.aEo: Chicaco Unive$ity PE$. 19561, ll, 6l7lf).

26, Amone those ciirics Nho read Descades's*ork as more driven by the need-negativelxas ir weE-to conrain eiior than by the posidve desire ro stou.d t.uth as crtnude, s*especially Ron.noNski. a1l/rr/bn, 159, 186, and passinr and Altnie, La de.ourerte, r'1-31,

and passin.lt h ahovolth norins tnar 1ne najor wo.k of Descartes! mo$ prominenl successor

in F€nce. Malebranche\ a, €chet.he de la ftti6, is fnd^renlally orsaniz€d as a reflectionon $ay. o o\e-cone rh. .h,ef oblacle ro rurh. erro.

2?. Maudce Blanchor. ,.par r!-deA (Parisr callinard, 1973). Se aho Jacqu€s Dedda,"Pas:' etunnd 14 (1976), rrt-2r'.

28, while rhe or'sinal 1619 poAk experience nay have had lilde ro do (ar lea in lhe eves

ol some critiqncs, most.orably thal ofAlqui6) wnh Descarles's subsequent nednalons cadiedout in Holland after 1628. rhepn@lor-i.space ofrhe stw€-healed rcon recure as the narrative

selrins lor borh ths Dkcou6e ^nd

6e Meditotioa, as when Descarles has some toubledoubtins lhat he is "h€re. sndns close to the tue. dtess€d in a housecoaa'(lx-I. 14! vrl,r8), or wh€n he demon mres tbe meltin8 of tbe Nax pi*e by putling i1 near the iire 'eeenwhile I am speakins ld,u /o4rol1" (lX-I, 23; Vlt, 30i cr. Ch^ttes Adam, vi. et odva deD6ca es: Elude histotique, in Oewres d. D.s.arta. ed. Adam and'tbnnery, xll, 130). The

NOTES TO PA6ES 59 60 t53

cozine$ of de hearlh tbus helps consr.ncr an illusion of imoediacy conducive to the r{'speslasive poNei Even hh nole to Holland n jnsdftd by rMt country\ prolilic use or theporle (cf, rhe lerer to Balzac oiMay 5, 163t, analyzed belov). The prilare space or the warnloon could be said, fteEfole, !o supply the Ep.esentalional paranerers for the subjecr as

individuahlic consciousness. In this respecr, Leibn'zt concept ol the monad, which has "nowindoss throncb Nhich anylhing could enler or depait," is b!1 a cooled-do*n lelsjon of tbeCa esian locus ol subjecrivity (The Mohadotost lt1r4l, in Philosophi.at Pap.6, ll, 10444sfi} The proxirotems of Beins in rhe Carlesia. sysl€m is also coeendy dored by Hegel:

"The dena.d vhich rsts at the basis of Desca(esh Easoni.ss rhns n lbat whal is recosnizedas true should be able to oainlain tbe position ol having rhe tbouehl therein d noue wt,ruef...The tbinkins subjct as the simple immediacy of ,eins-at-hmevith ne is the wtysane thing as *hat is called Beins. ... Thouehl, rhe Notiod, rhe spirnlal, the seli-conscious,is shar is ar rom? wnh i6e6 and ns opposir€ n conraioed in whar is qtended, spdial,separaled, not at home wifh itself" (Ceorg Wilbeln Fri€dricn ttese, Lqtures on the Histot!of PhilNopht tt, E. S, Haldane and F.a.ces H. Simson INew Yort. Hunanites Press, 19551,

lll, 226, :29. 244; my enphasis).29. Ci DricorBe Fifrh Parr, vt,16 54i Tl.otise on Man, XI, 123-30. As meisleiially

denonsrated by Erienne Cihon, the tnernodynamic deory of rh€ cirulation dnti.guish€sDescartes borh tom scholasric lias and fron thos€ ol his contemporarx Willian Ha.vey(Etud6 su. le fiI. de la pas@ nidiarale .la6 la Jomation du srstetue co/Esie, lPa(n.vrin, 19301, 5l 100).

10. Cl. Gueronlt, Da.aia' P,tiloropr, l, 30, ?3, 99-100, and passin. The netaphor oln€thodical doubt as the emprying of a containe. is irsell lurther elabomted by Descartes as

lhe overtu.Dinc of a baskelful ol apples 10 separate the good fron fte rotlen ("SeventhObjecrions wnh Notes by tbe Aurhor," VlI, 481, 512). This proc€durc is also exte.siv€lyanalyz€d hy Bordo F,srr lo Objaltvi0 flom a iemini pempetive in te.ms of a purificadonrirual, whose uhimate hisro.ical horib. n $e "nasculidization of thoughf' enacted by rhesev€nEenth centur, discouBe of objeclive scienc€ (16-i? and pa$im).

ll. Once asain, we iind ourselles 1o be lephiasing rhe sist ofCassendi's objecrions, namelythar sinc€ "all ideas come Lon wnhour," the laculty that conceiles lhen, "not beins outsideoi itself, ca.not tansmit ns oN. species into nseli, nor consequendy can n bring forth anynotion of irself" (VIl, 279-80, 292 and passin).

32. In rhe lace of Pare Bolrdin\ objeclions lhat Cartesiar doubr dsks unde.mininc allpossible knowledse, Descartes ar sreat len8th a.d wirh consider.ble hunor inshts upon the,e!r6/t qualily of hn doubl by elaboratin8 rhe oelapbor of dcavatinc onet way do*n lolhe bedrock ( Sevenlh Objetions," VIl, especially 544-6r). On the other hand, it indeedrcnains a. open quesrion as 10 *hether Desca.test inaueural monents of stepticism do ordo nor ove6hadow the touied srability ofhis subsequ€nr, ioundational principles. Cf. Edelman,"Mixed Meraphor, r?4 ?6i Pophin, Histot| oJ Skeptikn, 193-213; and Hen.i LefebvE,Derca.tes (Paris: Hier d Aujourd'bui, 1947).

13. On this sale, see fte letle.s to hh elder b.orher (ADril 3, 1622) and to his rarher (May22, 1622r. Cl. B^illet, lie t, tt6 11, Adan. vie, 63.

14. While @rly biographers, such as Baillet (I, ll, l8) and rhe ooq discrcdned PiercBorcl (vitue Renati Ca esi, Sunni Phitosophi, Co wndium lParis: 16561) and even EliabethH^ld^ e (D.{artes: His LiJ. and rmes llondon; John Murray, 19051, 89 95), blithely sendDescartes throush aU sorts olpoinr on rhe lralian peninsula and nale him qperience variousadventDres in sreat derair, nore scrupulous *hotars (such as Adam, vie, 63-67: ytoonan,Rera D*ca es, 69: H.nti corhie\ Preniats Pensees, 1c.4,-E, Le R,oy, Le phit$ophe, I, t'lt8; and Cuslav. cohen, Ec.tvains rancais e, Holtande ddre Lt peniarc noitia du xvlt!?./e [Paris: Champion, 19201, 412-13) are left Nith pr€cions litde to go on, erce ror the

NOTES TO PACES 6I.6]

fas rhai Descarles did indeed travel ro ltalv in 1622 Perhaps a tavelogue such as Monlaigne\

exisr and has yd to be discolered. ln anv case, Monlaisne\ J,"r,r/ was not ver known in

Descadeis tine and so could have had no iniluence on him save lhroueh the allusions nade

:ls.ln 1644, 164?. and 1648, For derails or tbese trips. see Baillet /i? lt' 215_48 321_

30, 318-50; Adam, /€, 432 75: and Cohen, E ridins ltuncais sl9 85.635-47

16 Discoue, \1.31.17. Which h nor at aU lo inply thar Descaites hinself h unaware ol ihe problemr lr n

nor rhe Dtr.ozrsp nor lhe MedtlurD,s, nor elcn the comedv he wrote lor Chrnrina or Sweden

(see Xl, 66r-62), not his ficlional di^logte. The Seorch lot Ttrth 6!i the Prirciples ofPrlosopr], the mosl purely philosophical ol hn rvorks and a work *ritten in the lradirional

style ot the trealne, which in his 1647 prelace ro the French lranslation he enioins his reader

ro read 'in ns entirery jun as ir n weE a ,oEl (lx-2, ll; mv cmphasis) Cl. the renark

anribured ro Pascal by Anloine Me.jol: "The lateM Pascal caued Cartesianhn the Ronance

of Nattrre, sonelhins tike the storv ol Don Quirote " (PP,sd.t ed L Laflma' t' A J'Krailsh€imer {Harmoodsuorthr PenBUin, 19661, 356)

3. Monlesquieu's Cmnd Tour

I Nornand Doiron. fa de vovaEer: pour une dalinition du ricit de vovage a I ipoque

cl.ssiquc," Po4rqle 73 (Februarv 1938), 83 108

2. tbid,, 85.

3. The iexr oi Montesquieu\ talelosuc vas lirsl publnhed bt Baron Albert de Mon_

tesqien ^s

voyaaes de Mort4422! (Bordeaux: counouilhou, 1394-96)' well over a ceDturv

and a hall aiter the triD took place. Unle$ orherwise noled all subsequeni references to the

sork ot Charles Louis de S(ondal de Monlesquieu will be to the Oeu,res cohpliles e'lited

by Roger Cailbn (Paris: Callinard, 1949 5l), and will be indicated only as necessarv bv titl',volune, aDd pase nunber. wnh some nodificarions, lranslaiions are bv Chfttopher Betts

ror rhe Pe.sta, relters lHarmondsoonh: Pensuin, 1973); and br Thomas Nucenr ior LleSpnr o/ //r? aaws (New Yorkr Hafner, 1949) Al1 olher lranslalions ol terts bv Montesquieu

4. Cf,, lor exanple, Robert Shaclleio., Mont6qaie!: A Ctiti.al Biosraph! loxfotd:Oxiord unirersiry Pre$, 196l), 136, l7l-?4; Piefe BaftiEre' Un cland ptuti,cial: Cha/14

Loris de Secondol, Barcn .le Lo Bride et de Monl"r4l,e! (Bordeaux: Deloas, 1946), l53if;and J. Roben Lo{ Motrr?so,i, (New vort: TNavne, 1968) 24

t, Oo rcpured cbanees in Montesquieus political lhinkine, see Paul Janel, Eirroire de

lo science politique dans vs rcppo s aw. ld no/ale lPatis: Felix Alcan, 1887), 1I 468-77;

Robert Shackleron, La eenese de l'Espti! .l4lois," R.tte d Hisbne l,Gtoite de la France

52 (1952),42s-38j Henri Barckhausen, "lntoduction, t/o!as6 de Montesquieu xii Feqtb'lished in his Mo,i€sq,,?r. Ses idd6 et s4 oeur6 d'aptus t6 papiets de La Btede lP^tis:Hachette, r9o?l); Badreddine (

^ssen, DLodence et obelulistu dans !'oeuvle de Mantesqujd

(ce.eva: Droz, 1960), 15? ??i Robe Deralhe, " Inrodudion, ' De /'erprt des /ort bv Mon_

tesquieu (Paris: Carniei, 1973), iii vii and Sante A viselli and Alexandie L Aoprimoz'

''V;yase fi esprir chez Monicsquieu," USF Lansua'e Q,a e r 25 (no' l_2, Fall wi e(

1986),12 Al$ see ccoGes Benrekasa\ ciliqle ol such a. "evolutiona'v terspecrile in

to iitirique a - nanoire, te politiqre et l'histoti4ue dans lo pens@ des ltrti'rcs \P^tis:Payoi, 1i8t,296-97; and HerBann Hardefs insnlence upon lhe difterences betwoen the

v;raEe ^nd

The Spn o! the LaNs \Le Ptasident des Brcsses et !2 vowse en ltotie au dix'

niine siCae tceoe'a: Slatkine, 19811, ll7-29), On rhe vovaBe as a possible cause otMon&squieu's clinatolosical ideas, se Robed ShacLleion, The Elolution of Mon6quieu!

Theory olClinate, Rev,ptt.mationale.lephilosophierasc.r-4(1955),31739;andMiche-line Fort Haris. 'Le s€jour de Monresqnicu en Italie (aont Ir28 jlillet l?29)i chronolosie

et commenranes, ' S vEC 127 (19?,1), 190 96.

