To Be Two

Luce Irigaray, Monique Rhodes, Marco Cocito-Monoc

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781351538985
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Philosophy History & Theory

In this major new work, French philosopher Luce Irigaray continues to explore the issue central to her thought: the feminist redefinition of Being and Identity. For Irigaray, the notion of the individual is twinned with a reconceived notion of difference, or alterity. What does it mean to be someone? How can identity be created, or discovered, in relation to others? In To Be Two Irigaray gives new clarity to her project, grounding it in relation to such major figures as Sartre, Levinas, and Merleau-Ponty. Yet at the same time, she enriches her discussion with an attempt to bring the elements--earth, fire, water--into philosophical discourse. Even the polarities of heaven and earth come to play in this ambitious and provocative text. At once political, philosophical, and poetic, To Be Two will become one of Irigarary's central works.

1
Prologue

Just reborn from her

Earth,

you who house me but with whom I share,

you who are fecund with so many children, who do not resemble one another,

you who grow without respite, both in secret and in the light,

you who bear seed, flower and fruit,

you who never cease to repair life,

you who at every time of the year work for the becoming of the living,

allowing the lymph to rise or fall again, keeping it

from spilling out of you, except for the ripe fruit,

Earth,

you who are still lavish with sun when the frost comes,

Earth,

safeguard me, faithful one.

And when the spring returns, you laugh.

You rustle through the leaves and the flowers.

You quiver through the birds.

There is not the rapid growth of the first summer, but its joy.

The splendor of the year’s mid-point has not yet burst forth, we are at the opening.

It is the time of the unfinished, of wonder.

Life walks on tiptoes.

Despite the songs of the birds, silence persists.

Is this not, perhaps, how what grows preserves its future?

Insuperable distances exist in the spring.

No space is yet fully occupied, but the spaces

are not empty: they are inhabited by an invisible growth.

Where it seems that nothing exists, there remains one presence, or a thousand.

There is the one, and the many; the one is the many.

But the separation has not yet taken place.

Earthly and celestial roots join together without usurping the limits of others.

Everyone remains in his or her birthplace, but the whole opens.

I am immersed in the spring: quiet, attentive. Gathered but porous, I receive the environment’s jubilation.^a I do not accumulate, but become, growing in a new life. There is the felicity of the beginning, of the breath still virginal.

Joy’s laughter ripples. The iridescence of this morning leaves union chaste: in us, between us. One hears clear and crystalline notes, outbursts of children’s laughter, songs of birds. One also imagines angels whispering, souls quivering, while leaves and flowers grow to become living bouquets. The flowers are light, without pretense: ethereal, colored or only white. Smiles of the spring, they bear witness to a muted hope. Life whispers. The earth, like a great nest, houses us, nurses our rebirth.

The air, fluid density which leaves space for every growth. Matter that, not yet divided in itself, permits sharing.

The air, stillness, gathering, harmony: in which I find myself separated from but also linked with the whole, except for what does not breathe.

The air, birth in familiarity with the vegetal. The world that becomes a mother.

Why is it said that the universe is the work of the father? Does it not, rather, resemble another mother?

Life’s taste returns in her tenderness – sweet, warm, fragrant, also caressing and rustling. She comforts us after every wound and, playing around it, does not envelope us in any way but incites us to feel, to leave pain in order to celebrate her, to praise her presence, to contemplate her grace and to abandon those who forget her for disincarnate enticements, for conflicts without either consequence or motive if not the artifice of an energy separated from life.

The air which touches: invisible presence. Love’s return everywhere. In this infinite being touched, the wound vanishes. The first and last resource envelopes me: clouds or angels, down or soft arms, smiles or words for children.

*

How do we humans share this cradle, this nest, these surroundings? The plants live together without difficulty. And we? How do we share the air? Without the vegetal world, how do we live together? In fact, it substitutes for the mother. But, without either of these, how is the between-us possible? Can words protect the food which she lavishes? Do they travel the same air or another? Is this air suitable for life?

And if you are quiet, does this not mean that you lack words? And if you sing, is it not perhaps because there is more air in song: beyond the hither and yon of words?

Your silence exists, as does my self-gathering. But so does the almost absolute silence of the world’s dawning. In such suspension, before every utterance on earth, there is a cloud, an almost immobile air. The plants already breathe, while we still ask ourselves how to speak, how to speak to each other, without taking breath away from them.

