When Animals Speak. Eva Meijer
just throw the difference between humans and other animals overboard. Derrida phrases this as follows: “To suppose that I, or anyone else for that matter, could ignore that rupture, indeed that abyss, would mean first of all blinding oneself to so much contrary evidence; and, as far as my own modest case is concerned, it would mean forgetting all the signs that I have managed to give, tirelessly, of my attention to difference, to differences, to heterogeneities and abyssal ruptures as against the homogeneous and the continuous” (2008, 30). This remark may seem puzzling and problematic in light of Derrida’s refusal to see “animal” as one group (Calarco 2008). There are three reasons why it is not. First, Derrida emphasizes the power relations that have formed current interpretations of “the human.” A naturalistic ethic, an empirical refutation of empirical claims stating that other animals are like humans, will not suffice. This would leave the structure of the debate intact, and could lead to measuring the worth of other animals on the basis of their resemblance to humans (Wolfe 2003). Second, and relatedly, “the multiple and heterogeneous border of this abyssal rupture” (Derrida 2008, 32) has a history. If we deny the abyss between human and animal that is so prominently present in the history of Western philosophy, we fail to challenge the discourse that produced it, which is necessary for thinking about alternatives. Third, Derrida argues that there is a multiplicity of organizations of relations that are at once “intertwined and abyssal” (ibid.). There is not one difference, not one abyss between human and animal, but a multitude of differences. Forgetting these differences would run the risk of flattening all individuals into the category “same.”9 Instead we need to think about how to interact with those who are different.
Derrida rightly directs our attention to the fact that instead of one difference, there are many differences that must be taken into account in thinking about human and non-human animals. Other animals need to be thought of in their own right, not on the basis of how much they resemble humans or how close they are to humans. It is important to note that in thinking about non-human animals, belonging to a certain species is not the defining characteristic of an individual. Each individual, human or non-human, belongs to different groups, with regard to gender, age, species, race, and so on. Species membership might matter under certain circumstances—for example, in thinking about habitat rights—and be less relevant in others—such as in forming friendships. Humans and other animals sometimes have close relations, and may even form communities. Non-human animals have their own species-specific languages, dialects, and cultural traditions (see chapter 2), but when animals of different species form communities, interspecies cultural norms and ways of creating meaning come into being and evolve. This happens at the level of society, for example, when dogs and humans became attuned to one another in processes of domestication (Haraway 2008); it can also happen on an individual level (Howard 1952; Smuts 2001), or in small interspecies communities (Howard 1952; Kerasote 2008).
While Derrida’s critical analysis of the construction of the concepts “animal” and “language” in the philosophical tradition is convincing, he does not offer a framework for thinking about non-human animal languages, interspecies languages, or positive human-animal relations. In his discussion of Heidegger, he argues that addressing unjust power relations cannot be a matter of “giving speech back” to animals.10 This would, according to him, leave the structure of the problem intact, because by offering this capacity to them, it would again be the human who determines the framework in which other animals can operate. The structure of inclusion and exclusion that this framework relies upon would not be challenged. While his critique of Heidegger is convincing, Derrida does not envision or explicate being with other animals in a different way, nor does he seriously discuss communication with other animals. This follows from his method of deconstruction, in which he shows that certain distinctions that are seen as constitutive are impossible to uphold. But it also seems to exaggerate the importance of species membership in building relations and communities, and in being able to speak.
Because he only focuses on the negative and does not build a positive framework in which we can rethink multispecies relations, Derrida also fails to offer a starting point for rethinking the meaning of concepts with other animals, which is necessary if we want to move beyond anthropocentrism. This runs the risk of reinforcing a view of other animals as silent, which is ontologically problematic and has consequences for the social and political position of other animals. Furthermore, it does not take into account that other animals do speak, whether or not humans acknowledge the fact.
Speaking Back
Derrida’s cat sits in the bathroom and looks at him. “I must immediately make it clear,” he writes, “the cat I am talking about is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat. It isn’t the figure of a cat. It doesn’t silently enter the bedroom as an allegory for all the cats on the earth, the felines that traverse our myths and religions, literature and fables” (2008, 6). This real cat’s gaze makes him uncomfortable, which is the starting point for his reflections. The cat sits there while Derrida writes about human and non-human animals, about the human and the animal—he returns to her every now and then.
In response to Heidegger’s view that only human animals understand themselves as being, possess language, and have a world, Derrida argues that there are no such things as a “human” or an “animal,” and that we should problematize the kind of understanding that humans have of their own condition—as regards reason, language, death, and so on. There are different ways of understanding one’s surroundings, responding to them, and being in the world more generally. This appeal to “pluralizing and varying the ‘as such’” (2008, 160) is important, and we should indeed understand that humans do not have the powers they like to think they have—we are as vulnerable as other animals, and our knowledge is always limited by our sensory mechanisms, ways of being situated socially and politically, or more generally, by our specific ways of being. However, Derrida also argues that we should not simply give speech back to animals, an argument that, once we read it together with his interpretation of his cat companion’s behavior, seems itself to carry traces of the problem it tries to address. The idea that humans have the power to give speech back to animals implies a hierarchy—the human decides who gets what—and also implies that other animals do not currently speak.11 For Derrida, this power is never ultimate and can never not be deconstructed, but here he is still seeing language as exclusively human, something that is also evident in how he approaches interaction with other animals. There are three problems with this view.
First of all, it is important to recognize that there is a close relationship between language and intersubjectivity. Speech and language can and do create common, interspecies worlds, and are ways of expressing these. Non-human animals express themselves, and these expressions need to be taken into account if we want to adequately address how they have been silenced in the philosophical tradition, and more especially if we want to move beyond that. Derrida describes in detail how his cat companion looks at him while he is in the bathroom, naked. The gaze of the cat affects him; it makes him feel naked and ashamed. The cat looks at him but does not speak, he looks at the cat but does not speak to her, nor does he touch her or communicate with her in any other way (Haraway 2008; Warkentin 2010). Looking at someone, making eye contact or avoiding eye contact, is an act of communication. Derrida does not mention eye contact with the cat; the situation is fixed and silent like a film still. We see a scene with a naked man and a cat, told from the perspective of the man. We do not know whether the cat wants to leave the room, if she is hungry, upset, or if she wants to play. There is no interaction, and therefore no space for the cat to give meaning to the situation. The cat is merely an animal mirror in which Derrida sees himself reflected, naked. If the human is the only party to the interaction who thinks about their difference, the non-human animal individual remains dependent on the human to interpret and acknowledge her presence. In his discussion of Bentham, Derrida appreciates the change in question, the move to receiving, suffering, answering, and the power in these seemingly passive acts. His response to the gaze of the cat is an illustration of this; he cannot help becoming embarrassed and feeling ashamed. But although he describes many different—real and imaginary—animals in detail,12 he never mentions