Writing As A Nomadic Subject: Rosi Braidotti
Writing As A Nomadic Subject: Rosi Braidotti
Writing As A Nomadic Subject: Rosi Braidotti
A MATTER OF STYLE
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164 ROSI BRAIDOTTI
cafeteria menus and even the old-fashioned phone book. Well before
becoming a published writer I had been a consummate ‘grapho-maniac’.4
I have kept a diary since the age of eleven and still write it regularly.
When my students boast of their digital ‘second life’, I feel a touch
of pain in my heart at the thought of the 163 booklets into which
I have replicated my life, without even realizing what a burden of
responsibility this would create in the long run: some ‘virtual reality’
that is! Writing is living intensively and inhabiting language as a site of
multiple others within what we call, out of habit and intellectual laziness,
‘the self’.
Philosophically, the idea of the ‘intransitive’ nature of writing
pertains to one of the axioms of post-structuralism, namely the primacy
of language as the constitutive structure of human subjectivity. In
this perspective, language is not just (or even) an instrument of
communication, but rather an ontological site of constitution of our
shared humanity.5 We are spoken by language, written by it and, as
Humpty Dumpty teaches us, we can never be considered masters of the
process of meaning, no matter how hard we may long for it.
Thinkers of the calibre of Jacques Derrida, Luce Irigaray and Gilles
Deleuze developed a social and political philosophy starting from this
seemingly simple insight. Before them, Jacques Lacan had taken the
primacy of the linguistic signifier – the Law-of-the-Father – as the key
rule of our social-symbolic system. Working on the assumption of a
fundamental isomorphism between the psychic and the social realm,
Lacan has argued that language contains the symbolic rules and as such it
structures the political ontology of our culture. Language functions as the
mediator between the self and both the natural and social environments.
It is like a third party that separates the human subjects from the
conditions that engendered them in the first place, namely the maternal
body. In a patriarchal system the task of splitting the mother-child
unit is fulfilled by the Father. There is no denying the masculinism of
this symbolic system, nor the violence – both physical and symbolic – it
exercises upon women. The symbolic ‘absence’ of women spells their
social destiny, which includes their inscription in the social contract
as legal minors and their exclusion from the public sphere. Much of
twentieth-century feminism took up this issue and turned it into a
battlefield.
Allow me for now to follow through the fundamental theoretical point:
that language is an ontological precondition for the constitution of the
subject and in some ways ‘external’ to it, while at the same times it
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is constitutive of the subject. What this means is that the relation to
socio-symbolic structures, the relation to others, is the defining feature
of all subjects and of our common humanity. This insight is the point
of no return; from here onwards, the paths diverge in terms of tactics or
strategies as to how to deal with it. ‘Style’ is the name we give to these
tactical choices, which come down to two crucial and often overlapping
options: resistance and ethics.
As to the former: given the coercive power of language, the writer’s
task is to resist the gravitational pull of the master signifier and oppose
it. Out-manoeuvring its powers, the writer tricks (Deleuze’s style),
decodes (Foucault-like), unveils (Derrida) or seduces (Barthes) language
into directions it was not programmed to follow. Writing so as to
make the master signifier falter (Foucault), stutter (Deleuze), expose
its drive to mastery (Derrida), reveal its affective core (Barthes) are all
variations on the theme of loosening the despotic grip of language over
the process of subject formation and of making sense. By extension,
it follows that the real challenge is how to make manifest the powers
of language and discourse such as they are exercised in the very task
of producing subjectivity, knowledge and meanings. Writing enacts the
micro-political, self-reflexive analyses of the power at work in its own
structures and practices. By exposing the compulsive and rather despotic
inclinations of language, the writer thus forces upon the readers a critical
reflection into the workings of power itself. This critique includes the
institutions that uphold and sustain that power, notably the university
structure of departments, institutes, faculties and the whole hierarchical
disciplinary machinery that spreads to specialized journals, citation
indexes and careers management.
