L'abécédaire de Gilles Deleuze (1996) - full transcript

Parnet: So, “N” is neurology

and the brain.

Parnet: So, “N” is neurology

and the brain.

Deleuze: Yes, it's

very difficult, neurology.

Parnet: We'll go fast.

It's true that neurology

has always fascinated me,

but why? it's the question, what

happens in someones head

when he/she has an idea? I prefer,

“when there's an idea,” because

when there are no ideas, the mind

works like a pinball machine.

So, what happens? How does it

communicate inside the head?

Before people start talking

about communication, etc.,

they ought to see how it

communicates inside the head.

Or in the head of

an idiot... I mean,

it's the same thing as well, someone

who has an idea or an idiot...

In any case, they don't proceed

along pre-formed paths

and by ready-made associations,

and so what happens?

If only we knew, it seems to me

that we'd understand everything.

This interests me greatly,

for example...

And the solutions must be extremely

varied... What I mean is:

Two neural extremities in the brain

can very well establish contact.

That's what we call electrical

processes in the synapses.

And then there are other cases that

are much more complex perhaps,

where it's discontinuous and there's

a gap that must be jumped.

It seems to me that the

brain is full of fissures,

and that jumping occurs, which

happens in a probabilistic regime,

that there are relations of probability

between two linkages,

that all this is much more

uncertain, very, very uncertain,

that these communications inside

a brain are fundamentally uncertain,

regulated by laws

of probability.

What makes me think

about something?

Someone might tell me that

I'm inventing nothing,

that it's the old question of

associations of ideas.

Deleuze: So, one would almost

have to wonder... For example,

when a concept is given or a work

of art is contemplated, looked at,

one would almost have to try

to sketch a cerebral map:

what the [contemplation]

would correspond to,

what the continuous

communications would be,

what the discontinuous

communications would be,

from one point

to another.

Something has impressed me

greatly-and perhaps

this might lead to what

you were looking for-

what has impressed me greatly is a

story that physicists use quite a bit,

called the “baker's

transformation?'

taking a segment of dough

in order to knead it,

stretching it out

into a rectangle,

folding it back over,

sketching it out again, etc. etc.

You make a number

of transformations,

and at the limit of

“X” transformations,

two completely

contiguous points

are necessarily located at a

great distance from each other.

And there are distant points that,

as a result of “X” transformations,

are found to be

quite contiguous.

I tell myself, when one looks for

something in one's head,

aren't there these

types of mixing?

Aren't there two points that

at a particular moment,

in a particular stage

of my idea-

I cannot see how to associate them,

make them communicate-

and as a result of numerous

transformations,

I discover them

side by side?

So, I would almost say, between

a concept and a work of art,

that is, between a mental product

and a cerebral mechanism,

there are some extremely

exciting similarities.

So it seems to me that with the

questions, how does one think?

Or what does

thinking mean?

The question is that thinking and the

brain are absolutely intertwined.

I mean, I believe more in the future

of the molecular biology of the brain

than in the future of

information science

or of any theory

of communication.

Parnet: You have always given a

place to 19th century psychiatry that

extensively addressed neurology

and the science of the brain

in relation to

psychoanalysis,

and you have given a priority to

psychiatry over psychoanalysis

precisely for psychiatry's attention

to neurobiology. Is it still the case?

Deleuze: Yes, yes, yes.

As I said earlier,

there is also a relationship

with the pharmacy,

the possible action of drugs on the

brain and the cerebral structures

that can be located on a molecular

level, in cases of schizophrenia.

For me, these aspects

appear to have

a more certain future than

mentalist psychiatry.

Parnet: That leads to a

methodological question because

it's no secret that, in regard to

science, you are rather self-taught,

although you read neurobiological

and scientific journals...

Also you're not very good

at math, as opposed to

some philosophers you've studied-

Bergson had a degree in math;

Spinoza, strong in math; Leibniz, no

need to say, very strong in math-

so, how do you

manage to read?

When you have an idea and need

something that interests you,

and you don't necessarily

understand it all,

how do you

manage?

Deleuze: Well, there's something

that gives me great comfort:

I'm persuaded by the possibility of

several readings of the same thing,

and in philosophy

-this I believe in strongly-

one need not be a philosopher

to read philosophy.

Not only is philosophy open

to two readings,

philosophy needs two readings

at the same time.

A non-philosophical reading of

philosophy is absolutely necessary,

without which there would be

no beauty in philosophy.

That is, with non-specialists

reading philosophy,

this non-philosophical reading

of philosophy lacks nothing,

it is entirely adequate.

It's simply a reading.

Perhaps that might not

work for all philosophers.

I have trouble seeing the possibility

of a non-philosophical reading of

Kant, for example. But in Spinoza,

I mean, it's not at all impossible

that a farmer could read Spinoza,

it's not at all impossible

that a storekeeper could

read Spinoza...

Parnet: Nietzsche...

Deleuze: Nietzsche, that goes

even more without saying,

all the philosophers that

I admire are like that.

So, there is no need

to understand,

since understanding resides at

a certain level of reading.

It's a little like if you said to me,

to appreciate, for example,

Gauguin or a great painting, you

must have expertise in painting.

Of course, some knowledge

is necessary,

but there are also extraordinary

emotions-extraordinarily authentic,

extraordinarily pure,

extraordinarily violent-

within a total ignorance

of painting.

For me, it's entirely obvious that

someone can take in a painting

like a thunderbolt and not know a

thing about the painting itself.

Similarly, someone can be

overwhelmed with emotion by music

or by a particular musical work

without knowing anything about it.

For example, I am very moved

by Lulu or by Wozzeck,

without mentioning concerto,

To the Memory of an Angel,

that moves me perhaps above

everything else in the world.

So, I know it's better to have

a competent perception,

but I still maintain that everything

that counts in the world,

in the realm of the mind,

is open to a double reading,

provided that the double reading

is not something done randomly

by a self-taught

person.

Rather, it's something

one undertakes starting from

ones problems that

come from elsewhere.

I mean that based on

being a philosopher,

that I have a non-musical

perception of music,

which makes music

extraordinarily thrilling to me.

Similarly, it's based on being a

musician, a painter, this or that,

that one can undertake a non-

philosophical reading of philosophy.

If this second reading, which doesn't

necessarily come second,

didn't occur; if there weren't these

two, simultaneous readings...

it's like both wings on a bird,

this need for two readings...

Moreover, even a philosopher

must learn to read

a great philosopher

non-philosophically.

The typical example for me

is yet again Spinoza:

having Spinoza in paperback, and

reading him like that, for me,

creates as much emotion

as a great musical work.

And in a way, understanding is not

even remotely the point since

in the courses that I used to teach,

it was so clear that sometimes

the students understood,

sometimes they did not,

and we are all like that

when it comes to books,

sometimes understanding,

sometimes not.

So, to come back to your" question

about science, I think it's true,

and as a result,

to some extent,

one is always at the extreme

point of one's ignorance,

which is exactly where

one must settle.

One must settle at the extreme point

of ones knowledge

or one's ignorance, which

is the same thing,

in order to have

something to say.

If I wait to know what

I am going to write-

literally, if I wait to know

what I am talking about-

then I will always

have to wait and

what I have to say will

have no interest.

If I do not run a risk...

If I settle and also

speak with a scholarly air

about something I don't know,

then this is also

without interest.

But I am speaking about

this very border

between kn owing

and non-knowing:

it's there that one must settle in

order to have something to say.

In science, for me, it's the same,

and the confirmation I have found

is that I've always had great

relations with scientists.

They never took me

to be a scientist,

they don't think I

understand a whole lot,

but they tell me that it works-

well, a few anyway...

You see, I remain open to echoes,

for lack of a better word.

If I give an example... I'll try

to give a simple example:

a painter that I like greatly

is Delaunay, and what-

I'll try to sum this up in a formula-

what does Delaunay do'?

He observed something quite

astounding, and as I say this,

it takes us back to the start:

What is it to have an idea?

What is Delaunay's

idea?

His idea is that light itself

forms figures,

there are figures

of light...

it's quite innovative,

although perhaps

someone long ago had this

particular idea already...

What appears in Delaunay's thought

is this creation of figures

that are figures formed

by light, light figures.

He paints light figures, and not-

which is quite different-

aspects that light takes on

when it meets an object.

This is how Delaunay detaches

himself from all objects,

with the result of no longer creating

paintings with any objects at all.

I recall having read some very

beautiful things by Delaunay:

he says, when he judges

cubism severely,

Delaunay says that Cezanne

succeeded in breaking the object,

breaking the

fruit bowl,

and that the cubists spent their time

hoping to glue it back together.

So, regarding the

elimination of objects,

Delaunay substitutes figures of pure

light for rigid and geometric figures.

That's something, a pictorial

event, a Delaunay-event.

Now, I don't know the dates,

but that doesn't matter...

There is a way or an aspect of

relativity, of the theory of relativity,

and I know just enough-

one need not know much,

it's only being self-taught

that's dangerous,

but one does not need

to know a whole lot.

I only know something about an

aspect of relativity, which is this:

instead of having

lines of light-

lines followed by light-

subjected to geometric lines,

with the experiments of Michaelson,

there's a total reversal.

Now lines of light

condition geometric lines.

This is a considerable reversal

from a scientific perspective,

which will change

everything since

the line of light no longer has the

constancy of the geometric line,

and everything

is changed.

I'm not saying that's all of it,

but it's this aspect of relativity

that best corresponds

to Michaelsons experiments.

I don't mean to say that

Delaunay applies relativity;

I would celebrate the encounter

between a pictorial undertaking

and a scientific undertaking that

must somehow be related.

I was saying something similar...

I select another example:

I know only that Riemannian

spaces-ifs really beyond me,

I don't know much in detail-l know

just enough to know that

it's a space that is constructed

piece by piece, and in which

the connections between pieces

are not predetermined.

But for completely

different reasons,

I need a spatial concept

for the parts in which

there aren't perfect connections

and that aren't pre-determined.

I need this!

I'm not going to spend

five years of my life

trying to understand Riemann,

because at the end of five years,

I will not have made any progress

with my philosophical concept.

And I go to the movies, and I see

a strange kind of space-

everyone knows how space is

used in Bresson's films-

in which space is

rarely global,

where space is constructed

piece by piece.

One sees little pieces of space-

for example, a section of a cell,

in the A Man Escaped-the cell,

in my vague recollection,

is never seen in its entirety,

but the cell is a tiny space.

I am not even talking about the

Gare de Lyon in The Pickpocket,

where its incredible. These are little

pieces of space that loin up,

the links are not predetermined,

and why?

It's because they

are manual,

hence the importance

of hands for Bresson.

It's the hand that moves.

Indeed, in The Pickpocket,

it's the speed with which the stolen

object is passed from one hand

to the other that determines

the connections of little spaces.

I do not mean either that Bresson

is applying Riemannian spaces.

I say that an encounter can occur

between a philosophical concept,

a scientific notion, and an aesthetic

percept. So that's quite perfect.

I believe that, in science, I know just

enough to evaluate encounters.

If I knew more,

I'd be in science,

I wouldn't be in philosophy,

so, there you are.

At the limit, I speak well about

something I don't know,

but I speak of what I don't know

as a function of what I know.

All of this is a question of tact,

no point in kidding about it,

no use in pretending

when one doesn't know.

But once again, just as I have

had encounters with painters,

they were the most beautiful

days of my life.

I had a certain encounter-

not physical encounters,

but in what I write-l have had

encounters with painters.

The greatest of them was

Hantai. Hantai told me,

“Yes, there is something.” lt wasn't

on the level of compliments.

Hantai is not someone who is

going to make compliments

to someone like me, we don't

even know each other-

there is something that

“passes” [between us].

What about my encounter

with Carmelo Bene?

I never did

any theater,

I have never understood

anything about theater.

I have to believe that something

important “passed” there as well.

There are scientists with whom

these things work too.

I know some

mathematicians who,

when they were kind enough

to read what I have written,

said that, for them, what [I was]

doing was absolutely coherent.

Now, this is going badly since

I seem to be taking on an air

of completely despicable

self-satisfaction,

but it's in order to

answer the question.

For me, the question is not whether

or not I know a lot about science,

nor whether I am capable

of learning a lot of it.

The important thing is not to

make stupid statements...

it's to establish echoes, the

phenomena of echoes

between a concept, a percept, a

function-since, for me,

the sciences do not proceed with

concepts, but with functions-

a function. From this perspective,

I needed Riemannian spaces,

yes, I know they exist,

I do not know exactly

what they are,

but that's enough.

