Portrait of Jacques Derrida as a Young Jewish Saint

Hélène Cixous

2001

This is a story that begins with J. It was the fifteenth of July 1930.

It’s about J; it’s about a consonant still a little vowelish, a little i-ish in the aftermath of a magic philology.

Were I not “Jewish,” I say to myself, holding the word to my lips shyly, in and with respect, were I unable to address this word to myself in some way…

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