Derrida | Benjamin: Two Plays for the Stage 3030498069, 9783030498061

Table of contents :
Preface
Acknowledgments
Contents
1 The Strangest of All Things
Texts Cited
2 Derrida
Texts cited
3 Benjamin
Texts Cited
4 Barely a Film
Texts Cited
Index

Citation preview

Derrida | Benjamin Two Plays for the Stage John Schad · Fred Dalmasso

Derrida | Benjamin “Haunting has no limit, it seems; or so we are reminded by these two remarkable plays. Both have moments of darkness and terror, but these are fundamentally comedies, made out of theory as Kafka made them out of theology. To read these plays is both to stage them in the mind and to long for actors and a material stage.” —Michael Wood, Charles Barnwell Straut Class of 1923 Professor of English and Comparative Literature, Princeton University, USA “This book offers new insights—performative and conceptual ones—into Derrida’s and Benjamin’s engagements with theatre in ways that are elegant, expansive, and original. Fittingly, for two thinkers obsessed with ghosts and indeterminacy, theatre and philosophy are engaged in a mutual haunting in this text, each being entangled in and with the other.” —Professor Carl Lavery, University of Glasgow, UK

John Schad · Fred Dalmasso

Derrida | Benjamin Two Plays for the Stage

John Schad Department of English Literature and Creative Writing University of Lancaster Lancaster, UK

Fred Dalmasso School of Design and Creative Arts Loughborough University Loughborough, UK

ISBN 978-3-030-49806-1 ISBN 978-3-030-49807-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: agefotostock/Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

We hope you enjoy these two plays; but, still more, that they will help to open or re-open something of the astonishing and yet-to-determined force and significance of Jacques Derrida and Walter Benjamin, respectively. We have framed the plays with two essays, one introductory and one concluding. The introductory essay considers the latent theatricality of the lives and writing of our two subjects, and goes on to explore the many strange theatres housed within their thinking, each of which touches on a theme that resonates through the plays. The concluding essay explores the differing dramaturgical features of the two plays through a reflection on the particular mode of theatre for which they call. As you will see, both plays are extensively quotational, that is to say they are full of actual, referenced quotation. Both plays are, then, primarily acts of reading, or scholarship, and thus belong not only to the field of performance philosophy but also to a new development within literary studies variously known as post-criticism, ficto-criticism, or critical-creative writing. This is work in which the act of reading and thinking about, or through, a text continues, but rather than using conventional critical discourse deploys various literary modes, such as, of course, drama. Lancaster, UK Loughborough, UK

John Schad Fred Dalmasso

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Acknowledgments

We would like to thank the many people who have helped, over several years, in the gradual development of these two plays. Firstly, there are a number of brilliant actors and theatre practitioners—these include: Chris Allen, Roger Baines Catherine Deevey, Olivia Hill, Ben Hughes, Simon King, Ant Lightfoot, Chloe McKiernan, Nola Merckel, Ildiko Rippel, and Tim Tracey. Secondly, there are those who helped though reading, advising, or simply encouraging—these include: Jenn Ashworth, Katie Craik, Laura Cull, Sarah Dillon, Carolin Duttlinger, Terry Eagleton, Colin Jager, Ray Johannsen-Chapman, Esther Leslie, J. Hillis Miller, Ben Morgan, Benoît Peeters, Jean-Michel Rabaté, Joana Serrado, and John Vickers. Thirdly, there are our wonderful Palgrave editors, Jack Heeney and Eileen Srebernik. —John Schad/Fred Dalmasso I was greatly helped at an early stage of the writing of “Benjamin” by Michael Crowley. I am also greatly indebted to Fred who, as a Director, added so much to the development of both plays. —John Schad

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Contents

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1

The Strangest of All Things

2

Derrida

15

3

Benjamin

99

4

Barely a Film

Index

183 193

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CHAPTER 1

The Strangest of All Things Derrida, Benjamin, and Theatre

by John Schad

I/III We do not often think of Walter Benjamin or Jacques Derrida in relation to theatre, but perhaps we should.1 Both had friends within theatre, and both wrote explicitly about theatre—though Derrida only very occasionally. Benjamin, indeed, wrote a number of radio plays. Still more importantly, both lived lives that were manifestly, and even self-consciously, theatrical. Derrida, as a Jew, was required in 1942 to leave his school in Algiers and went on to become profoundly controversial within the world of academic philosophy, often denounced as a nihilist, or charlatan, or joker, or even, like Socrates, a corrupter of youth.2 Benjamin, also a Jew, not to mention a Marxist, left Germany in 1933 to thereafter live on the run, mostly in France, before finally killing himself at the French-Spanish border in 1940. No wonder, then, that Derrida once described Benjamin as “poorly received in his own country and […] milieu, almost unknown in the land of exile […] A critical man in a critical position, on the limits, a frontier man.”3 © The Author(s) 2021 J. Schad and F. Dalmasso, Derrida | Benjamin, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8_1

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Here Derrida, as an Algerian who also lived as an exile in France, doubtless thinks of himself as well as Benjamin—it is clear that Derrida is drawn by the theatrical allure of the tragic, borderland thinker. And theatrical it is, as Benjamin himself knows well; in 1931, he writes, of yet another migrant thinker, that “the theatre [Schauplatz] of his misfortune was Europe.”4 Let us be clear: this is no casual metaphor, since Benjamin believes there is nothing more intriguing than theatre—in 1934, he talks of “this strangest of all things: the stage itself.”5 For Benjamin, if we are to think the truly strange we cannot overlook the theatre; there must never be what Derrida calls a “forgetting of the stage.”6 And as soon as we look for the stage in Benjamin, and even Derrida, we do indeed find it being remembered. In each case, the stage most obviously being remembered is the stage or theatre of Plato’s Socratic dialogues, a form of philosophy that famously proceeds via not one voice but two or more. In Derrida, this is most clear to see in those very occasional moments when his otherwise monologic prose suddenly and strangely breaks into fitful dialogue— either with himself or an unnamed other.7 Sometimes he is addressing the other: “Pardon me”; or, “I am addressing you, am I not?”8 Sometimes it is the other who seems to be speaking: “— Is that so? […] — I am listening […] — Very well.”9 Sometimes they both seem to speak: “— No […] — Yes […] — Certainly”; “— Nonsense […] — Precisely.”10 These particular exchanges are just momentary, but the whole of Derrida’s text “Restitutions” (1978) takes the form of a polylogue; indeed, his editors remark that the text, when first read by Derrida at the University of Columbia, “was, so to speak, acted out by Derrida” (my italics).11 It is no accident that almost every Derrida text was, prior to publication, given as a lecture or seminar or interview—on one memorable occasion, at Oxford’s epic non-theatre, the Sheldonian Theatre. All of his texts may well, then, bear some trace of performance. In one late seminar, given to a packed auditorium, he remarks, “here […] we [are not] in a real theatre,” but theatre it still is, if only not real (whatever that might mean).12 Indeed, a handful of Derrida’s texts include very occasional parenthetical notes-to-self that function or perform as seeming stage directions.13 Some of these notes may never have been intended for the final published text, but others most certainly were. Here are a few: “The speaker takes his seat ”; “[pronounce without writing ]”; “(Reread)”; “(very slowly)”; “(Long silence)”; “(long pause).”14 Derrida is, then, never

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far from a kind of theatre, or play of voices; and that is because, as one of those voices remarks, “it is always necessary to be more than one in order to speak.”15 Benjamin knew this too. Indeed, so keen was he “to be more than one” that he famously dreamt of writing a book made up of nothing but other people’s voices; that is to say, a book of nothing but quotations. “Expect no words that are my own,” he once wrote.16 Appropriately, even these words are, in fact, another’s. Benjamin too, then, was never far from a play of voices, or what he himself calls “Voice Land.”17 This was his name for radio, but it might also be his name for writing, his own writing, so in love is he with quotation. And what comes with Benjamin’s quotation-ism, his constant borrowing of voices, is a constant stopping-and-starting and reminding us of elsewhere; all of which has the effect of never allowing us to settle into the text. In this sense alone, his writing is, as Erdmut Wizisla has suggested, analogous to the famously alienating plays of his great friend and ally Bertolt Brecht.18 Benjamin saw in Brecht a “theatre of gesture,” a world not of actions but acts, of bodies whose movements appear not to be natural but second-hand, to come not from within the character but from elsewhere—in short, as if being quoted. Cue Wizisla’s wonderful insistence that “Benjamin identified quotation as a basic element of Brecht’s writing.”19 To read Benjamin is then, among many other things, to glimpse Brecht. And Benjamin surely knows this. So, what of Derrida? Well, he too, I suggest, knows himself to have a theatrical equivalent—namely, the playwright Antonin Artaud with whom Derrida, as a youth, was fascinated.20 Artaud called his plays “the theatre of cruelty,” an avant-gardist and anarchistic assault upon both eye and ear; and this, for Derrida, is a theatre of force more than meaning, a theatre that does violence to all the great sense-making terms of Western metaphysics, such as God, Man, or Author.21 What Derrida sees in Artaud is, then, a “theatrical unintelligibility in the night that precedes the book.”22 Here, that is, Derrida finds a fluidity of meaning which is elsewhere erased by the idea, or institution, of “the book,” with all its connotations of boundedness, solidity, and fixity.23 In other words, Derrida finds in Artaud’s theatre a vision of the radical un-decidability of meaning. One of Derrida’s great themes is “the play” of meaning, and the French word he is always using is jeu, which can mean not only movement but also performance. It is, then, no surprise that when, in Dissemination (1972), Derrida talks of “the unfolding play of writing,” he goes out of

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his way to stress that he is thinking of “a theatre.”24 He does not say which theatre or whose, but it is, I suggest, the theatre of Artaud. To read Derrida is then, among other things, to glimpse Artaud. To put all this another way, in both Derrida and Benjamin there is something about the theoretical that is necessarily theatrical, and something about the theatrical that is necessarily theoretical. And this they both make clear. Derrida does so, in part, by glancing at the etymological connection between the words “theory” and “theatre”—both return us to the Greek word thea, meaning “a view.” As early as 1967, he invokes “The Theorem and the Theatre,” and as late as 2001 he meditates upon the passage “between the theoretical and the theatrical,” between what he calls “the seeing of knowledge” and “the seeing of spectacle.”25 He then splices them together in what he calls “the theoretico-theatrical.” As Samuel Weber remarks, reading right across Derrida’s oeuvre, his writing “moves from a purely ‘theoretical’ discourse […] to a ‘theatrical’ mode’.”26 That is to say, Derrida seeks not so much to know the texts he is reading but to stage them; or, if you will, the texts he is reading are not independent of his writing but something in which his writing participates. Derrida, or rather “Derrida,” is thus not so much a spectator as an actor. The thinker, for Derrida, is on the stage. Cue Benjamin, or rather Brecht’s theatre, or what Benjamin sees in Brecht’s theatre—namely: “the thinker [as …] the hero of the drama.”27 He is, though, more nearly an anti-hero, Benjamin insisting that the thinker is “a hero who is beaten”—for, as he adds, “a hero who is not beaten never makes a thinker.”28 Benjamin does not, or maybe cannot, say what exactly it is that might beat or defeat the thinker-hero; there is, therefore, every reason to think it may be thinking itself. II/III So much, then, for what we might call the theatre of the mind and, indeed, theatre per se, as usually understood. This we might better call theatre within the theatre, since there is, as we know, also a theatre without the theatre, the theatre of the world, Theatrum Mundi; and here too we find both our critical men. Benjamin, in fact, seems to see the world as a whole series of tiny theatres: at the museum, he is drawn to nineteenth-century marionettes; at the fair, he is drawn to the “mechanical cabinet” with its bloody “biblical figurines”; and at Berlin’s Luna Park, he is drawn to the “puppet theatre.”29 Indeed, in 1924, when visiting Naples, he sees theatre not only on the asphalt—“a street

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peddler unpacking his […] suitcase […] was true theatre”—but also in the tenement blocks: “what is enacted on the staircases,” he writes, “is an advanced school of stage management.”30 These staircase dramas are, we note, subject to management, stagemanagement. And the Germany that Benjamin later flees will itself, in the end, be stage-managed to death. Indeed, even as early as 1923, in the era of hyperinflation, Benjamin remarks that people on the streets of Berlin speak so guardedly that it “is as if one were trapped in a theatre, and had to follow the events on the stage.”31 Note: for Benjamin, theatre is not necessarily benign, far from it. And neither is it for Derrida. When he speaks of the “theoretico-theatrical” he is, in fact, discussing the regime of inspection-and-spectacle that characterises the insane asylum in postrevolutionary France.32 It is no surprise that Derrida should elsewhere write, “there is always a murder at […] the origin of theatre, [… a] hand lifted.”33 Admittedly, this is the murder of “the father” or “abusive wielder of the logos”—the father that is metaphysics, if you like; this, then, is a good murder-scene, a theatre that we seem invited to celebrate. However, this is early Derrida, in an essay published in 1966. Nine years later Derridean theatre is much darker, its murder-scene now a terrible thing—in a startling reversal, the abusive father is now not the killed but the killer. This is when, with the help of the artist Valerio Adami, Derrida takes part in an astonishing tableau vivant in the style of Nicolas Poussin’s 1632 painting, The Massacre of The Innocents.34 Here Derrida, in full costume, plays the part of a first-century soldier-killer, theatrically wielding a dagger in his hand that is violently lifted against a defenceless infant played by his eight-year-old son, Jean. This murder-scene is a bad murder-scene—the murder victim is no longer the guilty father but the innocent child. And, indeed, in this scene, or drama, it is not just one who is killed but many, very many. This drama is the drama of massacre. It is just three years later, in Truth in Painting , that Derrida gives the name of theatre to that most terrible scene of twentieth-century massacre, the death camp. “If you want to go to this theatre,” he remarks, “there are tons of shoes there.”35 We may well want not to go to this theatre; however, we may have no choice—not if Benjamin is right. Since, for him, it seems that every theatre might, in some strange sense, be a theatre of killing. He is eager to point out that when, at the end of Kafka’s The Trial , K. is about to be killed “he suddenly turns to [his killers,] the two gentlemen wearing top hats, […] and asks them ‘What theatre are you

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playing at?’”36 Benjamin adds that “this question […] hit[s] home”; and it certainly hits home with us if it suggests not only that actors make good killers but also, by extension, that as soon as we learn to act or pretend we have also learnt to kill—what if, for instance, I were to pretend that my gun is not real? Indeed, K’s question also hits home with us if it suggests that as soon as we learn to sit in a theatre and look-on as others appear to be killed we have also learnt to look on and do nothing as others are killed for real. At the end of The Trial , there is, even as K. is killed, someone who seems to be looking on from the top-floor window of a nearby house. “Who was it? […] Somebody who wanted to help?”37 Theatre, like the end of The Trial that so concerns Benjamin, must always remind us of the crime of just looking on—the crime par excellence of the critic, or scholar. There may, though, be hope, or a kind of hope; for Derrida speaks of “the scene [or theatre] of pardon.”38 This is in 1999 and, in part, to do with South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission; however, Derrida elsewhere suggests that every theatre might just be a theatre of pardon. This is when he describes the hangman’s scaffold, the scene of the death penalty, as the “stage without stage of forgiveness”;39 which is to suggest that the regular or theatrical stage may just be the stage with the stage of forgiveness. Derrida wishes, it seems, to say that forgiveness may be something that is performed; he has in mind, among others, the speech-act theorists, those who would claim that “I forgive you” are words that perform their meaning, do the forgiving. Cue this fleeting scene of Derridean dialogue: – Sorry – Yes, granted […].40 III/III If this scene is a glimpse into the theatre of forgiveness, then one thing we know is that the hour is late, or at least not early or very early. For, as Derrida elsewhere reminds us, state execution, the stage without the stage of forgiveness, invariably takes place at first light—Derrida, with the guillotine in mind, writes this: “Dawn, theatre […] and then the coldness of the machine.”41 We may well, then, be relieved to see that both Derrida and Benjamin gesture towards a theatre that belongs to the evening. In 1993, when brooding on the beginning of Hamlet , Derrida writes, “It is

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still evening […] on the battlements of an old Europe at War.”42 Likewise, Benjamin, when brooding on the imagination, writes of “the sun setting over the abandoned theatre [Schauplatz] of the world.”43 For both Derrida and Benjamin it is, it seems, late in the day, and not only at the theatre but for the theatre. Benjamin’s sun is setting on the theatre, it being an “abandoned theatre.” It may, indeed, be a theatre that has abandoned itself, departed itself; for Benjamin is famously in love with “allegorical theatre,” and allegorical theatre is an elsewhere theatre, its meaning is never simply here, on the stage. It is, therefore, as Weber observes, a kind of Wanderbühne, a travelling or wandering theatre that wanders not so much from town to town but from itself.44 In short, it is a theatre that is always other than itself, its meaning forever eluding us. And that is precisely the theatre which Derrida intuits when, in Dissemination, he enigmatically writes that there is “necessarily […] another scene, on another stage […] in the unfolding play of writing.”45 Indeed, he seems to come desperately close to this other stage when, a little later, his continuous prose suddenly breaks into a momentary dialogue that culminates with talk of “knocks […] heard at the door,” before then attributing “those knocks from without” to “that other theatre.”46 And that is it. This “other theatre” of knocks at the door remains completely unaccounted for. Where it is, or what it is, we are not told. It is as if we have stumbled upon what Derrida calls, in relation to Artaud, “an as yet inexistent stage.”47 We have, in sum, here stumbled upon a stage that may not be an actual theatre at all; it is more nearly a shadow theatre or ghost theatre. But this we find hard—as scholars, that is; for, as Derrida writes, “a traditional scholar does not believe in ghosts.”48 However, like Benjamin, who never held an academic post, Derrida prefers not to be a traditional scholar, and so feels free not only to believe in ghosts but also to talk to them. In Specters of Marx (1993), he is keen to remind us that there was a time (he is thinking, again, of Hamlet ) when a scholar was precisely the one expected to speak to a ghost: “Thou art a Scholler — speake to it, Horatio.”49 In the theatre of ghosts, Derrida is no mere spectator. But what is it, this ghost theatre, this “other theatre”? Well, with its knocks at the door, “knocks from without,” it would seem that someone is asking, or demanding, to come in. It is as if, therefore, we are, as Derrida much later says, “on the track of the […] theatre of hospitality,”

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that ancient, complex, and risk-filled drama in which host meets guest, or stranger.50 For Derrida, “the theatre of hospitality” is, we presume, primarily a metaphor, not a real theatre at all. Some, of course, might argue there is no such thing as a real theatre; however, if there is, then, for Benjamin, it too may be a site of hospitality. In other words, as theatre-goers, we are not, for him, on the brink of the theatre of hospitality but already in it; and this is so just as soon as we enter any theatre—in particular, any theatre performing Shakespeare: Again and again, in Shakespeare […], kings, princes, attendants, and followers “enter fleeing.” […] Their entry into the visual field of nonparticipating […] persons allows the harassed to draw breath, [and] bathes them in new air.51

Here, then, the dramatis personae play the part of the guest, a desperate guest, while the audience play the part of the host, a welcoming host. But that is not all; in love as he is with allegorical theatre, Benjamin insists on reading into the encounter a still greater existential significance: Our reading of this [scene …] is imbued with expectation of a place, a light, a footlight glare, in which our [own] flight through life may be likewise sheltered in the presence of on-looking strangers.

But will there be any on-looking strangers? And how will we know? After all, given the “footlight glare,” the actors may not be absolutely sure, when first they enter, fleeing or not, whether anyone is in the darkened auditorium. If there is no noise in the auditorium it is just possible that all the seats are empty. Benjamin elsewhere remarks that intellectuals, when giving lectures, are “undaunted by the thought [of …] rows of empty seats”52 ; however, we may feel differently. For if there is no one within the auditorium why should we expect that, in our flight through life, we will ever be sheltered in the presence of on-looking strangers? In sum: if there may be no audience, then there may also be no one to shelter us, receive us, welcome us, be like God to us. And, of course, in Benjamin’s own flight through life, his flight from Germany to France to the border of Spain and a shady hotel where he was held under guard, and, all alone, took his own life, there were, in the end, very end, no strangers looking-on in order to shelter him, to regard him kindly.

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Or so we presume, or think. Benjamin may just, however, have known differently. When giving radio talks to children he would sometimes address his audience as “Dear invisible listeners”53 ; what, then, if there were invisible listeners at the last? After all, we know that Benjamin made four telephone calls in his very last night, though whom he called is not known.54 So, there may well have been invisible listeners at the last—even if they were just bewildered telephonists. Perhaps, then, there will also be invisible listeners for us, at the very end of our flight through life. What Benjamin certainly shows is that this possibility is entangled with the theatre, with the profound, and profoundly uncertain, relationship between the dramatis personae and those invisible listeners that we call the audience. To put all this another way, Benjamin shows us that the theatre, as the theatre of hospitality, begs the question of faith—faith in sheltering presence. Blind faith. One feels oneself looked at by what one cannot see. (Derrida)55

Notes 1. Someone who does think about theatre and not only Derrida but Benjamin is Samuel Weber, see his wonderful Theatricality as Medium (New York: Fordham University Press, 2004). Benoît Peeters in his biography of Derrida makes several references to theatre, chief among them a public reading in Paris of Derrida’s book Glas at the Théâtre Récamier in 1975; this prompted the theatre director Antoine Bourseiller to write to Derrida, “I sincerely believe that you are […] an author of a certain as yet indefinable form of theatre,” Derrida. A Biography, tr. Andrew Brown (London: Polity, 2013), 263. Howard Eiland and Michael Jennings in their biography of Walter Benjamin discuss theatre primarily in connection with Benjamin’s relationship to his lover Asja Lacis, a Latvian actress and stage-director who had extensive experience in both children’s theatre and Proletarian theatre groups, Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), 320. 2. Such claims were most famously voiced in 1992, when a significant minority of Cambridge dons protested vigorously against Derrida being awarded an honorary doctorate, see Peeters, 446–447. 3. Jacques Derrida, The Truth in Painting, tr. Geoff Bennington and Ian McLeod (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 177 / La Vérité en Peinture (Paris: Flammarion, 1978), 204.

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4. Walter Benjamin, “German Letters” (written c 1933, unpublished in Benjamin’s lifetime), Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith, eds., Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, 4 vols. (London: Harvard University Press, 1996–2003), 2.2.467 / Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften, 7 vols, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1972–1989), 4.946. 5. Benjamin, “Berlin Childhood around 1900” (written 1932–1934, revised in 1934 and unpublished in Benjamin’s lifetime), Selected Writings, 3.396 / Gesammelte Schriften, 4.268. 6. Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, tr. Alan Bass (London: Routledge, 1978), 236 / L’Écriture et la Différence (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1967), 347. 7. It is more usual to think of Derrida as one for whom speech is always already hollowed out by writing, or textuality; and that, in fact, is one of the few ways in which, to-date, connections have been made between his work and theatre—see Elinor Fuchs, “Presence and the Revenge of Writing: Re-thinking Theatre After Derrida,” Performing Arts Journal, 9 (1986): 166. 8. Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx (London: Routledge, 1993), 40 / Spectres de Marx (Paris: Éditions Galileé, 1993), 72; Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship, tr. George Collins (London: Verso, 1997), 1 / Politiques de l’Amitié (Paris: Éditions Galilée, 1994), 17. 9. Jacques Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other, tr. Patrick Mensah (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 3, 6, 7 / Le Monolinguisme de l’Autre (Paris: Éditions Galilee, 1996), 16, 19, 21. 10. Jacques Derrida, On the Name, tr. David Wood et al. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), 40–42 / Sauf le Nom (Paris: Éditions Galilee, 1993), 31–33; Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, tr. Barbara Johnson (London: Athlone Press, 1981), 170 / La Dissémination (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1972), 197. 11. Derrida, Truth in Painting, 272, n.3 / 310 n.1. 12. Jacques Derrida, The Death Penalty, 2 vols., tr. Peggy Kamuf (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), 1.27 / Séminaire: La peine de mort, Volume 1 (Éditions Galileé, 2012) 55. 13. Michal Kisiel comments on “the director’s notes smuggled into Specters of Marx” in his essay “Apostrophe and Apocalypse: Notes on Theatricality in Jacques Derrida’s ‘Envois’,” Theoria et Historia Scientiarum, 14 (2017): 27. 14. Derrida, Dissemination, 181/ Dissémination, 207; Derrida, Death Penalty, 1.190, 138, 1 / Séminaire, 265, 199, 23 (oddly, “long silence” is in English in the original French text, as if the silence itself were in English); Jacques Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign, 2 vols, tr. Geoffrey

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18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

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26. 27. 28.

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Bennington (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011), 2.31 / Seminaire: la Bête et le Souverain, Volume II (Paris: Éditions Galileé, 2010), 61. Derrida, On the Name, 35. Benjamin, “Kraus” (1931), Selected Writings, 2.2.436 / Gesammelte Schriften, 2.338. Benjamin, “Much Ado About Kasper” (1932), Radio Benjamin, ed. Lecia Rosenthal, tr. Jonathan Lutes et al. (London: Verso, 2014), 247 / ibid., 7.1.345. See Erdmut Wizisla’s seminal work, Benjamin and Brecht: The Story of a Friendship [2004], tr. Christine Shuttleworth (London: Verso, 2016). Benjamin, “Franz Kafka” (1934), Selected Writings, 2.2.801 / ibid., 2.418; Wizisla, 106. Weber also sees Benjamin bringing together quotation and gesture; Weber, though, makes the slightly different claim that, for Benjamin, the stage should be above all a scene of “citable gestures”— that is to say, acts that can be re-cited, and thus moved elsewhere, and even transformed, see Theatricality, 45. Peeters writes that “amongst the most formative readings of Derrida’s adolescence, we should not forget Antonin Artaud,” Derrida, 28. Derrida writes of the theatre of cruelty, that it is “born by erasing the name of man,” that it “expulses [chasse] God from the stage,” and that it “wants to have done with […] the author-creator who […] regulates […] meaning,” Writing, 233–235 / Écriture, 343–345. The French word chasse could also be translated as “chases” or “hunts,” which makes it imaginable that God is one of those who, as per the famous Shakespearean stage direction, “enter fleeing.” As we will see below, this stage direction fascinates Benjamin. Derrida, Writing, 189 / Écriture, 284. According to Christine Howells, “the replacement of ‘book’ by ‘play,’ argues Derrida, is most apparent in the case of theatre”—Derrida: Deconstruction from Phenomenology to Ethics (London: Polity Press, 1998), 76. Derrida, Dissemination, 142 / Dissémination, 164—the word here translated as “play” is, in fact, pièce, which here very definitely means “stage play.” Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, tr. Gayatari Chakravorty (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), 302 / De la Grammatologie (Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 1967), 428; The Beast, 1.296 / Séminaire, 395. Weber, Theatricality, 14. Walter Benjamin, “What Is the Epic Theatre? (II)” (1939), Selected Writings, 4.303 / Gesammelte Schriften, 2.534. Benjamin, “A Family Drama in the Epic Theatre” (1932), ibid., 2.2.560 / ibid., 2.512.

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29. Benjamin, “Old Toys” (1928), ibid., 2.1.99 / ibid., 4.512; “One- Way Street” (1928), ibid., 1.474 / Gesammelte Schriften, ibid., 4.129; “Berlin Puppet Theater,” Radio Berlin, 17–23 / ibid., 7.80–7.86. 30. Benjamin, “Naples” (1931), ibid., 148 / ibid., 7. 210; “Naples” (written with Asja Lacis, 1925), ibid., 1.417 / ibid., 4.310. 31. Benjamin, “One-Way Street,” ibid., 1.453 / ibid., 4.98. 32. See Derrida, The Beast, 1.296 / Séminaire, 395. 33. Derrida, Writing, 239 / Écriture, 350. 34. See Peeters, Derrida, 186. 35. Derrida, Truth in Painting, 329–331 / 377. 36. Benjamin, “‘Franz Kafka” (1934), Selected Writings, 2.2.805 / Gesammelte Schriften, 2. 423. 37. Franz Kafka, The Trial [1925], tr. Willa and Edwin Muir (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1953 [1937]), 250 / Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe, Kritische Ausgabe, 16 vols. (Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag, 1982–1999), 4.293. 38. D’ailleurs, Derrida, dir. Safaa Fathy (Paris: La Sept ARTE, 1999) 16 minutes, 50 seconds. 39. Derrida, Death Penalty, 1.3 / Séminaire, 26. 40. Derrida, On the Name, 35 / Sauf le Nom, 27. 41. Derrida, Death Penalty, 1.57/ Séminaire, 94. 42. Derrida, Specters, 14 / Spectres, 37. 43. Benjamin, “Imagination” (written 1920–1921, unpublished in Benjamin’s lifetime), Selected Writings, 1.281 / Gesammelte Schriften, 6.115. 44. Samuel Weber, Theatricality, 174. 45. Derrida, Dissemination, 142 / Dissémination, 164. 46. Ibid., 171 / ibid., 197. 47. Derrida, Writing, 233 / Écriture, 343. 48. Derrida, Specters, 11 / Spectres, 33. 49. Ibid., 12 / ibid., 33. 50. Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality, tr., Rachel Bowlby (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 109 / De l’hospitalité (Paris: Calmann-L´evy, 1997), 99. Derrida wrote, of the dramatic reading of Glas at the Théâtre Récamier, that “everyone experienced the scene as a sort of theatrical and revolutionary mass,” Peeters, 263. Also interesting in this connection is Karoline Gritzner’s essay, “Spirit to Ashes, Performance to Dust: Derrida, Theatre de Complicite, and the Question of a ‘Holy Theatre,’” Performance and Spirituality, 2 (2011): 85–110. 51. Benjamin, “One-Way Street,” Selected Writings, 1.484 / Gesammelte Schriften, 4.143. 52. Benjamin, “The Present Social Situation of the French Writer” (1934), ibid., 2.2.749 / ibid., 2.784. 53. Benjamin, “Children’s Literature” (1929), ibid., 2.1.250 / ibid., 7.250.