6. Joseph Dedieu, Mo,rerqr,eu: L honne et I oeuerc (Patis: Boilin, l9'r3), 68

?. Jean Starobinski, Monr?squieu pat tui-nane eatis, Se\it, t953), 19

8. Thn dialectical approach is exemplified bt Slarobinski's exlended dhcussioD oi the

conrradictions in Montesquieu3 concept of liberty (ibid., 60 ll3).9. Louis Marin, Erzlpr riu;,/os,qrd (Paris: Klinc*sieclt, l97l), 19 23 and passin.

lO. Dean Mccannell, Th. 'foulist: A New Theory of the l,"ritrd Cldss (New York:Schocken, 19?6). See also Jonathan Cullcr, 'Tne Semiolics of'lottisn;' Aneti.ah tournaloJ Seniotics t, (no. I 2: l98l), 12? 40r and my "Sishts.es: The Tourist as Theoiist"D,a.rti.s l0 (Winter 1980), I 14.

rr. On the history ol rhe arand rou., see William Edward Mead, The Atur.t Tour in the

EiEht@nth Ceitury lBostDn aDd New York: Houghron Miiflin, l9l4)r Paul n Knbx lreAnnd Tott ir haly. t70o |SAO (New York: Vanni. 1952); Anthony Burs€ss and FmnchHaskelt, The ase oJ the Annd 7or. (NN Yorkr Crown, 196?)i and Robefl Shactlelon, "TheCdnd Tour in the EishFenth Cen\uty: Sttdw in EishEenth-Ce tury Celture I (1911). r21-

42, The popnlaily of the srand tour, elen as €arly as the late svenreenth cenlury, was nored

by Fra.Fn Desein€ in his Nolrqu |oyase d ttalie lPatis, 1699): "The cusloo of traveling

is today so connon, esp*ially anonc norlhem peoples, tbat a man wbo has never lelt his

counlry h held wirhout esleed. lt is so true thal voyas€s fo.m one's judsmenl and periect a

oan rhar be is said to be like those planb tbal can only bear sood fruil alter thev have been

12. Or, as Mon&squieu pub it in anolher conrexti "The soDl rhus reoains in a slate ofunceflainty berween whar ir sees and Nhat it knows" (Esrai su. le coiit, tt,1256j edphasn

13. The classic rroblen of perspectivhn in the Pe6t , a.te.r has most rsentlv been

addEssed by Tzveran Todorov, "Refl€xions sur les aPrlrer pe/sanes, Romanic Reriev 14

(1931), 306 15. See aho Kdin Newmark\ response to Todorov, 'Lealins Hone Nirhoul ll,Stdnfold Fte^ch Reykf lt \Spring 198?) u-l2i Snzan.e Pucci, "Orieotalism and Reprcsen_

lations of Fxteriority in Montesquieu\ Lear4 peBa,eJ," The Ejehteenth Centu.!: Theorr

an.l lntetpretation26(19A5),261-T9rand "Lettets Fron the Haren: Veiled FisuEs olWritinein Monr esqu ieu's ,e//rpr p€6,,er," in Elizabeth c. Goldsmith,ed-, wtuinc the Fmale uoice:

Ese:6 oh EDistolaty LiktutuP (Bosron: No heaslem U.ilersilv Press, 1989), ll4 34 The

cla$ic essay on the inbricarion ol sexDalily and power in lhe lexers n AGd vaianian."Eroticism and Polirics in the Ldnes pe$anes," Rohoric Retter 60 (1969), 2l-3l On the

quesrion of perspecile as n pertains more se.erally ro eishleenth cenrurv travel narrative

see Percy Adams, 'P€rception and the Eighreenlh-Centurt Tiateler: The Eieht@hth Century:T heor! and Interyretotioh 26 11985), ll9-5?: and Barbara Matie Stzffotd, l/olage into Sub'sta"e: Ai, Sciene, Naturc, ond the llfusxated Tlarel A.count, 1760-lU0 lcaDbridCe.Mds.: MIT Press, 1984)-

14- In an as yer unpublished paDer d€lileed ar the Modern Lansla8e Associalion con_

vendon in December 198?, Sylvie Romanovskyaho discusscs thn scene and the relalion between

mobiliry and knovledse as pa.l ol a wider sender inbalance in ihe PeBu, Lert?r' See alsoSnzanne Pucci. "Leners iion the Harcm.'

15. Cf, Harris. r" rd;o!. 103.

16. Cl. the October 5, l?28, eport or the French ./u/gC d'drlzs in Milan, Leblond, totbe Ministee d'Aflaires Eraheares: "As thh tour does no1 sem to ne to be very much inacco.d with . nan wno traveh sidDly out of curiosny, I have my suspicions tlral the.e oaybe some ofier reasons for this lrip, which make me believe that il is hr honorable duly to

156 N'/TF,S TO PAGES 63-70

gile you an accounl of it" (cired in Francoise Weil, ..Pronenades dans Rome en l?29 avcMontesquie!:' Te.haique, an, yieace: Retue de I enseianen4r re.rrrqre 12l (Ooober t958),2. OD Montesquieut diplomatic anbirions, see hh lerter lo rhe Abbd d'Oliver ot May lO,1728: "A fN days ago, I wrote to Monsieur rhe Caidinal lFleuryl and to Monsieur deChaulelin lKeeper ol the Sealsl that I sould be nore than happy to be employcd by lhenar loreign cou.ls. and that I had worled hard to make mysell caoable of such nksiont(Otuy6.onplit6 de Montes.lut?r, ed. Andr6 Masson et al. IPE.i: Nasel, 1950 551, tlt,892: aU ensuins references ro dk edition wiu be sisnaled by the nane ..Maso.., iollose<lby rhe lolume and page nunbe.). Cf. Mpr Peaaer I,98?t and Louis Desgraves, Moui?sqzie,(Paris: Maarine, 1986), 173, 180 81.

-l?- Cf. Frances Yares, rre ,,1 tt o.f Me ory {Chicasn: Uniyersiry ot Chicago pFss, 1966)iand Michel Beaujour, Mirol6 d e&E (Paris: Seuil, 1980), 79-168.

18. A ooE nuanced view of China does appear nuch tater (boot XlX, j6:-?t), but, aswe shall s€, i is no doubt because by rhal point, rhe satic cartography oi eolernnentalnatures has had lo confront rbe tenporal prcblen ol hisrory, Cf. Elie Carcasso.ne,..La Chinedtns l'Esptn des lois," Rewe d'hisbne lilCrcire de la Frurce 3t (1924), t9l-205. On fieropd oi rhe itase Chinois,i se Patl Haz d, La c,ise de la conyiekce euopeenre, t68O-?7?J (Parhr Boivin, r9ls) 19-22; Vnsile Pinor, aa Chihe et ta.forndtion de t 4p/n philo-sophiqte er Fnnce (1610-171r,/ (Parn: cuethner, t9l2); and Reni Eriemble, Z,Oierr prilonphique tu Xvul,siicle (Paris: Cenfe de documcntarion universitane, 1957-58). For anaccessible and r€adable compilation ofrhe Jesuit Relations fron China, see lsab€lle and Jean-Louis vissiaF, eds., aplr€J A4liantes et cu euses de Chine pat d6 nbsiohaanes jCsuites,1702 1776 (P^tis: Cani.rFt^nnarion, 1979)- Foi 6ore of Monresquieut reacrions !o tbeselerters, as well as hn friendship wnh lhe Chinese scholar Arcadio Hoanse, see rh€ noresgrouped under rh€ title C@8/apri., in Masson ll, 956-63.

19, Ofieneroneously corsidered the i.ventoroisuch clinatolosical schemas, Monresquieulolrows a tradnion soinB bacl ro anriquity, renovated by Lo'is L. Floy s De ta i.jsitude ouroniti des choes eh l uniw6 (Paris, 1575); Jea. Bodin\ Methodus ad frcilen histotatuncosnitionen (Patis, t512) a d Les six lieres de la Ripublique (Lyon, l5?6)j and John Arbnd,nots Eso! Corceminq the ElJats of An on Hunot Bodj.s \London, ul3), On the inno-vatilene$ ol Montesquieu\ clinatolosicat thinkinc as scr asainsr rhe backcround ot themarerjali$ fnique ol climaF rheories, se BenEkassa, aa Polr/,que t79 256. AIso EtienneFovnol, Bodia pdcuBeur de Mo"tesquieu (Patis: A. Rousseau, 1896); Roberr Shackleron,"The Evolution of Montesqui€u's Theory of Climate',; J@n Ehtad, L id@ de naturc enF.ance da"s la preniare noitii du Xv ! sidcl. lPatis: PUR t956), 691-?36; and AndrdMelquiol, "Montesquieu er la seographi€ poliriqle," Rer,€ ttemotioiate d hisbne poltiqueet consthttionnell ll951l, t27 46.

20. Does not Montesquieu describe hinself wh€n he descibes the pleasures ot rhe noirhernerastrbuntins, traveling, wat, and eine" (The Spnit oJ th?Zawr,4??)? On Montesqnieuteth.ocenfisn, see in panicular Carninella Biondi, .,Montesquieu rezisra?', jrrdi Arr.Ai27(no.8l:1, 1983),4?4 ?7; and Benieka$a, who arsues not only that the sy em is conceived'1o come back ujtimarely to Eu.ope ! bur ahoi siven MonresqDieut positionins of Asiansamona "peopl€s who ae closer to the sourh (EJsai r,/ /.s ca6d qui peu|ent afJeder 16esptits et 16 c/tuctarts, I,6l), rhar the north-sourh opposnion n ihelf rcducible to onebet*een Europe and Asia (aa politique, 2t1).

2l- By combihing the characternrics Montesquieu asiEns ro despotism, we can conctud€thal lhe despotic land is a la.d without difierence, wherher renoorat (no history), spatial (notopoerapht), or social (.o crasset, Cf, Loun Ahhusser, Mo, tesquieu: La potitique et I histohe(Paris: PUF, 1959),32-9?i and Alain C.oyichad, Sracrrrc d! siruit: Lo Jition dt despotisneBiatique dans t'oc.i.tett .lasd!. (Paris: seuil. l9?9). 100-10t.

NO'fES TO PACES 7t tl

22. Civen Montesquieu's alrirudinal penchant. acriric such asvohair. in hiscodn€nlari€son The Spnit oJ the Laws, has no rouble finding coDnrerqamples ol lowland Epublics andnounrainous despotnms as well as poi.iins out larions mista*6 in Montesqlieu's eeograDhrlEssois sut les noeu6, jn Oeuvrer coup./i/"r ed. Loun Moland lParis: Carnier Frercs, 187?-851,Xllr.l79icl. Di.liohaan philosophiqu?, atti.te,'Esptit d.s lois:' XX,6-11 Cohnehhnesut quelques ptin.ipales n6D4 de l'Esprn des lois, XXX. 442-45). and the more soberand incisive Denutt de Tracy is easil! able to arsue againsr rhe reductionhm oi a sysFm thatrhin*s only in terFs or "degrces of latitu<le a.d degrees ol he t' (Connetone st I'Esptitdes lois de Montesqtieu lPatis: Mne. Levi, 18281, 268 69).

2t, ln hn Diclionnane phitosophdz?, vollane criticizes the then-nodish expression andclaims its orisin ro be Cascon {afiicle "Franc ou F.a.q; France, Francoh, Franaah,,Oe&y€sconplat* XlX, 190). Inrerestinsly enough. Momesquieuk home province is cascony.

24. Readers of tbe traveloBue hale ofte. been laken aback by the l€xfs dryness as weuas by the apparenr iopassiviry ol MonEsquieu,s rcactions ro shal he ses. Cf. Jean Ehmd,Montesquieu. qitique .! a (Parn: PUR 1965), 69, t36, Desgtaves. Montsqaiet, m1: andHarn, Le sijo,t 81. 130, 140, 150, 163, 174,

25. ln a line srruck lrom his reuer to Mme. de Ladb€rt of November 9, l?:8, MontesqDieuoifes a social concomitanr fo. his view fron the iowr: ..Here is how I ravel: r a ve in acity: *irhin rhree days, I know everybody there,,(Masson llt, 922, n. b).

26. "Since I have been in llalr, I nave opened my ey€s upoh the arrs, about which Iprviously had no i<lea; it n a. enrtely new cou.try lor me,', writes Mo.resquieu ro Mme.de Lanbefi on December 26, 1728 (Ma$on lll,92?). On rhe prcsressive developmenr ofMontesquieu\ se.sitivity ro arr during his lrip to lraly, see Efta:d, Mont*quieu, .rhiqued'art and Batriire, "Lerpe enc€ italie.ne de Montessnie!:' Riebta di tetetutule tuodene(January March 1952), 15 28.

27. Pierre Barriare, "Monr€sqlieu voyaseur," in.4.rad, Cons.is Montesquieu. ed. LotisDessraves (Bordeauxr Delmas, 1956i, 62. Cl. L'exparience italienne,,, 25.

28. Lencr io Mme. de Lambert, Decenber 26, 1723 (Masson 0t,928).29. Cf. 825-26 and Cailloh\ note, 1615. The mosl rhorough examination orrhech.onology

ol Montesquieu\ lrarl n the one underraken by Hatrk (Z? re/or.). who n driven to concludelhat in counterdistinctjon to the mericulous oider of Edsard Cibbon! rratetosue, ..n musrbe said thar Montesquieu rears dates with nore abandon rhan when ne ser up Rjca andUsber\ ninerary" (?1, 74).

30. Se€ Hatris, 73 ?4, l2l, 189 90.

31. On the impersonality of Monresquieu\ voice in the ravelosue, see Haiiis, ?2, lt9,lt4, 185. On rhe que$ion ol Montesquieu\ Ca.r€sianism (nediated by Malebranche as we.s by Fontenelh), see Battine, Un Etand prcrincial, 1t2-tli E, Bu$, .,Monlesquieu undcaiesjns;' Philosophische Mo,arsrelb a (winte6enestd 1869-70), I t8; Cusrave Lanson,"Linlluencede la philosophie can6sienne sur la lildrature ft.ncaise;' Reyue de natuphjsiquee1.lehonle4lt396l,5l1 50,especially540-46;and.,Ledderminismehhloriqueerl'idealisnesocial dans fEjp,? der /otr" Rewe de naaphlsique a de orzle 2l (19t6), t?? 202; CharlesJ&ques Beyer. "Monresquieu er l'esprn carresien,,'in,1crer du Coryris Montes.ruieu, jS973. On the orh€r side, Ceolges B€nrekassa assens lhat .,no one dares any morc ro see inMontesquieD, as Lanson o.ce did, a Ca esia. djsposiiion, Morlerq!/?, (park: pun 1968),22. Bnl perhaps ir is Monresquieu\ own rc0ecrion on DescE.tes that is the nosr suggestive:"Desartes taushr dose wno came after him to discoler even hh {ro^ lses "/p/6 ,,rn€rl"(Mes Pensees, tt, t54U,

32. Among the panoply of proposed snes are Santa TrinitA-dei-Monri, rhe pincian hiu,ine Capilolin€ hiu, the Janicullm, and the cuDola or Sain! pererk Basiric. (see Ehrard.Mortsqui.u, cftique d'a.t, 1Ot D.s{ayes. Mortesqui , 2A t and Jean Rousset, i.Se pronener

t51

NOTES TO PACES '73-?6NOTES TO PACES 7G79 I59

dans Rome au xvtlf.sii!1e,, in Raymond Trousson, ed.. ThiM et Jieures du siacle daLuni*es: Melantes oJle.ts it Rotahd Mo ier loeneva: Drcz, tgsr)t,243).

