BEFORE	
  DISCIPLINE	
  
PHILOLOGY	
  AND	
  THE	
  HORIZON	
  OF	
  SENSE	
  IN	
  QUIGNARD’S	
  SUR	
  LE	
  JADIS	
  	
   	
  
	
  
JOHN	
  T.	
  HAMILTON	
  	
  
	
   Were	
   a	
   philologist	
   to	
   consider	
   the	
   word	
   philology	
   itself,	
   he	
   or	
   she	
   might	
   point	
   out	
   the	
   peculiarity	
  of	
  its	
  morphemic	
  construction.	
  At	
  first	
  sight,	
  the	
  term	
  may	
  be	
  presumed	
  to	
  name	
   a	
   scholarly	
   field	
   or	
   a	
   scientific	
   discipline,	
   given	
   the	
   fact	
   that	
   the	
   word’s	
   latter	
   half	
   (-­‐logy)	
   is	
   generally	
  taken	
  to	
  be	
  a	
  suffix	
  denoting	
  	
  “the	
  study	
  of”	
  the	
  object	
  indicated	
  by	
  the	
  root—thus,	
   for	
  example,	
  anthropology,	
  biology,	
  and	
  cosmology	
  signify	
  the	
  study	
  of	
  “mankind,”	
  “life,”	
  and	
   the	
   “cosmos.”	
   Yet,	
   common	
   usage	
   already	
   informs	
   us	
   that	
   philology	
   hardly	
   deals	
   with	
   the	
   study	
   of	
   “familiar	
   love”	
   or	
   “friendship”	
   (φιλία);	
   the	
   implicit	
   verb	
   of	
   loving	
   inclination	
   and	
   affectionate	
  regard	
  (φιλεῖν)	
  does	
  not	
  constitute	
  an	
  object	
  of	
  research	
  or	
  analysis.	
  Certainly,	
   it	
   would	
   be	
   absurd	
   to	
   suggest	
   that	
   the	
   philologist	
   is	
   an	
   expert	
   or	
   an	
   authority	
   on	
   the	
   meaning,	
   structure	
   or	
   essence	
   of	
   personal	
   attachments	
   or	
   relationships.	
   Rather,	
   the	
   designated	
  role	
  of	
  the	
  philologist	
  bears	
  only	
  a	
  nominal	
  resemblance	
  to	
  that	
  of	
  the	
  zoologist,	
   oncologist	
   or	
   physiologist.	
   The	
   development	
   of	
   institutional	
   histories	
   notwithstanding,	
   philology	
  cannot	
  be	
  reduced	
  to	
  logology.	
  	
  
As	
   every	
   philologist	
   should	
   know,	
   his	
   or	
   her	
   discipline—if	
   it	
   is	
   in	
   fact	
   one—is	
   not	
   modeled	
  on	
  the	
  sciences	
  but	
  rather	
  on	
  the	
  term	
  philosophy.	
  Just	
  as	
  philosophia	
  expresses	
  the	
   “love”	
   (φιλία)	
   of	
   “wisdom”	
   (σοφία),	
   so	
   philologia	
   denotes	
   the	
   “love”	
   of	
   “discourse,	
   argument,	
   or	
   the	
   word”	
   (λόγος).	
   The	
   disciplinarity	
   of	
   both,	
   therefore,	
   is	
   put	
   into	
   question,	
   precisely	
  because	
  the	
  sophia	
  and	
  the	
  logos	
  do	
  not	
  occupy	
  the	
  position	
  of	
  an	
  object	
  known	
  or	
   possessed	
   but	
   rather	
   one	
   that	
   is	
   desired.	
   Within	
   the	
   familiar	
   horizon	
   of	
   Platonic	
   discourse,	
   philology’s	
  link	
  to	
  philosophy	
  reveals	
  this	
  decidedly	
  “erotic”	
  character:	
  	
  
τίνες	
  οὖν,	
  ἔφην	
  ἐγώ,	
  ὦ	
  Διοτίμα,	
  οἱ	
  φιλοσοφοῦντες,	
  εἰ	
  μήτε	
  οἱ	
  σοφοὶ	
  μήτε	
  οἱ	
  ἀμαθεῖς;	
   	
   δῆλον	
  δή,	
  ἔφη,	
  τοῦτό	
  γε	
  ἤδη	
  καὶ	
  παιδί,	
  ὅτι	
  οἱ	
  μεταξὺ	
  τούτων	
  ἀμφοτέρων,	
  ὧν	
  ἂν	
  εἴη	
   καὶ	
   ὁ	
   Ἔρως.	
   ἔστιν	
   γὰρ	
   δὴ	
   τῶν	
   καλλίστων	
   ἡ	
   σοφία,	
   Ἔρως	
   δ᾽	
   ἐστὶν	
   ἔρως	
   περὶ	
   τὸ	
   καλόν,	
   ὥστε	
   ἀναγκαῖον	
   ἔρωτα	
   φιλόσοφον	
   εἶναι,	
   φιλόσοφον	
   δὲ	
   ὄντα	
   μεταξὺ	
   εἶναι	
   σοφοῦ	
  καὶ	
  ἀμαθοῦς.	
  	
  
(Plato,	
  Symp.	
  204a–b)	
   	
  
	
   1	
  

“Who	
   then,	
   Diotima”	
   I	
   said,	
   “are	
   the	
   philosophers,	
   if	
   they	
   are	
   neither	
   the	
   wise	
   nor	
   the	
  ignorant?”	
   	
   “Well,	
  that	
  is	
  already	
  clear	
  enough,”	
  she	
  said,	
  “even	
  to	
  a	
  child,	
  that	
  they	
  are	
  between	
   both	
  of	
  them,	
  and	
  Eros	
  would	
  be	
  one.	
  For	
  one	
  of	
  the	
  most	
  beautiful	
  things	
  is	
  wisdom,	
   and	
  Eros	
  is	
  love	
  for	
  the	
  beautiful;	
  thus,	
  necessarily,	
  Eros	
  is	
  a	
  philosopher,	
  and	
  being	
   a	
  philosopher,	
  he	
  is	
  between	
  the	
  wise	
  and	
  the	
  ignorant.”1	
   	
   What	
   is	
   “already	
   clear”	
   is	
   that	
   the	
   philosopher—and	
   by	
   extension,	
   the	
   philologist—are	
   caught	
  between	
  the	
  same	
  resourcefulness	
  and	
  penury	
  that	
  motivates	
  and	
  frustrates	
   erotic	
   behavior:	
   precariously	
   poised	
   between	
   ignorance	
   and	
   knowledge,	
   lacking	
   understanding	
   (ἀμαθής)	
   but	
   at	
   least	
   wise	
   (σόφος)	
   to	
   the	
   lack.	
   Although	
   they	
   do	
   not	
   possess	
   what	
   they	
   desire—wisdom	
   or	
   the	
   logos—they	
   still	
   realize	
   the	
   fact	
   of	
   their	
   poverty.	
   We	
   could	
   imagine	
   that	
   Socrates,	
   the	
   self-­‐styled	
   “philological	
   man”	
   (ἀνὴρ	
   φιλόλογος,	
   Phaed.	
   236e),	
   listened	
   well,	
  knowing,	
  ironically	
  or	
  not,	
  that	
  he	
  did	
  not	
  know.	
  	
   	
   Like	
   the	
   philosopher,	
   what	
   every	
   philologist	
   should	
   know	
   is	
   that	
   his	
   or	
   her	
   knowledge	
   encompasses	
   a	
   kernel	
   of	
   non-­‐knowledge	
   that	
   inflames	
   desire	
   and	
   motivates	
   persistent	
   inquiry.	
   Correspondingly,	
   in	
   the	
   Theaetetus,	
   philologia	
   simply	
   refers	
   to	
   a	
   willing	
   disposition	
   or	
   an	
   affective	
   inclination	
   for	
   engaging	
   in	
   conversation,	
   discussion	
   or	
   debate,	
   without	
  presuming	
  cognitive	
  proprietorship	
  of	
  the	
  topics	
  broached,	
  yet	
  all	
  the	
  while	
  aware	
   of	
   what	
   is	
   or	
   is	
   not	
   topical	
   (Theaet.	
   146a).	
   If	
   a	
   discipline	
   entails	
   a	
   body	
   of	
   knowledge	
   to	
   be	
   learned,	
  understood	
  and	
  mastered,	
  if	
  it	
  marks	
  out	
  some	
  intellectual	
  territory	
  that	
  has	
  been	
   acquired,	
  some	
  space	
  that	
  has	
  been	
  delineated	
  by	
  a	
  particular	
  horizon,	
  then	
  philology—and	
   by	
  extension,	
  philosophy—are	
  perhaps	
  better	
  regarded	
  as	
  pre-­‐disciplines,	
  as	
  modes	
  of	
  free	
   but	
   rational	
   questioning	
   that,	
   analogous	
   to	
   the	
   university’s	
   “lower	
   faculty”	
   described	
   later	
   by	
  Kant,	
  comprise	
  the	
  conditions	
  of	
  possibility	
  for	
  authorized,	
  regulated,	
  disciplinary	
  work.2	
   For	
   Kant,	
   the	
   pre-­‐disciplinary	
   quality	
   of	
   philology	
   and	
   philosophy	
   underscores	
   not	
   only	
   their	
   traditionally	
   ancillary	
   role	
   in	
   relation	
   to	
   the	
   sciences	
   but	
   also	
   their	
   moral	
   freedom	
   from	
  every	
  determined	
  horizon	
  of	
  sense.	
  	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
1	
  All	
  translations,	
  unless	
  noted	
  otherwise,	
  are	
  my	
  own.	
  	
   2	
  See	
  Immanuel	
  Kant’s	
  last	
  published	
  essay,	
  Der	
  Streit	
  der	
  Fakultäten	
  (1798),	
  in	
  Gesammelte	
  Schriften,	
   23	
   vols.	
   Akademie-­‐Ausgabe	
   (Berlin:	
   Reimer/de	
   Gruyter),	
   7:	
   17–21.	
   The	
   question	
   of	
   philology	
   and	
   philosophy’s	
   relation	
   to	
   other	
   scholarly	
   fields—that	
   is,	
   the	
   relationship	
   between	
   “Erkenntnis”	
   and	
   “Wissenschaft,”	
   is	
   explored	
   by	
   Peter	
   Szondi,	
   “Über	
   philologische	
   Erkenntnis,”	
   in	
   Schriften,	
  2	
   vols.,	
   J.	
   Bollack	
  et	
  al.,	
  ed.	
  (Frankfurt	
  am	
  Main:	
  Suhrkamp,	
  1978),	
  1:	
  263.	
  For	
  an	
  engaging	
  analysis	
  of	
  Szondi’s	
   essay,	
  see	
  Thomas	
  Schestag,	
  “Philology,	
  Knowledge,”	
  Telos	
  140	
  (2007),	
  28–44.	
  	