In such a garden resonates the song of the birds, those who celebrate the present moment, who assure the passage between here and there, between earth and sky.

Messengers, they announce if the site is livable. When the universe is not habitable, the birds, if only for a time, are mute. As soon as the danger draws away, they again communicate the celestial: nearby, they tell the distant.

If they speak, it is possible to stop and listen. When they remain silent, it is best to hurry. They indicate if a place is hospitable or not. As nature’s angels, they come and go, visible and invisible, noisy or silent, according to whether there is tension or harmony.

They are not merely consumers of our gifts. Their vocalizations go beyond thanks for a few seeds. They mean much more.

At every hour their messages ring out, low or high-pitched, simply melodious or more immediately useful. They signal to those who sojourn on the earth the moment of the day, of the year, and also whether there is harmony or discord between the elements of the universe.

Between them is the moisture which protects silence and prepares a space without sound, save that of the rain and the birds. But nothing which comes from afar, carried by a dryer air.

Here, the nest is made of wet leaves; the touch, of wind and of water drops. With its roof closed, the grey itself produces the gathering. The breath searchingly sniffs out the beyond, and perhaps the crossing. But no color indicates the direction of the summit. The passage remains imperceptible to the gaze.

I enjoy listening to the earth. In listening, I rediscover bliss, the wonder of attentive perception, the happiness of sonorous flesh. It is not only a message which reaches me but a vibration which gladdens me. It plays at the limits of myself: still outside, but already within. Neither sound nor words, it is animated silence. The whiteness of life’s rustling from which no word emerges, it is accompanied by a soft palpitation. It is seemingly nothing, if not the happiness of being with her, while remaining myself.

The sound of the living, the breath of the air, the joy of strength all resemble a word conveyed by her.

The meaning^b is not perhaps completely clear, unless it is reduced to mirth. But, with her, I learn patience. I withdraw to listen, quiet. Leaving to be that which is, I await grace.

I sense the quiet in my body, the sweetness under my skin. Silence spreads, along with its presence: peaceful, alive. I intuit the arrival of another, nearby and yet distant, confused with the tenderness of repose. But in memory exists a mystery. Perhaps more than one lives in me with its veiled secret.

Will the familiar be reborn? The flower grows there, at times also the flame and the light. It remains in silence, like a gathered fidelity, the living matrix for a future. It seems a downy cradle where the newly born seeks refuge. It still lacks contours, definite limits, but it has already been conceived and is to be protected.

With love for her, the blue returns. Tenderness impregnates the air – like a presence. It seems that certain words are whispered. Perhaps the birds are confiding some secret to each other. The whole blooms in a still lofty atmosphere. Between earth and sky, a breath comes and goes, joining one to the other. Its scent is perhaps the most subtle incense.

In fact, to be in her, with her is enough. There remains work to complete: a house to build, a love to invent, a spirit to cultivate.

*

The air is sweet, carnal and silent. Its touch recalls the familiar. Happiness inhabits it. It is of a luminous blue, resolute but extremely tender. It seems a living being, a bridge, a relationship. A rainbow of spring.

Love for the star, desire for the light. And trust in her. Leaving myself to be in her, I renounce all apprehension and dedicate myself to welcoming. I hope for an appropriate gift from her, a present which is suited to me, a miracle in abandonment.

Returning to the sun. Delivering myself to her – life. Enveloped in her so thoroughly, the fear of offending her still lingers. Yet I remain in her arms, knowing that a day limits itself to a period of light, after which suddenly arrives the night.

Joy is in me. It lives in my body, rises like lymph. There it dwells, profound, grave, silent. It dissolves what divides me from myself: useless mental noise.

Now nothing separates us. Immersed in her, I share colors and light. I become her, becoming also myself. I respect her, respecting myself. I love her, loving myself. She is within me and outside of me. Certainly I cannot embrace her, but she is there. She surrounds me, radiates in me, illuminates me, comforts me, without a gift in exchange.

The quality of the air is almost perfect, the blue of the sky almost divine. At times, man sullies it, incapable of sustaining such splendor, such a tonality of happiness. Then the heart breaks and harmony is lost. Joy is dispersed in argument. Where angelic lightness once played, shadows impose themselves. They fall like rocks, weighing upon the soul, the air, the earth.

