Читать книгу The Politics of Friendship - Jacques Derrida - Страница 8

‘O my friends, there is no friend.’

I am addressing you, am I not?

How many of us are there?

– Does that count?

– Addressing you in this way, I have perhaps not said anything yet. Nothing that is said in this saying. Perhaps nothing sayable.

Perhaps it will have to be admitted, perhaps I have not yet even addressed myself. At least, not to you.

How many of us are there?

– How can you count?

– On each side of a comma, after the pause, ‘O my friends, there is no friend’ – these are the two disjoined members of the same unique sentence. An almost impossible declaration. In two times [deux temps], Unjoinable, the two times seem disjoined by the very meaning of what appears to be at once both affirmed and denied: ‘my friends, no friend’. In two times but at the same time, in the contretemps of the same sentence. If there is ‘no friend’, then how could I call you my friends, my friends? By what right? How could you take me seriously? If I call you my friends, my friends, if I call you, my friends, how dare I add, to you, that there is no friend?

Incompatible as they may appear, and condemned to the oblivion of contradiction, here, in a sort of desperately dialectical desire, the two times already form two theses – two moments, perhaps – they concatenate, they appear together, they are summoned to appear, in the present: they present themselves as in a single stroke, in a single breath, in the same present, in the present itself. At the same time, and before who knows who, before who knows whose law. The contretemps looks favourably on the encounter, it responds without delay but without renunciation: no promised encounter without the possibility of a contretemps. As soon as there is more than one.

But how many of us are there?

And first of all – you already sense it – in pronouncing ‘O my friends, there is no friend’, I have yet to say anything in my name. I have been satisfied with quoting. The spokesman of another, I have reported his words, which belong in the first place (a question of tone, syntax, of a gesture in speech, and so on) to a slightly archaic language, itself unsettled by the memory of borrowed or translated speech. Having signed nothing, I have assumed nothing on my own account.

‘O my friends, there is no friend’ – the words not only form a quotation that I am now reading in its old French spelling. They have a different ring: already, such a very long time ago, they bore the quotation of another reader hailing from my homeland, Montaigne: ‘that saying which’, he says, ‘Aristotle often repeated’. It is found in the Essays,¹ in the chapter ‘On Friendship’.

This, then, is a cited quotation. But the quotation of a saying attributed, only attributed, by a sort of rumour or public opinion. ‘O my friends, there is no friend’ is, then, a declaration referred to Aristotle. There will be no end to the work of glossing its attribution and its very grammar, the translation of these four words, three or four in Greek, since the only substantive in the sentence is repeated. Like a renowned filiation, an origin thus nicknamed seems, in truth, to lose itself in the infinite anonymity of the mists of time. It is not, however, one of those proverbs, one of those ‘sayings’ with no assignable author, whose aphoristic mode is seldom in the form of the apostrophe.

Quotation of friendship. A quotation coming from a chapter entitled ‘On Friendship’, after a title that repeats, already, an entire tradition of titles. Before naming Aristotle, Montaigne had massively quoted Cicero, his De Amicitia as much as the Tusculanes. Occasionally he had drawn the Ciceronian treatise within the genius of his paraphrase, precisely around this ‘O my friends’. The ‘sovereign and master-friendship’ had then to be distinguished from ‘friendships common and customary, in relation to which you must employ that saying which Aristotle often repeated’.

We have in memory our Laelius de Amicitia: we already hear the Ciceronian echo. Let us specify, in anticipation, just that the Ciceronian distinction between the two friendships (‘true and perfect’ or ‘vulgar and mediocre’) works only with an arithmetical twist. How many friends? How many of us are there? Determining a nomination and a quotation (pauci nominantur. those who are named or whose name is quoted are few and far between when true or perfect friendship is named), the distinction expresses rarity or the small in number. We shall never forget that. Are friends rare? Must they remain rare? How many are there? What account must be taken of rarity? And what about selection or election, affinity or proximity; what about parenthood or familiarity (oikeiótēs, as Plato’s Lysis already put it), what about one’s being-at-home or being-close-to-oneself in regard to that which links friendship to all laws and all logics of universalization, to ethics and to law or right, to the values of equality and equity, to all the political models of the res publica for which this distinction remains the axiom, and especially in regard to democracy? The fact that Cicero adds democracy as an afterthought changes nothing in the force or the violence of this oligophilial [oligophilique] note:

And I am not now speaking of the friendships of ordinary folk, or of ordinary people (de vulgari aut de mediocri) – although even these are a source of pleasure and profit – but of true and perfect friendship (sed de vera et perfecta loquor), the kind that was possessed by those few men who have gained names for themselves as friends (qualis eorum, qui pauci nominantur, fuit).²

An important nuance: the small in number does not characterize the friends themselves. It counts those we are speaking of, those whose legendary friendship tradition cites, the name and the renown, the name according to the renown. Public and political signs attest to these great and rare friendships. They take on the value of exemplary heritage.

Why exemplary? Why exemplary in a very strict sense? Rarity accords with the phenomenon, it vibrates with light, brilliance and glory. If one names and cites the best friends, those who have illustrated ‘true and perfect’ friendship’, it is because this friendship comes to illuminate. It illustrates itself, makes happy or successful things shine, gives them visibility, renders them more resplendent (secundas res splendidiores facit amicitia). It gives rise to a project, the anticipation, the perspective, the pro-vidence of a hope that illuminates in advance the future (praelucet), thereby transporting the name’s renown beyond death. A narcissistic projection of the ideal image, of its own ideal image (exemplar), already inscribes the legend. It engraves the renown in a ray of light, and prints the citation of the friend in a convertibility of life and death, of presence and absence, and promises it to the testamental revenance [ghostly apparition of the revenant, the ‘ghost’, its haunting return on the scene (Translator’s note)] of more [no more] life, of a surviving that will remain, here, one of our themes. Friendship provides numerous advantages, notes Cicero, but none is comparable to this unequalled hope, to this ecstasy towards a future which will go beyond death. Because of death, and because of this unique passage beyond life, friendship thus offers us a hope that has nothing in common, besides the name, with any other.