Parnet: So, “O” is “Opera,”

and as we have just learned,

this heading is a bit

of a joke since,

other than Wozzeck

and Lulu by Berg,

it's safe to say that opera is not

one of your activities or interests.

You can speak to the

exception of Berg,

and in contrast to Foucault or

Chatelet who liked Italian opera...

you never really listened to music

or particularly to opera.

What interested you more

were popular songs,

particularly Edith Piaf... You have

a great passion for Edith Piaf.

So I'd like you to talk

a bit about this.

Deleuze: You are being a

bit severe in saying that.

First, I listened to

music quite a bit

at a particular time,

a long time ago.

Then, I stopped because

I told myself, it's not possible,

it's not possible, it's an abyss,

it takes too much time,

one has to have time,

I don't have the time,

I have too much to do-l'm

not talking about social tasks,

but my desire

to write things-

I just don't have the time to listen

to music, or listen to enough of it.

Parnet: Well, for example, Chételet

worked while listening to opera...

Deleuze: Well, yes, that's one

method. I couldn't do that.

He listened to

opera, yes,

but I'm not so sure that he listened

to it while working, perhaps.

When he entertained people at

his home, that I understand.

At least it covered up what people

were saying when he'd had enough.

But for me, that's not

how it works.

So, I would rather turn the question

more towards my own favor...

if you transformed it into: What is it

that creates a community

between a popular song and

a great musical work of art?

That's a subject that

I find fascinating.

The case of Edith Piaf,

for example:

I think she is a great chanteuse,

with an extraordinary voice.

Moreover, she has this way

of singing off-key

and then constantly

catching the false note

and making it right, this kind

of system in imbalance that

is constantly catching

and making itself right.

For me, this seems to

be the case in any form.

This is something I like a lot,

really a lot,

because it's a question

I pose about everything,

on the level of the popular song,

something I like a lot:

what does it bring

that is original?

Deleuze: The question arises

in all productions

what does it bring

that's original?

If it's been done 10 times, 100,

times, maybe even done quite well,

indeed I understand then

what Robbe-Grillet said:

Balzac is obviously

a great genius,

but what's the point in creating

novels today the way Balzac did?

Moreover, that [practice]

sullies Balzads novels,

and that's how it is

with everything.

What I found particularly moving

in Piaf was that she introduced

something original in relation to

the preceding generation,

in relation to Frehel and...

and the other great [singer]...

Parnet". Damn...

Deleuze: in relation to Frehel and

Damia. [it's] what [Piaf] brought

that was original, even in the

outfit of the chanteuse, all that,

and in Piaf's voice. I was extremely

sensitive to Piaf's voice.

In more modern singers, one

has to think-to understand

what I mean-one has to think

about [Charles] Trenet.

What was innovative in

Trenet's songs, quite literally,

one had never heard anyone sing

like him, singing in that manner.

So I am insisting strongly on this

point: for philosophy, for painting,

for everything, for art, whether

it's the popular song or the rest,

or sports even-we'll see this

when we talk about sports-

the question is exactly the same,

whats happening that's innovative?

If one interprets that in the sense of

fashion-no, it's just the opposite.

What's innovative is something

that's not fashionable,

perhaps it will become so,

but it's not fashionable since

people don't expect it, by definition,

people don't expect it,

something that makes people...

that stupefies them.

When Trenet started singing,

people said he was crazy.

Today, that no longer

seems crazy to us,

but one can comment eternally

on how he was crazy, and

in some ways, he remained so.

Piaf appeared grandiose to us all.

Parnet: And Claude Francois,

you admired him a lot too?

Deleuze: Claude Francois,

right or wrong, I don't know,

but Claude Francois also seemed

to bring something innovative

because... There are a lot of them,

I'm not going to cite them all.

It's really sad because people

have sung like that ten times,

a hundred times, thousands

of times, and furthermore,

they don't have the

least bit of voice,

and they try to

discover" nothing.

That's the same thing, to

introduce something innovative

and to try to

discover" something.

For Piaf, what was she trying

to discover, my God?

All that I can say about weak health

and strong life, what she saw in life,

the force of life, and what broke her,

etc., she is the very example,

we could very well insert

the example of Edith Piaf

every time into what

we said earlier.

I was receptive to Claude Francois.

He was searching for something,

he was looking for an

original kind of show,

a song-show, he invented this kind

of danced song, that obviously

implied using playback.

For better or for worse,

that also allowed him to begin

research into sound.

To the very end, Francois was

dissatisfied with one thing,

his lyrics were stupid, and

that still matters in songs.

His texts were weak, and

he never stopped trying

to arrange his texts so that he might

achieve greater textual qualities,

like “Alexandrie, Alexandra,”

a good song.

So today, I am not very

familiar with music,

but when I turn on the TV-it's the

right of someone who's retired,

to turn on the TV when

I'm tired-l can say that

the more channels there are,

the more they look alike,

and the more nil they become,

a radical nullity.

The regime of competition,

competing with each other

for everything, produces

the same, eternal nullity,

that's what

competition is,

and the effort to know

what will make

the listener turn here to listen

instead of there, it's frightening,

frightening,

the way they...

What I hear there can't

even be called a song,

since the voice doesn't even exist,

no one has the slightest voice.

But really, let's not complain.

What I mean is,

what they all want is this kind of

domain that would be treated doubly

by the popular song and by music.

And what is this?

With Felix, I feel like we did

some good work here,

because I could say if necessary,

if someone asked me,

“What philosophical concept

have you produced since

you are always talking

about creating concepts?”

We at least created a very

important philosophical concept,

the concept of the ritornello [the

refrain]. And the ritornello is, for me,

this point in common [between

the popular song and music].

What is it? Let's say, the ritornello

is a little tune, “tra-la-la-la,

tra-la-la-la.” When do I say “Va-la-

la?” I'm applying philosophy here,

I'm applying philosophy in asking-

when do I sing “tra-la-la,”

when do I sing to myself?

I sing to myself on three occasions:

I sing to myself when I am

moving about in my territory,

wiping off my furniture, radio playing

in the background, that is,

when I am in my home. Then, I sing

to myself when I am not at home

and I am trying to reach home,

at nightfall, at the hour of agony,

I'm seeking my way, and I give

myself courage by singing,

“tra-la-la,” I'm going

toward my home.

And then, I sing to myself when

I say “Farewell, I am leaving,

and I will carry you with me in

my heart.” it's a popular song...

when I am leaving home to go

somewhere else, and where to go?

In other words, for me, the ritornello

is absolutely linked-

which takes the discussion

back to “A as Animal”-

to the problem of the territory and of

exiting or entering the territory,

that is, to the problem

of deterritorialization.

I return to my territory

or I try,

or I deterritorialize myself, that is,

I leave, I leave my territory.

Fine, but what relation does

this have to music?

One has to make headway

in creating a concept,

that's why I invoke

the image of the brain:

Take my brain at this

moment as an example,

I suddenly say to myself,

“The lied.” What is the lied?

That's what it has

always been:

It has always been

the voice as a chant

that rose from its position

in relation to the territory.

My territory, the territory I no

longer have, the territory that

I am trying to reach again,

that's what the lied is.

Whether it's Schumann

or Schubert,

that's what it is fundamentally.

And I believe that's what affect is.

When I was saying earlier that

music is the history of becomings

and the potentials of becomings,

it was something of this sort...

It could be great or

it could mediocre, but...

What is truly great music?

For me,

it appears as an artistic

operation of music.

They start from

ritornellos, and...

I don't know, I am talking even about

the most abstract musicians.

I believe that each musician has

his/her kinds of ritornellos.

They start from little tunes,

they start from little ritornellos.

We must look at Vinteuil and Proust

[in In Search of Lost Time]...

three notes then two. There's a

little ritornello at the basis

of all Vinteuil, at the

basis of the septet.

For me, it's a ritornello that one

must find in music, under music,

it's something incredible.

So what happens?

A great musician,

on the one hand,

it's not ritornellos that he/she

places one after the other,

but ritornellos that will melt into an

even more profound ritornello.

This is all ritornellos

of territories,

of one particular territory or

another particular territory

that will become organized in the

heart of an immense ritornello,

which is a cosmic

ritornello, in fact!

Everything that Stockhausen says

about music and the cosmos,

this whole way of

returning to themes

that were current in the Middle

Ages and the Renaissance-

I am quite in favor of

this kind of idea

that music has a relationship

with the cosmos...

So, here is a musician that

I admire greatly and who greatly

affects me, Mahler. What is

his Song of the Earth?

One can't say it better. This is

perpetually like elements in genesis,

in which there is perpetually

a little ritornello

sometimes based on

two cow bells.

Deleuze: What I find extraordinarily

moving in Mahler's works is the way

that all the little ritornellos, which are

already musical works of genius-

tavern ritornellos, shepherd

ritornellos, etc.-

they achieve a composition

in a kind of great ritornello

that will become the

Song of the Earth.

If we needed yet another

example, I would say

Bartók is an immensely great

musician, a very great genius.

The way local ritornellos, ritornellos

of national minorities, etc.,

are collected in a work that has

not yet ceased to be explored.

And I think that

music is a bit...

Yes, to link it to painting,

it's exactly the same thing.

When Klee says the painter

does “not render the visible,

but renders visible.” This implies:

Forces are not visible,

and for a musician,

it's the same thing.

He renders audible forces

that are not audible.

He doesn't render

the audible,

he makes audible something

that hasn't yet been,

he makes audible the

music of the earth,

he makes audible the music of...

or he invents it,

almost exactly like

the philosopher:

he renders thinkable forces

that are not thinkable,

that are in nature rather

raw, rather brutal.

I mean it's this communion

of little ritornellos

with the great ritornello that,

for me, defines music,

something I find very simple.

It's music's potential,

its potential to deliver

a truly cosmic level,

as if stars began singing

a little tune of a cow bell,

a little shepherds tune.

Or, it might be the reverse,

the cow bells that are suddenly

elevated to the state

of celestial sounds,

or of infernal sounds.

Parnet: Nonetheless, it seems to

me, and I can't exactly explain it,

with all you tell me, with

all this musical erudition,

that what you are looking for in

music, the ritornello, remains visual.

You seem to be engaging

the visual, much more...

Ok, I do understand the extent

to which the audible

is linked to cosmic forces

like the visual,

but you don't go to any concerts.

It's something that bothers you,

you do not listen

to music,

you go to art exhibits

at least once a week,

and you have your

habitual practice.

Deleuze: it's from a lack

of possibilities and

a lack of time because... I can

only give you one answer.

One single thing interests me

fundamentally in literature, it's style.

Style, for me, is the pure

auditory, the pure auditory.

I wouldn't make the distinction

you do between the visual...

It is true that I rarely go to concerts

because it's more complicated now

reserving in advance. These are

all practical details of life,

whereas when there's an art exhibit,

no reservations are needed.

But, each time I went to a concert,

I found it too long

since I have very little receptivity,

but I always felt deep emotions.

I'm not sure you are

completely wrong,

but I think you might be mistaken,

that it's not completely true.

In any case, I know that

music gives me emotions...

Talking about music is even more

difficult than speaking of painting.

It's nearly the highest point,

speaking about music.

Parnet: Nearly all

philosophers... Well,

there are a lot of philosophers

who spoke about music.

Deleuze: But style is

sonorous, not visual,

and I'm only interested in

sonority at that level.

Parnet: Music is immediately

connected to philosophy, that is,

lots of philosophers spoke about

music, for example, Jankelevitch...

Deleuze: Yes, yes,

that's true...

Parnet: but other than

Merleau-Ponty,

there are few philosophers

who spoke about painting.

Deleuze: Only a few?

You think so? I don't know...

Parnet: Well, I admit,

I'm not certain... but music,

Barthes talked about it,

Jankelevitch spoke about it.

Deleuze: Yes, he spoke

about it very well.

Parnet: Even Foucault

spoke about music.

Deleuze: Who?

Parnet: Foucault.

Deleuze: Oh, Foucault didn't talk

about music, it was a secret for him.

Parnet: Yes, it was a secret. He

spoke a lot about Monet...

Deleuze: His relations with music

were completely a secret.

Parnet: Yes, he was very close

to certain musicians.

Deleuze: Yes, yes, but

those are all secrets

that Foucault did

not discuss.

Parnet: Well, he would go to

Bayreuth, he was very close

to the musical world,

even if a secret-

Deleuze: Yes, yes, yes...

