Michelle Hamadache talks to David Brooks
In 2016 David Brooks launched Derrida’s Breakfast, a collection of essays on Derrida, philosophy, literature, poetry and always the animal. The launch took place on a chill May afternoon in the mountain township of Blackheath and these are a selection of David’s responses to the questions asked that afternoon, but also via email conversations leading up to and continuing after that launch.
Brooks is one of those rare individuals who acts upon his convictions, a man who makes a mockery of notions of ‘implied authors’ because to suggest a disruption between the man and his writing is a grave injustice, a reduction of both man and writing. Until Derrida’s Breakfast, I had always concerned myself with ethics, with the problems of the human capacity for violence against humans. David’s erudition, his capacity for thinking searchingly and unflinchingly, and his writing and poetry that make the world visceral in a way that very few writers can manage, caused me to re-evaluate my focus on the human. Heidegger’s ‘Letter on Humanism’ suggests that the ethics we work with today, the ethics that followed the Second World War but that surely we have inherited, arrive at the problem of evil too late. Brooks refuses to arrive at the problem of evil too late. He insists that before the violence of human against human, there is the violence of human against animal. Is it too much to suggest that the ground for the human to treat humans humanely is an end to cruelty, an end to violence against and exploitation of the animal?
A list of references follows the interview.
Michelle Hamadache: Why did you write Derrida’s Breakfast?
David Brooks: First it’s for animals. People might think writing essays like these is an odd form of animal advocacy, particularly when the situation of animals universally is so dire, but on the one hand I’m no longer in any condition to walk to the barricades, let alone stand at them for long, so I’m working with the strengths I do have, and on the other I should emphasise that trying to turn around some of the horror that is our relation with animals is a matter of minds as well as hearts.
Second, there are four separate essays here. Connected as they are, I wrote each of them for a different reason. Take the title piece. I was disturbed, watching the 2002 Derrida documentary, to see footage of a man who had just spoken so eloquently, if briefly, about the plight of animals, then eat some. I had to explore the logic of the mind that could do this, the doubling, the separation of life from work, of what one says from what one does. I had to know why he wasn’t a vegetarian (to say nothing of vegan), how he justified not being one. And the explanations, when I found them, from this supposedly great thinker (whose work, I would emphasise, had for so long been important to me), were untrue and tawdry. I felt I should set this out because the implications and applications are far wider than the work of Derrida alone.
In writing such essays you’re also exploring things for yourself. I love that open, peripatetic sense of the essay as both a trying (essai) and a walking through things. We’ve perverted it, academically, in making them so end driven and discursively cohesive. I even once wrote an ‘essay’ against the tyranny and small-mindedness of the essay form. I sent it to an academic journal. One editor loved it; the other said he’d publish it only over his dead body. As to ‘The Loaded Cat’, I’d long had in mind a rather ridiculously overreaching work on the animal in philosophy, examining the way the animal has functioned as the outside of philosophy, and through 2012 and 2013 had been reading in an intensive but scattered way through Heidegger, Blanchot, Bataille, Bentham, Descartes and so on (loading myself with frustration is a better way to put it).
So when I came to Derrida’s The Animal that therefore I Am I had (a) ditched that project, (b) humiliated myself and (c) developed a severely reduced tolerance to his kind of equivocation and game-playing. When I began to hear more and more from ‘animal’ people how ‘important’ and ‘ground breaking’ Derrida’s book was, I had to register my protest. Perhaps I’ve overloaded ‘The Loaded Cat’ with my own frustration, but that’s just the way it is. And there’s something else there. I begin the essay with Henry Lawson. I have always held that the Australian/antipodean was a good deal ahead, in some ways, of where the Western mind (if we can speak of such a thing; let’s just say the mind of Continental philosophy) thought it was.
The third essay, ‘Meeting Place’, was a gift. Derrida had strayed even more into my territory. The reading and interpretation of poetry, as much as the writing of it, has been my profession for a long time. There are various meetings layered here: D.H. Lawrence’s (or his persona’s) meeting with a viper in his remarkable poem ‘Snake’; Derrida’s misreading of that poem, which becomes in effect an exemplum of his meeting with the animal; and his and my meeting (or mis-meeting) over that poem. Among other things the essay broaches is the idea of poetry itself as a place of meeting the animal.