Why is the future thus pre-illumined, beyond life, by the hope that friendship projects and inspires in this way? What is absolute hope, if it stems from friendship? However underdeveloped it may be, the Ciceronian answer leans sharply to one side – let us say the same side – rather than to the other – let us say the other. Such a response thus sets up the given state of our discussion. In two, three or four words, is the friend the same or the other? Cicero prefers the same, and believes he is able to do so; he thinks that to prefer is also just that: if friendship projects its hope beyond life – an absolute hope, an incommensurable hope – this is because the friend is, as the translation has it, ‘our own ideal image’. We envisage the friend as such. And this is how he envisages us: with a friendly look. Cicero uses the word exemplar, which means portrait but also, as the exemplum, the duplicate, the reproduction, the copy as well as the original, the type, the model. The two meanings (the single original and the multipliable copy) cohabit here; they are – or seem to be – the same, and that is the whole story, the very condition of survival. Now, according to Cicero, his exemplar is projected or recognized in the true friend, it is his ideal double, his other self, the same as self but improved. Since we watch him looking at us, thus watching ourselves, because we see him keeping our image in his eyes – in truth in ours – survival is then hoped for, illuminated in advance, if not assured, for this Narcissus who dreams of immortality. Beyond death, the absolute future thus receives its ecstatic light, it appears only from within this narcissism and according to this logic of the same.

(It will not suffice to claim exactly the contrary, as we will attempt to do, in order to provide a logical demonstration, in a decidable discourse; another way and another thought will be necessary for the task.)

This text by Cicero will also have been in turn, for a history (long and brief, past and to come), the glorious witness, the illustrious exemplar, of Ciceronian logic. This tradition is perhaps finished, even dying; it always will have been in its essence finishing, but its ‘logic’ ends up none the less, in the very consequence of the same, in a vertiginous convertibility of opposites: the absent becomes present, the dead living, the poor rich, the weak strong. And all that, acknowledges Cicero, is quite ‘difficult to say’, which means difficult to decide. Those who snigger at discourses on the undecidable believe they are very strong, as we know, but they should begin by attacking a certain Cicero as well. By reading him, then:

For the man who keeps his eye on a true friend, keeps it, so to speak, on a model of himself (tamquam exemplar aliquod intuetur sui). For this reason, friends are together when they are separated, they are rich when they are poor, strong when they are weak (et imbecilli valent), and – a thing even harder to explain – they live on after they have died (mortui vivunt), so great is the honour that follows them, so vivid the memory, so poignant the sorrow. That is why friends who have died are accounted happy (ex quo illorum beata mors videtur), and those who survive them are deemed worthy of praise (vita laudabilis).³

In this possibility of a post mortem discourse, a possibility that is a force as well, in this virtue of the funeral eulogy, everything seems, then, to have a part to play: epitaph or oration, citation of the dead person, the renown of the name after the death of what it names. A memory is engaged in advance, from the moment of what is called life, in this strange temporality opened by the anticipated citation of some funeral oration. I live in the present speaking of myself in the mouths of my friends, I already hear them speaking on the edge of my tomb. The Ciceronian variety of friendship would be the possibility of quoting myself in exemplary fashion, by signing the funeral oration in advance – the best of them, perhaps, but it is never certain that the friend will deliver it standing over my tomb when I am no longer among the living. Already, yet when I will no longer be. As though pretending to say to me, in my very own voice: rise again.

Who never dreams of such a scene? But who does not abhor this theatre? Who would not see therein the repetition of a disdainful and ridiculous staging, the putting to death of friendship itself?

This premeditation of friendship (de amicitia, peri phillas) would also intend, then, to engage, in its very space, work on the citation, and on the citation of an apostrophe. Of an apostrophe always uttered close to the end, on the edge of life – that is to say, of death.

What transpires when an apostrophe is quoted? Does an apostrophe let itself be quoted, in its lively and singular movement, here and now, this impulse in which I turn towards the singularity of the other, towards you, the irreplaceable one who will be my witness or whom I single out? Can the transport of this unique address be not only repeated but quoted? Conversely, would the apostrophe ever take place, and the pledge it offers, without the possibility of a substitution?

We will read these themes of the apostrophic pledge and its quotation later on; they are no doubt inseparable from the theme of the name: from the name of the friend and, in the name, from the mortality of the friend, from the memories and from the testament which, using precisely the same appellation, these themes call up.

Familiarities. What is familiarity? What is familial proximity? What affinity of alliance or consanguinity (Verwandschaft) is concerned? To what elective familiarity could friendship be compared? In reading Montaigne, Montaigne reading Cicero, Montaigne bringing back a ‘saying’ ‘often repeated’, here we are already – another testament – back with Aristotle. Enigmatic and familiar, he survives and surveys from within ourselves (but how many of us are there?). He stands guard over the very form of our sentences on the subject of friendship. He forms our precomprehension at the very moment when we attempt, as we are about to do, to go back over it, even against it. Are we not obliged to respect at least, first of all, the authority of Aristotelian questions? The structure and the norm, the grammar of such questions? Is not Aristotle in fact the first of the maieutic tradition of Lysis, to be sure (Lysis, è peri philías), but beyond him, in giving it a directly theoretical, ontological and phenomenological form, to pose the question of friendship (peri philías), of knowing what it is (tí estí), what and how it is (poîón tí), and, above all, if it is said in one or in several senses (monakhôs légatai è pleonakhôs)?⁴

It is true that right in the middle of this series of questions, between the one on the being or the being-such of friendship and the one on the possible plurivocity of a saying of friendship, there is the question which is itself terribly equivocal: kai tís o phílos. This question asks what the friend is, but also asks who he is. This hesitation in the language between the what and the who does not seem to make Aristotle tremble, as if it were, fundamentally, one and the same interrogation, as if one enveloped the other, and as if the question ‘who?’ had to bend or bow in advance before the ontological question ‘what?’ or ‘what is?’.

This implicit subjection of the who to the what will call for question on our part – in return or in appeal. The question will bring with it a protestation: in the name of the friend or in the name of the name. If this protestation takes on a political aspect, it will perhaps be less properly political than it would appear. It will signify, rather, the principle of a possible resistance to the reduction of the political, even the ethical, to the ontophenomenological. It will perhaps resist, in the name of another politics, such a reduction (a powerful reduction – powerful enough, in any case, to have perhaps constructed the dominant concept of the political). And it will accept the risk of diverting the Lysis tradition. It will attempt to move what is said to us in the dialogue elsewhere, from its first words, about the route and the name, the proper and the singular name, at that moment when this ‘maieutic’ dialogue on friendship (è peri philías) begins, at the crossing of who knows how many passages, routes or aportas, with love (érōs). It begins as well, let us not forget, by ‘diverting’ Socrates from a path leading him ‘straight’ (euthu) from the Academy to the Lyceum.

