442 Jacques Derrida 1984–2004
nationalism was rearing its head again, often in bloody fashion, in
the former Yugoslavia as in the ex-USSR, Derrida refl ected on the
frontiers of Europe. The defi nition it had constantly sought to give
itself, for instance in Husserl and Paul Valéry, was surely a nega-
tive form, fi rst and foremost, resting on the exclusion of its other?
Derrida was far from identifying completely with that Europe.
I am European, I am no doubt a European intellectual, and I
like to recall this, I like to recall this to myself, and why would
I deny it? In the name of what? But I am not, nor do I feel,
European in every part, that is, European through and through.
By which I mean, by which I wish to say, or must say: I do not
want to be and must not be European through and through,
European in every part. Being a part, belonging as ‘fully a part,’
should be incompatible with belonging ‘in every part’. My
cultural identity, that in the name of which I speak, is not only
European, it is not identical to itself, and I am not ‘cultural’
through and through, ‘cultural’ in every part.^8The beginning of 1991 marked a new stage in the reception of
Derrida’s work, at least in France. In March, Le Magazine littéraire
devoted a long series of articles to him, presenting him in some-
what uncertain terms: ‘A singular character, Derrida has become
famous. His name circulates across fi ve continents. He allures and
dismays in equal measure. Derrida is the name of an enigma. It was
time to provide a key.’^9 The issue also contained a major interview
with François Ewald as well as various articles and studies, but
the main innovation was probably the photographic reportage by
Carlos Freire. By publishing personal photos in the book published
by Seuil, Derrida had opened up a breach. The Brazilian photo-
grapher showed him at home, in his offi ce, in his attic; we can see his
collection of pipes, his little Citroën; we meet him in a café on the
boulevard Raspail, just before his seminar at the École de Hautes
Études, in the lecture hall with students, then in a salon of the Hôtel
Lutétia. In spite of all his friendliness towards the photographer,
Derrida lent himself to the image rather than abandoning himself to
it. ‘He had a slightly hunched way of posing, like a boxer,’ remem-
bers Carlos Freire.^10
This change of attitude irritated some of those who, like Bernard
Pautrat, had seen Derrida refusing to have his photo published
throughout the 1960s and 1970s:
I’d greatly appreciated his ‘anti-media’ line. He didn’t give
interviews, he didn’t let people take his photo. I was taken
aback when I saw the book he’d done with Bennington, then
the fi rst issue of Le Magazine littéraire that was devoted to