And then there is ‘At Duino’, an essay that barely mentions Derrida, though arguably is about some of these same things. Rilke’s Duino Elegies, the first and eighth in particular, are held (just as we might say of Lawrence’s Birds, Beasts and Flowers, also of 1923) to be a landmark in poetry’s attention to and thinking about the animal. But those who laud them as such, quite rightly in some ways, tend not to point up the problems in what those elegies say. When I stumbled upon Rilke’s ‘Karst’ sonnet (I.12 of the Sonnets to Orpheus) I was drawn to it immediately. I had come to know something of the Karst from my times in Slovenia, and although I didn’t know the well or sink-hole that is the poem’s setting, I knew something about the subterranean river that flows through it. When I realised—reluctantly, for I was shocked, didn’t want to find this in Rilke—that the poem seemed to condone the killing of animals, I felt this, too, had to be explored.
MH: In The Animal that therefore I Am, Derrida states:
Everyone knows what terrifying and intolerable pictures a realist painting could give to the industrial, mechanical, chemical, hormonal, and genetic violence to which man has been submitting animal life for the past two centuries. (26)
No one can deny seriously… or for very long, that men do all they can in order to dissimulate this cruelty or to hide it from themselves; in order to organize on a global scale the forgetting or misunderstanding of this violence, which some would compare to the worst cases of genocide. (25–6)
Could you discuss some of the engendering aspects of Derrida’s ‘animal turn’, or at least those that have been deemed ‘important’ and ‘ground breaking’? For example, his assertion that both ‘beast and sovereign’ are outside the law, the civis, the world (as a totality of facts)? Or his insistence upon the metaphysical failure in thinking the animal—the animal that is thought of as both powerful and powerless; both base and superior; the property of the human; yet also constitutive of the human. The animal that remains thought of as the outside and the inferior other to the human—a train of thought that must lead into Derrida’s breakfast choices. What to make of that troubling duality of the thinking Derrida who decries the violence of the human against the animal and the private Derrida who eats butter? The chilling ‘humour’ of the man who describes himself as ‘the vegetarian who sometimes eats meat’; of the tautological thinking that to be vegetarian is to renounce philosophy because of vegetarianism’s certainty?
DB: Such an array of topics! But they connect. Let’s take beast and sovereign first, the title of the big, two-volume work supposedly about animals that follows The Animal that therefore I Am, and that idea of animal and sovereign each being outside the law, the civis, and that ‘problematic metaphysical failure in thinking the animal’. I’m not sure if these are engendering aspects of Derrida’s animal turn. The whole point, it seems to me, in making the ‘animal turn’ is that animals are ‘outside the law, the civis’—or rather that each animal, each species, has its own law, its own civis—and the challenge for us is how to make our rapprochement without bringing them in, that is, without tortuously, grotesquely extending and distorting the human law and civis so that they can somehow encompass the animal, in a manner that merely continues our immensely destructive habit of colonisation.
I don’t say this in any way to curtail our pursuit of animal rights, as humans might understand and be able to adjust/expand that term ‘rights’, more to suggest that these are only a beginning. And I don’t say that Derrida doesn’t in some way see all this. His problem, I think, is that he cannot really accept that the technology of philosophy is largely defunct in this regard. But perhaps the way out of this apparent paradox (of seeing this but not accepting it) is that he is using it—that technology—as a kind of excuse not to go there.
There’s a kind of deep Abrahamic secret to Derrida that I think some people observed at the nascence of deconstruction, but that’s been obscured in the welter of his writing since. A reluctance or refusal to utter the name of Yaweh, as it were. Or perhaps it’s better to say to protect it, that behind what these early commentators liked to characterise as deconstruction’s destruction of meaning itself, its refusal to prioritise, in a text, one meaning over another, was an attempt to protect some further, deeper meaning—a meaning that, as his processes of deconstruction could be seen as attempts to demonstrate, we haven’t the capacity to comprehend.
In 1704 Jonathan Swift published his first great work, A Tale of a Tub, which he’d begun ten years before. It’s a masterful satire against the state of the Church at that time, ostensibly about the way the Reformation was challenging the authority of the traditional Church, allowing breakaway sects and, de facto, individuals, to make their own relations with God, unmediated by clergy, papal authority and so on—although of course the traditional Church, too, comes in for a drubbing, as if the point of the satire isn’t so much breakaway sects or individuals as the sense itself that humans can know anything of their God. In fact the book, which is as much about science in this regard, provides some wonderful metaphors concerning the human incapacity to know anything at all about the secrets of life (‘last week I saw a woman flayed, and you will hardly believe how much it altered her person for the worse’).
