It is not a question of reviving religion, not even the one that Kant wanted to hold “within the limits of reason alone.” It is, however, a question of opening mere reason up to the limitlessness that constitutes its truth.
It is not a question of overcoming some deficiency in reason, but of liberating reason without reserve: once everything is accounted for, it is up to us to show what remains beyond these accounts.
It is also not a question of repainting the skies, or of reconfiguring them: it is a question of opening up the earth—dark, hard, and lost in space.
It is not our concern to save religion, even less to return to it. The much discussed “return of the religious,” which denotes a real phenomenon, deserves no more attention than any other “return.” Among the phenomena of repetition, resurgence, revival, or haunting, it is not the identical but the different that invariably counts the most. Because the identical immediately loses its identity in returning, the question should rather be asked, ceaselessly and with new risks, what an identical “secularization” might denote, inevitably, other than a mere transferal. (It has been a long time since [Hans] Blumenberg effectively raised this problem, even if he did not resolve it at the time.)
The return of religion or the return to it can only sharpen—as we readily see—its already critical state and, with that, all the dangers that religion invariably poses to thought, to law, to freedom, and to human dignity.
It is, however, a question of knowing—and here again, with entirely new risks, efforts, and reflective audacities [courages de pensée]—what the simple word human means. This question denotes nothing less than the sense of humanism. Behind this word, behind what it says, behind what it hides—what it does not want to say, what it cannot or does not know how to say—stand the most imperious demands of thought today.
One may dislike the tone of such a sentence. One may deem it smug, arrogant. One may distrust him or her who claims with sovereignty categorically to point out the essential problems of his or her time. One may and one ought to feel this way. Sometimes, however, comes a time to raise one’s voice a bit. And sometimes time is of the essence.
It so happens today that the so-called civilization of humanism is bankrupt or in its death-throes, as we are wont to say, the second term being the preferable one, no doubt. And it is when a form of life has finished aging that thought must rise up. It was no accident that Hegel’s old lesson was pronounced at the beginning of the contemporary world, that is, at the beginning of the decomposition or the visible deconstruction of Christianity. The form of life that Hegel observed to be waning and fading into grayness is the form in which religion—the erstwhile providential safeguard of world and existence—loses, along with its legitimacy, the sense of its most specific resources: that which constituted the vitality and vivacity of an act of faith appears only as a dogmatic and institutional control. This also means that that which in faith could previously open the world in itself to its own outside (and not to some world-behind-the-worlds, to some heaven or hell) closes up and shrivels into a self-serving management of the world. This is not new, and this ambivalence is constitutive of what institutes itself as religion, or as the religious character that all institutions conceal (their inner cohesion, the sacred nature of their construction, the superior, even sublime, character of their destiny).
What thinking must then hold together is the void of this opening constituted by an absence of inheritors [le vide de l’ouverture en déshérence]. Hegel, Schelling, and Hölderlin were the first to have understood, following Kant’s lead, that to make room for a rational faith it was necessary to open rationality to the dimension appropriate to the absolute, or again, to a “higher reason” (our translation of Hölderlin’s höher Besinnen).1
The lesson of the last two centuries is that neither philosophy nor poetry sufficed to assure this, whereas science, for its part, resolutely turned away once and for all from that which seemed apt to sketch out, in it and at a certain point in its development, the same elevation of reason [exhaussement de la raison] (at a time when we still believed that science could wholly account for the world [rendrait raison du monde]). It was not enough that thinking and speaking sought to take charge of the essential piety, that is, the observance of duty that was incumbent on reason with regard to the unconditioned principle or dimension it requires.
This piety of reason, this service that the greater reason (Nietzsche) owes itself in the name of its absolute destiny—this has proved unable to communicate its own fervor. It has found its mystics in mathematics and astrophysics alone, while metaphysics closed in on itself.
The civilization of the “death of God,” or the emancipation of reason, will have ultimately abandoned reason to hand itself over to understanding. Not that thinking or art have ceased reminding us of the requirement that reason represents. But this reminder—whether expressed in the voice of Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, or Heidegger; whether carried by the tonalities of Cézanne, Proust, Varèse, or Beckett (to name but a few)—has no doubt not hit the precise spot where the void opened. It has not managed to point out the empty heart of the void itself, or it has simply confused this void with nihilism, which is, rather, a congested gaping that fills itself up.
