There is something quite paradoxical in talking about the novel as a ‘genre’. Terry Eagleton calls it a ‘mongrel’ genre, whilst Virginia Woolf states that ‘there is no such thing as “a novel.”’ So the question remains. How do we talk about the novel, Franco Moretti asks in the introduction to The Novel(2006). How do we ‘attack the novel – that spongy tract, those fictions in prose of a certain extent which extend so indeterminately’, queries E. M. Forster. It would appear that, in the seemingly harmonious development of canonical genres, all attempts to normalise the novel as an indivisible account contaminates its ontological blueprint as the ‘other,’ whilst the act of casually referring to it as a ‘genre’ whose very name arises out of ‘convenience’ does not do justice to its position as the foremost, most diverse literary genre of the last three centuries. The novel, it seems, is riddled with paradoxes.
Twentieth-century treatises by Mikhail Bakhtin and Georg Lukács illustrate this paradoxical nature. According to the former, the novel betrays a will to belong to the structures of ‘high literature’ – and this is particularly noticeable in the modernist novel – and a will to be, at all costs, detached; a will to maintain, in other words, its role as the literary and socio-historical phenomenon whose task is to exist outside of, and intervene on, the abstract corpus of the ‘literary’. Lukács singles out a different yet no less potent paradox. According to him, the novel represents public and individual experience both in sync with what he calls an ‘organic connection with social and historical factors’ and with ‘the [private] emotional and intellectual dynamism which necessarily develops together with the modern world’. Even the modernist novel, with all its commitment to experimentation and renunciation of classical-realist patterns, exemplifies this dependence on paradox. Indeed, the adoption and subsequent renunciation of a common historical, intellectual and artistic past is the vehicle of a tacit modernist anxiety which seeks, on the one hand, to establish an aesthetic with which it may ally itself, whilst on the other, to assert its right to detach itself; its right to renounce, oppose or overthrow. As Mark Wollaeger argues, in being acutely aware of the often sinister socio-political and cultural role of ‘propaganda’, a number of inter-war novelists such as James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, Ford Madox Ford and George Orwell were at pains to negotiate a way of combining a seemingly imposed duty to declare an ‘alliance’ or ‘solidarity’ with a certain principle or cause – feminism, social equality, political determination for the oppressed and so on – even whilst they were implicitly downplaying the effectiveness of such engagement in favour of a more detached modernist aesthetic whose influence they felt compelled to promote.
This paradoxical essence at the heart of the novel as a ‘genre’ could be explored from within, or in terms of its relationship with, the concept of ‘democracy’. Particularly evident since the advent ofits modernist incarnation, the novel seems to be marked by important as well as incongruous impulses at play in the very essence of its position, both in relation to its wider socio-cultural and political reality and in terms of its own aesthetic development. The vehemence with which figures the highbrow Q. D. Leavis, Virginia Woolf and George Orwell, among others, attacked the popularity of the middlebrow Arnold Bennett, John Galsworthy and Winifred Holtby during the 1920s and 1930s, illustrates a dichotomy between the novel’s perceived task as a socio-cultural proposition available to, and accessible by, all, and its identity as a ‘literary genre’ in the most pertinent way. In her essay ‘Middlebrow’, Virginia Woolf – the famous exponent of the ‘common reader’ – suggests that she would use her pen to stab whomever called her ‘middlebrow’. In ‘Bookshop Memories’, George Orwell goes even further to link lack of literary taste with femininity in what reads like a tour-de-force of snobbery and misogyny. In his meticulous introduction to the 1992 edition of Ulysses (1922), Declan Kiberd cogently argues that the multitude of rhetorical devices employed by Joyce underscores the humility of the novel, even its ‘democratic’ element. I would add that the immediately identifiable humanity in which Ulysses invites us to commune and the unmitigated access it affords its reader, suggest an unprecedented degree of democratic aspiration: whereas Richardson and Austen invite the reader to the drawing room, Joyce invites him/her to the lavatory. Yet, this self-same aspiration contributes to the perceived impenetrability of Ulysses as a novel. And this does not only refer to its reputation as a very difficult ‘read’; it also refers to the often biased, and markedly antithetical, commentaries advanced by Joyce’s erstwhile modernists. Whilst Lawrence deplores the ‘journalistic dirty-mindedness’ of its author – presumably, as Kiberd suggests, for degrading the aspiratory impulse of the novel – Woolf likens the author of Ulysses to a ‘queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples’ – a comment presumably aimed at Joyce’s identity as a formally educated, ‘highbrow’ male at ease with the task of reworking one of the most canonical texts of western literary history into a novel-like structure that only he, and other ‘highbrow’ males, would enjoy reading. And the paradoxes that mark the twentieth-century novel do not stop there. With the question of women’s emancipation in mind, Woolf, the author who was ready to commit murder if anyone called her ‘middlebrow’, argues that the novel is the perfect medium through which the ‘oppressed’ may express themselves. In firmly suggesting that the novel’s predominant obligation is that it be interesting, Henry James shifts the concern of the novel from its relationship with other genres to its relationship with its readers. Furthermore, linking the novel as a ‘genre’ with the right to democratic protest, Bakhtin regards the novel as an outsider, whilst Lukács considers the realist novel as the highest form of art inasmuch as it combines, reworks and transcends what he calls the ‘pseudo-objectivism’ of the naturalist school and the ‘mirage-subjectivism’ of the abstract-formalist school. Especially during the twentieth century, the novel then appears both as a vehicle of ‘highbrow’ aspiration and a medium through which the oppressed may find a fruitful avenue of socio-political and intellectual fulfilment; it may appeal both to those who wish to pursue an individualistic aesthetic ambition and to those who wish to find an outlet for public, or shared, consciousness; indeed, in the twentieth century the novel appears as the ideal literary legitimator of ‘equality’, ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’ whilst negating the very opportunity of access to its own audience.
A similar kind of paradox is discernible in ‘democracy’, both as a philosophical concept and as a regime of political governance. However, my aim here is not to offer a meditation on ‘democracy’ in general or on problems of democratic applicability; rather, it is to suggest that whether we talk about the concept of ‘democracy’ or about the novel as the ‘genre’ which bespeaks a ‘democratic gesture’, we cannot bypass a number of ineluctable conceptual obstacles, the most important of which – ‘sovereignty’, ‘freedom’, ‘equality’ and the ‘law’ – are enabling yet complicating conditions of both the novel and democracy. In Voyous (2003), Derrida calls attention to the multiple paradoxes at the heart of the concept of democracy. Besides underscoring that concepts such as ‘sovereignty’, ‘law’, ‘authority’ and ‘violence’ are inscribed in the name of democracy, Derrida returns to Aristotle’s Politics to remind us of the important yet very fragile dialectic between strength in numbers (demos and kratein) and strength in merit or ‘value’ (axia). Even at the moment of its inception, the concept of democracy was largely and most precariously dependent, firstly on the willingness of the people to acknowledge its authority (agreement, inclusion), and secondly, on the most crucial tension at its core, the tension between the grip of ‘the many’ over the socio-political reality of the State and the implied rights of the minority (separation, violence). This is not an unproblematic issue insofar as even in classical Athens, the perceived jewel in the crown of democracy, this tension was as potent and as problematic as it has been ever since. In Funeral Oration, the public eulogy delivered by Pericles after the first year of the Peloponnesian War, it is unequivocally stated that the name of ‘democracy’ invokes the strength of the will of the many over the will of the minority. It is also stated, however, that although in name the regime was called ‘democracy’, in reality, what was of real importance was the word/authority of one man Not only is ‘sovereignty’ inscribed even in the most formative stages of the concept of democracy, butthe ‘rule’ of democracy in general may, at times, lend legitimation to oppressive injunctions which, in turn, may not only suspend the will of the many (demos) but also de facto negate the possibility of a minority will.
For Thomas Paine, for instance, the idea of ‘democratic civil rights’, the single most important guarantor of individual freedom, presupposes a willingness to ‘agree’ on, or accept, the idea of a ‘democratic society’; thus, the possibility of ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ as cornerstones of the democratic impulse, first and foremost requires the existence of a constitution which, according to Paine, is ‘antecedent to government’. Any kind of democratic government, therefore, should be the result of such ‘constitution’ or common agreement. Equally, however – and here I detect the paradox at the heart of the democratic impulse – the people should be willing to accept that the rule of democracy will, at times, act in ways in which ‘individual freedom’ may be suspended for the sake of the will of the many, for the sake of the initial agreement, or constitution, on which people have agreed. Like democracy, the question of genre – especially the novel as a genre – runs along parallel conceptual lines, both in terms of the enabling conditions of its existence – agreement, inclusion – and, and at the same time, in relation to the potential breaks or ruptures that it is in a position to precipitate.