_-31, Frangois Maximilien Mjssoo, Nouw rolase d,Itdli.Jait .n ],anree r6as (De H^Et ,

Dia un nalicun. Sjye notud.ntun @etuh, bibtiothecatun, tuueeotuh, &.. Notitia;nnE lares in itinetutio itali.o col/e.ra? (parh, t?02); Etienne de Sitho&rre, vorale de F.ance.d'Espdsne, de Po usal et d halie, du 22 atrit 1729 au 6 Jawiet]7.ro (pa.n. t730): Le parJeanBiprnreLabat.totapc.pnL:paEwetcnttotierpa,r.,tllo);(harte\deBro$e5.rzdr.\lannprc, d ttotie en t-ta et c, /?0 (pan\, r7a9), to.eDh tarcme de I aldrde, /,.r,re r,;Francais e" tlalie (Patis, 1769); Citbed Burnet, ,sone aelds .ontainins ai @.ou ;f ehaiyened n6t reh kabk in Svrc.latl Lal!. Fnnce and Ce.nary (Amsrerd^n, rca:l,lJoseph Addism, Reua*r D S?wrul po/ts oJ hab, &., ih the leB t7\l, t702. t7O3 lLondo;.1705)l Tobias Snouer, Ttwts thtoush Frun e and lat (London, t?66). E.tward cibbon,srralelosue ol 1764 was only recenrly published as Girrors Jow*t t on eqqa n aoil,ed. C- Bon.ad il-ondon: Nelson, t96t). Joha.n wolfsane lon coethet tdr?,i.r? Red;of 1786-88 appeared in vaiious bils and piftes n.rir ils tusr in"g.ur p.tri"u,io,

" S*,,e;.iin 1862. As they becane available, the earlier of rhese rmvelosu* $Ned as guideboo*Jfor

late. travelers, who oien carried rhen in rheir baseage. Se piere Laub.ier, il-es guides devoyages au ddbut du Xvll. sidcle,,, ,SruEC 12 (1965), 269 125; Ludwis Schud, /rar..,/erre,ih 17 und 18. Jahfiuhde (v\enna and Munichi Schroll, t9s9)i Hermann Hadei Ze prdsrdp,rde ,rorses,. and Rolsset, ..Se prcnener dans Rone,,, 219 50. Nsertheles. as Shackl€r.npoinrs o!t, "if one excludes th e speciatized Didtiun ltati.un of Monrfarcon, iModsquieuliJ rte iFr ,r-avel clcounr .ince rhe Jo,,,,/ dp ro,aa, ot Mon,d,Ane ro be srir,en by a| renchnan ol hEnD ctaacnp. tA anaat Biog,aphr gt, empha.i! added,

34. Anong the nosr developed examDles ot rhh ropq G rh€ one underraken bv Frend inciiti.aton oad h, Drroatpat\, s.r XXt.6a -0. the a emor to vkw clt o, R;me,, parin irs "sinuhaneity', and not jnsr as accunutate.r ruins siles Freld ore ot his dost susgestiveanalogies for rhe srrucluE ot rhe unconscious i. its unrepres.nrabilily. Mo.tesquieu\ Romewould har. been an esprially junbted one, sinc€ systematic archeolosical exca;aion ot lheancimt cily did nor besin tor anorher cenrury Gee Harris, Ze #jo,r 152).

35. Tbe text ol the .locunent n reproduced at fie end of .,Of Vanity,,, Elra'),r |lI, ix,999-r00q and the $oy ot irs difficult procurenenr n reconted in rhe Ta@ Jo;ro!, t29_30. Near thc end of his lite, Monlesquieu wrole to an unidenrified addre$ee rha. his ay inRone some lwentyjile yeas earlier renained ..the happiesr dme of ny lit€ and the ;inedudn€ which I hamed ihe dost, February 21, t?54 (Masson rll, 1496).

_, 36. Cf. the lefies ot Norenber 1.1, 1748 (1t44)j November t9, l?48 (1r45)i December 2,

1748 0148, ll50); Drcember 28, l?4s (|50, I5l); lanlary 9, t?49 (1162 63)t January 10,1749 (116r; Janudy ll, t?t9 (ll?5); March 4, t?.19 (1t96 97): April2, 1749 (12t5); April2l,1149 (t221 28Ji Ma, 20, 1749 (l2lt i2); June ?, l?49 (!239 ,t0) (all pase ounbeB Erer to

17. A very sinilar descriplion of Sajnt pciefs is used by Kanl to qplain the notion otthe stblime. Ctitiq@ o! Judcenat, tr. !. H. Bernard {New yo.k: Hatner pre$, tgst),90-9r.

38. Cl. Althusser: .1hat nan lho set oft arone and trnty dhcovere.t the new tands othistoty" (Montesqtieu, t22): ot Ernsr Cassner, who .efe^ to Monresquieu as ,.lhe tun lhinterto srasp and ro expre$ dearly the concept ot,ideal ryDes, in hi6roty,, (The phitosoph! oJt.|':p".1 kt:t!@!hL rr. F (oe n dnd J. peleso\e lp,rnleron. p,inceron LnireF y pre$,lusll, 210'. Al,o,e Rene HLbe,r. td norbnoL devenir hnroriqLe dan. ja phrto.ophF deMonresqjien: Revue de hdtdphtsique et de norate 46 (tgjgt, 581 6tO_

19. In what is i.dnbitady de most ri8orous inquiry inro rb€ p.oblen of Moni.squieu'shistoncisn, Suanne Gearhai! denonsfates 1hal ahhoush the principl€ seems to Ep.es€ntthe rel.Iionship of 4ch governnent ro liorir is vnat permits a eovernm@r to reorcdueitserl, rc exisl in rime, ro have a iisrory {1'he Op.n Bornddtr ol Hbtot and FictionlPrincelon: P.incelon U.iversity Pre$, 19841, 138), borh despotic a.d republican rorms olgdermenr arc shovn to iall ouiside hislory: the foioer as a collapse idto the o€re "cirum-sranrialily" of even$ (14? .49)i rhe la$er as nreoverably silualed in the disrant past" (r50-52). As for Montesqnieu's prelerr€d lorn ol Aolernnenr, rhe nonarch, ns detroin€d bis-toricity aho sirudres it as an inremedia.y lorn, a degeneiate version of republicanhm shichin lum degenerares into despotnn: "ln this way, a concepr ol history tbus lends uhinarelyin Montesquie! to doninate bistodcitx 10 linit or !o subordioate the ditfercnces and fiecootiadictions wirhin nature or lhe origin" (lJ?).

!O. As Cearhart rishrly ohser!6, "The origin h rhe none.r 1nar nakes histo.y inrellisiblerall hisro.y nust be conrinuous virh an orisin il n is to be history and not sone unintellisibleprocess oi randoo chanee. Bul rhousn ir nakes bistory irtellicible, the o.igin aho nakes itredlndant the nere illustrarior ol what was alr@dy iopUcnly pr€senr al the beginning"(Open Boun lary, \5a-59),

4r. On rhn prohlen, see Grosrichardh exceUenl discusio., Stucture du sdruil,39-16.42. Fo. CeoBes Benreka$a, the bistoncd cominsency ol rhe Roman changes in aove.n-

menl, as Monlesquieu describes rhen, carries out. deconstrudion ofthe "Ronan mytb" inpohical rhin*ing: "Hedcelorth theE is no lonser any Daradigmatic and sinplilyins olisin,blt only nultiple iracruEs oi history oll oi which arc bor. difiicuh qDeslions.... Rome, rheobject ol a 'work of nournins.' also en$s as a mauer in histoty; The Spitit oJ the Lows,Rome\ tonb' (tz porr4za 120-?lft.). As for the celebmred impo.lance oi the Brnishconstitulion.l model wirhin the framesork of Tre sptl, o/ rre dgr, BenEka$a also convincidgly demonsfates Mo.tesquieu's conprehension ol the Enslhh sirlario. wirh a IarserLarin paladism, shere ir fisures Es rh€ "NN Rone in rhe wesr" iibid., 291-96 andt08-20)_

43- SeeMe e Perkins, "Monresquieu on National Porer ad<l l.teinational Rilaky, ' S /EC238 (1985), I 96, who also pershrendy alisns MonresqDieu's internarionalhm wnn the pluraliryof "ansles of vision" Monlesquieu deploys in aporoachins his lopic (Z 18, 46, t0, 83, 85, 88,9t,92).

44. The conplicity between lhe science ol Beosraphy and oiharish n probably ageless,

Maunce Bouguereau DEsented the fiisr national adas of Fance, Le thedtre Jroac.|s (Torrs,1594) to Henii lV as an aid to fte kine\ tax colleclins and nilirary canpaisnins (I thankTon Conley for rhis reieE.cei. Richelie!\ ideal oi "n.lural frcnrie.s" and Louis XMsubsequ€nl conbinalion of varfa.e and legal na.ipnlalion to securc the ben po$ible borderslor France lestify ro the ielado. belwen nalional unity and cartosraphic repEsenrarion (Ci.Bruno-Henn Vay$iaE, "'La'carte de Fiance," and Mneile Pastoureau, "Feuilles d'arlas,"bo|]l. in Ca es a JEves de la lerp, ed. Roger Agache d al. [Pais: Cedtre Ceoryes Podpidou,19801, 252-6s, ,142-s4). One of the primipal causes of war in €rly modern Europe {as thedesne to lnify fte ofien dGparale ieudal holtlines ol a royal family inro rhe ceocraphicallycoherent whole of a nationita&.

.15. On 1ie pr€po.derance ol liquid inageiy in Monresquieu, see Corrado Rosso, n/or-t$qrieu holalista: dalle le$i al "bonheur" (Pisa: Colialdica, 1965). l0l loi and JaoeMclelland, Metaphor in Montesquieu\ Thoretical W.nines," SyEC 199 (1931), 205-:4.Mclelland isespeciallycogenr in arguing Montesquieu\ sysrematic Eprise othh eady scientificwork on the "hydraulics" of plarl lile in the later political analosies buih a.ound the ideaoi "channels of pow€r" (203-16). li shonld be added rhat ihe eco.omic Drinciple oi MonreFquieu! rllid nechanics, sheEby ev€ry displac€nenr is conpensated by another, recalls the

NOTES TO PACES 30.32

sinilar eco.ony of dhplacemedr in Descanes\ physics, as tJ,pified mon nanirenly in hislheory of vofrices Gee chaprer 2, n. 2l),

46. On Montesquieu's use ol tavel relarions in his wort, see Muriet Dodds, aes /.rs d.vtlagd r,"r.?s de I Esprn des lois .te Mont?squjeu \Patisl Honord champion, t929),

47, "One eli{t ol Monresquieu\ hisrory of rhe French nonarchy is that n tends roundcrmine the rcry specilicity ol lhe principlcs he defends so visoiously eheNnere, , Cearharr.Opea Bounddry, r5l. Arso Benrekassa, who conctudcs his lensthy study by noling tharMonresquieu\ "ambirion" in rhe pret*e to The Spn, ol the aarr lo s€e hntory ,,benr,,robeine but the consequences" ol his principles (tl, 229) ends by ..beinC ineluctably Be6ed,"deanins rhat his principles have been benr ro the seqlen.e of hkory tla porli4,e, 155),

48. Viselli and Anprinoz oddly misinlerpret lhe quorarion tron the,,l",erd as sienalinglhe besinnins ofrhe vircilian voyace (47), Perhaps David Hude*as rishl to chi<le Moniesquieulbr rh€ obscurny oi this quotation pur in ptace oi a conctusion: ,.t find a nunber of peopteas perplex.d as I ah in rying ro gue$ rhc meaning of rhe lasr paragraph in your work:haliatn, holiad...no dalbt to. lack ol knowinc whar ir is you are a udins to (Lerrre dMonlesquieu, April 10, l7r9 lMasson Ilt, 12221).

49. One cannor help bur be $ruck br rhe abruprness with which Monresquieu cn.ls rhelFarise, diopping his nairarive in rhs middle of lhe Mi.ldle fues, an abrlprness of endinsreminncenr of Stendhal (who, incidenrallx was a grear r€ader and adnirer or Monlesquieu:"lfs nor exacrly rove rhar I have tbr Monresquieu, n is \cneetion' lyolase .lans Ie didi:Mltroires d

"n toutisle ttl lParis: Masperc, 19811, 69). Bur in rhe case oi Montesquieu, rhe

abrupt cndinA berEys less an aenhetic .xperinenlarion rhan hh desne to sel our ot rhe rcxi,Io be done with il. This exasperarion ar being caucht up in a seeninely endtess lexr, whoseexDanse h such as to render hopcle$ any anempr !o domesricare il or iecuperare n, is precisetywhar is evoked by thn as well as orher trarel metaphois in The Spitu oI the LaNs. On the/opor of the naulical loyase as a merapnoi of rhe nararort progre$ lnroush rhe rexr, seeErnn currius, E ropp?, Literature o"d the Latin Mi.jttle As6, tt. w. Trask (p.inceronlPrinceron llnive6ily Pres, l95l), 128-10. On lhe extensivene$ of Monresquieu\ erudirionin p!6un of his magnum opusj see his Cox, Morlerq,&, an.t tuen.h Laws, SlEC 218(193r).

