TOWARDS A PHENOMENOLOGY OF LANGUAGE

INTRODUCTION
The question of the nature and functioning of language is distinguished by a lack of clear boundaries. This is because language claims to represent the world. We take its signs as referring to items in the world. How do they accomplish this reference? To answer this question, it seems that we cannot limit our inquiry to the signs themselves. The question of how they achieve this reference merges with the question of how we come in contact with the world. How do we grasp the objects referred to by linguistic signs? What is the role of language in this grasp? Are linguis¬tic signs shaped by the world, drawing their meanings from its different objects, or do such signs shape these meanings? Are we to take language as an openness to what is beyond itself--that is, the world? An alternate view is that we are sealed within language. We cannot escape its determi¬nation of meaning.
The issue cannot be decided without examining our apprehension of the world. This, however, raises a fresh set of questions. How do we intuit its objects? How is it possible for in¬tuition to independently confirm our assertions? If we conceive of language as determining intu¬ition, such inquiries are, of course, fruitless. Sealed off from the presence of what is beyond it¬self, language can only be thought of as a self-defining, self-referential system of signs. If this is the case, the focus on intuitive presence can only lead us astray. It prevents us from confronting the real task, which is that of examining language in terms of itself, i.e., in terms of how it deter¬mines the meanings of its signs. Once again, the question of language expands. At issue, here, is what we mean by presence. The view that appeals to intuition understands presence as ultimately determinative. It takes the presence of the world--in particular, the presence of meanings embodied in objects--as responsible for the meanings words have. This is why a word can refer, through its meaning, to an object. In the opposing view, the notion that presence is ultimately determinative is a “metaphysical prejudice.” To escape this prejudice, we must “deconstruct” it. We must focus on “the tensions, the contradictions, the heterogeneity” within its concept. Once we have abandoned this prejudice, we can see the system of linguistic signs for what it is. It is a self-defining system of signs referring to signs. The ability of a sign to refer does not point to some non-linguistic, confirming presence. It is inherent in the sign itself. Were we to eliminate the notion of a confirm¬ing presence, we would see that the reference of a sign terminates in another sign, one which passes on this reference to yet another sign, and so on indefinitely.
With this, we come to yet another expansion of the question of language. Having extended our inquiry to include the question of presence, we find ourself confronted by its temporal sense. Thus, the “present” of presence signifies nowness. The movement of time makes things present by making them now. What is the relation of this “making present” to the world? Is the movement of time ultimately to be traced to that of the world? On such a view, we take the successive nows that constitute time’s movement as a function of the world. Their origin is the successive impres¬sions we receive from its objects. We, thus, come to affirm that nowness is the world’s presence to us in the impressions it leaves. Augustine gives the classic expression of this position when he writes: “It is in you, O my mind, that I measure time. ... What I measure is the impress produced in you by the things as they pass and [the impressions] abiding in you when they have passed.” The impress is registered as the present now. We register the abiding impression left in the mind as the remembered now. If, however, we break the tie between presence and the world, we have to say that the impress is the result of our own activity. The impression that results in the now comes, in other words, not from the world, but from ourselves. It is a result of our affecting our¬selves. In Derrida’s words, its origin is “the auto-affection” of consciousness.
Affection, by definition, implies otherness. It implies a distinction between the affecting and the affected. With this, the question turns on the origin of this otherness. Is the origin of presence and, hence, of time to be located in the fact that world is other than the self and, as such, affects the self? Or should we rather say that such otherness is inherent in the self? The second implies that we are never immediately self-present. Our supposed self-presence depends on an otherness. Thus, even in the apparently privileged sphere of self-presence, an irreducible other¬ness or absence must be assumed. Since consciousness involves the self-awareness that demands self-presence, the question of language expands once again. In answering it, we must inquire into the nature of consciousness.
In tracing out the increasing compass of the question of language, we have followed the course of inquiry Derrida will take in his Speech and Phenomena. The overriding issue in this work is the possibility of a phenomenology of language. Does phenomenology, as Husserl con¬ceived it, have the resources to investigate the functioning of language? Husserl’s investigation fo¬cuses on the role of intuition. In its main lines, his position is that of the first of the opposing views sketched out above. Derrida’s position is given by the second. In his view, Husserl’s ef¬fort is undermined by a “metaphysics of presence.” Once we abandon this metaphysics, we real¬ize, in Derrida’s words: “The absence of intuition--and therefore of the subject of the intuition--is not only tolerated by speech; it is required by the general structure of signification, when consid¬ered in itself.” According to Derrida, this structure is that of indication. Indicative signs stand for their referents. Substituting for them, they require their absence. Thus, when I hear another per¬son speaking, I take his spoken words as signs indicating the presence of the person’s mental acts. Such acts are not present to me. If I could see them, if I could somehow enter the other’s head and observe his mental functioning, such signs would be useless to me. Husserl, while acknowledg¬ing this indicative function, asserts that these signs also have an expressive function. The words spoken by another person have inherent senses. Since these senses are drawn from the world, they are capable of being intuitively confirmed by turning to the world. Intuitive confirmation thus allows us to distinguish between a sign’s expressive and indicative functions. Arguing against the possibility of this distinction, Derrida attempts to undermine the very notion of intuitive confirma¬tion. In his view, the possibility of language rests on our avoiding any metaphysics of presence and this requires our being “in principle excluded from ever ‘cashing in the draft made on intuition’ in expressions ...” (SP, 92). As an alternative, Derrida advances a model of signs standing for signs, one where indication (or “re-presentation”) replaces Husserl’s notion of intuition providing evidence for our assertions.
To follow the course of the debate between Husserl and Derrida, we will have to consider each of the issues raised above. The question of the functioning of language, i.e., of its indicative and expressive functions, will lead us to examine if intuition can be taken as confirming our ex¬pressions. The arguments on this point will be seen to turn on the nature of presence--in particular on the nature of its temporal origin. Thus, we shall find ourselves examining Derrida’s and Husserl’s explanations of time. This will lead us to consider their respective positions on the auto-affection of consciousness and the role it plays in our self-presence.
The linking thread in all these inquiries will be the requirement of language for both pres¬ence and absence. Language must be able to refer in the absense of its referent. Otherwise com¬municative speech, the speech where I take an other person’s words as indicating his thoughts, would not be possible. It also, however, demands presence. If it did not, I could never confirm what a person says by regarding the objects he is talking about. Moreover, if my own thoughts were never present to me, I would have no motive for taking a person’s words as indicating the presence of such thoughts in him.
As we shall see, these necessities motivate Husserl to adopt positions that Derrida claims are impossible within his understanding of Husserl’s “metaphysics of presence.” In fact, once we leave the compass of Husserl’s Logical Investigations, we will find him developing an account of language where indication and intuition, rather than standing opposed, work together in our grasp of the world. To show this, I shall focus on those items in Husserl’s phenomenology that Derrida sees as under¬cutting his analysis of language. The claim of the following essay is that phe¬nomenology has unexpected resources, re¬sources that allow us to move towards a phenomenology of language that satisfies its requirements for both presence and absence. In establishing this, I shall alternate between Husserl and Derrida’s positions, examining where they agree and where they do not. The goal of what follows is not to criticize Derrida’s reading of Husserl. It is to use his account to exhibit, from a Husserlian perspective, the possibility of a phenomenology of lan¬guage.
HUSSERL’S DISTINCTION BETWEEN EXPRESSION AND INDICATION
In the Logical Investigations, Husserl begins his analysis of language by differentiating its expressive and indicative signs. He writes, “Every sign is a sign for something, but not every sign has ‘meaning,’ a ‘sense’ that the sign expresses” (LI, 269). Expressions are distinguished in be¬ing “meaningful signs” (LI, 275). What they express is a meaning or sense. Thus, the word, “horse” expresses one sense, the word, “house,” another. The case is different with indications. All sorts of things can serve as indicative signs. A brand can be seen as the sign of a slave. A chalk mark can indicate a house to be robbed. Although they are deliberately produced, these signs do not by themselves have meaning. Their relation is not that of expression, but rather that of one thing standing for another (LI, 270). Behind this is a relation of beliefs. All indicative relations share the “common circumstance” that a belief in the existence of one thing motivates the belief in another. The relationship, here, is not logical (LI, 272); it is psychological. The motivation to proceed from one to the other is based on “association” (LI, 273-4). By contrast, the relation be¬tween an expression and the sense it expresses is not a question of belief. The expression seems to point away from itself to its sense. “But this pointing,” Husserl writes, “is not an indication ... . The existence of the sign neither ‘motivates’ the existence of the meaning, nor, properly expressed, our belief in the meaning’s existence” (LI, 279).
In the examples just given, the distinction between indication and expression appears to be one of signs. Actually, it is between two different types of functioning. The same sign can have both an indicative and expressive function. In communicative speech, this double functioning is absolutely required. Thus, in speaking to another, a person must not just produce an “articulate sound-complex.” “[H]e must,” Husserl writes, “endow it with a sense in certain acts of mind, a sense he desires to share with his auditors.” Expressing this sense, the sound complex becomes an expression. Yet, for it to function as such in communicative speech, it must also function as an indication. The auditor must “take the speaker to be a person, who is not merely uttering sounds but is speaking to him, who is accompanying those sounds with certain sense-giving acts ... ” (LI, 277). These acts, however, cannot be directly experienced. My immediate experience of the speaking person is only of his sounds. Given this, what counts as an expression also has an in¬dicative function. In Husserl’s words, “... all expressions in communicative speech function as indications. They serve the hearer as signs of the ‘thoughts’ of the speaker, i.e., of his sense-giv¬ing inner experiences” (ibid.). In doing so, they function in the absence of the indicated. They stand in the place of it.
In spite of this double functioning, Husserl insists that indication is not “the genus of which an expression is the species. To mean is not a particular way if being a sign in the sense of indicating something” (LI, 269). If it were, then all expressions would also have an indicative function. In communicative speech they do. Speaking with others, however, is not our only type of discourse. We also speak to ourselves. In a move which Derrida takes as absolutely crucial to his argument, Husserl claims that, in interior monologue, the expressive function continues, but the indicative one drops away. In his words, “... expressions also play a great part in uncommu¬nicated, interior mental life.” They “continue to have meanings as they had before” (LI, 278). They do not, however, function as indications. It is not the case “that in soliloquy one speaks to oneself, and employs words as signs, i.e., as indications, of one’s own inner experiences” (LI, 279). The reason for this is that indications stand for their referents. But such standing for seems out of place when the referent itself is present. Given the referent, we have no motivation to em¬ploy a substitute for it. In Husserl’s words: “In monologue words can perform no function of in¬dicating the existence of mental acts, since such indication would there be quite purposeless. For the acts in question are themselves experienced by us at that very moment” (LI, 280).
This possibility of a direct experience yields another distinction between indication and ex¬pression. It concerns their relation to their referent. Referring in the case of indications is a matter of standing for something. This is direct relation where the existence of one thing brings about the belief in another. By contrast, an expression’s relation to its referent is mediated by its sense. The expression refers through its sense. In so doing, it has the possibility of having its reference con¬firmed by a direct experience of the referent. There can be a “fulfillment” of its sense in a corre¬sponding intuition. In Husserl’s words, the “meaning conferring acts or the meaning intentions” which endow an expression with sense can be fulfilled by the “meaning fulfilling acts” which ac¬tualize their relation to objects. When this occurs, the intended sense of an expression, e.g., “the book is on the table,” is intuitively confirmed. We see the object on the table and agree with the assertion. Since the assertion’s reference is mediated through its sense, there is here a double identification. We grasp the spoken sounds in terms of their sense, and grasp this sense in terms of a corresponding intuitive presence. As Husserl puts this: “The sounded word is first made one with the meaning-intention, and this in its turn is made one with its corresponding meaning fulfill¬ment” (LI, 281). In a subsequent section, I will examine the nature of this “making one.” Quite apart from this, however, the distinction Husserl wishes to draw is clear: While expressions can be intuitively confirmed through their senses, indications, insofar as they lack inherent senses, can¬not. Such confirmation, in fact, undermines the indicative function. In soliloquy, the intuitive presence of the referent robs the indicative relation of its purpose. By contrast, when expressions indicate the mental acts of another, they do not (and, in fact, cannot) require intuitive confirmation.
An expression, in indicating a mental act, has a one-to-one relation to it. Understood in¬dicatively, e.g., as an articulate sound complex, it is a distinct reality. So is the mental act it stands for. With this, we come to another important distinction Husserl draws between the indicative and expressive functions. While indications stand for distinct realities, the relation of expression to sense is not one-to-one. This is because sense is “ideal.” To be “ideal” is to be one-in-many rather than being simply one. Such ideality shows itself in the fact that a single assertion, e.g., “the book is on the table,” can be made by many speakers without a change of sense. Through this sense, they all can refer to one and the same state of affairs. They can do so because the sense keeps its unity in the multitude of their transient mental acts. This one-in-many quality obtains even if the state of affairs they refer to does not, in fact, exist. In Husserl’s words, it obtains “in the case of all assertions, even if what they assert is false and absurd. Even in such cases we distinguish their ideal content from the transient acts of affirming and asserting it: it is the meaning of the assertion, a unity in plurality” (LI, 285). For Husserl, then, this quality of being a “unity in plurality” is what allows different speakers to say the same thing. It also gives them the possibility of intu¬itively confirming (or fulfilling) one another’s assertions. This is because intuitive fulfillment is a fulfillment of the sense, the very sense that can be the same in different people’s assertions. Since it can remain unchanged, this sense permits the possibility of a return to itself. Returning to it as the same, people can seek to intuitively confirm the different assertions expressing it. For Husserl, as we shall see, the very possibility of knowledge, as involving assertions that can be repeatedly confirmed by others, presupposes the ideality of sense.
THE REDUCTION AND THE POSSIBILITY OF INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
All of the remarks just cited come from the first of Husserl’s Logical Investigations. For Derrida, the crucial, if implicit, distinction employed there is that between presence and absence. This is apparent from Husserl’s account of communicative speech. “When I listen to another,” Derrida remarks, “his lived experience is not fully present to me ‘in person,’ in the original.” This is why his words have an indicative function. Such functioning implies the absence of their refer¬ents. With this, we have the “core of indication: indication takes place whenever the sense giving act ... is not fully present.” This very nonpresence, however, has to be mediated by some substi¬tute. It “must pass by the mediation of its physical side.” In speech, this is the voice. In writing, it is the signs on a page. This requirement for mediation, which is “irreducible” in communication, “involves every expression in an indicative operation” (SP, 38). If, with Husserl, I assume that expressions can function in soliloquy without such mediation, this is only because I suppose that the meanings they express can be directly present. “Presence,” Derrida remarks, “is the core of this demonstration.” Thus, for Derrida, the distinction Husserl draws between expression and in¬dication assumes that “pure expression will be the pure active intention ... of an act of meaning (bedeuten) that animates a speech whose content (Bedeutung) is present.” This is not a physical presence, i.e., something, like the voice, which “takes place in nature and across space.” It is a presence “in consciousness.” In soliloquy, then, “the meaning is ... present to the self in the life of a present that has not yet gone forth from itself into the world, space, or nature.” The latter oc¬curs when the meaning is communicated by means of some physical medium. Insofar as the medium indicates the meaning, Derrida concludes: “All these ‘going forths’ effectively exile this life of self-presence in indications” (SP, 40). “Exile” occurs because the meanings are no longer self-present. What is present is simply the medium, e.g., the sounding voice, which indicates them.