This conceptual rubric is complicated even further when we consider the currency of the concept of ‘equality’ as yet another presupposition of the ‘democratic’. It seems certain, according to Alex Callinicos, that whilst the western neo-liberal State considers ‘democracy’ a worthy ideal for which to sacrifice its young in the fight against ‘totalitarianism’, the concept of ‘equality’ – the most fundamental prerequisite for any kind of ‘democratic’ aspiration – seems to have been dramatically neglected, both practically and philosophically. In the middle of the nineteenth century Alexisde Tocqueville underlined a similar problem. Even though he refers to a kind of ‘ideal state of equality’, he seems willing to neglect the conceptual obstacles posed by ‘individualism’ – a concept which, in his larger discourse, has the ability to corrosively influence the collective democratic impulse. Whereas, however, for de Tocqueville ‘freedom’ may at times threaten the ‘ideal state of equality’ which underpins the aspiratory element of democracy, for Etienne Balibar ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ – égaliberte – are two principles that can only be realised jointly. To be sure, although positivist approaches seem willing to valorise western, Greco-Roman conceptualisations of ‘democracy’ in ‘real’ macro-socio-political terms, it seems certain that the concept of ‘democracy’ cannot be realised, in any way, without the corollary acceptance of ‘sovereignty’ (kratein) which has the ability to stifle or oppress individual will. This, the constitution on which the people have agreed, the set of rules which guarantees the existence of the ‘democratic impulse’ of the people, is in itself guaranteed by, and predicated on, the concept of ‘law’.
So how can we fit the novel, as a genre, within this rubric of oppression even if this oppression is only a conceptual possibility? And how can we be talking about the genre’s ‘democratic gesture’ when we talk about novels such as Joyce’s Finnegans Wake (1939), Céline’s Conversations with Professor Y (1955) or Robbe-Grillet’s La Jalousie (1957), when such works set out to complicate the very relationship between reader and text, in other words, one of the novel’s most important, historically-determined, socio-political and cultural commitments? In ‘This Fictive Institution Called Literature’ (1989), Jacques Derrida refers to the ‘law of literature’ as the ‘law’ which forces it to ‘break out of’ the law and that ‘the law of literature tends, at least in principle, to defy or lift the law’; for Derrida, ‘the literary’ is ‘a [fictive] institution which tends to overflow the institution’. Elsewhere, Derrida has theorised at length on literature and democracy, concluding that, both in theory and practice, there can be ‘no democracy without literature and no literature without democracy’. Without it being an undue assumption, the same can be said of the relationship between the novel and democracy as, to be sure, more than any other genre, the novel has succeeded in not only being able to say ‘everything’ but in being able to say ‘everything’ in any way it sees fit. The novel – especially if we accept that it is indeed the only genre in which the people may commune devoid of any pre-ordained injunctions pertaining to education, specialisation or social background (regardless of the problems posed by works I mentioned above) – is in a unique position to accommodate and continuously strive to underline this set of paradoxes – and this is perhaps what differentiates the novel from all other genres. Fundamentally, when we talk about the novel’s ‘social contract’ with its readers, in its position as a literary genre, we allude to a kind of universalism valid both in relation to the novel as a genre and of the concept of the ‘democratic’. Essentially, therefore, we refer to a kind of ‘law’, a presupposed legislative framework which engenders a certain amount of expectation in, and asserts a certain kind of influence over, its audience. That said, the questions that the novel faces are not simple: must the novel not accept the power of the law, must it not uphold its initial acceptance of the injunctive power of the law, of the constitution, even if in doing so it may endanger the existence of the constitution itself? Must it not – much like democracy does – allow a voice to that which rejects the law, even when such rejection denounces the rule of law, ‘the social contract’ or the constitution? In other words, must the novel not – in its role as the genre of the people – accept that, at times, it will forget, or suspend, its role as the genre of the people?