Yes, since when – whether we know it or not – have we ceased to be Aristotle’s heirs? And how many of us? And turned, by him already, towards the heritage itself, towards the theme of some last will, towards the testamentary in itself? The Eudemian Ethics, for example, inscribes friendship, knowledge and death, but also survival, from the start, in a single, selfsame configuration. The same here is none other than the other. It has at least the figure of the other. The necessary consequence of this strange configuration is an opportunity for thought. Beyond all ulterior frontiers between love and friendship, but also between the passive and active voices, between the loving and the being-loved, what is at stake is ‘lovence’ [aimance].⁵ You must know how it can be more worthwhile to love lovence. Aristotle recalls not only that it is more worthwhile to love, but that you had better love in this way, and not in that way; and that hence it is more worthwhile to love than to be loved. From then on, a singular preference destabilizes and renders dissymmetrical the equilibrium of all difference: an it is more worthwhile gives precedence to the act over potentiality. An activity carries it away, it prevails over passivity.

Ever-ready Aristotelian scholastics would tempt us confidently to take this a step further: this it is more worthwhile would acknowledge the preeminence of form over matter. And after a deduction of this sort, one would no longer be wary of a worrisome consequence. Rushing to the end, such a pre-eminence would then come, for once, with Aristotle, for a single time, not only to link lovence to dying, but to situate death on the side of act and on the side of form. For once, but irreversibly.

How does this come about? How would act, this time, bear itself over to death’s side? How would it bear death? For it bears death in itself in this case; it contains death. Preference and reference. But it bears death in itself in bearing itself over to death. It transports itself in death by that which, in it, at the time of death, addresses its reference in a single stroke.

Let us then see death coming on the road of this argumentation. Is not death, moreover, in question – death in so far as one sees it coming, and even in so far as a knowledge knows what it knows in seeing it coming, only in seeing it coming?

Aristotle therefore declares: as for friendship, it is advisable to love rather than to be loved. Let us not forget the general horizon of this affirmation. Justice and politics are at stake. This passage from the Eudemian Ethics opens, in fact, with the question of what is just, the just (to dikaíon) in friendship.⁶ What arises in the first place is precisely the question of the just or of justice, dikaiosúnē. Justice characterizes a way of behaving. It consists in behaving in a certain way: in accordance with the just, in harmony with the principle of the just. In its dignity as well as its necessity, this question is immediately equal to that of the beautiful and the desirable in friendship. It arrives, then, also in the first place, immediately following the general opening on the subject of friendship (peri philías): What is friendship? How or what is it? What is a friend? Is friendship said in one sense or in several?⁷

The whole task should certainly consist in determining this justice. But that seems possible only by forcing several aporias. We will begin, as always, with the implicit reference to Lysis (214–16), with the aporia of a friendship which seems doomed to the similar and to the dissimilar.⁸ But even before this first aporia, the just will be said and the passage will be forced only by first aligning oneself on a commonly held opinion. This opinion concerns the very work of the political: the properly political act or operation amounts to creating (to producing, to making, etc.) the most friendship possible (tês te gar politikês érgon einai dokei málista poiêsai philían⁹).

How is this the most possible to be understood? How many? Can that be calculated? How can you interpret the possibility of this maximum or this optimum in friendship? How is it to be understood politically? Must the most friendship [plus d’amitié] still belong to the political?

In all good sense, what you hear above all is loving; you must hear loving; you cannot fail to hear it in total confidence when the word friendship resounds: friendship consists in loving, does it not; it is a way of loving, of course. Consequence, implication: it is therefore an act before being a situation; rather, the act of loving, before being the state of being loved. An action before a passion. The act of this activity, this intention of loving, the phileín, is more proper to friendship itself (kata ten philían) than the situation which consists in letting oneself be loved or inducing love, in any case in being loved (phileisthai). Being-loved certainly speaks to something of philía, but only on the side of the beloved (philéton). It says nothing of friendship itself which implies in itself, properly, essentially, the act and the activity: someone must love in order to know what loving means; then, and only then, can one know what being loved means.

Friendship, the being-friend – what is that, anyway? Well, it is to love before being loved. Before even thinking about what loving, love, lovence mean, one must know that the only way to find out is by questioning first of all the act and the experience of loving rather than the state or situation of being loved. Why is that? What is its reason? Can we know? Well, precisely by reason of knowledge – which is accorded or allied here to the act. And here we have the obscure but invincible force of a tautology. The argument seems, in fact, simple: it is possible to be loved (passive voice) without knowing it, but it is impossible to love (active voice) without knowing it. Science or self-consciousness knows itself a priori comprehended, comprehended and engaged in the friendship of the one who loves – to wit, in the friend – but science or self-consciousness is no longer comprehended or engaged, or is not yet so on the side of the one who is loved. The friend is the person who loves before being the person who is loved: he who loves before being the beloved, and perhaps (but this is something else, even though the consequence follows) he who loves before being loved. Engaged science or consciousness here means conscripted twice over: implicated as in a condition of possibility (theoretical chain) and held in a pledge, a promise, an alliance (performative chain). This view can always fall back on the following analytic evidence: one must start with the friend–who–loves, not with the friend–who–is–loved, if one is to think friendship. This is an irreversible order. One can be loved while remaining ignorant of that very thing – that one is loved – and in this respect remain as though confined to secrecy. It could be said that such a secret is never revealed. But one cannot love, and one must not love, in such a state of ignorance of friendship itself (ésti gar lanthánein philoámenon, philoûnta d’oú¹⁰). Axiom: the friendship I bear [porte] for someone, and no doubt love as well, cannot remain a secret for myself. Even before it is declared (to the other, in a loud voice), the act of love would thereby be, at its very birth, declared. It would be in itself declared, given over to knowledge or to consciousness. The declaration would in truth be inscribed upon its art of birth. One loves only by declaring that one loves. Let us call that, for convenience’s sake, an axiom: the premiss of this entire line of reasoning seems to appeal to good sense, it is posed as unquestionable. As incontestable, in fact: one cannot bear witness against it without being party to it.

But there, in the dark, objections are massing up. We will abandon them to their virtuality for the moment. Being loved – what does that mean? Nothing, perhaps – nothing in any case of friendship itself in which the loved one, as such, has nothing to know, sometimes nothing to do. Being loved therefore remains – with regard to friendship itself, and therefore with regard to the friend – an accident (to men gar phileisthai sumbebekós¹¹). Friendship, what is proper or essential to friendship, can be thought and lived without the least reference to the be–loved, or more generally to the lovable – in any case, without having to set out from there, as from a principle. If we trusted the categories of subject and object here, we would say in this logic that friendship (philía) is first accessible on the side of its subject, who thinks and lives it, not on the side of its object, who can be loved or lovable without in any way being assigned to a sentiment of which, precisely, he remains the object. And if we do say ‘think and love’, as we shall see later, life, breath, the soul, are always and necessarily found on the side of the lover or of loving, while the being-loved of the lovable can be lifeless; it can belong to the reign of the non-living, the non-psychic or the ‘soulless’ (en apsúkhô¹²). One cannot love without living and without knowing that one loves, but one can still love the deceased or the inanimate who then know nothing of it. It is indeed through the possibility of loving the deceased that the decision in favour of a certain lovence comes into being.

