Dream I Tell You

"I used to feel guilty at night. I live in, I always used to live in two countries, the diurnal one and the continuous very tempestuous nocturnal one.... What a delight to head off with high hopes to night's court, without any knowledge of what may happen! Where shall I be taken tonight! Into which country? Into which country of countries?"—Hélène Cixous, from Dream I Tell You

For years, Hélène Cixous has been writing down fragments of her dreams immediately after awaking. In Dream I Tell You, she collects fifty from the past ten years. Cixous's accounts of her dreamscapes resist standard psychoanalytic interpretations and reflect her lyrical, affecting, and deeply personal style. The dreams, reproduced in what Cixous calls both their "brute and innocent state," are infused with Cixous's humor, wit, and sense of playfulness.

Dreams have always been a crucial part of Cixous's writing. They are her archives and it is with them that she writes. Without dreaming, Cixous writes, "I would crumble to dust." As in many of her other texts, Cixous's mother, father, daughter, and friends populate this work, which offers artistic and provocative meditations on the themes of family, death, and resurrection. Scenes of a daily life-getting a haircut, caring for her child, preparing for work-become beautifully and evocatively skewed in Cixous's dreams. She also writes of dreams, both amusing and unsettling, in which she spends an evening with Martin Heidegger, has her lunch quietly interrupted by a young lion, flees the Nazis, and tours Auschwitz.

The "you" of the title is fellow philosopher and friend Jacques Derrida, to whom these texts are addressed. The book reflects on many of the subjects the two grappled with in their work and in conversation: the deconstruction of psychoanalysis, literary production, subjectivity, sexual difference, and the question of friendship.

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Dream I Tell You

"I used to feel guilty at night. I live in, I always used to live in two countries, the diurnal one and the continuous very tempestuous nocturnal one.... What a delight to head off with high hopes to night's court, without any knowledge of what may happen! Where shall I be taken tonight! Into which country? Into which country of countries?"—Hélène Cixous, from Dream I Tell You

For years, Hélène Cixous has been writing down fragments of her dreams immediately after awaking. In Dream I Tell You, she collects fifty from the past ten years. Cixous's accounts of her dreamscapes resist standard psychoanalytic interpretations and reflect her lyrical, affecting, and deeply personal style. The dreams, reproduced in what Cixous calls both their "brute and innocent state," are infused with Cixous's humor, wit, and sense of playfulness.

Dreams have always been a crucial part of Cixous's writing. They are her archives and it is with them that she writes. Without dreaming, Cixous writes, "I would crumble to dust." As in many of her other texts, Cixous's mother, father, daughter, and friends populate this work, which offers artistic and provocative meditations on the themes of family, death, and resurrection. Scenes of a daily life-getting a haircut, caring for her child, preparing for work-become beautifully and evocatively skewed in Cixous's dreams. She also writes of dreams, both amusing and unsettling, in which she spends an evening with Martin Heidegger, has her lunch quietly interrupted by a young lion, flees the Nazis, and tours Auschwitz.

The "you" of the title is fellow philosopher and friend Jacques Derrida, to whom these texts are addressed. The book reflects on many of the subjects the two grappled with in their work and in conversation: the deconstruction of psychoanalysis, literary production, subjectivity, sexual difference, and the question of friendship.

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Overview

"I used to feel guilty at night. I live in, I always used to live in two countries, the diurnal one and the continuous very tempestuous nocturnal one.... What a delight to head off with high hopes to night's court, without any knowledge of what may happen! Where shall I be taken tonight! Into which country? Into which country of countries?"—Hélène Cixous, from Dream I Tell You

For years, Hélène Cixous has been writing down fragments of her dreams immediately after awaking. In Dream I Tell You, she collects fifty from the past ten years. Cixous's accounts of her dreamscapes resist standard psychoanalytic interpretations and reflect her lyrical, affecting, and deeply personal style. The dreams, reproduced in what Cixous calls both their "brute and innocent state," are infused with Cixous's humor, wit, and sense of playfulness.

Dreams have always been a crucial part of Cixous's writing. They are her archives and it is with them that she writes. Without dreaming, Cixous writes, "I would crumble to dust." As in many of her other texts, Cixous's mother, father, daughter, and friends populate this work, which offers artistic and provocative meditations on the themes of family, death, and resurrection. Scenes of a daily life-getting a haircut, caring for her child, preparing for work-become beautifully and evocatively skewed in Cixous's dreams. She also writes of dreams, both amusing and unsettling, in which she spends an evening with Martin Heidegger, has her lunch quietly interrupted by a young lion, flees the Nazis, and tours Auschwitz.