50. Lerer lo Codelroy de Secondat, D{enber 28, t7.t4 (Masson l. loj2 5l).51. "Te amcnl de Monresquieu,, (Masson lt, l5?3i emphasis added)_ On the a(ansing

of Denise\ daniasc, see slendh^|, t/olus. dans le nkti, 76, ?8i Snackleron, Mo,rps4zrer,198.'2@l Barriare, Crond p/ovincial, 97itl Descraves, Mont\quieu, 251 5ji leann neCeffriaud Ro$o, Mo,/.r4zi?, et la fitninitd (Pisa: Cotia:dica, l9??), 42-44. Siendhat\ venionol lhe nory adds, howerer, thar atler this maniaee oi utter conlenience ro pEserve lhe naneol Montesquieu, Montesquieu\ wile did bear him a son, ro Nhom Montesqujeu rhen refusedlhe palronym. "our of respect for the sa(ifice he had asled trom his dalghrer" (?8).Monlesquieu sould have succeeded in preservins the nane drd in prevenrins the rise of athrealenjns male proseny by desisnarins rhe larer by the orher tanily nane, Secondat, shoseerymolosical sense implicirly relesares ns bearer ro rhe srarus ot a mere .,tolo*er.,, Sten.lhal.lhal sreat adnter ot the farher, had a conconilant disdain rbr rhe son, M. de Secondar.whon he calk'lhat good old letlor kr brore hodnel" and accuses oi ktepronania (7673). Untonunatelx Srendhal sas noi onty wrons abou! rhe son (*ho was, in tacr, Monresquieu\ in! born), but in whar is rhe mosr thoroughsoins research inro rhe noraiiat archivesro dale, Jean Dalar ako finds .o hard proot for Slendhatt claim ot a forced (as opposed romerely an arranced) maiiiaBe, eve. thoush he does uncover ample evidence of Monresquieu!olten perly and occasionally licious ma.iputalion oi hk pariarchat riebs in order ro assurethe perperuarion ol borh his nane and hh tand (Mo,,erqrteu chef de tanitte en tufi? areces beaux-pdrcnts. sa fetntne, rer e,/d,/r lParh: A.chives des LerrEs Moderncs, 19831). rn

my case, Montcsquieu\ fear that his line woDld cone to a. end seems to have ben norilatedin 1744 by hh son\ lack ol a male heir alter fonr and a half years oi narriase. h 1749,hovever, a son was finally born ol this union, tbe futDre c4n4ral de Mon&squieu otAmeiicao.nd Frcmi Rdolutionary war iane. A year eallier, a son had b.e. born to Monlesqrieu\daushter, Denhe, f.on whon i.ded descend the curenr barons of Mo.tesquieD.

s2. Mes Pe6les, I, 1292.53- Shaclleton, Moitesqrier: A Onical Biosrupht. L Desgraves adds th.t ..fion rne

exhring viU.se ofMortesquieu, you can stiu today peieive tne ruins ofa chateau lhar croqnsa lorlorn and desolat hill" and lhar alEady in Monlesquieut tine rhe casrle was jn ruins

54. Cl. voltane: "l rcspft. Montesquien 4en when he fatls ldl6 rer.rrrerl, becaus€ hepicks himseli back up [se E/dwl and mounts to the sky lpoo nontet au cier]', (Cnnnentaitesrl I'EsDril des lois, xXX. 441).

55. Ol lhe innunerable assessnents ol Monrsquieut impacl on Evolutionary tni.kinsand lesislation, see especially Be.nard Crcethuys€n, prl/oropnie de ta Rdeotutioa Jraacoiy,pft.eda de Mont*quieu (Parn: callimard. 1956): Renaro Calliani, ..La fo.lue deMontcsqlieu en l?89: Un so.daEe:' Archiw da leua noder@ r97 (1981), 31 6l; NormanHampson, WiI an.l Cirtnstan.e: Montesquieu, Ro'etu and the Frcach Rewlutios (Not-nan: Univemiry ol Oklahona Press, 1983); Judirh N. Sbklat, Montesqritu lo\totd. OxtotdUniversily P.ess, 1987), lll 26; and Paul M, Spurlin, .,Liniluence de Monl€sqnieu sur laconsrnudon americaine," in Actes du Consfts Moht6qui"z, 26j-?2. On lhe revolutionaryirretu.n ro rh€ ancientii' se Louis Haulecoeur, Rod? 4 /d /enaisan e de I'a\turaird d ta Iindu XVII'siacle (Patis: Foniemoine, l9l2). I rhank Marie-Clane Vallois tor rhis retelence.

4. P€destrirn Rousseau

L See Charles L- Barte., P&dsrtoble lnsirctioh: Fom and Conrentiot in EishteedthCentury liawl Litetutut \Berleley: Unile ily oi Calirornia PF$, l9?8).

2, As J€an Starobinski has eloquenrly indicaFd, Rousea!\ search for botb mo.al andphysical iixiry, hn d€sne to 'fix .town his life ltrrer sa y,?],' and 10 ..tix dowo his opinionsonce and for all," is nor wthout Elevance ro hn havins spenr ar leasr ftirty,eishl of hissixry*ix yeas in one kind oi transienr node o. anorher (./ea,-Jacqw Rdsse: La t&6pamce et l obstnle, 2nd ed, IParis: Callimard, t97tl,61-65,1t ?2, and passin).

t, Enile, ot.le l'edrc ion, i. Oeuvrcs.ohptites de JeanJrcques Ro6sea!, ed. Bernardcasnebin an.l Marcel Raymond (Paris: Callimard, 1959-69), tv,245, Al1 subsequent refer€.c€sto Rou$eau aie ro tbis edirion a.d will be indicated only as neded by rirle, volume, andpase lunbei. with sone nodifications, E.slish r..ndations are laken frcm 1ne folloNins:A Disco,re on lneq"alitt ri Maurice Cranston (Haimondsvorth: penguin. 1984); EailatL Barbara Foxl€y (lglli rpr. Londonr De.t, 1974)i rre Co,?$&rr ti J. M, Coben tHar-no.dsworrh: Penguin, 1953): The Rerqies oIa Solitary ti John Contd Ftercher (192?i rpl.New Yoik: Burr Fran*lin, l9?l), Unle$ nol€d, all olher Enslish fanslaiions ot Rou$eau are

4. lmnanuel Kant, Crt'?,p r/ Jtdcenent, rr, !. H_ Betnatd (Nw yorkr Hafner pE$,r95 r ), ?3 and passin. Cr. Deiiida, "Le PaFryon," in ta yeli d e, peintu.e (p^rts.. Ftammation.l9?8), t9-168.

5. Ci De Jaucourr\ arricle, "yoyaeeu;' ia rne Enctclopidie, XvU, 4?8. -rne a.ticleslates thar one nust suspes z// ravel€rs of being liars den if and in tacl prisely becausesone of th€m are nor. On dupliciroDs tavel natratires in the eiehtenrh cenrury, see peryAdamst classic Tldrelqs and Ttueel Lia6: 1660-t8oo tBetketee: Universn! or calitor.iaPrcss, l 2).

NOTES TO PACES 83-89

162 NOTES TO PACES 89-9]

6- On the seniotic iFpon of nanes as rigorouslt desisnadve blt indete.ninate $ithregard to sense, see Jean-Francois Lyotma, The DifJaeh.l: Phrares n Diprr? (Minneapolisluniversitr of Min.esora. 1988). 32 58,

7. On 1he seneral quesion ol aulhenticity as rhe value by which a voyase is judged, Ireler the reader once more ro Dean Maccannell, The lo,tist: A New Theor! oJ the LeisurcC/zsr (New York: Schocked, 1976).

8. This is not tbe o.ly place Rousseau advances so sNeeping a condemnarion ol travel.Conpare the following passase iiom the pref.ce 10 Na..6s?r .,The Crusades. commerce, rhediscovery of the Indies, naviCation, long voyases, and slill other caus€s I donl want ro soin1o, hav€ nai.lained and augnented the diorder Everyrhine thal facilitates connunicarionbetveen one nation and anorher sprcads.ol th€n virrles but deir cines, and in every nationn ah€rs the custons which arc proper to tben cUnales and to rbe constilution ol tbensovernnen$" (Narc6se, ou l'dnant de lui n'tue, Il, 964n). As lor Rousseau's delense ofnationar identity, the nosl quesrionable sratemenr is no doubt found in his Coksj.liatioissut le Eotvemmdt de ]a Polocna especially l, 959-66, where ne ses rhe sotulion ro potand!pohical woes i. the delineario. ol a dbrincrive "nadodal physiosnomy' (960), See, on tbequenion ol Rousseau\ nationahm, the useful il somewhat nissuided work ol AlexandreChotrlsuine, rer orsrrer d? / esp nationdl nodene et Jean Jrcqres Ro6sedu, AanotesJedn-J@ques Rotseau 26 (193?), 7-281- And on Rou$eau\ dtensive but selecrive use ofethnosraphical inlornation rron contempo.ary travsl narrariles, see Chinad, L Anarique etle ftw *otique dans la iftdature fuancaise at XylI. et la Xv I, siale (P^tis. Dtoz. 1934).l4l-65j and noie recendy, Tzvelan Todorov, "La connahsance des aulres: ThCories er pra,tiq\es:' LEspd criateut 25 (.o. 3: Fall 1985), 8-r7.

9. This relesal is not unique ro Rou$eaui h ca. be found as early as Fontenollc s !?08"Elose de lburncforf ("Philosophers raEly run abour in the wodd, and ordinarily those{ho do are hardly philosophersi and hence a philosophe.t journey is qremely prcious,"Oeryler {Paris: Jean-Fra.cois Basten, l?901, Vl, 240-4t), and h responsible for the Enlightenmenfs innovarile sponsorinc ol anbitious erpeditions overseas led by sci€nlis1s and phibsopnem wilh spdfic Esearch .sendas. Typical ol such journeys w€E those of Maupertuis(to Lapland in 1136-l?) and La Condamine (o Am@nia irom l?35 ro 1745) to neasur the"llaltenins" ofrhe slobe, as qell as Bousairville\ monunental cncudnavieation. Cf. NumaBroc. Le seoeruphi. d6 philotupha: Caostaph6 et wraseuB Jidncais d, XvI I, siecle (Patis:Ophrys, n.d.), especially 187-92t Reni Ponea!, "voyase et lunii.es dans la Iirterature franqaise du Xvur"siicle," SVEC 51 1t961), 1269-89i and foi a slighlly later peiod, SersioMoEvia, "Philosophie et ceographie iL Ia lin du Xvlll"sidcle," Sr/'.C 5? (196?), 937 lotl.On &e general question ol the relation belwee. travel narrarives and lhe ofien paralleldevelopment of science a.d ae$hetics, see aarbara Maia Sratfotd, vorose irto S"bstanrc:Att, Sciace, Nature, and the lusnated fravelAeount, 1760 /8?0 (Camb.idse, Mass.: MITPress, 1984). As ior Rousean, rhe Dhilosopher's jou.ney would tbus seem to pose sonewhatof a .louble bi.d. On the one hand, one can only be a .,real" philosophe. as opposed to a

"philosophe de ruelle lsalon-dwellins philosopher]" ii one raveh; on the o1her hand, oneshould alrcady be a philosopher in order ro ravel.

10. Second Difo!.r?, lll, 214.

12. Far lron beins lhe aristofatic desisnation ol an ontitled prop.rty, tbe su.name ofRousseau m.Ely su8cests a featuE of sone ancesfal physiognomy: red hair,

13. 60 back to yolt count.y, .etu.n to the religion of your fathers, foilow it in thesincerityolyolrhea and do not leave it a8ain.... When you *ant to lisren to yourconscienceia tbousand ehpty obstacles sill disappear a1 rhe sound of rour loice. Yo! wiu leel rhat n

NOTES TO PACES 93 97 l6l

is an inexcusablc presumption, given rhe unceiainty in which we are, to pioress a rclisionother than the one in which you are born, and a fahehood nor ro pracrice sincerety rhe oneyou piofess. lf you deviare, you deprive yourslf ol a sreai excuse betoE rhe r.ibunat ot thesoveeisn jud8e. Will He not ratber pardon lhe erro. inio which yoD wcre born than rhe oneyou dared to cboose for yoursell?" (Eutla IV, 6ll). ln the sixtll ol his Lettes l.rita de la,o,ld3,e Rou$eau defends the polidcal tbeses of rre 5@;a/ Co,r.a.r by claininc tbai rheyarc patler.ed alter the constirurion of his native Ceneva: "Everythins elF beinc equal, I gavepreierence to rhe sovernmenr o/ D] colrrlr" (lll, 811; emphash added).

,4, As Heni Couler eloquently stares, 'lhe idea of Erurn is aftirmed more rhan rhe ideaol getling installed in a counrry visned i. rhe course of a journey.... Alrer sone hesitatiDsand laking of different tacks, ihe pri.cipal soal seems !o be ftat oi a pohical educarionwhich Emile could pur to use in his ow. counrry; hh ralels wiu hale rau*ht hin rhar senli.aelssheE soes asai.n both his duty and hn inreesri' ("L'€ducarion polnique d'Enile," inHonnase A Fruncois Meret lt.lx en Provence: Publicarions de I'UnivemitC de Prcvence, 19831,

87).15. Amone rece.r analyses of ftn pedacosical paiadox, see especiaUy Hara.i, S.e,,.rcs

ot the lhaCinarr: Th@tiziu the Ftehch Enlishte"nent llthac^, N,Y,: CorneU Unile(ily

ceton: Piincebn Unire(iry Press, 1984), 27? 191 a^d lo n Dete n. Lretut! Fo ilications:Rouss@t, Laclos, Sa.le (Pinceton: Princeton University Press, 1984), I2G6l ; hut aho TbomasM. Ka\anaeb, writiry the Ttuth: Authotiq and Desjre in Rot$?a! (Berkeley: University ofCalifornia Pre$, !987), 78-101, who sees a oore anbisuous dialecric berween ireedom and

16, Cf, Jacques Dedda, Ol Cnn atolost ti Cayari Cnakavo y Spilak (BahimoE:Johns Hopkins Univesiry Pre$, 1974), l4l-57t Ceorses Ma\, Roersedu pat lui-tuChe (P^ris:Seuil, n.d.), 129 5l; Jear Starobinski, "Jean Jacques Rou$eau er le ,a!il de la iCrlexion,"in tbel viv,,r (Paft: Callinard, 196l), ll9if; Pierc-Paul Ctanent, Jeaa Joc4ues Rousseau:De I'qos coupable d I eros E/or?,' (Nenchatel: La Baconniire, 1976): vicror C- Wexler,'''Made for Man\ Delishf: Rousseau as Anlifemi.isr," r1d.,ri?n Histdicat Retie\| 8t ltn.),266 9l: Sarah Kofman, Ze zsped .les Jennes lPatis: c^lil'e, l98l), 5? l5q Pesgy Kamui,Fi.tions oJ Feninite Desite: Dis.losures oJ Helobe {t ircoln: Universit} of Nebras*a Pre$,1982), 9? l22j Danielle Monret-CIavie, "La iemne comme natute moire dans I oeuvre deJea!-racques Rousseau,'in Croupe de Recherhes lnterdisciplinane d'Elude des Fennes, aalmm et la no ('tanlotse: Publications de I'Universit€ de Toulouse Le Mirail, 1984), 59-?6i Ceorges Benrekasa, ap.orcentn.lte et reentiqu.: Mary6 des Ltniarcs (Patis: P^yor,

o. the level ol political content, see Joel Schwartz, The s@ol l,oliti.s o! Jeah JacqtesRors"a, (Chicaeo: thiveKily ol Chicaso Press, 1984). On Rou$eau! radicalizins inlluenceon prcsressile wonen in rbe late eishteenlh century, sdism norNithsran.line, se Cila Max"RousFauyAntifeminism' R€coosidered," in Sania L Spe.ceL ed.. French Woheh aid theACe of E,liEhtennent (Bloominero.r Indiana Univeronv Press, 1984), 309 17.