This incommensurability between the lover and the beloved will now unceasingly exceed all measurement and all moderation – that is, it will exceed the very principle of a calculation. It will perhaps introduce a virtual disorder in the organization of the Aristotelian discourse. (This ‘perhaps’ has already marked the hesitant gait of our reading.) Something trembles, for example, in what Aristotle calls the natural (phúsei) hierarchy – that is, the hierarchy inscribed from birth between those inclined to love (to kissing, to caressing), the philetikoi, and on the other hand, below them, the last ones, the philótimoi. They prefer to be loved; they thus seek honours, distinction, signs of recognition.¹³ In addition, even if there were no essentially erotic dimension, no desire at work in the ever-more-dissymmetrical hierarchy of the philía, how will its formal structure in the relation between the sublunary world and the Prime Mover be respected?

If Eros and Philia are indeed movements, do we not have here an inverse hierarchy and an inverse dissymmetry? Prime Mover or pure Art, God sets in motion without Himself moving or being moved; He is the absolute desirable or desired, analogically and formally in the position of the beloved, therefore on the side of death, of that which can be inanimate without ceasing to be loved or desired (apsúkhon). Now in contrast to what takes place in friendship, no one will contest that this absolute object of desire is also found at the principle and at the summit of the natural hierarchy, whereas He does not allow himself to move or be moved by any attraction.

Let us go back down to the sublunary world. The dissymmetry risks, apparently and at first glance, complicating the egalitarian schema of the isótēs or – if I may use the term – the reciprocalist or mutualist schema of requited friendship (antiphileîn), such as Aristotle seems to insist on privileging them elsewhere.¹⁴ The phileîn would therefore be more appropriate to the essence of friendship (kata ten philían); the act of loving would better suit friendship, if not the beloved (philéton). Aristotle, then, proposes to give proof or a sign (semeion) of this suitability. If a friend had to choose between knowing and being known, he would choose knowing rather than being known. Every time he evokes this alternative and determines the choice, Aristotle places himself in the hypothesis in which the two experiences (knowing and being known, loving and being-loved, the lover and the lovable) are not compatible, at the moment when they do not appear possible at the same time.¹⁵ Basically it makes little difference. Even if the movement of the act and the passivity of the state were simultaneously possible, if that could take place in fact, the essential structure of the two experiences and the two relations would remain no less different. This irreducible difference is that which counts and permits counting. It is what justifies the intrinsic hierarchy: knowing will never mean, for a finite being, being known; nor loving being loved. One can love being loved, but loving will always be more, better and something other than being loved. One can love to be loved – or to be lovable – but one must first know how to love, and know what loving means by loving. The structure of the first must remain what it is, heterogeneous to that of the other; and that structure, that of loving for the lover, will always – as Aristotle tells us, in sum – be preferable to the other, to that of the being-loved as lovable. Loving will always be preferable to being-loved, as acting is preferable to suffering, act to potentiality, essence to accident, knowledge to non-knowledge. It is the reference, the preference itself

To make this understood, the Eudemian Ethics stages the example of what the women do in Antiphon’s Andromache. It is a matter of an example of adoption or of a nurse, of prosthetic maternity, of the substitution or the supposition of children, en tais upobolais, and here we are already in this familiarity of election which will everywhere remain our theme. These mothers confide their children to a nurse and love them without seeking to be loved in return. For to want to be known seems to be an ‘egoistic’ sentiment, as it is often translated; it is in any case a sentiment turned within oneself, in favour of oneself, for the love of self (autou éneka). It is passive, more in a hurry to receive or to enjoy the good than to do it, as Aristotle literally says (tou páskhein ti agathon alla mē poieîn); but one could just as well say: ready to receive the good that one does not have rather than to give that which one possesses (or even, as Plotinus will one day say – and this is something else – ready to give that very thing that one does not have). The Nichomachean Ethics recalls the same example, in order to make the same point. But Aristotle insists at this point on maternal joy or enjoyment [jouissance], in seeing there once again a sign or a proof of the preference (semeion d’ai metéres tô phileîn khaírousai¹⁶).

How can you pass from maternal enjoyment to death? This passage is not visible in the immediacy of the text. Naming, cetainly, the enjoyment of maternal love in so far as it renounces reciprocity, the Nicomachean Ethics associates it neither with surviving nor with dying. The Eudemian Ethics speaks of the renunciation of the mother, in her very love, but without naming enjoyment and in order immediately to go on [enchaîner] to death. We have just recalled this logical chain. To want to be known, to refer to self in view of self, to receive the good rather than to do it or to give it – this is an altogether different thing from knowing. Knowing knows in order to do and to love, for love and in view of doing and loving (to de ginôskein tou poiein kai tou phileîn éneka), as Aristotle then says, concluding: ‘This is why we praise those who continue to love their deceased, for they know but are not known’ (dio kai tous emménontas tô phileîn pros tous tethneôtas epainoumen, ginṓskousi gár, all’ ou ginṓskontai¹⁷). Friendship for the deceased thus carries this philía to the limit of its possibility. But at the same time, it uncovers the ultimate spring of this possibility: I could not love friendship without projecting its impetus towards the horizon of this death. The horizon is the limit and the absence of limit, the loss of the horizon on the horizon, the ahorizontality of the horizon, the limit as absence of limit. I could not love friendship without engaging myself, without feeling myself in advance engaged to love the other beyond death. Therefore, beyond life. I feel myself – and in advance, before any contract – borne to love the dead other. I feel myself thus (borne to) love; it is thus that I feel myself (loving).