Parnet: And the

exception of Berg,

as Pierre-André was whispering,

which we skipped, why this cry...?

Deleuze: Yes, where does

this come from?

This is also connected to why one is

devoted to some topic. I don't know.

I discovered at the same time some

musical pieces for orchestras by...

- Oh, listen... You see what being

old is, you can't find names...

the orchestra pieces

by his master...

Parnet : Schoenberg.

Deleuze: by Schoenberg.

I recall that at that moment,

not too long ago, putting on

these orchestra pieces

fifteen times in a row,

fifteen times in a row,

and I recognized the moments

that overwhelmed me.

It was then, at the same time

as I found Berg, and

he was someone to whom

I could listen all daylong. Why?

I see this as also being a question

of a relationship to the earth.

Mahler, I only came to know much

later, it's the music of the earth.

Take this up in the works

of very old musicians,

there it's fully a relationship

of music and earth,

but that music might be

encompassed in the earth

to such an extent, as it is in

Berg's and Mahler's works,

I found this to be

quite overwhelming.

Making, truly making sonorous

the forces of the earth,

that's what [Bergs]

Wozzeck is for me.

It's a great text since it's the

music of the earth, a great work.

Parnet: There are

two cries in it,

you liked Marie's cry

and the cry of...

Deleuze: For me, there is such a

relationship between song and cry.

In fact, this whole school was able

to pose the problem anew.

But the two cries there, I never

get tired of these two cries,

the horizontal cry that floats

along the earth in Wozzeck,

and the completely vertical cry

of the countess-

countess, or baroness,

I don't recall-

Parnet: Countess...

Deleuze: ...of the countess

in [Bergs] Lulu-

these are cries that

are such summits.

All of that interests

me as well

because in philosophy,

there are songs and cries.

Concepts are veritable

songs in philosophy,

and then, there are cries

of philosophy.

Suddenly Aristotle [says]:

you have to stop!

Or another says, no, I'll never stop!

Spinoza-what can a body do?

We don't even know what a body

can do! Those are cries.

So the relation cry-song or concept-

affect is somewhat the same.

It's valid for me, it's something

that moves me.

Parnet: So, “P” is “Professor.”

You are 64 years of age,

and you have spent nearby

40 as a professor,

first in French high schools,

then in the university.

And so this is the first year that you

plan your weeks without teaching.

So, first, do you miss

your courses

since you've said that you taught

your courses with passion,

so I wonder if you miss

no longer teaching them?

Deleuze: No, not at all, not at all.

It's true that courses were my life,

a very important

part of my life.

I really, deeply enjoyed

teaching my courses.

But when my retirement

arrived, I was quite happy

since I was less

inclined to teach.

This question of courses

is quite simple:

I believe that courses

are like-

there are equivalents

in other domains-

a course is something requiring an

enormous amount of preparation.

I mean, it nearly corresponds to a

recipe, like in so many activities:

if you want five, ten minutes

at most, of inspiration,

one has to prepare so very much,

to have this moment of...

If you don't, well...

So I realized that the more

things went on-

I always did that,

I liked doing that a lot,

I prepared a lot in order to reach

these moments of inspiration-

and the more things went on,

the longer I had to prepare

only to have my inspiration

gradually diminished.

So it was about time, and it didn't

make me happy, not at all,

since the courses were

something I greatly enjoyed,

but they became something

I needed less.

Now I have my writing which

poses other kinds of problems,

but I have no regrets, but I did love

teaching enormously, yes.

Parnet: And, for example, when

you say “prepare a lot,”

how much preparation

time was it?

Deleuze: it's like anything,

there are rehearsals for a class,

one rehearses. it's like in theater, in

popular songs, there are rehearsals,

and if one hasn't rehearsed

enough, there's no inspiration.

In a course, it means

having moments of inspiration,

without which the course

means nothing.

Parnet: You don't mean that you

rehearsed in front of your mirror?

Deleuze: Of course not, each

activity has its modes of inspiration.

But there is no word other

than memorizing...

Memorizing and managing to find

that what one's saying is interesting.

Obviously, if the speaker doesn't

think what he's saying is interesting

-and that doesn't

go without saying,

thinking that what one is saying

is interesting, fascinating.

And this isn't a

form of vanity,

it's not finding oneself

interesting or fascinating,

it's the subject matter that one

is treating and handling

that one has to

find fascinating.

And to do so, one sometimes

has to truly whip oneself.

The question isn't

whether it's interesting,

but of getting oneself

stimulated to the point

that one is able to speak about

something with enthusiasm:

that's what

rehearsing is.

So, I needed that less,

undoubtedly.

And then courses are something

quite special, a course is a cube,

it's a space-time, and so many

things happen in a course.

I like lectures

much less,

I never liked lectures because a

lecture is too small a space-time.

A course is something that stretches

out from one week to the next.

It's a space and a very,

very special temporality.

It has successive

steps.

It's not that one can redo or catch

up when something doesn't go well,

but there's an internal

development in a course.

And the people change

from week to week,

and the audience for a

course is quite exciting.

Parnet: Here, we are going to start

with the beginning.

You were first a lycée professor. Do

you have good memories of this?

Deleuze: Well, yes, because

that doesn't mean anything

since it occurred at a time

when the lycée was not at all

what the lycée has become.

I understand...

I think of young professors today

who are demoralized by the lycées.

I was a lycée professor

shortly after the Libération,

when it was completely

different.

Parnet". Where

were you'?

Deleuze: I was in two cities,

one I liked a lot, one I liked less.

Amiens was the one I liked because

it was a very free city, very open,

whereas Orleans was

much more severe.

This was still a period when a

philosophy professor was treated

with a lot of

indulgence,

he tended to be forgiven

a lot since

he was a bit like the madman,

the village idiot.

And usually he could do

whatever he wanted.

I taught my students

using a musical saw,

since I had taken it up

at the time,

and everyone found it

quite normal.

Nowadays, I think that would no

longer be possible in the lycées.

Parnet: What did you explain to

them by using the musical saw?

How did that function

in your course?

Deleuze: I taught them curves,

because the saw is a thing that,

as you know, one had to curve

the saw in order to obtain

the sound from

the curve, and

these were quite moving curves,

something that interested them.

Parnet: Already it was about

the infinite variation...

Deleuze: Yes, but

I didn't only do that,

I taught the baccalaureate

program,

I was a very conscientious

professor.

Parnet: It was there that

you met Poperen, I think.

Deleuze: Yes, I knew Poperen quite

well, but he traveled more than me,

and stayed very

little in Amiens.

He had a little suitcase

and a big alarm clock

because he didn't

like watches,

and the first thing he did was

to take out his clock.

He taught with his big clock.

I found him very charming.

Parnet: And who were your friends

in the teachers' lounge,

because when one

is a student

Deleuze: I liked the gymnastics

professors a lot,

but I don't recall very much. The

teachers' lounge in the lycée

must have changed a lot today

as well, it was quite something.

Parnet: As a student, one imagines

the teachers' lounge

as a mysterious and

oppressive place.

Deleuze: No, it's the time when...

there are all sorts of people there,

solemn or jokers. But in fact,

I didn't go there much.

Parnet: After Amiens and Orleans,

you were in Paris

at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand in

the preparatory course,

so can you recall

any students you had that

were remarkable or

who didn't amount to much?

Deleuze: Oh, students who

didn't amount to much?

Who amounted to something?

I don't really recall any longer...

Yes, I do recall them.

To my knowledge, they became

professors, but none that I know of

became government ministers.

Someone became

a police officer,

but no, really there were

none very special,

they all went their own way,

they were quite fine.

Parnet: Then there were the

Sorbonne years of which one gets

the impression that they correspond

to your history of philosophy years.

And then, came Vincennes

which was an entirely

crucial experience

after the Sorbonne.

Well, I am jumping here since

Lyon came after the Sorbonne.

First, were you happy to teach at

the university after the lycée?

Deleuze: “Happy, happy”-it isn't

really an appropriate word.

It was simply a normal career.

I had left the lycée;

if I had gone back to the lycée,

it wouldn't have been dramatic,

it just would have been

abnormal, a setback,

so the way things worked out

was normal, normal,

no problem, and I have

nothing to say about it.

Parnet: Well, for example,

the university courses are

differently prepared than

the lycée courses.

Deleuze: Not for me,

not at all.

Parnet: For you,

it was the same.

Deleuze: Exactly the same, I always

taught my courses the same way.

Parnet: Were your lycée

preparations

as intense as your

university preparations?

Deleuze: Of course,

of course. In any case,

one has to be absolutely

imbued [with the material],

one has to love what

one is talking about,

and that doesn't

happen by itself,

so one has to rehearse, prepare,

go over things mentally,

one has to find a gimmick. it's quite

amusing that one has to find

something like a door that one cant

pass through from just any position.

Parnet: So you prepared your

courses exactly the same way

at the lycée and at

the university.

It was prepared equally at the lycée

as it was later at the university.

Deleuze: There was no difference

in nature at all between

the two kinds of courses.

Yes, the same.

Parnet: Since we are discussing

your university work,

you can talk about your doctoral

thesis. When did you defend it?

Deleuze: I had already written

several books before [my defense],

I believe, in order not to do it,

that is, it's a frequent reaction.

I was working a lot, and I realized

I had to have the thesis,

that I had to do this,

that it was quite urgent.

So I made a maximum effort, and

finally I presented it among

one of the very first defenses

following May '68.

Parnet: In 1969?

Deleuze: In 1969? Yes, it must have

been in 1969, among the very first.

This created a very privileged

situation for me

because the committee was

obsessed with only one thing,

how to arrange the defense in order

to avoid the student groups roving

through the Sorbonne.

They were quite afraid,

since it was right after the return to

school following the May '68 events,

so they didn't know

what would happen.

I recall the chairman telling me,

“Ok, there are two possibilities:

either we have your defense

on the ground floor,

where there is one advantage,

there are Mo exits,

so the committee

could get out quickly,

but the disadvantage is that,

since it's on the ground floor,

that's where the students are more

likely to be roving around.

Or we could go to the 2nd floor,

with the advantage that

students go upstairs

less frequently,

but the disadvantage of only

one entrance and one exit,

so if something were to happen,

we might not be able to get out.”

So that, when

I defended my thesis,

I could never meet the gaze of the

committee chairman since

he was staring at the door to see

if someone was going to come in,

to see if the students

were coming in.

Parnet: Who was the

committee chairman?

Deleuze: Ah, I'm not saying

his name, it's a secret.

Parnet: I could make

you confess.

Deleuze: No, especially given the

chairman's agony at the time,

and also he was

very charming.

But the chairman was

more upset than I was,

it's rare for a committee to be more

disturbed about the defense than

the candidate in this completely

exceptional situation.

Parnet: You were probably

better known at that point

than most of the

committee members.

Deleuze: Oh, no, I wasn't

all that well known.

Parnet: The defense was on

Difference and Repetition.

Deleuze: Yes.

Parnet: Well, you were already

very well known

for your works on Proust

and Nietzsche.

Parnet: So we can move on

to Vincennes, unless

you have something to say about

Lyon after the Sorbonne...

Deleuze: No, no, no... Vincennes,

there was indeed a change,

you are right, not in nature of the

preparation of my courses,

in what I call my preparation,

my rehearsals for a course,

nor in the style

of a course.

In fact, from Vincennes onward, I

no longer had a student audience.

This was what was so splendid

about Vincennes.

It wasn't the case

in all the universities.

They were getting

back to normal.

At Vincennes, at least

in philosophy

-it wasn't true for

all of Vincennes-

there was a completely

new kind of audience,

which was no longer

made up of students,

which was a mixture

of all ages,

people with all kinds of

professional activities,

including psychiatric hospitals,

even patients.

It was perhaps the most

colorful audience

and finding a mysterious

unity at Vincennes.

That is, it was at once the most

diverse and the most coherent

as a function of, even

because of, Vincennes.

Vincennes gave this disparate

crowd a kind of unity.

And for me, it was

an audience...

Later, had I been

appointed elsewhere-

I subsequently spent my whole

teaching career at Vincennes-

but had I been forced later

to move to another faculté,

I would have completely

lost my bearings.

When I visited other

schools after that,

it seemed like I was traveling

back in time,

landing back in the middle

of the 19th century.

So at Vincennes, I spoke before a

mixed audience, young painters,

people undergoing psychiatric

treatment, musicians, addicts,

young architects, people

from very different countries,

with waves of visitors

that changed each year.