Ethics is the other way around the vicious circle of language. It
consists in unveiling this complex and paradoxical political economy and
exploring its complexity and inner contradictions. To the extent that a
text enacts the nexus of power and meaning, power and discourse of
which it is composed, it both exposes and holds them to accountability.
By making manifest such responsibility, a writer acknowledges the
importance of a text’s relationship to others. In this respect, writing is
the visualization of ethical relationality through the in-depth critique of
power. By acknowledging the constitutive presence of otherness within
and all around the self, writing enacts the destitution of unitary visions
of the subject as an autonomous entity. The tactics of resistance and the
ethical approach are not only mutually compatible but also inter-linked.
On both counts, the nomadic writer does not relate to language merely
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as a tool of critical analysis and rational political intervention, but rather
feels inhabited by it as an ‘other within’.6
I owe my acute awareness of the exteriority and primacy of language to
my beloved post-1968 French teachers. They were amazing philosophers
whose legacy I continue to respect and admire: Foucault, Irigaray and
Deleuze especially. They taught me respect for the complexity of a
linguistic structure we inhabit but do not control, and based their critique
of unitary identity upon this insight. This means that I was trained
never to write carelessly or just functionally: style is of the essence. Style
however is no mere rhetorical decoration, but rather the deployment
of fundamental conceptual premises. What those thinkers taught my
generation is never to cater for the doxa, never to flatter our common
sense, never play into the set habits of predictable readers. Writing, even
and especially academic writing, has to challenge and destabilize, intrigue
and empower.
A fundamental hermeneutics of suspicion lies at the core of this
redefinition of style and is connected to the critique of unitary
subjectivity. Foucault’s ‘death of Man’ argument rests on the assumption
that ‘Man’ is neither an ideal nor an objective statistical average
or middle ground.7 It rather spells out a systematized standard of
recognizability – of Sameness – by which all others can be assessed,
regulated and allotted to a designated social and symbolic location.
The human is a normative convention, which does not make it
inherently negative, just highly regulatory and hence instrumental to
practices of exclusion and discrimination. What is presented as a neutral
category – ‘Man as the measure of all things’ – functions by transposing a
specific mode of being human into a generalized standard, which acquires
transcendent value as much by what it excludes as by what it includes in
the category of the human. The progression is from male to masculine and
then onto human as the universalized format of humanity. This standard
is posited as categorically and qualitatively distinct from the sexualized,
racialized, naturalized ‘others’ of this subject and also in opposition to
the technological artefact. Insofar as writing is committed to expose
the structural injustices and constitutive exclusions of this vision of the
subject, writing – as an intransitive activity – is intrinsically political and
explicitly ethical.
The paradoxes of language were driven home quite concretely in my
writing experience. When I started the project of nomadic subjectivity
almost twenty years ago, I had no idea that it would take over
my life. I ended up producing a trilogy of inter-connected and yet
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self-contained books on the topic. Nomadic Subjects, in 1994, spun off two
other volumes. Metamorphoses, published in 2002, explores the cultural
politics of the nomadic condition and Transpositions, published in 2006,
the ethical implications.8 With the privilege of hindsight, it is tempting
to assert some power of synthesis over this vast project, but that is an
a posteriori and retrospective view. The project of nomadic subjectivity
is quite rhizomatic in itself and it grew organically from a cluster of
central and inter-related ideas. It is as if there is no possible conclusion,
but only more productive proliferations and successive unfolding. The
nomadic subject is my chosen figuration to engage in the task of drawing
a cartographic reading of the present, in terms of cultural, political,
epistemological and ethical concerns. It is my preferred way of expressing
an insatiable and loving curiosity for the world.
MULTILINGUALISM
What’s the use of roots if you can’t take them with you?