Autology provides food for thought, as always: I feel myself loving, borne to love the deceased, this beloved or this lovable being of whom it has already been said that he was not necessarily alive, and that therefore he was bearing death in his being-loved, smack against his being-lovable, in the range [portée] of the reference to his very being-loved. Let us recall it, and let us do so in the words of Aristotle. He explains to us why one can rejoice and why there is a place for rejoicing in loving (dio to phileín khaírein), but one could never rejoice – or at the very least, we would say, not essentially, not intrinsically – in being loved (all’ ou to phileisthai estín). Enjoyment, the self-rejoicing, is immanent not to the beloved but to the loving, to its act, to its proper enétgeia,¹⁸ The criterion of this distinction follows an apparently invisible line. It passes between the living and the dead, the animate and the inanimate, the psychic and the a-psychic. A question of respiration or inspiration: loving belongs only to a being gifted with life or with breath (en empsúkô). Being loved, on the other hand, always remains possible on the side of the inanimate (en apsúkhô), where a psukhé may already have expired. ‘One also loves inanimate beings’ (phileitai gar kai ta ápsukha).¹⁹

(We are striving to speak here in the logic of Aristotle’s two Ethics, doing everything that seems possible to respect the conceptual veins of his argumentation. The reader who is familiar with Aristotle may find that the tone has changed, however, along with the pathos and the connotations; he may suspect some slow, discreet or secret drift. Let us ask him – let us ask ourselves – what the law of this drift is and, more precisely, if there is one, and if it be pure, the purely conceptual, logical or properly philosophical law of order. A law which would not only be of a psychological, rhetorical or poetic order. What is taking place here? And what if what is taking place were taking place precisely between the two orders that we have just distinguished, at their very juncture? Let us not forget that in the case of psychology, the question of the psukhé, or of animate life, is at the heart of all philosophical reflection on philía. For Aristotle, neither rhetoric nor poetics could ever be excluded from this reflection; and poets are quoted, more than once called up to testify, even as judges of truth.)

If philía lives, and if it lives at the extreme limit of its possibility, it therefore lives, it stirs, it becomes psychic from within this resource of survival. This philía, this psukhé between friends, sur-vives. It cannot survive itself as act, but it can survive its object, it can love the inanimate. Consequently it springs forward, from the threshold of this act, towards the possibility that the beloved might be dead. There is a first and irreducible dissymmetry here. But this same dissymmetry separates itself, after a fashion, in an unpresentable topology; it folds, turns inside out and doubles itself at the same time in the hypothesis of shared friendship, the friendship tranquilly described as reciprocal. I do not survive the friend, I cannot and must not survive him, except to the extent to which he already bears my death and inherits it as the last survivor. He bears my own death and, in a certain way, he is the only one to bear it – this proper death of myself thus expropriated in advance.

(I say that using the masculine gender {the [male] friend, he, and so forth} – not in the narcissistic or fraternal violence of a distraction, but by way of announcing a question awaiting us, precisely the question of the brother, in the canonical – that is, androcentric – structure of friendship.)

In any case, philía begins with the possibility of survival. Surviving – that is the other name of a mourning whose possibility is never to be awaited. For one does not survive without mourning. No one alive can get the better of this tautology, that of the stance of survival [survivance] – even God would be helpless.

Here again, the difference between the effective and the virtual, between mourning and its possiblility, seems fragile and porous. The anguished apprehension of mourning (without which the act of friendship would not spring forth in its very energy) insinuates itself a priori and anticipates itself; it haunts and plunges the friend, before mourning, into mourning. This apprehension weeps before the lamentation, it weeps death before death, and this is the very respiration of friendship, the extreme of its possibility. Hence surviving is at once the essence, the origin and the possibility, the condition of possibility of friendship; it is the grieved art of loving. This time of surviving thus gives the time of friendship.

But such a time gives itself in its withdrawal. It occurs only through self-effacement. [Il n’arrive qu’à s’effacer, also: ‘It succeeds only in effacing itself.’] It delivers itself up and withdraws twice and according to two modalities, as we shall see, in two times as incompatible as they are indissociable: firm and stable constancy on the one hand and, on the other, beginning again, renewal, the indefinite repetition of the inaugural instant, always anew, once again, the new in re-iteration. And this double contretemps delivers up the truth of friendship in the eerie light of a contre-jour, the present presents itself there only from within a source of phenomenal light which comes neither from the present (it is no longer the source) nor from the place from which it arises or in which it appears – the place of the gaze, of the self or of the ‘subject’, if you like. The contre-jour of this contretemps disjoins the presence of the present. It inscribes both intemporality and untimeliness in at least one of the figures of what Aristotle regularly calls primary friendship (e protè philía). Primary friendship: primary because it is the first to present itself according to logic and rank, primary according to sense and hierarchy, primary because all other friendship is determined with reference to it, if only in the gap of the drift or the failure. Primary friendship does not work without time, certainly, it never presents itself outside time: there is no friend without time (oud’ áneu khrónou phílos²⁰) – that is, without that which puts confidence to the test. There is no friendship without confidence (pístis), and no confidence which does not measure up to some chronology, to the trial of a sensible duration of time (è de pístis ouk áneu khrónou²¹). The fidelity, faith, ‘fidence’ [fiance], credence, the credit of this engagement, could not possibly be a-chronic. It is precisely by taking off from this credence [croire] that something like a temporalizing synthesis or symbolicity can be apprehended – beyond the letter of Aristotle’s text, one might say. Engagement in friendship takes time, it gives time, for it carries beyond the present moment and keeps memory as much as it anticipates. It gives and takes time, for it survives the living present. The paradox of the grieving survival is concentrated in the ever-so-ambiguous value of stability, constancy and firm permanence that Aristotle regularly associates with the value of credence or confidence (pístis). In primary friendship, such a faith must be stable, established, certain, assured (bébaios); it must endure the test of time. But at the same time, if this may still be said, áma, it is this faith which, dominating time by eluding it, taking and giving time in contretemps, opens the experience of time. It opens it, however, in determining it as the stable present of a quasi-eternity, or in any case from and in view of such a present of certainty. Everything is installed at home, as it were, in this conjunction of friendship, of ‘fidence’ and stable certainty. There is no reliable friendship without this faith (ouk ésti d’áneu písteōs philía bébaios²²), without the confirmed steadfastness of this repeated act of faith. Plato, too, associated philía with the same value of constancy and steadfastness. The Symposium recalls a few famous examples. A friendship that has become steadfast, constant or faithful (bébaios) can even defy or destroy tyrannical power.²³ Elsewhere, as we know – in the Timaeus, for example – the value of constancy is quite simply tied to that of the true or the veritable, in particular where it is a question of opinion or belief.