  
	
   2	
  

Despite	
  their	
  close	
  relationship,	
  often	
  stressed	
  throughout	
  antiquity,	
  philology	
  is	
  not	
  
philosophy.3	
  Although	
   both	
   are	
   grounded	
   in	
   the	
   loving	
   motivation	
   of	
   philia,	
   philosophy	
  
clearly	
   differs	
   from	
   philology,	
   insofar	
   as	
   the	
   former	
   reaches	
   out	
   toward	
   wisdom,	
   while	
   the	
  
latter	
   inclines	
   toward	
   the	
   word.	
   Whereas	
   philosophy	
   finds	
   its	
   end	
   in	
   knowledge,	
   philology	
  
finds	
  its	
  end	
  in	
  logos.	
  In	
  addressing	
  the	
  employment	
  of	
  multiple	
  languages,	
  in	
  pursuing	
  their	
  
grammatical,	
   morphological	
   and	
   lexical	
   components,	
   in	
   tracing	
   how	
   these	
   verbal	
   and	
  
syntactic	
   elements	
   developed	
   historically	
   and	
   cross-­‐culturally,	
   philology	
   ceaselessly	
   poses	
  
questions	
   concerning	
   human	
   words,	
   including	
   of	
   course	
   the	
   word	
   philology	
  itself.	
   Indeed,	
  
philological	
   research	
   inevitably	
   arrives	
   at	
   self-­‐questioning,	
   raising	
   and	
   formulating	
  
questions	
   about	
   its	
   own	
   functions	
   and	
   operations,	
   about	
   its	
   relation	
   to	
   other	
   disciplines	
   as	
  
well	
   as	
   its	
   own	
   status	
   as	
   a	
   discipline.	
   As	
   Werner	
   Hamacher	
   points	
   out,	
   philology	
   is	
   always	
  
also	
  a	
  philo-­‐philology.	
  	
  
	
   Consequently,	
   already	
   beneath	
   the	
   aspect	
   of	
   its	
   questionability,	
   philology	
   is	
   neither	
   a	
   science	
   nor	
   is	
   it	
   a	
   theoretical	
   discipline	
   with	
   well-­‐defined	
   procedures	
   that	
   lead	
   to	
   the	
   acquisition	
   of	
   knowledge.	
   The	
   question	
   concerning	
   itself	
   can	
   thus	
   at	
   best	
   make	
   use	
  of	
  the	
  right	
  of	
  a	
  propaedeutic	
  and	
  therefore	
  proto-­‐philological	
  enquiry.	
  It	
  is	
  not	
  a	
   question	
   of	
   philology	
   as	
   science,	
   but	
   rather—sit	
   venia	
   verbo—of	
   philo-­‐philology,	
   which	
   stays	
   at	
   the	
   edge,	
   in	
   the	
   fore-­‐court	
   or	
   at	
   the	
   gate	
   of	
   philology,	
   but	
   whose	
   interior	
  it	
  does	
  not	
  enter	
  and	
  whose	
  law	
  it	
  does	
  not	
  know.4	
  	
  	
   	
  
Because	
   philology	
   approaches	
   every	
   aspect	
   of	
   language	
   or	
   logos	
   as	
   a	
   loving	
   question,	
   it	
  
comes	
   to	
   question	
   itself,	
   to	
   such	
   an	
   extent,	
   at	
   least	
   according	
   to	
   Hamacher,	
   that	
   it	
  
undermines	
  its	
  own	
  disciplinary	
  stability.	
  Philo-­‐philology,	
  provided	
  we	
  allow	
  Hamacher	
  the	
  
use	
   of	
   this	
   term	
   (sit	
   venia	
   verbo),	
   underscores	
   the	
   non-­‐disciplinarity	
   of	
   every	
   philological	
  
enterprise.	
  Indulgence	
  (venia)	
  is	
  called	
  for	
  and	
  readily	
  granted,	
  insofar	
  as	
  every	
  word,	
  once	
  
the	
   questionability	
   of	
   philology	
   is	
   broached,	
   emerges	
   as	
   something	
   provisional.	
   Philology	
  
has	
  the	
  right	
  (das	
  Recht),	
  but	
  is	
  unfamiliar	
  with	
  the	
  instituted	
  law	
  (das	
  Gesetz).	
  Philology,	
  so	
  
to	
  speak,	
  particularly	
  as	
  philo-­‐philology,	
  stands	
  “before	
  the	
  law”—vor	
  dem	
  Gesetz.	
  The	
  light	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
3	
  For	
   a	
   general	
   overview	
   of	
   usage,	
   see	
   A.	
   Horstmann’s	
   article	
   on	
   “Philologie”	
   in	
   the	
   Historisches	
   Wörterbuch	
  der	
  Philosophie,	
  13	
  vols.,	
  J.	
  Ritter,	
  ed.	
  (Basel:	
  Schwabe,	
  1971–2007),	
  7:	
  552–72.	
  	
   4	
  “Philologie	
  ist	
  mithin	
  schon	
  unter	
  dem	
  Aspekt	
  ihrer	
  Fraglichkeit	
  weder	
  eine	
  Wissenschaft,	
  noch	
  ist	
   sie	
   eine	
   theoretische	
   Disziplin	
   mit	
   wohldefinierten	
   Verfahren,	
   die	
   zum	
   Erwerb	
   von	
   Wissen	
   führen.	
   die	
   Frage	
   nach	
   ihr	
   kann	
   deshalb	
   allenfalls	
   das	
   Recht	
   einer	
   propädeutischen	
   und	
   darum	
   einer	
   proto-­‐ philologischen	
   Erkundung	
   in	
   Anspruch	
   nehmen.	
   Sie	
   ist	
   keine	
   Frage	
   der	
   Philologie	
   als	
   Wissenschaft,	
   sondern—sit	
   venia	
   verbo—der	
   Philo-­‐Philologie,	
   die	
   sich	
   am	
   Saum,	
   im	
   Vorhof	
   oder	
   am	
   Tor	
   der	
   Philologie	
   aufhält,	
   aber	
   deren	
   Inneres	
   nicht	
   betritt	
   und	
   ihr	
   Gesetz	
   nicht	
   kennt.	
  “	
   Werner	
   Hamacher,	
   “Für—die	
   Philologie,”	
   in	
   Was	
   ist	
   eine	
   philologische	
   Frage?	
   J.	
   P.	
   Schwindt,	
   ed.	
   (Frankfurt	
   am	
   Main:	
   Suhrkamp,	
  2009),	
  21–60,	
  here	
  28.	
  	
  
	
   3	
  

allusion	
   to	
   Kafka	
   is	
   not	
   unimportant:	
   Philology	
   falls	
   outside	
   every	
   disciplinary	
   Gesetz,	
  but	
   also	
   stands	
   by,	
   before	
   the	
   law	
   closes	
   the	
   gates,	
   before	
   meaning	
   is	
   locked	
   within	
   its	
   institutional	
   limits.	
   In	
   reaching	
   toward	
   words,	
   toward	
   language	
   itself,	
   philology	
   remains	
   at	
   the	
   margins	
   of	
   every	
   discipline,	
   before	
   every	
   meaningful	
   horizon.	
   Its	
   fundamental	
   priority	
   subsists	
   in	
   this	
   reaching	
   out—in	
   this	
   orexis—which	
   can	
   be	
   either	
   negatively	
   or	
   positively	
   charged.	
   On	
   the	
   one	
   hand,	
   it	
   consigns	
   philology	
   to	
   the	
   outside,	
   removed	
   from	
   disciplinary	
   authority;	
  while	
  on	
  the	
  other	
  hand,	
  it	
  diagnoses	
  every	
  discipline	
  with	
  terminal	
  anorexia.	
  	
  
In	
   one	
   Friedrich	
   Schlegel’s	
   aphorisms,	
   cited	
   by	
   Hamacher,	
   we	
   read:	
   “Es	
   bleibt	
   ewig	
   wahr;	
  als	
  Affect	
  und	
  als	
  Kunst	
  ist	
  die	
  φλ	
  [Philologie]	
  Fundament	
  und	
  Propädeutik	
  und	
  Alles	
   für	
   die	
   Historie”—“It	
   remains	
   eternally	
   true;	
   as	
   affect	
   and	
   as	
   art,	
   φλ	
   [philology]	
   is	
   the	
   foundation	
   and	
   propaedeutic	
   and	
   everything	
   for	
   historical	
   science.”5	
  Here,	
   the	
   eternal	
   or	
   timeless	
   truth—das	
   Ewig-­‐Wahre—pronounces	
   a	
   philological	
   pre-­‐disposition	
   informed	
   by	
   affect-­‐laden	
   distance	
   and	
   removal.	
   If	
   the	
   objects	
   of	
   intuition	
   appear	
   through	
   the	
   categories	
   of	
  understanding,	
  within	
  the	
  temporal	
  and	
  spatial	
  horizons	
  of	
  sense,	
  then	
  philology	
  is	
  again	
   situated	
   before	
   every	
   horizon,	
   before	
   every	
   beginning,	
   and	
   therefore	
   at	
   the	
   foundation.	
   Paradoxically,	
   its	
   horizon	
   is	
   without	
   horizon.	
   Radically	
   outside	
   or	
   before	
   every	
   discipline,	
   philology	
   nourishes	
   its	
   desire,	
   indulges	
   in	
   affect,	
   and	
   motivates	
   its	
   art,	
   infinitely.	
   Thus,	
   Hamacher	
  insists	
  on	
  philology’s	
  pre-­‐semantic	
  position,	
  on	
  its	
  status	
  as	
  a	
  preliminary	
  mode,	
   as	
  a	
  propaedeutic	
  to	
  study,	
  as	
  the	
  non-­‐disciplinary	
  ground	
  for	
  every	
  discipline.	
  Philology	
  is	
   the	
   ancilla	
   theologiae	
   et	
   iurisprudentiae	
   that	
   serves	
   the	
   other	
   disciplines	
   by	
   directing	
   attention	
  to	
  language	
  itself,	
  by	
  alerting	
  us	
  to	
  language’s	
  formal	
  conditions,	
  by	
  indicating	
  how	
   meaning	
   is	
   produced	
   without	
   bearing	
   any	
   meaning	
   itself.	
   Whereas	
   scientific	
   disciplines	
   organize	
  themselves	
  within	
  a	
  meaningful	
  horizon,	
  philology	
  suspends	
  the	
  moment	
  of	
  every	
   stabilizing	
   definition	
   and	
   thereby	
   keeps	
   the	
   question	
   of	
   language	
   open.	
   As	
   Hamacher	
   concludes:	
   “Invading	
   horizons	
   and	
   fusions	
   of	
   horizons	
   (Horizontverschmelzungen)	
   are	
   the	
   death	
  of	
  language,	
  not	
  its	
  beginning.”6	
  
Rather	
   than	
   construe	
   philology	
   as	
   an	
   epistemic	
   discipline	
   that	
   fixes	
   definitions	
   or	
   halts	
  the	
  flux	
  of	
  polysemy,	
  Paul	
  de	
  Man	
  appreciated	
  its	
  capacity	
  to	
  reinvigorate	
  reading.	
  He	
   deeply	
  appreciated	
  its	
  erotic	
  energy,	
  “the	
  bafflement	
  that	
  such	
  singular	
  turns	
  of	
  tone,	
  phrase	
   and	
   figure	
   [are]	
   bound	
   to	
   produce	
   in	
   readers	
   attentive	
   enough	
   to	
   notice	
   them	
   and	
   honest	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
5	
  Friedrich	
  Schlegel,	
  Philosophische	
  Lehrjahre,	
  Nr.	
  929,	
  Kritische	
  Ausgabe,	
  H.	
  Eichner,	
  ed.,	
  (Paderborn,	
   1967),	
  18:	
  106;	
  cited	
  in	
  Werner	
  Hamacher,	
  “Für—die	
  Philologie,”	
  33.	
   6	
  Hamacher,	
  “Für—die	
  Philologie,”	
  27.	
  	