Derrida’s emphasis on the role of presence in soliloquy has a definite purpose. He wants to equate the possibility of soliloquy with that of the phenomenological reduction. In fact, for Derrida, the move to soliloquy is actually an implicit reduction. His emphasis on the physical na¬ture of indication--i.e., on its requiring a medium, like the voice, that “takes place in nature and across space”--is intended to make indication subject to the reduction. In Derrida’s words: “Having its ‘origin’ in the phenomena of association, and always connecting empirical existents in the world, indicative signification in language will cover everything that falls subject to the ‘reductions’: factuality, worldly existence, essential non-necessity, nonevidence, etc.” (SP, 30). There is a twofold conception of the phenomenological reduction at work in Derrida’s remarks. The reduction is, first of all, taken as a bracketing of empirical existence. Given that “an indicative sign cannot be conceived without the category of empirical, which is to say only probable, exis¬tence” (SP, 42), it must fall to the reduction. But this means that the “reduction to monologue” Husserl uses to distinguish the expressive from the indicative function is implicitly a phenomeno¬logical reduction. This holds since “the reduction to the monologue is really a putting of empirical worldly existence between brackets” (SP, 43). The second sense of the reduction is implied by the self-presence Husserl assumes in interior monologue. Speaking to ourselves, we have no need of indications since our meaning is immediately present to us in consciousness. The reduction, thus, appears as a reduction to consciousness taken as a field of intuitive self-presence.
This equation of the possibility of the reduction with that of interior monologue introduces a certain instability in its concept. It makes the reduction depend on Husserl’s distinction between expression and indication. If expressions could not function without indication, not just interior monologue would be impossible. The reduction itself would be undermined. This is because its goal has been defined as the self-presence that allows expressions to function on their own. This can be put in terms of the bracketing of empirical existence that the reduction is supposed to ac¬complish. For Derrida, indicative signification implies empirical existence. If expressions could not function without such signification, then the bracketing of empirical existence also brackets the functioning of expressions. What would remain after this bracketing would, then, be devoid of both language and meaning. We could not speak to ourselves, since our possibilities of expression would be bracketed. The meaning intentions that animate our speech would also be bracketed if their functioning required indication. Thus, the reduction would leave us with nothing at all. Its result would be a sense-less silence. To assert this, however, is to say that it is impossible. It cannot reach its intended goal.
A similar point can be made with regard to Husserl’s position that an expression, in ex¬pressing its sense, expresses what is ideal. If expression cannot function without indication, how can it point to a one-in-many? The indicative relation is one-to-one. Its basis is association. Limited as it is to empirical existence, “the indicative sign,” as Derrida writes, “falls outside the content of absolutely ideal objectivity, that is, outside truth” (SP, 30). It is outside of truth because the indicative sign does not express a sense. For Husserl, however, senses in their one-in-many character are required for mutual agreement and intuitive confirmation. Truth depends on this agreement and confirmation. Thus, given the connection between ideality and sense which Husserl draws, undermining the distinction between indication and expression undercuts his dis¬tinction between the real and the ideal. To reverse this, we can say that if we can distinguish be¬tween the reality of empirical existence and the ideality of senses, we can differentiate indication from expression. To do so, however, is to assume that a “reduction to monologue,” i.e., the phe¬nomenological reduction, is also possible.
In the tight web of reasoning that Derrida spins, we thus see four distinct possibilities be¬coming entangled in each other. We cannot separate the possibilities of the reduction and interior monologue from either the possibility of differentiating indication from expression or that of dis¬tinguishing the real from the ideal. They all become equivalent, which means that they can all be collectively undermined.
HUSSERL’S NOTION OF FULFILLMENT
How accurate is Derrida’s notion of the reduction? Is its possibility really that of expres¬sions functioning without indication? Before answering these questions, it is first necessary to ex¬amine how expressions function in Husserl’s account. For Husserl, as I noted, expressions refer to their objects through their senses. This reference is confirmed or “fulfilled” by intuition. When it is, “the meaning-intention is ... made one with its corresponding meaning fulfillment.” What precisely is the relation between sense and intuition underlying these remarks? How can sense be “made one” with intuitive presence?
The easiest way to answer these questions is to note that, in perceptual life, reference to an object is a function of the “fitting together” of our various perceptions. When our experiences fail to fit, i.e., become disharmonious, their referent is lost. We can no longer “make sense” of them by assuming that they are perceptions of one and the same object. Suppose, for example, as you turn a box, the perspectivally ordered sequence of perceptions you have been experiencing sud¬denly starts to become scrambled. At this point you are likely do say that you are experiencing a hallucination. You no longer assume the box’s existence since your perceptions can no longer be taken as perceptions of a given object. If they could, then you could make the thesis (the assump¬tion) of the box’s being-there. You could also say that its presence bears an intelligible sense. It is something you can describe in terms of its perceptual appearances.
The Husserlian account of this begins with the fact that sense is a one-in-many. This char¬acteristic is perfectly general. The fact that the content of expression can be the same in many dif¬ferent acts is what allows it to be called a meaning or sense. The same holds for an object which shows itself as the same in the flow of our perceptual experiences. Its presence as the same is its presence as a sense. This means that in direct perceptual experience, the theses of the object’s be¬ing and sense are made simultaneously. The object of a coherent perceptual experience is, in other words, not just grasped as something real, “a real unity.” It is also apprehended as sense. Thus, as Husserl constantly stresses, all “real unities,” are “unities of sense” (ID I, 120). They are such because of the way they are present to consciousness. In Husserl’s words, “The object of con¬sciousness, in its self identity throughout the flowing of experience, does not enter into this flow¬ing from outside. It lies included within it as a sense” (CM, 80).
This presence of an object as sense is, as I noted, a function of our “making sense” of our perceptions, that is, of our taking them as perceptions of the same object. In the Logical Investigations, Husserl sees this as the result of the interpretation of our perceptual experiences. “Perception,” he claims “is interpretation.” He writes in explanation:

“It belongs to perception that something appears within it, but interpretation makes up what we term appearance--be it correct or not, anticipatory or overdrawn. The house appears to me through no other way but that I interpret in a certain fashion actually experienced con¬tents of sensation. ... They are termed ‘appearances’ or, better, appearing contents pre¬cisely for the reason that they are contents of perceptive interpretation” (LU, 762).
For Husserl, then, perceptual experiences--e.g., particular “contents of sensation”--achieve their status as appearances of some object through interpretation. The interpretation places them in a framework of identity in multiplicity. This happens whenever we continually take them in the same sense. As Husserl writes in describing how “we suppose ourselves to perceptually grasp one and the same object through the change of experiential contents,” “different perceptual contents are given, but they are interpreted, apperceived ‘in the same sense,’ ... the interpretation (Auffassung) according to this ‘sense’ is a character of experience which first constitutes ‘the being of the object for me’” (LU, 397).
It is important to distinguish three different elements in this general account. On the objec¬tive side, we have the object that is present to consciousness as an appearing sense. Its presence in consciousness, Husserl writes, “is a completely unique [kind of] being-in, not a being-in [consciousness] as an intrinsic component, but rather a being-in as something intentional. This is an appearing, ideal being-in or, what is the same, a being-in as [the object’s] immanent objective sense” (CM, 80). On the subjective side, the side of the “intrinsic” components of consciousness, we have “contents of perception.” On the same side, we also have the “perceptual acts in the sense of interpretative intentions” (LU, 397). The acts make the intrinsic contents into contents of some object insofar as they take them “in the same sense,” i.e., in a specific one-in-many framework. They do this by attempting to find for them a single referent, i.e., by attempting to see if they do fit together so as to form the recurring perceptual pattern through which an object exhibits its specific sense.
The above makes clear why, for Husserl, expressions refer to their objects through their senses. This reference is simply a function of sense’s one-in-many character. To express a sense of a perceptual object is to express an interpretive intention to grasp a one-in-many. In other words, as a one-in-many, the sense implies reference insofar it embodies the thought of a possible existence, which stands as a correlate of a range of possible perceptions. Given this, the relation between sense and intuition is also clear. In Husserl’s terms, it is one between “intention” and “fulfillment.” Intuition “fulfills” the intention of a sense by actually exhibiting the pattern of per¬ceptions composing its range. When it does, it is “made one” with the sense. The sense becomes unified with intuition by becoming perceptually embodied. It becomes the “fulfilling sense,” which fulfills by perceptually embodying the expression’s sense (LU, 56).
Of course, in actual perceptual life, not every intention is fulfilled. We are sometimes mis¬taken in what we intend to see. We realize this when we move closer to get a better look. For ex¬ample, what we took to be a cat crouching under a bush dissolves as we approach it into a flicker¬ing pattern of shadows. The moment of recognition that we are not seeing a cat, but rather shad¬ows, marks a shift in our perceptual intention. There is, in fact, a certain dialectic in the relation of intention and fulfillment. The dialectic is such that, although every perceptual sense experienced by us is a sense we intend, not every sense we intend comes to be fulfilled by a corresponding in¬tuition. What we have, instead, is an adjustment of our interpretive intention until it reaches ful¬fillment.
With regard to presence and absence, two points stand out in the above account. The first is that the functioning of an expression implies both. Absence is implied when the theses of sense and being become separated. This occurs each time we verbally report what we have seen. So detached, the thesis of sense continues to carry with it a reference to the thesis of being--i.e., the being-there of the object we report having seen. But the hearer of the report can directly confirm it only when he experiences the intuitions which can be subsumed under the sense’s range. When he does, then intuitive presence occurs. Such presence does not mean that expressions cannot func¬tion in the absence of their referents. It only shows that the sense that becomes separate from per¬ception in a verbal report (the non-perceptually embodied sense) itself has a mediated intentionality. Just as expressions refer through their senses, these senses refer to their objects through the pos¬sible perceptions that could fill up their range.
The second point concerns the fact that “presence” in this account is a differentiated con¬cept. Husserl’s position that “perception is interpretation” implies three basic kinds of presence: (1) the presence of the interpreted elements, ultimately, the “hyletic data” or elemental material for the perceptual interpretation, (2) the presence of the interpreting act with its interpretative intention, and finally (3) the presence of the perceptually embodied object or feature thereof. This last is a sense-filled presence. Its being “in” consciousness, as I cited Husserl, is an intuitively “appearing, ideal being-in.” As such, it is distinct from the individual “intrinsic components” (the contents and acts) that make up the first two categories. This schema, it must be emphasized, is perfectly gen¬eral. Since it applies to perception as such, it applies to both external and internal perception--the perception that occurs when we inwardly reflect on the constituents of our consciousness. Both involve the distinction between interpretation and contents there to be interpreted. Both distinguish these from the appearing sense that is the result of the interpretation (See LI, 860). Of these three elements, only the contents, taken as the original hyletic material, can count as originally present. The other two have a “constituted” presence.
THE REDUCTION AND CONSTITUTION
Given the above, how accurate is Derrida’s account of the reduction? Is it the case that the indicative function falls to the reduction? For Derrida, it must, since the reduction is a bracketing of empirical existence. This existence includes the “association” that grounds the indicative func¬tion. Husserl, however, conceives this bracketing in a very different way. For him, it is only a preliminary stage of the reduction. It is the stage of the reduction as an “epoché.” The term desig¬nates the suspension of our belief in empirical existence. If we ask why we should suspend this belief, the immediate reason is that this is required to avoid a logical error: that of petitio principii. We commit this error whenever we assume, as part of our demonstration, the conclusion we wish to prove. For Husserl, in the “Prolegomena” of his Logical Investigations, empirical existence has a definite sense. It is the domain explored by the natural sciences. They shape its concept. An ac¬count of the difficulties Husserl finds in natural science would divert us from our purpose. Briefly noted, they involve the paradoxes that arise in our attempting to use the natural, scientific descrip¬tion of the world to explain our grasp of this world. After the Logical Investigations, Husserl at¬tempts to avoid these difficulties by bracketing empirical existence. Such bracketing means that we cannot use science’s account of the world to explain how we came up with this account. It does not mean, as Derrida states, that the phenomena of association fall to the reduction. Insofar as they are immanently given, they are possible objects of inner perception. They form part of the domain that is open to the inspection of consciousness. This inspection reveals the part they play in con¬sciousness’s making sense of the world, i.e., in its constitution of the world’s sense-filled pres¬ence. As such, rather than falling to the reduction, their inspection is part of its goal: that of showing how the world comes to presence.
A more complete sense of the reduction is implicit in this last remark. As employed by Husserl, the reduction is the reverse of his concept of constitution. Constitution describes the pro¬cess by which we build up, layer by layer, the sense of the world. Basically, this process involves the layered positing of unities in multiplicity. Different unities posited on one level become the multiplicity which supplies the material for the positing of a higher level unity. Thus, our percep¬tions of individual objects in a room supply the material for the positing of such objects, and these, in turn, supply the elements for our grasp of the sense of the room as a whole. The reduction re¬verses this process layer by layer. Performing it, we suspend our belief in the posited unities pre¬sent on one level so as to regard their constituting elements. We can do this again and again until we reach the “ultimately constituting” level. So conceived, the reduction can be applied to every constitutive process, including those that build up our interpretive, perceptual intentions. To the point that the phenomena of association lie at their basis, the reduction should uncover them.
For Husserl, the reduction in the sense of the epoché simply opens up the possibility of the reduction understood as the process by which we undo the work of constitution. The reduction in this more complete sense is not really equivalent to Derrida’s “reduction to monologue.” Pursued to the end, it leaves intact neither our meaning intentions nor the objects which fulfill them. It, thus, does not end with a set of self-present meanings, i.e., the meanings of the expressions we employ in monologue. Turned towards our interior mental life, it undoes (or suspends our belief) in their presence to seek out the constitutive basis of such presence. Thus, rather than being a re¬duction to the presence of meaning, the reduction, as it proceeds, is a reduction of this presence. This follows from its character as the reverse of constitution. Given that constitution proceeds level by level, the presence it constitutes also has its levels. The reduction, in reversing the work of constitution, suspends (or “reduces”) the layers of such presence one by one. The only pres¬ence that it does not undo is that of the original, non-constituted layer. The reduction of presence ends with this. If we wish to conceive it as a reduction to presence, such presence is that of the original hyletic data of consciousness.
This has a curious consequence. As a subsequent section will show, this original hyletic material includes the phenomena of association, the phenomena underlying the indicative function. Because of this, rather than suspending the indicative function to reach a sphere of what Derrida takes as “pure expression” and “pure meaning,” Husserl actually employs it to uncover the oppo¬site result. He uses it, as will become apparent, to exhibit the indicative basis of all constitution.
IDEALITY AND THE CRITIQUE OF PRESENCE
The discussion of the role that sense plays in Husserl’s concept of presence brings us closer to the center of Derrida’s critique. It is not just aimed at Husserl’s distinction between ex¬pression and indication. Its object is his conception of knowledge. This is clear from the begin¬ning of Speech and Phenomena, where Derrida poses a series of rhetorical questions. He asks: “do not phenomenological necessity, the rigor and subtlety of Husserl’s analyses . . . conceal a metaphysical presupposition? Do they not harbor a dogmatic or speculative commitment ...?” (SP, 4). Such a commitment is, in fact, present, in phenomenology’s “‘principle of principles’: i.e., the original self-giving evidence, the present or presence of sense to a full and primordial intuition.” Thus, when Derrida asks, “Is not the idea of knowledge and the theory of knowledge in itself metaphysical?” (SP, 5), the reader must agree insofar as it implies the presence of sense.