I recall suddenly 5 or 6

Australians who arrived

I don't know why, and the

next year they were gone.

The Japanese were constantly

there, each year,

and there were South

Americans, Blacks...

It was an invaluable audience

and a fantastic audience.

Parnet: Because, for the first time,

you were speaking to

non-philosophers,

that is, this practice...

Deleuze: It was, I believe,

fully philosophy in its own right,

addressed equally to philosophers

and to non-philosophers,

exactly like painting is addressed

to painters and non-painters,

or music not being limited

to music specialists.

It's the same music, the same Berg

or the same Beethoven

addressed equally to people that

are not specialists in music

and to people who

are musicians.

Philosophy, for me,

must be strictly the same,

it is addressed as much to non-

philosophers as to philosophers

without

changing it.

Philosophy, when it's addressed

to non-philosophers,

that doesn't mean one has to make

it simple, no more than in music...

One doesn't make Beethoven

simpler for non-specialists.

It's the same in philosophy,

exactly the same.

For me, philosophy has always

had this double audition,

a non-philosophical audition as

much as a philosophical one.

And if these two don't exist together,

then there is nothing.

Without these, philosophy

would be worth nothing.

Parnet: Now, could you explain

a subtle distinction?

In lectures, there are non-

philosophers, but you hate lectures.

Deleuze: Yes, I hate lectures

because they're artificial and

also because of the before and

the after of lectures.

Finally, as much as I like

teaching courses,

which is one way of speaking,

so I hate speaking equally.

Speaking really seems

like an activity for...

So, lectures-talking before,

talking after, etc.,

and all that doesn't possess

at all the purity of a course.

And then, the lecture, there's

a circus quality in lectures-

courses also have their circus

quality as well, but at least

it's a circus that amuses me and

tends to be more involved.

In a lecture, there is a phony side,

and the people who go to them...

Well, I don't know, but I just don't

like lectures, I don't like giving talks:

they're too tense, too much

like prostitution, too stressed,

too I don't know. That doesn't

seem interesting to rne at all.

Parnet: Let's come back to your

venerated audience at Vincennes

that was so mixed, and in

those Vincennes years,

with madmen, addicts, as you said,

who made wild interventions,

took the floor, never, never did any

of that ever seem to bother you.

All of these interventions

in the middle of your course

and you continued

to lecture,

and none of the interventions

were objections.

That is, the magistral aspect

of the course remained.

Deleuze: You need to find another

word, since this expression-

cours magistral-is imposed

by the university,

but we really have to

find another word.

That is, I see two conceptions

of a course:

the first is one in which the object

of the course is to incite

rather immediate reactions

from the audience

by means of questions and the

need for interruptions.

This is an entire trend, a particular

conception of a course.

On the other hand, there is the so-

called magistral conception,

with one formal

person who speaks.

It's not that I prefer

one or the other,

I just had no choice, I only had

experience with the second form,

the so-called magistral

conception.

So a different word is needed

because, almost at the limit,

it's more like a kind of musical

conception of a course.

For me, one doesn't interrupt music,

whether good or bad,

or one interrupts if

it's really bad,

but usually one doesn't

interrupt music,

whereas one can easily

interrupt spoken words.

So, what does this musical

conception of a course mean?

I think it means two things,

based on my experience,

although I don't mean that

this is the best conception,

this is just how

I see things.

Considering how I know

my audiences to be,

those that have been my

audiences, I tell myself,

there is always someone who

doesn't understand on the spot,

and then there is something like a

delayed effect, a bit like in music.

At one moment, you don't

understand a movement,

and then three minutes later, it

becomes clear, or ten minutes later:

something happened

in the meantime.

So with these delayed

effects in a course,

someone can certainly understand

nothing atone point,

and ten minutes later,

it becomes clear,

there's a kind of

retroactive effect.

So if he had already

interrupted-

that's why I find interruptions

so stupid,

or even certain questions

people can ask.

You ask a question because

you're in the midst of

not understanding... well, you would

be better off waiting.

Parnet: So these interruptions,

you found them stupid

because people just

didn't wait?

Deleuze: Yes, that's

the first aspect of it:

what someone doesn't

understand,

there is the possibility that he'll

understand it afterwards.

The best students were those who

asked questions the following week.

I had a system toward the end,

I don't know who invented it,

it was them, they would pass me a

little note from one week to the next

-a practice I appreciated-saying

that I had to go back over a point.

So they had waited. “You have

to go back over this point”-

I didn't do it, it wasn't

important,

but there was this kind

of communication.

There is the second important point

in my conception of a course:

since a course I taught was two

and one-half hours in length,

no one could listen

that long.

So, for me, a course was

always something

that was not destined to be

understood in its totality.

A course is a kind of

matter in movement,

really matter in movement,

which is how it is musical,

and in which each person,

each group,

or each student at the limit

takes from it what suits him/her.

A bad course is one that

quite literally suits no one,

but of course, one can't expect

everything to suit just anyone.

So, people have to wait,

because at the limit,

it's obvious that some people

nearly fall asleep, and then,

by some mystery, they wake up at

the moments that concern them.

No law can foresee what is

going to concern someone.

It's not even the subjects that are

interesting, but something else.

A course entails as much

emotion as intelligence,

and if there is no emotion, then

there is nothing, it's pointless.

So, it's not a question

of following everything

or of listening to

everything.

It's rather a question

of keeping a watch

so that you grasp what suits you,

what suits you personally.

That's why for me a varied audience

is so crucially important,

because I sense clearly that

the centers of interest shift

and jump from one person

to another,

and that creates a kind

of splendid fabric,

a texture, yes. So

there you have it.

Parnet: Well, that's the audience,

but for this “concert,”

you invented the expression “pop

philosophy” and “pop philosopher.”

Deleuze: Yes, that's

what I meant.

Parnet: Yes, but one could say

that your appearance,

like Foucault's, was

something very special,

I mean, your hat, your

fingernails, your voice.

Were you conscious that there

was this kind of mythification

by your students around

this appearance,

like they had mythified Foucault, as

they... mythified the voice of Wahl.

First, were you conscious of

having this appearance

and then of having this

special voice?

Deleuze: Oh yes, certainly,

since the voice in a course-

lets say that if philosophy-

we've talked about this already,

it seems to me-mobilizes

and treats concepts,

then it's normal that there be a

vocalization of concepts in a course,

just like there is a written

style of concepts.

Philosophers aren't people who

write without searching for

or elaborating

a style.

It's like artists, and

they are artists.

So, a course implies that one

vocalizes, even it implies, yes-

I speak German poorly-a kind of

Sprechgesang, clearly, obviously.

So, if on top of that

there are mythifications-

did you see his

nails'.7, etc.-

that kind of thing occurs

to all professors,

already even in

grade school.

What's more

important is

the relationship between

the voice and the concept.

Parnet: To make you happy, your"

hat was like Piaf's black dress...

There is a very

precise allure.

Deleuze: Well, my point of honor is

that I never wore it for that reason,

so if it produced that effect,

so much the better, very good.

There are always

phenomena...

Parnet: Is that a part of

your role as professor?

Deleuze: Is that a part of

my role as professor?

No, that isn't part of my role as

professor, it's a supplement.

What a professor's role is, is what

I said about prior rehearsal

and about inspiration in the moment,

that's the professors role.

Parnet: You never wanted either

a “school,” or disciples,

and that corresponds to

something very deep in you,

this refusal

of disciples...

Deleuze: I don't refuse at all.

Generally it works both ways:

no one wants to be my disciple any

more than I want to have any.

A “school” is awful for a

very simple reason:

a “school” takes a lot of time,

one turns into an administrator.

Consider philosophers who

have their own “school”:

the Wittgensteinians,

it's a “school.”

Ok, it's not much fun. The

Heideggerians, it's a “school.”

First it implies some terrible

scores being settled,

it implies exclusivity,

it implies scheduling,

it implies an entire administration,

a “school” has to be run.

I saw the rivalries between French

Heideggerians led by Beaufret

and the Belgian Heideggerians

led by De Waelhens,

a real knife fight.

It was abominable,

at least for me, without

any interest.

I think of other reasons. I mean,

even on the level of ambition,

being the leader of a “school.”

Just look at Lacan...

Lacan was the leader

of a “school” as well.

But it's awful, it creates

so many worries.

One has to become

Machiavellian to lead it all,

and then for myself,

I despise that.

For me, the “school” is the

opposite of a movement.

A simple example: Surrealism

was a “school,”

with scores settled, trials,

exclusions, etc.

[André] Breton created

a “school.”

Dada was a movement.

If I had an ideal-

and I don't claim

to have succeeded-

it would be to participate

in a movement.

Yes, fine... To be in

a movement, yes,

but to be even the leader

of a “school”

does not seem to me

to be an enviable fate.

A movement, yes...

The ideal is finally...

it's not at all to have guaranteed

and signed notions

or to have disciples

repeating them.

For me, there are

two important things:

the relationship that one can have

with students means

to teach them that they must be

happy with their solitude.

They keep saying: a little

communication, we feel isolated,

we're so alone, etc., and

that's why they want “schools.”

They can only achieve something

as a result of their solitude,

so it's to teach them the

benefit of their solitude,

it's to reconcile them

with their solitude.

That was my role

as a professor.

And then, the second aspect

is a bit the same:

I wouldn't want to introduce notions

that would constitute a “school,”

I'd want to introduce

notions or concepts

that would make it

in the everyday arena.

I don't mean these would

become something ordinary,

but that they would become

commonly accepted ideas,

namely ideas that one could

handle in different ways.

That could only occur if

I addressed this to other

solitary people who will twist

these notions in their own way,

to use them as

they need them.

So all of these are notions

of movements and not

notions of “schools.”

Parnet: And do you think that,

in today's university,

the era of great professors

has passed,

things don't seem to be going

very well in the universities?

Deleuze :Well, I don't have

many ideas about that since

I no longer have a place there. I left

at a time that was terrifying,

and I couldn't understand how

professors could continue teaching.

That is, they'd become

managers.

The university, and the current

political trend is clear:

the university will cease

being a place of research,

entirely consonant with the forced

entry of disciplines

that have nothing to do with

university disciplines.

My dream would be for universities

to remain research sites

and that, alongside the universities,

technical schools would multiply,

where they would teach accounting,

information science, etc.,

but with universities

intervening only,

even in accounting and information

science, on the level of research.

And there could be all

the agreements possible

between a technical school

and the university,

with a school sending its students

to pursue research courses.

But once they introduced technical

school subjects into the university,

the university is done for,

it's no longer a research site,

and one gets increasingly eaten up

by these management hassles,

the vast number of meetings

at the university.

That's why I said I don't see how

professors can prepare a course,

so that I assume that they do

the same one every year,

or they just no longer

do any preparation.

Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps

they continue to prepare them,

so much the better. But still,

the tendency seems to be

the disappearance of

research at the university,

the rise of non-creative

disciplines in the university,

those that are not

research disciplines,

and that's called the adaptation of

the university to the job market.

It's not the role of the university

to adapt to the job market.

It's the role of

technical schools.

Parnet: So, “Q” is

“Question.”

Philosophy serves to pose

questions and problems,

and questions are

constructed,

and as you say, their purpose

is not so much to answer them

as to leave these

questions behind.

So, for example, leaving the

history of philosophy behind

meant creating new

questions for you.

But here, in an interview, one

doesn't ask you questions,

they really aren't questions, so

how do I leave this behind,

how do you leave this behind? What

does one do, make a forced choice?

First, what is the difference between

a question in the mass media

and a question in philosophy,

to start at the beginning?

Deleuze: That's difficult, because...

I'd say... That's difficult, because...

In the media most of the time,

or in conversations,

there are no questions, no

problems, there are interrogations.

If I say, “how are you doing?”,

it doesn't constitute a problem,

even if you aren't doing well at all.

“What time is it?” it's not a problem.

All of those are interrogations.

People inquire about each other.

If one sees the usual level

on television,

even in supposedly serious

broadcasts, it's full of interrogations.

Saying “what do you think of this?”

does not constitute a problem.

It's an interrogation,

it's “what is your opinion?”

That's why t.v. isn't

very interesting.

People's opinions, they don't have

a very lively interest for me.

If someone asks me:

“Do you believe in God?”

That's an interrogation.

Where is the problem there,

where is the question? There is no

question, there is no problem.

So if one asked questions or

problems in a t.v. show,

[the number of broadcasts] is vast,

sure, but it happens rarely...

The political t.v. shows do not

encompass, to my knowledge,

a single problem. They could

do so, they could, for example,

ask about people: “How do

we pose the Chinese question?”