  
	
   4	
  

enough	
   not	
   to	
   hide	
   their	
   non-­‐understanding	
   behind	
   the	
   screen	
   of	
   received	
   ideas.”7	
  This	
   philosophical	
   wonder	
   before	
   the	
   word	
   itself,	
   this	
   astonishment	
   that	
   keeps	
   definitive	
   understanding	
   in	
   abeyance,	
   should	
   herald	
   a	
   “return	
   to	
   philology,”	
   namely,	
   a	
   return	
   “to	
   an	
   examination	
  of	
  the	
  structure	
  of	
  language	
  prior	
  to	
  the	
  meaning	
  it	
  produces”8	
  The	
  investigator	
   of	
  words	
  thus	
  grapples	
  with	
  “the	
  structure	
  of	
  language”	
  and	
  essentially	
  removes	
  texts	
  from	
   the	
  horizons	
  of	
  authorial	
  intention	
  and	
  hermeneutic	
  engagement.	
  For	
  De	
  Man,	
  the	
  return	
  to	
   philology	
   reminds	
   us	
   that	
   language	
   is	
   a	
   rhetorical	
   machine,	
   one	
   that	
   operates	
   beyond	
   subjective	
  control,	
  and	
  thus	
  withdraws	
  from	
  the	
  horizons	
  that	
  establish	
  signification.	
   	
  
	
   	
   If	
  we	
  accept	
  that	
  philology	
  is	
  a	
  not	
  a	
  discipline	
  but	
  rather	
  a	
  mode	
  of	
  work	
  that	
  attends	
  to	
  the	
   pre-­‐	
   or	
   proto-­‐semantic	
   production	
   of	
   meaning,	
   then	
   the	
   writings	
   of	
   Pascal	
   Quignard	
   (b.	
   1948,	
  Verneuil-­‐sur-­‐Avre)	
  are	
  philological	
  in	
  an	
  exemplary	
  way.	
  Over	
  nearly	
  four	
  decades,	
  he	
   has	
  turned	
  insistently	
  toward	
  themes	
  and	
  topics	
  that	
  conventionally	
  belong	
  to	
  the	
  sphere	
  of	
   classical	
   philology,	
   yet	
   by	
   means	
   of	
   an	
   approach	
   that	
   would	
   be	
   barely	
   recognizable	
   to	
   the	
   profession	
   of	
   academic	
   philology.	
   His	
   prolific	
   output	
   instead	
   occupies	
   the	
   margins	
   of	
   classical	
   studies,	
   taking	
   on	
   forms	
   that	
   resemble	
   the	
   experimental	
   novel,	
   the	
   fable,	
   the	
   treatise	
  and	
  the	
  essay.	
  All	
  the	
  same,	
  this	
  marginality	
  has	
  always	
  been	
  contiguous	
  with	
  more	
   standard	
   or	
   central	
   understanding	
   of	
   academic	
   discourse.	
   Having	
   studied	
   philosophy	
   at	
   Nanterre	
  with	
  Paul	
  Ricoeur	
  and	
  Emmanuel	
  Levinas,	
  he	
  went	
  on	
  to	
  teach	
  medieval	
  literature	
   at	
  the	
  Université	
  de	
  Vincennes	
  and	
  later	
  a	
  seminar	
  on	
  the	
  ancient	
  Roman	
  novel	
  at	
  the	
  École	
   Pratique	
   des	
   Hautes	
   Études.	
   At	
   the	
   Bibliothèque	
   nationale	
   he	
   applied	
   textual	
   criticism	
   to	
   establish	
   texts	
   by	
   Maurice	
   Scève,	
   Dom	
   Deschamps	
   and	
   the	
   sixteenth-­‐century	
   scholar	
   of	
   Syriac	
  and	
  Aramaic,	
  Guy	
  Le	
  Fèvre	
  de	
  La	
  Boderie.	
  He	
  regularly	
  published	
  articles	
  on	
  classical	
   philological	
   topics—on	
   Heraclitus,	
   Aeschylus,	
   Aristotle,	
   and	
   others—including	
   a	
   critical	
   edition	
  and	
  translation	
  of	
  Lycophon’s	
  Alexandra.	
  	
   Quignard’s	
  ostensibly	
  more	
  creative	
  work	
  began	
  in	
  1976	
  with	
  the	
  appearance	
  of	
  Le	
   lecteur,	
   a	
   sustained	
   meditation	
   that	
   stems	
   directly	
   from	
   his	
   position	
   as	
   reader	
   for	
   the	
   renowned	
   publisher	
   Gallimard.	
   From	
   that	
   point,	
   he	
   embarked	
   on	
   a	
   writing	
   career	
   devoted	
   to	
   increasingly	
   original	
   and	
   idiosyncratic	
   reflections,	
   including	
   two	
   volumes	
   of	
   Petits	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
7	
  Paul	
  de	
  Man,	
  “The	
  Return	
  to	
  Philology,”	
  in	
  The	
  Resistance	
  to	
  Theory,	
  23.	
  	
   8	
  De	
  Man,	
  “The	
  Return	
  to	
  Philology,”	
  24.	
  
	
   5	
  

Traités,	
  first	
  published	
  in	
  1984.	
  His	
  engagement	
  with	
  philological	
  matters	
  was	
  subsequently	
   transposed	
   into	
   a	
   piece	
   of	
   historical	
   fiction,	
   Les	
   tablettes	
   de	
   buis	
   d’Apronenia	
   Avitia	
   (1984),	
   which	
   purports	
   to	
   be	
   based	
   on	
   notes	
   inscribed	
   upon	
   wooden	
   tablets	
   by	
   a	
   woman	
   of	
   late	
   Roman	
  nobility	
  on	
  the	
  eve	
  of	
  Christianity’s	
  rise	
  and	
  the	
  Empire’s	
  decline.	
  In	
  Albucius	
  (1990),	
   Quignard	
   focused	
   on	
   an	
   earlier	
   but	
   no	
   less	
   crucial	
   moment	
   of	
   Roman	
   history	
   in	
   presenting	
   the	
   rather	
   lascivious	
   work	
   of	
   Caius	
   Albucius	
   Silus	
   (b.	
   69	
   BC),	
   whose	
   collection	
   of	
   Controversiae	
   were	
   produced	
   during	
   the	
   last	
   days	
   of	
   the	
   Republic.	
   Here,	
   Quignard’s	
   translations	
   provide	
   a	
   springboard	
   for	
   a	
   series	
   of	
   literary	
   musings,	
   generally	
   on	
   individual	
   words—for	
   example,	
   amicus	
   and	
   satura—or	
   on	
   Albucius’	
   concept	
   of	
   the	
   “fifth	
   season,”	
   which	
  altogether	
  result	
  again	
  in	
  a	
  kind	
  of	
  novelistic	
  essay	
  or	
  an	
  essayistic	
  novel.	
  	
  
The	
  recent	
  five	
  volumes	
  that	
  make	
  up	
  Quignard’s	
  Dernier	
  Royaume,	
  published	
  2002-­‐ 2005,	
   continue	
   this	
   trend.	
   They	
   rehearse,	
   elaborate,	
   and	
   modify	
   themes	
   and	
   motifs	
   long	
   familiar	
  from	
  the	
  author’s	
  considerable	
  œuvre.	
  Irretrievable	
  loss	
  and	
  transience;	
  silence	
  and	
   the	
   human	
   voice;	
   uterine	
   existence	
   and	
   birth;	
   rhetoric,	
   reading,	
   and	
   musical	
   resonance;	
   horror,	
   nakedness	
   and	
   the	
   constitutive	
   secret—all	
   surge	
   forth	
   over	
   the	
   course	
   of	
   these	
   books,	
   formulated	
   in	
   Quignard’s	
   usual	
   kaleidoscopic	
   and	
   aphoristic	
   style.	
   As	
   expected,	
   deeply	
  personal	
  reflections	
  and	
  autobiographical	
  details	
  commingle	
  with	
  obscure	
  allusions,	
   provocative	
   etymologies,	
   and	
   peculiar	
   anecdotes	
   drawn	
   from	
   the	
   full	
   range	
   of	
   the	
   world’s	
   nearly	
  forgotten	
  cultural	
  legacies.	
  The	
  accumulated	
  material	
  is	
  presented	
  in	
  verbal	
  mosaics	
   that	
   closely	
   reflect	
   Quignard’s	
   creative,	
   wandering	
   abandonment,	
   his	
   renunciation	
   of	
   mastery,	
  his	
  attentive	
  submission	
  to	
  texts,	
  history,	
  and	
  memory.	
  	
  
In	
  other	
  words,	
  at	
  least	
  for	
  Quignard’s	
  devoted	
  readers,	
  both	
  the	
  form	
  and	
  content	
  of	
   Dernier	
   Royaume	
   amount	
   to	
   a	
   return	
   to	
   the	
   same,	
   a	
   restitution	
   of	
   the	
   similar,	
   something	
   at	
   once	
   new	
   yet	
   not	
   without	
   a	
   haunting	
   sense	
   of	
   déjà	
   lu.	
   That	
   is	
   not	
   to	
   say,	
   however,	
   that	
   this	
   pentalogy	
  has	
  simply	
  succumbed	
  to	
  a	
  flat,	
  stylistic	
  homogeneity	
   or	
  that	
  the	
  work	
  has	
  fallen	
   into	
  self-­‐scripted	
  routine.	
  Although	
  the	
  terrain	
  may	
  be	
  familiar,	
  it	
  is	
  in	
  no	
  way	
  comforting	
  or	
   reassuring.	
   On	
   the	
   contrary,	
   it	
   affords	
   the	
   recognition	
   of	
   the	
   disruptive	
   power	
   of	
   the	
   same.	
   As	
  Quignard	
  has	
  persistently	
  demonstrated,	
  the	
  return	
  to	
  the	
  same	
  hardly	
  offers	
  respite,	
  for	
   the	
   familiar	
   is	
   often	
   the	
   harbor	
   for	
   that	
   which	
   at	
   any	
   moment	
   may	
   surge	
   forth	
   with	
   frightening	
  force.	
  Like	
  Freud’s	
  Heimliche,	
  the	
  familiar	
  may	
  be	
  the	
  secret	
  (heimliche,	
  geheime)	
   container	
   of	
   das	
  Unheimliche,	
   the	
   uncanny,	
   l’inquiétante	
  étrangeté.	
   With	
   Quignard,	
   as	
   in	
   the	
   Freudian	
   model,	
   the	
   return	
   to	
   the	
   same	
   may	
   always	
   be	
   but	
   a	
   cover	
   for	
   the	
   return	
   of	
   the	
   repressed.	
  Indeed,	
  Freud’s	
  well-­‐known	
  “repetition	
  compulsion,”	
  which	
  unconsciously	
  drives	
  
	
   6	
  

him	
   again	
   and	
   again	
   to	
   the	
   same	
   sordid	
   neighborhood	
   of	
   Rome,	
   shares	
   many	
   analogous	
  
traits	
   with	
   Quignard’s	
   sordidissimes,	
   those	
   pieces	
   rejected	
   or	
   abjected	
   from	
   the	
   literary-­‐
philosophical	
  canon	
  which	
  ceaselessly	
  attract	
  the	
  author’s	
  concern.9	
  Yet,	
  where	
  Freud	
  sees	
  a	
  
symptom,	
   Quignard	
   discovers	
   a	
   method;	
   where	
   psychoanalysis	
   works	
   toward	
   a	
   cure,	
  