Because we have come to this now, what we can envision as lying before us (in the sense of Gérard Granel’s recent remark, “The 1930s lie before us”) is not the worsening permanence of nihilism. To put it succinctly, we are at the end, we are in its death-throes (which, for all that, give no clear sign of being brief …). What is taking shape, on the contrary, is the possibility of a religious and hyperreligious upheaval or surrection. Where modes of rationality are stuck in understanding (rationalities, or sometimes the ratiocinations of technologies, rights, economies, ethics, and policies), where institutional religions poorly prolong their traditions (in fundamentalist rigidity or humanistic compromise), having been surpassed for four or five centuries, and where, consequently, the void in question was hollowed out—no less than in the very heart of society, or of humanity, or civilization, in the eye of the hurricane of globalization—grows inexorably an expectation, still almost silent, which surreptitiously builds toward the point of igniting.
In other words, what up to now the Enlightenment could not enlighten, what it was unable to illumine in itself, is waiting to go up in flames in a messianic, mystical, prophetic, divinatory, and vaticinatory mode (we distinguish here between these diverse epithets), whose incendiary effects may well prove more impressive than those of fascist, revolutionary, surrealist, avant-gardist, or mystical exaltations of all types. Here again, we will not go into semantics, and this bonfire, if it ignites and spreads, will also go into no semantics in its devastation …
Conditions are in place for a delirium that would propagate itself in proportion to the wasteland of sense and truth that we have created or allowed to grow. In effect, the place offered for its unleashing is that which a summons, invariably taken up from “politics,” wants obstinately to name. It is in a political refoundation, or again, a refoundation of politics that the demand to do justice to reason in its integrity is intended, repeatedly.
However, it happens that politics has not fallen short of itself by accident [la politique n’est pas par hasard en défaut d’elle-même]; it has lost what the expression “civil religion” meant for Rousseau, namely, the element in which is practiced not just the mere rationality of governance but the infinitely higher and broader rationality of a sentiment, even a passion, of being-together in view of or according to one’s own existence. Yet, between religious religion and assumption into an apolitical salvation, on the one hand, and the class struggle and assumption into a historical salvation of humanity, on the other (itself not patently “political” in the strict sense), “civil religion” will not have lasted very long. And in our time, it is not the approximate and labile concepts of “subjectivation” or, indeed, “multitudes” that can reheat democratic tepidity.
Perhaps democracy, since Athens, has been nothing other than the renewed aporia of a religion of the polis, capable of assuming the succession of or indeed replacing (if either of these words is appropriate …) those religions from before the polis, those religions that, by themselves, created both social bonds and government. Athens itself, then Rome, and then the sovereign modern state have, each in turn, renewed this aporia.2
Both the religion of the priests (as Kant put it) and civil religion have each done their time, the latter born out of the retreat of the former (from Greek times) but never apt to replace it and henceforth clearly extinguished.
Perhaps democracy, as it expands its form to a global scale, reveals that politics will only be capable of redefining or redrawing itself according to one of the branches of the following alternative: either as democracy founded anew qua religion (God willing or not!)—and in that case, not as the “theologico-political,” as it were,3 but as fully theocratic (according to the wont of the fundamentalists)—or as a determinate relationship with a distinct element, or dimension, or some instance belonging to the order of sense, and consequently as a redefinition of the internal-external tension in politics between the governance of society and the projection of its ends or its raisons d’être. In the first case, hyperfascism; in the second, a radical invention to be made—a reinvention, perhaps, of what “secularity” means.4 At the very least, that should signify the following: that politics assume a dimension that it cannot integrate for all that, a dimension that overflows it, one concerning an ontology or an ethology of “being-with,” attached to that absolute excedence [excédence absolue] of sense and passion for sense for which the word sacred was but the designation.
I would have to reproach myself for appearing to play Cassandra and proffering oracles, if in evoking the threat I qualified it as “surreligious” in order to situate it beyond the wear and tear of established religions. It simply seems to me difficult to avoid recognizing the drying up of humanism [dessèchement humaniste] and the correlative temptations of a spiritualizing deluge. Difficult, also, not to take responsibility, as a philosopher, for pointing out a limit: that where philosophy continues to be unable to assume the heritage of the Kantian operation [in regard to religion], its speculative sublation [relève], its Kierkegaardian surpassing [outrepassement kierkegaardien], or its Nietzschean aggravation. Philosophy (and science with it) has managed somehow to intimidate itself with its proclaimed exclusions of a religion from which it never ceased, underhandedly, to draw nourishment, though without really questioning itself about this “secularization” and—we must return to this—about this consequent “laïcization” or social generalization of secularity.