Do you see my point? That Derrida, perhaps, is doing something similar. If you cannot know the sovereign, then how dangerous it would be to begin to ‘know’—to think that one can make rapprochement with—that other side of the binary, the animal, upon which sovereignty depends, for to begin to know the one is surely to begin to know the other. From this perspective, you could say, the approach to the animal, while on the one hand urgently necessary—to stem the great, great damage that we do—is on the other hand very dangerous, is playing with fire.
That’s to do with the first part of that tranche of questions. The second concerns Derrida and vegetarianism. I’ll come to that in a minute. In between is something else. All those binaries you list—‘the animal … thought of as both powerful and powerless; both base and superior; the property of the human, yet also constitutive of the human’, and so on—remind me of something else Derrida does, and which I discuss in the book. He says we shouldn’t use the term ‘animal’ because it is a lumpen, umbrella term, an intellectual violence that effaces the specificity of individual animals: cat, dog, kangaroo, mouse and so on.
And of course from one perspective he’s right, it’s a compelling observation. He says instead that we should name specifically the animals to which we refer. Well, two major problems there. First, that ‘cat’, ‘dog’, ‘kangaroo’, ‘mouse’and so on are also, in their turn, umbrella terms; and second, and more importantly, that having to name all the animals to which we refer in our attempts to speak of those that human practice so abuses is effectually to exhaust and silence us. Another way, if you like, in which the beast, like the sovereign, becomes unspeakable.
But now to the vegetarian business, which I discuss in the opening essay. First, in speaking about vegetarianism at all Derrida is already demonstrating some remoteness from the issue. Vegetarianism isn’t as animal friendly as it seems. We’re not speaking of veganism here, let alone ethical veganism. In speaking of vegetarianism we are speaking of a kind of limbo. Vegetarians do not eat meat, well and good—although all too often a vegetarian will feel that it’s okay to eat fish, as if that were not meat and fish were somehow not animal—but in as much as they allow themselves to consume milk, cheese and other dairy products, or to eat eggs, they are still exploiting and instrumentalising animals; since ‘spent’ hens, ‘spent’ cows are slaughtered anyway (an intriguing and indicative term, ‘spent’), they are merely adding a period of torture before the very slaughter that their not eating meat is supposedly intended to curtail. So vegetarianism per se is a kind of non-issue.
Not that this means that what Derrida gives as his principal reservation concerning it is any the less unacceptable. He says, in effect, that vegetarians are buying good conscience on the cheap, are using that choice and that label in order to avoid ethical decisions. From an ethical vegan perspective—for I’m looking at this as if it referred to people in similar situations to my own—this is ignorant and dishonest. One is rarely so ethically challenged as when one moves towards the side of animals. Not only do they have their own ethology, and so ethics of their own (‘ethology’, from the same root as ‘ethos’, ‘ethics’), but the very attempt to help them rubs us continually against and points up the narcissistic anthropocentrism and insufficiency of what we normally think of as ethics.
As to that ‘chilling “humour” of “the vegetarian who sometimes eats meat”’, yes, it is chilling. One thing I don’t focus on enough in the book is that disturbing belief prevalent in Continental philosophy that one’s life and one’s work should be regarded as separate, and that one should attend to what the philosopher says, not what he or she does. Okay, yes, an attempt to get past the nightmare of history, perhaps. But I’m haunted by Pascal’s maxim le style c’est l’homme même.
Can we really—and should we—read Heidegger without keeping in mind his Nazi background, his betrayal of Husserl, his awful and ridiculous comments about animals and their inability to die (he says they can only ‘perish’), or his adaptation of those comments to the victims of extermination camps? At the very least I think it important that we read one with the other, so that our reading is more sceptical and more nuanced. If someone (Derrida) who writes so compassionately, if briefly, about the horror of industrial farming—who reminds us so poignantly of Bentham’s point about animal suffering, and who says that this irrevocably changes the register—can then go and eat steak tartare, how can we be surprised when the compassion cracks and begins to argue itself away?