Quignard	
   works	
   on	
   registering	
   the	
   incurable.	
   While	
   Freud	
   approaches	
   the	
   unconscious	
   in	
  
order	
   to	
   master	
   it	
   and	
   thereby	
   put	
   life	
   back	
   into	
   working	
   order,	
   Quignard	
   attends	
   to	
   what	
  
has	
  almost	
  been	
  obliterated	
  in	
  order	
  to	
  rescue	
  it	
  and	
  thereby	
  bring	
  his	
  writing	
  back	
  to	
  life.10	
  
This	
   salvific	
   program	
   is	
   explicitly	
   expressed	
   in	
   the	
   note	
   Quignard	
   appended	
   to	
   the	
  
back	
  cover	
  of	
  his	
  Petits	
  traités:	
  
	
  
[Les	
  Petits	
  Traités]	
  étaient	
  de	
  courts	
  arguments	
  déchirés,	
  des	
  contradictions	
  laissées	
   ouvertes,	
  des	
  mains	
  négatives,	
  des	
  apories,	
  des	
  fragments	
  de	
  contes,	
  des	
  vestiges.	
  Je	
   ne	
   retenais	
   que	
   ce	
   qui	
   du	
   temps	
   était	
   rejeté	
   par	
   l’Histoire	
   tandis	
   qu’elle	
   prétendait	
   écrire	
  sa	
  grande	
  narration	
  mensongère.	
  Je	
  ne	
  retenais	
  des	
  livres	
  des	
  Anciens	
  que	
  ce	
   que	
  la	
  Norme	
  expulsait	
  des	
  littératures	
  du	
  passé	
  pour	
  asseoir	
  son	
  autorité	
  collective	
   et	
  académique.11	
   	
  
Referring	
   to	
   this	
   text,	
   Jean-­‐Louis	
   Pautrot	
   comments:	
   “Ce	
   geste	
   annoncé	
   pour	
   les	
   Petits	
  
Traités	
  informe	
  l’œuvre.	
  Les	
  exclus	
  de	
  l’Histoire,	
  dont	
  les	
  travaux	
  ne	
  firent	
  ‘pas	
  une	
  ride	
  sur	
  
la	
   surface	
   du	
   temps,’	
   coupables	
   de	
   singularité	
   pour	
   leur	
   époque,	
   sont	
   innocents	
   de	
   la	
  
doxa.”12	
  Needless	
  to	
  say,	
  in	
  order	
  for	
  these	
  rejected,	
  paradoxical	
  pieces	
  to	
  have	
  an	
  effect,	
  it	
  is	
  
necessary	
   to	
   present	
   and	
   maintain	
   the	
   frame	
   of	
   doxa,	
   which	
   serves	
   as	
   the	
   horizon	
   for	
   the	
  
resurgence	
   of	
   the	
   expelled.13	
  The	
   abnormal	
   can	
   be	
   defined	
   as	
   such	
   only	
   in	
   relation	
   to	
   the	
  
norm.	
  Counter-­‐currents	
  require	
  something	
  to	
  counter.	
  Could	
  one	
  then	
  argue	
  that	
  the	
  typical	
  
form	
   and	
   content	
   of	
   Quignard’s	
   later	
   work,	
   particularly	
   in	
   Dernier	
  Royaume,	
   constitutes	
   a	
  
familiar,	
  more	
  or	
  less	
  expected	
  setting	
  for	
  staging	
  the	
  reappearance	
  of	
  the	
  unexpected?	
  Or	
  is	
  
it	
  not	
  rather	
  the	
  case	
  that	
  the	
  return	
  to	
  the	
  same,	
  the	
  realm	
  of	
  the	
  similar,	
  is	
  coincident	
  with	
  
the	
  return	
  of	
  the	
  suppressed?	
  That	
  the	
  unexpected	
  is	
  nothing	
  but	
  the	
  expected	
  viewed	
  from	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
9	
  Sigmund	
   Freud,	
   “Das	
   Unheimliche”	
   (1919),	
   Gesammelte	
   Werke,	
   18	
   vols.	
   (Frankfurt	
   am	
   Main:	
   Fischer,	
  1999),	
  225-­‐68.	
   10	
  On	
   Quignard’s	
   indebtedness	
   and	
   reconfiguration	
   of	
   Freudian	
   and	
   Lacanian	
   psychoanalysis,	
   see	
   Chantal	
   Lapeyre-­‐Desmaison,	
   “Pascal	
   Quignard:	
   une	
   poétique	
   de	
   l’agalma,”	
   Études	
   françaises	
   40:2	
   (2004):	
  39-­‐53.	
   11	
  Pascal	
  Quignard,	
  Petits	
  Traités	
  II	
  (Paris:	
  Gallimard,	
  1999),	
  back	
  cover.	
  	
   12	
  Jean-­‐Louis	
   Pautrot,	
   Pascal	
   Quignard	
   ou	
   le	
   fonds	
   du	
   monde	
   (New	
   York:	
   Rodopi,	
   2007),	
   9.	
   Pautrot	
   is	
   quoting	
   from	
   Quignard’s	
   “Traité	
   sur	
   Esprit,”	
   in	
   Jacques	
   Esprit,	
   De	
   la	
   fausseté	
   des	
   vertus	
   humaines	
   (1678)	
  (Paris:	
  Aubier,	
  1996),	
  26.	
   13	
  “Cette	
   œuvre	
   se	
   bâtit	
   à	
   contre-­‐courant	
   de	
   ce	
   que	
   son	
   auteur	
   perçoit	
   comme	
   la	
   doxa	
   de	
   notre	
   époque:	
  paradoxale,	
  donc,	
  au	
  sens	
  que	
  lui	
  conférait	
  Barthes.”	
  (Pautrot	
  8).	
  
	
   7	
  

a	
   new	
   perspective?	
   Does	
   Quignard’s	
   stated	
   distinction	
   from	
   collective	
   and	
   authoritative	
  
authorities	
   not	
   already	
   suggest	
   that	
   he	
   simply	
   sees	
   or	
   strives	
   to	
   see	
   ‘the	
   same’	
   in	
   a	
   truly	
   different	
  way?	
  An	
  adequate	
  response	
  to	
  these	
  questions	
  would	
  have	
  to	
  rest	
  on	
  how	
  we	
  read	
  
this	
  simplicity.	
   A	
   particularly	
   rich	
   example,	
   which	
   might	
   address	
   the	
   problem,	
   comes	
   straightaway	
  
on	
  the	
  very	
  first	
  page	
  of	
  Sur	
  le	
  jadis,	
  the	
  second	
  volume	
  of	
  the	
  Dernier	
  Royaume	
  series.	
  With	
  
the	
   opening	
   sentence,	
   Quignard	
   describes	
   a	
   very	
   recent	
   walk	
   through	
   the	
   mountainous	
   regions	
  of	
  Périgord:	
  “Hier	
  je	
  suis	
  descendu	
  au	
  fond	
  du	
  vallon	
  sous	
  le	
  causse	
  qui	
  prolonge	
  le	
  
lac	
  de	
  Garet.”	
  	
   	
  
Cela	
   faisait	
   vingt-­‐deux	
   ans	
   que	
   j’évitais	
   cet	
   amas	
   de	
   pierres	
   en	
   ruine	
   qui	
   étaient	
   entourées	
  d’herbes	
  folles	
  et	
  de	
  mousses.	
  De	
  ronciers.	
  […]	
  	
   Je	
  ne	
  pus	
  m’empêcher	
  de	
  me	
  dérouter	
  de	
  mon	
  chemin.	
  J’avais	
  encore	
  envie	
  de	
  voir.	
   Je	
  voulus	
  y	
  jeter	
  les	
  yeux	
  un	
  instant.	
  J’entrai	
  sans	
  le	
  pouvoir	
  tout	
  à	
  fait.	
  	
   Ma	
  gorge	
  se	
  serre.	
  J’ai	
  un	
  léger	
  vertige.	
  Je	
  ressors	
  presque	
  aussitôt.14	
   	
   As	
   my	
   epigraph	
   reminds	
   us,	
   where	
   Rimbaud	
   opens	
   his	
   descent	
   by	
   turning	
   to	
   the	
   Jadis,	
  
Quignard	
   begins	
   his	
   reflections	
   “on	
   the	
   Jadis”	
   with	
   a	
   descent.15	
  Analogous	
   to	
   Rimbaud’s	
   hesitant	
  –	
  hellish,	
  damning	
  –	
  qualification	
  (“si	
  je	
  me	
  souviens	
  bien”),	
  Quignard’s	
  experience	
  
is	
   fraught	
   with	
   ambivalence:	
   the	
   return	
   to	
   the	
   same,	
   to	
   a	
   place	
   visited	
   over	
   twenty	
   years	
  
before,	
   is	
   in	
   fact	
   a	
   return	
   to	
   an	
   old	
   evasion,	
   to	
   something	
   once	
   suppressed;	
   the	
   will	
   to	
   self-­‐ prevention	
  or	
  self-­‐preservation	
  is	
  weakened,	
  yet	
  the	
  desire	
  to	
  carry	
  on	
  is	
  checked	
  by	
  some	
  
fundamental	
  incapacity.	
  The	
  repeated	
  confrontation	
  suddenly	
  causes	
  dizziness,	
  which	
  goads	
   him	
  to	
  leave	
  almost	
  immediately.	
  
The	
   fact	
   that	
   this	
   scene	
   confronts	
   an	
   old	
   avoidance	
   and	
   presents	
   a	
   vague	
   but	
  
powerful	
   resurgence	
   only	
   partially	
   explains	
   the	
   force	
   of	
   this	
   brief,	
   opening	
   narration.	
   A	
   far	
   greater	
   nuance	
   rests	
   in	
   the	
   shifting	
   verb	
   morphology,	
   which	
   will	
   allow	
   this	
   incipit	
   or	
   re-­‐
commencement	
  to	
  be	
  taken	
  as	
  programmatic	
  for	
  the	
  present	
  reading	
  of	
  Sur	
  le	
  jadis.	
  The	
  text	
   quickly	
  runs	
  through	
  an	
  entire	
  range	
  of	
  tenses	
   –	
  the	
  passé	
  composé	
  (“Je	
  suis	
  descendu”),	
  the	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
14	
  Pascal	
  Quignard,	
  Sur	
  le	
  jadis:	
  Dernier	
  Royaume	
  II	
  (Paris:	
  Gallimard,	
  2002),	
  7.	
  (SJ).	
  	
   15	
  Across	
   the	
   Dernier	
   Royaume	
   series,	
   Quignard	
   suggests	
   his	
   artistic	
   kinship	
   with	
   Rimbaud,	
   for	
   example	
   in	
   Sordidissimes,	
   where	
   he	
   cites	
   directly	
   from	
   Une	
   saison	
   en	
   enfer	
   (Délires	
   II:	
   alchimie	
   du	
   verbe):	
   “Liste	
   d’Arthur	
   Rimbaud:	
   La	
   littérature	
   démodée,	
   latin	
   d’église,	
   livres	
   érotiques	
   sans	
   orthographe,	
   romans	
   de	
   nos	
   aïeules,	
   contes	
   de	
   fées,	
   petits	
   livres	
   de	
   l’enfance.”	
   Pascal	
   Quignard	
   Sordidissimes:	
   Dernier	
   Royaume	
   V	
   (Paris:	
   Grasset,	
   2004),	
   257.	
   On	
   Quignard’s	
   indebtedness	
   to	
   Rimbaud’s	
   style,	
   see	
   Gaspard	
   Turin,	
   “‘Entre	
   centre	
   et	
   absence’:	
   fragmentation	
   et	
   style	
   chez	
   Pascal	
   Quignard,”	
  Littérature,	
  153	
  (2009):	
  86-­‐101;	
  especially	
  92-­‐93.	
  	