In its sheer stability, this assured certainty is not natural, in the late and current sense of the term; it does not characterize spontaneous behaviour because it qualifies a belief or an act of faith, a testimony and an act of responsible freedom. Only primary friendship is stable (bébaios), for it implies decision and reflection: that which always takes time. Only those decisions that do not spring up quickly (me takhu) or easily (mēde radíōs) result in correct judgement (ten krísin orihḗn).²⁴ This non–given, non– ‘natural’, non–spontaneous stability thus amounts to a stabilization. This stabilization supposes the passage through an ordeal which takes time. It must be difficult to judge and to decide. A decision worthy of the name – that is, a critical and reflective decision – could not possibly be rapid or easy, as Aristotle then notes, and this remark must receive all the weight of its import. The time is the time of this decision in the ordeal of what remains to be decided – and hence of what has not been decided, of what there is to reflect and deliberate upon – and thus has not yet been thought through. If the stabilized stability of certainty is never given, if it is conquered in the course of a stabilization, then the stabilization of what becomes certain must cross – and therefore, in one way or another, recall or be reminded of – the suspended indecision, the undecidable qua the time of reflection.

Here we would find the difference between spirit (the nous) and the animal body, but also their analogy. The analogy is as important as the difference, for it inscribes in the living body the habitus of this contretemps. It has its place in the very movement and in the possibility of such an inscription. The contretemporal habitus is the acquired capacity, the cultivated aptitude, the experimented faculty against the backdrop of a predisposition; it is the éxis that binds together two times in the same time, a duration and an omnitemporality at the same time. Such a contretemporality is another name for this psukhé, it is the being-animated or the animation of this life uniting the human spirit (the nous) and animality itself. This unifying feature conjugates man and animal, spirit and life, soul and body. It places them under the same yoke, that of the same liability [possibilité], that of the same aptitude to learn in suffering, to cross, to record and to take account of the ordeal of time, to withhold its trace in the body. This conjugation will warrant the poetic figure of the analogy which we will quote in a moment and which precisely names the yoke, the yoke effect.

It is starting from this analogy that the difference lets itself be thought. In the passage of time through time. Time exits from time. The ordeal of stabilization, the becoming-steadfast and reliable (bébaios), takes time. For this ordeal, this experience, this crossing (peira), withdraws time, it removes even the time necessary to dominate time and defeat duration. Bébaios: the stable but also the reliable. It determines a temporal but also intemporal modality, a becoming-intemporal or omnitemporal of time, whatever it affects (certainty, calculability, reliability, ‘fidence’, truth, friendship, and so forth). But it also marks – or rather, it hides in marking – the passage between two absolutely heterogeneous orders, the passage from assured certainty, calculable reliability, to the reliability of the oath and the act of faith. This act of faith belongs – it must belong – to what is incalculable in decision. We know that this break with calculable reliability and with the assurance of certainty – in truth, with knowledge – is ordained by the very structure of confidence or of credence as faith.

Hence of friendship. This structure is both acknowledged and unrecognized by Aristotle. The truth of friendship, if there is one, is found there, in darkness, and with it the truth of the political, as it can be thought in Greek: not only in the word bébaios (for example, for we do not think it possible to load such a burden on one word, on this word), but throughout the culture, the technics, the political organization and the Greek ‘world’ that carry it. In a state of intense philosophical concentration, we have here the whole story of eidos all the way up to the Husserlian interpretation of the idealization or production of ideal objects as the production of omnitemporality, of intemporality qua omnitemporality. It takes time to reach a stability or a certainty which wrenches itself from time. It takes time to do without time. One must submit, one must submit oneself to time in time. One must submit it, but – and here is the history of the subject as the history of time – in submitting oneself to it. To conjugate it, to enslave it, to place it under the yoke, and to do so for the spirit of man or of woman as for cattle – under the yoke (upozúgios):

There is no stable friendship with confidence, but confidence needs time (áneu khrónou). One must then make trial (dei gar peiran labein), as Theogms says: ‘You cannot know the mind of man or woman till you have tried (prin peiratheíes) them as you might cattle (ósper upozugíou).²⁵

But – as we shall see further on, in the course of one of our sallies to and fro – if primary friendship is excluded among animals, excluded between man and animal, excluded between the gods, between man and God, this is because éxis itself does not suffice for friendship. The disposition, the aptitude, even the wish – everything that makes friendship possible and prepares it – does not suffice for friendship, for friendship in act. Often éxis alone remains a simulacrum; it simulates or dissimulates real friendship, and makes the desire for friendship a case of wishful thinking, in which the signs of friendship are mistaken for friendship itself. The nub of the Aristotelian argument, as it can be formalized through development with other examples, certainly amounts to demanding and uncovering éxis, to taking into account a concrete and indispensable condition of possibility and describing it not as a formal structure, but – here, in any case – as a sort of existential opening (the power-of–being–a–friend, according to primary friendship, which is given neither to the animal nor to God). Aristotle, however, insists just as much, and with faultless rigour, on the insufficiency of this éxis, and thus on all conditions of possibility (liability [possibilité], aptitude, predisposition, even desire). The analysis of conditions of possibility, even existential ones, will never suffice in giving an account of the act or the event. An analysis of that kind will never measure up to what takes place, the effectivity – actuality – of what comes to pass – for example, a friendship which will never be reduced to the desire or the potentiality of friendship. If we insist, in turn, on this necessary limitation in the analysis of conditions of possibility, in this thought of the possible, it is for at least two reasons.

1. First of all, beyond this singular context (Aristotle on primary friendship), the wake of such a limitation crosses an immense problematic field, that of history, of the event, of the singularity of that which comes to pass in general. It is not enough that something may happen for it to happen, of course; hence an analysis of what makes an event possible – however indispensable it may continue to be, especially in Aristotle’s eyes – will never tell us anything about the event itself. But this evidence would still be too simple if one merely deduced from it an order of good sense: one that goes from the possible to the real, and from a retrograde analytic of the possible to the taking into account of the event, in the novelty of its appearance and the uniqueness of its occurrence. One cannot merely analyse the conditions of possibility, even the potentiality, of what occurs ‘once’, and then believe – this would be so naive – that one can say something pertinent about it. That which occurs, and thereby occurs only once, for the first and last time, is always something more or less than its possibility. One can talk endlessly about its possibility without ever coming close to the thing itself in its coming. It may be, then, that the order is other – it may well be – and that only the coming of the event allows, after the event [après coup], perhaps, what it will previously have made possible to be thought. To stay with our example: it is the experience of primary friendship, the meeting of its presence in act, that authorizes the analysis of éxis and of all predisposition – as well, for that matter, as of the two other types of friendships (derived, non-primary).