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54. Eiland and Jennings, Walter Benjamin, 675. 55. Derrida, Specters, 136 / Spectres, 216.

Texts Cited Benjamin, Walter. 2014. Radio Benjamin. Edited by Lecia Rosenthal. Translated by Jonathan Lutes et al. London: Verso. ———. 1996–2003. Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings. 4 vols. Edited by Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith. London: Harvard University Press. ———. 1992. Gesammelte Schriften. 7 vols. Edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag. Derrida, Jacques. 1967. L’Écriture et la Différence. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. ———. 1972. La Dissémination. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. ———. 1978. La Vérité en Peinture. Paris: Flammarion. ———. 1978. The Truth in Painting. Translated by Geoff Bennington and Ian McLeod. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1978. Writing and Difference. Translated by Alan Bass. London: Routledge. ———. 1981. Dissemination. Translated by Barbara Johnson. London: Athlone Press. ———. 1993. Spectres de Marx. Paris: Éditions Galileé. ———. 1993. Specters of Marx. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge. ———. 1993. Sauf le Nom. Paris: Éditions Galilee. ———. 1995. On the Name. Translated by David Wood et al. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ———. 1994. Politiques de l’Amitié. Paris: Éditions Galilée. ———. 1996. Le Monolinguisme de l’Autre. Paris: Éditions Galilee. ———. 1997. The Politics of Friendship. Translated by George Collins. London: Verso. ———. 1997. De l’hospitalité. Paris: Calmann-L´evy. ———. 1998. Monolingualism of the Other. Translated by Patrick Mensah. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ———. 2000. Of Hospitality. Translated by Rachel Bowlby. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ———. 2008. Seminaire: la Bête et le Souverain. Vol. 1. Paris: Éditions Galileé. ———. 2011. The Beast and the Sovereign. Vol. 1. Translated by Geoffrey Bennington Chicago: Chicago University Press. ———. 2012. Séminaire: La peine de mort. Vol. 1. Éditions Galileé. ———. 2014. The Death Penalty. Vol. 1. Translated by Peggy Kamuf. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Eiland, Howard and Michael Jennings. 2014. Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Fuchs, Elinor. 1986. “Presence and the Revenge of Writing: Re-thinking Theatre After Derrida.” Performing Arts Journal, 9: 163–173. Gritzner, Karoline. 2011. “Spirit to Ashes, Performance to Dust: Derrida, Theatre de omplicite, and the Question of a ‘Holy Theatre.’ Performance and Spirituality, 2: 85–110. Howells, Christine. 1998. Derrida: Deconstruction from Phenomenology to Ethics. London: Polity Press. Kafka, Franz. The Trial. [1925] 1953. Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir. Harmondsworth: Penguin. ———. 1982–1999. Schriften, Tagebücher, Briefe, Kritische Ausgabe. Vol. 4. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Verlag. Kisiel, Michal. 2017. “Apostrophe and Apocalypse: Notes on Theatricality in Jacques Derrida’s ‘Envois’.” Theoria et Historia Scientiarum, 14: 27–37. Peeters, Benoît. Derrida. A Biography. 2013. Translated by Andrew Brown. London: Polity. Weber, Samuel. 2004. Theatricality as Medium. New York: Fordham University Press. Wizisla, Erdmut. [2004] 2016. Benjamin and Brecht: The Story of a Friendship. Translated by Christine Shuttleworth. London: Verso.

CHAPTER 2

Derrida A play

by Fred Dalmasso & John Schad

We are very grateful to Sussex Academic Press for permission to base ‘Derrida’ on John Schad’s Someone Called Derrida (Sussex Academic Press, 2007). © The Author(s) 2021 J. Schad and F. Dalmasso, Derrida | Benjamin, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8_2

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Plato and Socrates (Ms Ashmole 304, fol 312 v), Matthew Paris, Prognostica Socratis basilei (Photo Bodleian Libraries)

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DERRIDA

Have you seen this … image? … I stumbled across it … in the Bodleian, … an apocalyptic revelation: Socrates writing, writing in front of Plato … [as if] Plato’s secretary, no? Plato … looks like he is … dictating, authoritarian, masterly, imperious. Almost wicked, don’t you think? (Jacques Derrida)1

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Derrida was first formally performed (as “‘Last Train”) at The Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, June 1, 2015 with the generous support of TORCH (The University of Oxford Research Centre for the Humanities) & Fred Dalmasso as Monsieur D____ Simon King as Bedlam and Master Ant Lighfoot as Quelle Nola Merckel as Esther. * Dramaturgy and scenography: Fred Dalmasso and Ben Hughes

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Important Textual Notes The vast majority of lines spoken by Monsieur D____ are citations from Jacques Derrida; the three exceptions to this rule are extrapolations of his thinking or based on simple biographical details. All but a few of the citations are from one particular text of his—namely, the “Envois” section of La Carte Postale: De Socrate à Freud et au-delà (Paris: Flammarion, 1980). The English translation is The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond (University of Chicago Press, 1987). We are grateful to both presses for their kind permissions. All lines spoken by Bedlam were originally the words of Richard Schad, primarily between February 1992 and January 1996, and as transcribed at the time. All citations and references are fully documented in the end notes.

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Derrida Prologue Act One -Archive-

Act Two -Fire-

2

Dramatis Personae Monsieur D____ Bedlam Quelle Esther Master

DERRIDA

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Stage setting The set is minimal with two round tables at diametrically opposed corners (stage-right up and stage-left down). When sitting at a table, each of the actors is, intermittently but compulsively, toying with pieces of paper— e.g. making paper hats and boats; each of these activities is filmed and projected live on to a quartered screen at back of stage. Centre-stage is another round table identical to the others. Finally, there are two round stools both stage-right and stage-left. The only other actual props are a gallows hood, an ancient telephone, and a copy of Jacques Derrida’s book The Post Card. All the other props cited in stage directions are invisible. Soundtrack Throughout the performance, a soundtrack especially made by John Vickers is playing very quietly. It weaves together a number of musical and other sound effects that are, variously, evocative of Oxford, World War II, the sea, clocks, telephones, and steam trains. Running-time: 90 minutes

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PROLOGUE Enter Monsieur D____ (holding a copy of The Post Card), Bedlam, and Esther. D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____

BEDLAM

D____ BEDLAM D____

BEDLAM

D____

BEDLAM

ESTHER D____ ESTHER

Tonight— If it is the night. My name is, or will be, Monsieur D____. And mine is, or will be, Bedlam. All my words were once those of Jacques Derrida, the famous Jewish-Algerian philosopher who largely lived and worked in Paris. And all my words were once those of Richard Schad, an unfamous Minister of Religion who largely lived and worked near London. Derrida was born in 1930, and died on a Friday in October in 2004. Schad was also born in 1930, and he too died on a Friday in October—in his case, in 1996. In the 1960s and 1970s, Derrida made several visits to Oxford, and most of my words will come from a book of his which details these visits—it’s called The Post Card Schad was also well acquainted with Oxford, reading History there in the late 1940s. Some of my words will come from letters he wrote at this time. This book of Derrida’s, The Post Card, focuses not only on Oxford but also a strange telephone call that he once received from, ostensibly, a dead man. Some of Schad’s words also focus on the telephone, in particular the need to ring the police. As with most of his words, they come from his final years. These were years of premature dementia or madness that he experienced as a continuous nightmare, speaking only and endlessly of the most terrible things. Please note just two more points of coincidence. Firstly, that— Derrida’s book touches upon the War, as experienced as a child in Algiers. And secondly, that—

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BEDLAM

ESTHER

Schad’s nightmare-words seem also to touch upon the War, as experienced as a child in England. Pause. Exit Bedlam and D____. Tonight, our default location will be an unidentified room in which memories, or apparent memories, are recalled. Sometimes, though, these “memories” are enacted, and at such moments we make excursions, usually to Oxford. Exit Esther.

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Act One—Archive I. i ROOM On the table stage-left is the ancient telephone with rotary dial, and on the table centre-stage is the gallows hood, and a copy of Derrida’s book, The Post Card, opened at the page that reproduces the Plato and Socrates image from Prognostica Socratis basilei. Esther, who has antique and imperious air, sits stage-left. Quelle, a tall and younger man, all in timeless black, sits impassive stage-right. Bedlam, a tall but older man, stands by the central table; he is well dressed, with shirt and tie, but has air of one locked within a nightmare-cell. D____ is dishevelled, barefooted, and wears a jacket too large for him which is suggestive of a sometime naval officer; he is wandering the stage. Both Bedlam and D____ often appear to speak to no-one in particular. Bedlam slowly starts to walk, arms slightly outstretched; sand falls from both his sleeves and trouser-legs so as to draw a circular labyrinth on the ground. The labyrinth has no exit but two dead-ends: the table stage-right and the table stage-left. The labyrinth is filmed from above to appear on the screen. BEDLAM

D____ BEDLAM D____ QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

The last time. He was hanging there. Ding-dong. Thinkthink. Hanging.2 Pause. I sing.3 Sing. Sing of someone who is dead, and I have not known. Quelle turns to Bedlam. Hear that? Singing. I said, do you hear that? Bedlam is silent. He’s thinking of you. Someone who is dead, and I have not known. (To Bedlam) See. That’s you. Nonsense. Quelle rises and turns to Esther. Forgive me— Granted.

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QUELLE

D____ ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

But fool is dead. Quelle paper-crowns Bedlam. And he (indicates D___) doesn’t know him. Not from Adam. They did not know each other4 — Who? Socrates and Bedlam. But they form a pair because of that. (To Esther) See! An odd pair, odd couple.5 Not altogether. I beg your pardon? Not altogether. Not altogether buried? Not altogether odd. Nonsense. They are the oddest possible pair. Utterly unlike. Clicks fingers at D____ Socrates! D____ hurriedly prepares to act as Esther’s secretary. (To Quelle) Allow me to demonstrate my case. Esther clears antique throat Question: Clears antique throat again Year of birth? D____ prepares to transcribe answer. Whose? Theirs (indicates D____ and Bedlam) 1930.6 (Surprised) Both? Naturally. And month of death? October.7 (More surprised) Both? Yes. What day? Friday. (Still more surprised) Both? Yes.

2

D____ BEDLAM

QUELLE D____ ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE

ESTHER

DERRIDA

27

I had not noticed it was Friday.8 Esther, defeated, dismisses D____. Burned.9 Pause. Quelle now produces a handful of letters from Bedlam’s pockets. (To Esther) Have you ever seen such as these? The world’s most beautiful letters.10 Quelle begins to tear them up. From Oxford? Is it not obvious? Quelle continues to tear up letters . Oxford. Our correspondence. And its secret.11 Secret what ? Archive. What archive? He was hanging there. I said, what archive? D____ does not reply. Quelle steals crown from head of Bedlam, and D____ casts copy of The Post Card to the breeze. He begins now to open “the archive.” The School Officer summons me to his office.12 Year? 1942. Age? Twelve. Where? El Biar. Algiers. Vichy? D____ nods, and stiffens, as if standing to attention. What say? (Intervening ) The Officer? School Officer? Yes. Esther now turns to D____, and is, for a moment, School Officer. You, boy— D____ stiffens again. You are to go home, my little friend.

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QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____

BEDLAM

QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM QUELLE

Friend? No, Jew, to be precise. He’s a Jew. And these are orders. Orders from Vichy. Pause. Don’t make me go back.13 Quelle puts crown back upon Bedlam’s head. He left home. Who? Young Bedlam. When? Wartime. Don’t make me go. Ah, a weak and tearful mite. A child who resembles me?14 Sadly. And, pray, does something untoward ensue? Just the War. Tragedy. Hanging.15 Pause. Curious. What? The way he talks. Which one? Hanging. Murmurs— Hanging. Inaudible murmurs.16 D____ draws close to Bedlam, to whom he now whispers. Disaster, have we dreamed it?17 Pause. Bedlam rises and shuffles to table stage-left. There he sits and stares at telephone. 666. He is murdering me.18 Bedlam begins to fumble with telephone. I must telephone. But you did. Did what ? Telephone. Tring-tring.

2

BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER

D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM

QUELLE ESTHER

DERRIDA

29

Telephone. Tring-tring. Bedlam continues to fumble with telephone. When did he first try? Try what? To call. Don’t know. Quelle moves to table stage-left, sits opposite Bedlam and, through following exchange with D____, stares fixedly at Bedlam; it appears, therefore, as if Quelle is here responding to Bedlam. I’ve tried to call you.19 I know. But no answer. I know. You must have gone out. I had. No answer. Half -pause. There’s nobody there.20 Quelle rises and wanders stage. He then turns to Esther. Do you think he’s in on it? Who? Socrates. Quelle indicates D____. In on what? The telephone. Naturally. They all are. All of them. Esther rises. She moves to where D____ now sits at table stage-right. For a moment he panto-mimes working at typewriter. While typing the name “Heidegger”— Think-think. The telephone rings.21 Ding-dong. Quelle picks up receiver and momentarily becomes Operator, albeit in dead, disembodied manner. He turns to D____. A call for you, sir—collect-call. Does sir wish to accept it? The call. (Intervening ) Who is it?

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QUELLE D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER BEDLAM

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____ QUELLE D____ ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

Herr Heidegger. Martin Heidegger. Ah, I fear Herr Heidegger is dead. I know. And know I shall be suspected. Indeed. Suspected of inventing it all. Quite. Arrest him. Quelle puts receiver back onto hook, and turns to Esther. He wishes to discuss D____. What if he is not ? Not what? Not making it up. Making what up? The call. From who? Heidegger, the dead one, dead caller. Pause. Esther and Quelle now stand either side of seated Bedlam. He is murdering me. I must telephone. Esther pushes telephone nearer to Bedlam. Here. Murdering me. I must telephone. What number? (Intervening ) The first.22 Sorry? First number. But what is it? Is what? The first number—the first telephone number. El Biar— Yes? 730 47. Try it. Try what? The first number. Very first. Adam’s? His. Right. Quelle prepares to dial at D____’s apparent dictation.

2

D____ QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE D____ QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ BEDLAM D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM ESTHER D____

DERRIDA

31

730— Yes? 666. What? 730— Yes? 666. Quelle dials. In vain. Doesn’t work. What doesn’t? The number. What number? 730-666. Try again. Try what again? 730— 666. 47. Quelle dials again. Gives up. Too many—too many numbers. One last go. Right. Quelle begins to dial, this time as if at Bedlam’s dictation. 6. Yes? 6. Yes? 6. Quelle holds receiver to his ear. Nothing. What? Nothing. Quelle abandons telephone, leaving Bedlam once more to fumble with it, as if a child. 666. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. 666. 666. To the devil23 — Ding-dong. I beg your pardon? To the devil with the child.

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I. ii ROOM—and an excursion to Oxford, 1977 Bedlam sits at table centre-stage, he still wears the unhappy crown. D____ wanders stage. Esther sits at table stage-left, in most splendid isolation. She looks toward audience and prepares to address them. ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE D____ ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____ QUELLE D____

In June 1977, when in Oxford, Jacques Derrida stumbled upon a thirteenth-century fortune-telling book. The book was in Latin, titled Prognostica Socratis basilei, and housed in the Bodleian’s innermost cell, the Duke Humfrey Room. What first caught Derrida’s eye was a curious illustration in which Plato is seen to be dictating to Socrates; this is, of course, the wrong way round. Illustration is projected. The whole of the book, in fact, is curious, being crammed with both questions and answers concerning the future. Derrida writes about it in The Post Card, his book about Oxford—and other things. Pause. That book of his— Which book? That one. Esther points toward far-flung copy of The Post Card. Book. It’s about Oxford. Where? Athens.24 Bedlam slowly gets up and shuffles off. It is, I fear, also full of dead children. Oxford? No, the book. Ask him. Who? Socrates. For the children— Yes? The holocaust has already commenced.25 Esther takes seat vacated by Bedlam, and turns to Quelle.

2

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM

ESTHER

DERRIDA

33

Your demon here (indicates D____), he often thinks of children. Dead ones? Quite. They have names? Naturally. Name one. (Intervening ) Paul.26 Relation? Brother. Age? Three. Years? Months. Her baby was dead. Three months. Half -pause. Name another, another dead child. Norbert.27 Relation? Brother. Age? Two Cause? Meningitis. Poor boy. Dead boy. Bedlam stops at table stage-left, with back to audience. Poor boy. Dead boy. Indeed, Mr Bedlam, but which boy? Which particular boy do we mourn? Bedlam says nothing. Come along, Mr Bedlam. Speak up. Bedlam says nothing. Might it be the boy erased by meningitis? Bedlam says nothing. Or, perhaps it is our beautiful baby-boy? But two months into this sorry world. Bedlam says nothing.

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QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER

QUELLE

No—come to think of it, is it not that dear, sweet, little Jewish boy? Who? My little friend, remember? The one invited to leave, to go. Go home.28 Silence. Quelle rises, moves to stool stage-right. The boy— Which? Bedlam’s, Bedlam’s boy— I saw them bring him out.29 Did he live? Before he died? I said, did he live? Survive? One should rather like to know. Pause. Esther, appearing to ignore Quelle’s last question, stands up, takes crown from Bedlam’s head, and places it on her own. She looks grandly about. We are now in Oxford. Ah, such a view. View? From up here. Here? Oxford. 1977. Year of our Lord? For the most part. Think, think. Indeed. But what shall we think? Pause. Esther thinks, then has Oxonian revelation. Ah, yes. Let us think of how it is that here, here in Oxford, this demon of yours should stumble. Upon a book? Exactly. D____ sits at table centre-stage and meticulously detaches from The Post Card those pages featuring images from the fortune-telling book—the book, that is, from the thirteenthcentury. These images are projected onto screen. Old?

2

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER

D____ ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

DERRIDA

35

What? The book upon which he stumbles. Immensely. Title? He has none. No, the book. Prognostica Socratis basilei.30 Meaning? The Prognostications of Socrates the King Esther plonks crown upon head of D____. Odd book. Fortune-telling. And thick with questions. For instance? What is the date?31 Forgotten. Where are you going?32 Forgotten. Who is missing this morning?33 Is that a question?34 Sorry? Is that a question? Indeed it is—they all were, all three; Mr Bedlam may appear altogether cretinous, but he is in fact capable of excellent questions. Examination questions? Suggest one. Try this (clears Oxonian throat ): how many questions are there? Where? In the book, the old one—the fortune-telling book. How many riddles, or questions does it list or house? Thirty-six. Correct. Though some, it might be said, are but poor little half-questions. Half-questions? Pardon? What’s a half-question?

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ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____ QUELLE D____ ESTHER D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE BEDLAM

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____

Forgotten. Nevertheless, the point of my discourse remains. Remains what? That each and every time you prise open this old, dear, and darling book you are required to choose one. Choose what? A question. Or half of one. Half of what? A question. Ah yes. (Half -pause). And your demon here, he chose— Si puer vivet.35 Pardon? Si puer vivet. (To Quelle) It’s the question—the one he chose. Si puer vivet. Meaning? “If the boy lives.” What? “If the boy lives.” Ah. Game. Occult.36 Pause. Quelle purloins crown from D____ and sits stage-right. Esther now stands behind Quelle, as if an attendant Oxonian. And does he? Does he what, sir? Live, survive—the boy, does he live? Sir asked that before. Before what? All the questions, sir. Questions? I refer, sir, to the book. Book? Upon which we stumble, sir. Stumble? This is Oxford, sir; otherwise known as— The labyrinth.37

2

ESTHER D____ ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER D____ ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM D____ ESTHER D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM

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Pardon? The labyrinth between the colleges. Quite. Esther inclines toward Quelle, eager to offer advice. Beware, sir— Yes? Beware of— Minos.38 Exactly. And the Minotaur. Pause. (Still to Quelle) Oh, by the way, sir, up here, in Oxford (looks down), you may just be asked to beg a little. Beg? To get in, sir. To the Duke Humfrey. The who? It’s a what, sir. A room—.of a kind. In the Bodleian, the Bodleian Library. It’s a splendid room, sir, most beautiful, and— Who’s there?39 Oh, no-one lives there, sir—it has books in it. The floor was awash.40 Pause. D____ rises, and heads for darkened auditorium. One day, I will be dead— Indeed. And, you— Who? You, sir. Ah. You will come to look for the answer.41 I will? In the book. Which book? The old one, sir. In the Room, sir—the Room, Duke Humfrey Room Coffin.42 Pause. Esther, taking a labyrinthine path, moves to table centrestage. She there sprinkles sand on The Post Card, which is open at a page from the thirteenth century (the one

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featuring Plato and Socrates ). She blows upon the page as if to get rid of dust. ESTHER Don’t forget the oath, sir. QUELLE Forget? ESTHER The oath, sir. QUELLE What oath? ESTHER The Bodleian oath. QUELLE Ah. (Half -pause). And what is it—the oath? ESTHER Guess, sir. D____ begins to guess. D____ “I love you.”43 ESTHER No, sir. D____ “I should have liked to kiss you.”44 ESTHER No, sir. D____ “I— ESTHER Yes? D____ (As if automaton) “I hereby undertake not to bring into the Library, or kindle therein, any fire or flame.”45 Pause. BEDLAM Fire. You can’t burn. Fire.46 I. iii OXFORD Quelle and Bedlam spring to their feet and become librarians, of a sort; they are two fine but alarming men with the air of upper servants, at once both deferential and intimidating. Beginning with phrases such as “Ah, Monsieur Philosopher, this way, sir,” they insist upon escorting D____ to the Duke Humfrey Room. To do so, they find it necessary to lead him through the labyrinth that is Oxford and, in particular, the Bodleian Library. What ensues is a bizarre, comic and Kafkaesque tour of the stage. Quelle and Bedlam take near-competitive turns in showing D____ how to negotiate a host of completely invisible Oxonian obstacles —including, for example, wardrobes, mirrors, bookcases, secreted doors, staircases, turrets, ledges, precipices etc. D____ faithfully follows but becomes increasingly bewildered. He is finally returned exactly whence he came, at which point Quelle and Bedlam sit down at table stage-right. D____ finds himself once again seated opposite Esther at table centre-stage. She too is now a librarian, but treats him with no deference whatsoever.

2

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At the Bodleian, the librarian appeared to know me.47 Ah. You. This, though, did not excuse me from taking the oath. Esther hands D____ a card. Take. Read. D____ appears perplexed. I said, read it. The card. The oath. So, I read the card, and then give it back. Esther sighs. At this point, she suddenly insists that I had not understood. Read it aloud. Aloud? Yes, aloud. It’s the rule. A bloody old rule, but it’s the rule. And I don’t care who the f___ you are. D____ appears to freeze. Esther clicks fingers and D____, raising right hand, begins to slowly read aloud, as if making most solemn vow. “I, hereby undertake not to bring into the Library or kindle therein— That’ll do. Now b_____ off. Esther moves to table stage-right. Quelle rises, takes centrestage, and addresses audience. One day, I too will make it to the Bodleian, through a hole, a crevice. Indeed, I shall even make it into the Room, the one with the books. And when that dear day finally dawns, there I shall loiter, linger, perhaps even elegantly lounge, as a learnèd man will finally appear, from behind a blackened bookcase. Bedlam now rises, to play the part of Archivist, the learnèd man. D____ also rises, and stands at shoulder of Archivist, as if invisible, a spectre as it were. Bedlam-as-Archivist turns to Quelle. Good afternoon, sir. He says. Can I help, sir? He says. Well, indeed he can, since, by strangest chance, he is—

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BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM

QUELLE BEDLAM

D____

The very man, sir, who, all those years ago, assisted Monsieur Derrida. Really? You? Yes, sir, I. Pause. (Still to audience) But is the learnèd man learnedly lying? Is he having me on? Learnedly pulling at my leg? Well, he shows me a book. Bedlam, as Archivist, with considerable unease, picks up The Post Card. A modern book, sir. He says. By Monsieur Derrida, sir. He says. It concerns Oxford, sir. He says. He gave it to us, sir. This particular copy. As a gift. Bedlam, as Archivist, opens up book, and points at fly leaf. And there, sir— He says. Is what he, Monsieur Derrida, once inscribed, sir—by way of dedication.48 To the library. The Bodleian. Quelle reads inscription. Deft is it not, sir? I love, sir, the bit about the body. The body? Yes, look. (Points vaguely). It’s there, sir, there somewhere, I think—the bit about the body. Bedlam, as Archivist, wheels way, and begins to encircle the ever-stiffening figure of D____ Ah yes, deft, very deft. Monsieur Derrida doubtless means to recall that not unfamiliar jest, “There’s a body in the Bodley.” A somewhat child-like epigram, I admit. However, in its defence, it is genuinely macabre, seeing that a body in the library is, of course, according to the law of detective fiction, a body that is, how shall we put it, or indeed where shall we put it, dead. D____ stirs, and turns to Bedlam as Archivist. You, you know the end of the detective story.49

2

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Bedlam, as Archivist, elegantly casts book to the earth. Bedlam, now ceasing to be Archivist, shuffles off and wanders once more. Pause. D____ sits down at table stage-centre, beginning a second Bodleian scene. I arrived in the Bodleian at opening time, still dragging around with me a dream. In the dream, someone is in danger of death, and surrounded by doctors.50 Esther has now joined Quelle at table centre-stage; standing either side of seated D____, they peer down at him. The patient is immobile, passive. D____ ceases to move; remains immobile throughout following sequence. My father. Who? His father—he died in hospital. Aged seventy-four, he was. Cancer.51 Pause. Esther taps D____ gently on the head. He too will die of cancer.52 Age? Seventy-four. Ah, like his father. Sorry? He will die, just like his father. Do not all of us? Yes, but same age, same affliction—unerring is it not? Perhaps. Whatever, he’s dead. Long dead. Dead. Who? Monsieur Socrates. Pause. Esther taps D____ once more upon the head, thereby reanimating him. You— Yes? You are the foreseer of my death.53 Quite.

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BEDLAM

D____ BEDLAM D____ QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER BEDLAM

ESTHER D____

QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER D____ ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER

Hold her. Hold her down.54 Pause. D____ rises to feet, begins to wander. In Oxford— Think-think. I shall take my investigation to its end.55 Investigation? Into his death. His own. Think-think. Pause. It would be good— Yes, sir? It would be good if I were to die tonight. Anywhere in particular, sir? It would be good if I were to die in College.56 Certainly, sir. We’ll help you.57 Pause. Esther purloins crown from Bedlam and sits at head of table stage-centre. She grows grand, clears throat, and prepares to set a wholly new Oxford scene. June 6, 1977. Seminar at Balliol College. Afterwards, upon the lawn. Here the discussion continues, and I am approached by a young student. He is handsome.58 Quelle rises to feet and mimes carrying two glasses of sherry. He thus becomes Student. He approaches D____ Ah, Monsieur Derrida. He believes he can provoke me. Or, perhaps, seduce me. Saying— (Offering a glass ) Why don’t you kill yourself? D____ takes glass. Like Socrates. Kill yourself. Just a little— Hemlock.59 As it were. Kill yourself.60 Like Socrates.

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D____ stares at glass in his hand, considers response to Student’s question. I answer— Yes? I answer with a pirouette. D____ elegantly tosses the contents of glass to the winds of Balliol. As if to say? Expel me.61 Pause. D____ heads stage-left. Balliol scene is over. Quelle now sits at table centre-stage. If he had died— Who? Socrates (indicates D____)—if had he died for real, that night, in College, what might have happened? Not much. Cover up.62 Sorry? Not much would have happened. Cover up. Least, not much that was apparent. Not as such. Cover up. Pause. In following sequence D____ moves furtively across the stage, as if pursued by police. The police. We must tell the police. Who? The police. The secret police.63 Secret? The cops, they are on my trail.64 Tell the police. But they know. Know what. Know they’re on his trail. Whose trail? Mine. (To Quelle) His?

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QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

D____ ESTHER

D____ ESTHER D____ ESTHER D____ QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM

Whose? The police. What? The cops. Ah, I grow bewildered! Indeed, sir. And that, you see, is why up here in Oxford (looks down) we keep the investigation of murder to ourselves. Tell the police. Why we keep it in-house, in College, intramural. Tell the police. In order, you see, that we might, instead, even now, establish what it is that— Yes? All our plummeting books might know, might reveal. Esther takes The Post Card from the table centre-stage, and pushes it studiously to the edge and then over the edge. Repeats action three times. Each time she looks down to see the book plummet. D____ is drawn to this curious scene. What has happened to us?65 No idea. D____ sits down right at table centre-stage, and stares at The Post Card, again opened at an image from the thirteenth century. I will look it up. Look what up? What has happened to us. Ah. (Half -pause). But where will you look? In the book. Which book? The old one—bloody old. Quelle does not respond. Do you not remember? Quelle still does not respond. There’s nobody there.66

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45

I. iv ROOM—and an excursion to Oxford, 1951 Esther remains at table centre-stage, and D____ wanders stage. Quelle purloins crown from Esther, and returns it to head of Bedlam. BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

BEDLAM

QUELLE D____ BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM D____ QUELLE ESTHER D____ BEDLAM D____ ESTHER D____ BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER

The girl—I had to hold her head.67 Enough. I had to hold her head. Enough, fool. Quelle pulls crown down over Bedlam’s eyes, as if a blindfold. The dark. Quelle clicks fingers. Who’s there? Hamlet. Ophelia.68 I didn’t kill her.69 Enough, my fool. I didn’t. Enough, I said. I didn’t kill her. My gun. Shoot! My gun.70 Pause. Firing squad.71 What? He thinks he’s part of a firing squad Someone gives the order to fire. Fire. And— Yes? Everyone shoots. My gun! I think not. My gun! I do think not. My gun! No, for goodness sake, no. Not yours. Not your gun. Pause.