To see what Derrida has in mind, I have to return to Husserl’s position that assertions, in expressing senses, express what is ideal. For Husserl, this is a “fundamental fact” of his theory of knowledge: “The fact, namely, that all thinking and knowing is directed to objects or states of af¬fairs whose unity relative to a multiplicity of actual or possible acts of thought is a ‘unity in multi¬plicity’ and is, therefore, an ideal character.” This “fact” explains “how the same experience can have a content in a twofold sense, how next to its inherent actual content, there should and can dwell an ideal, intentional content.” The latter content is embodied in the object’s or states of af¬fairs’ presence as a sense. This is its presence, in perception, as a unity in a multiplicity of possi¬ble perceptual acts. As I noted, this ideal content can be returned to again and again. Its sense can be repeatedly confirmed as the same. Because of this, the intuitively confirmed sense can function as an item of knowledge. An individual can claim to know something and express his knowledge in an assertion whose sense can be understood and confirmed by others.
As Derrida points out, this conception of knowledge involves both ideality and presence. Ideality is assumed as an “infinity of permissible repetitions” of presence. It, thus, appears as “the very form in which the presence of an object in general may be indefinitely repeated as the same” (SP, 9). To assume it is to assume the indefinite availability of presence. In Derrida’s words, “Ideality is the preservation or mastery of presence in repetition” (SP, 10-11). Knowledge, insofar as it presupposes ideality, assumes this “mastery of presence in repetition.”
Given this, Husserl’s account of knowledge can be fatally undermined by breaking the tie between ideality and presence. Now, their connection could be broken if the repetition implied by ideality were not a return to presence. To reverse this, we can say that it would be a return to pres¬ence if could assume that what makes possible the repetition is an ideal presence that could be re¬turned to again and again. Here, the possibility of the return is grounded on the presence--the be¬ing--of the ideal. Such an assumption, however, ignores the subjective origin of ideality. In Derrida’s words, “... ideality is not an existent that has fallen from the sky; its origin will always be the possible repetition of a productive act” (SP, 6). This act, however, is not limited to the senses Husserl takes as ideal. It directs itself to signs in general. Because of this, they also can count as ideal. Indeed, they must if they are to function as signs. In Derrida’s words: “A sign is never an event, if by event we mean an irreplaceable and irreversible empirical particular. A sign which would take place but ‘once’ would not be a sign. ... A signifier (in general) must be for¬mally recognizable ... It must remain the same, and be able to be repeated as such ...” (SP, 50). This means that “it can function as a sign only if a formal identity enables it to be issued again and to be recognized. This identity is necessarily ideal” (SP, 52). The conclusion follows because ideality has been reduced to its subjective origin--i.e., to the “the possible repetition of a productive act.” Given that signs as such depend on this repetition, they are all ideal. The premise here, as Derrida states it, is that the “ideality” that Husserl brings forward to describe “the structure of speech,” “depends entirely on the possibility of acts of repetition. It is constituted by this possibil¬ity” (ibid.).
This assertion of the general ideality of signs allows Derrida to break the connection be¬tween ideality and presence. Given that indicative signs lack an inherent sense, the return to them as the same is not a return to sense. It is, thus, not a return to what can be intuitively confirmed as a sense-filled presence. This means that the return must have the form of indication. In other words, it must involve the re-presentation of the indicated by a substitute. The ideality of signs “thus necessarily implies representation.” It does so, Derrida adds, “insofar as “each signifying event is a substitute (for the signified as well as for the ideal form of the signifier)” (SP, 50). The ideality of the sign, Derrida believes, is constituted by this repeated act of substitution. In fact, all forms of ideality are. The model of constitution through substitution holds for “the ideality of the sensible form of the signifier,” “the ideality of the signified (of the Bedeutung) or intended sense” and, “the ideality of the object itself” (SP, 52). All three achieve their ideal presence through re-presentation. Re-presentation (Vergegenwärtigung) is the “productive act” whose repetition pro¬duces ideality.
If we accept this conclusion, we break the tie between knowledge, ideality and presence. This, however, means we leave Husserl’s account of knowing without the foundation it demands. A number of other consequences, equally fatal to Husserl’s position, also follow. Thus, Derrida’s conclusion makes impossible the distinction between expression and indication. For Husserl, as we recall, indicative signs stand in place of (or substitute for) their referent. As such, they function in the absence of their referent. Expressions, as I noted, can also function in the absence of their referent. When we follow a report concerning something we have not seen, expressions can even be said to substitute for their referents. This functioning, however, depends on their giving the senses that structure the presence of their referents. To function, then, an expression cannot just not re-present its referent. It has to express what makes its referent’s presence possible, i.e., its one-in-many structure in an actual intuition. This, of course, is its tie to intuition. Expressing the sense of its referent, an assertion can be confirmed by its presence. This happens whenever such presence intuitively embodies its sense. When it does, then, as Husserl says, the “meaning-inten¬tion” and the “meaning-fulfillment” are “made one.” Their unity is the result of an identity of structure, i.e., of both manifesting the same one-in-many structure of a specific sense. None of this is possible in Derrida’s model of re-presentation. Accepting it, we exclude “from the start” the “possibilities ... that the unity of intuition and intention can ever be homogeneous at all and that meaning can be fused into intuition without disappearing” (SP, 92). This follows because the ideality of sense, as involving re-presentation, demands absence. Presupposing absence, it can “never form an ‘intimately blended unity’ with intuition.”
If we accept that all forms of ideality involve re-presentation, we also, of course, under¬mine Husserl’s distinction between the real and the ideal. The ideal no longer counts as a one-in-many presence. The return to it is simply a matter of repetitive substitution. The same fate befalls Husserl’s distinction between interior monologue and communicative speech. Insofar as this de¬mands our distinguishing expression from indication, it cannot obtain if all signification is funda¬mentally a matter of representation. If it is a matter of representation, then the expressive function is also indicative. It involves the presence of one thing standing for (or re-presenting) another. According to Derrida, the repetition of this relation yields the idealities Husserl assumes are avail¬able in interior speech. This, however, implies that the direct presence Husserl takes as definitive of such speech cannot obtain. Such presence is negated by the absence required by the representa¬tive relation. As Derrida sums up this argument, “... the primordial structure of repetition that we have just evoked for signs must govern all acts of signification. The subject cannot speak without giving himself a representation of his speaking ...” (SP, 57). Furthermore, insofar as the “reduction to monologue” is equivalent to Husserl’s phenomenological reduction, its concept must also be abandoned.
This set of consequences is itself a consequence of the entanglement noted in a previous section. Derrida’s reading of Husserl demands that we see his concepts of knowledge, ideality, sense, and expression as implying one another. Their mutual implication is a function of their having a common basis. According to Derrida, they all rely on a common concept of presence, one enshrined in Husserl’s “principle of principles.” They depend on the “original self-giving evi¬dence” that is exemplified by our self-presence.
IDEALITY AND SELF-PRESENCE
Derrida’s argument against this “principle” is at the heart of his critique. Without it, his as¬sertion that the subject cannot speak to himself apart from representation remains more a claim than a conclusion. Its demonstration, as Derrida recognizes, depends on his explanation of our self-presence. Do we have direct access to our interpretative senses or does this access require a pro¬cess of substitution? The latter would be the case were our self-presence itself constituted by a re¬peated process of substitution. This, however, involves the contention that our living present re¬sults from the “primordial structure of repetition.” The assumption, here, is that the presence of the present is not something already given that we can continually return to. Rather, it is continu¬ally constituted by a repetitive substitution, i.e., by a repetitive standing-in-the-place-of that has the same form as the indicative relation. In Derrida’s words, the claim is that “the presence-of-the-pre¬sent is derived from repetition and not the reverse” (SP, 52).
This contention can be put in terms of the tie between ideality and presence assumed by Husserl. For Derrida, the ideal is what “may be indefinitely repeated in the identity of its presence” (SP, 6). Thus, to include the ideality of the “sense or noema in consciousness” is to assume “that presence to consciousness can be indefinitely repeated” (SP, 10). This, however, assumes that “the present, or rather the presence of the living present” can sustain this repeated presence. Here, as Derrida remarks: “The ultimate form of ideality, the ideality of ideality, that in which in the last instance one may anticipate or recall all repetition, is the living present, the self-presence of tran¬scendental life”. Derrida’s position is that this supposed self-presence is actually the result of a repeated substitution. As such, its ground is a nonpresence. Its basis is the absence that allows the substitute to take the place of what it substitutes for.
Derrida’s arguments for this position are what make his account more than simply a counter to Husserl’s. In his view, the assertion of this grounding nonpresence is not external to Husserl’s analyses. It follows from phenomenology’s “own descriptions of the movement of temporaliza¬tion and of the constitution of intersubjectivity.” For Derrida, “at the heart of what ties together these two decisive moments of description, we recognize an irreducible nonpresence as having a constituting value, and with it a nonlife, a nonpresence or nonself-belonging of the living present, an ineradicable nonprimordiality” (SP, 6-7). The nonpresence inherent in intersubjectivity is ap¬parent in communicative discourse. Such discourse binds the community together, but it does so through indicative signs. The necessity of indication follows from the fact that we cannot directly experience the mental life of others. We indicate it because we cannot make it directly present. Husserl, of course, would agree with this. As the Cartesian Meditations makes apparent, his whole analysis of intersubjectivity concerns how we come to terms with this nonpresence. In fact, for Husserl, such nonpresence is what makes the other person other. Without it, intersubjectivity would collapse into an undifferentiated unity.
The real issue concerns Husserl’s analysis of temporalization. Does it reveal an irreducible nonpresence in the living present? If it does, then consciousness’ self-presence implies absence. It requires the same standing for an absent referent that the indicative function manifests. Its self-presence thus becomes a matter of substitution. It is at this point that we can say that ideality, as involving repeated self-presence, is actually a result of repeated substitution. In other words, if Derrida’s claim regarding temporalization holds, then so does the model he proposes for the ideal¬ity of signs. All forms of ideality can be explained through the model of constitution as repeated substitution. As already noted, this breaks the connection between knowledge, ideality, and intu¬itive presence, which is essential to Husserl’s argumentation. This, of course, is Derrida’s point. As he writes, “... if the present of self-presence is not simple, if it is constituted in a primordial and irreducible synthesis, then the whole of Husserl’s argumentation is threatened in its very principle” (SP, 61). All this, of course, depends on his analysis of temporalization.
TEMPORALIZATION AND THE SUPPLEMENT OF RETENTION
To begin this, we need a working definition of the “living present.” Its basic concept is that of the present in which we constantly live. Our very temporality makes its “life” our own. This “life” is one of temporalization. The living present “lives” by the continual addition of new nows and by the retention of nows that have passed away.
For Derrida, both the addition and the retention of moments occur through substitution. He names the process of substitution “supplementation.” This is because the requirement of the sub¬stitute comes from an original nonpresence. The substitute is needed to make up (or supplement) this lack. Supplementation thus designates a process where an “addition comes to make up for a deficiency, it comes to compensate for a primordial nonself-presence” (SP, 87). So defined, the notion of supplementation is perfectly general. Its concept applies to every indicative relation. In Derrida’s words, “... this concept of primordial supplementation not only implies nonplenitude of presence ... it designates this function of substitutive supplementation in general, the ‘in the place of’ (für etwas) structure which belongs to every sign in general” (SP, 88). To apply this structure to temporalization is to assert that the living present is not originally present. Its continued pres¬ence is the result of a repetitive supplementation, one where supplements are repeatedly put in “in the place of” this present. The actual life of this present thus manifests “the strange structure of the supplement.” This is one where “by delayed reaction, a possibility produces that to which it is said to be added on” (SP, 89). The assertion here is that the living present is produced by possible additions to itself, additions that stand “in the place of” itself. These additions are the new mo¬ments and retained moments that make up this present’s life.
Derrida’s initial focus is on the addition of retained moments. His position, he claims, is inherent in Husserl’s descriptions of the retentional process. Yet, in spite of this, he says very lit¬tle about the functioning of this process. He does assert that the retentional process shows that “presence of the perceived present can appear as such only in as much as it is continuously com¬pounded with a nonpresence and nonperception ... .” This nonpresence is inherent in the notion of retention. Retention retains the moments that have departed from the present. In Derrida’s words, it retains “a nonpresent, a past and unreal present” (SP, 64). This is what makes retention a nonperception. Husserl, Derrida admits, “says that retention is still a perception.” But this as¬sertion is undermined when we realize that it involves an “absolutely unique case,” that of “a per¬ceiving in which the perceived is not a present but a past ...” (ibid.).
For Derrida, the nonpresence or nonperception of retention is “indispensably involved in [the living present’s] possibility” (ibid.). Repeatedly supplementing the living present with re¬tained moments, the retentional process helps constitute its apparent self-identity. The deficiency which requires this retentional supplementation arises because the now of the living present contin¬ually expires. This present’s advance to the next now is one with its abandonment of the moment it previously occupied. The moment was its nowness. With the advance, it becomes a past or ab¬sent nowness. This loss can only be compensated for by the retention of the expired moment. The retained moment thus supplements for the loss of presence that is the inevitable consequence of the living present’s being in time, i.e., its advance from moment to moment. In a later section, this being in time will turn out to be a function of a difference inhabiting the living present’s apparent identity. The advance of time will be explained in terms of “the strange ‘movement’ of this differ¬ence” (SP, 85). Difference will count as the original absence requiring supplementation. Here, however, it is sufficient to note the inadequacy of attempting to compensate for the loss of an ex¬pired moment by retaining it. What is retained is an expired moment, i.e., “a past and unreal pre¬sent.” Thus, as continually compounded with the nonpresence of the retained, the living present continually manifests the deficiency which requires further supplementation, i.e., further retentions of this expired present as it advances in time.
Derrida’s brief remarks raise two basic questions: Does the fact that retention retains the past really disqualify it as a perception? Is it the case that the pastness of the past makes absence inherent in our present’s self-identity? For Derrida it does. His position is “that phenomenology seems to us tormented, if not contested from within, by its own descriptions of the movement of temporalization ...” (SP, 6). It is, in fact, tormented by just such questions. To see how accurate this is, we must turn to Husserl’s analysis of the retentional process. As we shall see, a justifica¬tion can be made for Derrida’s contention that the retentional process involves nonpresence and hence is one of supplementation. Whether such nonpresence robs it of its perceptual character is another issue.
A HUSSERLIAN VIEW OF RETENTION AS SUPPLEMENTATION
For Husserl, the necessity of the retentional process stems from an insight of Kant. Kant writes, “... if I were to lose from my thought the preceding impressions ... and not reproduce them when I advance to those which follow, a complete presentation would never arise ... .” In other words, I cannot apprehend a temporally extended object--e.g., the flight of a bird through a gar¬den--if my perceptual impressions of it vanish as they succeed each other. To avoid this, the im¬pressions must be reproduced or “retained.” Only as such can they function in the expended per¬ception of an object.