Among the immense consequences of this strong logical necessity, we must reckon with those concerning nothing less than revelation, truth and the event: a thought (ontological or meta-ontological) of conditions of possibility and structures of revealability, or of the opening on to truth, may well appear legitimately and methodologically anterior to gaining access to all singular events of revelation – and the stakes of this irreducible anteriority of good sense or common sense are limitless. ‘In fact’, ‘in truth’, it would be only the event of revelation that would open – like a breaking–in, making it possible after the event – the field of the possible in which it appeared to spring forth, and for that matter actually did so. The event of revelation would reveal not only this or that – God, for example – but revealability itself. By the same token, this would forbid us saying ‘God, for example’.

Is there an alternative here? Must one choose between these two orders? And is this necessary first of all in the case of the so-called ‘revealed’ religions, which are also religions of the social bond according to loving (love, friendship, fraternity, charity, and so forth)? Must one choose between the priority of revelation (Offenbarung) and that of revealability (Offenbarkeit), the priority of manifestation and that of manifestability, of theology and theiology, of the science of God and the science of the divine, of the divinity of God?²⁶ And above all, supposing there were an alternative between these two orders, what difference would it make to introduce this Aristotelian proposition according to which there could never be (primary) friendship between God and man? We shall come across this question again, but it implicitly organizes all reflection on the possibility of a politics of friendship.

2. The thought of the act or the event from which the Aristotelian argument derives its authority is also, rather than a thought of each (good sense and common sense), a thought of ‘each one’, of individual singularity. It is true that this thought of each one can take root, in order to return, in phrónesis, in perspicacious judgement and in the prudence of common sense. If the indispensable possibility of éxis does not suffice, if for that one must pass to the act and if that takes time while overcoming time, this is because one must choose and prefer: election and selection between friends and things (prágmata), but also between possible friends – and this will soon lead us back to the vicinity of an ‘O phíloi oudeis phílos’, whose ‘O’ we shall not determine for the moment, and to its arithmetic lesson. Why are the mean, the malevolent, the ill-intentioned (phauloi) not, by definition, good friends? Why do they ignore the sharing or the community of friends (koina ta phílōn)? Because they prefer things (prágmata) to friends. They stock friends among things, they class friends at best among possessions, among good things. In the same stroke, they thus inscribe their friends in a field of relativity and calculable hypotheses, in a hierarchical multiplicity of possessions and things. Aristotle affirms the opposite: in order to accomplish the antithesis of these mean people or bad friends, I assign (prosnémō) relations otherwise, and distribute the priorities differently. I include good things among friends or in view of friends. Here is a preference neglected by the wicked. They invert or pervert this good hierarchy in truth by including their friends among things or in view of things, instead of treating things as things of friendship, as affairs (prágmata) belonging to the sphere of friends, serving the cause of friends, assigned first and foremost to friends.²⁷

Recommending this preferential attribution, Aristotle speaks, then, of friends rather than of friendship. One must not only prefer friendship, but give the preference to friends. Since it is a question of singularities, this is an inevitable consequence: one must prefer certain friends. The choice of this preference reintroduces number and calculation info the multiplicity of incalculable singularities, where it would have been preferable not to reckon with friends as one counts and reckons with things. So the arithmetic consideration, the terrible necessity of reckoning with the plurality of friends (phíloi, this plural that we shall come across again later in the two possible grammars for the sentence quoted and examined by Montaigne), still depends on temporality, on the time of friendship, on the essence of philía that never works without time (áneu khrónou). One must not have too many friends, for there is not enough time to put them to the test by living with each one.

For one must live with each him. With each her.

Is that possible?

Living – this is understood with with. Whatever the modalities may later be, living is living with. But every time, it is only one person living with another: I live, myself, with (suzao), and with each person, every time with one person. In the passage we will quote in translation, the conjunction between the test or the experience (peira) of time (khronos) and of singularity, of each one (ékastos) must yet again be underlined. This bond of time and number in the principle of singularity is never separated from the hierarchical principle: if one must choose, then the best must be chosen. A certain aristocracy is analytically encompassed in the arithmetic of the choice:

The primary friendship (e philía e prōte) then is not found towards many (en pollois), for it is hard to test many men (kalepon pollôn peiram labein), for one would have to live with each (ekásto gar an édei suzêtaí). Nor should one choose a friend like a garment. Yet in all things it seems the mark of a sensible man (tou noun ékhontos) to choose the better of two alternatives; and if one has used the worse garment for a long time and not the better, the better is to be chosen, but not in place of an old friend (anti tou pálai philou), one of whom you do not know whether he is better. For a friend is not to be had without trial (áneu peíras) nor in a single day (mias ēméras), but there is need of time (alla khrónou dei) and so ‘the bushel of salt’ has become proverbial.²⁸

The bushel-of-salt proverb recalls simultaneously the test and the parcelling–out, the experience and the part taken: one must have eaten the whole bushel of salt with someone before one is able to trust him, in a stable, sure, time-tested way, but the time of renewed ‘fidence’ eludes time, it conquers time in yet another way. Previously, the stable steadfastness of the reliable (bébaios) appeared to us in the form of continuity, duration or permanence: the omnitemporality that in time overcomes time. But to pass to the act beyond éxis, to be renewed and reaffirmed at every instant, the reliable in friendship supposes a re–invention, a re–engagement of freedom, a virtue (areté) that interrupts the animal analogy we were discussing above. This is another way of negating time in time, this time in the form of discontinuity, through the reinvention of the event. But here again the economy of time, even of the ‘at the same time’ (áma), commands that the instant of the act and the plenitude of enérgeia be linked to the calculation of number. The test of friendship remains, for a finite being, an endurance of arithmetic. Indeed, the friend must not only be good in himself, in a simple or absolute (aplôs) manner, he must be good for you, in relation to you who are his friend. The friend is absolutely good and absolutely or simply the friend when these two qualities are in harmony, when they are ‘symphonious’ with one another. All the more so, no doubt, when the friend is useful to his friend even if he is not absolutely virtuous or good (spoudaios). This last passage²⁹ is famous for its reputed obscurity, but the conclusion seems clear: it is not possible to love while one is simultaneously, at the same time (ama), the friend of numerous others (to de pottois áma einai phílon kai to phileîn kōlúet); the numerous ones, the numerous others – this means neither number nor multiplicity in general but too great a number, a certain determined excess of units. It is possible to love more than one person, Aristotle seems to concede; to love in number, but not too much so – not too many. It is not the number that is forbidden, nor the more than one, but the numerous, if not the crowd. The measure is given by the act, by the capacity of loving in act: for it is not possible to be in act (energein), effectively, actively, presently at the heart of this ‘numerous’ (pros pollous) which is more than simple number (ou gar oión te áma pros pollous energein). A finite being could not possibly be present in act to too great a number. There is no belonging or friendly community that is present, and first present to itself, in act, without election and without selection.