All this can be said otherwise with another term, that of world. When the world becomes simultaneously worldwide [mondial] and resolutely worldly [mondain] (i.e., without “worlds-behind-the-world,” without either “heaven” or “heavenly powers”), how and where is inscribed the necessary assertion that the sense of the world must be found outside of the world?5 To this we should also add: the dissolution or deconstruction of the very notion of sense, and the postulate to which that notion corresponds (the expectation of a signification), do not contradict the preceding assertion, they confirm it.
We must work on the limit and intimidation self-prescribed by rational thought, which are becoming intolerable to it. It is not that contemporary thought is of no help here. Since Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Wittgenstein, various forms of an “outside of the world” have been opened up in pure worldly immanence. Since Freud, affectivity is affected by the incommensurable and sense by the unsignifiable. From Derrida and Deleuze, very close to each other on this point at least, comes the invitation to think a secret in which thinking becomes secret unto itself (which amounts to an invitation to think in secret, ultimately, to think a thinking situated in the hollow spaces of its own concealment). We might also say that it is a matter of the other—this time, considering a Levinasian source—but of the other insofar as he or she outstrips any assignation as or in an other of some kind, whether with a capital or a lowercase o. This means not only the alter—the other of two—but also the alienus, the allos, everyone’s other, and the senseless.
In all these ways, and a few others as well, the same necessity, the same requirement of reason, emerges insistently: that of casting light on its own obscurity, not by bathing it in light, but by acquiring the art, the discipline, and the strength to let the obscure emit its own clarity.6
However, it is really the content of such an expression—of its paradox, its oxymoron, its dialectic, or its Witz [“joke”]—that asks for clarification. And, in fact, we are simply pointing out the critical domain of the work to be done.
Here, I will limit myself to one preliminary remark. What must be set in motion can only be effected by way of a mutual dis-enclosure of the dual heritages of religion and philosophy. Dis-enclosure denotes the opening of an enclosure, the raising of a barrier. And the closure that should interest us is that which has been designated as “the closure of metaphysics.”7
This expression has, first, the sense of a tautology: “metaphysics,” in the sense by which Nietzsche and Heidegger have marked this term, denotes the representation of being [être] as beings [étant] and as beings present [étant présent]. In so doing, metaphysics sets a founding, warranting presence beyond the world (viz., the Idea, Summum Ens, the Subject, the Will). This setup stabilizes beings, enclosing them in their own beingness [étantité]. Everything—properly and precisely everything—is played out in the mutual referral of these two regimes of beings or presence: the “immanent” and the “transcendent”; the “here-below” and the “beyond”; the “sensuous” and the “intelligible”; “appearance” and “reality.” Closure is the completion of this totality that conceives itself to be fulfilled in its self-referentiality.
This fulfillment amounts to an exhaustion: on the one hand, self-reference ultimately immobilizes and paralyzes even being itself or the sense of the event that it names, and, on the other hand, the dissociation of the two regimes that the closure affixes to one another ends up proving to be a phantasmatic dissociation between the unimpeachable empirical real and the inaccessible real or intelligible surreal. Thus began what was fulfilled in the “twilight of the idols.”
To the degree that Christianity can and must be considered a powerful confirmation of metaphysics—aggravating the beingness of being [étantité de l’être] through the production of a supreme, arch-present, and efficient Being—Christianity, and with it all monotheism, merely comforts the closure and makes it more stifling.
But it happens that a careful reading of those who denounce metaphysics most vigorously (Nietzsche, Heidegger, Wittgenstein, Derrida, and Deleuze in his fashion) easily shows that they never shared the somewhat vulgar simplicity of this representation. On the contrary, each of them knew perfectly well that it is from within metaphysics itself that the movement of a destabilization of the system of beings in their totality can take shape; failing that, we would be hard pressed to understand how the shake-up of this supposedly monolithic system could have arisen.
In truth, metaphysics deconstructs itself constitutively, and, in deconstructing itself, it dis-encloses [déclôt] in itself the presence and certainty of the world founded on reason. In itself, it delivers forever and anew the epekeina t
s ousias, the “beyond beings”: it foments in itself the overflowing of its rational ground.
(We might add, by the way, that the illusion of an edifying tale of the liberation of modern reason, rising forth fully armed out of Bacon or Galileo’s head and reconquering by its strength alone the whole terrain that was in thrall to metaphysical belief, is doubtless the most tenacious and insidious illusion ever to be concealed in the nooks of our many discourses.)