17. The canonical analysn n rhal or Pier.e Burs€lir, .,L'educalion de Sophie," ,,l,,a/es.le la tuiAi kan Jacqu.s Roussea! 35 (1959-62), lll-lo. More ecenrly, s* Nancy J, Senior,"Sophie and the Srate oi Narue: Frehch Fmn 2 (no,2: May 197?), t3L46i Nannerl O.Keohane, "'But ror Her Sex...': The Donestication ol Sophie,,,in J. MacAdam, M.Neunann, and G, Lafrance, eds., Tte Rouseau Papets tonov^. Universit! of OnovaPiess. 1980), rl5-45; and Heren Evahs Misenheimer, Ror$eau on the Education ol vlonen(Washinslon: Univesity Piess of Anerica, l98l).

ta. Dettida. OJ C.annatolosy, )41 64 and 3l] 16.

164 NOTES TO PACES 9? IOI NmES TO PACES tO3 t0?

'imentahy" oi happi.ess, see Robett M^!zi, L idae dL boaheut dans ta tiftit4ttre et ta pensAeJtancaise ou XVII. sie.b \Pads: Armand Colin, 1985), 125-j5, 330 513.

26. The bone caonot def€nd itselfasainsl some unspecilied enemy trod wnhout or wnhin.Tne Ldtre ar d'Aleftbe stt /a sp"c/acld (1758) could be studied in rhis context. since nidvokes a defense of Rolsseau\ own iathe.land against a plot hatched tron vithout burinte.ded to desfoy frcn withi. (rhe eslablnhnent ot a theate. in Ceneva). The rh@r h tbatof the desrruction oi rhe very boundary separalins withour fion wilhin, wnh tbe encroachnenrof a ioEien powe. (France) i. cenaa and lhe lan€r's subsequedt subservience ro that powe..And in the subsequenl a"rrres dtites de ta noatdsne, Rousseau fidds himselt in rhe evensrranser position ol having to tleie.d his toyalty ro fie srate and religior ot Ce.eva afterhaviq been coddenned by borh. Respondins ro this perverse atact by ihe hone asainst oneof ils own constitures what Rousseau calls i.my final dury io my country,' (lll, 89?). On rbeS*Gs identity of Rousseau, see Francois Jost, J"u,-.racr?r6 Rotetu Sub*: Etude sw epeten4ali6 et e pase lFtibolis: Editions Unive6itanes, t96tt, ad Rouwau et to Suisy(Neuchalel: Cdffon, 1962). For a more nuanced discussion, see Starcbinski, iiuecart rcmanesqtet in La trcnsparcn.e et /'ob'a.la 39:l-414: and Marrina Rudes, ..Une paria difticile:Cin.vra.ella corlhpond€nza di J€n Jacques Rousseau (17s4-rj59);' I Le ore di p.ovin ia15 (no. 5?/58: Ausust Septenber 1984). 5? 63.

2?. One nisht nore, in Eeards ro this c.itique ot dependency, rhe hish jncid€nce ofneraphos of bindins in E/i/€. Bindins (lit€ tbe dependency for which il n so oten an€raphot sems to be conri.ually underrood by Rousseau as sonerhins nesadv€, if not asnesativny i1fli wnoess bis famous attack asainn rhe use of ssaddtinE clolhes because thevtstricl the child\ liberty of movement 0V 253-56), While therc n no space here ro plrsuea deBiled Eadins ol rhe binding nelaphos jn t-ila n cao be sumisetl that mucb nore isar stake in thed tban a simple question of child caE.

28. The relqant passaees can be found id Co,/ersiors, I,6.l6t Rewier l, lo4t and lo48rand rhe inn Letrre a M.lesherbes." January 4, t?62, t, 1132 _ Cl. Starcbinski, La truhspatenceet I obstacle, 243-3gJi an<l Kava.asn, whose careful nu.ly of the ..fredon in se.virude,,iheme ol Ehil. and Sophie lhirrrS rne r/,rr, ?8,tot) Ieads him to an importanl and oricinatEreadins ol Rou$eau\ political wrirings as less ..tolatirarian', in inspnarion rhan norivatedby an 'abidin8 identification with rhe lojce of thc vicrim" (lolfi). Or rhe lirerarv roror offteedoo in captivity, see vicror Brcmbetr, La prison rcmntique: Essi tut I inosinaire lp^tis:Josd Corti, 1975), ll-50-

29. Thn rephrasing ofthe ontolosical question of selftood as a roposraDhical one groundsAlain Gro$ichardt psychoanalytic reading of Ronsseau\ imaginary as calghl in an endtessseri€s of idemilications, a psycbolosically verriginous and fatal crack in the Lacanian ..mirrorslace that scriprs rhe hinory ol Rou$eau's eso developmenr as a harroNins traversal of ..ahall of nnot' in search oi an inpossible .,fixed point'. (..,On suhjer', .eue suis,je?'IReflqions sur la quesion de la p/ac€ dans l'oeulre de Jean Jacques Rou$€au, d pa.tn d'untexre <les lCi@terl," in Ro,rs€au et Voltaire en r9?8: Act6 du.oloque ihtenatiohot de NiceUrtr 19781 lcensa and Paris: Slariine, t98t1, 338-65).

30. This positins of a (ficrional) interlocuror as tbe enabline con<tition fo. the coDritutionot the subjecl i. discouse n a sklclure laid bare in rbe iamiliai rop€ ot apost.ophe. SeJonarhan Culler, "Apostrcpne,,' D,n..rrts ? (winrer t9??). J9_69_ Speciric srudies of rhe roleor lhe Mder in Rouseau can be lound in Rob.n J. Ellrich, Rorseau and His Reader: TheRhetolical Shuation oJ the Maju ,/o./.r (Chapet Hil: Unirmity of No(h Caroljna pre$,1969); and Hunlinstor williams, RoNe, and Romantic Autobiosdphr (Oxtotd: OxtotdUniversily Press, 1983). 130 217. .

31. Consider Rousseau\ fanous datedents ned rhe besinning of the Ddco!6e o, /r-e4la/iq,. i Ld us b.sin by seuins aside alt ihe f&is, because they do nor arfect tbe queslion,,

r65

19, The sirualion is conplicared, ot course, by the fad that the leacher is 4or Enile!farhe!. althoush, to the exrent that he is a substiture tarher and is esenlally reated as one,rhe

'eJcher h JLo him,etr a qmuta!run ot rhe rarher

20. He is, in iact, at the very heart ot the otl.o, jf we Eoenber lhe introduction roRoD$eau's a.licle lor the E .rcloptdle on polilical econony: ..The word Economv or o&onomv, i: derived rrco o/{o\, a hod.e, and rofor, as and meanr o-isin. y ort; lhe s..eand le3itinate governmenr ot rhe house tor rhe comnon good of rhe whole fanilu Th.meanne or rhe krm rd rhen e ended .o rhe eo\e,nnenr ot ,har

Ered tadrt). rhe Srqre. Iodistinsuish rhese two se.ses ot rhe word, the tauer is ca ed senerut ot potiticd! ecanof,y, atuIhe former dodevic or padiculai economy. The ftsr only is .thcused in rhe prefnt ;icle,On donesric ecooomx see Fani\ Farhd. (|1,24ti tanstation modjfied from .4 Dd.oa4"on Political Ecoaonr,i^ The Sociot Co"ta.l and Dis.ourses, rr. C. D. H. Cote [N4 yort:Duuon, 19501, 285). Despite the disclaimer. a ercar deal ot the ensuins adicle is devored loesablhhine the difierences and sinilarities berween rhe fatnq of a ta;ily and the ruler of acou ry. I submir ihat ir woutd nor be strerching maren ar alt ro say rhat in Rousseau it isthe father who d€iin6 the hone, a snuarion reinforced by lne descdprion in book I in rheCo4&sto,s, of Rou$eau\ motherle$ childnood hone (Co,t$ions. t.1-12.t.

. 21. A, \,tnerrr-Menror re , titemaqre. -!ou have sain.d le in .u erins. ..n.e Jouhtve acquned sisdom," F.ancon de Salignac de La Molhe de Fe.ebn, Les Awnrurcs derAahaque, ed. r,\bert Cahan (paris: Hache e, 192?), l, 36s.

22 The child, doomed m repear the tutor\ imasinarx can do no norc rnan inacinesecondhand" (Harari, S.?tr?rior lt2).

21, Thn "incoryoralion,' ot lbe tarher n one oi rhe key concepr or psychoanatysG. Myanalysn olthe p.oblen has accodinsly been intormed by a readins of Freld, especiauy roreaantl Taboo, The Stardad Edition o.f the Conptete psrchotoqiet tlotks \herc^lt* teletedto Se), tr. J Sfachey (Londo.r Hoeanh, 1955 ?3), xllt, especialt, t,lo_6t; .,ponsciipl,.ra Pslchaanauti. Notes on an Autobiosruphical Account oI a Cas o! pa.anoio, S.E. *t,80 82t The Dissoturion of the Oedipus cohplex,,,tt XIX, l7l ?9.

-. 24. This proposed conclusio. to Enite et Sophie *as, in poinl ot fact. never writren byRousseau, although we lnow of n from rhe tikes ot tacques tsernadin de Sainlpie.re andPiene Prdvo , 10 whom Roussean woutd hlve rold the endins of rhe story. pravont accounroi rho nconclusio. oi ihe Sotla,€r', can be tound in ty clxiii-clriv. Bena.din de Sainr_Piere\ slishrly nore denjled rendilion can bc roun.l i. his La vie .t tes ouvales de Jean-Jdcqres Rouseou, ed. Maurice Souriau (parh: Edouard Cornalr r9O?), t69_ta, Ako seeKarana8h! uslut .ote in wtuinR the Ttuth,l99, (avanagh, moreover, conlincinsty arguesasainn lhose rirics who would isnore or disnhs the inpotrance of rnis tsertnown orRonsseaut works and n€sses instead ihat il n rhe ,.€$enlial posrscripr,. ro Eurk one shose''subj*r natt{ [n] akeady inscribed in t .ir?'s si!en,, (lot, 85). lndee<1, only a ve.y fewolher Rousseaucrilics hale paid serjous arrenlion ro this rert: Charles win,..Noles sur,Emitel soele ou res soritaircs,'" Arnat\ Jean,Ja.qua Rodseu t6 (1963_65),291 joli cuy'nr.befDelof, ,A propos d,.Emite er Sophie,',, Rewe d,Hinone tuGnire .te ta Fn,.p 6a(1964), 44 59; Nancy J. Senioi, ,..Les Sohates, as a Te ior Ehile and Sophie,,, Fr€,.,R"vier49(no.4: March t9?6),52s-t5; and Jam6 F, Hamiltoo, .,.Enileer Sophje,: A parodyof tbe PhilosopheFKinc,,, Srr.ti Jra\cesi 65-66 \91'il. 3s2_s5.

25. La trunsparc6ce et t obsta./a l5t_65. A more nuanced ve,sion of Starobinski,s rh.si\one whi!h rllos. d more ronuEd aro unpred,.rqbte irdererm,ndcJ ber\een ,uch oppo\ire.q5 denarrurc

'erlrn. 'llne.\ .u'e, and obndcte I.an,pdren!), can be .ound in hF rtren, /a,Pqadcdm.hnd c rq4ettpSitihat,ondetbt ttpb t,lta. dc: I uhkt.s Pnh:oa,timali ,le3s'. lo5 212. On rhe diale.rr of novemenr cnd Rro\e d\ r figure\ rn ra. fntishrenmen,

166 NOTES TO PAGES IO8.IO9

(lll, 132)i'Fornnnobshrehrerpdseto...arrain.sotidknowl€dc€otasrateshichnoIonger exnrs, which perhaps never erined, and vnich sill prcbabty naer exist, yer ot whichir is neessary to hEve soun.l ideas if Ne a.€ to ju<lge ou pEsent shte sdnfaoorily.' (Il,123), On th.consequences of this posiring of trutn asa necessary ticrion! thecanonical srudiesrenain rhose ol De.rida, O/ O tunnatolosr':

^nd Pant de M^n, Btindnss ard lfsisht l1\totd:

Oxlord Universily Pres, r97l), l0l 41, and AteCoi* of Reodin.: FEurut LonauaEe inRtus@u, Nietzehe, R/ke aar' P/o6, (NN Haven: yale Unive6ity press, l9r9), t3j-301.Also se€ Cearha(\ ioportanr and billiant cririqle of tnen wotk in The Ope, Boundary,234 84. Fo. a hisrorical and i.leolosical situatins oi Rousean! concepr ot nature as criticalficrion, see Bronislaw Baczko, Rouwtu: Soitude et conhnu,/e, r!, Chne Brendhet Lad_hout (Parn and De Hasue: MoDron. t974). 59-t54.