The requirement for supplementation (in the Derridean sense of an addition making up for an absence) enters from the fact that the present retention of a just past impression itself becomes past with the advance of time. Its functioning as a retention, however, depends on its not vanish¬ing with the arrival of the succeeding impressional moment (the moment that contains the next per¬ceptual impression). To avoid this, the retention itself needs to be retained. To continue to func¬tion, i.e., to continue to retain the past impression, it must, as time advances, be continuously supplemented by further retentions. Thus, I have a perceptual impression. This impression is re¬tained as I experience the next impression. As I experience the next, I retain not just the previous impression, but also the retention of the retention of the first impression. In Husserl’s words, the result, as the perceptual process continues, is a “steady continuum of retentions such that each later point is a retention of the earlier” (ZB, 29). As he also puts this, each of my successively experi¬enced perceptual impressions continues to be retained by a “continuous chain of retentions of re¬tentions” of its original content (ID I, 183). When the chain ceases, the retention of this content ends. Without further supplements, i.e., further retentions, the original impression with its content is no longer held fast by short term memory.
In Husserl’s account, the retentions do not just retain impressional contents. They also modify these. Each adds a sense of greater expiration or “pastness” to it. Thus, the sense of the pastness of a content that a retention contains becomes, in a retention of this retention, a sense of past pastness, that is, a sense of its further expiration. The result is that the impression is inserted into an “identical, immanent temporal position” in departing time. It is retained as a past impres¬sion, one that has a definite temporal position with regard to the retained impressions that pro¬ceeded and followed. Each of these latter impressions was once now. Each slips into pastness by virtue of the increase in its retentional chain. As these preceding and past impressions become past, so does the impression that holds its place between them through a corresponding lengthen¬ing of its chain.
This description allows us to see the temporalization of the past as a result of repetitive supplementation of the retentional process. In fact, given that each departing temporal position is constituted by such supplementation, it can be taken as “ideal” in Derrida’s sense. This follows because its identity or self-sameness is the result of repeated return to it via retention. What about Derrida’s claim that the process setting up this position involves a basic “nonpresence and nonper¬ception”? If we distinguish the retentions from what they retain, this point also seems to hold. It follows from the special structure of nowness and pastness (presence and absence) displayed by the chain. To function, the retention of an impressional content must be now. It must occupy the living present of the ongoing perceptual act. This is why it constantly needs a supplement. As the present advances, the retention must be supplemented by a further retention to function in the ad¬vancing present. Yet, what the retention retains is not now, not part of the momentary actuality of the living present. The retentional chain sets up an impressional content occupying an identical temporal position in departing time. The content occupies an expired now, a now that is no longer. In Derrida’s words, what is thus set up is “a nonpresent, a past and unreal present.” Given this, the relation between the present retention and what it retains can be taken as one of indication. Standing in the place of this expired impressional content, the retention that is now acts as an in¬dicative sign for it. It is a presence pointing to an absence. Insofar as the perception of a tempo¬rally extended event requires retention, the living present can function in perception only by being “continually compounded with a nonpresence.”
In spite of these agreements, there is a significant difference. It stems from Husserl’s insis¬tence that the absent impression is its retention’s origin, its raison d’être. Had there been no origi¬nal impression with its content, there would have been nothing to retain. In this, the retention shows a certain similarity to the word functioning as an indicative sign for a mental act. The raison d’être of such a sign is its referent--i.e., the act itself. If our mental acts were never originally pre¬sent, if we had never had an experience of them, we would lack all motivation to take linguistic signs as indicating their presence in others. For such signs to function as indications, that is, for them to stand in the place of their referents, more than the absences of such referents is required. A motivational basis, one presumably grounded in our own inner experience, must also be as¬sumed. The same can be said of retention if its relation to the retained is indicative. For indication to work, a motivation must be assumed. But this requires more than the presence of the indicator. It requires some form of direct experience that would move us to take it as standing for its referent. The same holds for the association that Husserl places at the origin of the motivation to take a thing as the sign for something else. To form an association, I must have, at least at some time, experi¬enced each of the different terms I associate.
A subsequent section will discuss the associative basis of temporalization. For the present, it is sufficient to note how for Husserl both presence and absence, both immediate experience and indicative substitution work in the positing of the identical temporal position. Presence is required in the form of the immediately given impression. This is the presence of the ultimately constituting hyletic material, which is uncovered in the final stage of the reduction. The absence of this hyletic material as it slips into pastness is matched by its repetitive retrieval by the retentional process. This retrieval, as I said, involves indication insofar as what we once immediately experienced is no longer present.
Here ideality and indication function together. For Husserl, this holds because the retained content has a one-in-many status. It is a unity that presents itself through a multitude of retentional modifications, each of which indicates it. For Derrida, it holds because the presence of the retained is based on a continuing process of re-presentation. The re-presentation is through a substitute presence, namely, that of each successive retention. As the retentions succeed one another, the identical position is constituted through a repeated act of substitution. This makes it “ideal” in the Derridean sense.
The two senses of ideality are, of course, quite different. In making ideality the result of indication, Derrida’s emphasis is on the fact that the indicative relation does not express a sense. Its referent is not a one-in-many. The return that constitutes ideality for Derrida is merely a matter of repetitive substitution. Here, the relation of the indicator to the indicated remains one-to-one. Now, to read Husserl in this way is to miss the subtlety of his description of the constitution of an identical temporal position. Such constitution is not simply a matter of one thing, an individual re¬tention, being repeatedly substituted for another. The model, here, is rather that of a multitude of different perceptual contents being taken as contents of one object. This object, as a one-in-many, is present as a sense. The same one-in-many structure characterizes the relation of the retention to the retained. Thus, Husserl’s account requires a multitude of different retentions. Each retention is different insofar as each relates to the original impression, not directly, but through different portions of the same retentional chain. Each thus retains it with a different degree of pastness. This, however, implies that the result of an increasing chain of retentions of retentions is both the same and different. It is the same insofar as the result is one and the same content occupying an identical temporal position. It is different insofar as this position is taken as departing in time. The increase of the chain yields the sense of departure. It does so because each new retention refers to the original impression through a series of retentions, each of which adds a further degree of past¬ness to its temporal position. Given this, the constitution of the impression’s departing position is a constitution of a sense. It is the constitution of the sense of departure that is essential to it as a position in time. As already noted, it has this sense as a one-in-many, i.e., as unity constituted through an ongoing series of retentional modifications. The fact that each present modification re-presents it, this by standing in the place of it, does not undermine its presence as a sense. It simply shows how indication and ideality imply each other in Husserl’s description. For Husserl, each retention functions as an indication, i.e., as a presence referring to an absence, by being part of a process that sets up a one-in-many.
This is why, for Husserl, retention is still perception. The fact that the perceived appears through a constitutive process, one that sets up a one-in-many, does not contradict the perceptual character of our grasp of it through the retentional chain. It simply indicates that the presence of the retained is a constituted presence. The point holds even when we take the relation between re¬tentions and the retained as one of representation. The self-identical temporal content that is consti¬tuted through repeated acts of representation is not, in Husserl’s account, itself a representation. It is an original, if constituted presence. Its originality signifies that it is given in the only way it can be given, i.e., as a constituted one-in-many. As such it stands for nothing except itself. This point can be put in terms of Husserl’s remark that “perception is here the act that places something itself before our eyes, the act that originally constitutes something.” Retention (or primary memory) is perception because it originally constitutes the past. In Husserl’s words, “if we call perception the act in which all ‘origin’ lies, the act which constitutes originally, then primary memory [retention] is perception” (ZB, 41).
The fact that it is perception means that we must qualify Derrida’s assertion: “The living now is constituted as an absolute perceptual source only in a state of continuity with retention taken as nonperception” (SP, 67). Derrida argues that it is “nonperception” because in retention “the perceived is not a present but a past” (SP, 64). Such nonperception must be inherent in the living present given that we can see extended events only if we can retain past perceptions. Given that our certitude with regard to extended events depends on retention, Husserl, according to Derrida, can avoid this conclusion only by insisting on the perceptual character of retention. He must make retention share in the perceptual certitude of the living present. This is the certitude of our present perceiving. In Derrida’s words, “The source of certitude in general is the primordial character of the living now; it is necessary therefore [for Husserl] to keep retention in the sphere of primordial certitude ...” (SP, 67). This, however, is impossible given that retention retains what is not pre¬sent and given that presence, for Husserl, grounds certitude. In analyzing this argument, we must be careful to distinguish retention from what it retains. Regarded in terms of what is immanent, i.e., its “intrinsic components,” the living present contains only the present retentions of past im¬pressions. It does not contain the nonpresent or past impressions. It rather contains their represen¬tatives. Thus, it is the “source for certitude” with regard to the past, through such representatives (i.e., the retentions themselves). Through them, it constitutes the past. Its certitude with regard to it is a certitude about a constituted sense of pastness. Put in another way, the relation to the identi¬cal temporal positions of departing past is intentional. The present retentions serve as the imma¬nent basis for an intention to what is no longer present. Serving as this basis, they become what Husserl calls “representing contents” (repräsentierende Inhalte), i.e., contents that “unambiguously point to” (eindeutig hinweisen) their referents (LU, 609). This pointing is inherent in their unifica¬tion into an intention directed to a sense of pastness.
The structure manifested by the retentional process is, according to the above, that of con¬stitution in general. It has to be, given that retention is perception and perception is a constitutive act. The necessity, however, lies deeper than this. The constitutive structure of retention follows from the fact that constitution itself is a temporal process. It is, as I noted, a layered process, with each layer yielding a level of presence. The lowest level is that of the retentional process itself. This process supports the operation of every subsequent level of perception. It does so because, as temporal, constitution presupposes not just presence, but absence and retrieval. On the lowest level, it assumes the presence of a primal impression. Were this impression to remain, it could not begin its work. For constitution to proceed, the impression must give way to another. But this re¬quires its absence. It presupposes a presence that has to be retrieved. That this retrieval requires representing contents, i.e., retentions that indicate or point to the absent content, does not under¬mine Husserl’s account. It does not make constitution incapable of setting up a perceptual pres¬ence. What it does point to is the indicative basis of every constituted presence.
We may, thus, admit with Derrida that each substitution of the retention for the retained can, by itself, be considered as a one-to-one relation. We may even consider the present retention and what it retains as two distinct existences. Such a static conception of their relation, however, ignores the fact that the retentional process, if it is to continue to work, i.e., continue to retain, must be ongoing. As ongoing, it transforms this one-to-one relation to a one-to-many relation. Thus, each successive substitution of the retention for the retained involves a retentional modifica¬tion, one that adds a degree of pastness. By virtue of this, the retained, as held fast by an increas¬ing chain of retentions of retentions, undergoes a continual constitution of its one-in-many pres¬ence. It bears the sense of something continuing to depart into pastness.
TEMPORALIZATION AND THE AUTO-AFFECTION OF CONSCIOUSNESS
The living present’s life consists in more than the retention of past moments. It also in¬volves the advance to new moments. Can such an advance be understood as a process of supple¬mentation, one based on a constant attempt to supply a deficiency in original presence? Husserl and Derrida radically disagree in their answers. For Husserl, the advance, rather than coming from a lack of original presence, is a consequence of it. The new now is the result of the original, non¬constituted presence of a primal impression. Originally given, the impression is what is serially retained. A succession of primal impressions yields a succession of impressional moments. The retention of these results in the series of identical temporal positions that make up extended time. For Derrida, by contrast, the origin of temporalization is something underlying every primal im¬pression taken as an actual now. It is “the possibility of re-petition in its most general form.” This, he writes, “is a possibility which not only must inhabit the pure actuality of the now but must constitute it through the very movement of differance it introduces.” His position is that the ad¬vance of time to the next now can be thought of as “the return of the present which will be retained in a finite movement or retention.” For Derrida, this “re-turn, as a return of the same is ... in¬scribed in presence itself” (SP, 67). This is because underlying presence is what Derrida calls “differance” The “a” marks its distinction from the individual differences it occasions. “Differance” is “the operation of differing” It “is always older than presence and procures for it its openness.” By virtue of the difference in the now it occasions, it “prevents us from speaking about a simple self-identity ‘im selben Augenblick’” i.e., at the same moment (SP, 68).
Differance produces “the return of the present” that is time’s advance by making the present affect itself. In other words, because there is “no simple self-identity” in the momentary present, there is an inherent divide in it. Its internal division makes it affect itself. The result of this “auto-affection” is a new present. In other words, the present returns to presence in a new now by af¬fecting itself. The contrast here with Husserl could not be more marked. For Husserl, the fact that the “the primal impression ... is not produced” by consciousness means that “consciousness is nothing without impression” (ZB, 100). For Derrida, its not being produced signifies that “the ab¬solute novelty of each now is therefore engendered by nothing; it consists in a primordial impres¬sion that engenders itself.” As just noted, this self-engendering is a result of an auto-affection. In Derrida’s words, “The ‘source point’ or ‘primordial impression,’ that out of which the moment of temporalization is produced, is already pure auto-affection. ... it is a pure production ... it is a re¬ceiving that receives nothing” (SP, 83). This follows because what occasions it is nothing “empirical”--i.e., nothing external. It results from the difference introduced into the now by the original differance.
Derrida draws a number of consequences from the above. “Time,” as “the ‘movement’ of this auto-affection” is actually “the ‘movement’ of this strange difference” (SP, 85). The “strange” difference is differance, taken as the “operation of differing.” This operation results in the “pure production” of the new now as well as the retention (or “retentional trace”) of the now which this new now replaces. Both production and retention, as I said, make up the life of the living present. Thus, for Derrida, “The living present springs forth out of its nonidentity with itself ... .” Differance is also responsible for this present’s self-presence. According to Derrida, the living present cannot be present to itself unless it can return to itself--i.e., encounter its presence in a new or retained moment. This return arises from the “operation of differing,” i.e., the action that intro¬duces a “pure” difference into the now. Insofar as this yields both a new and a retained presence, “... this pure difference ... constitutes the self-presence of the living present” (ibid.). The term, “pure difference” thus designates the “non-identity with itself” of the living present’s nowness, a nonidentity that allows it to affect itself. Insofar as this self-affection results in a return to pres¬ence, it permits the living present to be self-present.
For Husserl, as I mentioned, the advance of time is the result of a succession of primordial impressions. Their successive presence is the experienced succession of impressional moments. The premise here is that distinct impressions give rise to distinct moments. Time’s advance thus depends on the impressions’ not being implicitly included in each other. They must count as dis¬tinct original presences. Derrida’s account of auto-affection makes him deny this. He writes:
“The process by which the living now, produced by spontaneous generation, must, in or¬der to be a now and to be retained in another now, affect itself without recourse to anything empirical but with a new primordial actuality in which it [the living now] would become a non-now, a past now--this process is indeed a pure auto-affection in which the same is the same only in being affected by the other, only by becoming the other of the same. This auto-affection must be pure since the primordial impression is here affected by nothing other than itself, by the absolute ‘novelty’ of another primordial impression” (SP, 85).
To claim that the primordial impression is “affected by nothing other than itself” and to equate this with its being affected by “another primordial impression” is actually to suppose that the second is implicitly included in the first. For Derrida it is, insofar as difference is inherent in the first. This difference allows the primordial impression to affect itself. In other words, its being affected by “another primordial impression” is actually a self-affection. Thus, the advance of time is not, as it is for Husserl, a function of distinct identities--i.e., distinct primordial impressions affecting con¬sciousness. Difference is, rather, prior to identity. The “pure difference” inherent in each impres¬sion makes it affect itself. This auto-affection gives rise to the next impression. Each impression, thus, has its identity as a distinct impression “only by becoming the other of the same.” It has it by virtue of the self-affection of the same, which makes explicit the otherness, the “pure difference,” inherent in the same. This also holds for the past moments given by the retentional “traces.” They are also inherent in the present by virtue of the “pure difference” it embodies. This difference makes the “living now ... affect itself ... with a new primordial actuality”--i.e. a next now, a new impressional moment. This, however, makes it “become a non-now, a past now.” Given by the retentional traces they leave behind, such past moments come to be posited as identical temporal positions in departing time.
