The Walls of Louis-le-Grand 1949–1952 45
collapse: he suff ered from insomnia, loss of appetite, and frequent
nausea.
In December 1950, Derrida’s morale had sunk to a new low.
For reasons that remain unclear, he did not go back home for the
Christmas vacation, but remained alone in Paris – probably at the
home of his uncle, since the boarding school was closed. In prey to a
vague attack of melancholia, he moped around far from his friends.
In a letter to Michel, the beginning of which has unfortunately been
lost, Jackie tried to explain his confused feelings. For some time, he
had felt as if he were going around ‘in regions too diffi cult, if not to
explore, at least to show even to one’s dearest friend’. The lack of
any letter from Michel for several days did not help matters. More
depressed than ever, Jackie may have contemplated suicide. But
now, the worst of the crisis seemed to be behind him:
So, now that the storm has passed, since the worst thing about
the storm is the fact that it passes, I’ve decided, or almost, to
go back to Algiers for this term, if I can swing things with the
‘Strass’ [student slang for the administration]. Your letter fi rst
made me waver in my decision and then confi rmed it. But I’ll
be seeing you on Wednesday. I can’t hold a pen and it’s always
going to be too diffi cult for me.^16The two friends met up briefl y in Paris, just before Jackie returned
to El Biar to get some rest with his family. In fact, he stayed there for
the whole of the second term, at the risk of wasting his year or even
having to leave Louis-le-Grand. For a while, he was unable to write
and a fortiori to work. Then began an almost daily correspondence
with Michel – a remarkable set of letters that ought to be published
in full one day: it is perhaps as important in Derrida’s development
as the young Freud’s correspondence with Wilhelm Fliess. Jackie,
vulnerable and lacking anyone he could really talk to in Algeria,
confi ded fully in Michel in a way he would never do subsequently.
As for Michel, he may have been perplexed by the mysterious
malady from which his friend was suff ering, but he showed an
unstinting goodwill: ‘You keep telling me about this illness that
in my great ignorance and my lack of perspicacity I can see only
hazily.’ He advised him to work, and sent him Latin prose exercises.
For the time being, Jackie was not up to doing them. Writing a letter
to his dearest friend was already a test of his strength:
Here, I’m leading a very gloomy, impossible life; I’ll give you
the details one day. All I can say in writing, all that I could ever
say, would never be enough to express this terrible experience.
[.. .] I can’t see any natural way out. Oh, if only you were here!
[.. .]