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QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ ESTHER D____ QUELLE D____ BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM QUELLE D____ ESTHER D____ BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE D____ QUELLE

Quelle rises, takes crown from Bedlam, places violently on head of D____, again as if a blindfold, and D____ ceases to wander. Quelle now approaches Esther. Forgive me for asking— Granted. I do so merely for misinformation— Naturally. But, how is that we know, you and I? Know what? Who kills. My gun. And who does not. Pardon? I mean, do we not all shoot in the dark? You know. Bangbang, you’re dead! Dead, whoever you are. Whoever you are, my love.72 Pardon? There is someone in me who kills.73 Kills whom? You. Right now, I kill you.74 Pause. Brains kill.75 (To Esther) Spot that, did you? Brains kill. Spot what? Brains. They are to be suspected. I feel as if I am accused.76 Indeed. But by whom I do not know. Think! Yes, think, dear Socrates. Alas, he cannot. Why not? He’s losing his memory. (Intervening ) No! Pardon? You— Me?

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You are losing my memory.77 D____’s crown falls to earth. (To Quelle) Fear not, your Mr Socrates here— Yes? He has little need of memory now. Why so? Well, up here, up here in Oxford, we are inclined not to dwell on the past. We prefer to think of the future. What future? This one. Esther produces a letter, rolls it into a ball, and throws it in direction of Bedlam. He picks it up and reads aloud; as he does so, he momentarily becomes young Bedlam, student Bedlam. “Oxford, April, 1951. Beloved, at last Spring is here. And, somehow, I am sure that the Summer is going to be fine. Just fine.”78 Esther now stands. She holds an invisible suitcase, and looks about, thus becoming Beloved, newly arrived in Oxford— June 1951. Bedlam pauses before her, and for a moment or two, appears to know her. When, though, he finally speaks, he does so, as ever, as if to no one. Where are you going? To the Ball. Where? To the Ball. Tonight. In College.79 Esther leads Bedlam in brief waltz. Bedlam shuffles, as if half -remembering what it might have been to dance in 1951. As they dance, D____ and Esther speak as below, with D____ speaking as if on behalf of Bedlam. Promise me— Yes. Promise me— I promise. Promise me there will be a world.80

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QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

D____ retreats into dark. Esther and Bedlam gradually cease to waltz. Bedlam shuffles away. Esther sits down centre-stage, now ceasing to be Beloved. Quelle picks up fallen crown and places carelessly on head. You. Me? Throw! Through the air, the ether. Throw what? The book. The world? The book, the old one, the one about the future. But why? I should to like to view one particular prognostication. Which one? The one about the boy (indicates Bedlam). Esther throws The Post Card to Quelle, who opens it at one of the thirteenth-century pages. He appears defeated. Trouble? Latin. Alas. No use, then. Not to you. (Throwing book back at Esther) Translate. If one insists. One does. Esther opens book at relevant thirteenth-century page. Puer vivet.81 Translate, I said. “The boy will live.” Will live? Quelle looks at Bedlam. Yes. Will live, not die? Quelle looks again at Bedlam. Yes. Pause. Esther closes book. Anything else? What more could one want? What else does it say? Something about sleep. Sleep?

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It is predicted. Sleep? Of a certain kind. Kind? As in good or bad. Well, which is it? What? Sleep. What of it? Is it to be— Yes? Good— He hesitates. Yes? Or, bad? Esther sighs, glances at Bedlam, then reluctantly re-opens The Post Card. She looks down, then up. Good.82 I. v

ROOM Esther remains seated. Quelle sits at table stage-right. D____ is wandering the stage, as is Bedlam. BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER D____ QUELLE ESTHER

They said they would kill us, think-think, and then come back, ding-dong.83 Good sleep, Mr Bedlam? Bad. How bad? Bedlam is silent I said, how bad? Bad. Esther turns to D____ And what of you, Mr Socrates? I sing. Not any more, you don’t. Pardon.

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QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE

D____

QUELLE D____

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ESTHER QUELLE

(To D____) Tell her. Confess. Orpheus sings no more.84 Indeed, you have not sung since— The death of Eurydice. Exactly. Quelle turns to Esther. Remember? Esther says nothing. Quelle turns to D____. So, what now? If you no longer sing, what now? Do you have no other accomplishments with which to entertain us, divert us, relieve us? I dance.85 D____ begins slowly to waltz, alone with invisible other. And dance. Waltz? Tango. Waltz now becomes something else, something stranger, quicker, more Latin and, indeed, more Jewish. But, pray, what species of tango? Libertango, Meditango, Undertango. D____ now draws into the dance first Quelle, and then Esther. Violentango, Novitango, Amelitango— And? Tristango. Ah, a favourite of the gods. I dance and dance. And when do you stop? Stop? Yes, stop. When— Yes? When utterly exhausted. D____ suddenly stops, as if statue. Long pause. How does he sleep? He doesn’t. Half -pause.

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Correction. He sleeps in libraries. Like a tramp? Quite. He is particularly fond of— Sleeping in the archives.86 In fact, he knows no better place to sleep. D____ sits down. Esther rises, to initiate the wartime sequence that follows. She clears throat, and begins, in wartime manner. Welcome. Where now? Half -pause. No idea. A hole.87 Esther begins again. Dear friends, as you know, the War continues to rage. War. The worst one. Again.88 She died. As I say, the War continues to rage, and so I must inform you all, and with much sadness, that several known well to us have recently fallen. She died. One has been killed in— Normandy. A second lost somewhere over— The Channel at night.89 Missing. A hole. And a third …. Silence—she cannot remember. (To Esther) So, how do you sleep? I don’t. Like him, I don’t sleep. Him? Yes him (indicates D____). And him (indicates Bedlam). Ah, yes (points to one unseen), and him. I heard him cry. Who? I don’t know. I heard him cry. Who? I said I don’t know.

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QUELLE BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____ QUELLE

D____ QUELLE D____

BEDLAM D____

BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM

What do you mean? She died. I mean we’re exhausted. All of us. The War, you know. She died. (To Esther) And is that it? She died. One cannot say—it’s all so difficult now. One simply cannot say. Cannot say what? Everything. Pause. Me, I say everything.90 Ah, proceed, then—say everything. Say absolutely everything. D____ looks about, preparing to say everything. Not just anyone— Yes? Not just anyone gets to bugger Socrates.91 Silence. Long silence. It is a silence by which D____ appears defeated. This is catastrophe.92 Tragedy.93 Silence. I have fallen from my trapeze.94 D____ purloins crown from Esther and stares at it. I once put on a hat.95 I saw it.96 And makeup. I saw. And a dress. Silly woman.97 Half -pause. He’s mad, you know. Who? Guess. Quelle appears to hesitate between Bedlam and D____, then walks toward Bedlam and, once behind him, signals to indicate madness. I saw you.98

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53

Who? You. You’re working for him. Bedlam waves toward the dark. (To D____) Arrest him!99 Quelle suddenly makes a break for it, attempting to flee the stage, only to be thwarted by D____ who drags him back. They mime all this, as if a silent movie. Three times the pantomimic “fort-da” is repeated. The last time, Quelle is dragged back as if dead, corpse-like. Throughout the pantomime Bedlam repeats his refrain “Arrest him”; initially, he grows louder and louder, but anon he grows quieter and quieter. At the same time, Esther comments distantly upon events. Her refrain is something like “Good heavens” as Quelle attempts to vanish, and then something like “Well, really!” as he is dragged back—her comment upon his final return is, however, an uncharacteristic “Bloody hell!” The episode ends with Bedlam simply repeating his own refrain ever more quietly. Arrest him. Arrest him. Arrest. Arrest. Arrest. Arrest. Arrest. I. vi

ROOM Esther remains at table centre-stage, Quelle sits stage-left of her. Bedlam is once more wearing crown; he sits stage-left and is murmuring. D____, who has been wandering the stage, pauses at Quelle’s side, and whispers to him. D____ BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM

ESTHER

This child (indicates Bedlam), of whom is he afraid?100 The Master.101 Ah, Death, they say, is a master— Think-think. A master from Germany. The Master killed. But is he from Germany? His Master? Bedlam’s? Last thing he said, German.102 Pause. Esther intervenes. In this present situation—

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QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM ESTHER D____ BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM

D____ BEDLAM D____

QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ D____ QUELLE ESTHER

BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

Present? I suggest one hesitates. One hesitates. If the world did once go wrong, if Bedlam does not merely dream, would we really want to know? To know for sure? And, what would we do with the burden of proof? Pray.103 With the facts— With the proper names.104 Pray. And with all that a poor man now hears and sees. Pray. D____ now stands directly before Bedlam, to whom he now appears to speak. Me, I watch out for the noises around you.105 Pray. I try to surprise whatever is looking at you. Pause. D____ turns from Bedlam. I am dead— Still? Dead of a death that is no longer mine.106 Pardon? There is someone within me— D____ takes up invisible briefcase. Someone I cannot quite identify.107 Mr Bedlam? Perhaps. Esther rises and moves stage-left. Or, could it just possibly be a dear little child— Her baby was dead.108 Of whom Bedlam has heard— Dead. Heard tell. Dead. I think, as so often, of a dear little boy taken out and— Yes? I forget.

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But, who took the dear little boy? Little boy. Someone. Year? Esther says nothing. Date? Esther says nothing. Come on, speak woman. If you really know anything at all, speak up—year, date. Ah, alas, I cannot say. Why not? Because— Yes? I abuse dates.109 Half -pause. (To Esther) And you? Pardon? Do you also abuse dates? Perhaps. But in time of war, you see, errors are, on occasion, made, and wires crossed—as are lives. Ask the Major (indicates D____). D____ now lies upon the earth, one hand still grips invisible briefcase. He is, apparently, life-less. Major who? Guess. Socrates? Major General Socrates?110 No. Major Martin (kicks lifeless D____). Pardon? Major Martin. The famous made-up man (again kicks D____). Invented. By MI5. 1943. April. Name, rank, number—all dreamed up, and all given to a passing corpse, that of a tramp.111 Half -pause. Esther and Quelle both look down at D____, and see Major Martin. The sea. To be found, it is hoped, by the Enemy. The sea. The sand.112

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ESTHER D____ BEDLAM ESTHER

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D____ ESTHER BEDLAM D____ ESTHER D____ BEDLAM ESTHER D____ ESTHER

Into his pockets they have stuffed all sorts of papers— other men’s papers. Metro ticket, movie ticket, wrapper of a sugar-cube.113 Sand. Pause. That final photograph, of Major Martin, the one taken just before they lowered him into the sea, did you not see it? No. Not see dear Major Martin? No. And neither did I see old Bedlam. Not when he was dead. I was away. Not there. Arrest him. Arrest Major Martin? I am afraid you cannot arrest the Major. Not the Major. He’s at sea, and is no doubt, even now, still moving through the night. Poor Major, poor tramp, whoever he was, just anyone, just someone. Someone in me. Oh yes, Major Martin is no doubt still out there. On the ocean. The waves. The sea. Half pause. I have the impression of floating.114 Drifting, indeed, and seduced by the tide. Floating in a coffer. Floating. The sea. Esther bends down, as if to touch D____. But, nursed he is, nursed by the waves that wash him. Floating between two waters. His poor stiffened fingers clutching tight a sodden briefcase (gently opens D____’s fingers ) stuffed full of priceless lies.

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Act Two—Fire PROLOGUE Enter Bedlam BEDLAM

Welcome to Act Two—in which I shall play not only the part of Bedlam but also that of a figure we call “Master.” As you will discover, Master often talks about a brilliant Oxford philosopher called Gilbert Ryle.115 This is because Ryle was in the audience when Jacques Derrida addressed the Oxford Philosophy Faculty in 1968. Now, it is perhaps surprising that Ryle was there. The young Derrida, you see, was best known for his work on a German-Jewish scholar called Edmund Husserl. “So what?” I hear you murmur. Well, he, Husserl (stay with me) was the founder of a school of philosophy called phenomenology (yes, I know). Anyway, it’s to do with thinking about thinking (think-think, if you will), and Ryle, like many in Oxford, had often denounced such continental hocus pocus. So, why, in 1968, was Ryle there to listen to Derrida? Ah, here’s the twist, or surprise: back in the 1930s, Ryle had, in fact, supervised the research of a certain Theodor Adorno.116 “Who he?” you cry. Well (nearly there), Adorno was a young Jewish scholar exiled from Germany, and in Oxford to study of all things (yes, you’ve guessed it) Husserl’s phenomenology. To conclude (thank God), Adorno was, as it were, Derrida before Derrida. Long before. Exit Bedlam II. i

OXFORD, initially wartime and then 1968 Bedlam is now Master. He is enthroned at head of table centre-stage, with Quelle and Esther on his right and left, respectively. All three are now Oxonians, guardians of the city. Behind them, up-stage, D____ is wandering, a stranger. Master, Quelle, and Esther all stare straight ahead and address auditorium.

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In time of war, if we are to succeed in confusing the Enemy, in ensuring he does not know who we are, it may help if we too are unsure. Indeed, here, up here (looks down), we are unsure not just as to who we are but even as to whose side we are on. In Oxford, you see, we are not bombed.117 Bombs are falling like black confetti all over England, but not in Oxford; and we are beginning to wonder why. The Dean of Somerville says it is because Hitler is keeping Oxford for himself, for the day he collects his honorary degree. Still others say that Oxford is to become the capital of Nazi England. Whatever, the virgin fact remains that in Oxford we are not bombed. In the so-called Baedeker Raids of 1942, a series of dastardly attacks on English morale, a number of cathedral cities have been hit, including Cambridge—wherever that is. But in Oxford we are still not bombed. So: what is wrong with us? Has Professor Hitler not noticed that several sections of the Secret Service have relocated to Oxford? Has Herr Professor not realised that the Admiralty are busy planning D-Day in the vaults of the Bodleian? Perhaps not. But surely this Professor of Absolute Knowledge must know of industrial Oxford, that far country we call Cowley, with its huge Morris Motors? In these days of conflict, they manufacture machines even more deadly than the Morris Eight. But, still we are not bombed. Not bombed. Un-bombed. Wholly and completely un-bombed. Pause. Let it not be thought, however, that we in Oxford are not really at war at all. No, we do our bit, even those of us too old, or too precious, to fight. Indeed, several of us have joined the Secret Service and, in particular MI5, to work upon scrambled words—ciphers, codes etc. At last, you see, we philosophers matter, we rule. England has finally become Plato’s republic, and we are its philosopher-kings. One such king is dear Ryle, Gilbert Ryle, Waynflete Professor of Metaphysical Philosophy. He

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serves at Bletchley Park.118 Indeed, once the War is finally cancelled it is as Major Ryle that he returns to Oxford. Master rises smartly to his feet. Just over twenty years later, in 1968, Professor Ryle is again faced with the Indecipherable. D____ sits at table stage-left. This time, however, it comes not from Berlin but Paris. Paris? It is where they foment. Pardon? Revolution. Ah. Master puts on paper crown, and clears throat. Welcome to the Sub-Faculty of Philosophy’s fortnightly gathering. Today’s paper is to be given by Monsieur J. Derrida, from the École Normale Superieure, Paris. Monsieur Derrida is a student of, inter alia, the late Edmund Husserl, the phenomenologist.119 Today’s paper, I gather, is entitled (looks at notes) “Différence.” (Looks down again). Correction: “Différance.” Where conventional orthography would suggest a second “e,” Monsieur Derrida enters an “a.” (Now, suddenly, changing gear). Goodness knows why. Indeed, between you and me, keep it under your tin-hat, but I think the fellow is absolutely bonkers. However, entente cordiale and all that. So, Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls, all the way from insurrectionary Paris, I give you, for one night only, thank God: Monsieur Derrida. Good luck! (Master sits down. He appears to drift off). D____ begins his paper seated, but soon rises to wander the stage, as if lost. His voice is frail, hesitant, but rhythmical. Today, I shall talk of difference. I shall talk, that is, of the very means by which we think—think “this” from “that” etc. I shall not, however, talk only of difference but also of différance. Master stirs. With its “a,” the word différance is able, I believe, to undo difference. We can, therefore, now begin to rethink the

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means by which we think; and, indeed, do so to the point at which, it might seem, we are all but unable to think.120 Both Quelle and Esther appear to be already unable to think. I shall talk then, above all, of a letter—the first one, if we are to believe the alphabet. Quelle looks like a man who does believe in the alphabet. And the “a,” the “a” in différance is a letter that, though seen, is not heard. It is all but silent, secret, like a tomb, a tomb that is not far from the death of a king. D____ tenderly touches the crown that weighs upon Master’s head. Let us, therefore, start again. Start again by questioning the sovereignty of consciousness. For différance dominates nothing, rules over nothing; indeed, it is the overturning of each and every realm. D____ looks down. To conclude, différance directs us beyond both the history of Being and the philosophical discourse of Being. Différance, that is, calls for no less than a transformation of philosophy—a necessarily violent transformation. D____ momentarily reaches for his own throat. This, though, we must affirm, affirm with a kind of laughter, and step of the dance. (Coming to). Good heavens. Finished so soon? And yet, it seems, I would appear to have drifted off. Could you possibly summarise? Précis? At the double, as it were. Quick march. Hup, hup. Master once again appears to drift, even as D____ begins his précis, which he delivers with ever-increasing speed. Today, yes, today, difference, think, think difference, no, think also différance, différance, with an “a,” an “a,” yes, think again, again the very means by which we think, or think we think, think, yes, think again, again, and all because of the letter, the first, the letter that is, in this instance, silent, yes silent, and secret, like a tomb, a tomb that is not far, not far from the death of a king, a king, again, again, yes, begin again, again the death, the death

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of the king, and the dance, the letter, the dance, the letter, the— D____ crouches down and writes a single word in the sand. It is “dance.” He then over-writes the word with an “x.” Master stirs. Long silence.121 (To auditorium) If only you had seen it, seen the silence. And the faces. Fifty minutes. I died.122 Died? As only comedians can. D____ walks down-stage and turns to look on action. Quelle and Esther stand up and meet, melodramatically, behind the back of Master. Psst, a word in your ear. Yes? Monsieur Derrida appears to interpret our silence as flat rejection; but there is, he knows, far more to our silence. Really? Oh yes, he knows that it is, in fact, a secret-service silence, the grave silence of wartime decryption. Good heavens. You see, Monsieur Derrida, I think, knew— Yes? Knew of Ryle’s cryptic, Bletchley war. How so? (Intervening ) Well, consider this: it is the case that I am a philosopher in need—in need, that is, of an example, an example of a thing, a thing in the world. And so I choose a dog. It is, therefore, now the case that I find myself in need of a name, or rather the dog does; and thus choose, or choose to choose, if you will, the name that is “Fido.” Pardon? “Fido.” “Phaedo”? Who? The intimate of Socrates.123 No. No what ?

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No, he said “Fido” not “Phaedo.” Are you sure? It’s what he writes, “Fido.” But what’s “Fido” got to do with Bletchley, the war? Ah, listen to this. D____ drops upon Master’s lap. Question: Why does Ryle choose the name “Fido”?124 For whom? The dog. What dog? The dog that is an example. Example of what? A thing. Thing in the world. Yes, but— To resume. Question: Why does Ryle choose the name “Fido”? Answer: In order that the example be obedient. So? Fido|War, War|Fido—wherein lies the bloody connection? Why, “Fido,” in Latin, means “faithful.” So? It’s a joke. Joke? Philosophical. Ah. You see, the philosopher always desires that his example be faithful, does only what it is supposed to do. Which is? To exemplify, to be an instance, or case, and then to lie low, play dead. But, what? Yes? But what if Fido is a bad example? Dis obedient? Faithful by name but not by nature? Quite so. Professor Ryle may think Fido is working for him, as an obedient philosophical exemplum; however,

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the treacherous truth is that Fido is, in fact, being run by Monsieur Derrida. D____ begins to write in the sand. In this connection, it is time, high time, for a revelation. Apocalyptic revelation.125 Not quite, but at least one that might, finally, clarify the secret wartime significance of “Fido.” Thank God. You see, “Fido” was, as dear Ryle would have known, the code-name for one of MI5’s wartime double-agents.126 Ah. Thus, by whistling up Fido, Ryle has let slip a dog of war, a duplicitous dog of war. Master salutes. So, to begin the world yet again. Must we? Indeed. Question: (Wearily) Why did Ryle choose the name “Fido”? Answer: Because Ryle knew that the example would not be obedient. Knew he would be double-crossed. Knew that Fido would bark, would talk to the Enemy (indicates D____). And what Fido discloses, what Fido betrays, is not just Ryle’s cryptic war but Oxford’s. You see, the chair of the MI5 committee which oversaw all double-agents was none other than dear Masterman, J. C. Masterman.127 The word (if word it is) that D____ has just written in the sand is “oXX ford.” As this appears on the screen, D____ moves centre stage to prat-fall to the floor. Pause. Esther takes Quelle aside. Complete the following sentence. What sentence? This one. She kicks the prone D____ to elicit the following sentence. Whenever I am in Oxford, I think of— Plato? No.

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Fiasco? No Disco? I did once go to a disco.128 Oxford? New York. Where? Pause. Try again. Esther kicks D____ once more Whenever I am in Oxford, I think of— Austin The car? The man—J. L., J. L. Austin.129 So, not a car? No. Sure? Yes. But— But what? It is always a question of cars.130 What is? D____ does not answer. Instead, he prat-falls to earth once more. Pause. Where were we? In Oxford— We know. In Oxford, I think of Austin.131 (To Esther) He met him? Who? Austin. No. Why then does Socrates think of him? (Intervening ) Why? Because of Austin’s role in our famous by-election. 1938, it was—October to be exact, with dear Quintin Hogg standing upon a ticket of proAppeasement. Just weeks before, eager for a little more

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Lebensraum, Professor Hitler had tramped all the way to Austria. Like most of old Europe, Britain could not decide whether to oppose or appease the Great Dictator; then, by chance, as the leaves were turning red, the by-election was called in autumn Oxford. Very quickly it was clear that the question of, er … (has forgotten). (Still prone) Appeasement.132 Ah yes, Appeasement—which was soon the only question, only issue. And thus, for several weeks, the gods held breath, and waited to see how the city would vote, how the leaves would fall. So too did Austin, who forsook Mistress Philosophy just long enough to campaign against Hogg-the-Appeaser.133 “A vote for Hogg—” He would say. “Is a vote for Hitler.” Austin therebys famously begged the question of the city’s allegiance; he rudely asked whose side we were on. And whose side were we on? I cannot say. Well, who won the vote? Pardon? Austin or Hogg? Hogg. II. ii

OXFORD, 1968 Quelle and Esther are once more seated centre-stage, and again stare straight ahead toward audience. Behind them, up-stage, stand Master, stage-left, and D____, stage-right. D____

MASTER D____ MASTER

A man came up to greet me.134 Master takes a step toward D____. Believing he recognised me. You? And then excused himself. Forgive me.

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Master turns away from D____ and sits at table centrestage; he sits between Quelle and Esther. As before, they both stand up and meet behind seated Master; once more they whisper melodramatically. I suspect— Yes? I suspect you are thinking that this is merely a case of mistaken identity. Quite. But there is, I think, much more to this. Really? Oh yes, it is, in fact, a case of dear Ryle seeing a ghost. I’m astonished. Allow me to expand. Good heavens. You see, I know that Ryle once knew Herr Professor Adorno. Who? Adorno. D____ sits down at table stage-right. He smooths hair, dons spectacles from the 1930s, and adopts studious air, to effect at farcical speed a dubious evocation of a young Adorno. T. W. Adorno—he studied here. Under Ryle.135 When? Thirties. Why? Expelled. School? Germany. Ah. Quelle appears to be thinking. So, he too was a ___ (a word is mouthed). Quite. D____ stands and, still a bespectacled 1930s Herr Adorno, he begins to screw up some old letters and papers into three balls; he then proceeds to juggle, badly. And what is more, he was another— Clown?

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No, phenomenologist. Whatever that is. Indeed. Anyway, you see now? See what? See that Monsieur Derrida is, for dear Ryle, the very double of Adorno. Who? Adorno! Theodor–bloody-Adorno! (Coming to) Ah yes, the celebrated Professor Theodor Adorno. Mind you, back then, before the War, he was but young Teddy Adorno. Herr Husserl’s Teddy, as it were. D____ stands on stool behind Master, and stuffs paper balls down Master’s neck. It has to be said that, in those days, Adorno was somewhat risible. Master wriggles in vain attempt to rid himself of the paper balls, and this wriggling D____ parodies in form of a comic dance. Risible? Well, you see, the city’s gods were not accustomed to— Music Hall? Esther shakes head. Circus? Esther shakes head. Think-think! Quelle thinks. Phenomenology? Exactly. For that way lies, I fear, the subject, the subjective, the far reaches of the self. D____ once more stuffs paper balls down Master’s neck Besides, young Herr Adorno was something of a queer fish—odd man out, as it were. Back then, even Jewish students had to be present every day in chapel. Albeit for roll-call. D____ repeats comic dance. And does he survive? Herr Adorno? In a manner. Though I fear that, for some reason, he found Oxford not unlike the Third Reich.136 Quelle and Esther move stage-right.

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So? He buggers off. America.137 Or somewhere like that. D____ wanders off. And that’s it? Ryle never sees Herr Adorno again? No. Or at least not until he sees Monsieur Derrida and mistakes him for Adorno. (Returning ) He— Yes? He whom I represent.138 D____ strikes absurd riddling pose. Ah! Pause. Quelle looks across at Master, then turns to Esther He (indicates Master), he is, I think, a little cold. Pardon? Cold toward. Toward whom? Monsieur Derrida. Ah, but Gilbert’s manner is often misconstrued. Besides, he was not, upon the whole, or indeed in general, especially close to Herr Adorno. (Half -pause). But then, none of us were. Quelle and Esther sit down, once more at table centre-stage, either side of Master. All three face auditorium. And why was that? Why was it that we, you and I, were not, upon the whole, or indeed in general, especially close to Herr Adorno? Esther does not answer. (Intervening ) Well, you see, back then, before the War, what needs must be understood is— Yes? That I once spied a swastika flag waved from a College window. That some among us hailed visiting Nazi students as— Harbingers of a true revolution. And that, in Senior Common Room, one or two felt that— Dons of a Jewish kind were not wholly kosher.139 Pause.

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D____ removes 1930s spectacles, ceases to evoke young Adorno, and walks toward Master, who is now so cold as to appear quite frozen. D____ appears, though, to be addressing him most tenderly. When going back up the stairs in Balliol, I asked myself what we might have done to love each other. (Stops inches away from Master). In 1930. In Berlin.140 Master remains frozen. When? 1930? Where? Berlin? Half -pause. (Coming to) Ah yes, one must be careful up-hereabouts. Careful where one goes. Ascend the wrong staircase, take the wrong turning, pass through the wrong looking-glass and— In Oxford I have adventures, mis-adventures.141 Pause. Exit all, save Esther, who turns to address audience. By the way, one such misadventure was Jacques Derrida’s encounter with a tramp. The tramp was stood outside the phone-booth on Broad Street, Oxford, on the night of June 4th, 1977, even as he, Derrida, was attempting to make a call. Derrida subsequently nick-names the tramp “Elijah.” This also happens to be the secret, Jewish name that was given to Derrida at his circumcision.142 II. iii

OXFORD, 1977 Master is again seated at the table centre-stage, but this time he has air of man about to be interrogated. Esther is in the shadows, D____ is wandering the stage, and Quelle, who now wears the crown, sits at table stage-right, and stares hard at Master. QUELLE MASTER

Our secret, up here, what is it? We have the capacity to burn. Pause.

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D____ mimes producing a box of matches and attempting to strike the matches without ever succeeding. As he does so, he walks around and around in a circle and ever more quickly, as if pursuing himself. In Balliol, I dream of a man, a tramp, who is walking around the telephone booth, on the street. And he is scraping a pencil against a box of matches. And I am trying to stop him, for he is in danger of burning. And he is drunk and is staggering, is drunk and is staggering.143 And all the while, all the while, he is scraping away at his box of matches, match after match after match after match after— D____ suddenly stops. Oxford, this summer, the great auto-da-fé, the great burning, the great burning of us.144 In Athens, I believe, there is a word for great burning. Or at least for total burning. And what is that word? Master says nothing. I said what is that word? Master looks toward D____ who mimes raising a match to his lips. Master says nothing. Esther emerges from the shadows. The tramp, sir— Chaplin?145 Yes, sir. With his matches? Yes, sir. What of him? (Intervening ) I call him “Elijah.”146 Who? The tramp, sir. The man about to burn. (To Esther) You—you know the secret. D____ heaves telephone from the table and carries across the stage. Stops stage right. Allows telephone to fall to the earth, there it lies spread-eagled, cruciform. This burning— Yes, sir? He dreams of it?

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No, sir. The phone-booth, sir, is on Broad Street.147 So? (Intervening ) Broad Street is where we burn—Bishops, mostly. Ridley, Cranmer, Latimer. Burnt them all, we have. At the stake. Just outside Balliol. Broad Street. In the very middle of the road.148 (To Quelle) Has sir not seen the cross? The cross? Upon the asphalt, sir. D____ stares down at cruciform telephone. There, sir, to remember the flames. Which flames? The ones that burnt the bishops, sir. Warmed their flesh. Christian flesh? Yes, sir. Not Jewish? No. Pause. There was, however, dear Haggai. Who? Haggai of Oxford—we burnt him too. When? When we were young. To be precise? 1222, AD. Long forgotten? We put up a plaque. When? 1931.149 D____ mimes pulling out another box of matches. And there’s also the cross. Which cross? D____ casts invisible matches, one by one, in direction of telephone. The one in the road.150 It too recalls dear Haggai. In a manner. And what manner is that? Speak. And clearly. We will have no more evasion.