Once we take this difference as expressing a lack, a deficiency inherent in the living pre¬sent, the above account can be put in terms of the notion of “supplementation.” To do so is to as¬sert that deficiency requires constant supplementation, and this yields the arising of time in both temporal dimensions. Thus, the nonplenitude of presence of the living now is supplemented in the direction of the past by the retention that stands in the place of the just departed moment. In the future it is supplemented by the new now. Both supplementations are based on an original non¬plenitude, i.e., the absence that is implicit in this pure difference and, indeed, in differance itself. Both occur together. Thus, the supplementation by the new now makes the present now a just past moment. But this departure from presence is one with the supplementation occasioned by reten¬tion. The result, then, is time. “Time,” as we cited Derrida, “is the ‘movement’ of this strange dif¬ference.” Its origin is the differance that is prior to the self-identity of the living now.
To fill out Derrida’s conception of this movement, a second sense of “differance” must be brought in. As I said, there is “supplementation” only because there is a deficiency, a lack in living present. This lack is that of an inherent self-identity. As just noted, it is a function of the differ¬ence inhabiting the presence of this present. The root of this is “differance” understood as “the op¬eration of differing.” A second sense of differance is required by the fact that time does not happen all at once. Its movement is experienced as successive. This means that the supplementation that yields time must itself be “successive supplementation.” For Husserl, the successive quality of time is ultimately the result of the successive presence of primordial impressions. But Derrida, having dismissed such primordiality, cannot use it to account for succession. Its origin is, in fact, differance understood as deferring or delaying , i.e., differance in the sense “of postponing till later.” Differance, then, means both differing and delaying. In Derrida’s words, “the operation of differing ... both fissures and retards presence, submitting it simultaneously to primordial divi¬sion and delay” (SP, 88). By virtue of the first sense, “the same is the same only in being affected by the other, only by becoming the other of the same.” This “auto-affection,” insofar as it results in the “becoming the other of the same,” brings about supplementation. By virtue of the second sense, this supplementation is successive.
The concept of supplementation helps us understand Derrida’s assertion that “differance is always older than presence and procures for it its openness” (SP, 68). The sense of “openness” meant here can be taken from his statement that “this concept of primordial supplementation not only implies nonplenitude of presence ...; it designates this function of substitutive supplementa¬tion in general, the ‘in the place of’ (für etwas) structure which belongs to every sign in general” (SP, 88). Given this, we have to say that the “openness” of presence is an openness to language. It is its openness to the indicative linguistic signs that manifest the “‘in the place of’ structure” that is inherent in supplementation. Insofar as such supplementation is a function of the “differance” underlying presence, the latter “procures for it its openness.” This openness appears in the re¬peated return to the same that is, for Derrida, the origin of the ideality of signs.
As for differance being “older than presence,” this claim follows from the “pure difference” it occasions being prior to self-identity. By virtue of this priority, the presence of self-identity can be seen to arise through the process of supplementation, that is, through the living present’s repeti¬tively standing in the place of itself. As a result, the other that affects the same is not itself a pres¬ence--a primordial impression in Husserl’s sense. The affection, as grounded in the “pure differ¬ence” of the now, is prior to this presence. Thus, the supplement that does appear through auto-af¬fection stands in the place of the same. Instead of primordiality, we have, then, a serial relation of indication, i.e., of signifiers standing in the place of signifiers. This serial relation of signification is inherent in the concept of supplementation. In Derrida’s words, “The structure of supplementa¬tion is quite complex. As a supplement, the signifier does not represent first and simply the absent signified. Rather, it is substituted for another signifier ...” (SP, 89). The process continues itera¬tively, with signifier signifying signifier. The result of this repetition is the ongoing presence of the living present. It is its ideality, given that it is constituted through repetition. As already noted, retention, for Derrida, is a process of supplementation. In the retentional chain, each member “stands in the place of the next,” supplementing it as it departs into pastness. For Husserl, of course, the anchor of this repeated return to a departing moment is an absolutely given primordial impression, one that was originally present at a given instant. For Derrida, however, there are no primordial impressions in this Husserlian sense. There is only “the play of difference” (ibid.). Its result is simply signs successively standing for signs. This cannot be otherwise, given Derrida’s denial of primordiality. The ultimate consequence of making the “operation of differing” primor¬dial is, then, to seal us within a world of signification.
LANGUAGE AND SELF-PRESENCE
As observed in the previous section, differance makes presence open to language. As “the operation of differing,” its result may be termed “the play of difference.” For Derrida, “... the play of difference is the movement of idealization ...” (SP, 89). This is because it is responsible for the repeated return to the same through which the ideal is constituted. This holds for the ideality of signs as well as the ideality of the living present. According to Derrida, “... the more ideal a signi¬fier is, the more it augments the power to repeat presence, the more it keeps, reserves, and capital¬izes on its sense” (ibid.). The origin of this “power” is the “pure difference” that, inhabiting the living present, causes it to differ with itself, affect itself, and, as a result, return to itself. This re¬turn is the repetition of presence presumed by the ideality of signs. So regarded, their ideality is actually a manifestation of the ideality of the living present. For Derrida, “the ultimate form of ideality, the ideality of ideality, that in which in the last instance one may anticipate or recall all repetition, is the living present, the self-presence of transcendental life” (SP, 6). It is such, be¬cause of “the play of differance” at work within it.
The living present is the “self-presence of transcendental life” because its “life” is our own. Just as its self-presence is a function of the return to presence that originates in differance, so our own reflexivity, our own self-presence is a result of this return. If the defining characteristic of subjectivity is its reflexivity, i.e., its ability to access itself, then as Derrida says, “the movement of differance is not something that happens to a transcendental subject; it produces a subject.” It does so since it makes the living present differ with itself and affect itself. The result of this auto-affec¬tion is a present (either retained or new) through which the subject can access itself. Here, of course, the priority of differance to identity is crucial. The subject is not something already given that experiences an affection. It is produced by this affection. Thus, Derrida immediately adds: “Auto-affection is not a modality of experience that characterizes a being that would already be it¬self (autos). It produces sameness as self-relation within self-difference; it produces sameness as the nonidentical” (SP, 82). What is actually produced is the supplement. The new present pro¬duced by the auto-affection supplements the original. As a present, it is the same. As an addition, i.e., as something standing in the place of it, it is nonidentical.
The supplement, for Derrida, is the basis for the “for-itself” quality of a subject. It can be for itself only if it can access itself. Such access is through its supplement. It is through what stands in the place of itself. In Derrida’s words, “... the for-itself of self-presence (für sich) ... arises in the role of supplement as primordial substitution, in the form [of the] ‘in the place of’ (für etwas), that is, as we have seen, in the very operation of significance in general. The for-itself would be an in-the-place-of-itself: put for itself, instead of itself” (SP, 89). With this, we have Derrida’s claim that self-presence of the subject is mediated by indicative signs. What underlies this claim is the fact that our self-presence necessarily exhibits the “in the place of form” of the in¬dicative relation. This necessity follows from the constitution of the subject. For Derrida, “the movement of differance ... produces a subject.” If it does, then its self-presence must be a matter of indication. In fact, it involves indicative signification in the most original way possible. Such signification is not something that comes to a subject. It is not something added on. It is a feature of the self-presence that makes it self-conscious. Given this, we have to say that its being a subject is one with its openness to language. Both are constituted simultaneously.
By now, it should be clear why Derrida so strenuously opposes Husserl’s claim that indi¬cation has no place in interior monologue. To abstract from indication is not just to do away with the possibility of signification. It is to eliminate the very self-presence that characterizes our con¬sciousness. For Derrida, it is to make consciousness itself impossible. The best way to explain this is in terms of the connection Derrida draws between the voice and consciousness. The re¬quirement of the voice arises because the indicative relation needs a physical medium--be this an object, a written sign, or the sounding voice. The medium makes present the absent referent by substituting the medium’s own presence for that of the referent. Thus, in communicative speech, the voice indicates, by standing in the place of, the mental life of the other. This life, which is not itself present, is made present through the physically sounding voice. For Derrida, the same re¬quirement holds for our self-presence. Insofar as it involves indication, self-presence is actually a function of “hearing oneself speak.” If we ask why the voice (as opposed, say, to writing) is re¬quired, Derrida replies: “The operation of ‘hearing oneself speak’ is an auto-affection of a unique kind” (SP, 78). This is because “the voice meets no obstacle to its emission in the world” (SP, 79). Thus, “the subject can hear or speak to himself and be affected by the signifier he produces, without passing through an external detour, the world, the sphere of what is not ‘his own’” (SP, 78). The necessity of the voice thus arises because indication has been explained in terms of sup¬plementation. But the origin of the latter is auto-affection. Given that indication requires a physi¬cal medium, so does the auto-affection of consciousness. It requires the voice, considered as a medium that the self can produce without dependence on anything external. If we accept this, then Derrida’s conclusion follows: “... no consciousness is possible without the voice. The voice is the being which is present to itself in the form of universality, as con-sciousness: the voice is con¬sciousness” (SP, 79-80). The “universality” referred to here is that of the repeated return to the same that makes the living present “the ultimate form of ideality.” The return is based on its auto-affection. Insofar as this requires the voice, so does consciousness. The subject has “con-scious¬ness” by being self-present, i.e., by embodying the self-presence of the living present. Derrida’s assertion that voice “is the being which is present to itself in the form of universality” holds be¬cause this self-presence involves the repeated return to the same. We are present to ourselves through an ongoing process of auto-affection. The medium through which this return is accom¬plished, i.e., the voice, achieves “the form of universality” through this repetition. It, thus, ex¬hibits the ideal universality of the significant sign. The upshot is that our own self-presence (our consciousness) occurs through the “ideal” spoken signs composing our language.
Derrida’s contention that “the voice is consciousness” is both startling and problematic. Since the voice is the speaking voice, it seems to deprive all non-speaking creatures of conscious¬ness. This, however, returns us to the widely discredited Cartesian position that animals, lacking mind, and, hence, consciousness are but machines. Derrida seems to embrace this consequence when he asserts, “Deaf and dumb go hand in hand” (SP, 78). The inability to hear oneself speak makes one “dumb,” i.e., deprives one of mind. Can we really assert that the voice is a unique kind of auto-affection, one absolutely required for conscious life? Such life certainly requires temporal¬ization. Temporalization may, indeed, be a process of auto-affection. But time does not stop when I cease speaking. Neither does my consciousness. The retentional process continues apace. I continue to be aware of departing moments, of what I have done, whether I speak or not. The same self-awareness seems present in animals. If it does, they cannot be said to function simply as machines.
Given these difficulties, why does Derrida argue that “the voice is consciousness”? The contention seems to spring from a motivation present from the beginning of Speech and Phenomena. Derrida wants to deny Husserl’s contention that indicative signs are absent in interior monologue. Given that they are present, the necessity that all indicative signs require a sensual basis leads to his assertion that the voice is this basis. The question here is whether conscious¬ness, conceived as a process of auto-affection, requires this basis. If it does, then Derrida’s con¬clusion follows. This question can be expressed in terms of temporalization, understood as a pro¬cess of auto-affection. Does auto-affection require the voice as a medium? To consider it as in¬dicative process does imply the presence of some medium. But why cannot this medium be the impressions we receive from the world? For Derrida, of course, this hypothesis is ruled out by his denial of primordiality. The medium cannot be received. It must be something the subject gives himself. For Husserl, as we shall see, the process of temporalization can be seen as an auto-affec¬tion. It also can be understood as requiring a medium. But this medium is not limited to the voice, i.e., to the impressions it provides us. Con-sciousness, for its auto-affection, requires only the primal impressions that set the temporal process going.
INSTINCT AND AUTO-AFFECTION
In Speech and Phenomena, Derrida’s account of time ultimately rests on his concept of dif¬ferance. Why should we accept this concept? Is there any evidence for it? The very notion of evi¬dence here is highly problematic. We cannot ask that the concept be manifested in some self-giv¬ing intuition. The request would return us to a “metaphysics of presence,” the very thing Derrida wants to avoid. From a Husserlian standpoint, however, such evidence is required. Without it, the assertion of differance is “metaphysical.” It is something that cannot be made phenomenologi¬cally evident. A way out of this impasse is provided by Derrida’s contention that his view is an¬chored in Husserl’s own analyses of time. Such analyses, particularly in the late manuscripts, show that Husserl also posits a certain difference (or non-identity) at the origin of time. This dif¬ference, however, appears in a way unsuspected by Derrida.
For Husserl, the original difference is between feeling and content. His position in regard to it is strikingly similar to Derrida’s. We cannot speak of it as a difference between two pres¬ences, i.e., between a given ego and the primal impressions it encounters. The difference is rather internal to the ego. In Husserl’s words:
“Content is non-ego (das Ichfremde), feeling is already egological. The ‘address’ of the content is not a call to something, but rather a feeling being-there of the ego. ... The ego is not something for itself and the non-ego something separate from the ego; between them there is no room for a turning towards. Rather, the ego and its non-ego are inseparable; the ego is a feeling ego with every content ... .”
There is, in fact, a certain identity between the two. It is one where we can say: “What from the side of the hyletic data is called the affection of the ego is from the side of the ego called tending, striving towards.”
Together, the feeling (the being affected) and the affecting content form the original unity called the “awake ego.” As Husserl describes this: “The ego is awakened”--i.e., becomes an awake ego--“by affection from the non-egological because the non-egological is ‘of interest,’ it instinctively indicates, etc.; and the ego reacts kinesthetically as an immediate reaction.” The process here is one where affection manifests itself in the activity of striving towards the affecting content. To cite Husserl again: “First, the affection arouses affective activity. It thus engenders a striving-towards [the affection] in [the awake ego’s] present mode of action or being as striving. This is the field of kinesthesia in the narrower and broader sense. Determined ways of striving exist that are originally, ‘instinctively’ one with their hyletic accompaniments.” According to Husserl, there is a “form of primal association” binding this striving to its hyletic complement. The mention of the “field of kinesthesia” (or bodily sensations) occurs because, as instinctively determined, such striving includes our bodily being.
The relation between the ego and the specific affecting contents that awaken it can be com¬pared to that between a lock and a key. Not every key fits the lock. Similarly, not every material affects the ego. The “primal association” just mentioned occurs through a linking of specific mate¬rials to “determined ways of striving.” Biologically based, this association gives the original unity between the being-affected of the ego and its affecting contents. Just as the key cannot function without the lock, nor the lock without the key, so the awake ego and its affecting contents require each other. For contents to be there as contents, for them to be there as hyletic data for its consti¬tutive processes, they must affect the ego. Without this ability to affect, they have no presence. Similarly the ego, as a being-affected, is nothing without affecting contents. Both, then, must be thought together in the original unity termed the “awake ego.”