But they don't ask, they usually

invite specialists on China

who say things about contemporary

China that one could figure out

all by oneself, without knowing

anything about China.

It's great! So it's not

at all their domain.

I'll return therefore to my example,

because it's huge:

God, what is the problem or

question about God?

It's not whether one believes

in God or not,

which doesn't interest

many people,

but what does it mean when

one says the word “God”?

Does this mean... I'm going to

imagine the questions.

That could mean: are you going

to be judged after death?

So how is this a problem? Because

this establishes a problematic

relationship between God and the

agency of judgment.

Is God a judge? This is a

question. Ok then...

I suppose someone might say to us,

Pascal. Pascal wrote a famous text,

the one on the bet:

does God exist or not?

One bets on it, and then

one reads Pascal's text,

and one realizes that it's absolutely

not a matter of that question. Why?

Because it's another question

that he asks.

Pascals question is not

whether God exists or not,

which would not be

very interesting,

but it's: what is the

best mode of existence,

the mode of existence of someone

who believes that God exists, or

the mode of existence of someone

who believes God doesn't exist?

Such that Pascal's question

absolutely does not concern

the existence of God or the

non-existence of God.

It concerns the

existence of someone

who believes in

Gods existence

and the existence of someone who

believes that God doesn't exist.

For various reasons that Pascal

develops, which are his own,

but which can be clearly

articulated,

he thinks that someone who

believes that God exists

has a better existence than

someone who believes the opposite.

That's his business, OK,

it's a Pascalian matter.

In this, there's a problem,

a question, and

it's already no longer the

question of God.

There is a story underlying

the questions,

a transformation of questions

within one another.

This is the same when

Nietzsche says “God is dead,”

it's not the same thing as God

does not exist. I can say...

If I say, “God is dead,” what

question does that refer to,

which is not the same as when

I say, “God does not exist”?

One realizes if one

reads Nietzsche

that he could care

less about Gods death,

and that he's posing another

question in this way, that is,

if God is dead, there's no reason

that man wouldn't be dead as well,

one has to find something

else than man, etc.

What interested Nietzsche was not

at all whether God was dead,

he was interested in the arrival

of something other than man.

That's what the art of

questions and problems is,

and I believe that this could certainly

occur on t.v. or in the media,

but that would create a

very strange kind of show,

on this underlying story of

problems and questions.

Whereas in daily conversations

as well as in the media,

people stay on the

level of interrogations.

One has only to look at...

I can refer to...

sure, all this is posthumous-

the show, “The Hour of Truth.”

There aren't any truths,

it's truly full of interrogations...

“Mme Veil, do you believe in

Europe?” “Ok, fine”...

What does that mean,

“believe in Europe”?

It would be interesting if one asked,

“what is the problem of Europe?”

The problem of Europe, well, I'll tell

you what it is because that way,

I'll have for once expressed

a forewarning.

That's exactly the same as

China right now,

they constantly think about

preparing Europe,

preparing the uniformization

of Europe,

they interrogate each

other about it,

on how to make

insurance uniform, etc.

And then, they find a million people

at the Place de la Concorde

from everywhere, Holland,

Germany, etc., and

[the interrogators] don't control it

at all, they don't control it.

Fine, so they call on specialists to

tell them why there are so many

Dutch people at the Place de la

Concorde. “lt's because... etc.”

They just skirt around the real

questions at the very moment

when they need to be asked... What

I've been saying is a bit confused...

Parnet: No, no,

for example,

for years you used to read

daily newspapers,

but it seems that you no longer read

Le Monde or Liberation daily.

Is there something on the level

of the press or the media

precisely not asking

these questions...

Deleuze: Oh, I don't know...

I have a lot less time...

Parnet: that

disgusts you?

Deleuze: Oh, yes! Listen... I get

the feeling of learning less and less.

I'm quite ready, I want to learn

things, since we know nothing,

but since the newspapers say

nothing either, what can one do?

Parnet: And you,

for example,

each time that you watch

the evening news

since it's the only t.v. show

you never miss,

do you always have a question

to formulate each time

that is never formulated

in the media?

Deleuze: I don't know about

that, I don't know.

Parnet: You seem to think that

questions never get asked.

Deleuze: The questions?

Well, I think that, at the limit,

the questions cant be asked.

If you take the Touvier story,

you cant pose questions-Fm

choosing something quite recent.

They arrested [Paul] Touvier,

ok... So, why now? Ok,

so when everyone says, “Why

has he been protected?”

Everyone knows that there must

have been various machinations.

He was an information director,

so he must have information

on the conduct of distinguished

dignitaries in the Church

during the period of World War ll.

Everyone knows...

Ok, so everyone knows

what he knows about,

but there's an agreement not to ask

questions, and they won't get asked.

That's whats known as a

consensus, it's an agreement,

the convention according to which

problems and questions will be

substituted for simple interrogations,

such as “How are you doing?”

that is, ah, well... “That convent

helped him hide.. Why?” etc.

Everyone knows that's not

the real question...

Parnet: Well,

I don't know...

Deleuze: Everyone knows... Let rne

take another recent example,

regarding the reformers

on the Right

and the political apparatus

on the Right.

Everyone knows

what this is about,

but the newspapers don't tell us

a thing. I don't know,

I am just saying this, but it seems

obvious to me that between

these reformers de droite, there is a

very interesting problem.

These guys-its not that

they are particularly young,

but their problem

is this:

it's an attempt to shake up elements

of the Party organizations

that are always very

centralized around Paris.

Specifically, the reformers want

regional independence,

something very

interesting,

and yet no one is calling

attention to this aspect.

The connection to the European

question is that they want to create

a Europe not of nations,

they want a Europe of regions.

They want the veritable unity

to be regional and inter-regional,

rather than a national

and international unity.

Now this is

a problem,

one that the Socialists will have

to face at some point,

between regionalist and

internationalist tendencies.

But the Party organizations, that is,

the provincial federations,

still correspond to an old-fashioned

approach, specifically,

all that goes back to Paris, and the

power is extremely centralized.

So, the conservative reformers are

an anti-Jacobine movement,

and the Left will have one as well.

So, I say, fine,

they have to be made to talk about

this, but no one will do so,

they even refuse to because, when

they do, they will reveal themselves.

Hence, they'll only

answer interrogations,

and interrogations

are nothing,

it's just conversation.

It's pointess.

Conversations, interrogations,

they are pointless.

Except for rare exceptions, t.v.

is condemned to discussions,

to interrogations.

It's worthless.

It's not even a question of lies,

it's just insignificant, it's pointless.

Parnet: Well, I'm less of

an optimist than you,

but it seems to me that there is the

journalist Anne Sinclair who,

within the consensus,

doesn't realize it,

and thinks she's posing

good questions,

not at all

interrogations.

Deleuze: Fine, that's

her business,

I'm quite sure that she's very

happy with herself.

Yes, that's certain,

it's her business.

Parnet: You never accept invitations

to go on television.

Foucault and

Serres did it.

Are you retreating from

the world like Beckett did?

Do you

hate television?

Why won't you go on television?

For all these reasons?

Deleuze: Well, here's the proof,

I'll be on t.v.!

But my reasons for

not accepting

relate exactly to what

I have already said:

I don't want to have conversations

and discussions with people.

I cannot stand interrogations,

that doesn't interest me.

And discussions, arguing

about something,

especially when no one knows

what problem is being raised.

I return to my

example of God-

is it a matter of the non-existence

of God, of the death of God,

of the death of man,

of the existence of God,

of the existence of whoever

believes in God, etc.?

It's a muddle,

it's very tiring.

So when everyone has

his turn to speak,

it's domesticity in

its purest state,

moreover with some idiot of

a host as well... Mercy, mercy...

Parnet: The most important thing

is that you are here today

answering our little

interrogations.

Deleuze: On the condition

that it's posthumous!

Deleuze: On the condition

that it's posthumous!

Parnet: “R” is “Resistance.”

As you said in a recent lecture,

philosophy creates concepts,

and whenever one creates,

as you said in this lecture, one

resists. Artists, filmmakers,

musicians, mathematicians,

philosophers all resist,

but, what do they

resist exactly?

First, let's take this

case by case:

philosophers create concepts, but

does science create concepts?

Deleuze: No. These are rather

questions of ends, Claire.

Because if we agree to reserve the

word “concept” for philosophy,

another word is needed then to

designate scientific notions.

One doesn't say of an artist either

that he/she creates concepts.

A painter or a musician

doesn't create concepts,

he/she creates something else.

So, for science,

one needs to find other words. Let's

say, one could say, for example,

a scientist is someone who creates

functions, let's say.

I'm not saying it's the best word: he/she creates new functions,

but creating functions occurs as

much... Creating new functions...

Einstein, Gallois, the great

mathematicians,

but not only the mathematicians,

there are physicists,

biologists, all

create functions.

So... how does this

constitute resisting?

How is creating resisting all that?

It's clearer for the arts,

because science is in a more

ambiguous position,

a bit like cinema: it is caught in so

many problems of organization,

funding, etc., that the portion

of resistance...

But great scientists also mount

considerable resistance,

if one thinks

of Einstein,

of many physicists and biologists

today, it's obvious.

They resist first against being forced

in certain tempting directions

and against the trends in

popular opinion, that is,

against the whole domain of

imbecilic interrogation.

They really have the strength

to demand their own rhythm,

they cant be forced to release just

anything prematurely,

just as one usually

doesn't hurry an artist.

No one has the right

to hurry an artist.

But I think that... That creating

would be resistance because...

I believe... Let me tell you,

there is a writer I recently read

who affected me greatly

on this topic.

I believe that one of the great

motifs in art and thought

is a certain “shame

of being a man.”

I think that Primo Levi is

that writer and artist

who has expressed

this most profoundly.

He was able to speak of this

“shame of being a man”

in an extremely

profound book

because he wrote it following his

return from the Nazi death camps.

Levi said, “Yes,

when I was freed,

the dominant feeling was

'the shame of being a man."

it's a statement,

I believe,

that's at once quite splendid,

very beautiful,

and not at all abstract,

it's quite concrete,

“the shame of

being a man.”

But it could be open to

misinterpretations.

It does not mean that we are all

assassins, that we are all guilty,

for example, all guilty of Nazism.

Levi says it admirably:

it doesn't mean that the

executioners and the victims

are all the same... You cant

make us believe that.

There are a lot of people who

maintain, “Oh yes,

we are all guilty”... No, no, no,

nothing of the sort...

We cannot confuse the

executioner with the victim.

So “the shame of being a man” does

not mean that we are all the same,

that we are all compromised, etc.

It means, I believe, several things.

It's a very complex feeling, not a

unified feeling.

“The shame of being a man”

means at once

how could men do that-some

men, that is, other than me-

how could they

do that?

And second, how have I myself

nonetheless taken sides?

I didn't become an executioner, but I

still took sides to have survived,

and there is a certain shame

in having survived

in the place of certain friends

who did not survive.

So it's therefore an extremely

composite feeling,

“the shame of being a man,” and

I believe that at the basis of art,

there is this idea or this very strong

feeling of shame of being a man that

results in art which liberates the life

that men have imprisoned.

Men never cease imprisoning life,

they never cease killing life-

“the shame of being a man.” The

artist is the one who liberates a life,

a powerful life, a life that's more

than personal, it's not his/her life.

Parnet: Ok, so I guide you back

toward the artist and resistance,

that is, the role of the

shame of being a man,

art freeing life from this

prison of shame,

but it's something very different

from sublimation.

That is, art is not at all this...

it's really a resistance...

Deleuze: No, not at all... It means

ripping art from life, life's liberation,

and that's not at all

something abstract.

What is a great character

in a novel?

A great character is not borrowed

from the real and even inflated:

Charlus is not

Montesquiou.

He's not even Montesquiou inflated

by Prousts brilliant imagination.

These are fantastic powers

of action for life,

fantastic powers of action for life,

however badly it turns out.

He has integrated worlds into

a fictional character.

It's a kind of giant, it's a kind of

exaggeration in relation to life,

but not an exaggeration

in relation to art,

since art is the production

of these exaggerations,

and it is by their mere existence

that this is already resistance.

Or, we can connect with

the first theme

writing is always writing for animals,

that is, not to them,

but in their place, doing what

animals can't, writing, freeing life,

freeing life from prisons that

men have created,

and that's what resistance is.

I don't know...