In ‘The Law of Genre’ (1979), Derrida formulates an attempt at a definition, not so much of ‘genre’ as a concept, but of its ‘law’. ‘It is precisely a principle of contamination’, argues Derrida, ‘a law of impurity, a parasitical economy. [To speak of the law of the law of genre is to] speak of a sort of participation without belonging—a taking part in without being part of, without having membership in a set’. This passage contains a rich conceptualisation of ‘genre’, and of the novel as a ‘genre’; arguably, it is more about the novel than it is about any other literary genre. The novel’s coexistence with other genres may at times yield ‘contaminated’ offspring, offspring forever destined to exist outside of the law – if the law of the novel is the theoretical contract it has with its readers. The importance of Derrida’s formulation here is two-fold: on the one hand, the ‘law’ presupposes a collective will which valorises its currency within a certain environment; on the other, the power of the ‘law’ also presupposes that the law may be prohibiting or alienatory, thereby dismissive of any impulse that would land outside its juridical boundaries. Here I am talking both about the concept of democracy and about the novel as the genre of democracy. In Derridean terms, then, the novel may at times appear as a ‘monstrosity’, as a contaminated cultural or intellectual proposition. There is, to be sure, a distinct essence of the uncanny when we talk about the novel as a genre: the stylistic multi-facetedness of the genre, its aesthetic scope, its ability to incorporate other ‘genres’, its tendency to both alienate and bring together and its ability to be a ‘novel’ even when it claims it isn’t, all these attributes bear testament to this essence of the uncanny. The novel as ‘monstrosity’ or as a ‘contaminated offspring’ contains an inherent will to be free which, in tandem, only makes sense in relation to a certain ‘law’: there is no notion of freedom devoid of the conceptual injunction of the sovereignty of the law. And this essenceis contingent on our faith in the novel as a genre; it is predicated on our willingness to allow the novel to exist as a ‘monstrosity’, outside of the ‘law’ (outside of the ‘social contract’ with its readers), indeed, it is dependent on our commitment to defending the novel, its name, its cultural task as well as its aesthetic aspiration.
This is umbilically linked with Derrida’s notion of the ‘democracy to come’. As Geoffrey Bennington has argued, to think of ‘democracy’ in terms of an ideal telosis to think of a certain end, an ‘ideal speech situation’, which would ultimately negate further development. Similarly, thinking of the novel as a concept which must conform to a set of aesthetic or morphological criteria whilst having an ostensibly predictable socio-historical end-goalis to open up an eschatological discourse which would beckon the death of the novel, both as a concept and as a literary genre. Theorising it, however, as a concept which remains ‘to come’, as a continually perfectible proposition, negates neither the socio-historical importance of the material present in its development as a ‘genre’,nor, however, its aesthetic or intellectual aspiration which must remain forever open. The imagining of the novel as a concept which remains ‘to come’ forever suspends the possibility of ‘closure’ and guarantees that arguments in favour of the ‘end of history’, and thus ‘the end of the novel’, remain consigned to facile, neo-conservative conceptualisations of ‘history’ as a set of tired, misconceived and finished accounts.
Although not without its detractors, Derrida’s intellectual output, especially since the early 1990s, is preoccupied by the conceptual problematics of the law and of the democratic impulse. In Specters of Marx (1993), and elsewhere, Derrida alludes to the concept of the democratic ‘to come’ as ‘an emancipatory promise’, as a ‘structural messianism, a messianism without religion, even a messianic without messianism, an idea of justice—which we distinguish from law or right and even from human rights—and an idea of democracy—which we distinguish from its current concept [irrevocably bound by and within the law] and from its determined predicates today’. This passage betrays neither indeterminacy nor does it suggest that the question of democracy is not an urgent one; rather, it suggests that ‘real’ democracy – if I may use the term ‘real’ in this context – remains always as a promise, one which cannot be realised without first learning to think outside of ‘homo-fraternal and phallogocentric schemas’, one which is not possible without first extending the rule of democracy – of freedom, of equality – to the ‘worldwide economic and social field’. We cannot be talking of ‘democracy’ without first making sure that all its fundamental construals – ‘equality’ and ‘freedom’ – have been redefined outside of the skewed, paternalistic, authoritarian socio-economic interrelations of western liberal economy. In the third chapter of Specters, ‘Wears and Tears’, Derrida lists one by one the problems that democracy faces today and argues that only when we have found away of countering these problems will we be able to talk of the possibility of real democracy. So it comes as no surprise that in The Politics of Friendship (1994), he explicitly argues that ‘democracy remains to come; this is its essence in so far as it remains: not only will it remain indefinitely perfectible hence always insufficient and future, but, belonging to the time of the promise, it will always remain in each of its future times, to come’. This notion of perfectibility, which we can apply to the concept of the novel, has inscribed in its ontological blueprint the promise and the possibility of an ideality which, howsoever problematic or even unattainable, needs to remain at least as a possibility. In my view, the novel as part of the concept of ‘literature’ and as a genre which bespeaks a certain democratic gesture, is a concept which always, and at all times, mustbear the aspiration to become something else; something outside of itself, something more than itself, even if it means turning itself into a ‘monstrosity.’
