The Seventh Function of Language

The conversation drifts toward Barthes. The publisher delivers an ambiguous eulogy. Sollers explains: “Lots of homosexuals have given me the same strange impression, now and then—as if they’re being eaten up from inside…” Kristeva points out to the eleven guests: “As I’m sure you know, we were very close. Roland adored Philippe and [she sounds suddenly modest and mysterious] he liked me very much.” BHL insists on adding: “He could never stand Marxism-Leninism.” The publisher: “He adored Brecht, though.” Hélène, venomously: “And China? What did he think of China?” Althusser frowns. The Chinese woman looks up. Sollers replies in a relaxed way: “Boring. But no more than the rest of the world.” The Bulgarian linguist, who knew Barthes well: “Except for Japan.” The Canadian feminist, who did her master’s under Barthes, remembers: “He was very welcoming and very lonely.” The publisher says knowingly: “Yes and no. He knew how to surround himself … when he wanted to. He wasn’t without resources, in spite of everything.” Lacan’s mistress slides farther down her chair to massage BHL’s balls with her toes.

BHL is imperturbable: “It’s good to have a master. But you must know how to detach yourself from him. With me, for example, at the École Normale—” Kristeva interrupts him with a dry laugh: “Why are the French so obsessed with their education? They can’t go two hours without mentioning it. It reminds me of old soldiers.” The publisher agrees: “That’s true. In France, we’re all nostalgic for our school days.” Sollers says teasingly: “Well, some stay in school all their lives.” But Althusser doesn’t react. Hélène grinds her teeth at this middle-class compulsion: imagining their own experience holds for everyone. She didn’t like school, and she didn’t stay there long either.

The doorbell rings. Kristeva gets up to open it. In the entrance hall, she can be seen talking to a badly dressed man with a mustache. The conversation lasts less than a minute. Then she comes back to the table as if nothing happened, saying simply (and her accent resurfaces for a second): “Sorrrry, just some borrring work stuff. For my office.” The publisher goes on: “In France, academic success has too much influence on social success.” The Bulgarian linguist stares at Kristeva: “But thankfully, it is not the only factor. Isn’t that true, Julia?” Kristeva says something in Bulgarian. Then the two of them begin talking in their native language: brief, muttered replies. If there is any hostility between them, the ambience around the table makes it impossible for the other guests to detect it. Sollers intervenes: “Come on, now, children, no whispering, ha ha…” Then he addresses the Canadian feminist: “So, my dear friend, how is your novel going? I agree with Aragon, you know … The woman is the future of the man … and therefore of literature … because the woman is death … and literature is always on the side of death…” And while he vividly imagines the Canadian peeling back his foreskin, he asks Kristeva if she would like to go and fetch dessert. Kristeva gets to her feet and starts clearing the table, helped by the Chinese woman, and while the two women disappear once again into the kitchen, the publisher takes out a cigar and cuts the end off it with the bread knife. Lacan’s mistress continues to perform contortions on her chair. The New York couple hold hands and smile politely. Sollers imagines a foursome with the Canadian and tennis rackets. BHL, hard as a rock, says they should invite Solzhenitsyn next time. Hélène scolds Althusser: “You pig! You made a stain!” She wipes his shirt with a napkin dipped in a little sparkling water. Lacan quietly sings a sort of Jewish nursery rhyme. The others pretend not to notice. In the kitchen, Kristeva grabs the Chinese woman by the waist. BHL says to Sollers: “When you think about it, Philippe, you’re better than Sartre: Stalinist, Maoist, papist … He always seems to be wrong, but you!… You change your mind so quickly that you don’t have time to be wrong.” Sollers sticks a cigarette in his cigarette holder. Lacan mumbles: “Sartre does not exist.” BHL continues: “In my next book, I—” Sollers interrupts him: “Sartre said that all anti-Communists are dogs … I say that all anti-Catholics are dogs … Anyway, it’s very simple: there is not a Jew of any worth who hasn’t been tempted to convert to Catholicism … Isn’t that true?… Darling, are you going to bring us dessert?” From the kitchen, Kristeva’s muffled voice replies that it’s coming.