Jacques Derrida or the Gift of Writing — When Something Happens

Memories

Like many others here, I have no desire to speak today.¹ I wish I did not have to. I have no idea what to say. That is why I am not going to say anything; instead, I plan to tell a few stories. I address my stories first and foremost to Marguerite Derrida, who I hope will recognize the memories I am going to evoke. Before beginning I also want to say that I will not be speaking alone today but for or rather with Suzanne Gearhart, who has her place, a very important place, in all the stories and memories I am about to relate.

“I never knew how to tell a story.” As you well know, this is a quotation. To which I will add only one comment: “Me neither.” But in spite of this incapacity, I will nevertheless still try to tell a few stories and relate some of my most vivid memories of Jacques Derrida. First of all, because I do not think this is the appropriate moment to analyze his work. In any case, I know I would be incapable of doing so today and probably for quite some time in the future. So I propose not analyses but rather little stories that I do not know how to tell and that I have not even been able to link together very successfully to form a proper, coherent narrative. It is nevertheless still possible that the stories I am about to tell still constitute a testimony of sorts. I certainly hope so. But I apologize in advance for their lack of coherence. Memory works that way, especially at a moment as terrible as this one.