12. On thecone.uencies between Rousseau\ anthropotosical hislory oflbe differenr,,asesof man" as presedted in the lwo Discouises and thc .rrorolrsrtal orsaniation of the tirsrbook of the Co4re$rbrn see Pniliqpe Leje e, Le pacte autobiosraprl?,p (parh: Seuil. t975).87 16{. lo' \ohe connderalon\ on Ro!{eu r'5 rhe po..ibte origirdro, of alrobroB-aphy,.rleasl in its nodern form, a clain aheady nodeled by Rousseau hinsslt in $e op€nins lineoi the Cortss,o,s [i'l forn an enrerprise wnich has no p@e.renr,', 51, se Lejeune, Z a!ro-bioEraphie ek Fnnce lPatts. Arnand Colin, l9?t) and a"pate autobiosnphique, t| 4tlalso Michael Spri.ker, "The E.d of Autobiosraphy," in rames Otney, ed., AutobioE,aphr:Esats Theotetical and Oitical (Princeion: Princeron Udive.sily pre$. l98O). 32t-26. Orheressays i.clnded in this sane volume that are pe.tine.r ro the quenion aF James Olney."Autobiosraphy and lhe Cuhural Monent: A Theoretical, Hisroricat, and BiblioBraphicalInrroducrion," especiauy 5 6; Ccorses Cusdort, .,Condnions and Linils ot Autobiograpby,,,rr. Janes Ohex 28-48; and Jean Sraiobinski, ..The Style of Aurobiogr.phy,., tr SeynourChatnan,73-31. Aho se Lionel Co$nan\ seninal anicles,,.Tihe and Hisroryin Rouscau,,,S/EC 30 (1964), 3ll-49: and The lndocenr An ot Coniession and Reverie.,, Dz"dalr t07(no. 3: Sunner 1978), 5+7?. By far the Bo$ sophisticared and anbitious examinarions ofRousseau as autobiosrapher are Huntinclon wiltians, Rowseau and Ronant ic A, tobiosraph|,ard rllen Bu \ ro h(omine Ro6,eru\ Autobioe\phtc..

3l- Among ft€ mo olefl stalen€nrs in this Esard are the tolowinsr ,.There h a certainr,..ersto, of affecs and ideas which modify those rhal fouow them, and wnich i! is n€cesE.vro tno$ In order ro pd$ rddgmenr dpon rhem. I rm tvrng rhrodghout ro e\ptarn rhe ri,,;causes sell so as 1o give a feeling fo. th€ sequential chain oi effec6,, (Co4,&ss,bu, t75,empnash added); t have only one faitbful euide on whicn r can count; namely, the chainof feelines Nhicb hale narked tne rrc.6sio, or ny bei.s, an<r through the succe$iod ofevent whicn have acted as a cause or effsr of my being', (ibid, l, 2?8, emphasis adde.l)r''Bur lron rhese litsr acts of eoodness, poured out Nirh etiusion of hearl. were born chainsof sr..u$tw ensasenenrs that I had not toresecn, and of which I colld no loneer shake .frrhe )ole rFpue.r?., I, 105t. empha-. cddedr. On rhi. -s.ner( dimen,.on ol Ro!.,eaurautobios.aphicar rritinc, see Starcbinski, La ndaspate\ce el t,obsiode. 23O 32ff.

14. Thh corElarion berween noral and roposrapbicat heisht is unders.ored in the tamousrwenty-rhird letter of Zz Nory"//e sr1o,i4 ,.u seems that by tist E

^bo\e len s,atevoht ou

derslrl lhe domain of nen. one leaves atl lol and earlhly feelinss behind, and thar as oneneare lhe erb€real resions, the soul cont.acls some oi rheir inalrmble purny,, (78). For ad€tailed r€adins of the elation beNeen lhe norat and the physicat in this passace, as weIas or Rouseaut literary pFdece$ors in this ropos, see Cnrislie McDonatd-Vance, rr? Errrav-aeant Shephetd: A Stud! oJ the Pd|orul yiion in Rousftuzt Noulelle Hetone. SI/EC 105(1973), especiauy 58 ?0. while for Daniel Mo.net, rhe nodern taste for nountain scenerywould hale orisinared, ahost sinclehah<tedly, yirh Rouss€\ (Le sentinent .te la nature e,Frarce de Jean-Jac.1u6 Rousseau d Betua.din de Saihrpie/te: Esai sut t6 npports de ta

NOTES TO PACES ll0- 3 t61

lifidtuturc et des noeuts IPatis: Hacheue, 19071,259 60ff.), Barba.a Stafford more judiciouslysir'^tes Lo Nouwtle HAbie wnhin rhe contexr ot the Entighreinent\ emersme inle;-i;nouhrains, an inleresr whose d€cisile publication would have ben rhar oi lohann JacobSchevhzet's hi"en Heleeti@ in OOa (voyaee ino Substan.e,88 89fi., an.l 162).

35. While Rousseau was in Turin ar tbe rime of Montesquieu,s vhir therc in t728. rhereis no accounr of thei! meetinc €ach oder, which is unsury.nins, as then difierence in socialiank and pre ise woul.l have made such an encountd unlikely, it not neaninsless had notclired. See Luigi Fnpo, ,.Rou$eau e Monresquieu a Torino: Nor\Elts de ta Rqubtiquedes Le res 2 (198rJ,6?-81 and Roben Shac[eton, .,Montesquieu, DlFin, and rne Ea;lyWrilings of Ron$eau," in Simon HaNey, Marian Hobso., David Keltey. Sanuel S. A_ Tavlor,ed'.. Reopprut."i oJ Ro^teau \lud4 n Honou, oJ R. a. /ea, lMan.hejfl: Vdn(henerUnivesily P.ess, 1980). 234. For Montesquieu,s readions to Tn.in, see Voluse, t,604_t1,

36. zulieuat indisnant response is too sood to pas up: .,Zanetto lascia le Don.e, esludia la nathenatica lJohnny, give up women and srudy marhenaticsl,,(Co4t$,o,, 322).On Rousseau's adventur€ in Venice, see Climent, ./ean Jaa,?s Ror$.a,, 20t_2t: MadeleineB. Ellis, Roussea,) v.netian Stor!: Aa Esa:' upon A ahd tur, l, Les Contessions {Bat-rimore: lohn, Hoplr'. Pre\. lq6br: (J u\eppe scaratrE. rene/ia. Rou$eau e i avnovd,in Centc d'Erudes Franco ltalien.es, Universires de Turin d Ae S^\ote, MebnEa d b nenonede Fnn o Sinone: Ftuace et nok dans lo ultue eurcpAear? (Ceneva: Slartine, t98l),rr, 561 trj and Le er Croc*et, Jaa Jacqa Roasyau ltlev yort: Macdillan, t968 t3), l,

37. M^y. Rousseau pat lui- ane, t29-5j.38. On Rousseau\ rrip to England, see Louis J, Cou oh, Le sdjou de Jeun-Jacques

Rotsseau et Ahsletefte 1t766-l267,) (Cenevaj Jullien, tglt)i M at!:atet H, peoptes, Lo que;el.Rouseau'Hune. A1nales kak Jacqu* RoBeu I (t921-28). I Slti Henri Roddie;. J€2,la.oup\ Rouieau ph lael.lptr? ou XV t.

'ie.tr tpar.: Bonrn. taso,. hpeoa J 25a_Uhi

Jacques voisine. Jean-Ja.qu6 RoN@u en Anstetete d tdpoqre lonantique: La eurs4ltobiqraphiques et la lacende (pat\s. Didier, l9j6), B 55i Edward Duttu Fozrs?a! fEneland (Betkelcy: Univesiry oi California press, t9?9),9-31; antl Crocker, Jaa,-Jacq,€s

39. The patiarhal a(aneenenr oi Clarens is the implicit discovery of Erienne Cilson\cla$ic "La nithode de M. de wotmaa (in a6 /d&s

"r /es /erres [paris: V.in, l9j2]. 275

98), and rhe explicit object of nore recenr studies, imludine Tony Tan.er, ..Julieel.la Manonpaternelle': Anolher Look at Ro$se rs La Nourelle Hitoire," Daedalrs lO5 rno. l: winrer1976), 23-45; Kanuf, Frinorr ol Fehinine Dente, 91-t22, DeJeao, Litetut! Fofti.ficatioas,16l-90; and (avanash, Wrnins the'huth, \ 2t_

40. In a stylisric readins of rnis passase tofr the Cortssio,r (quored by me hee andtbroDshout th€ iollowine paeet, Hunrinston Willians arrues rhat Rou$eau! svnrax so succes\'ully mime. rhe .repe \e ph).icqt doremenr ot$atkins,.rhd. rhroleh: -.he,or,atlour de foEe," it acruallt -elevatelsl Rou$eau to the same eblrd stare desciibed in thenanarive" (Rousseou and Rohanti. Autobjocrutrh!, lo- 13). D€spire fie nanifen insenuity oflh€analysn, one is nilllefi wonderinswhy Rou$ea! should persGt in lanenti.s those e.s;aricDoments of ramblinc reverie as nEtridabty los in rhe pa$, if as Witrian; ckins, ,1hepEsenl acr ol w tins oreates rhh past anew,. (tj).

4l.rl._'Mon po rar. L It28. On rhe.$ed q16,ron or Rou.,eau\..mdtddy..,.eeeipecially skrob' ll\ "Su td mclcdie de Rouseau,, rn / o ,,on"po,".," n ,,oouo"i, ltO-441CEment, Jean-JacCup\ Rors.ar, )?.t.91: and Xotman. rho anuretJ q$ocisre. Rodrecu\Amtnian aune and urinary disorder b a desire ro -be,, the mother and ro sive bkth to achild a: rl one were -pd$ing a rone .rh,ough rh. u.erhra (/ e 6pc.t dc" J?nn?:, ta8 ,O)or course. !!(h a ranra\v ot canralon and r€minra,ion !an dl.o be 5hNn !o cond,r,on hi!

168 NOTF,S TO PAGES II5-I18

eiotic investments in various kinds of phallic somen fiom Mll€. Lanberier. who spankshim, to Mme. d'Houdetor, whose surDrise visir dressed in nothing less inan an ?4rerrfta,outfi1 ri8sen Rousseau\ sense ol being tult in love tor '1be tu$ and only" tiner "On rhistrip, she qas oh horseback and dressed as a nan lar chetal et en hotune\. Although I annot very fo ol such masquemdes. the an of roma.ce aboul rhh one charned me, a.d thistine n *as lo!e.. ,. the tust and only love in all my tiie, one vhose consequences ma*e ilfor4er nenorable" (Corlessto,r l, 419).

42, "Nor for lons did my ioagination leave this lovely land deserred, I populated it *iihbeinBs afier ny osn hcan, and casting out opinions, prcjudices and alt lake passions. It.a.spofied inro naruE\ refuges men wonhy ofinhabidng 1hen. out of these nen, I lormeda charnins society to Nnich I did not feel unwonhy ol belonsins. I fabricated a colden aseto sujt ny fancy, and fillin8 those lovely days wnh all the sc€nes ny head could still desir.,I becameemotio.al to the point ofreare in consi.terins lhe true pleasuFs ofhumanirx pleasurcsthal are so delicious and so pur, and rhat are hen elorrh so disrant from nen" (1, ll40). lfwc accept what Rou$eau says in book lX of rhs Co,ftsrrb,s (I,430ri.), his novel !a Norwl/ed4o6" would have been conceived and elaborated out of qa.lly such a lamasy. And i. aIeuei to Jacob veinet, dared November 29! 1760, he sinilarly projcrs rhe writinc oi Enr€as tne outcome ol hh Beries Nhile walting: .A kind of rrealise on edlcation, iull oi mycustonary reveries and the final iruit of ny runic piomenadesldethietltait d. tues pronerdd5chahpatdl, rcm ins ro be published br ne" lcorrespondane cohplite de Jean-tacquetRorrseur, ed, R. A. Leish lceneva: Insiitlt Mlsee vohane; and Oxford: Vollair. Foun-darion, l96s-891, vll. 332).

41. ConJesio6. 1.162,

45, On the ptdicamenl of bappiness as a problen of consciousne$, see Ceorces PoDlet,Etuda sur le tenDs hunaia I lParis: Plon. 1949). 220-15,

46. Compare the rouowing pasage iiom "Mon Do(iait"r "l never do anylhinc exceprdurins ny strelh, the countryside h ny study; rhe meE asped ol a rable, paper and booksh tedious to ne, fie accourrenenrs oi work discourage ne, if I sn down lo wrire I findnorhins and the need io be wiuy 1akes ir away" (t, tl28).

4?. Cf. the des-ipiion of the "llluni.alion" ai vincennes in the second ..Letlre A Matesherbes": "li I could ever have wrinen a quarter of whar I saw and lelt under this ree. withwhat clarity I would have made evid€nr the conriadictions of the social sysrem . . AU that Icould rcrain of tnese svams of gEat truths that enlishrened me lor a quafler of an hournnder lhis t@ has been ieebly scatrered into my three najor writinsJ' (1, ll35 36).

48. Perhaps nowhere is lhis contradiction berween travel and wdrin8 sononically preseniedas in Rousseaut persuadine Dideror and Crinn to accompany him on a long-d.sn€d tourof Italy on ioot only to see the pmjecl ransnuted into a mere erercise in q ling: "For aIo.3 while, I seaiched Paris for No comrades sharing ny taste, each willins to confiburefifty ld,b fron nis puse and a year of bh rine for ajoinr rour or lraly on roor.. .. I renenberlalkine wilh such pasion ol rhe project to Diderot .nd Orimm thal I finally save then rhesame urae. I rhoughl I had it all setled: but soon i! alr reduce<l irselt lo a nere journey on

Oap{ lun totwe par4.titl,in which Crimm iound norhins noErleasant thanrerina Diderctro connit various impieties and handinsne o!e. to lie lnqunition in hG stead" (Corl$to,r,l, 59).

49. Rerdies, l,999.50. Accordins to the erymolosy set lo h by wartburg, lhe words /Aw and .6ter€ would

be derived lrom a hypotbetical Laiin word, rcpnaErJ, deaning r1o ioam aboui, to wand€rfor one\ preasure, ro rake a prearant {ark lvagabonde. e/M pour son plaki. Jaire urep.otuena.le jote6el'i (Frunz.;sisches Etlnotosisthes Wittetbuch lB^set: zbinden, t96ol, X.