Temporalization enters into this description because striving on the primordial level strives to possess. It, thus, strives to hold fast or retain an affecting content as the latter departs. Its re¬sult, then, is the beginning of temporalization as retention. Thus, the “primal association” linking a content to the striving that holds it fast appears as the associational basis of retention. As will be¬come apparent, a similar link can be drawn between the primordial, instinctive striving-to-possess and the having-in-advance Husserl terms “protention.” The temporalization involving retention and protention begins, for Husserl, the process of ego’s awakening to its self-presence. Given this, the Husserlian parallel to Derrida’s position can be outlined as follows: At the basis of our self-presence is an original difference between content and the affection it engenders. Since this difference is internal to the awake ego, this ego can be said to affect itself through this content. The result of this affection is its striving. The movement of this difference is the movement of in¬stinctive striving. This movement is “time” insofar as it gives rise to the retentional and proten¬tional process. As such, it is also the basis of our primordial self-presence. The advance of time in the arising of a new now is a function of the arising of a new affecting content. This content is both primordially given through a new impression and internal to the awake ego.
To fill out the above, a brief sketch of Husserl’s theory of the instincts is required. “Instinct,” in a broad sense, signifies a natural impulse or urge. The term can also be used to refer to an inborn organized pattern of behavior, one that proceeds more or less automatically to reach its goal without the benefit of prior experience or learning. A classic example of this is the nest building of birds. The first appearance of this instinct, if not perfect, is still sufficient to ensure the survival of the young and the continuance of the species. Such “hard-wired” behavior decreases as organisms become more complex. Inborn patterns become increasingly supplemented by experi¬ence, habit, learning, and, in the case of humans, acquired culture. This does not mean that the instincts disappear. Although submerged, they remain as powerful impulses from within, as drives urging the organism to actions which serve biological ends. Two examples will suffice to make this point clear. In less complex organisms, the sexual drive results in a fixed pattern of be¬havior--a courtship ritual--leading to mating. In humans, by contrast, its object can assume the most diverse forms as witnessed by what Freud calls the “perversions.” Here, early childhood ex¬perience and learned behavior play their part. The same holds for the drive for nourishment. The particular object of this drive, although it may have originally been satisfied by a mother’s milk, is soon culturally determined. As the individual grows, it becomes more complex. Our experiences of various tastes and foods are combined and the results themselves recombined. Speaking phe¬nomenologically, there is a constitutive process here: fulfillments on one level combine to produce intentions whose fulfillment requires a higher level synthesis, a more elaborate preparation of the meal.
Husserl draws a number of points from this general account. The first is the all-pervasive character of the striving that originates in the instincts. He writes: “All life is continuous striving, all satisfaction is transitory.” This means that “the ego is what it is essentially in a style of origi¬nal and acquired needs, in a style of desire and satisfaction, passing from desire to enjoyment, from enjoyment to desire.” Thus, for Husserl, there are no “value free” “mere sensations or sensible objects.” On the contrary, “nothing can be given that cannot move the feelings (Gemüt).” When a sensation does move the feelings, the ego turns to the source and this turn¬ing towards is itself a striving. This does not mean that the sensible object must be given for the original striving to occur. The relation is reversed: for Husserl, the striving is what first motivates the process of grasping the object. The grasp follows the striving. Thus, it is not just in the sim¬pler animals that instincts operate without the organism having any initial conception of their in¬tended goal. This also occurs in us. The infant first placed at the breast is motivated by smell, then by touching the nipple, then by the kinesthesia of sucking and swallowing before the goal of the drive towards nourishment appears. As Husserl states the general principle: “Striving is instinctive and instinctively (thus, at first, secretly) ‘directed’ towards what in the ‘future’ will first be disclosed as worldly unities constituting themselves.” This acting before the goal is known is not limited to the original expressions of the instincts. It is present throughout our instinctual life. Throughout it, instinctive striving provides the energy, the motive force impelling constitution from one level to the next.
Constitution, as already mentioned, is a layered process. The same holds for our instinc¬tual life. Fulfillment of its strivings on one level provides the material for the intentions its striv¬ings manifest on the next. Husserl, thus, can write: “Developmental stages--on every level new needs appear, needs formally essential for this level. They appear as obscure needs, which first reveal themselves in their attainment--as ‘instinctive’ modes of egological valuation (feelings) ... .” Their attainment gives rise to needs whose fulfillment requires the next level of constitution. The result, then, is an ongoing series of “levels of instincts, of original drives, needs (which at first do not yet know their goals), systematically ordered, pointing beyond themselves to higher levels.” Now, throughout this process, the instincts remain the same. What changes is their fulfillments. The instincts continue to “designate the original, essentially universal primary drives, the primal affections that determine all development.” With a particular level of fulfillment, “the instinct is not at an end. It takes on new modes.”
In Derrida’s terms, this taking on new modes can be understood as a feature of the “movement of the difference.” For Husserl, as I remarked, this is the movement of our striving. The movement makes us ascend the levels of constitutive life through the constitution on each level of a new content. This constitution yields a new appearance of the difference between content and the affection it arouses. Internal to the ego that is present on this level, this difference can be said to occasion a new self-affection. The resultant striving or tending towards leads to the constitution of a more developed content and with this to yet another appearance of the difference. Thus, each new constituted content awakes the ego to a new level of striving.
Husserl gives detailed descriptions of the transformations of instinctual striving as it moves from one constituted level to the next. My comparison with Derrida requires an examination only of the original level, the level that manifests itself in temporalization. This, however, can serve as a pattern for the rest. Given that constitution is inherently a temporal process, the striving that animates this level underpins every subsequent level. The levels that follow are, in Husserl’s words, only “new modes” of the original striving.
For Husserl, as noted earlier, this striving is a striving to possess, to have and hold fast its object. On the basic level of temporalization, it has two manifestations. It shows itself, first of all, in the holding fast or retention of affecting contents. This striving “motivates” the retention of such contents. Its basis, as I noted, is the instinctively driven “primal association” between the ego and the contents that awaken it. With this, we have the missing element in Derrida’s description of retention as indication. For indication to work some motivation must be assumed. But this re¬quires more than the experience of indicator. To take it as standing in the place of referent, we have to have some experience of the latter as well as a motive to take the indicator as indicating the referent. Husserl’s description of temporalization as instinctive striving accounts for both. This is because the experience of the original content is one with the motivation. The motivation is pro¬vided by the striving occasioned by the affecting content. This striving is a striving to hold fast the content as it passes away. Insofar as the present retention holds fast a past content by standing in the place of it, their indicative relation has its motivational basis in such striving. The ultimate ba¬sis here is “primal association,” which based on our bodily being and its instinctive needs, makes some contents affect us, while leaving us indifferent--i.e., without motivation--regarding others.
The same points hold, mutatis mutandis, for the second basic manifestation of striving in temporal life. This is a striving towards the future. It motivates the having-in-advance manifested by protention. To understand it, we have to see the protentional process is the inverse of the reten¬tional (ZB, 55-6). The chains of retentions of retentions increase with the advance of time. Protentional chains exhibit a serial having-in-advance of a having-in-advance ... of what we will presently experience. They decrease as what they protend advances from the future. This decrease signifies the decreasing sense of the futurity of the contents they protend. Their differing lengths thus are correlated to our experience of time as having different degrees of futurity. The anticipa¬tion formed from them involves the expectation of an ordered sequence of contents, each with a distinct temporal position corresponding to its protended futurity.
An indicative relation between a present protention and a future content is one where the protention stands in the place of the not yet experienced content. Given that we have not yet expe¬rienced the latter, we cannot say that this experience motivates the striving underlying the proten¬tional relation. What then is the experiential basis for our taking a present protention as standing for an anticipated content? An everyday example gives the answer. Lifting a glass of water to my lips, I anticipate the sensations of water in my mouth. This is because I have experienced this ac¬tion before. Each time I repeat it, the same general series of sensations is experienced. Anticipating, I project forward the features of my past experience. Such features shape my general expectations. Thus, each time I raise a glass to my lips, my present experience includes the pro¬tentions (the indicative having-in-advance) of experiencing the liquid. Pointing toward the future, such protentions re-present it to me as what I will experience. The specific motivation comes, then, from my present experience as shaped by the past. Beyond this, there is a general motivation springing from my instinctive needs. Its basis is “primal association,” i.e., the linking of specific contents to specific strivings. Thus, my striving towards water comes from my being affected by thirst. I lift the glass because I am thirsty. In other words, my present experience of the glass is combined with a present experience of thirst. Both, of course, are informed by my past experience regarding the quenching of this thirst. My underlying motivation to drink, however, does not come from the past. Its origin is my present experience of instinctive need. Because of this, my having-in-advance includes an instinctive drive towards a future having in the present. I protend (or indicatively re-present) the future as that which I will presently experience. Thus, the actual presence of water in my mouth appears as the fulfillment of both my instinctive striving and my specific expectations.
This instinctive striving is what drives me to appropriate the future. It makes me seek out the experiential contents that will satisfy the need I presently experience. Thus, just as our instinc¬tive sexual need motivates our first sexual strivings, so the biological need for liquid motivates the baby’s initial search for the nipple. For Husserl, the same general point holds for all our activities. Instinctual striving drives us to make sense of our environments. It manifests itself in our being “instinctively (thus, at first, secretly) ‘directed’ towards what in the ‘future’ will first be disclosed as worldly unities constituting themselves.” To proceed any further into the origin of this striv¬ing, it is necessary to go beyond Husserl and mention its evolutionary basis. An organism could not survive if it could not make appropriate sense of its environment. It has to grasp what preys upon it as well as its own prey. It must also grasp the aspects of its environment it needs to repro¬duce, for example, the sexual displays of potential mates. The organism who fails to do this does not survive or reproduce. Given this, the origin of the “primal association’ between contents and striving is our biological, bodily heritage. Our drive to make sense of our surroundings, given that we cannot survive without it, has been selected for. As with any other drive, it is experienced as a need, an impulse from within, motivating the requisite activity.
Retention and protention, insofar as they are the foundations of our sense making, percep¬tual activity, manifest the same evolutionary, instinctive basis. A sign that this is so comes from the fact that the satisfaction of an instinctive need results in pleasure. There is, then, a certain “pleasurable affection (Lustaffektion)” in perception regarded as an instinctive drive. As Husserl remarks, “Here, Aristotle’s [assertion that] ’all humans naturally have joy (Freude) in sense per¬ception’ gains its truth.” Our pleasure in sense perception points back to an instinctively driven need to see. The evolutionary basis of this is the fact that our species would not have survived if it could not see. Insofar as seeing involves, not just focusing one’s eyes, but also such activities as moving to get a better look, examining the object from different angles, and so forth, it always in¬cludes a drive towards the future, i.e., a protending of the experience it will afford us.
This description of the instinctive basis of retention and protention underlies the Husserlian parallel to Derrida’s account of the subject. For Derrida, differance underlies the subject’s self-presence. This is because its self-presence is through its affecting itself. The affection allows it to return to itself either in a retained or a new moment. For Husserl, the same general process of self-affection and self-presence can be said to occur. It follows from the original difference, internal to the awake ego, between content and the affection it arouses. This affection manifests itself in the striving that retains the past and protends the future. It, thus, results in the ego having a surround¬ing temporal environment. Now, without this temporal environment, the striving is not yet egolog¬ical. The environment defines the ego in “concrete being” as temporal center. Thus, for Husserl, the ego “awakes” in its “concrete being” as a “center for affections and actions” through the tempo¬ralization resulting from affection.
The basic concept of the ego at work in Husserl’s description of this process is that of a temporal centering of experience. In all my experience, I am always at the now, always between the departing past and anticipated future. Retentions give me my sense of pastness. As for the future, it is present through my anticipations or protentions. With the constitution of this temporal environment comes underlying experience of selfhood. Constantly situated between the past and the future, I experience myself as “a lasting and remaining primal now,” i.e., as the point through which time streams and in which its content laden moments appear to well up as present and actual. As long as time continues, the ego is constituted as this point of passage. In Husserl’s words, with the constitution of the continua of the past and future, the ego is constituted “as a fixed form for a content which streams through it and as the source point for all constituted modifications.” Its appearance as a point of passage through the content streams means that the affections associ¬ated with this streaming content appear to affect it. Its appearance as a source point means that the instinctual strivings they engender appear as its strivings. The ego thus appears as “the center of affections and actions,” as the “pole of the as yet undetermined instincts.”
For Derrida the arising of the subject comes from the constitution of its for-itself quality. As con-sciousness, subjectivity is mediated by the voice. Mediation in Husserl’s account is pro¬vided by affecting contents. These are the primal impressions, which he takes as the ultimate source of the advance of time. Internal to the awake ego, they provide the flowing “content which streams through it” as it remains now. The retention and protention of these contents provide the primordial level of our self-awareness. The easiest way to see this is to note the role of retention and protention in the grasp of an enduring object. For Husserl, this apprehension requires both interpretation and contents there to be interpreted. Now, protention is essential to interpretation. My anticipations of what I will experience determine the way I make sense of this experience, i.e., the particular one-in-many framework I impose on them. Retention enters in because the actual impressions I experience have to be retained in order to be interpreted. To experience the fulfill¬ment of the “interpretative sense” based on my protentions, the contents I actually experience must be held fast in retention. Depending on retention and protention, my experience of an object, thus, always includes a certain “prereflective” experience of their processes. This, however, is an expe¬rience of myself in my instinctive activity of retaining and protending.
This experience yields the fundamental level of our prereflexive awareness. It arises from the self-referential character of retention and protention. Aside from the initial retaining of the im¬pression, retention always has itself as its immediate object. It instinctively retains the result of the activity of retention. Thus, each retention retains an original impression by retaining the previous retentions of this impression. Given this self-reference, there is always a certain prereflective self-presence to the flow of consciousness. The same can be said about protention. The only differ¬ence is that here self-presence is oriented towards the future. We anticipate the future by a proten¬tional having in advance of a protentional having in advance ... of future contents. Self-reference (and, hence, self-presence) is inherent in this process since protention refers to itself in its anticipa¬tion of the future. Given that protention and retention are inherent in our apprehension of a tempo¬rally extended event, such apprehension always includes our pre-reflective self-presence. My par¬ticular interpretive intention to grasp the event is based on its protended contents. Thus, prereflec¬tively , my intention to see it incudes the thought of my seeing it. Correspondingly, the fulfillment of this intention through its retained contents includes prereflectively the thought of my having seen it.
By now the distinct character of Husserl’s account should be clear. “Differance,” for him, is not a metaphysical concept. The Husserlian parallel to this concept is founded on our instinc¬tive, bodily being. The “movement of difference” is the movement of our instinctive striving, the very striving that gives rise to time. For time to advance, there must, of course, be a continual arising of new impressions. Striving, insofar as it results from the affection of such contents, also demands their successive presence. Both are dependent on primordial impressions. The descrip¬tion of the movement of the difference as an auto-affection does not deny this primordiality. It rests on the fact that such primordiality is, for Husserl, prior to the ego. Its awakening as an ego is one with the retentional and protentional processes that make it self-present as a center of experi¬ence. Given that affecting contents are inherent in its being a self, their affection can be described as a self-affection. In Derrida’s account, as I stressed, differance is prior to identity. The identity of the self-present self is founded on the “pure difference” that inhabits its living present. For Husserl, this is also true. Difference appears when he asserts, “Content is non-ego.” The identity of the self founded on this makes Husserl add, this non-ego is not “something separate from the ego; between them there is no room for a turning towards. Rather the ego and its non-ego are in¬separable.” Because they are, we can speak phenomenologically of the awake ego’s auto-affec¬tion. Husserl’s account of this auto-affection distinguishes itself through his insistence on the pri¬mordiality of affecting contents. Because auto-affection requires given contents, including those arising from our bodily being and its needs, the self-presence based on this does not require lan¬guage. It is actually inherent in the instinctive striving we share with other animals.
