The Derrida International 1996–1999 485
I often ask myself, just to see, who I am – and who I am (follow-
ing) at the moment when, caught naked, in silence, by the gaze
of an animal, for example, the eyes of a cat, I have trouble, yes,
a bad time overcoming my embarrassment.
Whence this malaise?
I have trouble repressing a refl ex of shame. Trouble keeping
silent within me a protest against the indecency. Against
the impropriety [malséance] that can come of fi nding oneself
naked, one’s sex exposed, stark naked before a cat that looks at
you without moving, just to see. The impropriety of a certain
animal nude before the other animal, from that point on one
might call it a kind of animalséance: the single, incomparable
and original experience of the impropriety that would come
from appearing in truth naked, in front of the insistent gaze of
the animal, a benevolent or pitiless gaze, surprised or cogni-
zant. The gaze of a seer, a visionary or extra-lucid blind one. It
is as if I were ashamed, therefore, naked in front of this cat, but
also ashamed for being ashamed. [.. .]
I must immediately make it clear, the cat I am talking about
is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat. It isn’t the fi gure of a
cat. It doesn’t silently enter the bedroom as an allegory for all
the cats on the earth, the felines that traverse our myths and
religions, our literature and our fables.^22A décade at Cerisy was never, for Derrida, just a matter of lec-
tures and the subsequent discussions. There was ‘something more
aff ective, more tenacious, more inward, both inexpressible and
unthinkable’, residing in ‘asides, in what might be nicknamed the
comings and goings, the counter-comings and counter-goings of
Cerisy, during meetings and discussions that are private, if not
secret, and that are never collected or published’. It was mainly
this which made it, in his view, an incomparable ‘experience of
thinking’.^23
Yet again, the encounters at Cerisy had proved enriching, serene,
and friendly. And Derrida again expressed all his gratitude to the
woman in charge:
This décade was marvellous, a real ‘marvel’, yet again, and all
thanks to you. I’m not saying this just on my own behalf. It
was the feeling of all those present – they didn’t want to leave,
they had tears in their eyes... On a more personal level, you
can imagine the strange stroke of luck, so wonderful and so
troubling too, that has been given me – an anxious modesty
prevents me from talking about it properly, but I’m sure you’ll
understand... The ‘way home’ is always melancholy, of
course.^24