That's obviously what artists do,

and I mean

there is no art that doesn't also

liberate a power of action for life,

there is no art

of death, first of all.

Parnet: But sometimes

art doesn't suffice.

Primo Levi ended up committing

suicide much, much later.

Deleuze: He committed suicide...

Ah yes, ah yes,

he could no longer

hold on,

so he committed the suicide

of his personal life.

But, there are four pages

or twelve pages

or a hundred pages of Primo

Levi that will remain,

that will remain eternal resistances,

so it happens this way.

And it's even more... I am talking

about “the shame of being a man,”

but it's not even in the grandiose

sense of Primo Levi, you see?

Because if one dares to say

something of this sort,

for each of us

in daily life,

there are tiny events that inspire in

us this shame of being a man.

We witness a scene in which

someone has really been too vulgar,

we don't make a big thing of it,

but we are upset,

upset for the other,

we are upset for ourselves

because we seem nearly

to accept this.

Here again, we almost make

some sort of compromise.

But if we protest, saying “what

you're saying is base, shameful,”

a big drama gets made out of it,

and we're caught, and we feel-

it doesn't at all compare

with Auschwitz-

but even on this

minuscule level,

there is a small shame

of being a man.

If one doesn't feel that shame,

there is no reason to create art.

It's Ok, I can't

say anything else.

Parnet: But when you create,

precisely when you are an artist,

do you feel these dangers

all the time,

dangers that are surrounding you,

that are everywhere?

Deleuze: Yes, obviously, yes,

in philosophy as well.

It's what

Nietzsche said,

a philosophy that doesn't

damage stupidity-

damage stupidity, resist stupidity.

But if philosophy did not exist-

people act like “oh,

philosophy, after all,

it's good for after-dinner

conversations.”

But if philosophy did not exist, we

cannot guess the level of stupidity.

Philosophy prevents stupidity

from being as enormous

as it would be were

there no philosophy.

That's the splendor of it, we have

no idea what things would be like.

Without art, what would the

vulgarity of people be...

So when we say “to create is to

resist,” it's effective, I mean.

The world would not be

what it is if not for art,

people could not hold

on any more.

It's not that they read

philosophy,

Philosophy's mere existence

prevents people from being

as stupid and beastly as

they would be without it.

Parnet: What do

you think

when people announce the death

of thought, the death of cinema,

the death of literature-does that

seem like a joke to you?

Deleuze: There are no deaths, there

are assassinations, quite simply.

Perhaps cinema will be

assassinated, quite possibly,

but there is no death from natural

causes, for a simple reason:

as long as there would be

nothing to grasp

and take on the function

of philosophy,

philosophy will still have

every reason to live on,

and if something else takes on

the function of philosophy,

then I don't see at all how it could

be anything but philosophy.

If we say that philosophy consists of

creating concepts, for example,

and, through that, damaging

and preventing stupidity,

then how could

philosophy die?

It could be blocked, it could be

censored, it could be assassinated,

but it has a function,

it is not going to die.

The death of philosophy always

seemed to me an imbecilic idea,

it's an idiotic idea. it's not that

I am attached to philosophy...

I'm very pleased that

it doesn't die,

I don't even understand what this

means, “the death of philosophy.”

It just seems to be a rather feeble

idea, kind of simpering,

just to have something

to say,

just a way of saying things change,

and there's no more use...

But, what's going to

replace philosophy?

What's going to create concepts?

So someone might tell me:

“You must not create any more

concepts,” and so, OK,

let stupidity reign-fine, it's the idiots

who want to do philosophy in.

Who is going to create concepts?

Information science?

Advertising agents who have taken

over the word “concept”?

Fine, we will have advertising

“concepts,”

which is the “concept”

of a brand of noodles.

They don't risk having much of a

rivalry with philosophy because

I don't think that the word “concept”

is being used in the same way.

But today advertising presents

itself as philosophy's true rival

since they tell us: we advertisers

are inventing concepts.

But, the “concept” proposed by

information science,

“concepts” by computers,

is quite hilarious,

what they call a “concept.” So, we

shouldn't be worried about it.

Parnet: Could we say that you,

Félix, and Foucault form

networks of concepts like networks

of resistance, like a war machine

against dominant modes of

thought and commonplaces?

Deleuze: Yes, why not'? It would

be very nice if it were true,

that would be very nice. In any case,

the network is certainly the only...

if one doesn't create

a “school”-

and these “schools”

don't seem good at all-

if one doesn't create

a “school,”

there is only the regime of

networks, of complicities.

Of course, it's something that

has existed in every period,

what we call Romanticism, for

example, German Romanticism,

or Romanticism in general,

this was a network.

What we call Dadaism,

it's a network.

And I'm sure that there must be

networks today as well.

Parnet: Are these networks

of resistance?

Deleuze: By their

very existence.

The function of the network

is to resist, and to create.

Parnet: For example, you feel

both famous and clandestine,

this notion of clandestinity

that you are fond of.

Deleuze: I don't consider

myself at all famous,

I don't consider myself clandestine.

I would like to be imperceptible.

But there are a lot of people who

would like to be imperceptible.

That doesn't at all mean

that I'm not...

Being imperceptible

is fine because...

But that's a question

that's almost personal.

What I want is to do my work,

for people not to bother me

and not make me waste time,

yes, and at the same time,

I want to see people, because

I need to, like everybody else,

I like people. There are a few people

whom I like to see.

But, when I see them, I don't want

this to create the slightest problem,

to have imperceptible relationships

with imperceptible people,

that's what is most

beautiful in the world.

You can say that we are all

molecules, a molecular network.

Parnet: ls there a strategy in

philosophy, for example,

when you wrote your

book on Leibniz,

was it strategically that you

wrote on Leibniz?

Deleuze: I suppose that depends on

what the word “strategy” means.

I assume that one doesn't write

without a certain necessity.

If there is no necessity

to create a book, that is,

a strongly felt necessity by the

person writing the book,

then it would be

better not to do it.

So when I wrote on Leibniz,

it was necessary for me.

Why was it necessary? Because

a moment arrived for me-

it would take too

long to explain-

to talk, not about Leibniz,

but about the fold.

And for the fold, it was at that time

fundamentally linked to Leibniz.

But I can say for each

book that I wrote

what the necessity was

at each period.

Parnet: But besides the grip of

necessity that pushes you to write,

I mean, your return to a philosopher

as a return to history of philosophy

after the cinema books

and after books like

A Thousand Plateaus and

Anti-Oedipus. ls there...

Deleuze: There was no return

to a philosopher,

which is why I previously answered

your question quite correctly.

I did not write a book on Leibniz,

I only wrote a book on Leibniz

because, for me, the moment had

come to study what “a fold” was.

Deleuze: I study the history of

philosophy when I need to, that is,

when I encounter and

experience a notion

that is itself already connected

to a philosopher.

When I got passionately involved

with the notion of “expression,”

I wrote a book on Spinoza because

Spinoza is a philosopher who

raised the notion of “expression”

to an extraordinarily high level.

When I encountered on my own

the notion of “the fold,”

it seemed to go without saying

that it would be through Leibniz.

Now it does happen that

I encounter notions

that are not already dedicated

to a philosopher,

so then I don't study the

history of philosophy.

But I see no difference

between writing

a book on the history of philosophy

and a book of philosophy,

so it's in that way that

I follow my own path.

Parnet: “S” is “Style”

Deleuze: Ah, well,

good for us!

Parnet: What is style? In Dialogues,

you say that style is the property

precisely of those about whom

it is said they have no style.

I think that you say this about

Balzac, if I recall correctly.

So what

is style?

Deleuze: Well, that's

no small question!

Parnet: No, that's why

I asked it so quickly!

Deleuze: Listen, this is what I can

say: to understand what style is,

one is better off not knowing a

thing at all about linguistics.

Linguistics has done a lot of harm.

Why has it done a lot of harm?

Because there is an opposition-

Foucault said it well-

there is an opposition, and it's

even their complementarity,

between linguistics

and literature.

As opposed to what many say,

they do not fit each other at all.

Because, for linguistics, a language

is always a balanced system,

therefore it can be made

into a science.

And the rest, the variations,

are placed

no longer on the side of language,

but on the side of speech.

When one writes, we know quite

well that language is, in fact,

a system, as physicists would say,

a system which is by nature

far from equilibrium, a system in

perpetual imbalance, such that

there is no difference in level

between language and speech,

but language is constituted by all

sorts of heterogeneous currents

in disequilibrium with

one another.

So, what is the style of

a great author?

I think there are two things

in a style-you see,

I am answering clearly,

rapidly and clearly,

so I'm ashamed because it's

too much of a summary.

Style seems to me composed

of two things:

one submits the language in which

one speaks and writes to

a certain treatment, not a treatment

that's artificial, voluntary, etc.,

but a treatment that mobilizes

everything, the author's will,

but also his/her wishes, desires,

needs, necessities.

One submits language to a

syntactical and original treatment,

which could be-here we come

back to the theme of “Animal”-

which could make

language stutter, I mean,

not stuttering oneself, but

making language stutter.

Or, and this is not the same thing,

to make language stammer.

Let's choose some examples

from great stylists:

Gherasim Luca, a poet, I'd say,

generally, he creates stuttering,

not his own speech, but

he makes language stutter.

Peguy... it's quite curious because

generally for people,

Péguy is a certain kind of

personality about

whom one forgets that above all,

like all great artists,

he's totally crazy. Never has

anyone written like Peguy,

and never will anyone

write like Peguy.

His writing belongs among the great

styles of French language;

he's one of the great creators

of the French language.

What did he do? One cant say that

his style is a stuttering;

he makes the sentence grow

from its middle. it's fantastic.

Instead of having sentences

follow each other,

he repeats the same sentence with

an addition in the middle of it,

which in turn, will engender

another addition, etc.

He makes the sentence proliferate

from its middle, by insertions.

That's a

great style.

So, there is the first aspect: make

language undergo a treatment,

an incredible treatment.

That's why a great stylist

isn't someone who conserves

syntax, but is a creator of syntax.

I never let go of Proust's

lovely formula:

masterpieces are always written

in a kind of foreign language.

A stylist creates a foreign language

in his/her language.

It's true of Céline,

it's true of Péguy,

it's true of... That's what it

means to be a great stylist.

Then, second, at the same time

as this first aspect-specifically,

one causes syntax to undergo a

deforming, contorting treatment,

but a necessary one that constitutes

something like a foreign language

in the language in

which one writes-

the second point is, through this

very process,

one then pushes all language

all the way to a kind of limit,

the border that separates

it from music.

One produces a kind of music. If

one succeeds in these two things,

and if there is necessity

in doing so, it is a style,

that's what the great stylists are.

And it's true of all of them at once:

burrow a foreign language

deep within language,

and carry all language

to a kind of musical limit.

This is what it means to

have a style, yes.

Parnet: Do you think that

you have a style...?

Deleuze: Oh,

the treachery!

Parnet: ...because I see a change

from your first books. it's simplified.

Deleuze: The proof of a style

is its variability, and generally

one goes toward an

increasingly sober style.

But increasingly sober does

not mean less complex.

I think of one of the writers I admire

greatly in terms of style, Kerouac.

At the end of his career, Kerouac's

writing was like a Japanese line,

really, a pure Japanese

line drawing,

his style, reaches a sobriety, but that

really implies then the creation

of a foreign language within the

language, all the more...

Well, yes... I also think

of Céline,

and it's odd when

people said to Céline,

“Oh, you've introduced spoken

language into written language”

which was already a stupid

statement because in fact,

a completely written treatment

is required in language,

one must create a foreign

language within language

to obtain through writing the

equivalent of the spoken language.

So Céline didn't introduce the

spoken into language,

that's just stupid to say that. But

when Celine received a compliment,

he knew very well that he

was so far away

from what he would

have wanted.

So that would be in

his second novel,

in Death on the Installment Plan,

that he is going to get closer.

But when it's published and he is

told, “Oh, you've changed,”

he knows again that he is very,

very far from what he wanted,

and so what he wanted, he is going

to reach with Guignol's Band,

where language is pushed to such a

limit that it is so close to music.

It's no longer a treatment

of language

that creates a foreign

language,

but an entire language pushed

to the musical limit.

So, by its very nature, style

changes, it has its variation.

Parnet: With Peguy, one often

thinks of Steve Reich

with the repetitive aspect

of the music.

Deleuze: Yes, except that Peguy

is a much greater stylist than Reich.

Parnet: You haven't responded

to my “treachery.”

Do you think that you

have a style?