Each of those whom I have named—and well beyond them, the whole movement of thought during the entire history of metaphysics, that is, since Parmenides and Plato—realized very clearly that the closure, if “closure” there is, does not cut across the course of history (i.e., is neither a revolution nor a revelation) but is instead longitudinal. It is from the beginning and without discontinuities that philosophy and every species of knowledge and rational discourse situate, designate, and contemplate the extreme limits of reason in an excess of and over reason itself (the “of” and the “over” being woven here one into the other). The closure invariably dis-encloses itself: such is the precise sense of the demand for the unconditioned that structures Kantian reason; such is likewise the sense of Heidegger’s Destruktion of ontology and of Derrida’s “deconstruction”—as well as the sense of Deleuze’s “lines of flight.” As an intransigent rationalist once put it very simply: we will never lose “this tenuous ark that ties us to the inaccessible.”8 To deny this most humble and unimpeachable certainty is just bad faith.
This observation immediately refers to one evoked earlier: the constitution of metaphysics itself proceeded neither by self-constitution nor by the “Greek miracle.” Its provenance lies in a transformation of the entire order of “ties with the inaccessible.” The West was born not from the liquidation of a dark world of beliefs, dissolved by the light of a new sun—and this no more so in Greece than during the Renaissance or the eighteenth century. It took shape in a metamorphosis of the overall relation to the world, such that the “inaccessible” in effect took shape and functioned, as it were, precisely as such in thought, in knowledge, and in behavior. There was no reduction of the unknown, but rather an aggravation of the incommensurable (which was no accident, if the solution to the mathematical problem of “incommensurables”—the alogon that is the diagonal of the square—furnished the emblematic figure of the birth of true knowledge and, with it or in it, the modeling or mathematical regulation of philosophy).
As such, the alogon can be understood as the extreme, excessive, and necessary dimension of the logos: from the moment we speak of serious things (death, the world, being-together, being-oneself, the truth), it has never seriously been a question of anything other than this dimension. It is the alogon that reason introduced with itself.
The previous observation must be completed by another, which constitutes simultaneously its redoubling and its expansion. If, within metaphysics, Christianity did not occur merely as a philosophy (which it also was or which also intervened in its formation; after all, the first Christians were considered to be a species or school of “philosophers”); if Christianity was produced in a conjunction of Greek and Jewish thought; if it was, ultimately, the outcome of two or three centuries during which the Mediterranean world was completely disenchanted or demythified, as much in its religious religions as in its civil religions; if, finally, Christianity represented simultaneously the collaboration and confrontation of “reason” and “faith,” all this is not because it constituted a late-contracted sickness in the West, ruinous for what was supposed to be a flourishing state of health. The ever-rehashed condemnation of Christianity by philosophers—and particularly by Enlightenment ones—can only leave us perplexed, once we have understood and recognized without reservation all its excellent motifs. The least we can say is that it is highly unlikely that an entire civilization could be affected by a serious congenital disease. It is not safer for us to wield medical metaphors in light of civilizations than it was for Freud to suppose that the “discontent” (“malaise”, Unbehagen) of our own could be effectively treated.
Not safer, we must admit, than it is still to wield (in a more or less visible, more or less declared way) the discredit attaching to the “obscurantism” or “superstition” of a “Middle Ages,” whose very name bears the mark of the unfaltering if not outright arrogant distance that the reason of the Modern age took in regard to it. We must admit that the Reformation and the Enlightenment, with and despite their nobility and their great vigor, also grew accustomed to behave vis-à-vis the European past like yesterday’s ethnologists toward “primitives.” The recasting of ethnology, more than a little underway today (or the dis-enclosure of its ethnocentrism)9 cannot fail to hold also for the relationship the West has to itself.
If it need be said, I am not advocating the public or promotional restoration of indulgences. I would wish, rather, that the Church abolish all it has preserved of these. However, it is a question of not resting content with judgments of “primitivism” and “clericalism,” which put back into play and question paradigms of “rationality,” “freedom,” or “autonomy,” at least as they have been imparted to us by the epic of humanity’s emancipation. Perhaps we should also emancipate ourselves from a certain thinking of emancipation, which saw in it the cure for a maladie honteuse.