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Pause. Silence as if in court. Master stands. Your honour, the precedent for the city’s burning of heretics, the precedent that did for Ridley et al., was, strange to say, the burning of Haggai. The case of Haggai was, moreover, cited in the bishops’ trials. In fine: Ridley, Cranmer and Latimer all burnt, one might say, like Jews.151 D____ mimes throwing whole box of matches in direction of the telephone. II. iv

ROOM—and an excursion to Oxford, 1946 Esther approaches audience and addresses them. ESTHER

BEDLAM

I, by the way, am invariably known as Esther—so named after two very different Esthers. Half -pause The first, is the biblical Queen Esther, with whom Jacques Derrida is much concerned in his Oxford book. This Esther was the Jewish queen of a Persian king, King Xerxes. She once famously reversed an order of the King, an order set down by his advisor, Haman. The order was to exterminate the people of Israel.152 Esther smiles politely. The second Esther after whom I am named is one Esther Unger. Miss Unger was student secretary to the Oxford Jewish Society in 1946–1947. To her, therefore, fell the task of recording the Society’s response to the trials in Nuremberg of various leading Nazis, and to the subsequent executions. Esther returns to shadows. Quelle and D____ are busy making paper boats that they carefully place on small sand dunes on the floor. The telephone stands once more upon table stage-left. Master sits at this same table; once more he is Bedlam. Hear her. Hear.153

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Bedlam stops, as if to allow D____ and Quelle to hear, to listen. They appear to listen, but there is silence. Hear her. Bedlam again stops, again as if to allow D____ and Quelle to hear, to listen. Once more they appear to listen, but once more there is silence. She’s gagged.154 Esther emerges from shadows. Approaches Bedlam. Gagged. Esther sits beside Bedlam, and addresses him, as if the Beloved. They will not listen. Gagged. I tell them what you say, but they will not listen. Gagged. I write it down. Everything you say. All of it. Every word. But still they will not listen. Quelle turns to D____, and addresses him. Demon. Think-think. (Still to D____) What think you now? Think-think. That she meddles with Mr Bedlam’s words? Think-think. That she doctors them? Just a little? Here and there? Even as Bedlam dictates—like Socrates. Who? That devil Socrates.155 Ah. Plato’s secretary.156 Wrong! Sorry? Wrong way round. Who is? (Indicates D____) Him. Demon. D____ is still playing with sand. I confess— Again? I confess that when citing I am always rearranging.157

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Even now? I confess. As demons must. It is wrong, you know, to cite and rearrange, to fiddle with the words of others. In sum: you are, I think, a bad man, bad reader. Yes, you are a bloody bad reader. Half -pause. I like him. Who? The bad reader. I like the bad reader.158 Quelle sits on stool stage-right. Esther rises and wanders. One is mindful— Indeed. One is mindful of Esther. Who? She too cooked a book. Esther? Don’t become obsessed with Esther.159 Which Esther? Queen Esther.160 Queen? Jewish. Albeit coupled to a gentile king. Esther steals crown from head of Bedlam, and sits at table centre-stage. She is now the biblical Queen Esther. And are you faithful? Faithful? To what is written. For the most part. However, we did once do a little rewriting. You did? We are afraid so. She had a little table.161 And, pray, what did “we” re-write? Just the world. Which one? The one according to Haman. Who? Haman, the advisor—to the King. Arrest him.

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You see, he drafted an order. Arrest him. To exterminate. Arrest him. Exterminate who? Half -pause. Our people. D____ clambers onto table stage-right. Of a sudden, he becomes a showman. Show begins. Haman— The Master. Haman gives the order of extermination.162 Chairs and a plank.163 D____ is now standing on table, as if scaffold. Looks down. Haman dictates the horror.164 We, however, re-order it. Give a counter-order. And, irony of ironies, it is not my people who die but— Yes? Haman. Haman is hanged.165 D____ leaps from table Hanging. Silence. Show is over.. (To Esther) And your people? Pardon? Your people. What happens to them? Oh, they live. Walk free. Reprieved. Therefore? Therefore what? Therefore what may we say? Say now? Given that you once re-wrote the world. (Intervening ) I hope— No. I hope for remission— No. Remission of an illness— No. That I will not escape alive.166 Pause.

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No, hope be damned, verboten. It cannot be tolerated— not now. Why not? Esther is silent. D____ slowly dances upon what is left of sand-labyrinth. I said, why not? Because, however hard we might try, we are, it seems, now unable to— To what? To counter-order.167 Counter-order what? The order of extermination. D____, now dancing frantically, erases final traces of labyrinth, then suddenly stops. Pause. Esther rises, throws crown to the earth, and moves to sit at table stage-left. Quelle moves to sit at table stage-right, collecting crown upon the way. He takes out invisible pen and paper and, throughout following sequence, mimes the taking of notes. He has a bureaucratic manner. It is now Oxford, 1946. Still Esther? Yes, sir. Queen Esther? No, sir. But Esther, notwithstanding? Yes, sir. Surname? Unger. Rank? Undergraduate. Society? Jewish. Office? Secretary. Anno Domini? 1946. Esther now stands. Again as if in a court of justice.

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Oxford Jewish Society. October 18th, 1946. In Nuremberg, on the 16th of this month, eleven Nazi criminals met their death by hanging and shooting.168 Continue. To celebrate the executions, it was agreed to read aloud from the Book of Esther.169 Your book? As it were, sir. Which part? The executions, sir. The executions of Haman and his fellow demons, his ten fellow demons Eleven in all, therefore? Yes. Quelle offers a piece of paper to Esther. Take, read. What, now, sir? Read it. But I must go, sir. Read it. Half -pause. Esther takes the piece of paper. (Reading ) “O King, the sentence of death-by-hanging has been carried out on the eleven men whom thou has convicted of crimes against humanity.”170 Eleven? Yes, sir. Quelle appears to tick a box. Crimes against humanity? Yes, sir. Quelle appears to tick another box. That’s what you read? Yes, sir. From the Book of Esther? Yes, sir. Half -pause. D____ turns to Quelle, and stage-whispers. Haunting has no limit.171 None? No. No border? No.

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II. v OXFORD 1949—then becomes ROOM D____ sits at table stage-right. Quelle remains at central table. Master is pacing, has air of one preparing to dictate. MASTER ESTHER MASTER ESTHER MASTER

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D____ MASTER QUELLE

MASTER QUELLE MASTER

Tutorial Report, Hilary Term 1949 (Clears throat ). Schad is a weak scholar. I’m sorry? Young Schad is a weak scholar. Ah, but how is it that you know? Because I am, alas, his Tutor. He is here to read History. Apparently. Master resumes dictation. Schad is a weak scholar who wanders through the subject without any obvious purpose, or viaticum.172 Master moves to centre table and sits down-right. In following sequence he will slowly become Bedlam once more. Viaticum. Esther now speaks as if a dictionary. Sacrament for dying man. Viaticum. Sustenance for the way. Viaticum. The final way. Esther rises, and stands by Quelle, as if she were an attendant lord. Viaticum is a word I understand.173 Without viaticum—without. (To D____) A fate you understand? D____ says nothing. I said, is that a fate you understand? Being without viaticum. Without sustenance. At the last. D____ says nothing, and begins to wander the stage, head down, as if looking for sustenance. He wanders. Who? Him, the weak one. He wanders. Without viaticum.

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BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM

D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____

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Master rises to feet, removes crown, and begins to walk. He is now Bedlam once more. Think-think. Poor boy. Think-think. Ding-dong. D____ takes Bedlam by the hand, as if blind, and begins, also as if blind, to lead Bedlam. D____ then stops, bends down, and creates a tiny pile of sand, just big enough for Bedlam to stand upon. Bedlam stands there, eyes closed, then jumps and falls. D____ helps him to his feet. Together they now, hand in hand, slowly wander the stage, seeking an exit. Get me out.174 Open the door.175 Someone get me out. The door, open the door. The door—smash it!176 D____ changes direction. Where are you going? I am going to die.177 Where? No reply. Help me. I’ll save you.178 The two continue to wander, though now with increasing desperation. Open the door. Best thing is to get out. Open the door. Get out. The door. Get out. Open the door. Get out. The door. Labyrinth. Labyrinth. Labyrinth. Bedlam and D____ finally come to a halt. Bedlam appears to have given up the ghost, letting go of D____’s hand and simply standing, lost, centre stage. Long pause. D____ now sits at table centre-stage, as if once more “clothed” and in his right mind. He stares at The Post

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D____ BEDLAM QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE

D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE

D____ QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

Card—it is open at relevant page from the thirteenth century. That volume, there, on the table, I didn’t dare touch it.179 Don’t. Don’t read!180 Don’t read what? (Reading ) An erit bonum ire extra domum vel non.181 I’m sorry? An erit bonum— Ah, my Latin, sadly it fails me. Quelle puts crown upon his head. Help me, someone—with my Latin. Quelle looks grandly toward auditorium. Someone. Looks again. Alas, I see no-one. Sees D____. No-one, save you. Do you, perchance, have Latin? School Latin.182 To be precise? Vichy Latin. Pardon? Nazi Latin, the Latin that Vichy made us learn. Excellent. You will then translate for me. Proceed. Nothing. I said proceed, my little friend. D____ now finally translates, but does so with remote, half dead voice. “Is it, or is not, good to go out of the house?” No idea. Best thing is to get out. Pardon? Best thing is to get out. Yes, but what says the book? D____ stares at book then listlessly turns a page or two. Silence. The book, toad, what says the book? D____ turns back a page or two and then forward once more. Silence. The answer, slave, what is it?

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D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ BEDLAM

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER D____ BEDLAM QUELLE D____ BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

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It is missing.183 What is? The page. Gone? Missing. Missing. Silence. Bedlam is now staring hard at Quelle. Get out. Out of where? The House, sir. But which? Christ Church, sir. His college (indicates Bedlam), they call it “The House.” Haunted, I trust. I am unsure, sir. Think. Think-think. Think of what? Of The Anatomy of Melancholy.184 Book. Not another? But its author, he died, sir. Ah, they all do that. In the end? Yes. But this one— Which one? The author, sir. Author of what? The Anatomy of Melancholy Ah, yes. Half -pause. What about him? He died, sir. I know, you said. But he died in College, sir. Which college? Bedlam’s, sir—Christ Church. The House. Whereabouts?

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ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER D____

His room, sir. In his room. Dead. All alone.185 Half -pause. It would be good if I were to die in College tonight II. vi

ROOM Quelle remains seated at table centre-stage, toying with loose pages from The Post Card. Esther is now sitting next to him. Both D____ and Bedlam are separately wandering the stage. BEDLAM D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE BEDLAM D____

ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

He was grand. He came to me with a knife.186 A knife. I once had a knife at my throat.187 When? When I was told to go home, to leave. Ah yes, expelled—I recall now. He came to me. With a knife. A knife. Pause. Esther rises, steals crown from head of Bedlam, then clicks fingers at Quelle. You, sir—here. Esther takes Quelle to one side. They (indicates Bedlam and D____)—they think of child Isaac. Who? The boy. On the mountain. (Looks up). Remember? The Bible. All trussed up and about to be killed.188 Again? No. Wait. Esther holds crownéd head. I suffer a change of mind. Ah, the agony. Half -pause. Where was I? Suffering. Ah yes, they think, both of them, that they are child Isaac. They do?

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ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____ BEDLAM D____

ESTHER

BEDLAM D____

QUELLE

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Naturally. To think one is Isaac is to think what cannot be thought. Death? One’s own—I think. Coffin. Esther holds head again. No. No what? I suffer once more a mind that is changed. You see, to think that one is Isaac is, in fact, to think what it might be, as it were, to— Yes? Die another’s death. Not so loud. Don’t give them ideas. Why ever not? They have enough. Pause. Bedlam begins to walk away, toward auditorium. Quelle and Esther now sit at centre table; between them stands the telephone. They all went away.189 Your solitude— Away. It calls to me— Away. Like a child.190 D____ joins Bedlam at front of stage. Both are stiff -backed, almost as if at attention, and stare into auditorium. Esther picks up receiver and, without dialling, speaks briefly into it. You. Both Bedlam and D____ flinch. Yes, you boy. You see what you should not. Turn, boy. Turn! Turn! I turn.191 D____ does not turn. And you smile. No. No one smiles. None of us. Half -pause.

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D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM

He, though (indicates Bedlam), he used to smile. Like a child? As a child. When a child. Mind you, back then, in Eden, he would even sing. Do you think he’d sing now? I’ll ask him. Quelle now speaks into telephone. You. Sing! Like you used to. Silence. I said, sing! Bedlam, still facing auditorium, now seems to recite some childhood hymn. Oh, how sweet— Ah, he sings! Is the One— Which one? The dear sweet One who— Yes? Turns, at last, to me. “Turns”—he said “He turns.” Who does? His loving Lord and Master. Master. II. vii

ROOM Esther sits at table centre-stage. Quelle sits beside her, to stage-right. Bedlam stands stage-left; he is once more wearing crown, and now is holding telephone. D____ taps Quelle upon the shoulder and speaks, as if in confidence. D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

The knife. We know. The knife. I once had a knife at my— I said, we know. D____ disappears into shadows and Esther rises. What next? What?

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ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE

ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

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What next, now that the knife is at the throat? Someone dies, I presume Ah, but everyone dies. In the end. That we have established, but in this case? The case of Isaac? She stares at D____. Yes, what happens next in the case of Isaac? The biblical one. Silence. Esther, now staring at D____, considers the question at hand. (To Esther) Are you thinking? I think so. And? Think-think. Esther halts. Got it? Esther nods. Fire away. Esther takes deep breath. In the dear and most particular case of Isaac, and only Isaac, not wishing, that is, to speak with regard to any other knives held to any other throats, what happens next is that, if scripture be believed, out of the blue, the wings, the dark, a lost, stray, nay even supernumerary, figure, all of a sudden and in the twinkling of an eye, breaks forth, like a madman, rushing from the crowd, and— D____ comes into view. Yes? D____ whispers in Esther’s ear. Whispers. Whispers what? Forgotten. Think-think. (Finally remembering ) “Don’t!” Don’t what? “Don’t kill!” In short? “Drop the knife!” Drop the knife?

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ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER D____

QUELLE D____ QUELLE

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER

D____ QUELLE

Yes. So, in the end, at the end, Isaac goes free? Indeed. There is no killing? None. None at all? None save the ram.192 The calf.193 No, the ram, the ram that is killed instead. The poor bleeding ram. The ram that is now quite simply— Dead. D____ makes as if to knife his own throat. I am dead— Like the ram? Dead of a death that is no longer mine. Like the ram. D____’s head drops, as if now, at last, he is finally and properly dead. He does not move. Quelle places gallows hood over D____’s head. Pause. (To Quelle) Amendment, your honour. What now? Alive. Sorry? This demon of yours, please advise him that he is not so much dead of a death that is no longer his own but alive? There is a difference? Possibly not. But it is the law—new law, revised law. As revised by Esther. It is, as it were, the counter-order. Counter-fire? If you will. Quelle and Esther both stare at D____. Finally, D____ removes the gallows hood, as if alive. Esther now moves to sit at table centre-stage, whilst Quelle moves to stand beside her, as if he is now an attendant lord. D____ moves stage-left, where stands Bedlam faithfully holding the telephone. Oxford, the burning. Broad Street?

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ESTHER BEDLAM ESTHER

D____

ESTHER

QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____

ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

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I should imagine so. Cross. Martyr.194 Quite. D____ lifts telephone receiver, even as Bedlam continues to hold telephone. D____ begins to speak into receiver, but as if to no one. A drunk is watching me, an imperious beggar in danger of burning.195 D____ puts back receiver. Bedlam shuffles away, with telephone, toward table stage-right. D____ now begins, as before, to mime striking, in vain, match after match. (To Quelle) Approach the bugger (indicates D____), and ask the bugger what on earth he thinks he’s doing, the bugger. The beggar? If you like. Quelle approaches D____. Your Majesty, what is it you are doing? Burning. With what? Fire. Fire, your Majesty? Counter-fire.196 And why is that? What is your purpose? To stop a holocaust. How? With a second. Second what? Second holocaust. One that would not come too late.197 D____ continues to mime striking, in vain, match after match. Quelle returns to Esther, once more her attendant lord. What does he say? He says, they are coming back. Who? The people of ash. Ah. But they’re not—not coming back.

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ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE

BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE BEDLAM QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE ESTHER QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____ QUELLE D____

Why not? We have insufficient fire. Counter-fire. Exactly. But, what if all our books were to burn? All of them. Still not enough. Pause. Esther looks across at D____. What about him? Who? The imperious beggar. What if he were to burn? Go up in flames, huge flames. Still not enough. Not enough what ? Fire. This miserable wretch will only ever yield fire that, to be frank, is merely finite fire. Pause. Bedlam is now standing centre-stage. Quelle gently lifts crown from Bedlam’s head, tenderly dusts it, then thrusts it down hard upon Bedlam’s head, as if a crown of thorns. Bedlam flinches with seeming pain. He then seems, as before, to recite some childhood hymn. Jesus. I beg your pardon? Jesus. What of him? With his dear sweet face— Yes? With his dear, sweet face he shall, at last, smile on me. Ah. He thinks of heaven. Very heaven. Hard hope? Ask him. Who? The beggar. D____ now stands before table centre-stage. I am— Yes? I am fomenting.198 Revolution? Resurrection. I am fomenting a resurrection.

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QUELLE

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ESTHER

D____ ESTHER

QUELLE

D____ QUELLE

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Resurrection? How dare you speak of resurrection. D____ says nothing. I said, how dare you speak of resurrection? Elijah.199 Elijah? What has Elijah to do with resurrection? D____ says nothing Speak. Speak, Jew. Speak. D____ begins to move toward table stage-left, draws from his jacket pocket a sorry scrap of paper, then tears it with elaborate care into two. He keeps one half for himself, and hands the other to Esther. D____ clicks fingers, and Esther begins, as if an automaton, to read. “Now it happened that the boy grew sick even unto death.”200 D____ once more clicks fingers. “And Elijah did cry aloud, saying— “O Lord my God, let this child’s soul come back.” “And the child did revive.” Pause. And Elijah said— D____ stops, and stares at piece of paper. Read, beggar. D____ still stares at paper. What says Elijah? “See.” See what? D____ looks down again at paper. I said, see what? Read it. “The boy lives.” Again. “The boy lives.” Again. “The boy lives.” D____ screws up paper tight within his fist. Arrest him.

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Notes 1. From “The Post Card” by Jacques Derrida, translated by Alan Bass. English Translation (c) 1987 by The University of Chicago. This book was first published in French as La Carte Postale: De Socrate a Freud et au-dela by Jacques Derrida (c) 1980 by Flammarion, Paris. Reproduced by permission. All rights reserved. Hereon, all citations to this text are our own translations; the page number in Alan Bass’s wonderful translation is, though, always provided for reference purposes. 2. These words, as with all Bedlam’s words, were originally those of John Richard Schad, as set down between February 1992 and January 1996, and as in the full transcript included in John Schad, Someone Called Derrida (Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press, 2007), 164, 162, 163. 3. Carte Postale, 156—see Post Card, 143. 4. Carte Postale, 206—see Post Card, 191. 5. Carte Postale, 161—see Post Card, 148. 6. Derrida was born July 15, 1930, and Schad’s father was born February 1, 1930. 7. Derrida died Friday October 8, 2004, and Schad’s father died Friday October 25, 1996. 8. Carte Postale, 181—see Post Card, 167. 9. Someone, 178. 10. Carte Postale, 38—see Post Card, 33. 11. Carte Postale, 13, 32—see Post Card, 9, 27. 12. Ibid., 97—see Post Card, 87. In 1942, Derrida was sent home from his school, near El-Biar, in Algeria, because of new anti-Semitic laws imposed by Vichy France, see Benoît Peeters, Derrida: A Biography, tr. Andrew Brown (Cambridge: Polity, 2013), 18. 13. Someone, 173. 14. Carte Postale, 145—see Post Card, 133. 15. Someone, 171, 169, 175. 16. Carte Postale, 246—see Post Card, 230. 17. Carte Postale, 85—see Post Card, 77. 18. Someone, 168, 169. 19. Carte Postale, 225—see Post Card, 210. 20. Someone, 175. 21. Carte Postale, 25—see Post Card, 21. 22. Carte Postale, 271—see Post Card, 254. This is the number of the first telephone in Derrida’s home when a child growing up in El-Biar, a suburb of Algiers, Algeria. 23. Carte Postale, 29–30—see Post Card, 25. 24. Carte Postale, 40—see Post Card, 35. The context here is that, Derrida, commenting on the letters of Freud and Kafka respectively, cryptically

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25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

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writes “This is […] the centre of Europe, the carte [or map] between Vienna and Prague […] with an extension of the track […] near Athens or Reading, between Oxford and London.” Carte Postale, 75—see Post Card, 68. Carte Postale, 271—see Post Card, 254 and Peeters, 12. Carte Postale, 205—see Post Card, 190 and Peeters, 16. Someone, 162. Someone, 164. Carte Postale, 68—see PC, 61. The book (Ms. Ashmole 304 Bodleian Library, Oxford) is from the thirteenth century, and the work of Matthew Paris. Someone, 160. Someone, 166. Someone, 168. Carte Postale, 47—see Post Card, 41. Carte Postale, 233—see Post Card, 218. Someone, 162, 165. Carte Postale, 20—see Post Card, 15. Derrida here talks of “the labyrinth between the colleges” in Oxford. Carte Postale, 26—see Post Card, 21. Someone, 159. Someone, 161. Carte Postale, 233—see Post Card, 217. It should be noted that the “you” who is predicted to one day enter the Duke Humfrey Room is, by virtue of the verb form, feminine in the French original. Someone, 166. Carte Postale, 239—see Post Card, 223. Carte Postale, 196—see Post Card, 181. Carte Postale, 216—see Post Card, 227. Someone, 180, 174. Carte Postale, 224—see Post Card, 208. See Someone, 9. Carte Postale, 269—see Post Card, 269. Carte Postale, 227—see Post Card, 216. See Peeters, 219—Derrida’s father Aimé, died in 1970. See Peeters, 540. Carte Postale, 188—see Post Card, 174. Someone, 169. Carte Postale, 187–88—see Post Card, 173. Carte Postale, ibid., 210—see Post Card, 226. Someone, 176. Carte Postale, 19—see Post Card, 14–15. Carte Postale, ibid., 260—see Post Card, 243.

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60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

Someone, 175. Carte Postale, 97—see Post Card, 88. Someone, 168. Carte Postale, 117—see Post Card, 106. Carte Postale, 38—see Post Card, 33 Carte Postale, 18—see Post Card, 14. Someone, 175. Someone, 159. Carte Postale, 271—see Post Card, 254. Someone, 174. Someone, 176, 173. Carte Postale, 266—see Post Card, 248. Carte Postale, 239—see Post Card, 223. Carte Postale, ibid., 89—see Post Card, 80. Carte Postale, ibid., 38—see Post Card, 33. Someone, 160. Carte Postale, 28—see Post Card, 25. Carte Postale, ibid., 133—see Post Card, 121. Letter to Mary Reed [later, Mary Schad], April 1951. Schad Family Archive. This was the Commemoration Ball, Christ Church, Oxford, June 17, 1951. Carte Postale, 134—see Post Card, 122. Ms Ashmole 304, fol.43v. The prognostication begins: “That boy will live long in the land.” Quoted here and below by kind permission of the Bodleian Library, and with thanks to Dr Bruce Barker-Benfield for his assistance with transcription. The prognostication ends: “You will have good sleep by the side of your heart’s desire.” Someone, 166. Carte Postale, 25—see Post Card, 20. Carte Postale, 62—see Post Card, 55. Carte Postale, 22—see Post Card, 18. Someone, 159. Carte Postale, 62—see Post Card, 55. Carte Postale, 254—see Post Card, 237. Carte Postale, 244—see Post Card, 227. Carte Postale, 217—see Post Card, 202. Carte Postale, 33—see Post Card, 28. Someone, 171. Carte Postale, 213—see Post Card, 198. Carte Postale, 245—see Post Card, 228. Someone, 182.

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97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111.

112. 113. 114. 115.

116. 117.

118. 119.

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Someone, 159. Someone, 181. Someone, 169, 171. Carte Postale, 126—see Post Card, 115. Someone, 177. Someone, 158. Someone, 158. Carte Postale, 239—see Post Card, 223. The context here is that Derrida himself is asking, “what to do with the proper names?” Carte Postale, 24—see Post Card, 19. Carte Postale, 62—see Post Card, 55. Carte Postale, 89—see Post Card, 80. Someone, 179. See Derrida text on back-cover of both Carte Postale and Post Card. Before being known in Athens as a philosopher, Socrates was known for his exploits as a solder. Major William Martin was a wholly fictional identity famously invented by MI5, and given to a random corpse that, in April 1943, was made to wash-up on the coast of Nazi-friendly Spain. See Ewan Montagu, The Man Who Never Was (New York: Oxford University Press, 1953). Someone, 169. Carte Postale, 38—see Post Card, 33. Carte Postale, 69—see Post Card, 61. Gilbert Ryle was born 1900 and died in 1976, four years before La Carte Postale. For Ryle’s fascinating critique of phenomenology, see Gilbert Ryle, “Martin Heidegger: Sein und Zeit,” Mind, 38 (1929). See Stefan Müller-Doohm, Adorno: A Biography, tr. Rodney Livingstone. Cambridge: Polity, 2005), 180–193. See B. Harrison (ed.), The Twentieth Century (1984) in The History of the University of Oxford, 8 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984–1994), 8.172–174; John Harper Nelson, Oxford at War: An Undergraduate Memoir (Northbridge, Western Australia: Access Press, 1996); A. L. Rowse, The English Spirit: Essays in History and Literature (London: Macmillan, 1946), 261–265; Nigel West, MI5 British Secret Service Operations, 1909–45 (London: Bodley Head, 1981), 140–145. See L. W. B. Brokliss, The University of Oxford: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 520. It was probably on February 2, 1968, at 12 Merton Street, that Derrida read, in French, his essay “Différance” to what was then the Sub-Faculty of Philosophy at Oxford. Master mentions Husserl because Derrida’s best-known book at this moment would have been his first, namely his translation of and introduction to Edmund Husserl’s L’origine de la géométrie (1962).

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120. This opening is largely our own attempt to miniaturise the philosophical force of “Différance”; what follows are citations from the essay, as found in Jacques Derrida, Marges de la Philosophie (Paris: Éditions de Minuit, 1972), 3, 4, 13, 22, 26, 29 (our own translations). We are grateful to Éditions de Minuit for permission to include these lines. 121. For more on this 1968 encounter, see: Someone, 30–35 and Simon Glendinning (ed.), Arguing with Derrida (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 52–53. 122. Carte Postale, 19, 42—see Post Card, 14, 36. 123. See Plato’s dialogue Phaedo, which is set in Socrates’s final days and hours. 124. Carte Postale, 261—see Post Card, 244. 125. Carte Postale, 13 / Post Card, 9. 126. See J. C. Masterman, The Double-Cross System in the War of 1939 to 1945 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1972), 143. Ryle does first use “Fido” as a philosophical exemplum before the War, but he continues to do so, and with greater emphasis, afterwards. 127. Masterman (1891–1977) was an Oxford historian. The MI5 committee he chaired was known as the “Twenty Committee,” the Roman numeral for twenty (XX) being a double cross. 128. Carte Postale, 181—see Post Card, 167. 129. J. L. Austin (1911–1960) was an Oxford philosopher, famous for identifying what he called speech-acts, namely utterances that don’t simply describe the world but act upon or in the world, as in, for example, “I promise.” 130. Carte Postale, 127—see Post Card, 115. For more details of Derrida’s interest in cars, both philosophical and otherwise, see: Someone, 125– 138. 131. Jacques Derrida, “Typewriter Ribbon Limited Ink (2),” tr. Peggy Kamuf, in Andrzej Warminski (ed.), Material Events: Paul de Man and the Afterlife of Theory (Minnesota University Press, 2001), 328. We are grateful to Minnesota University Press for permission to quote here and once again below. 132. The word “appeasement,” or at least apaisement, appears four times in ‘Envois,’ Carte Postale, 18, 120, 216, 264—see Post Card, 14, 110, 201, 247. 133. See A. J.P. Taylor, A Personal History (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1983), 136–139; and A. L. Rowse, All Souls and Appeasement (London: St Martin’s Press, 1961). 134. Carte Postale, 203—see Post Card, 188. 135. Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno (1903–1969) was a German-Jewish philosopher, whose doctoral dissertation was on Husserl. He fled Germany for Oxford in 1934, where he studied under Ryle, before

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136. 137. 138. 139.

140. 141. 142. 143.

144. 145.

146. 147. 148. 149.

150. 151.

152.

153.

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moving to USA in 1938. Ryle, very unusually for an Oxford philosopher in the 1930s, had read quite a bit of Husserl, an interest he later disowned, see Someone, 39–49. See Lorenz Jäger, Adorno. A Political Biography, tr. S. Spencer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 88. Adorno moved on to the USA in 1938. Carte Postale, 173—see Post Card, 159. See Ralph Glasser, Gorbals Boy at Oxford (London: Pan Books, 1988), 57–60; David Walter, The Oxford Union: Playground of Power (London: Macdonald, 1984), 90–94; Irene Roth, Cecil Roth: Historian Without Tears (New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1982), 141–147. Carte Postale, 14—see Post Card, 10. Derrida, “Typewriter Ribbon,” 328. “Elijah,” or Elie in French, was the name given to Derrida at his circumcision, see Peeters, 10. Carte Postale, 16—see Post Card, 11–12. As usual when in Oxford, Derrida was staying in Balliol, courtesy of Alan Montefiore, a philosopher there. Carte Postale, 187–188—see Post Card, 173. Derrida is, in a sense, a child of Charlie Chaplin, the silent-movie comedy tramp, as Derrida’s birth certificate names him not as “Jacques” but “Jackie,” after Jackie Coogan, the child-actor who plays the part of an abandoned boy in the Chaplin movie The Kid (1921)—see Peeters, 13. Carte Postale, 19—see Post Card, 14. The nearest telephone booth to Balliol then, as now, is, like the College itself, on Broad Street. All three were burnt on this same spot, between October 1555 and February 1556. On April 17, 1222, at Osney Abbey, Mill Street, Oxford, one Robert of Reading, also known as “Haggai of Oxford,” was burnt alive for heresy, having converted to Judaism; in June 1931, a plaque was put up at the site of his death. It can still be seen. See the small, cobblestone “Martyrs’ Cross” in the middle of Broad Street, just around 120 yards from the telephone booth. This claim was made by the historian Cecil Roth, Minutes of the Oxford University Jewish Society, January 26, 1946 (Ms. Top. Oxon d. 488/1, Bodleian Library, University of Oxford), cited here and below by kind permission of Jonathan Sheinman, President of the Oxford University Jewish Society, Spring 2020. Esther persuades Xerxes to reverse the extermination order; as Derrida puts it, “ she substitutes for it another one [, … a] counter-order,” Carte Postale, 80—see Post Card, 72. Someone, 176.