MH: In The Animal that therefore I Am, Derrida considers the gaze of his cat. The cat has followed Derrida into the bathroom, as is her habit, and then, according to Derrida, regrets the decision and implores him for egress. She addresses Derrida through the gaze, and his nudity becomes a passivity, a ‘seeing oneself seen naked under a gaze behind which there remains a bottomlessness … uninterpretable, unreadable, undecidable, abyssal and secret’ (28). It seems to me that in your fiction and poetry, even prior to your thinking of the animal, there is a refusal to stop at the threshold of the abyss; a refusal of the abyss as an end, as a ‘no-man’s land’ (I’m thinking of The Umbrella Club). Instead, the abyss becomes the portal, the window of opportunity, and the site of egress and ingress, where the human might enter into something new, as something new, led by the imagination. This seems particularly so of your two short stories in Napoleon’s Roads, ‘Grief’ and ‘The Panther’. There’s a moment in each where the character/cat awaits entrance to the home/mind of the narrator. Each of these stories wields the power of the abyss, its affective force, in a way that is new—using the abyss without succumbing to the abyss. How does your vision of the abyss in relation to the animal, of the egress and ingress, compare with Derrida’s?
DB: Whatever else Derrida’s ‘bottom-less-ness’/‘abyssal’ positioning does—it establishes the animal as the outside of philosophy, for example, but of course as only one face of the vastness of that outside—it establishes this (his) side of the gaze as a fragile construct, a construct fragile partly because of the kind of rigid border that the very concept of abyss gives to it. If all around the territory of the human is something ‘uninterpretable, unreadable, undecidable, abyssal and secret’, then it—that human territory—comes to seem not so much a truth or thing-in-itself as an exigent and very vulnerable defence against the terror of the unknown and unknowable, which Derrida is here admitting is the ‘real’ nature of things. The non-abyssal, that’s to say, is meaning that has come out of nowhere and is based on nothing—something, indeed, that Derrida has always said and tried, through deconstruction, to demonstrate. Obviously, with regard to animals, I have problems with such unknowability. I have problems especially with the impermeability of the barrier Derrida here sets up between the human space and the abyssal, problems with the exclusivity of the former and the impenetrability of the latter.
I should make two points before proceeding. It goes without saying that they don’t in any way apply uniquely to Derrida. Namely that, however deeply informed and worthy of consideration it is, and it usually is, whatever Derrida puts forth is opinion. How could it be anything else (i.e. ‘truth’) when the entire system of his opinions is based upon the premise that ‘truths’ themselves arise out of and are based upon nothing? And whatever words he might choose to characterise some parts or another of these opinions are choices, which is to say they reflect those opinions and should not be seen as inevitable, as the only possibilities. Perhaps this is only obvious; perhaps it is outrageous: I say it because I need to underline that just because Derrida says there is an abyss does not mean that there is an abyss.
It’s been my experience that Continental philosophy tends to reify its hypotheses. Derrida speculates that, in something that he is thinking about, there is something that he chooses—and it may be for want of a better term—to call ‘an abyss’, and soon he is speaking, and others are speaking after him, about the Abyss. We don’t have to accept such a term as a ball-and-chain on our thinking. Which isn’t to say that I’ve no sympathy or understanding for it. It may be better to see the abyss as a prerequisite blindness, a conception we must pass through on our way to others.
Once, in what was in some ways an abyssal period in my life, I stayed, in the town of Sète, at a hotel called Les Abysses. The place haunted me. I even tried to write a story about it. But les abysses, of course, is French for the ocean depths: even in English these depths (c. 4000 to to 6000 metres below sea level) are the abyssopelagic. This can’t be entirely eliminated from Derrida’s thinking, or from our thoughts about that thinking. Nor can that abyss, in biblical tales, into which the dissenting angels were cast. I must say I like that: animals as dissenting angels. But we must take them out of the abyss, a place I suspect that is in our minds only and to which we have condemned them as a means of continuing and underpinning our appalling cruelty towards them.
It’s an old ploy of empire, after all (a not inappropriate allusion, because here, of course, we have philosophy colonising ‘the animal’ as its next new world), to deny proper access to language to those we would subject, and to dress them in such a manner as marks them out as slaves, to maintain them, semiotically, in the category of subhuman. Could this have been possible if we had not already, far earlier, done it to animals? Whereas an alternative process is quite possible, one that, banishing ‘abyss’, seeks to point up similarity rather than difference. Not easy at first, I admit—we have spent thousands of years shoring up the walls of difference—but possible, indeed one might almost say underway.
