Derrida's"Structure, Sign and Play" (Summary)

 

 

Derrida's essay unfolds in two main sections: "The Structurality of Structure": This part delves into the dynamic interplay between structure and center, highlighting the contemporary challenge to traditional notions. Previously, structures were perceived as anchored and stabilized by a central presence. However, the questioning of this centrality exposes fundamental elements of thought—such as ideas, origins, God, and humanity—to uncertainty and instability.

Analysis of Levi-Straussian Structuralism: Here, Derrida scrutinizes Levi-Strauss's structuralism as emblematic of the complexities inherent in grappling with the relationship between structure and center. The essence of Derrida's critique can be encapsulated in a single sentence: Despite presenting itself as a process of decentering, Levi-Straussian structuralism unintentionally reasserts the center, albeit in a nuanced form—as the absence of a center once held. This distinction between mere absence of a center and the absence resulting from its loss is pivotal, generating perpetual tension within Levi-Strauss's framework. Ultimately, his discourse revolves around the very absence of the center it seeks to address, transforming absence into a mode of presence.

 

 

There may have been a significant development in the history of how we understand structure, an event occurred. Derrida is cautious about using such a loaded term. Nevertheless, let's consider this event as a turning point that involves both a rupture and a doubling-back. It's clear that the concept of structure, along with the word itself, has been fundamental to Western science and philosophy for a long time. These ideas have deep roots in ordinary language, which the overall structure of knowledge incorporates metaphorically. However, prior to the event I'm referring to, the essence of structure—what we might call the structurality of structure—was often marginalized or simplified. This happened because of a tendency to focus on establishing a central point or fixed origin, which diminished the complexity and richness of the concept.

The center of a structure serves a crucial role: it organizes and balances the elements within, ensuring coherence and preventing chaos. It acts as a focal point, allowing the structure's components to interact within its framework. However, this centralization also imposes limitations—it forbids certain changes or substitutions within the structure. Traditionally, the center was seen as both within and outside the structure, governing it while remaining distinct from it. This paradoxical nature creates a sense of coherence but also introduces contradictions.

 

The idea of a centered structure embodies this contradiction—it suggests stability and coherence while allowing for flexibility and movement. This concept provides a sense of security, shielding individuals from the uncertainties of change and maintaining a reassuring certainty. Anxiety arises when one feels caught up in the complexities of the structure, uncertain about their role in the larger scheme of things.

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From this central point, patterns of repetition, substitution, transformation, and interpretation emerge, rooted in a history of meaning. This historical context shapes how we understand and interact with the structure, influencing our perceptions of its origins and endpoints.

 

Before the conceptual rupture Derrida mentioned earlier, the history of structure was marked by a succession of substitutions of centers, each representing a different aspect of presence. These shifts in terminology, from eidos to God, for instance, all reflected an underlying emphasis on presence. However, the rupture occurred when the structurality of structure itself had to be acknowledged and repeated, indicating a fundamental shift in thinking. It became evident that the center could not be understood as a fixed, present entity, but rather as a function subject to displacement and substitution. This realization led to the understanding that there is no inherent center, but rather a multitude of sign-substitutions within a system of differences. This moment marked the invasion of language into the universal problematic, where everything became discourse, and the absence of a fixed center expanded the realm of signification infinitely.

 

The decentering of traditional structures and the recognition of the structurality of structure aren't tied to any single event, doctrine, or author. Instead, they're part of our current era's overall mindset, gradually emerging and influencing our thinking. However, if we were to highlight influential thinkers, we might point to Nietzsche's criticism of metaphysics, where he questioned concepts like truth and being and emphasized ideas like play and interpretation instead. Similarly, Freud's critique of self-presence and identity, along with Heidegger's dismantling of metaphysical notions, contribute to this decentering.

 

Yet, these critiques face a dilemma. While they aim to challenge traditional ideas, they're still inherently tied to them. For instance, when using the concept of the sign to criticize metaphysics, there's a paradox. While we argue against fixed meanings, the very term "sign" carries historical baggage—it's always been understood as a signifier pointing to a signified. So, even as we try to break free from metaphysical constraints, we're limited by the language and concepts rooted in that very tradition.

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Consider Levi-Strauss's attempt to transcend the sensible-intelligible dichotomy by focusing on signs. While his intention is valid, the concept of the sign itself remains entangled in the opposition between the two. Thus, while we need these concepts to critique metaphysics, using them also risks perpetuating the very ideas we seek to dismantle. It's a tricky balance—rejecting these concepts entirely could erase important differences, but holding onto them might reinforce the very structures we're trying to challenge.