NOTES TO PAGES II9-I24

184). Adds Marcel Raynond, "it is a question of leavins oneselt, ot leavins o.e\ naturalchara.rei, ol deviatins lrom the belten path, of soing anray, of soins our ot bounds tar.,-vasuerl (Jean-Juques Rousseau: La quote de soi et la ftrdie lParhr Jose Corti, t9621,r59ll). The r€velie lhus alEady imqlies a ptohena.le and vice versa. Cf, Amautl Tripet. aaftaetie tirCrcirc: Essaistt Ro,Jsear (Ceneva: Drcz, l9?9)t Robert J. Morrnser &.aypl&jusqu A Roussear: Raherches sh un tapos lifttone (Lea\ngron, Ky.: Fiench Forun, 1984)iand Hnnlinsroo WilliEns, fousseau and Ronantic Artobiosruphr, 9-22.

St. Ct. Rousseau juse de kan,Jrcqt* (Dialoeu5). I, a45-4j.52. Motrissey corecdy sees in this Elerie of prior Everies an ..embedde.r phenomenon',

thal n lne culnioation of Rousseau\ anempts to rlrn the rcverie into a .tkte oi autarty,':"To fall inro a reverie over forner rryeries [/Cr"r a s?J /rre.,?s z/,2,rrelo61 apD@rs as a meansol enriching them, ol makins them lile nore lully, (t54ff.). Such a s{onddesree reveriethus aho nonically reconftns Tripefs orisinal insishr in1o the .everie as a nelancholy neansto Ecover i a lost place and a shatreed unily": .,lThe reveriel does .or exist vnhoul somealienalion lron which it anemprs in turn to departi so as ro live.,. in an anrriority yhichrhe rcverie herDs us rcaprure llo lCtetie li irane,26t. Cl. Srarobinski\ disclssion ofwhatbe caus tecondary Everie" (.Relerie er rransmutation,,, in Lo tokspdrence et I'obstacle,4\5-29).

53. Ano.B the many srudies of rhe analosies ber$een wrilins and boranizins in rheREBi€s, se especially (ava.agh. hitins the Trrth, 165-80; Srarcbinski, aa rruBpderc?et I'obsra.te.218 82; McDonald vance, txrlzyzsanr Sr"pnel4 7o-?3; Cossnan, ,.The lnno,cen! Arl," 72 74j David Scolt, "Rouseau and Flowers: Tne poelrl of Bolanr." S/EC r82(19?9), ?3-86; Pierre Saint Amand, ..Rou$eau co.lre Ia sciedce: L'exemple de ta botaniquedans les lexles autobiographiques," SI,EC 219 (1981), 159 6?; Jenny E. Bartay, ..L herbier,journal de reveies, conne subniru! d,une CcritDre aurobiosraphique chez Ro!$eaui,,jnRoussea! et voraite a 1973,I l8ia.d in a noE Dhenomenolosical resisrer, John C. O'Neal,SeeineondObsdrinE:Rous.attRhetotico.fP.rceptioh(S^t^tosa.Cal.:AnmaLib,1985),122 38. On rhe ielation betsen the ,affectile nemory , of lhe berba un and rhc icmporalproblen ol conscjousness! see Ponlet, Errder 226-15.

54. J.-8. Pontah, E r.e /p rpre et ld douleut (P^tis: A^\imard, t9?7), lj6.55. lt *as Robe( Osno.t Nho firei analyzed 1he resemblances belween Montaisno! and

Rousseau\ accidenrs in hn "Contribution a l'etude psychologi$e des Riwies du pnnerursotuaite," Annales Jean Jocqtes Fo6reo! 23 (1934), 54-55. Also see Henri Roddier,s ..tnrioduction" to aes Rrr"/i6 (Paris: Garnier, 1960), lxvi-lwiii and Huntinglon willians, Rorsrea/and Rondrti. Autobioetuph!, 4 S.

56. HonorC de Balzac, Ie Pire Aoriot, in La canAdie huhsine (Pads: Callinard, 19768l), IIl, 290, The PaE Lachaise cemetery was opened in 1804, rhe cDlminalion ot a refornmovemenr in bu.ial practices rhal Eplaced the old cbarnel hoDse *ilh th€ landscaped cardenGee Richaid A. Ellin, The Archrectrre oI Deathr The Ttarcfo.nation of the Cenetet| irEiBht@nth-Cehtary Pa s lcanbridge, Ma$.: MIT Press, 19841). As E in also sho*s, Rousseau\ o*n "natu.allrtonb, as l.ndscaped byde Marquis deciraidin on tbe lle des peuplieisned Ermenonville, represenFd an impodanl rurn in the iorrlnes of lhn novenent (204 9).An ediroriar nol€ to rhe Preiade ednion ot Le Perc Aoriot O j3O) signals the pubtication otgui.lebooks ror lhe modnh strolles and .tonrisrs', who besan frequenlins the cemerery earlyon, definitrs it as rn. dace in Plrn to take a walk: a?.rrductew au cidetii,e de t Est at.!" PC.e-Lrchabe lPatis: Plass, t9z()i aod Ponenade sdtuk au.ituetiirc du pare-Lachakeu du Mont Louis pfts de Parjr (Paris: Lachevadiaie. ln26)

5-. Norice lhar Rous,eau\ rie' or rhi ! q heE ^ wet a. n the ptup\.ion oJ ta h o!a Sdowrd yi.aa is not only from o. high (as Moniesquieu woutd hale pEscribed) but .tso

169

I?O NOTES TO PAGES I25.I29

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

58. On Rolss€u\ possccidenr plenitnd. h indifi€Entiarion, s€e also Poulel, Erldet 215.

Lionel Cossman nd ako perceptively.ol€d the dissolurion of ev€n the most basic oppositionin fte R,wi6j "Nhat is oien cau€d life inn€di4y, prcsence, plenirude, enjoynent-nclosely akin ro death" ("The hnoce Arr," 7l),

59. More Rousseauisr rha. Rousseau hinself in @ountins rhe accidenl, Ber.ardin de

Sainr-PierE also applies the vord @rrcl€ in desfihins rh€ philosopher! wounds: "One oirbose C@t Da.es thal the vaniry ol rich people allows 10 run ahead of their coaches, ro thcnhiorlu.e ol folks on foor. *nocled llea.-Jacques Rou$eall so roughly onlo rhe palemenr

rhat he lost all conscioDsn6s. Sone charnabk passemby picked hin up: hh upper lip was

split, the thunb of his isbt hand was all skinned l€.or.r4. He came back to hinself ltlEvi,l d l,il. They wanred to hire him a cariage, but he didn\ wanl one fo. fea. of catbinsa chill. He cane bac* hobe o. foot i// 4vini.r4 lui d piedi a doctot can€ runningl

lRouseaul thanked bin ior his frie.dsnip bur refused his helt. lnsread, he was codtenl towash bis wounds, vhich aftei a few days heal€d periedly. h's narure who cuFs,' he said,

'nor nen" (La eie et les ouvnses, 49)-

60. Cl. Aeneid tt,29!-91 aoa p.ssin. My criiiqle ol rh€ tneobsical eference point findsan eloquent lellow traveler in Sartre\ relativisl rcprc.cb to Frangois Mauriac for assuoingthe posilio. olCod in rclation ro the chamclers in his noleh: "As do rhe En ol our autbors,he wanled to ignore rhat the lheory of relariliry applies inte8rally lo lhe novelGdc universe,

rhat in a true novel there is, no moe rhan in tne Norld ol Einsrein, do place for a prilile8edobserver, and rhal in a .ovelisric sysrem, thee exis$, no more rhan in a physic.l stslem, no*pe.inenr that can Eveal *hether that systen n in morion or al resr" (Srrart 6 I lParis:Callimard, 19471, 5G5?).

61, On the slatus ol tne siBnatDre (or ils absnce) in Rous€an, se Ellen Bu , "Rousseauthe Scribe," Sildter i, Roaarlrirr 18 (Wi.t.r 1979), 629-67; and Pecey Kanuf, Sisuar@Piec6: On the Instnution oJ AuthoBhip, espeially 2l-120.

62. Sidce Rousseau\ rine. Sainr Piefie has been renamed rhe IIe Rouseau, and lhe ruePlarridE similarly redubh€d rhe rue Jean-Jacques Rou$eau. Wbile such a naning of a place

after a pecon is not unusual, it does ailord us an inrerestin8.ontrast wnb lhe cases otMontaisne and Montesquieu, whose names aE derived fron a p.eviouslt exisrios place, theownership of which sives its Dosse$or leave to apply ihe nane ro himself. True ro the elhicsof E-ila and despire his ilaunted nosralgia for his bnrhplace oi Cenela, Rouseaut honeturns our ro cotrespond to any nunber olrhose pl&es wheE ne happened to nay, wrire, and

63. Developed nosr elabolarely wirh rsp(l ro rhe case or rhe \lo1l6an lFmn the Histoltof ar l4fontile Neutosk, in S.E. xvll, 7-122), the imporlant psychoanalytic conceDl oiNrchtiislithkeit n^s bee defi.ed by Jean Laplanche and Jean-Baptiste Po.lalis: "Experiencss, inp.esions, and memo.yrraces may be revised ar a later date to lir in with freshqperiences or {nh the auainmen! ol a ns staee ol developnem. They may in that elentbe endowed nol only Nirh a new meanins bul aho with psychical effectiv€ness" ("DeferredActlml in The Ldrpua?e oI PJr.ro,4ralyr6, rr, Donald Nicholson-Smith [New York: NoFton, l97ll, Ill).

Index

Addison, Joseph, 73, 158

Alps, 10, 109, ll8, l3d 139

AIquie. Fedinand, l50-5l, 152

Apostrcphe, 106-8, 165

Aquinas, Sainl Thonas, 39

Aususlin€, Saint, 39; Ctr o/ Ood xjv

Balller. Adrien, l5l, 153, 154Balu, Honde de: Plrc Aoriot, 124, 169Balzac, Jean-Louis Cue de, 60, 153

B.triare. Pierre, ?1, 154, l5?, 160Badhes, Roland, rxii, 6, ll4, 116, t47

A.istotle, A.hlotelianisn, xviii, uii, 19, 40 Baudetane, charles, xviiArnauld, Anloine, 150 Beaujour, Michel, t42, 156Asia, 69-70 BeaunonlsuFohe, IAraraxia, 15-16 Bectelt, sanuet, t5oA*inso., Ceoffroy, 39, ll5, 142, 146 Bernadin de Sain.Pierre, Jacques, 164, 170

Bla.lhol, Maurice, 58. t52

t?3

Bousainlille, Louis Anroine de, xv, 39, 162Branrone, Piere de Boudeilles, abbi de. 6Anrnet. Cilbei, 71, 158

Buror, Michel, xiii, x!, 6, 133, l.r5

Campanella, Tonnaso, 68

Casraion, 23, 26-18, 48, 67, 81, Il3, t6?68. S?e abo Phallus, phauocenlrnm

C6line. Louis-Ferdinand. xiiiCerva.tes, Miguel de: Do, Ouircte, xiii, 40Chailes Vlll oi France. 6Chareaubriand, Franqois R.n€, vicomre de. 6Chenonceaux, Louise Dupin, Mne. de, llt

Chrisrina, Qneen ol Ssedcn, I54Cice.o, Marcus TDllius, xxi, 27. 134

Climablosx 63, 69, 154-55Colbe , Jean,Aaprisre, xxviiConnerce and economics, xvi, rlii, xviii,61,

?7 80, 82, 90 91, 120. 162

Compasnon, Antoine, 32-31, l4l-4,1, 146

cool, CaDiain Janes. r!, 89

Cyrano de Berge.ac, Savjnien de, ,lO

Danto Alishieri, xiii, 39, .t0David, Jacques Louis, 84Dealh, xvi, 20, 21 38, tlo, t2r-26, 129, t43,

169

De Brcsses, Charles, 6, 73, 139, 158De Ce eau! Michel! rix, Bl, t3?, 145Dideyan, Charles, xxi\ ll0, 116, lt9Deioe, Daniel: Rordso, C&roa xiii, xxvi,98De Lauretis, Teresa, xx!i, lt6Derida, Jacques, xx, xriii, xrv,5,20,9?i l3l,

I]3, 134-t5, t36, lt9, 142_4t. 148, l6t,163, 166

Descaites, Rend, xxir, rxvii, 6, 15, 39-61, ?2.75, 76, 81, 86, 87, 88, 91, 102, to4, 105.107, Il0, l14, r2tl, t24, 129 lo, t46 54,157, l10t Distortse on Method, 4O-4t. 4a-

54, 59 61, 75, I04, l.t?, t52, 153, t54i''Dream" oi,51 51, t51.. Metaphyi.atMeditations, 11 48, 49, 5]-5q 8t, t2t,r48 .19, r52, r53, t54 prin.iples oJ philonph!, 152, 151i Seo,ch for 1iuth, ]'?.a,151t Trcatise on Man, t53i me u/otkl,t41, t52

Deseine, Francois: Nouka! ,oras. /?ara?3, t55

Denur de T.acy, Anroine,Louis Ctaude,

Diderot. Denn, xxviii, 163Doiron, Nornand, 62, 133, t54Du Bellay, Joachim, 6, ?3, r.12

Du Ma6ais, Cisr Chesneau, xrii, 134

Edelnan, Narhan, 41, 1.t8, t5lEducarion, xri, 6, 23, 50, 63, 85-r08, l6t,

163, !68

Enerson, Ralph waldo, IEnt lope.lie: "Economie polilique, t64j

"voyace,' vii, xv rrii, xxix,6,24,851

England, 63, 69, 70, llt, tt3, ll8. t59, 16?.

