Rereading Bleak House: The Chronicle of a "Little Body" and Its Perverse Defense
This signifier of little, this discourse that doesn't amount to much, is like all ghosts: errant. . . . Like someone who has lost [her] way, . . . having strayed from the correct path, the right direction, the rule of rectitude, the norm; but also like someone who has lost [her] rights, an outlaw, a pervert, a bad seed, a vagrant . . . wandering in the streets, [she] doesn't even know who [she] is, what [her] identity--if [she] has one--might be, what his name is, what [her] father's name is.
Derrida, "Plato's Pharmacy"
Listen to a woman speak at a public gathering (if she hasn't painfully lost her wind). She doesn't "speak," she throws her trembling body forward; she lets go of herself . . . She physically materializes what she--s thinking with her body. Hélène Cixous,
"The Laugh of the Medusa"
Isn't laughter the first form of liberation from a secular oppression? Isn't the phallic tantamount to the seriousness of meaning? Perhaps woman, and the sexual relation, transcend it "first" in laughter?
Luce Irigaray, "Questions"
Bleak House is evidently another story, yet something of it is the same. Once again, the action "is all about fathers and sons, about bastards . . . , about inheritance, sperm, sterility. Nothing [much]