  
	
   8	
  

imparfait	
   (“Cela	
   faisait,”	
   “j’évitais”),	
   the	
   passé	
   simple	
   (“Je	
   ne	
   pus,”	
   “Je	
   voulus,”	
   “J’entrai”)	
   –	
  
before	
   moving	
   directly	
   into	
   the	
   présent	
   (“Ma	
   gorge	
   se	
   serre.	
   J’ai	
   un	
   léger	
   vertige.	
   Je	
   ressors	
   presque	
  aussitôt”).	
  How	
  should	
  we	
  account	
  for	
  this	
  confusion	
  des	
  temps?	
  	
  
Tense-­‐shifting,	
   especially	
   from	
   the	
   past	
   to	
   the	
   present,	
   is	
   generally	
   understood	
   as	
   a	
   deictic	
   gesture,	
   one	
   that	
   achieves	
   an	
   effect	
   of	
   vividness,	
   referred	
   to	
   in	
   Greek	
   poetics	
   as	
  
enargeia	
  and	
   in	
   Latin	
   variously	
   as	
   illustratio,	
   evidentia	
   or	
   demonstratio.16	
  With	
   the	
   sudden	
  
intrusion	
   of	
   the	
   present	
   tense,	
   the	
   story	
   is	
   no	
   longer	
   felt	
   to	
   be	
   a	
   story	
   but	
   rather	
   an	
   event	
   unfolding	
   in	
   the	
   here	
   and	
   now.	
   Distance	
   is	
   overwhelmed.	
   The	
   scene	
   demands	
   alertness.	
  
What	
  this	
  vividness	
  entails,	
  it	
  should	
  be	
  specified,	
  is	
  nothing	
  less	
  than	
  language’s	
  readiness	
   to	
   disappear,	
   to	
   allow	
   its	
   words	
   and	
   voice	
   to	
   yield	
   its	
   place	
   to	
   the	
   vision	
   it	
   evokes.	
   The	
  
medium	
   hides	
   its	
   mediating	
   role.	
   The	
   listener	
   or	
   reader	
   becomes	
   a	
   spectator,	
   a	
   participant	
  
in	
   the	
   scene,	
   an	
   engaged	
   witness;	
   and	
   the	
   statement	
   thereby	
   acquires	
   greater	
   force,	
   more	
   urgency.	
  To	
  employ	
  the	
  terms	
  famously	
  defined	
  by	
  Émile	
  Benveniste,	
  the	
  histoire	
  –	
  the	
  story	
  
given	
  without	
  indication	
  to	
  the	
  context	
  of	
  its	
  telling	
  –	
  abruptly	
  turns	
  into	
  a	
  discours,	
  marked	
   by	
  personal	
  pronouns	
  and	
  verbal	
  tenses	
  that	
  allude	
  to	
  the	
  narrating	
  act.17	
  
The	
   technique	
   is	
   discernible	
   throughout	
   classical	
   literature,	
   for	
   example	
   in	
   the	
  
following	
  passage	
  from	
  Vergil’s	
  Aeneid:	
   vix	
  prima	
  inceperat	
  aestas	
  
et	
  pater	
  Anchises	
  dare	
  fatis	
  vela	
  iubebat.	
   litora	
  cum	
  patriae	
  lacrimans	
  portusque	
  relinquo	
  	
  
(Aen.	
  3:8-­‐10)	
   	
   The	
  onset	
  of	
  summer	
  hardly	
  had	
  begun	
   and	
  father	
  Anchises	
  ordered	
  to	
  set	
  sails	
  to	
  the	
  fates,	
   when	
  I	
  leave	
  my	
  country’s	
  shores	
  and	
  harbors,	
  crying	
   	
  
My	
   literal	
   translation	
   of	
   the	
   verb	
   tenses	
   should	
   emphasize	
   the	
   effect.	
   From	
   a	
   purely	
   grammatical	
   point	
   of	
   view,	
   we	
   would	
   expect	
   the	
   coordination	
   of	
   the	
   pluperfect	
   (inceperat)	
  
and	
   the	
   imperfect	
   (iubebat),	
   where	
   the	
   former	
   supplies	
   information	
   that	
   situates	
   the	
   narration	
  in	
  the	
  past.	
  The	
  pluperfect	
  and	
  the	
  imperfect	
  work	
  together	
  to	
  maintain	
  that	
  this	
  
is	
   an	
   histoire	
   that	
   has	
   taken	
   place	
   sometime	
   beforehand.	
   The	
   subsequent	
   intrusion	
   of	
   the	
  
present	
   tense	
   (relinquo)	
   appears	
   to	
   pull	
   the	
   narration	
   out	
   of	
   the	
   past,	
   effacing	
   the	
   distance	
   that	
   separates	
   the	
   temps	
   de	
   l’énoncé	
   and	
   the	
   temps	
   de	
   l’énonciation.	
   Traditionally,	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
16	
  The	
   term	
   enargeia	
   is	
   first	
   found	
   in	
   Dionysius	
   of	
   Halicarnassus,	
   Commentaries	
   on	
   the	
   Attic	
   Orators:	
   Lysias,	
  7.	
  See	
  also	
  Longinus,	
  On	
  the	
  Sublime,	
  15,	
  and	
  Quintilian’s	
  remarks,	
  Institutio	
  oratoria	
  6.2.29-­‐32.	
  	
   17	
  Émile	
  Benveniste,	
  Problèmes	
  de	
  linguistique	
  générale,	
  vol.	
  1	
  (Paris:	
  Gallimard,	
  1966),	
  238-­‐42.	
  
	
   9	
  

philologists	
   would	
   classify	
   this	
   use	
   as	
   the	
   “historical	
   present”	
   (praesens	
   historicum),	
   which	
  
appears	
   to	
   heighten	
   dramatic	
   tension.18	
  In	
   considering	
   modern	
   usage,	
   some	
   linguists	
   explain	
  that	
  the	
  contrast	
  distinguishes	
  background	
  from	
  foreground	
  material.19	
  In	
  this	
  brief	
  
example	
   from	
   the	
   Aeneid,	
   the	
   shift	
   from	
   past	
   to	
   present	
   tenses	
   would	
   simply	
   mark	
   the	
   summer’s	
  onset	
  and	
  Anchises’	
  command	
  as	
  non-­‐events	
  that	
  provide	
  background	
  to	
  the	
  event	
  
of	
   Aeneas’s	
   lachrymose	
   departure.	
   Other	
   language	
   scholars	
   would	
   regard	
   Vergil’s	
   tense	
  
shifting	
   as	
   a	
   progression	
   from	
   a	
   more	
   static,	
   depictive	
   narration	
   toward	
   an	
   increased	
   dynamism.20	
  
	
   All	
   of	
   these	
   interpretations	
   of	
   the	
   role	
   of	
   the	
   present	
   in	
   past	
   narration	
   are	
   compelling	
  and	
  have	
  at	
  least	
  some	
  bearing	
  on	
  the	
  opening	
  sequence	
  in	
  Sur	
  le	
  jadis.	
  The	
  non-­‐
event	
  of	
  a	
  hike	
  through	
  Périgord,	
  the	
  background	
  experience	
  of	
  returning	
  to	
  the	
  same,	
  could	
  
indeed	
  be	
  read	
  as	
  preparation	
  for	
  the	
  impingement	
  of	
  a	
  powerful	
  event.	
  Yet,	
  as	
  we	
  continue	
   to	
   read,	
   we	
   see	
   that	
   Quignard	
   complicates	
   any	
   straightforward	
   account	
   by	
   imposing	
   even	
  
further	
   shifts	
   in	
   tense:	
   “Ma	
   gorge	
   se	
   serre.	
   J’ai	
   un	
   léger	
   vertige.	
   Je	
   ressors	
   presque	
   aussitôt.	
   Mes	
   yeux	
   se	
   portèrent	
   d’eux-­‐mêmes	
   près	
   de	
   l’autel	
   des	
   Romains.	
   Je	
   ne	
   vis	
   rien.	
   Rien	
   ne	
   se	
  
leva,	
   venant	
   d’autrefois”	
   (Jadis	
   7).	
   The	
   reintroduction	
   of	
   the	
   passé	
   simple	
   (“se	
   portèrent,”	
  
“vis,”	
   “se	
   leva”)	
   would	
   appear	
   to	
   expel	
   the	
   scene	
   back	
   into	
   a	
   prior	
   time,	
   reducing	
   the	
   vertiginous	
   discours	
   back	
   into	
   a	
   mere	
   histoire.	
   The	
   foreground	
   seems	
   to	
   dissolve	
   into	
   the	
  
background.	
  As	
  the	
  passage	
  continues,	
  however,	
  it	
  becomes	
  quite	
  clear	
  that	
  the	
  move	
  back	
   to	
   the	
   past	
   tense	
   hardly	
   diminishes	
   the	
   effect	
   of	
   vividness	
   or	
   dramatic	
   tension:	
   “Dans	
  
l’ombre	
  de	
  la	
  branche	
  je	
  vis	
  surgir	
  soudain	
  le	
  visage	
  d’une	
  femme”	
  (Jadis	
  8).	
  The	
  suddenness	
  
that	
   accompanies	
   the	
   passé	
   simple	
   disproves	
   the	
   claim	
   that	
   the	
   present	
   tense	
   alone	
   can	
   communicate	
  intensity.	
  In	
  fact,	
  restricting	
  vivid	
  effects	
  exclusively	
  to	
  the	
  present	
  tense	
  and	
  
denying	
   the	
   past	
   tense	
   this	
   power	
   would	
   be	
   valid	
   only	
   if	
   we	
   read	
   the	
   verbs	
   as	
   expressing	
   time	
   alone	
   and	
   thus	
   ignore	
   their	
   qualities	
   of	
   aspect.	
   Like	
   all	
   Indo-­‐European	
   languages,	
  
modern	
   French	
   verbs	
   exhibit	
   aspect	
   (continuous,	
   completed	
   or	
   aorist),	
   even	
   if	
   these	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
18	
  Richard	
   Heinze	
   writes,	
   “The	
   more	
   vividly	
   [Vergil]	
   produces	
   the	
   illusion	
   in	
   us	
   that	
   we	
   are	
   facing	
   immediately	
  [unmittelbar]	
  the	
  events	
  themselves,	
  the	
  more	
  perfectly	
  he	
  believes	
  that	
  he	
  has	
  reached	
   his	
  goal.	
  An	
  external	
  feature	
  of	
  his	
  narrative,	
  but	
  a	
  very	
  characteristic	
  one,	
  is	
  the	
  overwhelming	
  use	
  of	
   the	
  historical	
  present	
  […]	
  intended	
  to	
  paint	
  the	
  events	
  for	
  us	
  as	
  truly	
  present.”	
  Virgils	
  epische	
  Technik	
   (1915)	
  (Stuttgart:	
  Teubner,	
  1982),	
  374	
  	
  (my	
  translation	
  and	
  emphasis).	
  For	
  a	
  comparative	
  account	
  of	
   the	
   narrative	
   implications	
   of	
   the	
   historical	
   present	
   in	
   Caesar’s	
   Gallic	
   Wars	
   and	
   Charles	
   de	
   Gaulle’s	
   Mémoires	
   de	
   guerre,	
   see	
   Sylvie	
   Mellet,	
   “Le	
   Présent	
   ‘historique’	
   ou	
   ‘de	
   narration,’”	
   L’Information	
   grammaticale,	
  4	
  (1980):	
  6-­‐11.	
   19	
  See	
  Paul	
  Hopper,	
  “Some	
  Observations	
  on	
  the	
  Typology	
  of	
  Focus	
  and	
  Aspect	
  in	
  Narrative	
  Language,”	
   Studies	
  in	
  Language,	
  3	
  (1979):	
  37-­‐64.	
   20	
  Robert	
  Longacre,	
  “A	
  Spectrum	
  and	
  Profile	
  Approach	
  to	
  Discourse	
  Analysis,”	
  Text,	
  1	
  (1981):	
  337-­‐59.	
  