The "you" of the title is fellow philosopher and friend Jacques Derrida, to whom these texts are addressed. The book reflects on many of the subjects the two grappled with in their work and in conversation: the deconstruction of psychoanalysis, literary production, subjectivity, sexual difference, and the question of friendship.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780231138826
Publisher: Columbia University Press
Publication date: 03/21/2006
Series: European Perspectives: A Series in Social Thought and Cultural Criticism
Pages: 160
Product dimensions: 5.70(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.80(d)
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Hélène Cixous is professor of literature at the Université de Paris VIII. She is the author of Portrait of Jacques Derrida as a Young Jewish Saint, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing (both published by Columbia University Press), and other works of fiction, essays, and plays. Beverley Bie Brahic is a translator and poet living in Paris. She is the translator of Portrait of Jacques Derrida as a Young Jewish Saint.

Read an Excerpt

Dream I Tell You


By Héléne Cixious

Columbia University Press

Copyright © 2006 Éditions Galilée
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-231-13882-2


Chapter One

Forewarnings

They tell me their stories in their language, in the twilight, all alike or almost, half gentle half cruel, before any day, any hour. I don't wake, the dream wakes me with one hand, the dream hand tugs at the drawer to the left of my bed which serves as my box of dreams, noiselessly takes out the pad of paper and the felt-tipped pen pilot V signpen the one that writes so big there's no need to press, it writes all by itself, and one notes in the dark as fast as one can, in the margins, outside overboard, the tale fills the little boat to the brim. Docile I say not a word the dream dictates I obey eyes closed. I have learned this docility. The dream commands. I do. I have no thoughts no responses.

I have learned to block my attempts at escape. When I tell myself: this morning I won't write, not that, it's of no interest, I've got better things to do, jobs await me, forget it, tomorrow's another dream, right away the Dream says: you will do what you claim you don't want do this instant, write me, remember: never listen to your own voice. No arguing, no reason, follow the rule. You know your running away tricks. Do it before you think, before youread, before you are. You don't seriously think, says the Dream, that I have come to watch you take to your heels!

I have learned to give in and resign myself.

I note. The hand in the dark writes as best it can, hurtles along, getting off the track. Once it is done, the dream slips itself into the dreambox and I get up. Dozens of dreams later, maybe even hundreds, it comes time to read them.

My turn now! Dreams sleep deep. Now I contemplate their psychic faces at leisure, their long haunted bodies, and to be sure I discover their secrets.

These secrets, in this volume, I don't give them away. I never shall. They know too much. I respect their reserve, their twists and turns, I admire their disguises. They had to be well hidden to slip through the cracks in my walls when I wasn't in the least prepared to let them come. And then time passed. One day you can look the dead person's photo in the face. When one had just died my death, yours, jets of boiling tears kept me from seeing your faces. The months of tears are past. Now I can gaze at the photo of your face without flaring up, pitiless dream. I admire the tapestry of signifiers which give the mask its extravagant features. A whole night with Handel, and I never suspected that the stately accents are those of the haine d'elle, the hate of her! I admire Freud's extraordinary power, first and last cartographer of these strange continents, the Shakespeare of the Night: he saw the movements and cosmonautic calculations of the whole genesis and anthropozoology of this world, its wiles and passions, subterfuges and stratagems, intrigues and plots, games of genre and species.

Dreams are theatres which put on the appearance of a play in order to slip other unavowable plays between the lines of the avowal scenes: you reader-spectator are aware of this but you forget what you know so you can be charmed and taken in. You connive with your own trickery. You pull the wool over your eyes. The thinner than a razor blade that slips between you and yourself is an imperceptible vertical hyphen. You are a you [Tu es un tu]. Do you see what I mean? Who is you? I am reminding you of the dream's delicate work; first it slips the invisible laser scalpel between the letters: t, u, t'es eu, tu, [you've been had] next between the signifieds Siamese twinned by homonymy: tu es tu [you are you] that's why, étant tu [being you/having remained silent] tu ne peux plus te taire [you can no longer remain silent]. As for the bistouri [scalpel], il bisse tout ris [repeats, echoes, all laughter].

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Dream I Tell You by Héléne Cixious Copyright © 2006 by Éditions Galilée. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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