Tuesday, July 31, 2007

About Death's Deal (which is supposed to sound like "The Seventh Seal")

I was looking at a Bergman website in the UK, where they're releasing a new version of The Seventh Seal and found some nice wallpapers. I've now got the famous image of the Dance of Death (which occurs near the end of the film) on my desktop.

The Seventh Seal was the first Bergman film that I watched (and currently the only one that I own). I can't remember what attracted me to it -- it may just have been the cover of the DVD, which has the figure of Death with his cape outspread. I think it's one of Bergman's most accessible films. It's very artfully shot, with a strange inter-play of dark humor and genuine existential questioning. Check out the website for some stunning stills from the film. (You can also enter the contest, win the box set and give it to me ... I've already entered with all the email addresses I own ... of course, for all I know this may be an old website that hasn't been taken down ... )

The Dance of Death (or La Danse Macabre for poseurs like myself ...) is a medieval allegory where Death comes to a range of people, in a range of secular and spiritual stations of life. He speaks to each one in turn (in a more or less descending order of social hierarchy) and warns them (and mocks them) about their impending death. Each one then responds by expressing their unwillingness to die and how they will miss worldly delights. A version that I've read, by John Lydgate, paints a pretty bleak picture. Even the religious figures are more concerned about accumulating worldly riches and prolonging pleasures. No one is prepared for death except for three lowly characters near the end of the poem: the Laborer, the Child and the Hermit. Lydgate's version is a pretty close translation of a famous medieval mural at a Church in Paris (Of The Holy Innocents), which apparently had the Dance of Death strung out and illustrated on the walls surrounding the cemetery.

Bergman's film doesn't really have Death interrogate the various characters in the same way, although the opening scenes has Max Von Sydow as a knight entering a church and looking at a Danse Macabre mural. Death catches up with him and challenges him to a game of chess (another of the stunning visual moments of the film). The knight gets to live as long as he keeps the game of chess alive. Along the way, various individuals join the knight's strange journey home. Having the horrible memory that I have, I don't really recall how it all ends: it might indeed end with the Dance of Death (my copy of the DVD being in the "safe-keeping" of a friend in Singapore...) but it certainly is a profound cinematic experience.

Strangely enough, the text that I'm laboring over today (and am delightfully distracted from as I write this post) is the medieval morality play Everyman, which has eerily similar qualities to the Danse Macabre. I guess the Freudian uncanny is always lurking around, ready to cut into and alienate our experience of consciousness.

Monday, July 30, 2007

On the Fourth Day

We're coming to the end of the Fourth Day of the Diet, the day on which I get to eat bananas. Yesterday was bad. I was really hungry at night and couldn't go to sleep (a noisy apartment across the field and our new neighbors upstairs who own a squeaky bed and go at IT like rabbits didn't help either). But bananas really make a difference to how one feels in the stomach. With fruit and veggies, you eat a whole lot and then 2 minutes later your feeling of satisfaction has dissipated. At least bananas stay with you.

NYT Bergman Obit

Here's the link to the Bergman Obit that the NYT just put out. It's too long to copy onto the blog. But here's an interesting excerpt from right at the end of the piece:
Once, when asked by the critic Andrew Sarris why he did what he did, Mr. Bergman told the story of the rebuilding of Chartres Cathedral in the Middle Ages by thousands of anonymous artisans.

“I want to be one of the artists of the cathedral that rises on the plain,” he said. “I want to occupy myself by carving out of stone the head of a dragon, an angel or a demon, or perhaps a saint; it doesn’t matter; I will find the same joy in any case. Whether I am a believer or an unbeliever, Christian or pagan, I work with all the world to build a cathedral because I am artist and artisan, and because I have learned to draw faces, limbs, and bodies out of stone. I will never worry about the judgment of posterity or of my contemporaries; my name is carved nowhere and will disappear with me. But a little part of myself will survive in the anonymous and triumphant totality. A dragon or a demon, or perhaps a saint, it doesn’t matter!”

Mr. Bergman’s celluloid carvings often revealed an obsession with death. But in later life he said that the obsession had abated. “When I was young, I was extremely scared of dying,” he said. “But now I think it a very, very wise arrangement. It’s like a light that is extinguished. Not very much to make a fuss about.”

