Editorial Note

These two poems by Michael Fried were written in memory Jacques Derrida, who died 8 October 2004.


The Death of Jacques Derrida
Michael Fried

Somewhere in the north, a vast lake, partly frozen. Snow covering the ground, on the fir

trees, in the distant hills. The sky a deep, radiant, metaphysical blue. Cold wind blowing

in gusts. A magnificent day.




No humans in view, that's the important thing. But from the dark recesses of the forest

there one by one or in small squads comes forth an ordinarily mutually shunning

population of foxes, wolves, bear, elk, deer, beaver, otters, raccoons, porcupines, hares,

moles wincing at the light, skunks, squirrels, field-mice, no doubt other, lesser creatures

as well—all seemingly pacific, self-contained, one might say preoccupied. And for

perhaps an hour they mill or skitter or in a few cases leap about, to no apparent purpose,

the stronger taking care not to step accidentally upon the weaker. After which they return

to the forest, silently for the most part.





On the snow: tens of thousands of hoof and paw prints, involuntary brushings of tails,

urine traces, steaming turds, even a few crimson specks of blood. A message of farewell

to one who held them in his thought.

The Message

Michael Fried


According to the theory of deconstruction

the sender of a message is absent

in principle, even when she sits touching

the excited receiver with her knee.


So as Jacques Derrida drafted a few sentences

to be read aloud at the memorial service

that was held the week after he disappeared


he smiled, despite not feeling great,

to think how moved that solemn gathering would be

by words that did nothing more
than allegorize the condition of all speech.