Erasnus, Desiderius, 6Ermenonville, 129, 169Eroricism,21 28,31, 31,95, llO-l . ll6,

167-63Enor, 19, ,lo, 45 61, 81; and rranssresion,

Eyquem, Piere, 7, 29 18, 144, 145

Farhe6 and sons, xxviii. 6, 17, t9, 29-i8, 48,75,82-84,94,96 109, llr, l12, 127 to,l4l 44, r,14, 145-46, 163

Fenelon, Franqon de Salisnac de La Morhede: Awhtures de Tdvnaaue, 6a. 9A 99,I]0, 16.1

Fleury, Andre-Hercule, cardinat de, t56

Fonr€nelle, Bernard Le Bolier de, l5?, 162Foucault. Michel, *viii, I.10, l4t, 143

Freud, Sigdund, xiv, 24, t29, 142, I,11, 144,15l, 158, t6.t. l?0

Ga$endi, Pierc, 149. l5lOeneva, 93, 109, 129. ll4, 16l, 165, 170

Georee lll of Eneland, lllGibbon, Edward, 71, 157, 158

God, 52, 55-56.57,58.98. 12?-29. 1,16. r48,150, lJ2, r70

Ooethe, Johann WolfsaD8 !on, xlii, 73, 158

Crand tour, 65, 85, 97, l2l, Il0, 155

Creece. 3, ll, 69, ?8, 80

Creenbe.s, Mirchcll, 19. l3?, 142, 146

Crimm, FrddCric-Melchior, 168

Cueroult, Manial, 148, 153

He8el, Ceors wilhelm Sriedrich, rjv, xxv,143, l5li Heaelian dialectic, 64, lm-l0l

Hei<leeget, Mattin: Beiry dr.l Tine, xi\

Holland, 60 61, 61, 152 53

Homer, xiii, xvi, 96. ll4i Odl,rs€.y, xv, xxv,91, 98, lto, 134

Ho6es and equenrian ralcl, ll 19, 21, 25-27, 10-12, 14, t5. 16 37, 45-43. 51. ll2.t13. t15, 130. !41. 150. 168

Holderor, Sophie. comtese d , lll, 168

Hune, David, lll, 149, 160

lraly, xv, xxix-rxx, l. I, d 5, 6-12, 23, 31,3l-35, 59-60, 61, 63, 69, 72 7d ?5, 80,8d 109 ,lr, r38 40,149, 154-55,15?,158,160, 167, 168. 5e. a6o Apenninest Castelnuovo: Floence: Cenoai Hannibal:Loretoj Lucca; Milan; Naplesi Po; Pon-trenolir Prattolinot Rome; RubiconiSusa; Tibert Tivolii Turin: Vaticani ven

laucourl, Louis der E crc/opldip anicles on"Voyage" and Voyageur," rii, xv-xvii.xxix, 6, 24, 85, lll, ll?, 119, 16l

lGnt, lmmanuel, 55, 88 89, 149, I5o, r52,r58, l6r

(lein, Melanie, xxvi, Il6KiDlinS, Rudyard, xxliKolman, Sarah, xxviii, I37, 167 68

Labar, Le Pir€ Jean Baprisle, ?1, 158La Brlde. chareau of, 70, 82, 83Lacan, Jacques, 21, t43, 165La Condanine, Chanes Marie de, 162

La Fo.raine, Jean de, xvii, r32, ll3Lanonran, Louis Armand de, xxviiiLalande. .rospeh Jdrone de, 71, I58Lambercicr, Mlle. Cabrielle, 168Lanberr, Anne Therese de Marglenal de

Cou.cellcs. marqune de, 15?

La Popelinidre, Henii l-ancelot Du vohin de,146

Larnage, Suzanne Francoise du Sa!lzet,

Leibniz, cotfried wirheh. 152, 153

Levasseur, Th€rese, lllLavi Sftus, claude, xiv, 89, 132, 136, l3?,

D8

Libertina8e, xxiii, 40, l4?

Louis Xll of France, 6

Luxembolrg, Charlelllan':oisFrd.tarjc de

Monhorency, narich.l de France et duc

Lnynes, Loun-Chancs d'Alberl, duc d€, 42

Lyotard, Jcan-Franaoh. xiv, 13l, 149, 162

Maccannell, Dean, xvii,65,89, 132, 155, 162

Malebranche, Nicolas de, 152, 15?

Maps, naDpine. xx. rxi, ?, 51.65,69,1619,88 89, r59

Marin, Louis,64, tlt, I37, l4O, t.t2, 143, l4Z155

Marivaux, Pierc Carlet de Chamblain de.gr)

Maupertuis, PiereLouis Moreau de. t52Mauriac, Francois, r?0May, Ceorges, llt, t6l, 167

Memoix art ol, xxii, 68, lll-22, 129, l]4,156, 16?. 169

Metaphor, xiii, xix-xx, xtii-xxiii, t5, 4r, .18,54 5?-59,61, ?5, 83,94, t2t 22, 123, 134,135, r.12, t47, r50, 153

Misson, Fra.cois-Maximilien, 71. 158Monraisnc, Michel Eyquem de, xv, xvi, xri{

xxlii! xxix! xrx, t-38, 19, 40, 4t, 42, .14,45, 48, 54, 56, 59-60, 63, 71, ?5, 84, 8s,91, 92, t02, 104, 105. lo?, 108, lro, Irr,ll3, U9, t23-26, 129-30, ll4, 13? 46,14?.18, I49, 154, t5a, \69i Apotosl lotRdrnond Sebond, 15, 39, 143-,14, 146.169, l?oi "Custom oi lhe ltan.l oi Cea,-27j Olthe Afidion or Fathers tor ThenCbildren," l?; .,Ol Cannib!1s,,, rx!iii.2d 35,36, 7s,91, 133, t45i ..OfCoaches.,,

ll, 15, 36, l40i ..Ot Demofirus and Heraclitus," l9i of Drunlenne$," ur9, "otrhe Educarion ol Children,,' xxix, 8, 8i,l37t "Of Experience,,' ttr, 3?, t40, 142.144, 149; '.Ol Civins rhe Lie," t7, 138,144;"Ol Husbanding your \vill,,'2t. 331''Ol ldlene$,,' t2-t9, 21. 2?, t6 37, 56.92, to?. l4t-42i .,Ol lhe power or rhehasinarion,', I40; .,Ol pra.rice,', t9 32,31, tlg, t23-26, t42 41, l69j ,.Of Repen,tance," 19, 31 44, !.t4; .,Oi th€ Resenblance oi ChildEn ro Farhers,,, 27r ,.OiSolirude," 142; OiThree Ki.ds of A$o-ciation," 142;.,Olvanity, 3l, l2 38, ?1,l4d ls3; "On Sohe Veises or Virsil., 3l.36; "Our Felinss Reacn our beyond Us.,.l4l; "That b Philosophize h ro Learn toDte:' 25; Theotosia Naturulis by Ra\-hond Sebond, rranstatio. oi. 3? i8: ..T.rhe Reader,' t7, 38, j42; Trawt Joumat

(to holt b! wa! o.f Switze and aatJ Aeruarul. \1\. l-2,4-12, ]l .12,14 15, 18.60. 61, tJ7-40. 142, t49, 154. t53

Monresquieu, Chartes-Loun de Secon.lar de,xxiv, xxlii, rxx,6, 62_84, t6,91, 91, to5,I0, lI, 5. l2t, t21, t29_3O, \54 61,161, 169. ttoi Asace et knAnie,6jtCon-sidenlions oh theCoas6 oJth. Grandeu,dnd De.o.Jen.e oI rhe Ronaas, 63. lj."Considerations sur tes richesses d€ I,Espaanei" ?9,80j ..Essai sur Ie soot,,, 63,14. Me. P?nsaes, j2,82, aj 84, j55. ts6,l57i t Nores sur I'Angletede, TOt perrr.",,€re.s, xxviii, 63, 66-67, ?8. 81, 86, ll3,1.17, t55i ,,Rdflexions sur ra monarchi.unive.selle," 79 80; ..Reflexions sur teshabilanh de Rome, , 6l I ,srr.i/ise, 72; /reSpir, oJ the La$,6t,64,61.6s 11,11-84, 154. 156-57. t59t Le Tehpt? de Anide,6ti yorage Jrcn Cn. to The Hasue, 63_68, 7l ?4, 83_84, 154_56, ts-t, 161

Monresquieu, Denke de, 8:, 160-6tMonlfaucon, Berna.d de, 73, 158

Montnoren.y, rown of, 89Mor, Thonas: U/opl?, 40, 68Morhere and lisures of marernity, rrvi, 19.

15,94,91, tO8 9, \44. t61, 161

Nabotov. vladimir xiiiNancy, Jean,Luc, 148. 149, t5O

Navisarion and nauricat rrar.t, ll, ?8 82, 9d12. 160, 162

Nerval, Cerard de, 6, ?l

Otkor, xviii, xx, xxii, xx!, xxviii, 8, B, 38,44, 68, 70, ?4, 30, 93, 98, rO0 lo2, 106.t21, t28. 129. 164

Ormox Chauhet, Mme d . t26 2?

Paris, x!, 1,7t,91,96, l02, 10, It8, lt9,I2l 24, t25, I29, 163, 169

Pavel, Thomas, xir. 132

Phallus, phallocenlrism, xxv, 13, 2j, 28, 75,82-84 98, t03, 134 t4t, t4l, t60, t6?, sft

Plato, 39, 91, rt4i The Republi.. xi\

Ponralis. Jean-Baptiste, r2O, t69. l7O

Proun, Marcel, xiii, 6

Quedon, Anne,Cabriel Mensnier dc. t0

Relativhd, siii, 36, 40. l7ORheloric and fopes, xxi-xxiii, 4O-4r, l]4, ll5,

Rone, xxix xxx, 2, 9, tt, t2, 21, 32, 34-35,60, 63, ?:-?4, 76, 77, ?8, 30, 84, 9t, 128,139, r40, 1.12, 144, rs0. 157_58. 159. .S€?

Rou$eau, Jean-Jacques, xxir xxvii, xxx, 6,85..r30, 133, r4r, 16r-10., Confasions,108 18, ll9, 16l, 165, 166, t6?, r68t Co,-siderutions on theCovernnent oI pota.d.t62t Dis.ou6e on the Ans otd S.ie"ca,tM, 109: Discoulse on he Origins ar.tFoundation ol tnequatitr ohons Mek, 9r-92, 100, rld 16l, t65 66: Enite,85-tVJ,108, r09, llt, lt4, u7, l19, t26, r28, r29.161. 162-63, 164, t65. rca, nO.. Enite andSophie, ot the SolitaryOre' q nA, D5,164, \65i En.r.topldie a icte an ,'Econnmie politiqte: 164i J,tie, ou to NoueeleHetbiv, 96. 128, 166, t61, 168., Leftre ad'Atenbert, 165:..Lenres a Malesh,erbes:' tt5. l6s, rcai Letn6 khta de tonftra8,e, lto, 163, l65i.,Mon po iair,,,II?, 167, 168; Nzrcirse 162.. ptoJ\sion oJFanh o! a Sowlad yicat, ttj, t62 63.t69: Rereies of a Salitary watket, a1, \05,

l16 17. 8-29, I6t, t65, 166. t68_?0:Rousteau juse .te te,n-Jocq,es, t69ls@iar contruct, t63

Rubicon, 6, t39Ruins, xxix xxx, 9, 34-i5, ?3. 142. tss

Sade, Donarrn Atohon5e Francor, narquh

Sainr Pierre, nhnd of, lod |9, r29, t?0Sartre, Jean-Paul, t?O

Sebond. Raymond, 37, l4J

Seneca, Lucius Annaeus, 6, l4l, t50Shackleton, Robe.l, 84, 154, 155, 158, r60.

l6r. r6?Shakespearc, willian, l4lSilhoueue, Erienne de, 73, 158

Skepticisn, xxiii, 16, 16 3?, .10 41, 59, 63,t46, 148, 153

Snollert, Tobias, ?t, t58Spanish conquest or rhe Nes World, xvii,

xxlii, 3, 36, '9

80, 132, 116, l4o

Starcbinski, Jean, 64 66, 7t, tor, 125, l4l,145, r55, l6t, 163, 164, t65, 166, 16Z 169

Stendhal (Hend Beyle), 6. 6j. 71, BO, t6O

Snblihe, 55, 82, t52

S*itzerland,6, lll, lt3, ll4, 165

Tavernier, Jean-Baptnre, 87Gn.in, Claudine Alexandrine Cudrin de, 74,

153

Tiloli, l0Tourhh, xvii. xxi!,65 66, 68, ?4 75, 83-34

130, 132. 169. see abo srand toutTronchin, Jean Robe , tto

115

Tioy, 128

Turin, Torino. 60. 109-10, ll8, 16?

Utopias, &-41, 68, l0l, 147

V€nice, ll, 5q ll0, 16?

vico, Ciamb.lrista, xir 150

Villex Piere. 15. 15. l3?, 138. l4l. l,r4Vnsil: ,,1.""i4 xiii, 8l-82, 128, 160. 170

Vollaire, F..n9ois-Marie Arcuet de, rvii, 132,

147, t51, t6l

walliing and f@l l..vel, 109, lll 10, 149,167, 168, l?0

Warens, Francoise-LouiF de La Ton., Mne.

wnlsedsrein, Lndwb, r34wonen and fisuB of Lnininiry: and De$

carles,153; and €du@tior,96 97, 126 2?;and gende.ed loposraphr xxr-xxxli; andMontaigne, l45i antl Monl€squieu, 160;

and Rousseau, I63i as dansrous d.toursfor oen, nv, xxviii,94,98, 103, llo-ll,126-2?, l30i .s endt.sered by travel, 67;as self-s€rcraing, 13, 18, I4li rs wrires,I22 2?i exclusion froo scienc€, 153;re$ricled lo the bonq xxv, xxviii, 36-3r,9+9?i viaed as rravelins in qcessive

conion, ll3i wom.n travele.s. 136. Sealso Morhers and fieur€s ol marernily

zulietla, ll0, 167

Georges Vrn Den Abb€ele is professor of French at the University ofCalifornia-Davis. He is ihe translator of Jean-Frangois Lyotard,s flrsDfuend: Phruses in D,bpr,e and has published numerous essays on earlymodern literature and contemporary theories in ,idc.jtics, Esptit CtiateurRomanlic Review, Ftench Studies, a\d Stdnjotd Frerc, nerierl. He is alsoa member of The Miami Theory Collective and the coeditot oI Communitydt Zoore ,E/dr (Minnesola, 1991).