Deleuze: I would like to, but what do

you want me to say? I would like to,

but I have the feeling... If one says

that already to be a stylist,

one must live the problem of style,

then I can answer more modestly:

the problem of style,

for me, I live it, yes.

I don't tell myself

while writing,

“the problem of style,

I'll deal with it afterward.”

I am aware I will not obtain the

movement of concepts that I want

if the writing does not

pass through style,

Parnet: And the necessity

of composition?

Deleuze: I am ready to rewrite

the same page ten times.

Parnet: So, style is like a necessity

of composition in what you write?

That is, composition enters into it

in a very primordial way?

Deleuze: Yes, there, I think you

are completely correct.

But you are saying

something else there.

Is the composition of a book

already a matter of style?

In this, I think:

yes, entirely.

The composition of a book cannot

be decided beforehand,

but at the same time as

the book is written.

I see that in what I have written,

if I dare invoke these examples,

there are two books that

seem to be composed.

I always attached great importance

to the composition itself.

I think, for example, of a

book called Logic of Sense,

which is composed

in a series,

it's truly a kind of serial

composition for me.

And then in A Thousand Plateaus,

it's a composition in plateaus,

plateaus constituted

by things...

But I see these as nearly

two musical compositions.

Composition is a fundamental

element of style.

Parnet: And in your mode

of expression,

to pick up a statement

you made earlier:

today are you now closer to what

you wanted than twenty years ago,

or is it something

else entirely?

Deleuze: At this moment in

what i am doing,

I feel that I'm getting closer... in

what I have not yet completed,

I have a feeling of getting closer',

that I am grasping something that

I was looking for and

haven't yet found.

Parnet: Style is

not only literary,

you are sensitive to it

in all domains.

For example, you live with the

elegant Fanny [Deleuze],

your friend Jean-Pierre is

also quite elegant,

and you seem very sensitive

to this elegance.

Deleuze: Well, they're ahead of me

there. I'd like to be elegant,

but I know quite well that I am not.

For me, elegance is something...

Even in perceiving it, I mean,

there is already an elegance

that consists in perceiving

what elegance is.

Otherwise, there are people

who miss it entirely and

what they call elegance

is not at all elegant.

So a certain grasp of what elegance

is belongs to elegance.

That impresses me greatly. This is a

domain like anything else,

that one has to learn about,

one has to be somewhat gifted,

you have to learn it...

Why did you ask me that?

Parnet: For style,

that is in all domains.

Deleuze: Ah, well, yes, but this

aspect is not really part of great art.

What one might need to... yes, no,

I don't know... it's just that...

I get the impression that it doesn't

only depend on elegance...

Which is something

that I admire a lot, but...

Whats important in the world is

that all these things emit signs.

I mean non-elegance,

vulgarity also emits signs,

that's more what i find important:

the emissions of signs.

So, this is why I have always liked

and still like Proust so much,

for the society life,

the social relations-

these are fantastic

emissions of signs.

What we call a blunder is a

non-comprehension in a sign,

signs that people don't

understand.

Society life as a milieu of the

proliferation of empty signs,

absolutely empty, these signs

have no interest at all.

But it's also the speed and the

nature of their emission.

This connects back to

animal worlds

because animal worlds also are

fantastic emissions of signs.

Animals and socialites

are the masters of signs.

Parnet: Although you don't

go out much,

you have always preferred going out

in society to convivial gatherings.

Deleuze: Of course, because

for me, in society,

people don't argue, that sort of

vulgarity is not part of that milieu,

and conversation moves absolutely

into lightness, that is,

an extraordinarily rapid evocation,

speeds of conversations.

Again, these are very interesting

emissions of signs.

Parnet: So, “T” is “Tennis.”

Deleuze: “Tennis”... hmm?

Parnet: You have always

liked tennis.

There is a famous anecdote

about you as a child,

trying to get the autograph of

a great Swedish tennis player

and you realized it was instead

the king of Sweden.

Deleuze: No, I knew who it was.

He was already around a hundred,

and he was well protected,

he had lots of

bodyguards.

But I did ask the king of Sweden

for an autograph.

There is a photo of me in Le Figaro,

where there's a little boy asking

the elderly king of Sweden for

an autograph. That's me.

Parnet: And who was

the Swedish tennis player

whom you were

chasing after?

Deleuze: It was Boroira. He wasn't

a great Swedish player,

it was Borotra, who was the

kings main bodyguard

since he played tennis with

the king, gave him lessons.

He kicked me a few times to keep

me away from the king,

but the king was very nice,

and afterwards,

Boroira also got nice. That's not a

very flattering moment for Borotra.

Parnet: There are lots of moments,

even less flattering, for Borotra.

Is tennis the only sport you

watch on television?

Deleuze: No, I adore soccer,

I really like soccer...

Yes, so it's that

and tennis.

Parnet: Did you

play tennis?

Deleuze: Yes, a lot up until the war,

so that makes me a war victim!

Parnet: What changes occur in a

body when one plays a sport a lot,

and when one stops playing it after,

are there things that change?

Deleuze: I don't think so,

at least not for me.

I didn't turn it into a trade.

In 1939, I was 14 year's old,

and stopped playing tennis at 14,

so that's not dramatic.

Parnet: Did you have

a lot of talent?

Deleuze: Yes, for a 14 year old,

I did pretty well.

Parnet: Did you have

a ranking?

Deleuze: Oh, no! At 14, I was

really too small, and then

I did not have the kind of

development they have today.

Parnet: And after', you tried other

sports, I think, some French boxing?

Deleuze: Well, no, I did a bit,

but I got hurt,

so I stopped that right away,

but I did try some boxing.

Parnet: Do you think tennis has

changed a lot since your youth?

Deleuze: Of course, like in all

sports, there are milieus of variation,

and here we get back to

the problem of style.

Sports are very interesting for the

question of positions of the body.

There is a variation of

positions of the body

over spaces of greater

or lesser length.

For example, it's obvious that

athletes don't jump hurdles

in the same way now

as they did fifty years ago.

And one would have to categorize

the variables in the history of sports.

I see several:

variables of tactics.

In soccer, tactics have changed

enormously since my childhood.

There are position variables

for the body's posture.

There are variables that

put into play...

There was a moment when I was

very interested in the shotput,

not to do it myself, but the build

of the shot putter

evolved at one point

with extreme rapidity.

At times it was a

question of force:

how, with really strong shot putters,

to gain back speed,

At other times it was a

question of speed:

and how, with builds geared for

speed, to gain back force?

Now this is very, very

interesting. it's almost...

The sociologist [Marcel] Mauss

introduced all sorts of studies

on the positions of bodies

in different civilizations,

but sports is a domain of

the variation of positions,

something quite

fundamental.

So, in tennis, even

before the war-

and I still remember the champions

from before the war-

it's obvious that the positions

were not the same, not at all.

And then, what interests me greatly,

again related to style,

are the champions

as true creators.

There are two kinds

of great champions,

who do not have the

same value for me,

the creators and

the non-creators.

The non-creators are those who

bring a pre-existing style

to an unequaled level,

for example Lendl.

I don't consider Lendl to be

fundamentally a creator in tennis.

But then there are the great

creators, even on very simple levels,

those who invent new “moves”

and introduce new tactics.

And after them, all sorts of

followers come flooding in,

but the great stylists

are inventors,

something one certainly

finds in all sports.

So, what was the great

turning point in tennis?

It was its proletarization, quite

relative of course. I mean,

it has become a

mass sport,

masses of the young-executive

sort rather than working-class.

But we can call it the

proletarization of tennis.

And of course, there are

deeper approaches

to explain how

that occurs.

But it would not

have occurred

if not for the arrival of a genius

at the same time.

It was Borg who made

it possible. Why?

Because he brought in a particular

style of mass tennis,

and he had to create mass tennis

from the ground up.

Then, a crowd of very good

champions came after him,

but not creators, for example,

the Vilas type, etc.

So Borg appeals to me,

his Christ-like head.

He had this kind of Christ-like

bearing, this extreme dignity,

this aspect that made him so

respected by all the players, etc.

Parnet: You were saying

you attended a lot...

Deleuze: Oh yes, I experienced

a lot of things in tennis...

But I want to finish up Borg. So,

Borg was a Christ-like character.

He made sport for the masses

possible, created mass tennis,

and with that, it was a total

invention of a new game.

Then there are all sorts of worthy

champions, but of the Vilas-type

who came rushing in

and who imposed

a generally soporific style

onto the game,

whereas-and here we

always rediscover the law

“You are paying me compliments,

while I am 100 miles

from doing what

I wanted to do.”

Because Borg changed

deliberately:

when he was certain of his moves,

it no longer interested him,

so his style evolved

tremendously,

whereas the drudges stuck

with the same old thing.

We have to see McEnroe

as the anti-Borg.

Parnet: What was this working-class

style that Borg imposed?

Deleuze: Situated at the back of

the court, at the farthest retreat

possible, and twisting in place, and

ball placement high over the net.

Any worker could understand that

game, any little manager

could understand that game,

not that he could succeed.

Parnet: Th at's

interesting.

Deleuze: So the very principle-

back of court, twisting, ball high-

is the opposite of

aristocratic principles.

These are popular principles, but

what genius it had to take.

Borg is exactly like Christ, an

aristocrat who goes to the people.

Well... I'm probably saying

something stupid, but..

It still is quite astonishing, quite

astonishing, Borg's stroke,

very, very curious, a

great creator in sports.

And there's McEnroe, it was pure

aristocrat, half Egyptian,

half Russian, Egyptian service

game, Russian soul,

who invented moves that

he knew no one could follow.

So he was an aristocrat who

couldn't be followed.

He invented some

amazing moves.

He invented a move that

consisted of placing the ball,

very strange, not even striking it,

just placing it.

And he developed a service-volley

combination that wasn't...

The service-volley combination

was well known,

but McEnroe's was

completely transformed.

All this, of course, to talk about...

Oh, another great player,

but without the same

importance, I believe,

is the other American,

but I don't recall his name...

Parnet: Connors.

Deleuze: Connors, with whom you

really see the aristocratic principle:

ball flat barely over the net,

a very odd aristocratic principle,

and also striking

while unbalanced.

He was never such a genius as

when he was entirely unbalanced.

Those were some

really odd moves.

There is a history

of sports,

and it has to be explained

about every sport:

their evolution, their creators,

their followers...

it's exactly as in art: there are

creators, there are followers,

there are changes,

there are evolutions,

there's a history, there is

a becoming of sports.

Parnet: And you had started a

sentence with, “I attended...”?

Deleuze: Oh, that's just another

detail. I believe that I attended...

it's sometimes difficult to be specific

about when a move really originated

yet I do

recall that,

before the war, there

were some Australians.

And here, there are questions

of national origins,

why did Australians introduce

the two-handed back swing?

At the beginning of the two-handed

back swing, only Australians did it,

at least as I recall it, I think. Anyhow,

why did the Australians have...

This relation between the two-

handed back swing

and the Australians, I don't know,

it didn't go without saying,

perhaps there was

some reason.

I remember one move that struck

me when I was a child because

it created no effect. We saw that the

opponent missed the ball,

but we had to wonder why.

It was a rather soft blow,

and after considering

it closely,

we saw that it was

the return of service.

When the opponent

served the ball,

the player returned it

with a rather soft blow,

but that had the result of falling

at the tips of the server's feet

as he was approaching

to volley, so he received it,

not even at mid-volley,

and he couldn't return it.

So this was a

strange return

because we couldn't

understand very well

why it succeeded

so well as a move.

In my opinion, the first

to have systematized that

was a great Australian

player,

who did not have much

of a career on clay courts

because he wasn't interested

in it, called Bromwich,

right before or after the war,

I don't recall exactly.

But he was a very great player,

a true inventor of moves.

But I do recall that as

a child or young man,

I was astounded at this move that

has now become classic,

that everybody

does.

So there you are, an invention of a

move that, to my knowledge,

the generation of Borotra didn't yet

know in tennis, this sort of return.

Parnet: To finish with tennis

and McEnroe,

do you think that when he

complains and insults the referee,

in fact insulting himself more than

he does the referee-

is this a matter

of style,

and that he is unhappy with

his form of expression?

Deleuze: No, it's a matter of style

because it belongs to his style.

It's a kind of nervous

recharging, yes,

just like an orator can get angry,

while on the contrary,

there are orators who

remain cold and distant.

So it's fully part of

McEnroe's style.

It's the soul, as we say

in German, the Gemut.

Parnet: So, “U” is

the “One.”