Derrida uses the term ‘abyss’ because he doesn’t want to go there. If you presume something else—if you watch, if you live with—then you see something else, animals going about their lives, in a world more like our own than we’ve cared to admit, dealing with things that we have to deal with: pain, injury, longing, loneliness, dying (desire, joy …). The body, in this regard, is a very useful organ for perception and understanding, if we can learn how to use it.
MH: It would seem to me that this kind of direction isn’t entirely new in your work, and that you have spent a good part of your creative life in or around such liminal spaces.
DB: Yes, I suppose I have. Not always to do with the animal—you could almost think of the earlier writing and thinking as a kind of training for a work I had not yet realised that I could and should be doing. Poetry, for example, has long been for me the site of such work, in part because something of the kind is of its very nature. A non-discursive poetry. An image-driven poetry. Or, you could say, an image-pulled poetry.
MH: And fiction?
DB: Fiction has allowed larger canvasses, forced me to become more conscious and more demanding of myself. Magic realism at first—I didn’t know that one could write like that, and the discovery liberated and guided me. And something else, beyond or behind it, which now we might call Borgesian, but which in my case came as much from Jonathan Swift. Places where this world we have articulated confronts itself and reveals its paradoxes. And of course theory—much of it, ironically, from Derrida—helped me there, for I am speaking of the seventies and eighties, the stories of The Book of Sei and Sheep and the Diva. Then there is The House of Balthus (1995), which all through this time had been growing in parallel. It is ekphrastic, which is to say that I had been using the paintings of Balthus to draw me out of my usual places, further (if you like) into the liminal. And, two years later, Black Sea, where much of this comes stylistically and conceptually to a ripeness, in which there are the seeds of Napoleon’s Roads.
MH: How would you describe this ripening, and those seeds?
DB: It’s in the story ‘The Mooncalf’, principally, its fragmentary nature, fragments that could come from separate stories, and the connections between which are not clearly explained, that sense in which they stand like menhirs, creating a force-field within or among them. Fragments that summon something, that enable me to summon something that as author I don’t necessarily have or intend. That, and something happening, coincidentally or perhaps accordingly, to the self that is doing the writing, a decentring if you like, or at least the beginnings of it. These things are more pronounced in Napoleon’s Roads. In the meantime I’d found myself speaking, a propos my poetry (The Balcony and Open House), of a getting over oneself, and the way that that aids and perhaps is necessary in one’s movement towards the animal. Certainly the animal is a little more pronounced in Napoleon’s Roads.
MH: Yes, in the stories ‘Grief’ and ‘The Panther’. But in the meantime there are the novels The Fern Tattoo and The Umbrella Club. The liminal is there, particularly in the latter: a liminal that irrupts retrospectively over the entire novel, by that turn to magic realism in the end. As you say, the body, if we can learn to use it, is a useful organ. It is the bodily shock of affect at the physicality of the strange, winged creature in The Umbrella Club that turns the world in on itself—where everything you thought was real, the painstaking detail of the world of the narrator, of the world of terminal illness, of the world of Axel in New Albion, is turned upside down by the winged creatures. Grisly hauntings of angels—dissenting angels, but experienced as the hybrid remains of bird and human—the body reminds us that everything we know is in a process of decay and rebirth—including categories such as ‘animal’ and ‘human’.
DB: Yes, well, that book has been rather radically misinterpreted as a sort of Boy’s Own story, whereas for me it is really about grief and the nightmare of history, and the possibilities of transcendence or refusal.
MH: And The Fern Tattoo?
DB: Liminal also, though in a different manner. I was trying, in parts of that book, to prise open something in the world about me, or to get better at presenting some things in it that I hadn’t managed to present before without the aid of a supplement, trying to capture strangenesses, richnesses of story and texture, the marvellous real, without resorting to magic realism.
MH: So, ‘Grief’ and ‘The Panther’.
DB: There’s no denying that on the surface each of those stories has some common ground with The Animal that therefore I Am—the close encounter with the cat in ‘Grief’ and the ‘ingress’, as you call it, of the wild creature into the narrator’s house in ‘The Panther’—but in neither case was this intentional. The panther was a purely fictional construct and I had in mind Rilke and Bataille and others far more than Derrida, and ‘Grief’ is in almost all respects straight autobiography. Teja went to attend the eighth-night mass for Nona, her grandmother—the mass that supposedly releases the soul of the departed, sends it on its way—and came back holding a dying cat she’d found in the long grass by the roadside.