	
   10	
  

assignations	
   are	
   no	
   longer	
   assigned	
   unequivocally.	
   Rather	
   than	
   take	
   the	
   shift	
   from	
   the	
   present	
  to	
  the	
  past	
  as	
  conversion	
  of	
  discours	
  to	
  histoire,	
  it	
  would	
  be	
  better	
  to	
  understand	
  it	
   as	
   a	
   modulation	
   from	
   continuous	
   to	
   simple	
   or	
   aorist	
   aspect,	
   from	
   an	
   on-­‐going	
   situation	
   to	
   one	
  that	
  occurs	
  forcefully	
  “at	
  once.”	
  
A	
   reading	
   of	
   Sur	
   le	
   jadis	
   should	
   reveal	
   that	
   aspectual	
   difference	
   plays	
   a	
   central	
   role	
   not	
  only	
  in	
  the	
  book’s	
  stylistic	
  presentation	
  but	
  also	
  in	
  its	
  thematic	
  organization.	
  As	
  the	
  title	
   already	
   suggests,	
   the	
   volume	
   is	
   not	
   only	
   a	
   study	
   of	
   time	
   but	
   more	
   precisely	
   a	
   study	
   of	
   temporal	
   aspects.	
   In	
   brief,	
   to	
   approach	
   Sur	
  le	
  jadis	
  critically	
   is	
   to	
   witness	
   and	
   assess	
   what	
   happens	
   when	
   a	
   particular	
   species	
   of	
   time,	
   the	
   ongoing	
   now	
   of	
   writing	
   and	
   reading,	
   intersects	
   or	
   collides	
   with	
   another	
   kind	
   of	
   time,	
   the	
   completeness	
   of	
   a	
   past	
   conceived	
   as	
   space.	
   To	
   employ	
   Latin	
   terms,	
   Sur	
   le	
   jadis	
   performs	
   the	
   dynamic	
   encounter	
   between	
   the	
   infectum	
  of	
  the	
  now	
  and	
  perfectum	
  of	
  the	
  historical	
  past.	
  Moreover,	
  and	
  even	
  more	
  crucially,	
   the	
   book	
   grapples	
   to	
   express	
   the	
   ground	
   or	
   foundation	
   of	
   this	
   temporal	
   confrontation.	
   It	
   attempts	
   to	
   evoke	
   that	
   which	
   makes	
   this	
   concurrence	
   possible.	
   In	
   reaching	
   for	
   this	
   potentiating	
  origin,	
  this	
  potent	
  source	
  of	
  temporal	
  experience,	
  we	
  need	
  to	
  have	
  recourse	
  to	
   the	
   third	
   verbal	
   aspect	
   –	
   the	
   one	
   that	
   attracts	
   Quignard’s	
   attention	
   above	
   all	
   –	
   namely	
   the	
   already	
  or	
  iam	
  that	
  characterizes	
  the	
  simple	
  aspect	
  discernible	
  in	
  the	
  Greek	
  aorist.	
  
Early	
   on	
   in	
   Sur	
   le	
   jadis,	
   Quignard	
   confirms	
   the	
   completed,	
   spatial	
   quality	
   of	
   History	
   (“Histoire”)	
   by	
   reconnecting	
   the	
   word	
   page	
   (or	
   pagina)	
   with	
   pagus	
   (“country,	
   pays”),	
   “la	
   demeure	
   la	
   plus	
   vaste	
   où	
   l’âme	
   puisse	
   se	
   mouvoir,	
   voyager,	
   comparer,	
   revenir”	
   (Jadis	
   14).	
   By	
  means	
  of	
  the	
  written	
  word,	
  temporal	
  experience	
  is	
  transformed	
  into	
  a	
  landscape	
  open	
  to	
   repeated	
   visits	
   and	
   return	
   engagements.	
   The	
   page,	
   and	
   this	
   would	
   of	
   course	
   include	
   Quignard’s	
   pages,	
   invites	
   exploration,	
   or	
   better,	
   in-­‐vestigation;	
   it	
   is	
   the	
   past	
   as	
   a	
   “nouvel	
   espace”	
   where	
   vestiges	
   of	
   absent	
   presence	
   are	
   accessible	
   to	
   the	
   present	
   eye:	
   “Le	
   passé	
   est	
   un	
   immense	
   corps	
   dont	
   le	
   présent	
   est	
   l’œil”	
   (Jadis	
   17).21	
  A	
   broad	
   horizon	
   stretches	
   out	
   before	
   the	
   journeying	
   spectator.	
   History	
   is	
   there	
   as	
   that	
   which	
   has	
   taken	
   place.	
   It	
   is	
   complete.	
   The	
   present	
   –	
   the	
   present	
   time	
   of	
   writing,	
   the	
   present	
   now	
   of	
   reading	
   –	
   penetrates	
   the	
   surrounding	
   space	
   of	
   complete,	
   perfected	
   history;	
   it	
   springs	
   forth	
   and	
   takes	
   “from	
   this	
   horizon,”	
   hence	
   the	
   eminently	
   Quignardian	
   aphoristic	
   style,	
   which	
   literally	
   arrives	
  at	
  its	
  observations	
  by	
  marking	
  itself	
  off,	
  by	
  creating	
  a	
  boundary	
  (horos),	
  aphorizein.	
  
One	
   could	
   readily	
   claim,	
   then,	
   that	
   the	
   horizon	
   or	
   boundary	
   is	
   there	
   only	
   because	
   there	
   is	
   an	
   eye	
   to	
   regard	
   it.	
   That	
   is	
   to	
   say,	
   the	
   present	
   does	
   not	
   merely	
   encounter	
   this	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
21	
  For	
  Quignard’s	
  reflections	
  on	
  the	
  relation	
  between	
  vestigium	
  and	
  investigatio,	
  see	
  Sur	
  le	
  jadis	
  62.	
  
	
   11	
  

horizon,	
   but	
   also	
   decisively	
   creates	
   it.	
   The	
   present	
   itself	
   has	
   constituted	
   the	
   horos,	
   which	
   suggests	
  that	
  the	
  past	
  is	
  already	
  contained	
  or	
  lodged	
  in	
  the	
  now.	
  Conversely,	
  the	
  spectacle	
  of	
   the	
   past	
   could	
   be	
   understood	
   as	
   giving	
   birth	
   to	
   the	
   now	
   that	
   arrives	
   to	
   greet	
   it.	
   Quignard’s	
   zoomorphic	
   metaphor	
   –	
   the	
   present	
   as	
   the	
   eye	
   of	
   the	
   body	
   that	
   is	
   the	
   past	
   –	
   proposes	
   that	
   the	
   two	
   aspects,	
   the	
   infectum	
   and	
   the	
   perfectum,	
   are	
   organically	
   conjoined,	
   distinct	
   but	
   inseparable,	
   held	
   together	
   by	
   the	
   horizon	
   that	
   gives	
   both	
   sides	
   their	
   definition,	
   their	
   contour.	
  If	
  it	
  is	
  true	
  that	
  the	
  past	
  is	
  already	
  in	
  the	
  present,	
  then	
  it	
  also	
  holds	
  that	
  the	
  present	
   is	
   already	
   in	
   the	
   past.	
   Within	
   the	
   vast	
   frame	
   of	
   the	
   horizon,	
   the	
   two	
   aspects	
   of	
   time	
   are	
   bound	
  together.	
  
What	
   permits	
   this	
   boundary,	
   this	
   horizon,	
   to	
   be	
   recognized	
   as	
   such?	
   What	
   is	
   the	
   constitutive	
  exterior	
  that	
  allows	
  the	
  bounded	
  area	
  to	
  be	
  thus	
  identified?	
  What	
  is	
  the	
  ground	
   or	
   the	
   foundation	
   of	
   both	
   the	
   present	
   and	
   the	
   perfected	
   past?	
   It	
   can	
   only	
   be	
   that	
   which	
   is	
   already	
  there,	
  the	
  iam	
  that	
  is	
  beyond	
  the	
  bounded	
  scene,	
  or	
  beyond	
  boundedness	
  itself.	
  The	
   term	
  for	
  the	
  boundlessness	
  that	
  allows	
  the	
  horizon	
  to	
  take	
  shape	
  is	
  the	
  aorist,	
  literally	
  that	
   which	
   negates	
   the	
   horos:	
   a-­‐oriston,	
   “without	
   horizon,	
   without	
   boundary,	
   without	
   limit.”	
   Quignard	
  offers	
  a	
  very	
  concise	
  series	
  of	
  definitions:	
  
	
   To	
  horizon	
  définit	
  ce	
  qui	
  limite	
  ou	
  délimite	
  le	
  site	
  au	
  sein	
  de	
  l’espace.	
  To	
  aoriston,	
  ce	
   qui	
   est	
   sans	
   limites.	
   Ce	
   mot	
   définit	
   ce	
   qui	
   ne	
   connaît	
   pas	
   de	
   frontière	
   et	
   qui	
   ne	
   connaît	
  plus	
  d’horizon.	
  To	
  ek-­‐statikon	
  définit	
  ce	
  qui	
  se	
  tient	
  en	
  dehors	
  de	
  sa	
  place.	
  Ce	
   qui	
  est	
  hors	
  de	
  soi.	
  Le	
  site	
  en	
  extension	
  de	
  toute	
  situation.	
  Le	
  mot	
  ek-­‐statique	
  définit	
   le	
  temps	
  même.	
  (Jadis	
  129)	
   	
   The	
   aorist	
   is	
   the	
   already	
   that	
   defines	
   both	
   the	
   progressive	
   present,	
   which	
   already	
   contains	
   the	
   past,	
   and	
   the	
   completed	
   past,	
   which	
   already	
   contains	
   the	
   present.	
   It	
   is	
   “ecstatic”;	
   it	
   is	
   “time	
  itself.”	
   The	
   force	
   of	
   the	
   aorist	
   is	
   therefore	
   consolidated	
   in	
   the	
   key	
   term	
   Jadis:	
   “La	
   forme	
   française	
  jadis	
  se	
  décompose	
  comme	
  Ja-­‐a-­‐dis	
  qui	
  peut	
  elle-­‐même	
  se	
  traduire	
  comme	
  Déjà/il	
   y	
  a/des	
  jours.	
  Source	
  qui	
  renvoie	
  à	
  une	
  source	
  qui	
  antécède.	
  C’est	
  ainsi	
  que	
  le	
  Jadis	
  structure	
   le	
   temps	
   comme	
   avant.”	
   (Jadis	
   139)	
   As	
   the	
   “fount	
   of	
   time”	
   (“fons	
   temporis,”	
   Jadis	
   138),	
   le	
   Jadis	
  can	
  neither	
  be	
  located	
  nor	
  dated.	
  All	
  the	
  same,	
  le	
  Jadis	
  is	
  everywhere,	
  coursing	
  through	
   the	
   paginae	
   of	
   Dernier	
  Royaume,	
   living	
   on	
   or	
   surviving	
   precisely	
   as	
   the	
   non-­‐localizable,	
   as	
   the	
   interminable	
   –	
   “Le	
   Jadis	
   erre	
   sur	
   tout	
   l’espace	
   de	
   la	
   terre.”22	
  For	
   Jean-­‐Luc	
   Nancy,	
   this	
   errancy	
  specifies	
  the	
  meaning	
  of	
  Quignard’s	
  provocative	
  neologism,	
  the	
  verb	
  jadir:	
  “Le	
  jadis	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
22	
  Pascal	
  Quignard,	
  Les	
  Paradisiaques:	
  dernier	
  royaume	
  IV	
  (Paris:	
  Grasset,	
  2004),	
  18.	
  	