Very much like the concept of democracy, the novel as a genre asks for commitment and a certain degree of faith. The name of the novel, the socio-cultural and intellectual investment that we, the novel’s audience, have made in its name is such that it should allow the novel to exist both as the ‘genre of the people’ and as a ‘monstrosity’; as a potentlegitimator of the law and as a conceptual transcendence of the law (of the ‘theoretical social contract that valorises its existence). In my view, there can be no theorisation of the novel as a genre, and there can be no democratic impulse, without a coextensive degree of commitment, faith and, especially when it comes to democracy, hope.
Poetics, 1449b 20-35.
Jacques Derrida, The Ear of the Other: Otobiography, Transference, Translation, trans. Peggy Kamuf (New York: Schoken Books, 1985), 7.
Jacques Derrida, Acts of Literature, ed. Derek Attridge (London: Routledge, 1992), 428.
Nicholas Royle, Jacques Derrida(London: Routledge, 2003), 7.
Michael McKeon, The Origins of the English Novel 1600-1740(Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, 1987), 25-28; Terry Eagleton, The English Novel(Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 1-21; Pierre Daniel Huet, History of Romances, trans. Stephen Lewis(London, 1715), 2-10.
Margaret Doody, The True Story of the Novel(London: HarperCollins, 1997), 1-32.
See literature as another apparatus of state ideological influence in Louis Althousser, Essays in Ideology (London: Verso, 1984), 17; literature, civilisation and barbarism in Walter Benjamin, Illuminations, ed and intro Hannah Arendt, trans Harry Zorn(London: Pimlico, 1999), 248; Shakespeare and Thatcherite propaganda inAlan Sinfield, Faultlines: Cultural Materialism and the Politics of Dissident Reading(Oxford: Oxford UP, 1992). 1-5.
Gerasimos Markandonatos, Epitomo Lexico Logotehnikon Oron [Dictionary of Literary Terms](Athens: Gutenberg, 1985), 146 (my translation).
Niklas Holzberg, ‘The Genre: Novels Proper and the Fringe’ in Gareth Schmeling (ed), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden, Netherlands: E. J. Brill, 1996), 11-15; Simon Swain (ed), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel(Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999), 3.
Tim Whitmarsh (ed), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel(Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2008), 3 (my emphasis).
Walter Siti, ‘The Novel in Trial’ in Franco Moretti (ed), The Novel(Princeton: Princeton UP, 2006), 96.
Fredric Jameson, ‘Magical Narratives: Romance as Genre’ in New Literary History, 7:1 (1975), pp. 135-163.
Adena Rosmarin, The Power of Genre(Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 1985), 7.
Tzvetan Todorov, ‘The Origin of Genres’ in New Literary History, 8:1 (1976), pp. 159-170.
Whitmarsh, 191; see also, ‘A Century and More of the Greek Novel’ in which Simon Swain frames his approach in the problematics of ‘naming’ (Swain, 3-5). Gareth Schmeling, on the other hand, does not question the use of the term ‘novel’ to refer to ancient fiction at all and calls upon Northrop Frye and Margaret Doody to legitimise his use of the term (Schmeling, 1).
Todorov, 159; Rosmarin, 7-8.
Maurice Blanchot, The Book to Come, trans. Charlotte Mandell (Stanford: Stanford UP, 2003), 200.