In this regard, Nietzsche does not simplify our task. But neither does he remain with the pathological simplification that he authored. By way of Nietzsche, we should identify instead the question of a congenital disease (Platonism, Judeo-Christianity) in the West, which consequently indicates less a pathogenic accident than the constitution of an essence and therefore another type of “health.” A congenital disease is not an infantile one; it is often incurable; nevertheless, it can also give us the conditions for a “health” that does not satisfy norms.
It seems to me superfluous to repeat all the grievances that can legitimately be leveled against Christianity, from the divestiture of thinking to the ignoble exploitation of pain and misery. We should even push the accusation farther—indeed, farther than mere accusation—to interrogate the conditions of possibility of a so powerful and durable religious domination exerted upon a world that, simultaneously, almost never stopped outmaneuvering and deposing this domination, and that found in it weapons to be used against it (freedom, the individual, reason itself). But that is not our purpose here.10
For the moment, one remark must suffice, but it is essential. Christianity designates nothing other, essentially (that is to say simply, infinitely simply: through an inaccessible simplicity), than the demand to open in this world an alterity or an unconditional alienation. However, “unconditional” means not undeconstructible.11 It must also denote the range, by right infinite, of the very movement of deconstruction and disenclosure.12
In other words, Christianity assumes, in the most radical and explicit fashion, what is at stake in the alogon. All the weight—the enormous weight—of religious representation cannot change the fact that [ne peut pas faire que] the “other world” or the “other kingdom” never was a second world, or even a world-behind-the-worlds, but the other of the world (of every world: of all consistency tied up in beings and in communication), the other than any world. Christianity can be summed up, as Nietzsche, for one, knew well, in the precept of living in this world as outside of it—in the sense that this “outside” is not, [or] not an entity. It does not exist, but it (or again, since it) defines and mobilizes existence: the opening of the world to inaccessible alterity (and consequently a paradoxical access to it).
Whether we take it from Paul or John, from Thomas or Eckhart, Francis or Luther, Calvin or Fénélon, Hegel or Kierkegaard, Christianity thus dis-encloses in its essential gesture the closure that it had constructed and that it perfects, lending to the metaphysics of presence its strongest imaginary resource.
But only the sharpest sense of the Christian demand for alterity could dismantle the “ontological proof,” as well as proclaiming the “death of God” while adding, in a less resounding voice, that “only the moral God was refuted.”
Christianity is at the heart of the dis-enclosure just as it is at the center of the enclosure [clôture]. The logic or the topology of this complex interweave will have to be dismantled in itself: but it is worthwhile first to recognize the legitimacy of such an interweave. Once again, this legitimacy is found in the demand for the unconditioned, that is, for the alogon, without which, or rather without the opening toward which, and without exposure to which, we can give up thinking.
This assertion, or series of assertions, implies the possibility not only of deconstructing Christianity—that is, leading it into the movement by which philosophy deports, complicates, and dismantles its own closure—but of grasping in it (in it as it gets out of itself), from it, the excedent itself, the movement of a deconstruction: namely, the disjointing and dismantling [désajointement] of stones and the gaze directed toward the void (toward the no-thing [chose-rien]), their setting apart. We must now concern ourselves with what this might specifically mean.
All this being said, the ground of a dis-enclosure is inscribed at the heart of the Christian tradition. It suffices to take as evidence the justly famous Proslogion of Saint Anselm, whose fundamental force is not that of an “ontological proof” (which we will have to submit, elsewhere, to the trial of thought concerning the true nature of such a “proof”). The high point of the Proslogion is not found in the motif according to which God would be that relative to which nothing higher could be thought (quo majus cogitari nequit). It is in the supplementary degree provided by the majus quam cogitari possit: greater than what can be thought.13
The argument rests entirely on the movement of thought, insofar as it cannot not think the maximum of the being [l’être] it is able to think, but thinks also an excess to that maximum, since thought is capable of thinking even that there is something that exceeds its power to think. In other words, thinking (i.e., not the intellect alone, but the heart and the demand itself) can think—indeed, cannot not think—that it thinks something in excess over itself. It penetrates the impenetrable, or rather is penetrated by it.
It is this movement alone that constitutes reason in its unconditionality or in the absoluteness and infinity of the desire through which man is caught up infinitely in it [s’y passe infiniment]. In this sense, Anselm is much less a follower of Christianity than the bearer of a necessity that defines the modern world of thought, of the existential ordeal of thought.
