Interviewed by Gary A. Olson
Jacques Derrida’s work has forever altered how we perceive the relationships among writers, readers, and texts and has transformed our very notions of “rhetoric” and “writing.” Not only have composition theorists drawn on his work, but recently some have attempted to apply it to the classroom. The publication of Gregory’s Ulmer’s Applied Grammatology, G. Douglas Atkins and Michael Johnson’s Writing and Reading Differently, Jasper Neel’s Plato, Derrida, and Writing, and Sharon Crowley’s A Teacher’s Introduction to Deconstruction indicates just how influential his ideas have become in our field.
While Derrida has, of course, had much to say about writing and rhetoric, this interview is his first extended discussion of rhetoric and composition per se. He describes his own growth as a writer, proposes a model of composition instruction, discusses problems compositionists should avoid, and comments on a range of other related topics, including liberatory learning, social constructionism, logocentrism, and feminism.
The theme that perhaps will most surprise at least some readers is that Derrida vigorously asserts the importance of the “canon,” the “tradition,” and rigorous academic discipline. He concludes that many critics have seriously misrepresented his ideas. Pointing to his own rigorous academic training, Derrida maintains that even as he seeks to deconstruct pedagogies and ways of thinking, he is “at some level true” to the “classical” training he received in the French educational system. He stresses that deconstruction “doesn’t mean simply destroying the norms or pushing these norms to utter chaos.” In fact, if what passes as deconstruction produces “neglect of the classical authors, the canonical texts, and so on, we should fight it.”
This theme recurred throughout the session, indicating how strongly he feels that deconstruction has been misrepresented and maligned. He is convinced that “if deconstruction is only a pretense to ignore minimal requirements or knowledge of the tradition, it could be a bad thing.” Apparently, it is often supporters of deconstruction themselves who feed this misunderstanding: “Sometimes the most ferocious critics who react vehemently and passionately and sometimes with hatred understand more than supporters do.” Those who “play at deconstruction, try to behave deconstructively” before reading “the great texts in our tradition” give deconstruction a bad name. Certainly, we need to open the canon, to broaden it, to question it, but we can’t do so before acquiring at least a “minimal knowledge of the basic foundations of the canon.” Only then can we develop a “deconstructive practice.” As if to warn supporters as well as to answer critics, Derrida insists, “If you’re not trained in the tradition, then deconstruction means nothing. It’s simply nothing.”
Derrida also has firm convictions about how composition should be taught. Although there is no formal composition instruction in the French system, he believes there should be. He speaks of “much anxiety” in France over the level of students’ writing competency. While he hesitates to call this situation a “literacy crisis,” he says that many of his generation feel that the young no longer “respect the same norms,” the same values—that they “don’t read and write the way they should.” Derrida perceives this problem as a “restructuring of the norms.” He suggests that it is not that students are less intelligent but that ‘‘their intelligence is applied differently.” However, he contends that instruction in composition would be beneficial, that there should be “parallel teaching of composition everywhere: in the teaching of French literature, of history, and so on.”
It’s no mistake that this sounds like a writing-across-the-disciplines model of writing instruction; Derrida fully endorses such a model. While he is not sure how such a model would work, he is certain that writing instruction centralized in a single academic department will lead to the “hegemony of some kind of norm in writing.” Aside from “minimal requirements in grammar, clarity of exposition, and so on,” writing competence is inextricably linked to the discourse conventions of specific disciplines. He questions whether it is possible to teach writing without being “competent in the content of a discipline.” After all, he argues, “you can’t teach writing simply as a formal technique.” Of course, he is quick to point out that he does not advocate establishing “boundaries”; yet, he is concerned that writing instruction detached from specific discourse communities will be artificial and therefore, ineffective—a mere matter of mechanical, formal “technique.”
On the other hand, he does not propose that compositionists be “scattered” helter-skelter throughout the university. While he does think it important that writing instruction take place within particular disciplines and therefore that writing specialists be associated with and competent in those disciplines, he feels just as strongly that compositionists must have “some thing in common”; that is, they must have shared training and expertise in the teaching of composition—in effect, a common discipline of their own. Thus, fully aware of the complexity of the subject and the contradictory nature of his response, Derrida says, “I would not rely on a model in which composition instructors are confined simply within one discipline; nor would I rely on a model in which they are simply dispersed, scattered among a variety of disciplines.”
Nor does he recommend that compositionists form their own academic departments apart from English departments. While he acknowledges that “it’s important that a large number of composition teachers belong to the English department,” he reiterates that it would be counterproductive to “confine” compositionists to any single department.
Clearly, Derrida has a keen grasp of the complexity of the very issues we ourselves are struggling with, and his reluctance to seek security in a “unilateral solution” may well be an example we should follow in shaping the future of writing instruction and our own professional relationships within the structure of the university.
Moreover, we would do well, Derrida advises, to “deconstruct” not only written texts but the institution of composition and the very notion of “composition” itself. He cautions against imposing rigid schemes of writing on students and suggests that we continually question and destabilize the authority of models of composition and that we seek to “invent each time new forms according to the situation.” Echoing the recent concerns of many composition theorists, Derrida reminds us that writing is always contingent upon context—the “situation, the audience, your own purpose”—not on pre established, formulaic models. So we should “analyze these models” and determine “where their authority comes from” and “what interests they serve.”
Compositionists should be especially wary of what Derrida calls “rhetoricism”: “thinking that everything depends on rhetoric.” Certainly, rhetoric is central to almost every facet of life, but we must not attribute to rhetoric more power than it has—an “inherent danger” in the teaching of rhetoric and composition. This is not to say that “rhetoric is simply subordinate,” but that “rhetoric is not the last word.” Derrida believes that “a self-conscious and trained teacher, attentive to the complexity, should at the same time underline the importance of rhetoric and the limits of rhetoric.” We need to help students understand the full complexity of language use—its power and its limitations.
It is evident from the conversation recorded here that Derrida takes writing instruction quite seriously and shares with compositionists many of the same concerns, both theoretical and pedagogical. He supports our attempts to improve composition pedagogy and applauds our efforts to deconstruct ourselves—our self-reflexive examination of the notion of “composition,” the field, and our institutional relationships. Such continual analysis and self-examination will lead to productive change and growth. Not only is his support somewhat comforting, but his insights, I believe, contribute productively to the ongoing dialogue in rhetoric and composition about who we are and who we should be.