LANGUAGE AND RE-PRESENTATION
The self-presence that distinguishes us from animals occurs through language. We can present ourselves to ourselves through significant signs. This fact is central for Derrida. In Speech and Phenomena, the concept of differance is introduced to open up the living present of the subject to the agency of signs. His whole attack on the “metaphysics of presence” is put forward as a critique of phenomenology’s tendency to reduce everything to immediate presence. Focusing on presence, phenomenology supposedly misses the absence required by language. It cannot grasp how its signs function in the absence of their referents. Thus, in Derrida’s view, phe¬nomenology’s demand for presence is actually a closing off of the subject. Its ideal, as expressed by the reduction, is a solitude lacking the openness required by language. How accurate is this critique? Can phenomenological description allow for this openness? Can it give an account of the absence (or nonpresence) that allows signs to stand in the place of their referents?
To answer these questions, I have to return to the phenomenological description of how we grasp an object, for example, a box. For the moment, my description will assume that the pri¬mordial hyletic data have already undergone a constitution that allows me to speak of perceptions corresponding to distinct perspectival views of the box. Let us say, then, I pick up the box and turn it in my hands. As I do, I experience sequences of perceptions that are perspectivally ordered. One sequence is given by turning it in one direction, another occurs as, manipulating it with my hands, I turn it in a different direction. A third occurs as I open it up, look inside, and then close it again. The number of such sequences can be multiplied indefinitely. One sequence can lead to another. I turn the box in one direction. But I can also, at any point, rotate it in a different direc¬tion. Part of my grasp of the box is my seeing how each perception can serve as a starting point for a different sequence of perceptions, one which, if I continue the rotation, will return me to the same perception. Seeing this is grasping the interrelatedness, the coherence, of the various se¬quences. Together they form a whole, one which has a reference to a single three dimensional ob¬ject. Taken as pertaining to each other through their membership in this set of interrelated, per¬spectival patterns, the perceptions are also taken as pertaining to one and the same object.
To describe my grasp of the features of the box, this broad sketch has to be refined. The sequences of perceptions that reoccur as I turn the box in a given direction include, as sub-se¬quences, those that correspond to particular features. Thus, rotating a square box in one direction, I experience the recurring perceptions that correspond to a given corner. Rotating it in another di¬rection, another recurring sub-sequence appears. It, too, corresponds to the same corner. Just as I passed from the first set of perceptions to the second, so I can pass to a third. When I grasp the interrelatedness of the different sequences corresponding to the given corner, I grasp the overall pattern through which the corner appears as a corner. The same holds for each of the box’s fea¬tures. To grasp them as features of the box, I must, of course, grasp the box in the totality of its features. I do this when I grasp the total pattern that includes the patterns corresponding to its in¬dividual features. This description should not lead us to think that in an actual experience of the box, I first grasp the features and then grasp the box. The operations just described proceed more or less simultaneously. The intentions that animate them are subject to mutual correction as we adjust our grasp of the different features to one another as well as to our grasp of the box as a to¬tality containing such features. In a certain sense, we can speak here of a kind of “parallel process¬ing” animated by a whole collection of interpretative intentions. Each such intention corresponds to a given interpretive process, which proceeds in parallel with the others. Each such process in¬forms the others of the success or failure of its particular interpretation. This is part of their mutual adjustment.
My description implies that when we say that a perception is “of” the box, its intentionality involves a mediated reference. An initial sense of such mediation can be gained by noting the role that patterns play in this account. According to it, a perception refers to the box in its coherence with the other members of the perspectivally ordered series. The reference is through them. More precisely, it is through their pattern. The mediating role of a pattern follows from the fact that we cannot posit a corresponding unity on the basis of a randomly arranged multiplicity. The multi¬plicity must exhibit a definite sequence--that is, it must exhibit a pattern. This necessity is apparent in the sub-sequences that form the total pattern of a given feature. Their common reference to this feature is undermined when they clash, i.e., when they cannot integrate themselves into a total pattern. Similarly, the patterns corresponding to the features must cohere, i.e., form an overall pattern, if they are to refer to one and the same box.
Beyond this, my description implies a whole series of nonequivalencies. An individual perception is, by definition, not equivalent to the retained groups of perceptions that correspond to a given feature. These groups, in turn, are not the same as the pattern that they exhibit. The latter appears through their sequencing. To focus on the pattern is to focus on such sequencing. Similarly, the pattern is not equivalent to a given feature of the box. Thus, the corner, taken as something there, adds to the pattern what Husserl calls a “point of unification. It appears as a fea¬ture that shows itself through the pattern. It is a one-in-many, a common point of reference of the multiple recurrences of the pattern. The feature, in turn, is not the same as the box. The box, in its being-there, is taken as exhibiting itself through its different features. Such nonequivalencies are crucial for a phenomenological understanding of language. This is because they play the same role as nonpresence or absence in the Derridean sense. They allow for the openness of language. They do this by introducing into the phenomenological context the nonidentity that permits the indicative relation. What we have, then, is a highly mediated indicative relation, one that follows these nonequivalencies. Thus, within the phenomenological context, we can speak of an individual per¬ception standing for the retained sequences that correspond to a given feature of the object. Such sequences, in turn, can be seen as standing for the pattern that appears through them. The pattern, itself, stands for the feature showing itself through it, while this feature can be taken as standing for or indicating the box itself.
The general sense of such nonequivalencies can be put in terms of Husserl’s assertion, “The object of consciousness, in its self identity throughout the flowing of experience, does not enter into this flowing from outside. It lies included within it as a sense; it is this [sense] as an in¬tentional performance of the synthesis of consciousness” (CM, 80). Broadly speaking, this per¬formance (Leistung) involves our distinguishing the interrelated sets of perceptions that make up our experience of the box. This requires their synthesis, that is, our putting them together or con¬necting them so as to distinguish the patterns that give us the box’s features. A further, overall synthesis is required to give us this box having these features.
As my description indicates, this general account can be refined. There are a number of interpretative intentions and “performances” involved in the grasp of the sense of the box. On the lowest level, there are the intentions that yield the individual perceptions as distinct experiences oc¬cupying definite positions in departing time. Here, present retentions are taken as representations of past impressions--this, through their attached chains of “retentional modifications.” The result¬ing perceptions can also be said to undergo interpretation as we take them to be members of spe¬cific sets of retained perceptions. These, in turn, form the basis of the interpretative intentions di¬rected to particular patterns. Similarly, the move from the patterns to the features and from the features to the box all require interpretative intentions. In each case, our “performance” involves taking elements on one level as standing for or re-presenting elements on the next. The possibility of such re-presentation is based on the nonequivalence of the elements occupying different levels.
Husserl’s understanding of this nonequivalence comes out most clearly in his doctrine of the object as an “X.” The doctrine gives us a further sense of the mediated character of intentional¬ity. According to the above, each describable feature of the box, its inside, its corners, etc., shows itself through a distinct pattern of appearances. My interpretations of these yield its individual fea¬tures, the features that enter into my description of the box. This description provides the senses I can predicate of the box. As for the box itself, its unity of sense is a unity of unities. It is the final point of unification of the various predicate senses. Husserl calls this point an X. He describes it as the “central point of unity,” the “bearer of the [perceptual] predicates.” The predicates are its predicates, “unthinkable without it, and yet distinguishable from it” (ID I, 301). He terms the point the “‘object,’ the ‘identical,’ the determinable subject of its possible predicates’--‘the pure X in abstraction from its possible predicates’ ...” (ID I, 302). This abstraction is its nonequivalence to such predicate senses. Because the object is not the same as its predicate senses, it can be dis¬tinguished from them. The same point holds when Husserl describes each of the predicate senses as an X. For Husserl, “... distinct senses are related to the same object only insofar as they are ca¬pable of being ordered into unities of sense, unities in which the determinable X’s of the unified [lower level] senses achieve a coincidence with each other and with the X of the total sense of the ongoing unity of sense” (ID I, 303-4). Such coincidence is not an identification. When we iden¬tify a pattern, we can be said to grasp the basis for a predicable sense. The sense itself is a one-in-many. As such, it involves the thought of a common referent for the sequenced multiplicity, i.e., the pattern, that forms its basis. The referent is the pattern’s “point of unification.” Thus, the lower level senses, which are based on particular patterns, refer to the object’s features through their particular points of unification, their “determinable X’s.” The latter refer to the object itself when these determinable X’s are themselves taken as having a single referent, this being “the X of the total sense.” Such a total sense includes the total pattern, just as the individual senses include the individual patterns corresponding to the features. The move from the first set of patterns to the total pattern is, however, mediated by the “determinable X’s” of the predicate senses. Grasping them, we grasp the features. The non-identity of the features with the object is a function of the X of the object, taken as “pure X in abstraction from its possible predicates.”
What drives Husserl to this talk of the “X” is the nonequivalency inherent in the perceptual process. In the perceptual flow, as he writes, the object “is continuously apprehended, but contin¬uously presents itself differently; it is ‘the same’ but is given with other predicates, with another determining content ...” (ID I, 301). The object is the same as a one-in-many. As such, however, it is not equivalent to the multitude it unifies. The distinction here is ontological. A single percep¬tually based predicate sense cannot, by itself, posit the X--e.g., the box. To reverse this, the X cannot display its “total sense” (Gesamtsinn) in a single predicate sense.
The same holds, a fortiori, of the relation between an individual perception and the object. Strictly speaking, we do not “see” the box. As a total unity of senses, the box is absent on the per¬ceptual level. To posit it as something there, affording us perceptions, we have to take it as a cor¬relate of an indefinitely extendible range of perceptions. Its nonequivalence to our retained percep¬tions, which form a finite collection, underlies the thought of its transcendence. To take is as tran¬scendent is to assume that we can return to it again and again as the same object. It is there even when we choose not to regard it. This implies that its being is not the same as that of a momentary perception. This nonidentity is inherent in its status as an X. For Husserl, then, the object’s real¬ity--its presence as a “real unity”--does not contradict, but rather is based on its character as ideal, i.e., as a perceptually embodied one-in-many. Strictly speaking it is, as an X, a unity of multiple elements (predicate senses), which are themselves, as X’s, unities of multiple elements. Each of the latter are also unities of multiple elements. If we follow this one-in-many relation backward through all its stages, we arrive at the ultimate multiplicity, that of the original hyletic data.
The fact that a perception refers to the X through a series of multiplicities is implicit in Husserl’s twofold definition of an object. He refers to the object (“der ‘Gegenstand,’ das ‘Objekt’”) as “the pure X in abstraction from its predicates.” It is to this X that the predicate senses correspond. The X is their point of unification. He also, however, writes, “. . . the object for us is a title for the essential connections of consciousness.” These are the perceptual connections in which the “unitary X” comes to be posited. Here, the object appears as a title for the intercon¬nections (the patterned consistency) of our experience of it. Both definitions are implicit in the ob¬ject’s presence as a one-in-many. As being one-in-many, the object can be taken as a “title” for the connections that make its multiplicity into a distinct over-all pattern. But to posit it as a one-in-many is also to posit it as the X, the “point of unification” not just of the predicates, but also, ulti¬mately, of the perceptual experiences underlying these. The upshot is that we refer to the X through the connected perceptions, even while distinguishing it from them. In the concrete phe¬nomenological situation, a perception’s reference to the X occurs through the consistent patterns composing our experience of it.
Since the layered process of constitution is a successive positing of unities in multiplicity, a nonequivalence between unity and multiplicity must occur at each level. It is because of this that we can speak of representation. To do so is to acknowledge that a posited one-in-many has not the presence of the patterned multitude that allows its positing. Absent on the level of the many, the posited unity can only be indicated. A member of the multitude is “of” it by standing in the place of it.
The structure of this in-the-place-of relation follows the schema that was discussed in the examination of retention. Each present retention stands in the place of a departed impression. Statically regarded, the relation can be said to be one-to-one. Thus, a present retention stands for a given content at some temporal remove. Retentional constitution, however, is ongoing. Its con¬tinuance yields not just an iteration of this indicative relation, but also an increase in the “retentional modifications” which increase this temporal remove. Thus, the result of this successive standing for is a one-in-many. It is the content bearing the sense of continuous departure into the past. Serving as the basis for this constitution, our present retentions achieve the status of “representing contents.” They point unambiguously to the departing impression as a one-in-many.
The same schema can be applied to the basic types of indication relating a perception to an object. In the first, a perception stands for a whole group of retained perceptions. Preserving their serial order, retention preserves the group’s sequence. A perception’s first reference is to this re¬tained group in its temporally sequenced multiplicity. Statically regarded, each perception can be said to indicate this group. It has a one-to-one relation to a definite collection of retained percep¬tions. The actual perceptual process, however, is ongoing. As it continues, further members are added to the group; and the pattern unfolds as a pattern. For example, in examining a box, I can return to my original starting point and experience the same sequence of perceptions as I turn it in my hands. The result of such repetition is the grasp of a repeatable sequence, i.e., of a pattern. As the perceptions succeed each other, the pattern shows itself as the same. In pointing toward it as the same, a new reference is achieved. Each perception stands for something more than a definite collection of retained perceptions. It points rather to a pattern which continually manifests itself as the same in the ongoing perceptual flow. With this, the static nonequivalence between each per¬ception and a group of retained perceptions becomes an ongoing nonequivalence between each per¬ception and the unfolding pattern. Standing for the latter, the perception gains its indicative func¬tion by being part of a process that is setting up a unity in multiplicity. It comes to re-present a single pattern exhibiting itself in a multiplicity of perceptions. Since an actual perceptual process is always ongoing, this “genetic” relation includes the statically regarded one. A perception has a one-to-one re-presentative relation to a group of retained perceptions only as part of a genetic pro¬cess where it re-presents the one-in-many of a pattern.
The same points hold when we grasp a pattern as the basis for a predicable sense, i.e., the sense of a given feature of an object. Statically regarded, we have a one-to-one indicative relation in which a given pattern stands for a given feature. Since, however, the perceptual process is never static, this one-to-one relation is part of a process setting up a one to many relation. Thus, when a square box is continually turned in one direction, a particular pattern is established indicat¬ing one of its corners. When I turn the box in another direction, another pattern appears with the same indication. A third pattern appears as I again change the rotation. It, too, has the same in¬dicative reference. My grasp of the coincidence of these references yields the presence of the cor¬ner as a one-in-many. Following Husserl’s twofold definition of an object, we can say that this feature is a title for the interconnections that establish it. As such, it is a title for the coherence of the patterns that form its basis. But we also have to say that it is distinct from these. As a one-in-many, it is their point of unification.
Essentially the same description applies to the grasp of the object in its “total sense.” Statically regarded, each of the predicable senses can be taken as having a one-to-one indicative relation to the object. This one-to-one relation appears in the assertions where we identify the ob¬ject with its individual features. We say, for example, “the box is red,” the box is square,” and so on. Such statements, however, do not imply that the box itself is multiple. The indicative relations that are expressed in such assertions occur as part of our grasp of the object as a unity of such senses. Genetically regarded, their context is my ongoing experience of the patterns, which form the basis for the predicates’ senses, cohering into a total pattern. Once again, the one-to-one and the one-to-many relations function together. As the patterns cohere, the one-to-one relations that allows me to predicate particular senses of the box occurs in the situation of my grasp of the box as a one-in-many. In Husserl’s words, their context is the genetic one where I grasp “the X of the total sense of the ongoing unity of the sense.”