See Derrida, 1992, 40. Although Derrida here refers to the concept of literature at large, there is much to be said about the issue of the novel’s modernity. As the genre of ‘modernity’ the novel betrays not only an awareness of its position as a historical product, but also acute awareness of its ability to assert its influence on a host of notions that mark its rise as a ‘genre’. In addition to creating a complicated network of interrelations between the novel and its historical moment, such notions – ‘authority’, ‘intellectual property’, ‘signature’, ‘personal style’ and so on – take place only within the socio-historical coordinates of modernity. As such, any argument that would set the novel outside of this set of historical interrelations risks negating the novel the features that actually make it the foremost literary genre of the last three centuries.
Virginia Woolf, The Essays IV, ed. Andrew McNeillie (London: The Hogarth Press,
E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel, ed. Charles Mauron (London: Penguin, 2000), 38.
Hoffman Michael J. and Murphy Patrick D. (eds), Essentials of the Theory of Fiction (London: Leicester UP/Cassell, 1996), 45.
Hoffman and Murphy, 139.
Hoffman and Murphy, 137.
Mark Wollaeger, Modernism, Media and Propaganda: British Narrative from 1900 to 194 (Princeton: Princeton UP), 2006, 2-37.
For a comprehensive exploration of this paradox during the first half of the twentieth century, see Nicola Humble’s meticulous study The Feminine Middlebrow Novel, 1920s to 1950s (2001); also, John Carey, The Intellectuals and the Masses: Pride and Prejudice among the Literary Intelligentsia, 1880-1939 (1992), throughout.
Virginia Woolf, Collected Essays II(London: The Hogarth Press, 1966), 203. Although Woolf takes issue with the ‘middlebrow’ insofar as she detects in it a certain dose of indeterminacy and intellectual opacity, it cannot be denied that the people she had in mind were the same people for whom the ‘the novel’, as a genre, was invented.
George Orwell, Collected Essays I, eds Sonia Orwell and Ian Angus(London: Secker and Warburg, 1969), 244.
James Joyce, Ulysses, intro. Declan Kiberd (London: Penguin Books, 1992), xxxiii.
Virginia Woolf, The Crowded Dance of Modern Life, ed. and intro. Rachel Bowlby (London: Penguin, 1993), 101-106.
Hoffman and Murphy, 14.
Hoffman and Murphy, 46.
Hoffman and Murphy, 137.
For the paradoxical nature of democracy, see also Chantal Mouffe, The Democratic Paradox, London: Verso, 2005.
Jacques Derrida, Rogues (Voyous), trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Nass (Stanford: Stanford UP, 2005), 28-31.
Benjamin Jowett, Thucydides Translated into English (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1900), 149.
Whoever remembers the public outcry before the second invasion of Iraq by US, British and other allied forces, would perhaps subscribe to this point of view.
Thomas Paine, The Complete Writings, ed. Philip S. Foner (New York: The Citadel Press, 1969), 274-278 (Paine’s emphasis).
Alex Callinicos, Equality(Cambridge: Polity, 2000), 52-63.
Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America; Second Part, trans. Henry Reeve (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1945), 94.
de Tocqueville, 98-99.
Lane, Jan-Erik and Ersson Svante O. (eds). Democracy: A Comparative Approach. (London: Routledge, 2003).
Derrida, 1992, 36.
Cited in Alexander John Peter Thompson, Deconstruction and Democracy: Derrida’s Politics of Friendship (London: Continuum, 2005), 33.
Derrida, 2005a, 30.
See Bennington’s interview ‘Democracy Interrupted’ in Deconstruction Is Not What You Think: And Other Short Pieces and Interviews, 197-209 (ebook available from bennington.zsoft.co.uk).
See Michael Sprinker (ed), Ghostly Demarcations(London: Verso, 2008); see also Alex Callinicos’ inspiring as well as moving essay ‘Jacques Derrida and The New International’ in Simon Glendinning and Robert Eaglestone (eds), Derrida’s Legacies: Literature and Philosophy(London: Routledge, 2008), 80-89.
Derrida, 2006, 74.
Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship. Trans. George Collins (London: Verso, 2005), 306.
Cited in Royle, 118.
Jaques Derrida, Specters of Marx, Trans. Peggy Kamuf (London: Routledge, 2006), 100-104.
Derrida, 2005b, 306 (my emphasis).