“God” is for Anselm the name of this ordeal. This name can assuredly be rejected for many reasons. But the ordeal or trial cannot be avoided. Subsequently, the question may arise of knowing whether this ordeal does or does not require recurrence to a special nomination distinct from any nomination of concepts, and whether “god” or “divine” can or cannot serve as an index or benchmark.
However that may be, the true scope of the “dis-enclosure” can only be measured by this question: Are we capable, yes or no, of grasping anew—beyond all mastery—the demand that carries thought out of itself without confusing this demand, in its absolute irreducibility, with some construction of ideals or with some sloppy assembly of phantasms?
A simple warning for those who will not already have thrust aside this book in fury, pity, or discouragement. What follows here does not constitute the sustained and organized development one might expect. It is only an assembly, wholly provisional, of diverse texts that turn around the same object without approaching it frontally. It has not yet seemed to me possible to undertake the more systematic treatment of this object, but I thought it desirable to put to the test texts that have remained little known to the public, even, for the most part, once they were published. In fact, I do not feel particularly secure in this undertaking: everywhere lurk traps. I do not foresee opposition or attacks, or even eager endorsements, so much as I anticipate the extremely narrow margin of maneuver that the operation (if it is one) I am trying to discuss here has available to it. That margin is philosophically narrow, by definition, and socially narrow—caught in its fashion between diverse tensions and complacencies. But so it goes.
I will attempt to advance somewhat farther. For the moment, what we find here is but an open-air construction site; that should sum up what we need to know.
It is hardly possible at this stage to propose anything more than this single axiom: it is in no respect a question of simply suggesting that a philosopher could “believe in God” (or in gods)—“philosopher” meaning here not a technician of the concept but first that which is expected, even required, today of common wisdom or conscience [conscience commune]. By contrast, it is a question, and perhaps only a question, of wondering whether faith has ever, in truth, been confused with belief. In effect, it is enough to observe that belief is in no way proper to religion. There are many profane beliefs; there are even beliefs among scholars and philosophers. But faith? … Should it not form the necessary relation to the nothing: in such a way that we understand that there are no buffers, no halting points, no markers, no indeconstructible terms, and that dis-enclosure never stops opening what it opens (the West, metaphysics, knowledge, the self, form, sense, religion itself)?
As to the two other “theological virtues” [“vertus théologales”], that is, the two other orders and powers of relating to the object of some faith, hope, and charity—to give them their most traditional names—their turn will come later, and we shall thus be gratified or even redeemed moreover [par surcroît].
The order of the texts is only relatively consistent. It is not necessary to follow it, even less so given that they were written under the most diverse circumstances, as we will see. To begin with, “Atheism and Monotheism” should make clear and explicit the perspective sketched above, as does the following essay, “A Deconstruction of Monotheism,” which has a more didactic character and an older date. There follow two texts relative to the idea of “faith”: “The Judeo-Christian” and “A Faith That Is Nothing at All,” relative respectively to Derrida and Granel (a part of whose text, “Far from Substance,” follows and is commented on by me). Thereafter, “An Experience at Heart” attempts to restore the “Christian” experience of the “atheist” Nietzsche. “Verbum caro factum [The Word Made Flesh]” is a brief and provisional reflection on “incarnation.” “The Name God in Blanchot” collects a few clues from the author who doubtless has brought the empty relation of belief [rapport vide de croyance]14 most closely to that which “God” can (or should it be to that which “God” must?) designate. We then examine the motif of “resurrection,” again in Blanchot. This was the point of a discussion with Derrida, of which “Consolation, Desolation” is a trace.15 “On a Divine Wink”16 examines the gesture to which the “last god” is reduced, for Heidegger, and sets it in relation to “différance.” “An Exempting from Sense” introduces an atheological reflection on sense, starting from an expression of Roland Barthes. “‘Prayer Demythified’” extends the thoughts of Michel Deguy on nonreligious prayer. The text “The Deconstruction of Christianity” is the oldest and remains, to my mind, outside or set apart from the others; yet it points to the first efforts at clearing a narrow and difficult path that seems to me to be necessary. It also points toward the possibility of a deconstructive analysis of the principal elements of Christian dogma, scarcely addressed in the present volume (we will have to return to this later on). Finally, “Dis-Enclosure” provides, in the key of a “spatial conquest”—to put it summarily, in that of the heavens deserted and reopened [ciel déserté et réouvert]—a formal variation on the theme of the divine qua opening or spacing, separated by intervals from itself as much as in itself [de lui-même aussi bien qu’en lui-même espacé].17
Translated by Bettina Bergo