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154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170.

171. 172.

173. 174. 175. 176. 177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182.

183. 184. 185. 186.

Someone, 180. Carte Postale, 33—see Post Card, 28. Carte Postale, 14—see Post Card, 9. Carte Postale, 99—see Post Card, 89. Carte Postale, 8—see Post Card, 4. Carte Postale, 135—see Post Card, 123. Carte Postale, 79—see Post Card, 73. Someone, 166. Carte Postale, 79—see Post Card, 71. Someone, 164. Carte Postale, 79—see Post Card, 71. Carte Postale, 83—see Post Card, 75. Carte Postale, 139—see Post Card, 127. Carte Postale, 80—see Post Card, 72. Minutes of the Oxford University Jewish Society, October 18, 1946. Minutes of OUJS, October 19, 1946. These words are from a longer text which was indeed read at the Jewish Society; the text is an apocryphal version of the Book of Esther and was “unearthed” for the occasion “from the Bodleian […] and translated by G. Wigoder of Oriel College,” Minutes of OUJS, October 19, 1946. Letter to John Schad, May 28, 1999. Schad Family Archive. Richard Schad’s Termly Tutorial Report, July 1949, Christ Church, Oxford. Quoted by kind permission of the Governing Body of Christ Church Oxford. Carte Postale, 269—see Post Card, 252. Someone, 159. Carte Postale, 185—see Post Card, 171. Someone, 159. Carte Postale, 178—see Post Card, 164. Someone, 162. Carte Postale, 224—see Post Card, 208. Someone, 160. Carte Postale, 232—see Post Card, 217. These are our own words. Derrida’s knowledge of Latin came from having to learn it at school when, in 1940, the Nazi-friendly Vichy government of occupied France made it compulsory—see Geoffrey Bennington and Jacques Derrida, Jacques Derrida, tr. Geoffrey Bennington (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 211. Carte Postale, 233—see Post Card, 217. Carte Postale, 262—see Post Card, 245. Robert Burton, the author of The Anatomy of Melancholy, was found dead in his College rooms, on 25 January 1640. Someone, 165–166.

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187. These words are our own. In his 1993 text ‘Circumfession,’ Derrida very clearly identifies with Isaac in relation to being forced out of school—see Bennington and Derrida, 300. 188. In the Bible, God instructs Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac upon Mount Moriah, see Genesis chapter 22. 189. Someone, 169. 190. Carte Postale, 147—see Post Card, 134. 191. Carte Postale, 180—see Post Card, 166. 192. In the end, Abraham is told, by an angel, not to kill Isaac but instead to sacrifice a ram. 193. Someone, 165. 194. Someone, 174. 195. Carte Postale, 16, 21—see Post Card, 12, 16. 196. Carte Postale, 238—see Post Card, 222. 197. Carte Postale, 29—see Post Card, 24. 198. Carte Postale, 247—see Post Card, 230. 199. The enigmatic words “I am fomenting a resurrection” are immediately followed with the question “Had you finally encountered Elijah?” Later in life, in “Circumfession,” Derrida makes absolutely explicit the connection between Elijah and resurrection—see Bennington and Derrida, 303. 200. 1 Kings 17, 17–24.

Texts cited Derrida, Jacques. 1972. Marges de la Philosophie. Paris: Éditions de Minuit. ———. 1980. La Carte Postale: De Socrate à Freud et au-delà. Paris: Flammarion. ———. 2001. “ Typewriter Ribbon Limited Ink (2).” Translated by Peggy Kamuf, in Andrzej Warminski (ed.), Material Events: Paul de Man and the Afterlife of Theory. Minnesota University Press. Minutes of the Oxford University Jewish Society. 1946. Ms. Top. Oxon d. 488/1, Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Paris, Matthew. c.1249–1253. Prognostica Socratis basilei. Ms Ashmole 304, Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Schad, John. 2007. Someone Called Derrida. Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press.

Texts Consulted Bennington, Geoffrey and Jacques Derrida. 1993. Jacques Derrida. Translated by Geoffrey Bennington. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Brokliss, L. W. B. 2016. The University of Oxford: A History. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Derrida, Jacques. 1987. The Post Card. Translated by Alan Bass. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ——— and Maurizio Ferraris. 2001. A Taste for the Secret. Translated by Giacomo Donis. Cambridge: Polity Press. Glasser, Ralph. 1988. Gorbals Boy at Oxford. London: Pan Books. Harrison, Brian, ed. 1984. The Twentieth Century in The History of the University of Oxford, 8 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jäger, Lorenz. 2004. Adorno: A Political Biography. Translated by S. Spencer. New Haven: Yale University Press. Masterman, J. C. 1972. The Double-Cross System in the War of 1939 to 1945. New Haven: Yale University Press. Müller-Doohm, Stefan. 2005. Adorno: A Biography. Translated by Rodney Livingstone. Cambridge: Polity. Nelson, John-Harper. 1996. Oxford at War: An Undergraduate Memoir. Northbridge, WA: Access Press. Peeters, Benoît. 2013. Derrida: A Biography. Translated by Andrew Brown. Cambridge: Polity. Roth, Irene. 1982. Cecil Roth: Historian Without Tears. New York: SepherHermon Press. Rowse, A. L. 1946. The English Spirit: Essays in History and Literature. London: Macmillan. ———. 1961. All Souls and Appeasement. London: St Martin’s Press. Ryle, Gilbert. 1929. “Martin Heidegger: Sein und Zeit.” Mind, 38: 355–370. Taylor, A. J. P. 1983. A Personal History. London: Hamish Hamilton. Walter, David. 1984. The Oxford Union: Playground of Power. London: Macdonald. West, Nigel. 1981. MI5 British Secret Service Operations, 1909–45. London: Bodley Head.

CHAPTER 3

Benjamin A play

by John Schad

I am very grateful to Bloomsbury Academic for permission to base “Benjamin” on my book The Late Walter Benjamin (Bloomsbury Academic, 2012). © The Author(s) 2021 J. Schad and F. Dalmasso, Derrida | Benjamin, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8_3

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Paul Klee, Angelus Novus (1920) (Photo © The Israel Museum, Jerusalem by Elie Posner)

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There is a painting by Klee named “Angelus Novus.” An angel is depicted, who looks as though he is about to move away from something at which he stares. He is wide-eyed, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is what the angel of history must look like. His countenance is turned towards the past. Where we see a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which heaps rubble upon rubble, and hurls it before his feet. He would like to stay, awaken the dead and put together what is shattered. But a storm blows forth from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings, and is so strong, that the angel can no longer close them. The storm incessantly drives him into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble piles up before him, heaped skyward. This storm is what we call progress. (Walter Benjamin, 1940)1

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Benjamin was first formally performed (as “The Late Walter Benjamin” ) at Suleiman Theatre, Queens College, University of Oxford September 25, 2017 with the generous support of The International Walter Benjamin Society Conference & Fred Dalmasso as O. E. Tal Catherine Deevey as Irene Simon King as Earnest Porlock and Victor Painter Ant Lighfoot as Rent-Man and Victor Painter * Director: Fred Dalmasso

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Important Textual Notes

All of the lines spoken by O. E. Tal are citations from various texts by Walter Benjamin; there is, though, one moment where a few words are added to a radio talk of his. All citations and references are fully documented in the endnotes. All details regarding the play’s setting are based on documentary sources.

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Benjamin Act One -Entrance-

Act Two -Exit-

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Stage setting Stage-left is a wooden ironing board strewn with newspaper cuttings. Centre stage is a small rickety table, at which there are four upright chairs. On the table are a pair of polished but fragile shoes. To the left of the table is an old armchair. Stage-right is a large wooden step-ladder. The only other actual props are an old telephone, several hotel reception bells dispersed across the stage and O. E. Tal’s brief-case; the latter contains hundreds of ancient bus tickets. All the other props cited in stage directions are invisible. Running-time: 90 minutes

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Dramatis Personae: O. E. Tal Irene* Victor Painter Earnest Porlock Rent-Man *pronounced ‘I-re-nee’

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Prologue Enter Irene, Painter, and Porlock. IRENE PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK TAL PAINTER TAL IRENE TAL PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE TAL PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE

This evening, our play— So-called Is set in a very particular place A kind of settlement, called Oxhey South Oxhey A council estate near Watford Just north of London And built soon after the Second World War To house thousands of bombed-out Londoners. The action— Such as there is Takes place in these early, post-war years of the Estate. We, the characters— So-called Are shadows, of a kind. The play, though, is shot through with citations From newspapers, local, and other such sources. And will open with the entrance of— Enter Tal. Mr O. E. Tal. A man who will claim he is a man— From Berlin. In fact, he will claim he is a dead man— From Berlin. A very particular dead man, namely— Walter Benjamin. The German-Jewish intellectual. Half-pause. Walter Benjamin had, in fact, died in 1940. Suicide, they say. In the Pyrenees At the French-Spanish border His attempt to escape Nazi-occupied France appearing to have failed. He was, at that final hour, hoping to flee to—

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TAL PORLOCK TAL PAINTER TAL IRENE TAL PORLOCK PAINTER IRENE PORLOCK TAL PAINTER

IRENE PORLOCK TAL

America. Half-pause. Just a year before, however, Benjamin had considered fleeing to— England Along with his estranged wife— Dora And their only child— Stefan. By 1939, Dora and Stefan had both made it to London. Half-pause. What follows, then, is an imagining of what might have happened had Benjamin also made it to London And then been bombed out to Oxhey And there adopted the persona of— O. E. Tal A pseudonym that Benjamin had formerly used in 1930s Germany. Half-pause. Finally— Please note that whenever Mr Tal speaks he employs the words of— Walter Benjamin. Exit Tal and Porlock.

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Act One—Entrance I. i Painter appears to be asleep. He is large and of middle age, once a worker, now a tubercular. Tie and collar show beneath old trench-coat, in pocket of which is a cap. He sits at table with back to audience, as he does throughout Act One. He is, at this point, played by the actor who will play Rent-Man. Later, the part of Painter will be taken by the actor playing Porlock. In both cases, the character of Painter is signalled by the wearing of the trench-coat, and a tendency to cough. Irene, who is half the age of Painter, stands at ironing board, labouring obscurely; she seems to be ironing newspaper cuttings. She is dressed as if she were about to leave, for a party. Enter Tal stage-right, the spitting image of Walter Benjamin. He is standing at an open door, he clutches a brief-case; it appears to be absurdly heavy. TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL

IRENE

TAL

It is a complicated affair.2 What is? Entering a room. Says who? Present-day physicists. Ah, them ones. I must, you see, make sure of landing on a plank. Tal looks down. A plank that is travelling at thirty-kilometres-a-second. Tal looks down again. Thirty-kilometres-a-second around the sun. Tal lifts foot. Also, the plank has no fixed substance. Tal looks up. To step on it, shall I not slip through? Doubt it. Tal drops his brief-case, out of which spill hundreds of bus tickets. Ah, Mr Clumsy.3 Tal begins clumsily to gather up his things. Mr Clumsy, the hunchback. Irene does nothing to help. Tal looks at her.

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IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL

IRENE TAL

IRENE

TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL

My library—I’m un-packing my library.4 Tal picks up one bus ticket. He appears now to read from it. Every second— Second what? Every second of time—5 Ah. Is the strait gate through which— Yes? The Messiah might enter. Tal gathers up more bus tickets. Who is it? My library. I said, who is it? Who is it, this time? O. E. TAL. T-A-L, Tal.6 Tal makes to shake Irene’s hand. She ignores the gesture. Tal pauses to read another bus ticket. The riddle of the world— I know, they told me. Is to be discovered where we least expect it.7 Pause. Irene glances toward one of her newspaper cuttings, then speaks with half-dead, half-citational voice (as indicated here and throughout by speech marks). “June 29th , 1951. Whatever happened to the Promised Land? Fourteen thousand bombed-out London workers have been uprooted to the country, and plunged into a wilderness. Sadly, the Estate is not the Utopia of which many had dreamt.”8 Tal finally notices Painter. That’s Mr Painter. That’s his chair. A poor man’s seat.9 It’s where he sits. Dreaming— He always sits there. Dreaming has a part in history.10 He likes it there. If, though, we succumbed less to sleep— It’s where he sits. There is no foreseeing what might happen.11

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Tal moves toward Painter The angel— Yes? The angel would like to awaken the dead.12 Tal kicks Painter hard upon the shin. Jesus! Painter turns to Irene. Who was that? Tal wanders the stage. Who was what ? Someone kicked me. Really? Some bastard. Pause. Irene turns to the itinerant Tal. Come far have you? Paris. Bus? A day’s march.13 Not that there is one. I collapsed on the14 — Stop! Tal stops. His feet. What? Are they killing him? Who? His feet, are they killing him? Don’t know. Ask him. Are they killing you? Your feet. My physical powers are worth nothing. Says who? The doctors. Bleeding doctors. Pause. Irene again glances toward one of her newspaper cuttings. “Dear Sir, I object to your newspaper’s portrayal of the Estate. Your words suggest the squalor of a Displaced Persons’ Camp.”15

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TAL IRENE TAL PAINTER IRENE PAINTER TAL PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE

PAINTER TAL

Painter coughs. I was born— Out here? Tal shakes head. Under the planet of slow rotation.16 (To Irene) What’s he say? He says he was born under a planet. What planet? The planet of slow rotation. What’s he say? The planet of slow revolution. Slow revolution? Yes—very slow Where’s that then? No idea. Ask him Irene turns to Tal So, where’s this planet of yours, you know, the planet of slow revolution. (Intervening ) Moscow? Tal shakes head. Watford? Tal again shakes head. Where, then? Berlin. Which one? Demonic Berlin.17 What? Reasonable Berlin.18 Funny place. It’s deserted. Mind you, never been there, Berlin. Mr Painter has, sort of. Deserted.19 Yes, well it would be. Burnt to a cinder, I shouldn’t wonder. Pause His name, whatshisname, what is it? Tal. O. E. Tal.

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Doubt it. It’s an anagram.20 What is? His name is. So-called name. It’s an anagram. What of? Lateo. What? It’s Latin. What’s it mean? “I conceal myself.” What? “I conceal myself.” Why’s that then? Tal says nothing. I said, why’s that then? Tal again says nothing. Excuse me, Mr Tal, but Mr Painter here wonders why your name, your false-name, I take it, is (forgive his language) a bleeding anagram? Indeed, he asks to know, in particular, why on earth choose as your cover, your alias, a word that means, in fact, for all intents and purposes, “I’m fibbing.” Don’t that give the game away? Mr Painter should like to know. Tal says nothing. Irene shrugs, and glances toward newspaper cutting. “Dear Sir, I curse the day we moved here. The kids’ language is worse than the East End, and we only get any peace when it is pouring with rain. Yours sincerely, Mrs H. H.”21 Full name? “Withheld.” Tal approaches Irene. It would be good22 — Would it? It would be good if people did not know— Your real name? Tal seems to nod. Oh, that one’s safe with me. What is?

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IRENE PAINTER IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE PAINTER IRENE

His name. His real name. But what is it? Search me. Tal hands Irene a bus ticket, and introduces himself. Walter Benjamin, Dr Walter Benjamin. Jewish? I am unclear.23 Thought so. Irene turns toward Painter. Mr Painter— Yes? Your assailant is a Jew. Who is? Your aggressor, he’s Jewish. Tell him— Tell him what? Tell him he’s welcome to the Promised Land. (To Tal ) Mr Painter says you’re welcome to the Wilderness. Pause. I. ii

Painter is still, Tal wanders, and Irene continues to labour and, now and again, to cite, or recite, newspaper cuttings. IRENE

PAINTER TAL IRENE PAINTER TAL PAINTER TAL PAINTER

“Dear Sir, When we first arrived here we were like strangers, strangers in a strange land.”24 Painter coughs, then addresses Tal. The room. This one. Here. What do you make of it? The room. Reading room.25 Sitting room. It’s where he sits. See. It’s yours. If you want it. Tal begins to looks about the room. Knick-knacks, knick-knacks everywhere26 — Do you want it? The room. Bric-à-brac— I mean there is this tall bugger. Tall.

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Knick-knacks. Very tall he is. Too tall? Yes, too tall. He’s too tall now. For the mattress. Where? Tal stumbles on invisible mattress. There. Tal looks down. The world’s worst mattress.27 Yes. That one. You can have it. Just for you, mind. Tal returns to step-ladder. (To Irene) Grab the bugger’s things. Which bugger? The tall one. Grab his things. His shoes? And when you find the bugger, you can tell the bugger he can— Make room. What? Make room. For who? The destructive character.28 Who? The destructive character. What about him? He needs space, empty space. Why? Someone is sure to need it. Someone. Irene collects shoes from table and hurls them out of a window, stage-right. As she returns toward ironing board she recalls another cutting. “Dear Sir, This winter has been awful. We are so short of fuel that I have been pushing a pram by the railway just looking for coal. Sometimes we burn chairs, or shoes.”29 Painter coughs. In Eden— Where? Tal gestures out of the window. In Eden, the question remains.30

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IRENE TAL IRENE

PAINTER IRENE

PORLOCK TAL PAINTER TAL

PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK PAINTER TAL

PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK IRENE

TAL

What question? Is this paradise, or hell? I’ll have a look. Glances out the window. It’s unclear. Noises off, blasphemies etc. Irene turns to Painter. It’s him. Who is? The tall one. The tall bugger. With the shoes. Enter Porlock through open door. He wears an exhausted brown suit, shirt and tie, and is clutching two shoes . Heads straight for Tal. Bonjour. I hear you’re from Berlin? In Moscow— Moscow? In Moscow, I stayed in a hotel.31 Tal pulls out reception bell from suit-case and places on step-ladder. Hotel, eh? Porlock strikes reception bell. Ding! It was a hotel where most of the doors were left ajar. For whom? Lenin. Tal dismisses this absurd idea. There were monks there, Buddhist monks—they had sworn never to close a door. Porlock turns to Irene. He talks. Who? Him. All the time. Pause. Porlock puts on shoes . Irene recites again. “Dear Sir, Many among us, including loved ones (glances toward Painter) have already left. They have simply given up, had enough, and gone back to London.”32 Tal counts bus tickets. About 600.33

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Loved ones? Quotations. Pardon? Quotations. About 600 quotations in perfect order. And would that be one of them? Tal nods. Expect from me no word that is my own.34 Quite a trick that. Trick of the trade.35 And what trade would that be? Hope— He’s at it again. There is an infinity of hope— Marvellous. Just not for us.36 Porlock turns to Irene. Busy chap. Nothing. I said he’s a busy chap. Nothing. What with his words. Words? You know. The ones that aren’t his. Tal approaches ironing board Quotation— Tal takes newspaper cutting from ironing board. Quotation wrenches a word from its context.37 Tal carefully tears cutting into minute pieces. And thus calls it back to its origin. Tal casts fragments into the air. Moves to step-ladder. Pause. It’s time you went. Me? Time you went back. Like the others. Ah, alas, my work hereabouts is not, I fear, as yet complete. Porlock settles into arm-chair, begins to smoke. But what is it you do? Your line, what is it?

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PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK TAL IRENE PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK TAL PAINTER TAL PAINTER TAL PORLOCK

Surveys, medical surveys. Of the People. Porlock inhales from cigarette. The touring medical expert— Who? You, you arse. Ah, yes. The touring medical expert is one who conquers.38 Conquers what? Death. Or was it the other one? Life? One of the two. Painter coughs. Here, illness is a social emblem.39 Quite—we’ve got everything here. A for— Anemia. B for— Back-ache. C for— Catarrh. D for— On occasion, a patient is mistakenly shot.40 Porlock appears surprised, but resumes. D for— Diarrhoea. E for— Eyestrain. F for— Melancholia.41 Wrong! Flatulence? Correct. The People possess, you see, the grace to fall ill in alphabetical order.42 All the way to I, I for— Impotence. What? (Louder) Impotence.43 What? (Still louder) Impotence, the night of impotence! No—Irascibility. Not to be confused with Irritability, or rather Undue Irritability. That’s U.

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And W? Women, the complaints thereof. Complaints? Bleeding— Unusual bleeding. We perish by bleeding.44 Pause. I have a complaint. Excellent. Have a form. A questionnaire. Porlock mechanically hands Irene a form, which she passes mechanically to Painter who screws it up and throws it away. This ritual is repeated several times, getting faster and faster before suddenly coming to a halt. Around midnight— Still quoting? Tal nods. Around midnight, a questionnaire on the death penalty is distributed to the cells.45 Tal picks up discarded form. It requires you to indicate what kind of execution you, personally, would prefer. Tal screws up form, and throws it away. Irene retrieves it, along with other screwed-up questionnaires , and returns to ironing board, where she begins to iron them flat. Tal clears throat, preparing to pronounce once more. Suffering— I know. Suffering is the key.46 Key? To human beings. Who? Irene turns to Painter. Suffering, Mr Painter. He says it is the bloody key. Key to what? The Messianic— What? The Messianic passes through suffering.47 Pause. Porlock reclines still further in arm-chair.

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PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK TAL PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK

IRENE TAL

IRENE

TAL IRENE TAL IRENE

TAL PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK

By the way, who is he? Who? The tramp. Charlie Chaplin.48 He’s not a tramp. Jehovah’s Witness? No, he’s staying. Staying here. But that’s what I do. Not now. Where, then, is poor Ismael to lay his heavy head? Irene abandons ironing board, confers with Painter, then turns to Porlock. Mr Painter says you can have the other room. It’s crap. Tal looks up. Through whatever window we look it grows gloomy.49 Pause. Irene stares at ironing board. “Dear Sir, I have often been asked ‘Am I happy? Am I happy out here?’ Well, I think it is what people make of it. They can either make it a heaven. Or something else.”50 Pause. Tal strikes a reception bell. He has air of a quiz master, and bus tickets now become quiz questions . Thirty Brainteasers!51 Quiz? Two points per right answer. Questionnaire, then. Irene strikes reception bell. Question One. Tal clears throat. The holy question.52 Continue. The holy question. I said, continue. The holy question. But what is the holy question? The Socratic question— Ah!

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Is not the holy question. Irene again strikes reception bell. Question Two. How far— Bloody miles. How far does Redemption come “too early” or “too late”?53 Too early? Tal shakes head. Too late? Tal shakes head. Both? Tal nods. Irene strikes reception bell. Question Three. The Last. What are the requirements for revolution?54 No idea. Ask Vic. Irene turns to Painter. Mr Painter, the requirements for revolution, what are they? Painter says nothing. Irene turns back to Tal. Mr Painter says the requirements, or conditions, for revolution are— Unlimited confidence in the peaceful perfecting of the Air Force. Irony? Joke. Ah, but is it funny? I mean, is it really a laughing matter—the peaceful perfecting of the Air Force. I fear that Victor thinks it’s not, but then he hasn’t laughed for some while. Not out here. Out here in— Little Moscow. I’m sorry? Little Moscow. They call us Little Moscow.55 They? The bastards. Which bastards?

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IRENE TAL PORLOCK PAINTER TAL IRENE TAL IRENE PORLOCK TAL

IRENE

PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK PAINTER TAL PORLOCK PAINTER PORLOCK IRENE TAL PAINTER TAL PORLOCK TAL PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK

The ones that watch us. Spies! Where? Here. Spies! They open our letters. Spies everywhere!56 And they listen. Listen to us. On our phones, our telephones. If we but had any. These Londoners have no telephones.57 Pause. Tal moves to table, and Irene to step-ladder. Once more she (re)cites. “A small workers’ canteen was the birthplace of the Estate Association. In darkness relieved only by the light of two hurricane lamps, the pioneer movement was born — and several demands were made.”58 Requests? Demands. So, what you want now, Vic? Asphalt. What? Asphalt—roads, pavements. Asphalt. But Vic, out here we have mud. I want some bloody asphalt. Not to mention the trees, the lovely trees. Mr Painter does not hold with trees. Irene begins to climb step-ladder. The trees— Bloody trees. They makes us tremble with questions.59 Such as? Why. Why what ? Why asphalt? Indeed. Ask him.

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Mr Painter, I have a question for you: Why asphalt? Why, that is, your passion for asphalt? I accept that all this mud underfoot is something of a curse, but why asphalt in particular? Please tell. What exactly do you wish to do upon the asphalt? (Intervening ) Botanize. Sorry? I botanize upon the asphalt.60 Tal empties contents of brief-case (yet more bus tickets) onto the earth. A man dumps onto the asphalt what he loves about books. He does so in the hope that someone might wish, even at this late hour, to read them.61 No one responds. Long pause. (To Irene) Where do you go? Where do I go? You want to know? Yes. Everything? I said, where do you go? When you’re not here. The asphalt. The asphalt? Yes. But who are you with? When you are not with me. Who? Romeo. Romeo? Yes, you know, Romeo. His last sigh, Romeo’s, it flitted through the yard.62 Pause. Irene descends from step-ladder. Tal greets her. The landscape, it sends us the beloved.63 Irene returns to ironing board. Tal turns to Porlock. She flirts with me.64 Who does? The whore, the whore named “Once upon a time.”65 Irene lights cigarette. So, who is he? (Indicates Tal ) I mean, really? Who? Puppeteer.66 What?

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PORLOCK PAINTER TAL PAINTER PORLOCK IRENE

PORLOCK TAL

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He who pulls the strings. Strings? Of history. No! No what? No puppets. Mr Painter sees no puppets hereabouts. Not here. Pause. Herr Tal, I hate to be churlish, but I fear we really must ask exactly who you are. An angel. Angel of history.67 Tal lifts Painter’s near-lifeless arms, now out-spread, as if angel wings. Blown by a storm. Storm? What storm? From Paradise. No, Hackney—Vic’s from Hackney. Storm. Tal lets go of Painter’s out-stretched arms. They drop to his sides. This storm, it is what we call Progress. Marvellous. A scheme to clear the city of its workers.68 Again? Tal nods. Exile.69 Exile. Ours is the school of— Dispersal. No, exodus, Vic, a glorious exodus— Dispersal. An end to bondage, a beginning once more and again— Dispersal. All new, all clean, and none save us to rule. But, there’s a storm. He says there’s a storm. Of forgiveness.70 Pardon? Storm of forgiveness. Forgiveness. Albeit not for us. Least not for Victor. Porlock rises to feet. Turns to Painter. Victor, the War, remember? In the heavens? The sky?

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Porlock, like Tal before him, lifts Painter’s arms—this time, as if wings of aeroplane. Berlin, Victor? Painter says nothing. Hamburg, Victor? Painter says nothing. Dresden, Victor? Bomb. Catastrophe.71 Bomb. The rubble. Bomb. The rubble. Bomb. Heaped skyward. Bomb. Porlock drops Painter’s arms. At the end of the War, men returned silent.72 Silence. Painter finally coughs. Ah, he coughs! Tal nods. Such— Yes? Such is the way, after a world war has been lost.73 Ah, but Vic’s not lost a world war in his life. Though other losses there may be. Pause. Painter stands, removes coat, places it carefully over back of chair. He exits, no longer as Painter. LIGHTS DOWN. I. iii

LIGHTS UP. Irene still labours at ironing-board. Tal is wandering, briefcase in hand. Porlock remains in arm-chair. PORLOCK

It says here— Porlock points indifferently at piece of paper.

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It says, here, that: Herr Dr Walter Benjamin died. Today.74 No response. It says here that Dr Walter Benjamin died. Today. When? Walter Benjamin died. Died today. Says so here. What does? This does. Porlock waves piece of paper. This here hotel-bill. Porlock strikes reception bell, waves paper again. It emerged, in the night, from the sleeping frame of Herr Tal. Half-pause. If only you knew— Knew what? How bad is the world’s worst mattress.75 Tal, as before, stumbles on invisible mattress . Difficult night? The worst. Talking of which, dear Herr Tal, or rather Herr Benjamin, as perhaps better known, I hate to cause alarm but it appears that you are dead. To be precise, and about death one must try to be precise, it seems you died in er— Porlock looks down again at piece of paper. Ah yes, in a hotel. Porlock strikes reception bell again. Hotel? In the Pyrenees. It’s where he died. Every morning brings us news. News from all over the globe.76 Quite. We are not forgotten. Not altogether. Porlock clears throat and returns to hotel-bill. Hotel de Francia.77 Tal strikes reception bell. Port-Bou. Tal strikes reception bell.

