Yet it will never be mine, this language, the only one I am thus destined to speak, as long as speech is possible for me in life and in death; you see, never will this language be mine. And truth to tell, it never was. You at once appreciate the source of my sufferings, the place of my passions, my desires, my prayers, the vocation of my hopes, since this language runs right across them all. But I am wrong, wrong to speak of a crossing and a place. For it is on the shores of the French language, uniquely, and neither inside nor outside it, on the unplaceable line of its coast that, since forever, and lastingly (a demeure), I wonder if one can love, enjoy oneself (jouir), pray, die from pain, or just die, plain and simple, in another language without telling anyone about it, without even speaking at all. But above all, and this is the double edge sword that I wish to confide to you almost without saying a word: I suffer and take pleasure in (jouis de) what I am telling you in our aforementioned common language: Yes, I only have one language, yet it is not mine. -Jacques Derrida
Posted on: Wed, 18 Sep 2013 00:48:38 +0000
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