Parnet: So, “U” is

the “One.”

Deleuze: The “One.”

Parnet: The “One,” O-N-E ...

So, philosophy and science concern

themselves with “universals.”

However, you always say that

philosophy must always stay

in contact with

singularities.

Isn't there a

paradox here?

Deleuze: No, there's no paradox

because philosophy and

even science have strictly nothing

to do with universals.

These are ready-made ideas, ideas

derived from general opinion.

Opinion about philosophy is that it

concerns itself with universals.

Opinion about science is that it

concerns itself with universal

phenomena that can always

be reproduced, etc.

But even if you take a formula like,

“all bodies fall,”

what is important is not

that all bodies fall.

Whats important is the fall and

the singularities of the fall.

Even if scientific

singularities-for example,

mathematical singularities in

functions, or physical singularities,

or chemical singularities,

points of congealing, etc.-

were all reproducible,

well fine, and then what?

These are secondary phenomena,

processes of universalization,

but what science addresses is not

universals, but singularities,

points of congealing: when does

a body change its state,

from the liquid state to

the solid state, etc. etc.

Philosophy is not concerned

with the one, being.

To suggest that

is just stupid.

Rather, it is also concerned

with singularities.

One would almost

have to say...

In fact, one always finds

oneself in multiplicities.

Multiplicities are aggregates

of singularities.

The formula for multiplicities and for

an aggregate of singularities is

n - 1, that is, the One is

what must always be subtracted.

So there are two errors

not to be made:

philosophy is not concerned

with universals.

There are three kinds

of universals, yes,

that one could indicate:

universals of contemplation,

Ideas with

a capital I.

There are universals

of reflexion.

And there are universals

of communication,

the last refuge of the

philosophy of universals.

Habermas likes these universals

of communication.

This means philosophy is defined

either as contemplation,

or as reflexion,

or as communication.

In all three cases, it's quite comical,

really quite farcical.

The philosopher that contemplates,

OK, he's a joke.

The philosopher who reflects

doesn't make us laugh,

but is even stupider

because

no one needs a philosopher

in order to reflect.

Mathematicians don't

need a philosopher

in order to reflect

on mathematics.

An artist does not need

to seek out a philosopher

in order to reflect on

painting or on music.

Boulez doesn't need a philosopher

in order to reflect on music.

To believe that philosophy

is a reflexion on anything

is to despise it all, to despise both

philosophy and

what philosophy is supposed

to reflect on since,

after all, you don't need

philosophy to reflect... Ok...

As for communication,

let's not even talk about it.

The idea of philosophy as being the

restoration of a consensus

in communication from the basis of

universals of communication,

that is the most laughable

idea that we've heard since...

For philosophy has strictly nothing

to do with communication.

What could it

possibly. . .'.7

Communication suffices

very well in itself,

and all this about consensus and

opinions is the art of interrogations.

Philosophy has nothing

to do with this.

Philosophy, again as I have

been saying from the start,

consists in creating concepts, which

does not mean communicating.

Art is not communicative,

art is not reflexive.

Art, science, philosophy

are neither contemplative,

neither reflexive,

nor communicative.

It's creative, that's all. Hence,

the formula is n - 1,

suppress the unity,

suppress the universal.

Parnet: So you feel that universals

have nothing to do with philosophy?

Deleuze: No, no, they have

nothing to do with it.

Parnet: Let's move directly on to

and “V” is “Voyage,”

and this is the demonstration of a

concept as a paradox because

you invented a notion, a concept,

one could say, which is “nomadism,”

but you hate traveling.

We can make this revelation

at this point of our conversation,

you hate traveling.

First of all, why do you

hate to travel?

Deleuze: I don't like traveling

because of the conditions

for a poor intellectual

who travels.

Maybe if I traveled differently,

I would adore traveling,

but intellectuals, what does

it mean for them to travel?

It means going

to lectures,

at the other end of the world

if need be, and with all that,

this includes before and after,

talking before with people

who greet you quite kindly, and

talking after with people

who listened to you quite

politely talk, talk, talk.

So, an intellectuals travel is the

opposite of traveling.

Go to the ends of the earth to talk,

which he can do very well at home,

and to see people before for talking,

and see people after for talking,

this is a monstrous

voyage.

Having said this, it's true, I feel

no inclination toward traveling,

but it's not some sort of

principle for me,

and I don't pretend even to be right,

thank God. Ok, so I ask myself,

what is there, what is there

for me in traveling?

First, there is always a

small bit of false rupture.

I'd say it's the

first aspect of:

what is it that makes traveling

for me quite distasteful!

The first reason is:

it's a cheap rupture,

and I understand what

Fitzgerald expressed:

a trip is not enough to

create a real rupture.

If you want rupture, then do

something other than travel because

finally, what does

one see?

People who travel

tend to travel a lot,

and after, they are

even proud of it.

They say it's in order

to find a father.

There are great reporters who have

written books on this, they did it all,

Vietnam, Afghanistan,

wherever you like,

and they say bluntly that they all

were in search of a father.

They shouldn't

have bothered...

Traveling can really

be Oedipian in that sense.

Well, ok... I say no,

that just won't do!

The second reason: it seems

that I am greatly moved by

an admirable phrase,

as always, from Beckett

who has one of his characters

[Camier] say, more or less-

I cite poorly, and it's expressed

better than this:

sure, we're all dumb, but still, not to

the point of traveling for pleasure.

I find this phrase completely

satisfying: I am dumb,

but not to the point of traveling for

pleasure, no, not that dumb!

And there is a third aspect of travel.

You said, “nomad”... Well,

yes, I've always been quite

fascinated with nomads,

but precisely because nomads

are people who don't travel.

Those who travel

are emigrants,

and there can certainly be

perfectly respectable people

who are forced to travel,

exiled people, emigrants.

This is a kind of trip that it is not

even a question of ridiculing

because these are sacred

forms of travel, forced travel.

Ok, fine... But nomads

don't travel.

Nomads, to the contrary, quite

literally, they stay put completely,

all the specialists on

nomads say this.

It's because nomads

don't want to leave,

because they seize hold

of the earth, their land.

Their land becomes deserted

and they seize hold of it,

they can only nomadize

on their land,

and it's by dint of wanting to stay

on their land that they nomadize.

So in a sense, one can say nothing

is more immobile than a nomad,

nothing travels less

than a nomad.

It's because they don't want

to leave that they are nomad.

And that's why they are

completely persecuted.

And finally, the last aspect of

traveling that doesn't make it very...

There is a phrase from Proust that is

quite beautiful that says:

after all, what does one

always do when one travels?

One always verifies

something.

One verifies that a particular color

one dreamed about is really there.

And then he adds something very

important. He says:

a bad dreamer is someone

who doesn't go see

if the color he dreamed about

is really there,

but a good dreamer knows

that one has to go verify

if the color is

really there.

I consider this a good conception

of travel, but otherwise...

Parnet: This is a fantastic

regression.

Deleuze: No, at the same time,

there are trips that are true ruptures.

For example, the life of Le Clézio at

the moment seems to be a way

in which he certainly operates

a kind of rupture.

Parnet: Lawrence...

Deleuze: There's [T.E.] Lawrence,

yes, Lawrence...

There are too many great writers

I admire who have a sense of travel.

Stevenson as well, Stevenson's

travels aren't negligible.

So what I am saying has

no generality. I say,

for my own account, someone who

doesn't like to travel

probably has these

four reasons.

Parnet: ls your haired

of travel connected

to your natural

slowness?

Deleuze: No, I can conceive

of very slow travels,

but in any case,

I feel no need to move.

All the intensities that I have

are immobile intensities.

Intensities distribute themselves in

space or in other systems

that aren't necessarily

in exterior spaces.

I can assure you that when

I read a book that I admire,

that I find beautiful, or when I hear

music that I consider beautiful,

I really get the feeling of

passing into such states...

Never could traveling

inspire such emotions.

So, why would I go seek emotions

that don't suit me very well,

since I have more

beautiful ones for myself

in immobile systems,

like music, like philosophy?

There is a gee-music, a geo-

philosophy, I mean,

they are profound countries, and

these are more my countries, yes?

Parnet: Your

foreign lands.

Deleuze: My very own foreign lands

that I don't find by traveling.

Parnet: You are the perfect

illustration that movement

is not located in displacement,

but you did travel a little,

to Lebanon for a conference,

to Canada, to the USA.

Deleuze: Yes, yes, I did that,

but I have to say that

I was always dragged into it,

and I no longer do it because

I should never have done all that,

I did it too much.

At that time, I liked walking,

and now I walk less well,

so travel is no longer

a possibility.

But I recall walking all alone

through the streets of Beirut

from morning to night,

not knowing where I was going.

I like to see a city on foot,

but that's all over.

Parnet: Let's move

on to

Deleuze: There's

nothing in

Parnet: Yes, there's

Wittgenstein.

I know he's nothing for you,

but could you say a few words.

Deleuze: I don't want to talk

about that... For me,

it's a philosophical catastrophe.

It's the very example of a “school,”

it's a regression of all philosophy,

a massive regression.

The Wittgenstein matter

is quite sad.

They imposed a system

of terror in which,

under the pretext

of doing something new,

it's poverty instituted in

all grandeur...

There isn't a word to describe

this danger,

but this danger

is one that recurs,

it's not the first time that

it has happened. it's serious,

especially since Wittgensteinians

are mean and destructive.

So if they win, there could be

an assassination of philosophy.

They are assassins

of philosophy.

Parnet: it's serious, then.

Deleuze: Yes... One must

remain very vigilant.

Parnet: “X” is unknown,

and “Y” is unspeakable,

so we'll pass directly to the final

letter of the alphabet, it's “Zed.”

Deleuze: Ah, well,

good timing!

Deleuze: Ah, well,

good timing!

Parnet: Now, it's not the Zed of

Zorro, the Lawman,

since we have understood

throughout the alphabet,

you don't like judgment. it's the Zed

of bifurcation, of lightning,

it's the letter that one finds in the

names of great philosophers:

Zen, Zarathustra, Leibniz,

Spinoza, Nietzsche,

BergZon, and of course,

Deleuze.

Deleuze: You are very witty with

BergZon and very kind toward me.

I consider Zed to be

a great letter

that helps us connect with

the fly, the zed of the fly,

the zigging movement of the fly,

the Zed, the final word,

there is no word after zigzag.

It's good to end on this word.

So, what happens,

in fact, in Zed?

The Zen is the reverse

of Nez (nose),

which is also a zigzag.

Z as movement, the fly...

What is that about? it's perhaps the

elementary movement,

perhaps the movement that

presided at the creation of the world.

I'm currently reading,

like everyone else,

I'm reading a book

on the Big Bang,

on the creation of the universe,

an infinite curving,

how it occurred, the Big Bang.

One must say that,

at the origin of things, there's no

Big Bang, there's the Zed.

Parnet: So, the Zed of the fly,

the Big Bang... the bifurcation...?

Deleuze: We have to replace the

Big Bang with the Zed, which is,

in fact, the Zen, the route of the fly.

What does that mean? For me,

when I evoke the zigzag, it's what

we said earlier about no universals,

but rather aggregates

of singularities. The question is

how do we bring disparate

singularities into relationship,

or bring potentials into relationship,

to speak in terms of physics.

One can imagine a chaos

full of potentials,

so how to bring these

potentials into relation?

Now I no longer recall in which

vaguely scientific discipline

there is a term that I like a lot

and that I used in my books.

Someone explained that between

two potentials occurs

a phenomenon that was defined by

the idea of a “dark precursor.”

This dark precursor is what places

different potentials into relation,

and once the journey of the

dark precursor takes place,

the potentials enter into a state of

reaction, and between the two,

the visible event flashes,

the bolt of lightning.

So, there is the dark precursor

and then a lightning bolt,

and that's how the

world was born.

There is always a dark precursor

that no one sees,

and then the lightning bolt that

illuminates, and there is the world.

Or that's also what thought must be,

that's what philosophy must be.

That's the great Zed, but that's

also the wisdom of Zen.

The sage is the

dark precursor

and then the blow of

the stick comes,

since the Zen master is

always distributing blows.

The blow of the stick

is the lightning

that makes things visible...

And so we have finished...

Parnet: Are you happy to have

a Zed in you name?

Deleuze: Delighted!

Parnet: The end.

Deleuze: What happiness

it is to have done this.

Posthumous!

Posthumous!

Parnet: PostZumous!

Deleuze: And so there we are... and

thank you for all of your kindness.