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October 1st, 1940. Porlock clears throat. Invoice: Dr Walter Benjamin. Outstanding Items. Again clears throat. Item, the first— Room and evening meal. Item the second— Cleaning of mattress. Item the third— Clothing of corpse. Item the last— Four telephone calls. Porlock appears to think, then turns to Irene. Is it not a comfort to consider that he (indicates Tal ) could, at the last, make a few calls? Tal stares at telephone, fingering its rotary dial. The telephone, every hour, every hour, it was— Broken? No, my brother—the telephone, it was my brother, twin brother.78 (To Porlock) He has a brother? It is but a metaphor. Or telephone is. Is what? A metaphor. Though not the four calls. Porlock waves hotel-bill. Not the four, here-itemised calls that he made at the last. In his final hours, minutes, and seconds. Every second. There in the lobby. Tal strikes reception bell. Where anyone might hear. Tal rings reception bell. Anyone who cared. Tal rings reception bell repeatedly. But to whom, to whom the hell did he speak? Tal lifts telephone receiver.

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Bayswater.79 Tal dials. Bayswater 3738. Tal holds receiver to his ear as if waiting for someone to answer. These Londoners— (As if on the phone) Hello? These Londoners— Hello? Hello? These Londoners have no telephones.80 Sorry. Can’t hear you. We have no telephones. Tal lets fall the receiver. These Londoners, their police have tanks. Quite—no telephones, but plenty of tanks. Better for killing? Just. Irene lights cigarette. Long pause. We, we who have died81 — Yes? We who have died— Do continue. Tal does not. Instead, he assumes air of an upright corpse. In response, Porlock assumes air of an undertaker addressing Tal-the-corpse. Á propos, sir, being dead, does it not come as something of a surprise? When taken unawares by news of a death, there is the accusation: “Did I simply not know of this?”82 And did sir simply not know? Did sir simply not know of his own annihilation? Porlock begins measuring Tal, as if for coffin. Murder is suspected.83 Oh, we all say that, sir. Who? We who have died. Tal looks about, accusingly. There were no witnesses, no eye-witnesses.84

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But was it not suicide, sir? I took my life.85 Exactly, sir. It was in a dream that I took my life. Best way, sir. Porlock checks final measurements, and crosses himself. Even the dead are not safe.86 Not safe from whom, sir? The enemy. Irene pauses, glances down at ironing board, then looks up, and begins once again to (re)cite. “Although most believe that Walter Benjamin committed suicide, there are some who suspect he may have been murdered. The full circumstances of his death are certainly not clear, Port Bou was full of wartime tension, and the hotelier was known to be close to the Gestapo.”87 Noises off. Rent-Man is at the door. He wears muddied wellington boots and gabardine raincoat, under which can be seen shirt and council tie. He wears National Health spectacles and has comedic aspirations. Knockity-knock! Tal vanishes beneath table. What do I hear?88 Can’t hear you. Knockity-knock! What do I hear? I said, I can’t hear you. Rent-Man shouts through letter-box. I know you’re there, Victor. You always are. The house, it is surrounded.89 Again? Surrounded by unparalleled night. Knockity-knock, Victor. By policemen, waiting cars— Knockity-knock. And poets.90 No, just rent-men.

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Poets with bitter smiles. Irene mechanically moves to door, opens it, then immediately turns her back on both door and Rent-Man, and returns to ironing board. Rent-Man walks straight in, addressing Painter, as represented by coat upon chair. Here’s a thing, Victor. Silence. You know the milkman— The thinker, the dreamer, the drunk.91 The milkman. Express? No. Brazier’s? No. Co-Op? Yes, him. What about him? He’s only got one arm.92 Rent-Man raises left arm of Painter’s coat ninety degrees. Right. No, left. Rent-Man drops arm of Painter’s coat. Ah, the left— Tal emerges from under table. It is with the left hand that all decisive blows will be dealt.93 And here’s another thing. That boy— Child. Round Hallows Crescent. What is? The boy is. What boy? The boy round Hallows Crescent. What of him? He’s dead. Dear child.94 They reckon he’s the first.

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First what ? First one to go. Out here. Death. It’s the only real novelty.95 Long silence. A breath of ice.96 Beg your coupon? A breath of ice blows through the Promised Land. Silence. “Derek Henderson, aged just six, died soon after catching fire as he sat before an open gas-oven. He was alone at the time. ‘Derek was cold and had asked me to light the oven,’ said his mother. ‘I then left for work. Ten minutes later, a neighbour was woken by a knock at her door. Derek was standing there, alight.’”97 Silence. Tal lifts brief-case to his chest, and hugs it close. I lie in bed.98 Indeed. And am disturbed, by a child. What child? A child that cries. Irene looks up. “Walter Benjamin had, with his wife Dora, just one child—a boy called Stefan. However, when Stefan was twelve, Benjamin and Dora were divorced. After this, Benjamin was, for the most part, estranged from his son.”99 Pause. Tal still hugs brief-case. You like it, lying in bed? Nothing. I said, do you like it in bed? Today, I have scarcely been out of my bed.100 And why is that? Why do you like lying in bed? Books. What? Books can be taken to bed—like wenches.101 Or the dead.

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No, they’re found in bed. Tal nods. There used to be no house in which someone had not died.102 Pause. Rent-Man turns to Porlock. Who’s the tramp? Who’s Kafka?103 Mind your language. Who’s Kafka? No, who are you? Tal says nothing. I said, who are you? Tal prepares to identify himself. He— Yes? He who finds the comedy within theology.104 Comedy? Tal falls from his chair. What kind? Jewish. Tal falls again from his chair. Right. Let’s try again. Who the hell are you? Daphne, a Daphne closely pursued by reality.105 Well, Daphne— Daphne-the-Tree. What? Tal poses as tree. Herr Tal thinks of Daphne-the-Tree. Ovid. What? Daphne, as transformed into a tree. Upon being pursued by Apollo. Yes, but it’s Mr Painter who’s pursued—by the Authorities, see. Rent Arrears. Tal returns to table. Rent for the house, rent for the wireless, rent for the cooker. And, indeed, I suspect he’s short of a few bob for—

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Women? No, the meter. Gas-meter. The Vienna Gas-Board— Not that lot. The Vienna Gas-Board has ceased supplying gas.106 To whom? The Jews. And why’s that? They have been using it for the purpose of suicide. Seaside? Long way to the seaside. Suicide. Though there is Margate. Not to mention the Pyrenees. Pair-of-knees? Course, I’ve got a pair-of-knees. Rent-Man strikes reception bell. The comedian— Hullo? The comedian is the only angel suited to this world.107 Not to mention the next. Rent-Man again strikes reception bell. Any-old-how, back to Matters Arising. Turns to Painter. Item One: payment of debt, or appeasing aforesaid Authorities—so, what you got? The world. Is that all? Nothing else? Tal searches bus tickets for something else. Finds one particular ticket, offers it to Rent-Man. Why. Why what ? Why the world?108 Well, I can’t say I know why the world as such, in general, or as a whole, or indeed why us, why here, out here, so far from— Egypt? No, Clapham. Whatever, the fact remains, that, not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn’t half do with some money off of you lot.

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Why? Irene moves toward Rent-Man. Because he collects. Irene brushes past Rent-Man. It’s his job. He’s a collector. A true collector?109 Professional. Stamps? No. Knick-knacks? No. Mannequins?110 No. Souls?111 How’d you guess? One only has to observe the collector handle his collection.112 His collection of what ? Coins. Sorry? Coins, I collect coins. Coins of the Realm. Rent-Man strikes reception bell—he wants rent. Indeed, but you see— We who have died are— Over-charged? Tal shakes head. Buried? Tal shakes head. Disappointed? No, resurrected. Pardon? We who have died are resurrected.113 Right. Resurrected in what happens to us. But, nothing happens to us. Quite.

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I. iv Porlock, Tal, and Rent-Man all now join Painter (as still represented by coat over chair) at table. No one moves. Irene, as ever, labours at ironing board. Once again, she (re)cites. IRENE

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“It was bonfire night with a difference for the Women’s Section of the Labour Party who burnt an effigy not of Guy Fawkes but of Sir Winston Churchill. When asked about this, Mrs. A. Pond replied, ‘It took two-and-ahalf hours to make, but then out here there’s nothing else to do.’”114 Tal, at table, begins to deal out bus tickets, as if playing cards. He pauses. Gamblers— Indeed. Gamblers are men unable to satisfy the wife.115 Hear that Vic? Frenetic game of cards begins. “In 1939, Walter Benjamin’s estranged wife, Dora, fled Europe for London. Dora tried to persuade Benjamin, then in Paris, to join them.”116 Game freezes. He said No.” Tal drops his “cards.” Porlock returns to armchair. Rent-Man moves to stepladder. I have just written her.117 Who? My wife—former wife. She has opened a boarding house.118 Where? London. You sure? Tal produces bus ticket. What’s that? Bus ticket. London bus ticket.119 Been to see her, then?

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Tal shakes head. About time you did. I might make it to London in January.120 However— I have hardly been out of my bed. Quite. And, so, have been unable to activate local contacts. Telephone? There is no telephone in this apartment.121 What? I have no telephone.122 Besides— Tal moves toward Irene. She sleeps.123 Dora? Sleeping Beauty. Irene labours. Who? Truth. Poor Truth. How poor? She sleeps in a hedge. Tal eyes Irene. However, now— Tal strikes reception bell. She awakens! With a kiss? Irene shakes head. Why ever not? She bites. Ah, but how is Sleeping Beauty to be awoken, if not with a kiss? With a slap! Tal strikes reception bell. In the face. Tal strikes reception bell. Truth desires to be startled.124 Startled? From her self-absorption. Startled by riot— Tal repeatedly strikes reception bell.

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Music— Tal continues to strike reception bell. And cries for help. Irene, un-startled throughout, continues to labour. Finally, Tal gives up. He looks about the room. The others are motionless. Pause. Pause. Boredom, boredom. The damp boredom of Europe.125 Silence. Post-war Europe. Irene slowly ascends step-ladder. When yawning, the human opens up like an abyss.126 Tal looks for response. Nothing. Anyone who is not bored cannot tell stories.127 Again nothing. Finally, Irene speaks. “Mr Alfred Nutt has been busy making toys. Mr Nutt, a woodworker, has made three ducks, two trucks, and half-a-dozen monkeys on a stick. Mr Nutt explained, ‘It gives me something to do.’”128 Tal draws out watch from waist-coat pocket. Stares at it. Twelve-million minutes.129 Beg your pre-fab? A life of forty-five years is made up of twelve-million minutes. Twelve million? Twelve million. Porlock appears to think. That’s two minutes for each one. Each what? Can’t remember. For the Jews— Yes? For the Jews, every second is the straight gate through which— Christ, I’m bored.

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Porlock lights another cigarette. Pause Do you think Christ himself was ever bored? Who? Christ. Which Christ? The industrial Christ.130 Bored to death? No. It was the tree, the tree that he died of. They nailed him to it. For a laugh? What? You know, laughter. There is no better starting-point.131 For what? Thought. Silence. Irene is now at top of step-ladder. A tree can make you think. Think of what Lights cigarette. Other trees. Inhales. That’s what they said. Or something like that. Plant a tree, they said, in each tenant’s garden, and that’ll make him think.132 Pause. Rent-Man now stands at ironing-board, as if pub landlord at bar. Rent-Man beckons to Tal. Met anyone, sir? Out here, sir? I mean anyone special? Love at first sight, sir? Last sight.133 If you like, sir. Tal thinks. I have met— Yes sir? I have met here the female angelus.134

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Who, sir? The Madonna—with the cigarettes.135 She flirts with me. Is that all? All she does, sir? You know, just flirt? Does she not go the extra mile, as it were? As might— A remarkable female Bolshevist?136 Exactly, sir. Tal shakes head. He has, though, some wisdom to share. The only way to really know someone is— Yes, sir? To love them without hope.137 Hope of what, sir? Guess. A f—, sir? You mean a f—? Unlikely. What? Impotence. Beg your head-board? Impotence. What about it? Impotence leads to the Via Dolorosa.138 Vera Dolorosa? Via Dolorosa—The Way of Sorrows, as taken by Our Lord, to the Hill, Green Hill, the one with the Tree. Tal heads toward step-ladder. Long pause. “The Reverend R. Davies warns that, according to Communists, the Working Class will be the Messiah. The Saviour of history, they say, will be the People.”139 Who? The People. Us. That’ll be us. What about us? We were expected.140 Albeit not in Watford. Tal now stands at foot of step-ladder. We— Yes?

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We have been given power. We have? What kind? Messianic. Hear that, Vic? We the People, we the People, the long and lost People, it seems that we’re, we’re— We’re what ? Hurled, hurled into the open fields.141 Hurled? Just hurled? Look about you. Rent-Man does so. The Messiah— Who? The Messiah wants not to transform the world.142 No? Tal shakes head. He wants only to make a very small adjustment. Tal nudges a single bus ticket. To the world? Tal nods. Right—let’s go! Rent-Man gathers up invisible baggage. Go where? To the world. Why? To make a small adjustment. Come on, Vic. It’s too late. What? Rent-Man turns around. She’s gone. Who? Dora— For example. Where’s Dora?143 I said, she’s gone. She’s gone too. Half-pause. Gone where? Somewhere. Half-pause.

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Like a lover through the night. Irene is still atop the step-ladder. Porlock has a question for her. Does Vic not miss her? Miss whom? She who’s gone—her. No. She is as dead to him—whatever she thinks. But, what does she think? Through the night? Yes, her thoughts, at night—what are they? Her thoughts at night. Her who has gone? Yes. What about her? What are her thoughts ? Her thoughts at night. In sum, what are— The nocturnal thoughts of a proletarian woman.144 Exactly. Not a clue. Rent-Man hurls invisible baggage to his feet. Well, ask her. Ask who? The telepathic girl.145 Irene begins to descend ladder. Right. Pause. Ask what ? What is it that goes through her mind at night? Right. Irene ghosts straight past Rent-Man and on toward ironing-board. But what do I say? “I wish to know your thoughts.”146 Right. Turns to Irene I wish to know your thoughts. (To Rent-Man) “Nocturnal thoughts.” Nocturnal thoughts. Them ones. If you don’t mind.

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Silence. Then Irene, once more labouring at ironing board, speaks as if to herself. Stands to reason. Stands to reason, it does, what with my thoughts, and the bleeding. And then there’s the rain, and the language. On and on, and nothing, nothing to do, on and on, nothing to do, though I clean the bloody mattress, and open the door, font door, back door, oven-door, to whoever it is now, gas-man, rent-man, milk-man, con-man, kids, flaming kids, or even that Jehovah-bloke, Jehovah and his witnesses—them. I mean, something always goes wrong, a small adjustment, and it all goes wrong. Everything. And here I am, in the cold, look at me, pushing an empty bloody pram, and burning shoes. So cold it is, so cold I’m burning shoes. No coal. None left. Not this month. Not in the rain, and the wind, and the storm. A storm— And all this shit, this rubbish. A storm blows— Bloody storm. A storm from paradise. It’s just rubble. Rubble. Heaped skyward. Skyward. Half-pause. Paradise, they said. Pause. Exit Tal stage-right, without briefcase. I. v

Porlock puts on coat, sits at table with back to audience, coughs and becomes Painter. Irene now lingers at step-ladder.

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“Arrangements for the Evening Institute are forging ahead. There are plans for lessons in ballroom dancing, dressmaking, and talks on modern-day books.”147 Enter Tal stage-right. He picks up briefcase, as ever it appears absurdly heavy. He approaches ironing board. There he is met by Rent-Man, as if hotelier at reception desk. Tal strikes reception bell. Yes, sir? I have been invited to give a lecture.148 On what, sir? German Literature of the Last Decade. The last, sir? The last. Excellent, sir. The lecture is to be given at the home of a doctor. Indeed, sir. Who is rather well known. Where, sir? Paris. Very nice, sir. The doctor, however, has fallen ill. They’re good at that, sir. And now, alas, it is unlikely that I shall give the lecture. Well, that is a blow, sir. I mean there you are, sir—all of you: one head, two arms, two legs, one lecture, all ready to go, and it’s cancelled. I mean— If one had to speak while standing on one leg149 — As did Hillel. Who? Hillel-the-Elder, Rabbi Hillel. (To Tal ) One would try? Tal nods, and tries to raise one leg off the ground. But one can’t? Tal nods, and stands once more on both legs. And, why is that, sir? Because— Yes, sir? Because one has a hole in the seat of one’s trousers.150

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But one does have a lecture, sir? Ready to give? Tal taps brief-case, as if to say “Yes.” Then, give it, sir. Hole or no hole. To the Evening Institute. Rent-Man hastily fetches step-ladder. Lectern?151 Of a sort. Rent-Man now puts out two seats for Tal’s audience. There. Tal dusts shoulders of jacket. Professorial robe.152 Lovely. Tal places lecture on upper-step of ladder. Meanwhile, Rent-Man vanishes under table. Tal stares at empty chairs, clears throat, and begins lecture. What figure does the man of letters cut when employed by the proletariat?153 Lonely. Silence. Psst! Yes? Is anyone there? Where? At the Institute, the Evening Institute.154 No—not a soul. Tal resumes lecture. In utopian Europe, we, The Spiritual, are unperturbed by empty seats— Thank God. And by the thought that our sermons may not be given at all.155 Excellent. Rent-Man removes step-ladder. Course cancelled—no one came. Empty seats. Try radio. Try using radio. What? Radio. Thus was I able to listen to Hitler.156

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Lovely. You can imagine the effect. Indeed I can. Rent-Man has Tal sit at table. There—have a go yourself. Like Hitler. Tal prepares to broadcast. On Air in Three. Three, two, one! Dear Invisible Listeners— Tal hesitates Carry on. Tal does so. As I talk to you tonight, I feel like a chemist using very fine weights, gram by gram. My weights are the minutes, and I must weigh them out exactly. I must weigh how much of this, and how much of that, so that the mixture turns out just right. Tal hesitates again. Rent-Man signals need to get to the point. Tal duly responds. Now, you’re probably thinking, “If you want to talk about catastrophe, why do you not get on with it?” Well, the trouble is, I don’t believe it would be much fun. You see, house after house collapses; family after family perishes; and then there is the terror of fire, darkness, looting, and the lamentations of all those who are searching for loved-ones.157 Who? Loved-ones. What? He’s searching for loved-ones. Where? Through the air. And the darkness. And the terror. And the fire. As house after house collapses, and family after family— Dear Listeners— Tal taps microphone. Who? Dear Invisible Listeners— Sorry, can’t hear you. Dear Invisible—

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Turn him off! Loved-ones. Off! Off, I said. Off! Turn the bastard off! Tal, undaunted, adjusts microphone, and begins all over again. The radio-listener is he who kindly welcomes one’s voice into his house.158 Off! Turn him off! Dear Invisible— Off! Off! Rent-Man snatches microphone from Tal. Silence. No reader ever closes a book so decisively as one turns off the radio. Silence. Irene is now stood beside Painter, and Tal makes his way to ironing-board. It is, once more, a hotel reception desk, at which Rent-Man duly appears. Tal again strikes bell. Yes, sir? The masses do not desire to be “instructed.”159 No, sir. Their education is a succession of catastrophes that befall them at fairgrounds. Indeed, sir. It is enough, sir, to make a good man— Or bad. Inclined to— Self-slaughter. Pause. Tal draws Irene aside, and points to Painter and RentMan. One of them ends in the Thames.160 What? Ends in the Thames. One of them. Which one? Silence. I said, which one? Silence. Painter finally speaks, does so in dead, re-citational voice.

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“The body of Mr. Robert J____, a 44 year-old from the Estate, has been found on Putney foreshore, on the southern bank of the Thames. It is believed that Mr. J____, a married man, had killed himself after becoming involved with another woman.”161 Suicide— Yes? Suicide can, perhaps, have erotic motives.162 Erratic? Erotic. Suicide can have erotic motives. Silence. Rent-Man goes to step-ladder. Irene returns to ironing-board. “In June 1940, following the Nazi invasion of France, Walter Benjamin fled Paris. He left with little more than a briefcase, in which he may have carried a precious manuscript.”163 Tal picks up brief-case. At same time, Painter, still with back to audience, rises to feet, and puts on cap. Both men appear about to escape. Who now? The Escaping King.164 Destination? Utopia. Chances? Comic. Health? Tragic. Painter drops back onto chair. Tal, walking backwards, drags brief-case across floor, as if huge carcass; he is heading, once more, towards stepladder. You’re thinking, this man will never make it.165 Painter coughs. However, even as we travel, doors open, and walls yield.166 Until they don’t. Tal’s “ progress ” is arrested at step-ladder.

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He turns and peers through its giant legs, and strikes reception bell. Waits. Nothing. Strikes bell again. I am standing at the threshold. It is a— Complicated affair. Tal appears stuck. “After fleeing Paris for the Pyrenees, Walter Benjamin is stopped at the border to Spain. It is closed. The irony, however, is that it had been open just one day before, and just one day later it would be open once more.”167 Rent-Man appears at other side of step-ladder. He again has the air of an hotelier. Good evening, sir. Welcome to Europe. Where? Europe, sir. Rent-Man begins to search Tal. Utopian Europe? Not today, sir, sorry. Mind you, sir, it was utopian yesterday. And, indeed, tomorrow, sir, it will be utopian again. Just not today. Half-pause. Ah, sir looks a little confused. Allow me to explain, sir. You see, yesterday— Tick-tock. The border was open. Rent-Man strikes reception bell, to celebrate. And, indeed, tomorrow, sir— Tick-tock. It will be open once more. Another celebratory ring. It is only today, sir, just today, just this particular day. This bloody day. That the border is closed. Closed. Half-pause. Irony. Yes, sir. Irony is a false beloved.168

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Indeed, sir. She is no better than she should be. Goodbye. Silence. Irene moves toward Painter. “Her Majesty’s Inspectors have just completed a review of the work of the Evening Institute. They note that a number of classes have failed to recruit. It has been decided, therefore, that these classes must be closed.”169 Painter strikes table. Christ! Shit! Ah, my Christian Baudelaire!170 Painter coughs blood. I will permit him to be borne aloft. What? Borne aloft. Right. Rent-Man and Irene attempt to lift Painter. However— Yes? Arrangements are in hand to let him fall— Thank God. Just before his entrance into glory.171 Rent-Man and Irene let Painter fall. Pause. Painter coughs blood again. Warmth, I see, is fading, and we perish, perish by172 — Bleeding. Painter struggles back onto chair—his throne, of a kind. The throne— Yes? The throne is a death-bed.173 Silence. Tal ascends stepladder. Tal looks down. He is ready to begin the world again. The philosopher— Who? The philosopher must have no fear of heights.174 What?

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Fear of heights. Can’t hear him. Not from up there. What’s he doing? Planning. Planning what? Utopia. Utopia’s realization is achieved only by he who ascends into the sky.175 Tal peers down. In order to drop bombs. Tal holds out briefcase as if it were a bomb. What kind? What kind of what ? Bombs. Tal opens briefcase, looks inside. Atomic. Still can’t hear him. Science— What? Science sees within atoms only storms.176 Tal shakes briefcase. So, what you got in there? A work comparable to— Yes? Atomic fission.177 Tal drops briefcase. Rent-Man catches it. Bloody hell. Rent-Man, Irene, and Tal throw brief-case from one to another, faster and faster, until suddenly briefcase stops with Rent-Man. He holds it to his ear. It’s a clock, alarm-clock.178 What? Alarm-clock. Each minute, it goes off for sixty seconds. Every second? Every second. LIGHTS DOWN.

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Act Two—Exit II. i LIGHTS UP. Coronation Day, 1953. Painter is still seated at table, but now faces audience. Upstage, projected on to wall, a period Union Flag with image of a young Queen Elizabeth II at its centre. Irene labours once more at ironing board. Tal is sat beside table, bent over bus tickets. Rent-Man wears paper hat, and stares at fragile television set. IRENE PAINTER TAL PAINTER RENT-MAN PAINTER RENT-MAN PAINTER IRENE

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“June 5th , 1953. Coronation Morning, and Only the Weather is Disloyal.”179 Rain. Always the rain. The beautiful rain.180 Bloody rain That’s God for you. God all over. Like Whitsun. Rained then as well. Bloody Whitsun. Half-pause. “By the afternoon, however, all was different—the Estate was now lit up with children in fancy-dress. Both pirates and ballet-dancers skipped through the puddles.” Whitsun? I once survived Whitsun.181 How? By listening to the rain. Bloody Whitsun, bloody— Pentecost. Half-pause. “On this most special Coronation Day, the Cockney spirit finally triumphed.” Painter coughs. Fag, Victor? No. Here we go. Rent-Man moves toward Painter, to give him a fag. Whoops. Rent-Man effects a comedy stumble. The comedian stumbles.182

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Beg your washboard? The comedian stumbles. But over what, I ask? Feet. Bloody feet. Whose? His own. It is the clowning of despair.183 Despair? By no means! Not now. Not now it’s stopped—the rain. No, we’re having a bloody ball out there now. Kids out, chairs, tables, pianos— Jellies, magic-men— Magic Jews.184 What? Magic Jews. Half-pause. You coming, then? Tal says nothing. I said, are you coming? Outside? Tal shakes head. I avoid carnival.185 Rent-Man tries Painter. Victor? No. Not coming outside? No. Well, in that case, you two buggers should at least be watching the bloody Queen. I’ll switch her on. You want me to switch her on? What? The electronic television.186 No. You could watch the Queen. You’d like to watch her. No. I’ll switch it on. No. Rent-Man switches it on. There. It’s coming. Pause. I tell you what, you should get them curtains pulled.

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Irene pulls curtains, and Tal grows dark. A house, a house without windows.187 Not quite. A ballroom without world. What? A situation without escape.188 What is? This cave.189 What cave? This cave—Plato’s cave.190 More like Aladdin’s. Pantomime.191 Exactly. Pantomime of life. Oh-no-it’s-not. Hamlet?192 Ophelia. Irene exits stage-right. Pause. Painter coughs. It’s not working. Painter coughs again. I said, it’s not bloody working. What’s not? The electronic television. I’ll give it a wallop. Rent-Man thumps television set. There we go. Abracadabra—Westminster Abbey. Tal takes chair from table, sits on chair, and stares at now-working television. He appears to be a little confused. Events like the Coronation— Indeed. The Coronation of Charles— Elizabeth. I feel as if they are merely plays.193 No—it’s for real. Look. Rent-Man points to television. Where?

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There. Rent-Man again points to television. Where? (Intervening ) In the Church. Irene emerges from back of auditorium. The bloody Abbey. What? The Queen— Who? She’s proceeding down the aisle. Irene heads slowly down the auditorium aisle. Who is? The Queen. Where? The bloody aisle—in the Abbey. Irene nears the stage. Tal and Rent-Man, however, continue to stare at television. Her walk, it’s lop-sided.194 It’s all that ermine. Half-pause. Mind you— She is three-hundred years old.195 Exactly. Silence. Irene has now reached the stage, and stands before the tubercular Painter. His head is sunk, and body more lifeless than ever. She straightens his tie, tidies his hair, places his hands on table, etc., as if preparing him for death. Meanwhile, Rent-Man kneels before television, and Tal, now standing, peers short-sightedly at this miracle-box. A mechanical cabinet.196 Sort of. And so many clockwork puppets. Tal peers still more closely at television. And one, just one, enthroned. Painter stiffens, like a puppet enthroned. Ah, but look, before the royal-puppet, see, there stands— Yes?

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An executioner. Irene stands before Painter. Who? Executioner. Irene crosses herself. Painter moves no more. Long and mournful silence. Finally, someone moves—it is Tal; he points to television set. Films teach one to cry again.197 It’s not a film. It’s real. Look at them. Look at who? All them Lords and Ladies, Peers and Peeresses, all bejewelled and bedecked. Them. Them in the Abbey. Them that, at the last, the very last, when all is said and done, and all the crowning is done, will once more put on their hats and coats, and skedaddle out, even as a signal is given, and the trumpets bloody sound, and the huge bloody guns at the Tower are198 — Tal suddenly switches television off. Christ! What you do that for? To interrupt.199 Interrupt what? The world. LIGHTS DOWN. II. ii

LIGHTS UP. Painter has gone, so too his chair and coat. Tal is now at table, staring at bus tickets. Rent-Man still kneels before failing television. Porlock sits in arm-chair. Irene again labours at ironing-board. IRENE

“In September 1940, when stopped on the FrenchSpanish border, at Port Bou, a fishing village, Walter Benjamin spent the night in a local hotel, under police observation. He expected that, in the morning, he would be handed over to the Gestapo and, therefore, it is thought that he took a huge overdose of morphine pills. By the morning, he was dead. The local doctor,

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who had visited Benjamin on the evening of his death, subsequently declared that he had died of a cerebral haemorrhage.”200 All alone in my room.201 Beg your news-reel? All alone in my room. I’m here. Alone. And him. Who? Me. He’s a bloody doctor. Magician or scholar?202 Both. Same difference. Pause. Tal now grows melodramatic. I have never been as lonely.203 But the girl, she’s here too—somewhere. A situation without escape. Well, that’s a blow, and no mistake. Rent-Man thumps television. Here, where no one knows me— Who? My life is going to end. Indeed. Pause. Tal grows still more melodramatic. The true symbol for love— What? The true symbol for love is— A bunch of flowers? Tal shakes head. The true symbol for love is the night-before-death.204 Ah, but what kind of night? The night of love. Before death? Tal nods. Just before death?