  
	
   12	
  

jadit	
   –	
   c’est-­‐à-­‐dire	
   qu’il	
   survient	
   dans	
   sa	
   perte,	
   en	
   tant	
   que	
   perdu,	
   un	
   paradis	
   perdu	
   […],	
   ainsi	
   toutefois	
   survenant,	
   faisant	
   encontre	
   et	
   rencontre	
   dont	
   au	
   moins	
   il	
   peut	
   trouver,	
   lui,	
   attestation	
   elle-­‐même	
   archaïque.”23	
  Nancy’s	
   allusion	
   to	
   “a	
   paradise	
   lost”	
   is	
   relevant,	
   insofar	
   as	
   Quignard	
   eventually	
   turns	
   to	
   theological	
   language,	
   albeit	
   in	
   a	
   thoroughly	
   non-­‐Deist	
   fashion.	
  Specifically,	
  he	
  borrows	
  terms	
  from	
  negative	
  theology	
  and	
  the	
  Plotinian	
  method	
  of	
   apophasis,	
   an	
   utterance	
   that	
   reverently	
   refuses	
   to	
   utter	
   anything	
   in	
   positive	
   and	
   therefore	
   reductive	
   terms.	
   In	
   an	
   analogous	
   way,	
   affirming	
   only	
   by	
   means	
   of	
   negating,	
   Quignard	
   elaborates	
   the	
   force	
   of	
   jadis,	
   which	
   is	
   distinguished	
   from	
   the	
   past:	
   “Le	
   jadis	
   par	
   rapport	
   au	
   passé	
   a	
   pour	
   premier	
   trait	
   de	
   ne	
   pas	
   avoir	
   nécessairement	
   été.	
   Le	
   jadis	
   ne	
   figure	
   ni	
   au	
   nombre	
  des	
  étants	
  ni	
  au	
  nombre	
  des	
  ayant	
  été	
  car	
  il	
  n’a	
  pas	
  encore	
  fini	
  de	
  surgir.	
  Le	
  jadis	
  est	
   un	
   puits	
   plus	
   vaste	
   que	
   tout	
   le	
   passé”	
   (Jadis	
   140).	
   Le	
   Jadis	
   participates	
   in	
   the	
   origin	
   that	
   antedates	
   all	
   that	
   is	
   originated.	
   It	
   is	
   prior,	
   already	
   there	
   before	
   the	
   beginning	
   (“Ce	
   qui	
   précède	
   le	
   début,	
   tel	
   est	
   le	
   jadis,”	
   [Jadis	
  55]).	
   That	
   is	
   to	
   say,	
  le	
   Jadis	
   precedes	
   the	
   language	
   and	
   the	
   borders	
   and	
   the	
   limits	
   that	
   define	
   experience	
   through	
   polarization	
   and	
   discrimination.	
  Accordingly,	
  it	
  is	
  linked	
  to	
  the	
  apohatic,	
  alpha-­‐privative	
  terms	
  that	
  Plotinus	
   employs	
   to	
   point	
   (negatively)	
   to	
   the	
   origin:	
   “Alogos,	
  aoristos,	
  apeiros,	
   tels	
   sont	
   les	
   mots	
   de	
   Plotin”	
  (Jadis	
  129).	
  In	
  contrast,	
  the	
  passé	
  is	
  riveted	
  to	
  the	
  boundaries	
  imposed	
  by	
  language.	
  
The	
   key	
   distinction	
   between	
   le	
  Jadis	
  and	
   the	
   passé	
  is	
   therefore	
   best	
   understood	
   in	
   light	
   of	
   aspectual	
   rather	
   than	
   temporal	
   difference.	
   The	
   passé	
   is	
   replete	
   with	
   that	
   which	
   has	
   been,	
   with	
   actions	
   completed	
   or	
   perfected	
   from	
   the	
   perspective	
   of	
   the	
   present.	
   For	
   this	
   reason,	
   it	
   is	
   grammatically	
   represented	
   by	
   the	
   “present	
   perfect”	
   or	
   passé	
   composé,	
   whose	
   aspect	
   explicitly	
   diverges	
   from	
   the	
   aorist	
   force	
   of	
   the	
   passé	
  simple.	
   The	
   acts	
   that	
   comprise	
   the	
   perfected	
   past	
   do	
   so	
   by	
   being	
   taken	
   from	
   the	
   horizon	
   of	
   lived	
   experience.	
   They	
   are	
   aphoristic.	
  The	
  contents	
  of	
  le	
  Jadis,	
  however,	
  are	
  aoristic,	
  simple.	
  They	
  are	
  associated	
  with	
  a	
   prior,	
   liquid	
   source	
   that	
   does	
   not	
   suffer	
   the	
   cuts,	
   divisions	
   or	
   contours	
   featured	
   in	
   language’s	
   sculpted	
   accomplishments	
   (“Il	
   y	
   a	
   un	
   pressentiment	
   de	
   la	
   préxistence,	
   substantielle,	
   liquide,	
   obscure,	
   ontologique,	
   inconnaissable	
   à	
   la	
   vision,	
   au	
   langage,	
   à	
   la	
   conscience,”	
   [Jadis	
   236]).	
   The	
   aorist	
   surge	
   of	
   le	
   Jadis	
   is	
   without	
   the	
   temporal	
   or	
   spatial	
   boundaries	
  that	
  compose	
  the	
  verbal	
  sense	
  of	
  “present	
  perfect”:	
  
L’aoriste	
   est	
   lié	
   à	
   l’achronie.	
   On	
   dit	
   aussi:	
   le	
   passé	
   simple.	
   […]	
   Les	
   simples	
   n’opposent	
  pas	
  comme	
  les	
  mots	
  du	
  langage	
  se	
  discriminent	
  et	
  se	
  polarisent.	
  	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
23	
  Jean-­‐Luc	
   Nancy,	
   “Jadis,	
   jamais,	
   bientôt	
   (l’amour),”	
   in	
   Pascal	
  Quignard,	
  figures	
  d’un	
  lettré,	
   Philippe	
   Bonnefis	
  et	
  Dolorès	
  Lyotard,	
  eds.	
  (Paris:	
  Galilée,	
  2005),	
  384.	
  	
  
	
   13	
  

Face	
   à	
   la	
   simplicitas	
  du	
   passé	
   simple,	
   si	
   simple,	
   presque	
   aoristique,	
   il	
   y	
   a	
   un	
   passé	
   composé,	
  si	
  complexe,	
  si	
  composé	
  qu’on	
  peut	
  presque	
  le	
  dire	
  décomposant.	
  C’est	
  le	
   passé	
  du	
  langage.	
  (Jadis	
  120)	
  
	
   Therefore,	
   guided	
   by	
   aspectual	
   difference,	
   we	
   discover	
   that	
   two	
   contrasting	
   types	
   of	
   the	
   past	
  have	
  been	
  operative	
  throughout	
  (“il	
  y	
  a	
  deux	
  sources	
  du	
  temps”	
  [Jadis	
  28]):	
  there	
  is	
  the	
   past	
   as	
   “irréversibilité”	
   (“le	
   passé-­‐à-­‐jamais”),	
   which	
   Quignard	
   identifies	
   as	
   “deuil,”	
   and	
   the	
   past	
   as	
   “réversibilité,”	
   which	
   is	
   characterized	
   as	
   “théophanie,”	
   as	
   the	
   limitless	
   ever	
   resurgent	
  past	
  –	
  “Le	
  passé	
  de	
  ce	
  monde	
  comme	
  printemps	
  à	
  faire	
  sans	
  cesse	
  revenir”	
  (Jadis	
   29).	
   This	
   latter	
   past	
   “n’a	
   pas	
   encore	
   fini	
   de	
   surgir.”	
   Quite	
   explicitly,	
   Quignard	
   grounds	
   the	
   simple	
   aspect	
   of	
   the	
   aorist	
   in	
   the	
   déjà	
   that	
   resounds	
   in	
   le	
   Jadis	
   and	
   promises	
   an	
   encore:	
   “Il	
   n’y	
  a	
  aucun	
  Jamais-­‐plus	
  dans	
  le	
  Jadis.	
  Il	
  y	
  a	
  un	
  jour.	
  Un	
  jour	
  déjà.	
  Un	
  jour	
  encore”	
  (Jadis	
  141).	
  
Whereas	
   the	
   simple	
   ontology	
   of	
   le	
  Jadis	
   must	
   be	
   differentiated	
   from	
   the	
   completed,	
   ontic	
   phenomena	
   of	
   the	
   passé,	
   it	
   is	
   important	
   to	
   see	
   some	
   deeper	
   relation	
   between	
   le	
   Jadis	
   and	
  the	
  présent,	
  whose	
  radical	
  transience	
  should	
  also	
  be	
  defined	
  or	
  affirmed	
  negatively,	
  that	
   is,	
   as	
   passing	
   constantly	
   between	
   the	
   no	
  longer	
   and	
   the	
   not	
  yet.	
   As	
   Laurence	
   David	
   notes,	
   “Dans	
   le	
   cycle	
   du	
   Dernier	
  Royaume,	
   Pascal	
   Quignard	
   dit	
   que	
   le	
   présent	
   n’existe	
   pas.	
   On	
   ne	
   peut	
   penser	
   à	
   la	
   seconde	
   même.	
   Le	
   présent	
   serait	
   tout	
   au	
   plus	
   un	
   passage	
   entre	
   deux	
   intervalles.”24	
  In	
  order	
  to	
  distinguish,	
  then,	
  the	
  constitutive	
  negativity	
  of	
  le	
  Jadis	
  from	
  that	
  of	
   le	
  présent,	
   it	
   again	
   appears	
   necessary	
   to	
   stress	
   a	
   difference	
   in	
   verbal	
   aspect.	
   The	
   negative	
   force	
   of	
   le	
   présent	
   is	
   through	
   and	
   through	
   durative	
   or	
   continuous,	
   fluctuating	
   ceaselessly	
   between	
   what	
   has	
   been	
   and	
   what	
   is	
   to	
   come,	
   between	
   mourning	
   and	
   theophany.	
   As	
   cited	
   above,	
   “Le	
   passé	
   est	
   un	
   immense	
   corps	
   dont	
   le	
   présent	
   est	
   l’œil”	
   (Jadis	
   17);	
   but	
   this	
   past	
   should	
   now	
   be	
   understood	
   in	
   its	
   two,	
   distinct	
   aspects:	
   the	
   irreversible	
   past	
   of	
   the	
   perfect;	
   and	
   the	
   reversible	
   past	
   of	
   the	
   aorist.	
   By	
   means	
   of	
   its	
   continuous	
   movement,	
   le	
   présent,	
   consistently	
  associated	
  with	
  the	
  eyes,	
  can	
  train	
  its	
  gaze	
  either	
  on	
  the	
  limited,	
  visible	
  past	
  or	
   the	
   unlimited,	
   invisible	
   past.	
   In	
   a	
   much	
   earlier	
   text,	
   his	
   “Préface”	
   to	
   Colette	
   Lazam’s	
   translation	
   of	
   Apuleius’s	
   De	
   Deo	
   Socratis,	
   Quignard	
   privileges	
   the	
   latter	
   option:	
   “Aimer,	
   dormir,	
   lire	
   c’est	
   ce	
   ‘voir	
   l’aphantos’.	
   Lire,	
   c’est	
   suivre	
   des	
   yeux	
   la	
   présence	
   invisible.”25It	
   would	
  appear	
  that	
  the	
  negative	
  constitution	
  of	
  present’s	
  durative	
  aspect	
  (no	
  longer,	
  not	
  yet)	
   is	
  precisely	
  what	
  attracts	
  it	
  to	
  the	
  privative	
  substance	
  (alogos,	
  aoristos,	
  apeiros)	
  of	
  le	
  Jadis.	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
24	
  Laurence	
  Werner	
  David,	
  “La	
  Mémoire	
  la	
  plus	
  lointaine,”	
  Critique	
  63	
  :	
  721-­‐722	
  (2007):	
  508.	
   25	
  Pascal	
   Quignard,	
   “Petit	
   traité	
   sur	
   les	
   anges,”	
   preface	
   to	
   Apuleius,	
   Le	
   Démon	
   de	
   Socrate,	
   Colette	
   Lazam,	
  trans.	
  (Paris:	
  Payot,	
  1993),	
  28.	
  