This will have been understood in a flash: if the question of arithmetic seems grave and irreducible here, the word ‘arithmetic’ remains inadequate. The units in question are neither things, these prágmata to which the friend must always be preferred, nor numbers. This restrained multiplicity calls for an account, certainly, and one must not have too many friends, but it nevertheless resists enumeration, counting–off, or even pure and simple quantification.

Why do we insist on this difficulty here and now? First of all, because it announces one of the possible secrets – thus hiding it still – in the cryptic tradition of the apostrophe brought up by Montaigne and so many others. One of the secrets which has remained a secret for the reporters themselves, as if it had to reserve itself for a few people. We will come back to this later. Next, because this secret merges with virtue’s (ateté). We should not pretend to know what this word means without having thought the enigma of phileîn. No doubt they are one and the same. And finally, because the quantification of singularities will always have been one of the political dimensions of friendship, of a becoming-political of a friendship which may not be political through and through – not originarily, necessarily or intrinsically. With this becoming-political, and with all the schemata that we will recognize therein – beginning with the most problematic of all, that of fraternity – the question of democracy thus opens, the question of the citizen or the subject as a countable singularity. And that of a ‘universal fraternity’. There is no democracy without respect for irreducible singularity or alterity, but there is no democracy without the ‘community of friends’ (koína ta philōn), without the calculation of majorities, without identifiable, stabilizable, representable subjects, all equal. These two laws are irreducible one to the other. Tragically irreconcilable and forever wounding. The wound itself opens with the necessity of having to count one’s friends, to count the others, in the economy of one’s own, there where every other is altogether other.

But where every other is equally altogether other. More serious than a contradiction, political desire is forever borne by the disjunction of these two laws. It also bears the chance and the future of a democracy whose ruin it constantly threatens but whose life, however, it sustains, like life itself, at the heart of its divided virtue, the inadequacy to itself. Would virtue ever have existed without the chaos opening in silence, like the ravenous mouth of an immeasurable abyss, between one or the other of these laws of the other? There is no virtue without this tragedy of number without number. This is perhaps even more unthinkable than a tragedy. The unthinkable filters through Aristotle’s staid treatise, under his worldly-wise counsel, under the wisdom of his precepts: my friends, if you want to have friends, do not have too many.

Note that the counsellor never says how many, nor at what number virtue becomes impossible. What knowledge could ever measure up to the injunction to choose between those whom one loves, whom one must love, whom one can love? Between themselves? Between them and the others? All of them?

At stake is virtue, which is no longer in nature, this virtue whose name will remain suspended, without an assured concept, as long as these two laws of friendship will not have been thought. For the reliability of the stable (bébaios), that on which virtue depends – therefore of liberty, decision and reflection – can no longer be only natural. No more so than time, which does not belong to nature when it puts primary friendship to the test. In the history of the concept of nature – and already in its Greek history – the virtue of friendship will have dug the trench of an opposition. For it obliges Aristotle himself to restrain the concept of nature: he must oppose it to its other – here to virtue – when he classes friendship among stable things (tôn bebaíōri), in the same way as happiness belongs to self-sufficient and autarkic things (tôn autárkōn). It is the same immanence that provides shelter from external or random causalities. And constancy is virtuous only by reason of its autonomy, of the autarky of decisions which renew themselves, freely and according to a spontaneous repetition of their own movement, always new but anew and newly the same, ‘samely’ new. This is not possible without some naturality, but that is not in nature: it does not come down to nature. Having quoted and approved Euripides’ Electra (e gar phúsis bébaios, ou ta khremata: for nature is stable, not wealth), Aristotle adds that it is much more beautiful (polu de kállion) to say virtue (ateté) in this case rather than nature (polu de kállion eipein oti ē aretē tés phúseds).³⁰ Since friendship does not – and above all must not – have the reliability of a natural thing or a machine; since its stability is not given by nature but is won, like constancy and ‘fidence’, through the endurance of a virtue, primary friendship, ‘that which allows all the others to be named’ (di’ēn ai állai légontaí), we must say that it is founded on virtue (é kat’aretēn estí).³¹ The pleasure it gives, the pleasure that is necessary – this is the immanent pleasure of virtue. There may well be other forms of friendship, those whose name is thereby derived from primary friendship (for example, says Aristotle, with children, animals, and the wicked), but they never imply virtue, nor equality in virtue. For if all the species of friendship (the three principal ones, according to virtue, to usefulness or to pleasure) imply equality or equity (isótēs), only primary friendship demands an equality of virtue between friends, in what assigns them reciprocally to one another.

What can such equality in virtue be? What can it be measured against? How do you calculate a non-natural equality whose evaluation remains both immanent, as we have just seen, but at the same time obliged to reciprocity – that is, to a certain symmetry? One wonders what is left of a friendship which makes the virtue of the other its own condition (be virtuous if you want me to love you), but one wonders, too, what would be left of friendship without this condition, and when the number without number intervenes, when virtue is not dispensed in excess. And how can we reconcile this first imperative, that of primary friendship, with what we have begun to uncover: the necessary umlaterality of a dissymmetrical phileîn (you are better off loving than being loved) and the terrible but so righteous law of contretemps?

Is there a conflict here in the philosophy of phileîn, in the Aristotelian philosophy of friendship? For other Aristotelian axioms, which we shall consider, seem to forbid or contradict the call of dissymmetry and this law of contretemps. For example, the axiom which holds that the friend is another self who must have the feeling of his own existence – an inseparable axiom which makes friendship proceed from self-love, from philautía, which is not always egoism or amour-propre.

Unless one would find the other in oneself, already: the same dissymmetry and tension of surviving in self, in the ‘oneself thus out of joint with its own existence. To be able or to have to be the friend of oneself – this would change nothing in the testamentary structure we are discussing. It would break all ipseity apart in advance, it would ruin in advance that which it makes possible: narcissism and self-exemplarity. We are speaking about anything but narcissism as it is commonly understood: Echo, the possible Echo, she who speaks from, and steals, the words of the other [celle qui prend la parole aux mots de l’autre], she who takes the other at his or her word, her very freedom preceding the first syllables of Narcissus, his mourning and his grief. We are speaking of anything but the exemplarity of the Ciceronian exemplar. An arche-friendship would inscribe itself on the surface of the testament’s seal. It would call for the last word of the last will and testament. But in advance it would carry it away as well.

It would be extraneous neither to the other justice nor to the other politics whose possibility we would like, perhaps, to see announced here.

Through, perhaps, another experience of the possible.