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Tal nods again, and begins to ascend step-ladder. Meanwhile, Porlock decodes Tal’s riddle. Romeo. What? Romeo. He thinks of Romeo—love, night, etc. However— Tal pauses on ladder. Now is not the night of love. Tal begins to descend backwards. It is, instead, the night of impotence. Tal throws brief-case to earth. Impotence? Like the People. Who? Us—the Impotent, like God. Remember? No. Pause. Tal, now free of burdensome brief-case, strolls stage with extravagant freedom. (To Rent-Man) Do you think he has a license for them? Them what ? His legs? A flâneur— What? A flâneur can always go for a walk.205 Where? In his own room. Ah, but it is not your own room. It’s rented. It is, in fact, no more your own than is the furniture— so-called. Tal continues to stroll the stage. He is now elaborately avoiding the furniture, and is followed by Rent-Man who exaggerates still further Tal’s flânerie. The arrangement of the furniture— So-called. Is a plan of deadly snares— Tal stumbles. And determines the path of the victim.206

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What victim? The fleeing victim. Tal suddenly picks up briefcase, eager to flee. He is, though, immediately weighed down by absurd weight of briefcase. His attempt to stagger through the giant legs of step-ladder ends, therefore, with him being stuck half way. Here he finds himself face to face once more with Rent-Man. Good evening, sir. Leaving Europe— Yes, sir? Leaving Europe is essential.207 That’s alright, then, sir—there’s no Europe here, sir. None. Tal is defeated. Tal returns to table. Long silence. “On Saturday last, it was all smiles for the ‘Happy Housewives,’ or ‘Double-H Club,’ as they like to be known. The ladies all enjoyed a splendid day out at Southend-on-Sea.”208 Irene begins to ascend step-ladder. The most exquisite thing of all is a view of the sea.209 What sea’s that, then? Mediterranean. Southend? Port Bou—Port Bou-on-Sea. Remember? No. Irene sits down at top of step-ladder, looks out toward auditorium. I can hear it.210 Hear what. The sea, the beach, the surf.211 You’ll be off, then? If Geneva can assist.212 Assist? In getting me out of here.

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“Walter Benjamin had hoped that academic friends in Geneva would provide him with the papers he needed to get to America.”213 Tal rolls up the bottoms of his trousers, though shoes are still on. I must be off.214 Tal makes way to edge of stage, as if ready to paddle, brief-case in hand. He is joined by Rent-Man who has also rolled up bottoms of trousers. Geneva called? Tal says nothing. You know, Geneva. Tal says nothing. The one with the lake. Tal says nothing. Pause. Tal drops briefcase to earth, and pulls out invisible phial of pills. One more paddle? Tal says nothing. One more piss? Tal says nothing. You know—in the sea. Tal looks at phial of pills, finally speaks. One more ice-cream.215 Beg your bucket? Gambling. I am gambling at the seaside.216 Grumbling? No, mustn’t grumble. Not at the seaside. Tal unscrews top of phial, pouring carefully into his left hand a number of pills. I feel like a chemist. Beg your aspirin? I feel like a chemist measuring gram by gram. Tal, with right hand, selects one pill. (To Rent-Man) How’s the bastard doing? Suicide. What? Suicide.

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Tal pauses like one who, all of a sudden, thinks less of death. It is not worth the effort.217 What’s not? Suicide. Might be. Tal shakes head. Dying brings us no closer to God.218 On the other hand— What? Well, on the other hand— The buried man is the transcendental subject.219 Exactly. Tal is encouraged—he now thinks more of death. He thus again prepares to swallow pills. He stares first at hand with pills, and then at pill-less hand. He appears to weigh the two hands, as if scales. Rent-Man mimics Tal behind his back. Go on. Take a chance. The revolutionary chance.220 Chance of what ? An interrupting of time. Pardon? A blasting. What? A blasting open. Of what? History. Tal stares again at invisible pills. (To Irene) Oi, Juliet—Romeo here is playing charades. An actor— Tal turns to Rent-Man. An actor must space out his gestures.221 Tal now selects, with hand-sinister, a pill or two, and prepares to swallow. It is with the left hand that all decisive blows will be dealt. Tal appears finally about to do the deed; but then, of a sudden, drops the lot—both phial and handful-of-pills.

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Whoops! Ah! Mr. Clumsy—Mr. Clumsy, the hunchback. Not him again! The little bugger. Rent-Man helps to gather up the pills. Call me Jesus, but I do like to help. One must be a fool if one is to help.222 Go the extra mile. Only a fool’s help is true help. There we go. Gives handful of pills to Tal. Right as is a missing arm. Rent-Man now resumes attending to failing television. Meanwhile, Tal takes a left-handful of pills and, finally, swallows. If there is pain now there is no God.223 Pardon? If there is pain now there is no God. And is there? Is there what ? Pain? Looks like it. So—no God, then? Just the National Health. Good God! II. iii

Irene now sits in Painter’s chair, but faces audience, imperious. Porlock remains in armchair. Rent-Man lingers at stepladder. Tal stands centrestage, clutching briefcase as if a lover. TAL PORLOCK TAL RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN TAL

The dance now begins.224 Pardon? We dance. Who? The dying. Dance to what ? The notes of a Viennese waltz.225 Tal begins to waltz.

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Notes that we hear below those very same bridges upon whose parapets we once inclined, in summer. Tal pauses. We are, though, in a house without windows. We are? A ballroom without world. Beg your fox-trot? A ballroom without world. Tal begins to waltz as before. Never, though, was a night more incorporeal, more chaste, more226 — Final. What? Let us face it. The bastard is on his last legs. What? He’s had it, he’s finished, he’s going. He is ? Tal stops, exhausted. One’s fleeing soul— Told you. Invites a woman.227 Tal sits down at table, stares admiringly at Irene—does so throughout following routine. She stands in a faraway room. Rent-Man peers off-stage, mistakenly looking for she who stands in a faraway room—does so throughout following routine. (To Rent-Man) Can you see her? No. Irene rises, wanders off, and attempts to tidy the room. Ah, she proceeds. Where? Between the dancers. Who? The people. Can’t see any. In the corridors. Corridors?

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At the hotel—Port Bou. All sorts of comings and goings. Remember? No. Pause. Tal finally addresses Irene. Our glances meet. Their glances do not meet. Our hands touch. Their hands do not touch. And, yet, we do not awake each other from dream. Silence. Irene returns to ironing board. Silence. “Classes in dressmaking and ballroom dancing are proceeding well; though, much to our regret, the Authorities do not provide sufficient sewing machines, and we have no gramophone.”228 Ah, realities. Cruel realities.229 What about them? They still flutter about this house—the poets, the saints, the police. Tal has clearly had enough of such; he therefore rises, straightens tie, picks up briefcase, checks fob-watch, and waits, as if for a tram. He then sways, as if he might fall. I tell you what, before he finally snuffs it— Tal sways again. Could we make sure he mentions who precisely he is. Tal sways yet again. And don’t let the bugger die quoting. It has happened before. Christ. For example. Quite. So, let us hasten to ask the finally dying man who he might finally be. Tal drops brief-case. Mr. Clumsy. Mr. Clumsy, the hunchback. Still a-quoting? Mr Clumsy, the hunchback. He is, you know.

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Mr Clumsy. But, what about him? This Mr Clumsy. This little man, this little man will simply vanish.230 Vanish? When the Messiah comes. (To Porlock) What’s he say? Rent-Man is once more attending to failing television. He says, he’ll bugger off once the Messiah turns up. Small loss, big win. Indeed. Tal sits down, at table, lifeless. He has air of a dead man. Silence. “Walter Benjamin’s Port Bou grave was only ever rented. Indeed, there was only enough money found upon his person for five years’ rent. In 1945, therefore, Benjamin’s remains were disinterred, and it is not known to where they were moved. In the cemetery where he had been buried there is a memorial, but there is no body there.”231 Irene exits stage-left. She has seen enough of lifeless Tal. Silence. Tal suddenly lifts head, opens one eye, and winks. You think— No, not me. You think this is the end.232 Not for the telly. Tal, for a moment, hesitates, then rises to his feet, briefcase once more in hand. One is delighted to be alive.233 Rent-Man thumps television. Alive, despite of everything. Resurrected, I shouldn’t wonder. I must, though, put up with what is resurrected today.234 Beg your horsemeat? I must put up with what is resurrected today. Today? What about today? Today’s shit. Tal shakes head. Within every day is concealed a grain of Sunday.235

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Sunday? Eternal Sunday.236 But it’s Friday. What is? Today. On the whole. Rent-Man suddenly turns on Tal, and compels him to sit down at table, facing audience. Rent-Man and Porlock, who remains in arm-chair, now both perform with aggressive, interrogational air. Right, tramp— Tal raises both hands, as if in surrender. What-the-fuck’s going on? I put up with— We know—we know you’re not really resurrected. It’s merely as if you were, you bastard. Correct? Tal nods. “As if” is our universal meaning.237 Rent-Man slams desk. (To Tal ) Is that it ? Our meaning? “As if”? (Also to Tal ) It might have helped had you mentioned that to the girl. Who? The girl. She’s gone. Quite. Having no idea, poor sod, that there was a huge great “as if” to the bastard’s dying fall. (To Tal ) Bastard. His final sigh, Romeo’s final sigh—she had thought it was for real. What was? His death—Romeo’s (indicates Tal ). Bastard. Long silence. One of them— Yes? One of them ends in the Thames. Ends it all. Silence. Which one? Silence.

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I said, which one? Which one ends it all in the Thames? The girl. (To Tal ) Yes, the girl, you bastard. Which makes you a— Murderer—murderer of the woman who has committed suicide.238 Exactly. Pause. Her decision to die— Yes? Her decision to die is still a secret.239 Not any more. LIGHTS DOWN. II. iv

LIGHTS UP. Rent-Man is once more on knees attending to failing television. Tal is still sat at table, and Porlock is still in arm-chair. Irene enters , takes Tal’s brief-case, and climbs to top of step-ladder. There she holds brief-case to her belly. IRENE

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“A sixteen-year old girl from the Estate has appeared before a Juvenile Court. She was said to have made up fantastic tales of where she had been, and her mother said she found her to be pregnant. Her father collapsed in court.”240 In court? Bugger that! Thumps television. Bugger the law! Why bugger the law? Rent-Man looks uncertain. He turns, for help, to Tal. Mr Tal? The origin of law is violence.241 (To Porlock) There you go. Thumps television again. So, what is now needful? Needful? In order to bugger the law. (Intervening ) Violence—divine violence.242 Irene coolly holds out brief-case, as if about to let it drop.

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Divine violence shall devastate the law. Irene allows brief-case to drop to earth. What was that? The air. I’m sure I heard something. Ask him. Who? Bastard. (To Tal ) Bastard, what was that? The revolutionary, the really revolutionary.243 And, what, may I ask, is the really revolutionary? It is the secret signal— Yes? Of what is to come. And who, pray, is to give the signal? The child. Which child? Tal says nothing. The child that burns? Tal says nothing. The child that cries? Tal says nothing. The child that plays? Tal appears to nod. Plays with what ? Tal says nothing. The dead? Tal shakes head. The living? Tal shakes head. Puppets? (Nodding ) Puppets—performing puppets.244 Performing what ? Tableaux vivants. What? Scenes. Tal rises. Irene now takes command, as if some wornout impresario. She strikes reception bell.

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Scene the First. “The Fiery Furnace!” Done that one. Who has? Half-pause Child Derek. Poor boy. Silence. Sorrow. Irene strikes reception-bell. Scene the Second. “The Queen of the Air!”245 She’s gone. She’s back. Porlock indicates Irene. She is ? In a manner. Silence. Irene strikes reception bell. Scene the Third, and Last. “The Discovery of America!”246 Tal reaches up to hand bus-ticket to Irene—this she reads, in usual half-dead tone, throughout final and nautical drama. “Behold.” Tal clears throat, and announces himself. “Christopher Columbus.” Tal takes a bow. “The sea is calm, and the sky is dark. The crew, however, grow eager.” “Land-ho!” “Cries one.” “Land-ahoy!” “Cries another.” “That —” “Cries Columbus.” “Is America!” Tal peers toward America, as represented by Rent-Man. “Who goes there?” “Cries a native on the shore.” Tal waves to Rent-Man.

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“Christopher Columbus!” “Cries Christopher Columbus.” “What do you want?” “Cries the native.” “Merely to discover!” “Cries Columbus.” “Look no further—” “Cries the native.” “We have for some time desired to be discovered.” Half-pause. The End. And that — All now are, once more, themselves. Was how America was discovered. Albeit, alas, not by yourself. Tal shrugs. America is a republic I cannot recommend. Tal returns to sit at head of table. Is there one you can recommend? Ours, for instance? Out here. We certainly have a laugh. We do? The panto. Pantomime. Remember? What pantomime? The pantomime of existence. Irene descends step-ladder. She has glorious news. “This Christmas—” Yes? “This Christmas, the Estate Association has organised a wonderful trip, for one and all, to a London Panto.”247 Snow White?248 No. Robinson Crusoe? No. An English stage experiment?249 What? Hamlet in Tails. No, Little Miss Muffet .250

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IRENE RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK TAL IRENE RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK TAL IRENE PORLOCK

TAL

Irene moves to ironing-board. She then strikes reception bell. Porlock and Rent-Man move to sit either side of table, face to face, expressionless—there follows, in three miniature acts, a motionless, dead-pan panto. Act One, of Three. In a forest. Alas and alack. Lack-a-day, lack-a-day. We live on all-but nothing. In short— In brief— “There is an infinity of hope —” Soap? “Just not for us”—Kafka. Kafka? Wash-your-mouth-out. What with? Hope. Irene strikes reception bell. Act Two, of Three. Still in a forest. Look-out. What for? A bloody great spider. Where? Behind you—it’s behind you. What is? The future.251 Irene strikes reception bell. Act Three— Correction. A Shakespearian Interlude—Herr Tal’s long-awaited lecture. Porlock and Rent-Man, still seated, turn toward auditorium. Tal rises to feet, and does likewise. Clears throat. Ladies and Gentlemen,252 in Shakespeare, time and again, it is battles that fill the last act. At which point, kings, princes, and followers, all “Enter, fleeing.” These our fleeing kings and princes etc. are, however, always brought to a standstill in the very instant they become visible to the audience.253 Tal et al stare into auditorium.

3

IRENE

PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN PORLOCK TAL RENT-MAN TAL RENT-MAN TAL RENT-MAN TAL RENT-MAN PORLOCK RENT-MAN IRENE RENT-MAN IRENE RENT-MAN IRENE

PORLOCK IRENE

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171

Our reading of this is, above all, marked by expectation—expectation of a place, a light, a spotlight in which we, in our flight through life, might also yet be rescued by on-looking strangers. Tal et al again stare into auditorium. Tal sits down. Little Miss Muffet , resumed. Irene strikes reception bell. Act Three, the last. Very last. Porlock rises, seizes briefcase, and performs parodic imitation of Tal. “What is truly revolutionary —” Oh, no it’s not. “Is the secret signal —” Oh, yes it is. “Of what is to come from the —” Proletariat.254 Who? The proletariat. What about them? It seems as if they are planning a— Revolution? No, a burglary. Burglary? Tal nods. Crown-jewels? Knick-knacks? No, letters. Sorry? Letters—the proletariat have stolen a whole pile of letters. Whose letters? His. Irene indicates Tal. “In 1972, in Hampstead, North-London, the entire correspondence between Walter Benjamin and Dora was stolen. These letters have never been found.”255 Never? Never.

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PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK IRENE PORLOCK IRENE

TAL IRENE TAL IRENE TAL IRENE

TAL IRENE

The entire correspondence? Stolen. North London? Hampstead. Not far. Twelve miles. Not found? Not yet. Irene holds out her hands, as if now laden with stolen letters . She then throws them in the air, and they fall upon Tal, still seated, like so many snowflakes. As so often before, Irene (re)cites—this final time, however, it is Walter Benjamin’s words she steals. You— “Were given a book as a child.”256 You— “Were wholly given up to the drift of the text that covered you like snowflakes.” You— “Trod, with limitless trust, through the book that lured you further and further, the whirl of letters like figures in the drifting snow.” You— “Are unspeakably moved. And, upon rising, are whitened over and over by the snow of your reading.” Tal stands up. His eyes are closed.

Notes 1. Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften (hereafter GS), 7 vols., ed. Rolf Tiedmann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1992), 1.697; this citation, as with all other Benjamin citations, is my own translation. Reference details for the standard English translation are, though, always provided; in this case, see Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith (eds.), Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings (hereafter SW ), 4 vols. (London: Harvard University Press, 1996–2003), 4.392. 2. Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften Briefe (hereafter GS Briefe), ed. Gershom Scholem and Theodor W. Adorno (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1978), 761—see SW , 3.325.

3

3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30.

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GS, 7.430—see SW , 3.385. GS, 4.388—see SW , 2.2.486. GS, 1.704—see SW , 4.397. Henry Lonitz ed., Theodor W. Adorno / Walter Benjamin, Briefwechsel 1928–1940, ed. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1994), 69— see Henry Lonitz (ed.), Theodor W. Adorno / Walter Benjamin: The Complete Correspondence 1928–1940, tr. Nicholas Walker (London: Polity Press, 1999), 49. GS, 4.532—see SW , 2.1.139. West Herts and Watford Observer, June 29, 1951. I am grateful to The Watford Observer for kind permission to quote both here and below. GS, 4.385—see Walter Benjamin, The Storyteller, tr. and ed. Sam Dolbear et al. (London: Verso, 2016), 118. GS, 2.620—see SW , 2.1.3. GS, 2.312—see SW , 2.1.238. GS, 1.697—see SW , 4.392. GS Briefe, 420—see Correspondence of Walter Benjamin, tr. Manfred and Evelyn Jacobson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 296. GS Briefe, 827—see The Correspondence, 613. Watford Observer, July 6, 1951. GS, 6.521—see SW , 2.2.713. GS, 7.86—see SW , 2.1.322. GS, 7.89—see SW , 2.1.324. GS, 4.317—see SW , 2.1.23. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 69—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 49. Watford Observer, July 27, 1951. GS, 6.521—see SW , 2.2.712. GS Briefe, 127—see Correspondence, 81. Benjamin talks here about his “incapacity to say something clear on the question of Judaism.” Estate News, South Oxhey, August–September, 1949. I am grateful to Hertfordshire Archives and Local Studies for kind permission to quote both here and below. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 43—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 29. GS, 3.139-40—see SW , 2.1.141. Walter Benjamin / Gershom Scholem Briefwechsel 1933–1940 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1980), 101—see The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin and Gershom Scholem 1932–1940, tr. Gary Smith and Andre Lefevere (London: Harvard University Press, 1992), 77. GS, 4.396—see SW , 2. 2.541. This letter is imagined, but based on various local memories and stories. GS, 6.73—see SW , 1.230.

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31. GS, 2.298—see SW , 2.1.209. 32. This letter is imagined, but based on the fact that many of the tenants who had originally been housed on the Estate returned to London— see Margot Jeffreys, “Londoners in Hertfordshire,” in Ruth Glass et al., London: Aspects of Change (London: MacGibbon and Kee, 1964), 234. 33. GS Briefe, 339—see Correspondence, 236. 34. GS, 2.338—see SW , 2.2.436. Benjamin is here quoting Karl Kraus. 35. GS, 4.435—see SW , 2.2.728. 36. GS, 2.414—see SW , 2.2. 798. Benjamin is here quoting Kafka. 37. GS, 2.363—see SW , 2.2.454. 38. GS, 4.529—see SW , 2.1.137. 39. GS, 6.442—see SW , 2.2.502. 40. GS, 7.642—see The Storyteller, 17. 41. GS, 3.283—see SW , 2.2.426. 42. See H. F. Brotherstone et al., “General Practice on a New Housing Estate,” British Journal of Preventive and Social Medicine, 10 (1956): 200–207. The estate in question is South Oxhey. 43. GS, 6.73—see SW , 1.230. 44. GS, 4.99—see SW , 1.454. 45. GS, 4.102—see SW , 1.455. 46. GS, 2.328—see SW , 2.1.331. 47. GS, 2.204—see SW , 3.305. 48. Benjamin wrote two essays on Chaplin, both in 1929, GS, 6.137-8, 3.157-9—see 2.1.199-200, 222-224. 49. GS Briefe, 732—see Correspondence, 542. 50. Watford Observer, July 6, 1951. 51. GS, 7.306—see Walter Benjamin, Radio Benjamin, ed. Lecia Rosenthal and tr. Jonathan Lutes et al. (London: Verso, 2014), 188. 52. GS, 2.130—see SW , 1.53. 53. GS, 1.683—see SW , 4.185. 54. GS, 2.308-9—see SW , 2.1.216-7. 55. See Watford Observer, June 20, 1952. There was a very active branch of the Communist Party on the Estate. 56. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 64—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 46. 57. GS, 3.440—see SW , 3.3. 58. Watford Observer, April 8, 1949. 59. GS, 2.99—see SW , 1.13. 60. GS, 1.538—see SW , 4.19. 61. GS, 4.363—see SW , 2.1.235. 62. GS, 7.387—see SW , 3.346. 63. GS, 2.99—see SW , 1.13. 64. GS Briefe, 419—see Correspondence, 296.

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65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

93. 94. 95. 96. 97.

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GS, 1.702—see SW , 4.396. GS, 1.693—see SW , 4.388. GS, 1.697—see SW , 4.392. GS, 5.205—see Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, tr. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1999), 144. Benjamin is here quoting Louis Auguste Blanqui, from 1885, talking about 1849. GS, 3.548—see SW , 4.136. GS, 6.98—see SW , 1.287. GS, 1.697-8—see SW , 4.392. GS, 2.439—see SW , 3.143-4. GS, 2.282—see SW , 1.433. See Ingrid and Konrad Scheurmann, eds., For Walter Benjamin, tr. Timothy Nevill (Bonn: AsKI, 1993), 290. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 101—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 77. GS, 4.436—see SW , 2.2.729. See Scheurmann, 290. GS, 4.242—see SW , 3.349. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 271—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 207. GS, 3.440—see SW , 3.3. GS, 2.298—see SW , 1.12. GS, 4.141—see SW , 1.483. GS, 3.442—see SW , 3.5. GS, 7.235-6—see SW , 2.2.566. GS, 4.133—see SW , 1.477. GS, 1.695—see SW , 4.391. See, for example, Who Killed Walter Benjamin? (Medianimación, 2005), dir. David Mauas. GS, 7.417—see SW , 3.374. GS, 2.393—see SW , 2.2.579. GS, 2.104—see SW , 1.17. GS, 2.308—see SW , 2.1.216. This was indeed the case, though which arm remained is not known, see John Schad, Late Walter Benjamin (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2012), 147. GS, 4.89—see SW , 1.447. GS, 7.430—see SW , 3.385. GS, 1.668—see SW , 4.171. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 250—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 205. Watford Observer, August 21, 1953.

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98. GS, 4.410—see SW , 2.2.674. 99. See Howard Eiland and Michael Jennings, Walter Benjamin. A Critical Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), 360, 703 n.3. 100. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 107—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 82. 101. GS, 4.109—see SW , 1.460. 102. GS, 2.449—see SW , 3.151. 103. GS, 2.677—see SW , 2.2.495. 104. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 291—see Benjamin-Scholem Correspondence, 243. 105. GS, 6.442—see SW , 2.2.502. 106. GS Briefe, 820—see Correspondence, 609. 107. GS, 4.406—see SW , 2.2.590. 108. GS, 7.428—see SW , 3.406. 109. GS, 4.389—see SW , 2.2.487. 110. GS, 6.560—see SW , 2.1.85. 111. GS, 1.558—see SW , 4.32. 112. GS, 4.389—see SW , 2.2.487. 113. GS, 2.98—see SW , 1.12. 114. Watford Observer, November 7, 1952. 115. GS, 5.640—see Arcades, 513. Benjamin had a problem with gambling, see Eiland and Jennings, 484. 116. Eiland and Jennings, 655. 117. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 305—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 234. 118. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 291—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 242. 119. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 101—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 75. 120. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 290—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 222. 121. GS, 7.423—see SW , 3.379. 122. Benjamin / Adorno Briefwechsel, 298—see Benjamin-Adorno Correspondence, 219. 123. GS Briefe, 418—see Correspondence, 295. 124. GS, 4.138—see SW , 1.480. 125. GS, 2.295—see SW , 2.1.207. 126. GS, 1.682—see SW , 4.184. 127. GS, 4.741—see SW , 2.2.658. 128. Watford Observer, November 21, 1952. 129. GS, 4.139—see SW , 1.481. 130. GS, 5.458—see Arcades, 363. 131. GS, 2.699—see SW , 2.2.779.

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132. Estate planners wanted each garden to have a tree so as to encourage an interest in trees more generally—see Stanley Gale, Modern Housing Estates (London: Batsford, 1949), 272. 133. GS, 1.548. Benjamin here talks about “love at last sight”—see SW , 4.25. 134. Benjamin-Scholem Briefwechsel, 96—see Benjamin-Scholem Correspondence, 72–73. 135. GS, 4.332—see SW , 2.1.34. 136. GS Briefe, 347—see Correspondence, 242. 137. GS, 4.119—see SW , 1.467. 138. GS, 1.663—see SW , 4.167. Benjamin is explicitly referencing “male sexuality” here. 139. Watford Observer, November 26, 1954. 140. GS, 1.694—see SW , 4.390. 141. GS, 4.147—see SW , 1.486. 142. GS, 2.432—see SW , 2.2.811. 143. GS, 4.302, 250—see SW , 3.406, 389. 144. GS, 3.280—see SW , 2.2.424. 145. GS, 2.299—see SW , 2.1.210. 146. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 275—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 227. 147. Estate News, August–September, 1949—see also Late Walter Benjamin 87, 90, 122. 148. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 58—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 41. 149. GS, 4.146—see SW , 1.486. 150. GS, 4.578—see SW , 2.1.345. 151. GS, 7.638—see The Storyteller, 8. 152. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 418—see Benjamin-Scholem Correspondence, 295. 153. GS, 4.337—see SW , 2.1.37. 154. Clarendon School Governors’ Meetings Minutes, 1950, HEd1/177/1. Quoted here and below by kind permission of Hertfordshire Archives and Local Studies. 155. GS, 2.783-4—see SW , 2.2.749. 156. Benjamin / Scholem Briefwechsel, 161—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 130. 157. GS, 7.250, 220—see SW , 2.1.250, 2.2.536. Two different radio talks are here laced together, and a few linking words added. 158. GS, 2.1507—see SW , 2.2.544. 159. GS, 4.528—see SW , 2.1.136. 160. GS, 3.442—see SW , 3.5. 161. Watford Observer, April 16, 1954. 162. GS Briefe, 814—see Correspondence, 604.

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163. 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170. 171. 172. 173. 174. 175. 176. 177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184. 185. 186. 187. 188. 189. 190. 191. 192. 193. 194. 195. 196. 197. 198. 199. 200.

See Eiland and Jennings, 668–673. GS, 2.436—see SW , 2.2.814. GS, 7.101—see Radio Benjamin, 40. GS, 5.516—see Arcades, 409. See Eiland and Jennings, 674–675. GS, 3.381—see SW , 2.2.704. Clarendon School Minutes, 1950. GS Briefe, 825—see Correspondence, 612. GS, 4.99—see SW , 1.453. GS, 4.98—see SW , 1.454. GS, 2.449—see SW , 3.151. GS, 5.572—see Arcades, 459. GS, 7.666—see SW , 3.134. GS, 6.428—see SW , 2.2.474. GS, 5.578—see Arcades, 463. GS, 2.310—see SW , 2.1.218. Watford Observer, June 5, 1953. GS Briefe, 32—see Correspondence, 9. GS Briefe, 49—see Correspondence, 21. GS, 4.406—see SW , 2.2.590. GS, 3.283—see SW , 2.2.426. GS Briefe, 637—see Benjamin-Scholem, 148. GS, 4.763—see SW , 3.25. GS, 4.511—see SW , 2.1.108. GS, 2.104—see SW , 1.17. Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 445—see Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 342. GS, 6.561—see SW , 2.1.86. GS, 2.222—see SW , 3.13. GS, 3.139—see SW , 2.1.134. GS, 1.402—see Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, tr. John Osbourne (London: Verso, 1998), 228. GS, 4.560—see SW , 2.1.85. GS, 4.92—see SW , 1.449. GS Briefe, 43—see Correspondence, 17. GS, 4.129—see SW , 1.474-5. GS, 4.132—see SW , 1.476. See Edward C. Ratcliff, The Coronation Service of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 49. GS, 1.667—see SW , 4.170. See Eiland and Jennings, 674–675.

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201. Gretel Adorno / Walter Benjamin Briefwechsel 1930–1940, ed. Christophe Gödde and Henri Lonitz (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2005), 414—see Gretel Adorno / Walter Benjamin Correspondence 1930–1940, ed. Henri Lonitz, tr. Wieland Hoban (London: Polity, 2008), 289. 202. GS, 7.185—see Radio Benjamin, 123. 203. GS Briefe, 599—see Benjamin / Scholem Correspondence, 96. 204. GS, 6.73—see SW , 1.230. 205. GS, 5.530—see Arcades, 421. 206. GS, 4.88—see SW , 1.446. 207. GS Briefe, 208—see Correspondence, 140. 208. Watford Observer, August 21, 1953. 209. GS Briefe, 551—see Gretel Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 2. 210. GS, 7.793—see SW , 2.2.692. 211. GS, 3.230—see SW , 2.1.299. 212. GS Briefe, 645—see Correspondence, 475. 213. See Eiland and Jennings, 670. 214. GS, 4.318—see SW , 2.1.23. 215. GS, 4.416—see SW , 2.2.678. 216. GS, 6.191—see SW , 2.2.414. 217. GS, 4.398—see SW , 2.2.542. 218. GS Briefe, 317—see Correspondence, 220. 219. GS, 1.661—see SW , 4.165. 220. GS, 1.703—see SW , 4.396. 221. GS, 2.305—see SW , 4.305. 222. GS Briefe, 764—see Correspondence, 565. 223. GS, 4.302—see SW , 3.406. 224. GS, 2.103—see SW , 1.16. 225. GS, 7.429—see SW , 3.384. 226. GS, 2.103—see SW , 1.16. 227. GS, 2.104—see SW , 1.17. 228. Estate News, December 1949–January, 1950—also see Late Walter Benjamin, 108, 221, 122. 229. GS, 2.104—see SW , 1.17. 230. GS, 2.432—see SW , 2.2.811. 231. See Eiland and Jennings, Benjamin, 676. 232. GS, 6.138—see SW , 2.1.199. 233. Gretel Adorno / Benjamin Briefwechsel, 208—see Gretel Adorno / Benjamin Correspondence, 142. 234. GS, 6.465—see SW , 2.2.628. 235. GS, 4.311—see SW , 1.417. 236. GS, 4.242—see SW , 3.349. 237. GS Briefe, 66—see Correspondence, 34.