The story is a collection of fragments. Fragments about the grandmother’s death, fragments about the dying cat. It centres on—but I’m a bit reluctant to use that term, since in other ways it’s so de-centred a story—a powerful incident later that night, perhaps the moment of the cat’s dying alone in the boot-room downstairs, when, upstairs at my desk and not thinking about the cat at all, I felt a powerful force move over or through me, and saw the cat, in its dying, although there were several walls and a floor between us. It was almost as if I had left a door open in myself somehow, or by sheer accident was standing in the way of something, and it stirred my psyche for days. At first I looked into myself for explanation. Had someone close to me died at that moment? Immediately I emailed my daughter and one or two others, to see if they were okay. And then, in a different direction, I wondered whether it was some old grief in myself—the death of my mother, most probably, 40 years before, since it had occurred to me numerous times that, had she lived, she would have been Nona’s age.
But all along I think I knew that it wasn’t anything like this, that it was something outside, beyond, and that seeing it as an already-there, an imposition from within, was to close a door, a portal, to miss a sudden, unaccountable invitation. I wasn’t looking into an abyss. I can’t imagine that the abyss, as Derrida has it, is full of such weight and intensity of being as I was given, in that instant, to see the cat possessing. But even here, you see, and I think this is important, I feel that language—the language of explanation—is starting to close in on me. The story—the form of the story—seems to allow more.
MH: In the final short story in Napoleon’s Roads, a panther steps down from a painting and enters the world and home of the narrator, who responds as any of us would to an unexpected guest: opens the French doors and shows him in. The wordless connection between the two deepens, until a spate of murders and ‘big cat’ sightings in the vicinity cause the narrator to close those French doors on his guest:
The night immediately following the girl’s murder I took advantage of his absence to lock the front doors and—something I’d not done since he arrived, but I thought may convey a message—draw the thick curtains across them. I felt soon his heavy drop to the courtyard, felt his presence on the other side of the glass, felt, like a physical ache, his eyes as they attempted to pierce the fabric, but did nothing. On the third day, for it took that long, felt—knew, clearly—that he had gone. (155)
In sculpted prose, it seems to me you’ve captured to devastating effect the reciprocity in the relationship between the animal and the human: the animal seeking the human. Can you tell me about meeting places and locked doors between the human and the animal?
DB: We are dealing with beings not archetypes, not shadowy creatures trapped in cages of ideas that we have had about them in the past. One of the hardest things about approaching animals is seeing them rather than the ideas we hold about them. One has to be constantly vigilant to prevent these entrenched ideas dragging one’s thinking back onto its older and accustomed roads. The panther steps out of the frame in the art gallery and insists on its real presence, but I had to work so hard not to let other versions of the frame creep back in. Even now I can’t be sure that they didn’t, and that I didn’t, like the narrator of that story, betray. The weight of our preconceptions is so great, and they run so deep. They have to, because they’ve had such a freight of denial to carry, for so many millennia.
The territory of the animal is so difficult to enter; much of the time it feels like one is banging one’s head against a hard, intractable nothingness. Everything in our way of knowing protests against it. And yet that way of knowing has been so cruel and destructive that we have to get out of it somehow, have to fight it. In responding to you just now I’ve realised the answer to a question about that story that has been puzzling me. Why did I subject the panther to some version of the death of a thousand cuts? The obvious answer is that it reflects the brutal slaughter and butchery to which we subject animals in pursuit of our chosen diet, but of course there are these other cuts, thousands of them, that we do with our ideas, our minds.
MH: It seems apt to finish with a quotation from Derrida’s Breakfast.
The mind alone, Western and otherwise, is so enmeshed in defences of its own monstrosity that no leap, as leap, to escape the existing order, is possible. Something more is needed. A leap of compassion, a leap of the heart, and something—people have called it a peeling of the eye—that is harder and less common still, perhaps like revelation. (33) •
David Brooks, Derrida’s Breakfast, Brandl & Schlesinger, Blackheath, NSW, 2016.
David Brooks, Napoleon’s Roads, UQP, Brisbane, 2016.
Jacques Derrida, The Animal that therefore I Am, trans. David Wills, Fordham UP, New York, 2008.
Jacques Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign, trans. Geoffrey Bennington, Chicago UP, Chicago, 2009 and 2011.
Derrida, documentary, directed by Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering Kofman, Jane Doe Films, 2002.