There are two ways to blur the line between the sign (like a word) and what it represents: one is to break down the sign into its parts until it's fully understood, and the other is to question the whole system where this breakdown happens, especially the idea of separating what's sensible (like what we can perceive with our senses) from what's intelligible (like abstract ideas). The funny thing is, the first way, the breakdown, actually relies on the very separation it's trying to get rid of. This separation is part of the system itself.

 

This idea applies not just to signs, but to all the big concepts in metaphysics, like "structure." People have different ways of getting tangled up in this cycle, from being a bit naive to being super systematic. That's why there's so much disagreement among those who criticize these ideas. Even big thinkers like Nietzsche, Freud, and Heidegger were working within these ideas, and they sometimes ended up critiquing each other, like when Heidegger called Nietzsche the last "Platonist."

 

This same pattern plays out in the "human sciences," like ethnology, the study of different cultures. Ethnology really came into its own when European culture stopped seeing itself as the center of everything. This shift wasn't just about philosophy or science; it was also political, economic, and technical. It's no accident that as people started questioning this Euro-centric view, they also started criticizing the history of metaphysics. Both of these changes happened around the same time, in the same historical era.

 

Ethnology, like any science, operates within the realm of discourse, primarily using traditional European concepts, even as it tries to challenge them. This means that even when an ethnologist criticizes ethnocentrism, they're still influenced by its assumptions. This isn't something they can avoid—it's a fundamental aspect of the discipline. However, while everyone is subject to this influence, not all responses to it are equally valid. The quality of discourse might be judged by how critically it engages with this inherited framework.

 

Now, let's look at Levi-Strauss's work as an example. I'm choosing him not just because ethnology is important in the human sciences, but also because his ideas have had a big impact. His work reveals a tension between using and critiquing language in the human sciences.

 

One key aspect of Levi-Strauss's work is his exploration of the nature-culture dichotomy. This idea has been around since ancient times and pits "nature" against things like law, education, and society. In his book "The Elementary Structures of Kinship," Levi-Strauss starts with the idea that nature is universal and spontaneous, while culture depends on societal norms. But he quickly encounters a problem: incest taboos. These taboos are universal, which seems natural, but they're also based on social norms, which seems cultural. This tension challenges Levi-Strauss's initial framework.

 

Let's consider a fundamental aspect of human behavior: the prohibition of incest. Traditionally, it's seen as a universal taboo, blending characteristics of both nature and culture. However, when Levi-Strauss examines it, he challenges this assumption. By starting his analysis with incest, he questions the natural/cultural divide, suggesting it might not be as clear-cut as previously thought. This shifts our understanding of incest from a scandalous anomaly to something foundational, perhaps even predating our conceptualizations of nature and culture.

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This example illustrates how language contains its own critique. We can approach this critique in two ways: first, by systematically questioning the historical development of concepts like nature and culture. This isn't just a philological or philosophical endeavor—it's a bold step outside traditional philosophical bounds. Alternatively, we can retain these concepts for their practical utility while acknowledging their limitations. They become tools for deconstructing outdated frameworks, rather than absolute truths. Levi-Strauss opts for this approach, aiming to separate method from absolute truth, recognizing the value of these concepts as methodological tools rather than immutable realities. This self-critique within the language of human sciences allows for progress and evolution in our understanding of complex phenomena.

Levi-Strauss has a bit of a balancing act in his work. On one hand, he questions the idea of nature versus culture, saying it's more of a methodological tool than a true representation of reality. He argues that we should integrate culture back into nature and understand life within its physical and chemical context.

But on the other hand, in "The Savage Mind," Levi-Strauss talks about bricolage, which is like using whatever tools are at hand to get the job done. He says that bricolage is a form of critique, even suggesting that it's the very language of critique itself. It's about taking bits and pieces from different places and making them work together, even if they're not meant for the job.

 

In a way, Levi-Strauss contrasts this with the idea of an "engineer" who constructs everything from scratch. He says that the engineer is a myth, because no one creates language or ideas out of nothing. Everyone's discourse, whether they're engineers or scientists, is influenced by this bricolage.

 

Levi-Strauss also sees bricolage as a kind of storytelling. Just like how myths can be created from different elements, bricolage can lead to unexpected and creative results. So, in Levi-Strauss's view, bricolage isn't just about making do with what's available—it's also about crafting new narratives and ideas from these diverse elements.

Levi-Strauss's work goes beyond just studying myths—it also reflects on the nature of his own discourse about them, what he calls his "mythologicals." He challenges the idea of a central reference or origin, recognizing that myths don't have a single source or absolute unity.

