420 Jacques Derrida 1984–2004
Even though the idea of death never left him, Derrida in many ways
lived life to the full. Jean-Luc Nancy insists on how ‘the presence of
Jacques was powerful, alluring, captivating, impressive – not just as
the presence of a great stature, but as a tender and anxious sensibil-
ity, as an attentiveness on the alert, as a mixture of availability and
reserve. He who contributed so much to deconstructing “presence”
was overwhelmingly present.’^8
In a fi ne essay written in homage, ‘Jupiter among us’, Denis
Kambouchner also insists on the fi rst obvious physical impact that
might surprise those who know Derrida only through his books:
Derrida was a remarkable body: features, voice, skin, gaze,
hair, shoulders and body language. [.. .] This body aff ected you
in an intense and characteristic way. [.. .] Listening to Derrida,
speaking to him, was not like meeting the Word or some replica
of it, but, in the species of a pure capacity for decipherment and
indication, an intelligence of a Jupiterian kind (we don’t have a
Greek word for that). Not an ostentatious Jupiter, thundering
and majestic, but an inner Jupiter, with a superior knowledge
and precision in his will, and at the same time the life of desire,
simple aff ection, the defi ance of fatigue, the imagination always
awake, torment never far away, and affi rmation refl ected so
much it became a malady.^9When he was a student, Derrida said that he was fragile and ate at
the table of those following a special diet. Ever since then, his health
had been excellent, though this did not stop him being a hypochon-
driac and panicking over the slightest potential symptom. He had
the heart rate of a sports cyclist or marathon runner, less than fi fty
beats per minute, which gave him an extraordinary physical capac-
ity and force of recovery. He kept an eye on his food and was not
especially fond of wine, which did not stop him being amazed by the
knowledge his friend René Major showed in this fi eld. Ever since his
time in Koléa, he had given up cigarettes, smoking little cigarillos
instead. Under pressure from his son Jean, he fi nally gave up these
as well, and switched to a pipe, which he often forgot to light but
with which he liked being photographed. In fact, if he lived a very
sober life, constant anxiety about his health was the main reason.
He had so many plans, so many books to write, that he wanted to
live to a grand old age.
Jean-Luc Nancy was always impressed by Derrida’s stamina on
his transatlantic trips. After a quick snack, ignoring the time diff er-
ence, he was able to give a long paper, take part in a debate, and
give an interview before putting on a good show at the reception
that almost invariably followed. On a trip to Mexico for the Collège
International de Philosophie, Derrida confessed to Nancy: ‘When