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238. 239. 240. 241. 242. 243. 244. 245. 246. 247. 248. 249. 250.

251. 252. 253. 254. 255.

256.

GS, 3.442—see SW , 3.5. GS, 1.175—see SW , 1.336. Watford Observer, November 13, 1953. GS, 2.188—see SW , 1.242. GS, 2.200—see SW , 1.249. GS, 2.769—see SW , 2.1.206. GS, 7.85—see Radio Benjamin, 22. GS, 7.97—see Radio Benjamin, 34. GS, 7.85-6—see Radio Benjamin, 22. Watford Observer, December 23, 1949. GS, 7.106—see Radio Benjamin, 45. GS, 2.391—see SW , 2.2.577. No less than eighteen hundred children and adults from the Estate went to the London Casino to see a production of Emile Littler’s Miss Muffett—see Watford Observer, December 23, 1949. GS, 1.697—see SW , 4.392. GS, 2.667—see SW , 2.1.370. GS, 4.143—see SW , 1.484. GS, 4.323—see SW , 2.1.27. See Martin Jay and Gary Smith, “A Talk with Mona Jean Benjamin, Kim Yvon Benjamin and Michael Benjamin,” Benjamin Studien / Studies, 1 (2002): 11–25. GS, 4.113—see SW , 1.463.

Texts Cited Adorno, Gretel and Walter Benjamin. 2005. Briefwechsel 1930–1940. Edited by Christophe Gödde and Henri Lonitz. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2005. Adorno, Theodor W. and Walter Benjamin. 1994. Briefwechsel 1928–1940. Edited by Henry Lonitz. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag. Benjamin, Walter. 1978. Gesammelte Schriften Briefe. Edited by Gershom Scholem and Theodor W. Adorno. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag. ——— and Gershom Scholem. 1980. Briefwechsel 1933–1940. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag. ———. 1992. Gesammelte Schriften. 7 vols. Edited by Rolf Tiedmann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag. Clarendon School Governors’ Meetings Minutes. HEd1/177/1, Hertfordshire Archives and Local Studies. Estate News, South Oxhey. Hertfordshire Archives and Local Studies. West Herts and Watford Observer.

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Texts Consulted Adorno, Gretel and Walter Benjamin. 2008. Correspondence 1930–1940. Edited by Henri Lonitz. Translated by Wieland Hoban. London: Polity. Adorno, Theodor W. 1999. Walter Benjamin: The Complete Correspondence 1928–1940. Edited by Henry Lonitz. Translated by Nicholas Walker. London: Polity Press. Benjamin, Walter. 1992. Correspondence of Walter Benjamin and Gershom Scholem 1932–1940. Edited by Gershom Scholem. Translated by Gary Smith and Andre Lefevere. London: Harvard University Press. ———. 1994. Correspondence of Walter Benjamin. Translated by Manfred and Evelyn Jacobson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1998. The Origin of German Tragic Drama. Translated by John Osbourne. London: Verso. ———. 1999. The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press. ———. 1996–2003. Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings. 4 vols. Edited by Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith. London: Harvard University Press. ———. 2014. Radio Benjamin. Edited by Lecia Rosenthal. Translated by Jonathan Lutes et al. London: Verso. ———. 2016. The Storyteller. Edited and translated by Sam Dolbear et al. London: Verso. Brotherstone, H. F. et al. 1956. “General Practice on a New Housing Estate.” British Journal of Preventive and Social Medicine 10: 200–207. Eiland, Howard and Michael Jennings. 2014. Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gale, Stanley. 1949. Modern Housing Estates. London: Batsford. Glass, Ruth. 1964. London: Aspects of Change. London: MacGibbon and Kee. Jay, Martin and Gary Smith. 2002. “A Talk with Mona Jean Benjamin, Kim Yvon Benjamin and Michael Benjamin.” Benjamin Studien / Studies 1: 11–25. Ratcliff, Edward C. 1953. The Coronation Service of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schad, John. 2012. Late Walter Benjamin. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Scheurmann, Ingrid and Konrad, eds. 1993. For Walter Benjamin. Translated by Timothy Nevill. Bonn: AsKI.

CHAPTER 4

Barely a Film Performing Inexist[a]nce

by Fred Dalmasso

I/III Looking back on our two plays, what strikes me first is that they are both entangled in film. In this, they pick up on an interest in film that can, of course, be found in the work of both Derrida and Benjamin. Derrida, for example, played his own character in Ken McMullen’s Ghost Dance (1983), and last appeared publicly on film in Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering’s Derrida (2002). Benjamin, meanwhile, not only reflected extensively on the then-new media of film but used the filmic technique of montage as a structuring principle in his composite texts; indeed, in one such text, The Arcades Project , he writes that “all problems of contemporary art find their definitive formulation only in connection with film.”1 Film works its way into not only the text of our plays but also the performance. Towards the end of “Benjamin,” for instance, a whole scene is dedicated to the characters gathering around an invisible, or imagined television set that is broadcasting the 1953 Coronation Service. While

© The Author(s) 2021 J. Schad and F. Dalmasso, Derrida | Benjamin, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8_4

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the flickering television set repeatedly gets thumped into working, its seethrough screen becomes a strange invisible focus for the gaze of both performers and audience. In “Derrida,” film is even more important, with the scenography including the projection of filmed activities on to a quartered screen at the back of the stage as the performers, intermittently but compulsively, toy with pages from a copy of Derrida’s The Post Card that they are making into paper hats, boats, and crowns. This scenography thus enables a series of juxtapositions/contradictions as a va-et-vient between the “long-shot” of theatre and the close-up of cinema, with the audience given access to a host of minute details such as the crease on the back of a hand. The projection of this micro-choreography of hands and paper manufactures, I suggest, a kind of absence in which limbs dissolve into images. Bodies, that is, are put at a cinematic distance, echoing Derrida’s fascinating claim, from The Post Card, that “our life [is] barely a film.”2 This distancing effect is reinforced when, in a camera movement reminiscent of Lars von Trier’s film-theatre, the labyrinth on stage is filmed from above and appears in bird’s-eye view on the screen. As Babak Ebrahimian has argued, while the three constitutive elements of theatre (the stage [a three-dimensional space], the body [the actor], and the spectator [the audience]) “are [all] located together in the present time, [film] has its essence located in distance – or in the past – in an absence.”3 Given that both our plays are very much concerned with absence, most obviously the absence of a now-dead philosopher, I was very keen, as director, to involve film within our scenography. Nevertheless, in more ways than one, there is an inescapable body in both “Derrida” and “Benjamin”—indeed, each play includes the investigation of a murder mystery; in one case, this turns into a ritual sacrifice of sorts, in the other it turns into a pantomime of sorts. Both plays focus, though, not simply on who might have killed but what might have killed. Words, thoughts, and even objects are put on trial—including, for instance, the telephone and typewriter in “Derrida,” and the briefcase and bus tickets in “Benjamin.” Important here is Benjamin’s claim that “the world is contained in the object.”4 It might be said that the work of investigation in each play concerns not only which things might bring someone’s life to an end but also which things might bring someone back to life. These things include letters, gestures, paper boats, dance-steps, books, libraries, riddles, and footlight glares—all intangible traces of existence that haunt the stage. Note too

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how the spectres that people our stage variously dream, think, loiter, throw books to the floor, scratch matches outside telephone booths, and even consider torching whole libraries. It is not, then, simply a question, as Derrida might put it, of a ghost standing in front of us and calling the shots but rather of one that is lurking “behind you”—to echo the cry of the audience at a pantomime. We are very mindful of Benjamin’s interest in what he calls the “pantomime of […] existence.”5 II/III In classical theatre, from Aeschylus’ The Persians to Shakespeare’s Hamlet , the spectre is most commonly summoned in order to teach a lesson to the living, a lesson to do with memory, the memory of order, and a call to restore that order, often through revenge. In contrast, the spectral figures in our two plays are not purely witnesses to the past; neither, though, are they conjured up as witnesses purely to the present. In each case, then, entering a time not their own, they bring about a kind of havoc time. Moreover, while in classical theatre the ghost figure refuses to die a second death, or symbolic death, in our two plays it is physical death that seems to be suspended, postponed. In “Derrida,” there is the “step of the dance” that seems to defer the tomb of the letter “a” and, throughout the play, death is othered as D____ keeps talking of dying of a death that is no longer his own. In “Benjamin,” meanwhile, death seems to be almost a mode of travel and, perhaps, even flânerie, as Tal first claims he is a dead man from Berlin, and then his attempt at suicide at the seaside turns into a Chaplinesque loop. This cheating of death in both plays is akin, I would suggest, to the phenomenon of fainting, or syncope—an event or experience that very closely resembles death, except that it is not a passing away but rather a passing-out that implies a coming-to. The syncope is, of course, imbued with mystery, and question: Where was I? Where am I? What is this world I am coming to? And such questions are so important in “Derrida” and “Benjamin” that both plays, I suggest, could be usefully envisaged via what I have come to call syncopolitics .6 This term, or neologism, is a montage, collision, or even a syncopation of letters that points to a reconception of politics as syncope. And it is striking that in each play we have a kind of documentary theatre in which the central philosophical spectre disrupts a verbatim world—a world that is imbued with reallife events and real-life politics. In each case, then, the eruption of the philosopher fractures what there is, or rather what is given as what there

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is. In her seminal study of the syncope, Catherine Clément urges us to take time to experience and think the in-between, the time-lag, the “radical surprise [where] one remains syncopated.”7 And while there is some comfort to be drawn from both plays’ tendency to lose themselves in interstitial, interrupted thought, there is also something manifestly radical in the ability of the central figure to appear where one least expects him—Oxford in the 1930s, or a council estate in the late 1940s. It is no accident that, echoing Brecht’s theatre of gestures, or Gestus, both of our spectral philosophers repeatedly stumble, trip, and fall: Tal keeps tripping over an invisible mattress, while D____ prat-falls from his chair, even as he talks of stumbling on a book or falling from a trapeze. D____ also dances as he lectures, and Tal even attempts to lecture while standing, like Hillel the Elder, upon one leg. As adepts of the art of the syncope, our two philosophers are, of course, in their writing, full of tricks that effect syncopated thinking—see, for example, the incinerated spaces within Derrida’s postcards, or Benjamin’s preoccupation with each and every second of time as a straight gate through which the impossible might enter. Jean-Luc Nancy defines thought as “a commotion, a syncope, and a bedazzlement,”8 and the harum-scarum comedy routines within both plays are precisely our attempt to achieve for both performer and audience something of the commotion, bedazzlement, and syncope of thought. According to the Neoplatonic philosopher, Marsilio Ficino, in Book XIII of his Theologia Platonica, the syncope is one of the seven states of what he calls vacatio. “There are,” he writes, “seven kinds of emptying or release: in sleep, in syncope or swoon, in melancholia, in temperance, in solitude, in wonder, and in chastity.”9 These states enable one to predict, he argues, “what pertains to the vicissitudes of the times and the violent changes of the elements, so that it can foresee a future rainstorm or earthquake or the like.”10 In each of our plays, the central philosophical spectre appears to experience most of these states of vacatio; however, since theatre never leaves the body behind, what we have is something that is more like the coming-to moment of syncope, which seems to mean a fascination not so much with a speculative future but rather with a very real present, or now-time—Benjamin’s Jeztzeit. Witness Tal’s claim that “we who have died are resurrected […] in what happens to us,” or D____’s talk of “fomenting a resurrection,” the word “fomenting” being suggestive of revolution.

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To put all this another way, what is at stake in the syncope is the possibility of a conceptual, and perhaps also physical, leap away from the self without the guarantee of a return to the self—in short, the very opposite of a withdrawal within oneself (un repli sur soi). In this sense, wandering, displacement, exile, or trespassing on stage could all be seen as versions or modes of the syncope, and as revealing a different way of being to the world, or of going-back to the world—a radically different way back since, as Clément remarks, “when one returns from syncope it is the real world that suddenly looks strange.”11 In this respect, syncopated thinking is emancipatory. To think of radical politics as what can only happen as the syncope, to believe that change can only come from the least expected places and, indeed, non-places of syncope, is of course, very much in line with both Benjamin’s notion of messianic becoming and Derrida’s notion of the to-come. III/III Important in this connection is, I believe, what Alain Badiou calls inexistance, and his definition of politics as “the art of the impossible.”12 For him, politics has a “value only insofar as it prescribes a ‘possibility’ for a situation that the immanent norm of this situation defines precisely as impossible.”13 This leads him to consider different degrees or intensities of existence in a given situation, and ultimately to equate true politics with the rising up of the inexistent—that is, the emergence of what was not hitherto deemed possible. For Badiou, inexistance is a mode of existence, and existence is a unit of measure, that of the degree of appearance of an object in a world; inexistance corresponds, therefore, to a minimal degree of appearing in a world. Badiou believes, then, that an event of politics only occurs when that which inexists in a world (what is unaccounted for) rises from the recesses of that world or situation.14 And this notion of inexistance with an “a” is, in fact, an answer to Derrida’s discourse on différance, a discourse that we dramatise in our play; for Badiou, what is at stake in Derridean différance is “the inscription of the non-existent,” an inscription which Badiou argues is impossible without finding “a language of flight” or “locating a vanishing point.”15 The syncope, I would suggest, is one of the ways through which we could find not only just such a flight but also the promise of a return, of a rising. Both of our plays partake, then, in a theatre of inexist[a]nce, for in each case the central figure arise from out of that minimal degree of existence we call death.16

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To begin again, we might say that within syncopolitics the syncope is a place-holder for the possibility that the unexpected might disrupt a given situation. The syncope triggers, that is, the un-thought that the impossible might yet occur. For Nancy, the syncope is an “unimagining” akin to “the darkness on stage, the end of the film, the film not printed. Not a thing behind the image waiting to appear, but the reversal and underside of the image.”17 This “unimagining” again recalls those indeterminable “stretch[es] of destroyed surface” to be found in Derrida’s postcards18 ; however, the syncope is not simply a scorched earth policy, for it always entails an ineluctable return. But, a return to what? Or to re-frame this question: How can the experience of the syncope inform the return from it ? Crucial here is the thought that the syncope is an experience of a gap which renders the subject both groundless and speechless at the point of coming-to, and that, as and when the subject is once again grounded or restored to speech, he does not simply return to his old ground or speech. In the plays, upon their return from the syncope of their real-life deaths, both D____ and Tal are grounded only in and through their encounters with manifestly alien figures: Oxonians in one case, displaced London workers in another. Similarly, their speech is invariably a kind of speech-lessness, or at best an attenuated speaking; note how their words are more peculiar than even in life—more volatile, more akin to an audible gaping, and also how often others speak for them. These words are, then, not quite those of Derrida and Benjamin, nor even those of D____ and Tal; instead, they are words that are passed-on through a process of collective cantillation. “Derrida” and “Benjamin” are, then, plays of voices; these are, though, voices which, to quote one of Benjamin’s quotes, together suggest a collective “unconscious of oblivion” that “comes to light in dreams, thoughts, decisions, and above all at moments of crisis or of social upheaval.”19 As such, the voices of our plays might be said to be calling for the rising up of the inexist[a]nt, a rising up that takes place as and when the disappeared, or unaccounted-for (the syncopated no-ones), finally come together, or rally together. Syncopolitics eludes any fixed idea or ideological position, and so a theatrical syncopolitics partakes of an Artaudian cruelty in which, upon coming-to, the speech that is staged “will appear as a necessity, as the result of a series of compressions, collisions, [and] scenic frictions, […] of all kinds).”20 That is precisely what we have in our two plays.

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To draw to a close, then, our plays attempt to stage a return from the syncope that inscribes the subject as a hiatus within the world, and thus points to a place that, though currently vacant, may yet be re-occupied. In short, what we have in both the plays is, as with syncopolitics itself, not a call for interruption but for a re-occupying of the gap, a manifestation of inexist[a]nce. In Logics of Worlds, Badiou explains that the subject resides in the “‘aside from,’ the ‘except that,’ the ‘but for,’ through which the fragile scintillation of what has no place to be makes its incision in the unbroken phrasing of a world.”21 And I would suggest that our plays belong to a form of theatre that could itself be described as a fleeing, a flickering, or “the fragile scintillation of what has no place to be” and yet might re-occupy the world. To conclude, and to do so with Benjamin, it might well be that the world of our plays is a world in which “Truth […] lives solely in the rhythm by which statement and counterstatement displace each other in order to think each other.”22 It is hard to imagine a better definition of performance philosophy.

Notes 1. Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, tr. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 394. 2. Jacques Derrida, The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond, tr. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, [1980] 1987), 177. 3. Babak Ebrahimian, The Cinematic Theater (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2004), 4. 4. Benjamin, Arcades Project, 207. 5. Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, 4 vols., ed. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996–2003), 2.1.134. 6. Fred Dalmasso, “Retrait de l’image et syncopolitique”, F. Dalmasso and S. Jamet, eds., La Syncope dans les arts visuels et les arts de la scène (Paris: Le Manuscrit, 2017), 227. 7. Catherine Clément, Syncope: The Philosophy of Rapture, tr. Sally O’Driscoll and Deirdre M. Mahoney (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, [1990] 1994), 125. 8. Nancy, Jean-Luc, The Ground of the Image, tr. Jeff Fort (New York: Fordham University Press, 2005), 79. 9. Marsilio Ficino, Platonic Theology, 6 vols., tr. Michael J. B. Allen (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 4.151. 10. Ibid., 4.149.

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11. Clément, Syncope, 1. 12. Alain Badiou, Theory of the Subject, tr. Bruno Bosteels (London: Continuum, [1982], 2009), 317. 13. Alain Badiou, L’Antiphilosophie de Wittgenstein (Caen: NOUS, 2009), 48—my translation. 14. See Alain Badiou, Second Manifesto for Philosophy, tr. Louise Burchill (Cambridge: Polity, [2009], 2011) passim. 15. Alain Badiou, Pocket Pantheon, tr. David Macey (London: Verso [2008] 2009), 132, 143. 16. Brackets are mine to build on the Derridean lineage of this notion and on the reading of the “a” letter as a receptacle for syncopolitics and indeed the “the subversion of every realm”—Jacques Derrida, Margins of Philosophy, tr. Alan Bass (London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1982), 22. 17. Nancy, The Ground, 79. 18. Derrida, Post Card, 4. 19. Benjamin, Arcades Project, 396–397—Benjamin is here quoting Pierre Mabille. 20. Antonin Artaud, The Theater and Its Double, tr. Mary Caroline Richards (New York: Grove Press, [1938] 1994), 111. 21. Alain Badiou, Logics of Worlds, tr. Alberto Toscano (London: Continuum [2006] 2009), 45. 22. Benjamin, Arcades Project, 410.

Texts Cited Artaud, Antonin. [1938] 1994. The Theater and Its Double. Translated by Mary Caroline Richards. New York: Grove Press. Badiou, Alain. [1982] 2009. Theory of the Subject. Translated by Bruno Bosteels. London: Continuum. ———. [2006] 2009. Logics of Worlds. Translated by Alberto Toscano. London: Continuum. ———. [2008] 2009. Pocket Pantheon. Translated by David Macey. London: Verso. ———. 2009. L’Antiphilosophie de Wittgenstein. Caen: NOUS. ———. [2009] 2011. Second Manifesto for Philosophy. Translated by Louise Burchill. Cambridge: Polity. Benjamin, Walter. 1996–2003. 4 vols. Selected Writings. Edited by Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 2002. The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Clément, Catherine. [1990] 1994. Syncope: The Philosophy of Rapture. Translated by Sally O’Driscoll and Deirdre M. Mahoney. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dalmasso, Fred and Stéphanie, Jamet. 2017. La Syncope dans les arts visuels et les arts de la scène / Syncope in Performing and Visual Arts. Paris: Le Manuscrit. Derrida, Jacques. [1980] 1987. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. Translated by Alan Bass. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Ebrahimian, Babak. 2004. The Cinematic Theater. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Ficino, Marsilio. 2001. Platonic Theology. 6 vols. Translated by Michael J. B. Allen. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Nancy, Jean-Luc. 2005. The Ground of the Image. Translated by Jeff Fort. New York: Fordham University Press.

Index

A Adami, Valerio, 5 Adorno, Theodor, 57, 67 Aeschylus, 185 Aladdin, 153 alarm-clock, 150 alphabet, 60 America, 68, 108, 159, 169 anagram, 113 angel, 101, 111, 124, 133 Apollo, 132 appeasement, 65 archive, 27, 51 Artaud, Antonin, 3, 4, 7 asphalt, 4, 71, 122, 123 Athens, 32, 70 Austin, J.L., 64 B Badiou, Alain, 187, 189 Baedeker Raids, 58 Balliol College, 42 Barker-Benfield, Bruce, 92 Baudelaire, Charles, 149

Bayswater, 128 beggar, 87–89 Being, 60, 78 Benjamin, Dora, 108, 131, 135, 171 Benjamin, Stefan, 108, 131 Benjamin, Walter Arcades Project, The, 183 and border, 1, 8, 107, 148, 155 and film, 183 and radio, 1, 3, 9 and suicide, 129 and theatre, 1, 2, 4–7, 9 and Voice Land, 3 Berlin, 4, 5, 59, 69, 107, 112, 185 Blanqui, Louis Auguste, 175 Bletchley Park, 59 Bodleian Library, The, 38 Bolshevist, 139 bomb, 58, 125, 150 boredom, 137 Bourseiller, Antoine, 9 brains, 46 Brecht, Bertolt, 3, 4, 186 Broad Street, Oxford, 71

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Schad and F. Dalmasso, Derrida | Benjamin, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-49807-8

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194

INDEX

Burton, Robert, 96 C cars, 64, 129 catastrophe, 52, 101, 125, 145, 146 Chaplin, Charlie, 120 child, 5, 23, 24, 28, 31, 33, 40, 53, 54, 82–84, 89, 108, 130, 131, 167 Christ Church, 81 Churchill, Winston, 135 Clapham, 133 Clément, Catherine, 185, 187 Columbus, Christopher, 168, 169 Communist Party, 174 confession, 50, 73 Coronation, 153 Cranmer, Thomas, 71, 72 D dance, 47, 50, 60, 61, 67, 161, 184 Daphne, 132 dates, 55 Derrida, Aimé, 91 Derrida, Jacques accused, 46 and border, 1 and Cambridge, University of, 58 and Colombia University, 2 and film, 183, 184 and Oxford, University of, 23, 32 and theatre, 1, 3, 4, 6, 7 “Différance”, 59, 187 Dissemination, 3, 7 Glas , 9, 12 in El Biar, 27, 30 in exile, 2 in New York, 64 Restitutions , 2 Sheldonian Theatre, 2 Specters of Marx, 7

The Post Card, 22, 23, 25, 32, 184 Truth in Painting , 5 Derrida, Norbert, 33 Derrida, Paul, 33 devil, 31, 73 disaster, 28 door, 7, 79, 109, 116, 129–131, 142, 147 Dresden, 125 Duke Humfrey Room, the, 32, 37, 38

E Ebrahimian, Babak, 184 Eden, 84, 115 Eiland, Howard, 9, 10, 13, 172, 175, 176, 178, 179, 189 Elijah, 69, 70, 89 Elizabeth II, Queen, 151 Esther, Queen, 72, 74 Eurydice, 50 Evening Institute, the, 143, 144, 149 execution, 6, 72, 77, 119 extermination, 75, 76

F faith, 9 Ficino, Marsilio, 186 Fido, 61–63 film, 155, 183, 184, 188 fire, 38, 45, 87, 88, 131, 145 flânerie, 157, 185 forgetting, 2 Friday, 23, 26, 165 Fuchs, Elinor, 10 future, 32, 47, 48, 101, 170, 186

G gas, 133 Geneva, 158, 159 Gestapo, 129, 155

INDEX

195

God, 3, 8, 50, 57, 59, 65, 67, 89, 151, 157, 160, 161 gun, 6, 45, 46

Jewishness, 23, 50, 57, 67–69, 72, 74, 76, 114, 132 Juliet, 160

H Hackney, 124 Haggai of Oxford, 72 Haman, 72, 74, 75, 77 Hamburg, 125 Hamlet [the character], 6, 7, 185 Hampstead, 171, 172 hanging, 25, 27, 28, 77 haunting, 77 heaven, 88, 120 Heidegger, Martin, 30 Henderson, Derek, 131 Hillel-the-Elder, 143 history, 23, 60, 78, 101, 110, 124, 139 Hitler, Adolf, 58, 65, 144 Hogg, Quintin, 64 holocaust, 32, 87 hope, 6, 75, 76, 117, 123, 139, 170 hotel, 8, 105, 116, 126, 146, 155, 163 Howells, Christine, 11 Husserl, Edmund, 57, 59

K Kafka, Franz The Trial , 5, 6, 12 Kisiel, Michal, 10 Klee, Paul, 101 Kraus, Karl, 174

I impotence, 118, 139, 157 irony, 75, 148 Isaac, 82, 83, 85 Ismael, 120

J Jehovah Witnesses, 120, 142 Jennings, Michael, 9, 10, 13, 172, 176, 178, 179, 189 Jesus, 88, 161

L Labour Party, 135 labyrinth, 25, 36–38, 76, 184 Lacis, Asja, 9, 12 Latimer, Hugh, 71, 72 Latin, 32, 48, 50, 62, 80, 96, 113 laughter, 60, 138 law, 40, 86, 166, 167 letters, 23, 27, 66, 122, 144, 171, 172, 184, 185 library, 37–40, 110 Little Miss Muffet, 169, 171 London, 23, 91, 107, 108, 110, 116, 135, 136, 171, 174, 188 love, 3, 7, 8, 156, 157

M Madonna, 139 Margate, 133 Martin, Major William, 55, 56 Masterman, J.C., 63 mattress, 115, 126, 127, 142, 186 McMullen, Ken, 183 melancholia, 118, 186 memory, 46, 47, 185 Messiah, 110, 139, 140, 164 MI5, 55, 58, 63 Minos, 37 Montefiore, Alan, 95

196

INDEX

Moscow, 116 murder, 5, 44, 128, 184

N Nancy, Jean-Luc, 186 Naples, 4 National Health Service, 129 Nuremberg, 72, 77

O Ophelia, 45, 153 Oriel College, 96 Orpheus, 50 Ovid, 132 Oxford, 2, 23, 24, 27, 32, 34, 36–38, 40, 42, 44, 47, 57, 58, 63–65, 67, 69, 70, 86, 91–95, 186

P pantomime, 53, 153, 169, 184, 185 Paradise, 101, 116, 124, 142 Paris, 23, 59, 111, 135, 143, 147, 148 Paris, Matthew, 91 Prognostica Socratis basilei, 32, 35 Peeters, Benoît, 9, 11, 12, 90, 95 Pentecost, 151 Phaedo, 62, 94 phenomenology, 57, 67, 93 physics, 111, 185, 186 Plato, 17, 25, 32, 38, 58, 73, 94, 153 police, 23, 43, 128, 155, 163 Port Bou, 129, 155, 158, 163, 164 Poussin, Nicolas, 5 progress, 101, 147 promise, 187 puppets, 124, 154, 167 Putney, 147 Pyrenees, 107, 126, 133, 148

Q question, 6, 9, 32, 34, 35, 43, 60, 64, 65, 97, 115, 122, 123, 173, 174, 184, 185, 188 questionnaire, 119 questions, 120 quotation, 3, 11 R rain, 113, 142, 151, 152 redemption, 121 Reed, Mary, 92 resurrection, 88, 97, 186 revolution, 68, 112, 121, 186 Robinson Crusoe, 169 Romeo’s, 123, 157, 160, 165 Roth, Cecil, 95 Ryle, Gilbert, 57, 58, 93, 94 S Schad, J.R., 90 scintillation, 189 seaside, 133, 159, 185 secretary, 17, 72, 73 Shakespeare, 8, 170 Hamlet , 6, 7, 185 shoes, 5, 105, 115, 116, 142, 159 singing, 25 sleep, 48, 51, 110, 186 Sleeping Beauty, 136 snow, 172 Snow White, 169 Socrates, 1, 17, 26, 32, 35, 38, 43, 46, 52, 61, 73, 93, 94 Somerville College, 58 South Africa, 6 Southend, 158 South Oxhey, 107, 173, 174 storm, 101, 124, 142, 150 Sunday, 164 syncope, 185–188

INDEX

syncopolitics, 185, 187, 188 T tango, 50 telepathy, 141 telephone, 9, 22, 23, 25, 28–31, 70–72, 83, 84, 86, 87, 90, 95, 105, 122, 127, 128, 136, 184 television, 151–156, 161, 164, 166, 183 theatre and allegory, 7, 8 of cruelty, 3, 11 of death penalty, 6 of Europe, 2 of gesture, 3, 186 of ghosts, 7 of hospitality, 7–9 of misfortune, 2 of pardon, 6 theatrum mundi, 4 tomb, 60, 185 tragedy, 28 trapeze, 52, 186 trees, 122, 177 U Unger, Esther, 72

197

V vacatio, 186 Via Dolorosa, 139 viaticum, 78 Vichy, 28, 80, 96 Vienna, 91 von Trier, Lars, 184

W Watford, 107, 139 Weber, Samuel, 4, 7, 9, 11, 12 Westminster Abbey, 153 Wigoder, G., 96 window, 6, 68, 115, 120, 153, 162 Wizisla, Erdmut, 3, 11 world, 1, 3, 4, 7, 27, 47, 54, 61, 63, 75, 94, 110, 115, 126, 133, 140, 184, 185, 187–189

X Xerxes, 72, 95

Z Ziering, Amy, 183 Ziering, Dick, 183