To repose in her, to contemplate with her, allowing myself to be contemplated. Beyond fixed desire, I am embracer-embraced. Porous, I am attentive without restraining. I return to myself to welcome without keeping, to love without loving. To love to her?

Her tenderness is there, immobile: in the air, the flowers, the blue of the sky. If the breath is placed in unison with them, all suffering vanishes. Love is in me. Leaping closures, it rises, breaking bonds, undoing paralyses. Without pain, it consoles, awakens, calms.

In this way, to discover the peace of the body, the harmony of the living. To leave the breath to its rhythm, like waves which come and go, in and out, out and in. The star accompanies this coming and going. The world resembles a single breath.

If the sun remains in me, more ardent, more like the morning, life is condensed. It resists dispersal, delighting to dwell in me; it lingers to love, seeking more to radiate than to diffuse itself. It gathers itself in order to spread itself, leaving secret what is offered. Whoever senses it can pause before it.

Her warmth seems a laugh which has blossomed and dazzled. In this tender effusion, we walk in happiness, in complicit silence, each of us giving ourselves to the other.

Who knows where we are going? Love bears the weight of time. The hours are clearer or darker, more burning or more fresh. The birds sing, turning to the day or to the night. I take refuge in her, waiting to return to the deepest part of myself, and waiting also for the arrival of the memory of another force.

To experience happiness, to rediscover the breath. To emerge from pain and choose bliss. Renouncing dominion, to love the earth until life resurges. I perceive her through all of my skin, immersed in her, leaving every thought, every screen behind. I am impregnated with her colors, with her smells. I open myself to the warmth of the air, to the light of the day, to the contemplation of what surrounds me.

The universe becomes carnal when I am with him,^c close to him. As I contemplate his splendor, I do not forget the familiar. My intimate friend speaks to me, his presence made sweetness. I find rest in the universe, entrust myself to him. My eyes open themselves upon his glory, my heart is at peace. I seek the return within myself, the silence of his welcoming and, perhaps, that of your arrival.

The air is sweet. Its flowering is in harmony with presence: it is as tender as a caress. I raise love up to the word. I call upon fidelity to make a sign, or at the very least, a sound. I search for a voice inspired by you or which I want you to hear. I await the music of my heart, attentive all the while to yours.

I try to find a note which is neither too shrill nor too grave: the tonality of life inhabited by emotion, the song of an intention sustained by an ideal.

Might you, earth, not remain around me? Do I risk growing too much? Can I be alone and yet remain surrounded by you? Or will the other divide us? How do we remain two in you? Is it necessary to distance myself from you to walk towards him? Will you remain a support, a mother to whom nothing is given in exchange? For him, I need you, but how do I return to you? How do I thank you for your gifts? How do I make an alliance with him without sacrificing you? Is praise enough for you? Do you want nothing more? Nothing of us?

Is it not a form of exile to return again amongst humans? Is it not perhaps suicide to leave a fragrant dwelling, an ethereal intimacy, a diffuse presence and enter, instead, into the nothingness in which, all too often, the living move about?

Restless, chattering, forgetful, they wander about as if at home in a universe of death, entrusting their destiny to a few words. Unwittingly, they distance themselves from what lavishes life, counting and calculating without making sure their own steps or the values which guide them. They go. But where?

You, my stars, masters of the universe, are my guardians and my peace, the font of my duties and of my fortunes. Bound to you in some mysterious way, I try to be faithful without understanding. I welcome your commands. Attentive, I am sometimes amazed, sometimes terrified, even though, in a certain sense, I put more faith in you than in myself. When decisions frighten me, I search for a sign, not knowing if you are to guide me or if I am to guide you. I do not even know how to respect you in carrying out my own becoming.

A fresher breath springs up in me when I call you, when I affirm an ideal shared by our stars. Upon hearing their fate, I do not allow myself to be led astray by what is of no importance or remains without happiness.

Although the note may be high, it roots itself in the deepest profundity. It is not strained – it can be held with harmony.

He arrives

Your beauty – the beauty of the world. Your love – the beating of the universe, the loving rhythm of nature, time in harmony with the sun.

In you, I behold its radiance. In you, I savor its power, I bathe in its warmth. At times, the eternal joins with the instant. We are present to each other, but between us remains eternity, while we continue to grow. How do we unite these two times?

Will I not have placed the whole of the earth between us? How do I return to you? Can I enter...