The Seventh Function of Language

The angry young woman stands in front of Kristeva and says: “I know who you are. Go home, bitch.” Kristeva’s friends stare wide-eyed at each other, burst out laughing, then reply excitedly: “Are you stoned? Who the fuck do you think you are?” The woman walks away and Kristeva watches as she recommences her solitary protest. She is fairly certain she has never seen her before in her life.

Another group of young people bear down on the football players, and the atmosphere changes immediately; from where she is sitting, Kristeva can tell that the two groups are openly hostile to each other.

A church bell rings.

The new group noisily calls out to the first group. From what Kristeva can hear, they are calling them “French suckers.” Kristeva does not understand at first if this is a prepositional apposition (suckers who also happen to be French) or a genitive construction (they practice fellatio on French people), but given that the group in question seems Anglo-Saxon (because she thinks she spotted that they knew some of the rules of American football), she thinks the second hypothesis is the more likely.

Whatever, the first group responds with insults of the same kind (“you analytic pricks!”) and the situation would no doubt have degenerated had not a man in his sixties intervened to separate them, shouting (in French, surprisingly): “Calm down, you lunatics!” As if to impress her with his grasp of the situation, one of Kristeva’s young admirers then whispers to her: “That’s Paul de Man. He’s French, isn’t he?” Kristeva replies: “No, he’s Belgian.”

Under his tree, the bush-man mutters: “The sound shape of language…”

The one-woman protest march screams at the top of her lungs, as if she were supporting one of the two teams: “We don’t need Derrida, we have Jimi Hendrix!”

Distracted by Cruella Redgrave’s disconcerting slogan, Paul de Man does not hear the man approach him from behind until a voice says: “Turn around, man. And face your enemy.” A guy in a tweed suit is standing there, his jacket too big for his skinny body, the sleeves too short for his long arms, his hair side-parted with a lock of hair hanging over his forehead; he looks like a supporting actor in a Sydney Pollack film, except for his eyes, which are so piercing you feel as if they are x-raying you.

This is John Searle.

The bush-man observes Kristeva as she observes the scene. Attentive, concentrated, Kristeva lets her cigarette burn down to her fingertips. The bush-man’s eyes move from Searle to Kristeva, and from Kristeva to Searle.

Paul de Man tries to appear simultaneously ironic and conciliatory, and he is only half-convincing in this role of a man at ease. “Peace, my friend!” he says. “Put your sword down and help me separate those kids.” Which, for reasons unknown, serves to annoy Searle, who advances toward Paul de Man. Everyone thinks that he is about to hit him. Kristeva squeezes one young man’s arm, and he takes advantage of the situation to hold her hand. Paul de Man remains immobile, paralyzed, fascinated by the menacing body coming toward him and the idea of a fist’s impact, but when he moves to protect himself or—who knows?—maybe even attack, a third voice rings out, its falsely jovial intonation barely concealing a faintly hysterical anxiety: “Dear Paul! Dear John! Welcome to Cornell! I’m so glad you could come!”

This is Jonathan Culler, the young researcher who has organized the conference. He rushes over to hold out his hand to Searle, who shakes it with bad grace; his hand is limp and his expression malicious as he stares at Paul de Man. In French, he says to the Belgian: “Take your Derrida boys and piss off. Now.” Paul de Man leads the little group away, and the incident is over. The young man hugs Kristeva as if they’d escaped from great danger, or at least as if they’d lived through a moment of great intensity together, and perhaps Kristeva feels something similar—in any case, she doesn’t push him away.

The sound of a car engine roars through the dusk. A Lotus Esprit comes to a sudden halt with a screech of tires. A spry man in his forties gets out, cigar between his lips, bucket hat on his head, silk pocket handkerchief, and heads straight for Kristeva. “Hey, chica!” He kisses her hand. She turns to her young admirers and points at the newcomer: “Boys, allow me to introduce Morris Zapp, a specialist in structuralism, poststructuralism, New Criticism, and lots of other things.”

Morris Zapp smiles and adds, in a tone sufficiently detached that one does not immediately suspect him of vanity (but in French, all the same): “The first professor in the world with a six-figure salary!”

The young men say “Wow” as they smoke their joint.

Kristeva laughs her clear laugh and asks: “Have you prepared your presentation on Volvos?”