Gertrude Stein
My project of feminist nomadism traces more than an intellectual
itinerary; it also reflects the existential situation as a multi-cultural
individual – or ‘di-vidual’9 – a migrant who turned nomad. The trilogy
that composes my work on nomadism was first conceptualized and,
in some cases, expressed in several different European languages at
once. My first book Patterns of Dissonance was originally drafted in
French and had to be translated, but in the final version I re-wrote it
directly in English.10 By the time it went to press, therefore, it had
become a translation without originals. My work as a thinker has no
mother tongue, only a succession of translations, displacements and
adaptations to changing conditions. Nomadism for me equals multi-
lingualism. Although this entails large doses of lexical contamination and
the occasional syntactical debacle, the real ‘creolisation’ effects11 have
always been, for me, acoustic. Accents are the traces of my multiple
linguistic homes. They spell my own ecology of belonging, my loyalty
to parallel yet divergent lives. I’m always writing with an accent.12
Over the years I seem to have developed a peculiar economy of writing
as a way of negotiating with my many languages, acoustic resonances
and cultural affiliations. Some books now exist exclusively in Italian,
such as Madri, Mostri e Macchine and the co-authored Baby-Boomers, or
French, as with La philosophie, là où on ne l’attend pas, without English
counterpart.13 Meanwhile, several selections of my essays have been
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translated in many languages I do not speak (from Finnish to Korean,
Hungarian, Chinese and Spanish), creating a slight sense of estrangement
from my own brain-children: they are assemblages or combinations that
defy any original. I have accepted their resilient autonomy and have
let them go: nomadic writing is an act of constant dispossession. The
nomadism which I defend as a theoretical option is therefore also an
existential condition which, for me, translates into a style of thinking
and a mode of relation to writing. Style is not decorative, but a complex
strategic operation of positioning.
This approach to writing also alters the terms of the conventional pact
between the writer and his/her readers. As readers and writers in an
intensive mode, we are transformers of intellectual energy, processors
of the ‘insights’ that we are exchanging and co-creators of affective
inter-linkages. These ‘in’-sights, however, are not to be thought of as
plunging us inwards, towards a mythical ‘inner’ reservoir of identity-
bound truth. On the contrary, they are forces that propel us outwards
along the multiple directions of extra-textual collective connections and
experiences. Reading and thinking are ways of living at a higher degree, a
faster pace, a multi-directional manner; thinking occurs in and is a mode
of relation to the extra-textual world. A post-personal writing/reading
mode is consequently created as the appropriate way of doing nomadic
thought, in that it allows for a web of connections to be drawn on the
zig-zagging paths of shared subjectivity and not merely on the tightrope
of identity.
What attracted me to French philosophies of difference such as
Deleuze’s multiple subjects of becoming, or Irigaray’s ‘virtual feminine’
is precisely that they do not stop on the surface of issues of identity
and power, but rather tackle their conceptual roots. In so doing,
they radicalize social constructivist methods and push the psycho-
sociological discussion of identity towards issues of subjectivity, that
is to say, of entitlement and power. It is particularly important not to
confuse the concept of subjectivity with the notion of the individual or
individualism: subjectivity is a socially mediated process of entitlements
to and negotiations with power relations. Consequently, the formation
and emergence of new social subjects is always a collective enterprise,
‘external’ to the individual self while it also mobilizes the self’s in-depth
and singular structures.
In this perspective, ‘subjectivity’ names the process that consists
in stringing the reactive (potestas) and the active instances of power
(potentia) together, under the fictional unity of a grammatical ‘I’.
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The subject is a process, made of constant shifts and negotiations between
different levels of power and desire, that is to say, entrapment and
empowerment. Whatever semblance of unity there may be is no God-
given essence, but rather the fictional choreography of many levels of
a relational self into one socially operational self, within a monistic
ontology. The implication is that what sustains the entire process of
becoming-subject is the will to-know, the desire to say, the desire to
speak; it is a founding, primary, vital, necessary and therefore original
desire to become (conatus).
CRITIQUE AS CREATIVITY
NOMADIC BECOMING
CONCLUSION