 

For example, in "The Raw and the Cooked," he admits that the Bororo myth he uses as a reference isn't any more special than others—it's just one among many. He rejects the idea of a unified source for myths, arguing that their focus is always shifting and elusive. Instead of trying to center discourse on myths, he suggests that it should reflect the structure of myths themselves, embracing their complexity and fluidity.

 

Levi-Strauss sees mythological discourse as a kind of bricolage, where different elements come together in unexpected ways. He acknowledges that mythic analysis doesn't have a clear endpoint—it's an ongoing process of unraveling and recombining themes. In this sense, the study of myths is like looking at both reflected and broken rays of light, without a single focal point.

 

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Levi-Strauss's work challenges the idea of a fixed center in mythological discourse. He sees myths as resting on second-order codes, beyond the basic language codes. His approach to studying myths resembles a kind of mythological bricolage, where different myths are analyzed without assuming a central authority.

 

Levi-Strauss uses a musical metaphor to illustrate this, suggesting that myths, like music, don't have a central focus. They're like conductors guiding silent performers, with no real authorship. He argues that the absence of a fixed center makes the philosophical requirement of a center seem like a historical illusion.

 

However, this approach also raises questions about the quality of discourse on myths. Levi-Strauss acknowledges the risk of equating all mythological discourses and emphasizes the importance of posing the right questions. He criticizes the tendency to treat empirical observation and bricolage as contradictory, pointing out that his work often presents hypotheses based on limited information.

 

For Levi-Strauss, analyzing myths is like studying a language. Just as a linguist doesn't need to know every word in a language to understand its grammar, Levi-Strauss believes that studying a limited number of myths can reveal underlying patterns. He argues that new texts can enrich our understanding of myths but rejects the idea of needing a complete inventory of all myths. Instead, he focuses on outlining the syntax of mythological discourse, which can be refined as new information emerges.

 

Levi-Strauss explores the idea of totalization, suggesting that it can be seen as both useless and impossible. He argues that there are two ways to understand the limit of totalization. Totalization might seem impossible when we try to cover the infinite richness of a field with our finite understanding. However, it can also be seen as impossible because the nature of the field itself excludes totalization.

 

Levi-Strauss introduces the concept of "freeplay," which occurs in a field of infinite substitutions within a finite set. This field lacks a fixed center, allowing for endless substitutions. He describes this movement as "supplementation," where additional meanings are added to the signified. Levi-Strauss uses the term "supplementary" to explain how certain notions, like mana, function in symbolic thought.

 

He illustrates this with the example of the zero phoneme in linguistics, which contrasts with other phonemes by signifying absence. Similarly, notions like mana serve to oppose the absence of meaning, without carrying any specific meaning themselves. Levi-Strauss emphasizes the necessity of these supplementary elements in maintaining the relationship between signifier and signified.

 

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Levi-Strauss talks about the abundance of meanings in language, which arises from a sense of limitation or lack that needs to be filled. This idea ties into his concept of "freeplay," which he often illustrates using references to games like roulette. Freeplay refers to the interplay of different meanings and the absence of a fixed center.

 

Levi-Strauss's views on freeplay create tension with traditional views of history. He suggests that history has often been seen as a linear progression toward a specific end, but he challenges this notion. In his work, he focuses on the internal structure of systems, ignoring the historical context in which they develop. This approach, known as structuralism, emphasizes chance and discontinuity rather than continuous historical development.

 

Additionally, Levi-Strauss highlights the tension between freeplay and the idea of presence. Freeplay disrupts the notion of fixed presence by emphasizing the interplay between absence and presence. He suggests that presence and absence should be considered together, with freeplay being the starting point.

The structuralist idea of broken immediateness reflects a longing for a lost or unattainable presence, which can be seen as a negative, nostalgic aspect of freeplay thinking. On the other hand, there's a Nietzschean view that embraces freeplay as a joyful affirmation of the world without the need for truth or origin. This perspective sees the absence of a center not as a loss, but as an opportunity for exploration and creation without security or limitations.

 

There are two main ways to interpret interpretation, structure, sign, and freeplay. One approach seeks to uncover a truth or origin beyond freeplay and lives with the necessity of interpretation as a burden. The other approach, influenced by Nietzsche, embraces freeplay and seeks to move beyond human-centered perspectives, rejecting the idea of full presence and the comforting notion of a fixed foundation.

 

While these interpretations are fundamentally different and irreconcilable, they both contribute to the field of human sciences, even though they may seem contradictory. Instead of choosing between them, it's important to acknowledge their differences and try to understand the common ground between them. This requires grappling with a complex historical question, the conception of which is still unfolding and evolving.