In Life and in Death 2003–2004 525
for his lecture was like an echo of these conversations: ‘Vivre
“ensemble” – Living “together” ’.
In November, Derrida went to Portugal to take part in three days
of events based on his work, organized by Fernando Bernardo in the
ancient university of Coimbra. ‘All his friends felt a kind of relief on
seeing him arrive,’ says Michel Lisse, whom Derrida had reminded
not to forget his gown for the honorary doctorate. ‘He really rather
enjoyed this very solemn ceremonial. And he was happy that it was
the fi lm director Manoel de Oliveira, almost a hundred years old,
who was his partner for the ceremony.’^19 Crossing the old city in a
snazzy black outfi t, a mortar board perched on his head, Derrida
did, however, confi de in Marguerite: ‘I feel that I’m going to my
own funeral.’ To which she retorted: ‘If anyone goes to their funeral,
it means they’re still alive.’ And Derrida was indeed very active:
he gave the usual long lecture and took part in all the activities
arranged for the three days, including the day devoted to ‘Coimbra,
city of refuge’. ‘We all thought he was cured,’ remembers Lisse.
Shortly after his return home, Derrida received a letter from
Mireille Calle-Gruber, telling him how happy she was to have seen
him ‘in great shape, sparkling, speaking out, always taking the ques-
tions further’. ‘We’d come to keep you company, give you some of
the fi re that you transmit inexhaustibly to us, and you were the most
giving, the most generous.’^20
Throughout the winter, the doctors, too, were fl abbergasted
by the number of Derrida’s activities and his completely atypical
energy. In fact, he was in pain only at night, but Lexomil was some
relief, and in particular he brightened up in public and as soon as
he received visits or was buoyed up by new projects. According to
Peggy Kamuf, ‘Jacques kept to many of his obligations and trips
over this period. Giving up on that aspect of his life would have
meant giving up on life itself.’^21
If Derrida, as he had put it for a long time, ‘was marching towards
death’, he also marched to the beat of friendship and loyalty. After
the death of Louis Marin, in October 1992, he had written:
Why does one give and what can one give to a dead friend? [.. .]
Louis knew what I thought of him, he was aware of my
admiration and my gratitude; he had countless indications of
this in everything that was woven between our gestures, our
various itineraries, our respective works as well, and in every-
thing that went unspoken, which did not fail, as always, alas,
to resound and resonate in this. But while he was aware of this
admiration, I never really declared it to him to the extent that I
am this evening. I am not saying this only, not only, to confess
a mistake, a regret, or an inconsolable sadness. This situation