The Seventh Function of Language

Simon asks how they can obtain accreditation. Anastasia replies that they must be at least level six (tribune), and that there will be a big qualification tournament organized especially.

“The Novel is a death; it transforms life into destiny, a memory into a useful act, duration into an oriented and meaningful time.”

Bayard asks Simon why Foucault is talking about the novel.

Simon replies that it must be a quotation but he is wondering the same thing, and it is making him decidedly anxious.

79

Leaning over the bridge, Searle can barely make out the water at the bottom of the gorge, but he can hear it flowing in the darkness. It is night in Ithaca and the wind snakes through the corridor of vegetation formed by Cascadilla Creek. Pouring over its bed of stones and moss, the creek follows its course through the steep-sided valley, indifferent to the tragedies of humankind.

A pair of students holds hands as they cross the bridge. There are not many people around at this time of night. No one pays Searle any notice.

If only he’d known. If only he could have …

But it’s too late now to rewrite history.

Without a word, the philosopher steps over the railing, gets his balance on the parapet, glances down into the void, looks up at the stars one last time, lets go, and falls.

Barely even a spray of water: just a small splash. The brief sparkle of foam in the blackness.

The creek is not deep enough to cushion the impact, but the rapids take the body toward the falls and Cayuga Lake, where a long time ago fish were caught by Native Americans who probably—though who knows?—knew very little about the illocutionary and the perlocutionary.

PART IV

VENICE

80

“I am forty-four years old. That means I have outlived Alexander, dead at thirty-two, Mozart, dead at thirty-five, Jarry, thirty-four, Lautréamont, twenty-four, Lord Byron, thirty-six, Rimbaud, thirty-seven, and throughout the long life that remains to me, I will overtake all the great dead men, all the giants who dominated their eras, and so, if God spares me, I will pass Napoleon, Caesar, Georges Bataille, Raymond Roussel … But no!… I will die young … I can feel it … I won’t be around for long … I won’t end up like Roland … sixty-four years old … Pathetic … When it comes down to it, we did him a favor … No, no … I wouldn’t make a good retiree … Not that such a thing is even possible … I’d rather burn up … The flame that burns twice as bright…”

81

Sollers does not like the Lido, but he has fled the Carnival crowds and, in memory of Thomas Mann and Visconti, taken refuge at the Grand Hôtel des Bains, where Death in Venice’s highly languorous action takes place. He imagined he’d be able to meditate at his ease there, facing the Adriatic, but for now he is at the bar, hitting on the waitress as he knocks back a whiskey. At the far end of the empty room, a pianist plays Ravel halfheartedly. It should be pointed out that it is midafternoon in midwinter and, while there is no cholera outbreak, the weather is not particularly conducive for swimming.

“And what is your name, my dear child? No, don’t tell me! I am going to baptize you Margherita, like Lord Byron’s mistress. She was married to a baker, did you know that? La Fornarina … fiery temperament and marble thighs … She had your eyes, of course. They went horse-riding on the beach: madly romantic, don’t you think? A little kitsch perhaps, yes, you’re right … Would you like me to teach you to ride later?”

Sollers thinks of that passage in Childe Harold: “The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord…” The doge can no longer marry the sea, the lion no longer inspires fear: it’s about castration, he thinks. “And the Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, neglected garment of her widowhood!” But he immediately drives away these dark thoughts. He shakes his empty glass to order a second whiskey. “On the rocks.” The waitress smiles politely. “Prego.”

Sollers sighs cheerfully. “Ah, how I wish I could say, like Goethe: ‘I am perhaps known only to one man in Venice, and he won’t be meeting me anytime soon.’ But I’m very well known in my country, my dear child, that is my misfortune. Do you know France? I’ll take you. What a great writer he was, that Goethe. But what’s the matter? You’re blushing. Ah, Julia, there you are! Margherita, allow me to present my wife.”

Kristeva entered the bar discreetly, like a cat. “You’re exhausting yourself in vain, darling. This young woman doesn’t understand a quarter of what you’re saying. Isn’t that right, miss?”

The young woman smiles again. “Prego?”

Sollers puffs up his chest: “Well, what does it matter? When, like me, one inspires devotion at first sight, one does not need (thank God!) to be understood.”