The account just given could be further refined. It is, however, sufficient to describe the elementary functioning of language. According to it, when I say, “I see the box,” I take my im¬mediate perception as indicating a overall perceptual pattern, one that indicates the box. This fact is essential in teaching a child the use of the word, “box.” Such teaching occurs after the child has learned to see, that is, after the child has learned to identify the box as one and the same in the flow of experience. Such experience, of course, includes not just optical but also kinesthetic experi¬ences, experiences of picking up and manipulating the box. The parent points to the box, and says, “box.” Hearing this, the child links it to the perception. The word, at this point, can be said to stand for the perception in a one-to-one relation. The box is turned by the parent or the child it¬self moves. The parent repeats the word, “box.” Again there is a one-to-one relation, but now the word is linked to a new perception. But even though the perception has changed, it still possess the same “in the place” quality, the same mediated reference to the box for the child who has learned how to see objects. For this child, the perception is part of a total pattern that indicates the box. In learning to use the word with multiple perceptions, the child thus learns that the link of the word is not to the perception but to its signing quality, to its standing-in-the-place-of the box. When the word takes on a life of its own, when it can refer in the absence of the object, then it takes on this specific signing quality. It assumes, as part of its sense, the common quality of re¬ferring that all the perceptions have. They all ultimately refer to the box, understood as a point of unification of the total perceptual experience. Their reference is to its being-there as an X, i.e., as a specific one-in-many. Thus, considered as bearing an intrinsic sense, the word signifies, or stands in the place of the unity set up by the patterned perceptions.
The perceptual confirmation of the word involves the same mediated intentionality. Used in the absence of the object, the word points to the patterned multiplicity that is inherent in the box’s status as a one-in-many. This is composed of the coherent patterns of perceptions that could fill up the range implicit in the specific sense of the word. These perceptions, when experienced in the intended pattern, “fulfill” this sense. They “perceptually embody” it. Such embodiment does not mean that fulfillment requires a duplicate of the perceptions that originally comprised the intu¬ition of the box. The word’s ultimate referent is not these, but rather their point of unification. This reference, of course, is through the overall pattern of perceptions. Thus, as long as this pat¬tern remains generally the same, fulfillment can arise. A general use of the words, “square box,” is possible through a generalization of this pattern. As long as it exhibits certain features, e.g., pointed corners, right angles, etc., the perceived pattern can embody the general sense inherent in the word.
The fact that a word refers to its object on the basis of a given pattern of perceptions does not mean that the latter is sufficient for its use. The pattern forms what Husserl calls the “internal horizon” of the object. Its “external horizon” also plays a role in its reference. This horizon arises from the fact that an apprehension of an object always occurs in a context. The individual thing is perceived as part of a visual field, which includes other objects. Each of these objects, when we turn to it, has its own field. Subjectively regarded, such fields extend themselves to include the whole of our present, remembered and anticipated experience. Embracing all of these, the external horizon of an object links it to the other objects of such experience. By virtue of the consistency of this experience, these objects are placed in a coherent context. The ultimate expression of this context is the world as a world, the world as a coherent whole. To tie this to the word’s stand¬ing for its object, I have to return to the point that this requires the word’s being associatively linked with the perception’s ability to stand for the object. Given that this standing-for is mediated by the other perceptions, the same holds for the word. The perception cannot refer except in the context of the other perceptions directed to the object. This “internal horizon,” however, is linked to the object’s “external horizon.” A disruption of this second horizon disrupts our taking the ob¬ject as an object in the world. As a consequence, this world-less object tends to be taken as an il¬lusion, an apparition or some sort of “other worldly” vision. Thus, as referring to an object in the world, the word, too, functions only in a wider context. Ultimately, the horizon that allows it its symbolic function is the universe of discourse, the universe that corresponds to the world as a world. For a child, of course, this world is relatively limited. Even so, its learning to use lan¬guage requires its first having learned to see its world as such. This involves a grasp of the inter¬nal and external horizons that make the child’s world a more or less coherent whole. This primi¬tive context functions as the background for its first use of words. It is also responsible for the fact that the child’s learning involves multiple words. These are understood more or less simulta¬neously with a syntax relating them.
Does this description imply that Husserl is, in the end, committed to an account of percep¬tion (and, hence, of language) as an indefinite series of re-presentations of re-presentations? Such would be the case if the perceptual object’s presence were itself a re-presentation, i.e., if it indi¬cated another presence which could be made present only through another re-presentation, and so on indefinitely. Such endless series occur when we equate presence per se with re-presentation. For Husserl, however, the perceptual object stands for nothing but itself. Although the constitu¬tion of its presence does involve re-presentation, the resulting presence is not itself a representa¬tion. It is an original, if constituted, presence. The point here is the same as that made in the ear¬lier discussion of the constitution of a retained, temporally determinate content. In both cases, originality signifies being given in the only way a higher level presence can be given, namely, as a constituted one-in-many. Representation enters into this constitution in the relation of the many to the one. The many can be said to indicate a unity insofar as this unity does not have their type of presence. In terms of the presence of its constituting elements, the unity is an absence. This is why the many can be said to stand for it. At the origin of this absence is the one-to-one indicative relation that is embedded in the constitutive process. Indication, taken as standing-for, presup¬poses absence. Thus, a present retention stands for an absent impression. A present perception stands for a temporally sequenced group of retained perceptions, etc. The absence presupposed by the indicative relation carries over to the unity in multiplicity, e.g., that of a feature, whose genetic constitution includes these static one-to-one relations. The upshot is that this unity does not have the presence of the elements that form its indicative basis. This, however, does not mean that it does not have its own higher level presence. Such presence, in fact, is presupposed, when, to¬gether with other such presences, e.g., other features, it functions in the constitution of an even higher level unity, e.g., that of the object itself. For a feature to stand for this new unity is to be a presence indicating a new absence. This absence, however, is not a sheer absence. It is only ab¬sence on the level of the constituting presences. In their terms, it appears as an “X.” On the level that is constituted, however, there is presence. This is the presence that fulfills the interpretative intention that is formed from the elements appearing on the constituting level.
The same points can be made about the functioning of signs. I have already noted how, in Husserl’s account, they function in the absence of their referents. Such functioning does involve an indicative relation. But this relation does not assume an endless series of signs standing for signs. Above all, it does not imply that we are “in principle excluded from ever ‘cashing in the draft made on intuition’ in expressions ...” (SP, 92). The indicative relation of language mirrors the indicatively based many-to-one relation that is inherent in intuition taken as a constitutive pro¬cess. It, thus, can be “cashed in,” i.e., confirmed, through intuition. The important point here is that the many-to-one relation is what opens up presence to the possibility of language. Since it in¬volves absence and, hence, indication, it allows linguistic signs to function indicatively in our ac¬counts of presence. They do so by becoming associatively linked with the indicative function that is already inherent in perception. Perception, by virtue of this function, is inherently open to lan¬guage, just as language is open to perception. Both follow from the link that humans can make between linguistics signs and the sign-like quality of our perceptions.
SELF-PRESENCE AND RE-PRESENTATION
One final point remains in the parallel that can be drawn between Derrida and Husserl. It concerns the ultimate basis of the subject’s openness to language. According to Derrida, “the sub¬ject cannot speak without giving himself a representation of his speaking ...” (SP, 57). The fact that he can only indicatively refer to himself points to his nonself-presence. The latter makes pos¬sible his openness to linguistic signs. In the Logical Investigations, Husserl takes the opposite position. We have an immediate self-presence. Thus, we need not assert “that in soliloquy one speaks to oneself and employs words as signs, i.e., as indications, of one’s own inner experi¬ences” (LI, 279). Derrida’s critique of Husserl begins with this remark. In his view, it closes off the subject to the possibility of language. In his later years, however, Husserl reversed himself. Abandoning the notion of a direct self-presence, he also came to the position that our objective self-presence occurs through representation. This reversal is demanded by his notion of a self as a nowness defined by a centering temporal environment. To objectively present himself to himself, the subject must represent himself in terms of this environment. Doing so, he objectively repre¬sents his nowness, his present functioning, in terms of what is not now.
Husserl’s position depends on our distinguishing between our reflective and our prereflec¬tive self-awareness. As noted, we have an immediate prereflective self-awareness through our on¬going present activity of retention and protention. This awareness is inherent in the self-reference of these processes. Since they are part of our present functioning--being, in fact, the functioning that defines us as temporal centers--this awareness is direct. It is, however, only a background awareness. When we want to focus on ourselves in an explicit manner, we have to reflect on our¬selves. The difficulty here is that reflection always splits the self. On the one side there is the re¬flecting self, the self that is actively functioning. On the other, there is the self that is reflected on. As Husserl describes this: “Whenever I am occupied with myself and my specific egological func¬tions, I have this distinction between myself and what I am occupied with, i.e., between my being actively engaged and that with which I am actively engaged.” Given that the latter is the object of my reflection, my “actively engaged” reflecting self is not itself objectively present. For Husserl, this nonpresence is its anonymity. As he states the conclusion, “The actively functioning ‘I do,’ ‘I discover,’ is constantly anonymous.” It cannot be made an object of reflection.
To explain this split, I have to return to the description of the self as a temporal center. For Husserl, the self is constantly now because it is constantly located between the retained past and the anticipated future. In its nowness, it appears as “the center of affections and action.” This central nowness, appearing as a “source point” for the welling up of time, is its place as function¬ing. Each time it does function, its acts, having been retained, become part of its past. This re¬tained past provides the materials for its reflection. Reflection, as an act of inner perception, stands under the same necessity as external perception. To grasp a temporally extended event, i.e., the event of its own functioning, the subject must avail itself of its retentions. The very pastness of the retained, however, sets what it grasps at a temporal remove from its present functioning. This temporal transcendence makes the unity constituted from the retained “objective.” To use the German word, the unity constituted in the act of reflection, is gegenständlich. It is something which “stands against” the present. Given this genesis, its very objectivity implies a split with the presently functioning self. As objective, it cannot be the self in its nowness. Rather than grasping the functioning self, reflection apprehends the self that has functioned. The split, then, comes about because, as Husserl writes, “in reflection, I encounter myself in the temporal field in which my just past (mein Soeben) has functioned.
Given the nonpresence of the self to reflection, we have to say that our self-presence is al¬ways a matter of representation. It is a presentation of ourselves in terms of what we retain. The same point holds when we anticipate ourselves, i.e., objectively grasp ourselves in terms of what we will do or be. A temporal remove underlies the objectivity of this apprehension and, hence, distinguishes it from our present functioning. In both cases, then, our self-presence is mediated through an indicative relation, one where our temporally extended presence stands for our “anonymous” presence--i.e., our objective nonpresence as functioning in the nontemporally ex¬tended now. Since it is based on the necessities inherent in grasping any temporally extended ob¬ject, this point holds for every perceptual act. The functioning that makes the world visible cannot objectively grasp itself. Given this, we have to say with Rudolph Bernet, “the invisible absolute consciousness must borrow its visibility from that which it makes visible ... .” It has to grasp it¬self in terms of the world (both inner and outer) its functioning makes present. The nonpresence of this functioning in what it results in, thus, makes us say with Bernet, “the subject cannot but apprehend itself in a representation of itself.”
There is, I should note, a certain ambiguity in calling our self-presence a “representation.” The designation holds insofar as we can speak of a constituted self as representing the self that constitutes it. It fails insofar as we take representation as implying two distinct realities, one standing for another and both having the same type of presence. As we have seen, constitution includes the one-to-one relation of indication as an element of the one-in-many relation that is its result. The constituted self is a one-in-many. As such, it has a constituted, higher level presence. Representation, here, involves such presence. This general point may be put in terms of the spe¬cial nature of the constitution that results in the self. As Husserl’s description makes apparent, the constituting and constituted self are the beginning and the end of one and the same constitutive pro¬cess. The process of the subject’s “self-constitution” begins with the anonymity of its functioning. The subject achieves its initial self-definition through the processes of retention and protention. These yield the temporal environment that defines the subject as “a center for affections and ac¬tions.” Motivated by the continuing input of hyletic data, the constitutive process continues, layer by layer, to build up the subject’s visible surrounding world. As an active, functioning center, the subject is increasingly defined by this world. It achieves its constituted, “worldly” presence through the results of its progressively defined functioning. By virtue of this functioning, we can say that it borrows “its visibility from that which it makes visible.” We can also speak of its consti¬tuted presence as a “visible representative.” Such descriptions, however, do not imply the thought of one reality standing for another. Their basis is an ongoing process of self-constitution. The “self,” taken concretely, is this process. As such, it involves all its levels. It is, simultaneously, the selfhood present on each level. Thus, as long as it exists as a self, it functions. Inherently, this functioning is a process of self-definition and self-manifestation. The upshot is that the result of this ongoing process “represents” its continuing source by manifesting it. Such manifestation is an original presence. It presents the self to the self in the only way that the latter can be perceptu¬ally given, namely, as a higher level, constituted presence.
The subject’s openness to language is a function of this self-constitution. It is inherent in the many-to-one relation that yields its presence as a sense the subject can grasp. Because this re¬lation is indicatively based, we can represent ourselves through language. This occurs when we link its signs to the indicative function that is already inherent in perception. When we do, we name the various qualities we assign to ourselves. Their ultimate referent is the self as the bearer of these appearing qualities. In Husserl’s terms, it is the self as a nonappearing X. For Husserl, as I noted, this X is both distinguishable from its predicates and yet inseparable from them. In this, it mirrors the “functioning I do” in its anonymity. Qua functioning, it is inseparable from the results of functioning, even as it temporally distinguishes itself from them. Thus, when we at¬tribute the predicates of the X to our functioning selves, we actually engage in a double process of representation. The predicates represent the X of our constituted self-presence, and this in turn, is understood as representing the active self. The link allowing this twofold representation is the nonappearing shared by both the X and the “functioning I do.”
This nonappearing of the self can be understood as its openness to language. As my ex¬ample of learning to use a word suggests, nonpresence or nonappearing can, in general, be consid¬ered the openness of language. “Openness,” here means language’s being open to indicating and expressing what is distinct from its signs. It is language’s openness to what is not itself. This nonidentity does not mean that its signs cannot be intuitively confirmed. The possibility of such confirmation is intrinsic to the constitutional process. This holds for the process that is our self-manifestation. Since the representational function is present on each level of this process, the self can be represented in all the ways language permits. Open to language, the self is both appearing and nonappearing. It is capable of being indicated and expressed in a multitude of ways. It is also capable of intuitively realizing--and, even, at times, of admitting--that it errs when it speaks of it¬self.

ABBREVIATIONS

CM Edmund Husserl, Cartesianische Meditationen, ed. S. Strasser, Husserliana I, The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1963.
ID I Ideen zu einer reinen Phänomenologie und phänomenologischen Philosophie, Erstes Buch, ed. R. Schuhmann, Husserliana III, 1, The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1976.
LI Edmund Husserl, Logical Investigations, trans. Findlay, 2 vols., New York: Humanities Press, 1970.
LU Edmund Husserl, Logische Untersuchungen, ed. Ursula Panzer, 2 vols., Husserliana XIX, The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1984.
SP Jacques Derrida, “Speech and Phenomena,” in Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl's Theory of Signs, tr. David Allison, Evanston: Northwestern Univ. Press, 1973.
ZB Edmund Husserl, Zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewusstseins, ed. R. Boehm, Husserliana X, The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1966.