	
   14	
  

To	
  illustrate,	
  Quignard	
  alludes	
  to	
  the	
  story	
  of	
  Gyges.	
  In	
  the	
  first	
  book	
  of	
  his	
  History,	
   Herodotus	
   relates	
   how	
   the	
   Lydian	
   king	
   Candaules,	
   eager	
   to	
   confirm	
   that	
   his	
   wife	
   was	
   the	
   most	
   beautiful	
   of	
   women,	
   turned	
   to	
   his	
   trusty	
   bodyguard,	
   Gyges.	
   With	
   some	
   difficulty,	
   Candaules	
   tried	
   to	
   persuade	
   Gyges	
   to	
   spy	
   on	
   her	
   as	
   she	
   undressed	
   for	
   bed,	
   so	
   that	
   in	
   beholding	
   her	
   nakedness	
   he	
   would	
   agree	
   that	
   there	
   was	
   indeed	
   no	
   one	
   fairer.	
   Yet,	
   Gyges	
   wisely	
   protested:	
   ἅμα	
   δὲ	
   κιθῶνι	
   ἐκδυομένῳ	
   συνεκδύεται	
   καὶ	
   τὴν	
   αἰδῶ	
   γυνή	
   (Hist.	
   1.8)	
   –	
   in	
   Quignard’s	
  translation:	
  “En	
  même	
  temps	
  qu’elle	
  se	
  dépouille	
  de	
  sa	
  chemise,	
  reine	
  ou	
  non,	
  la	
   femme	
  quitte	
  sa	
  gêne”	
  (Jadis	
  57).	
  Apart	
  from	
  the	
  interpolation	
  (“reine	
  ou	
  non”),	
  which	
  does	
   not	
   appear	
   in	
   Herodotus’s	
   Greek,	
   the	
   translation	
   is	
   perfectly	
   accurate	
   and	
   literal.	
   For	
   Quignard,	
   the	
   crucial	
   term	
   of	
   the	
   passage	
   is	
   aidōs,	
   “gene,”	
   which	
   he	
   takes	
   to	
   be	
   an	
   alpha-­‐ privative	
   noun:	
   shame	
   is	
   that	
   which	
   should	
   not	
   be	
   seen	
   (a-­‐idēs).	
   Herodotus	
   appears	
   to	
   support	
   this	
   etymology	
   further	
   in	
   the	
   episode,	
   not	
   cited	
   by	
   Quignard,	
   when	
   the	
   queen	
   rebukes	
  Gyges	
  for	
  “seeing	
  what	
  he	
  should	
  not”	
  (ἴδῃς	
  τὰ	
  μή	
  σε	
  δεῖ,	
  1.11).	
  In	
  Quignard’s	
  text,	
   this	
   brief	
   story	
   yields	
   a	
   series	
   of	
   observations	
   that	
   pursue	
   the	
   path	
   of	
   key	
   negative	
   conceptions,	
   beginning	
   with	
   the	
   word	
   for	
   truth	
   alētheia,	
   which	
   eradicates	
   forgetfulness	
   (lēthē):	
  “La	
  vérité	
  se	
  disait	
  en	
  grec	
  alètheia.	
  Est	
  vrai	
  ce	
  qui	
  ne	
  parvient	
  pas	
  à	
  s’oublier.	
  […]	
  A-­‐ lètheia	
  est	
  le	
  Non-­‐oublié	
  comme	
  A-­‐oriston	
  est	
  le	
  Non-­‐fini	
  et	
  comme	
  A-­‐idès	
  est	
  le	
  Non-­‐visible”	
   (Jadis	
  57).	
  Continuing	
  along	
  this	
  line,	
  alētheia	
  is	
  connected	
  with	
  the	
  Latin	
  revelatio,	
  literally	
   a	
  lifting	
  of	
  the	
  veil,	
  which	
  corresponds	
  to	
  the	
  undressing	
  scene	
  in	
  Herodotus.	
  For	
  Quignard,	
   it	
  is	
  within	
  the	
  logic	
  of	
  revelation	
  that	
  we	
  recognize	
  how	
  the	
  eye	
  of	
  the	
  present	
  relates	
  to	
  the	
   body	
   of	
   the	
   past:	
   “Non-­‐oubli	
   qui	
   arrache	
   le	
   voile	
   (le	
   velum)	
   sur	
   le	
   passé.	
   La	
   souche	
   du	
   vrai	
   est	
   le	
   nu.	
   C’est	
   encore	
   le	
   mot	
   de	
   Gygès	
   :	
   quand	
   elle	
   se	
   dénude,	
   reine	
   ou	
   non,	
   la	
   femme	
   arrache	
  la	
  vélation	
  sur	
  la	
  zoomorphie”	
  (Jadis	
  58).	
  
In	
  respecting	
  no	
  boundaries,	
  like	
  the	
  line	
  that	
  divides	
  what	
  should	
  and	
  should	
  not	
  be	
   seen,	
  like	
  the	
  border	
  that	
  separates	
  humans	
  from	
  beasts	
  or	
  predators	
  from	
  prey,	
  the	
  aorist	
   aspect	
   is	
   revealed	
   in	
   the	
   present’s	
   encounter	
   with	
   the	
   past;	
   not	
   with	
   the	
   past	
   of	
   what	
   has	
   been	
  but	
  rather	
  with	
  the	
  past	
  of	
  what	
  is	
  already	
  there,	
  “le	
  jour	
  déjà”:	
  le	
  Jadis.	
  The	
  continuous	
   aspect	
  of	
  the	
  present	
  is	
  interrupted	
  and	
  disrupted	
  by	
  the	
  simplicity	
  of	
  this	
  past	
  that	
  invisibly	
   surges	
   into	
   view.	
   As	
   Simon	
   Saint-­‐Onge	
   expresses	
   it,	
   le	
  Jadis	
  is	
   “un	
   processus	
   de	
   figuration	
   qui	
   fait	
   éclater	
   le	
   continuum	
   de	
   la	
   temporalité.”26	
  To	
   follow	
   with	
   one’s	
   eyes	
   this	
   invisible	
   presence	
   is	
   to	
   read	
   the	
   page,	
   the	
   pagina,	
   which	
   becomes	
   the	
   scene	
   of	
   the	
   past	
   as	
  
	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
 	 
  
26	
  Simon	
   Saint-­‐Onge,	
   “Le	
   Temps	
   contemporain	
   ou	
   le	
   Jadis	
   chez	
   Pascal	
   Quignard,”	
   Études	
  françaises,	
   44:3	
  (2008):	
  160.	
  	
  
	
   15	
  

simultaneity,	
  as	
  something	
  all	
  at	
  once,	
  “en	
  même	
  temps,”	
  and	
  decidedly	
  not	
  as	
  the	
  repository	
   of	
  that	
  which	
  has	
  been	
  completed	
  in	
  the	
  past	
  and	
  will	
  never	
  come	
  again.	
  To	
  refer	
  again	
  to	
  “le	
   mot	
   de	
   Gygès,”	
   although	
   Quignard	
   does	
   not	
   call	
   attention	
   to	
   it,	
   Herodotus’s	
   adverb,	
   hama,	
   “en	
  même	
  temps,”	
  is	
  in	
  fact	
  cognate	
  with	
  the	
  Latin	
  iam	
  that	
  yields	
  the	
  French	
  déjà—dès	
  et	
  jà,	
   de	
   jam.	
   And	
   “at	
   the	
   same	
   time”	
   concisely	
   recalls	
   the	
   effect	
   of	
   returning	
   to	
   the	
   same.	
   It	
   broaches	
   the	
   profound	
   relation	
   between	
   simultaneity	
   and	
   similarity,	
   simul	
   and	
   similis;	
   as	
   well	
  as	
  the	
  simultaneity	
  and	
  similarity	
  evoked	
  in	
  the	
  simple	
  (semel	
  plex)	
  aspect	
  of	
  the	
  aorist	
   (Jadis	
  120).	
  	
  
To	
  return	
  to	
  the	
  same	
  is	
  to	
  wrest	
  the	
  past	
  free	
  from	
  its	
  stable	
  location	
  in	
  History.	
  It	
  is	
   to	
  dissolve	
  its	
  delimitations	
  and	
  thereby	
  return	
  it	
  to	
  time	
  itself.	
  “Les	
  formes	
  sont	
  des	
  limites.	
   Dans	
   la	
   métamorphose	
   les	
   formes	
   ne	
   connaissent	
   plus	
   de	
   limites.	
   Elles	
   sont	
   devenues	
   aorista.	
  Leur	
  horizon	
  est	
  sans	
  forme:	
  c’est	
  le	
  temps”	
  (Jadis	
  131).	
  To	
  return	
  to	
  the	
  same	
  is	
  to	
   remove	
  the	
  veil	
  that	
  consigns	
  the	
  past	
  to	
  a	
  chain	
  of	
  accomplishments,	
  of	
  perfected	
  acts	
  that	
   will	
  never	
  return,	
  acts	
  that	
  have	
  been	
  expelled	
  from	
  living	
  time.	
  Hence,	
  to	
  return	
  to	
  the	
  same	
   is	
   to	
   enjoy	
   the	
   simultaneity	
   and	
   simplicity	
   of	
   the	
   past,	
   the	
   past	
   in	
   its	
   aorist	
   aspect,	
   which	
   overwhelms	
   every	
   limit,	
   unveils	
   itself	
   as	
   the	
   all-­‐at-­‐once,	
   and	
   radiates	
   in	
   its	
   invisibility.	
   In	
   a	
   word,	
  it	
  is	
  to	
  throw	
  an	
  eye	
  onto	
  that	
  which	
  is	
  already	
  there	
  before	
  the	
  beginning,	
  to	
  witness	
   the	
   vivid	
   splendor	
   of	
   the	
   now,	
   to	
   place	
   the	
   present	
   “sur	
   le	
   jadis”—before	
   discipline	
   and	
   before	
  meaning,	
  upon	
  the	
  ever-­‐retreating	
  margins	
  of	
  philology.	
  	
  	
   	
   	
   	
  
	
   16