Another Obit: The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman, Famed Swedish Film Director, Dies at 89

STOCKHOLM, Sweden (AP) -- Swedish director Ingmar Bergman, an iconoclastic filmmaker widely regarded as one of the great masters of modern cinema, died Monday, the president of his foundation said. He was 89.

''It's an unbelievable loss for Sweden, but even more so internationally,'' Astrid Soderbergh Widding, president of The Ingmar Bergman Foundation, which administers the directors' archives, told The Associated Press.

Bergman died at his home in Faro, Sweden, Swedish news agency TT said, citing his daughter Eva Bergman. A cause of death was not immediately available.

Through more than 50 films, Bergman's vision encompassed all the extremes of his beloved Sweden: the claustrophobic gloom of unending winter nights, the gentle merriment of glowing summer evenings and the bleak magnificence of the island where he spent his last years.

Bergman, who approached difficult subjects such as plague and madness with inventive technique and carefully honed writing, became one of the towering figures of serious filmmaking.

He was ''probably the greatest film artist, all things considered, since the invention of the motion picture camera,'' Woody Allen said in a 70th birthday tribute in 1988.

Bergman first gained international attention with 1955's ''Smiles of a Summer Night,'' a romantic comedy that inspired the Stephen Sondheim musical ''A Little Night Music.''

''The Seventh Seal,'' released in 1957, riveted critics and audiences. An allegorical tale of the medieval Black Plague years, it contains one of cinema's most famous scenes -- a knight playing chess with the shrouded figure of Death.

''I was terribly scared of death,'' Bergman said of his state of mind when making the film, which was nominated for an Academy Award in the best picture category.

The film distilled the essence of Bergman's work -- high seriousness, flashes of unexpected humor and striking images.

In a 2004 interview with Swedish broadcaster SVT, the reclusive filmmaker acknowledged that he was reluctant to view his work.

''I don't watch my own films very often. I become so jittery and ready to cry ... and miserable. I think it's awful,'' Bergman said.

Though best known internationally for his films, Bergman also was a prominent stage director. He worked at several playhouses in Sweden from the mid-1940s, including the Royal Dramatic Theater in Stockholm, which he headed from 1963 to 1966. He staged many plays by the Swedish author August Strindberg, whom he cited as an inspiration.

The influence of Strindberg's grueling and precise psychological dissections could be seen in the production that brought Bergman an even-wider audience: 1973's ''Scenes From a Marriage.'' First produced as a six-part series for television, then released in a theater version, it is an intense detailing of the disintegration of a marriage.

Bergman showed his lighter side in the following year's ''The Magic Flute,'' again first produced for TV. It is a fairly straight production of the Mozart opera, enlivened by touches such as repeatedly showing the face of a young girl watching the opera and comically clumsy props and costumes.

Bergman remained active later in life with stage productions and occasional TV shows. He said he still felt a need to direct, although he had no plans to make another feature film.

In the fall of 2002, Bergman, at age 84, started production on ''Saraband,'' a 120-minute television movie based on the two main characters in ''Scenes From a Marriage.''

In a rare news conference, the reclusive director said he wrote the story after realizing he was ''pregnant with a play.''

''At first I felt sick, very sick. It was strange. Like Abraham and Sarah, who suddenly realized she was pregnant,'' he said, referring to biblical characters. ''It was lots of fun, suddenly to feel this urge returning.''

The son of a Lutheran clergyman and a housewife, Ernst Ingmar Bergman was born in Uppsala on July 14, 1918, and grew up with a brother and sister in a household of severe discipline that he described in painful detail in the autobiography ''The Magic Lantern.''

The title comes from his childhood, when his brother got a ''magic lantern'' -- a precursor of the slide-projector -- for Christmas. Ingmar was consumed with jealousy, and he managed to acquire the object of his desire by trading it for a hundred tin soldiers.

The apparatus was a spot of joy in an often-cruel young life. Bergman recounted the horror of being locked in a closet and the humiliation of being made to wear a skirt as punishment for wetting his pants.

He broke with his parents at 19 and remained aloof from them, but later in life sought to understand them. The story of their lives was told in the television film ''Sunday's Child,'' directed by his own son Daniel.

Young Ingmar found his love for drama production early in life. The director said he had coped with the authoritarian environment of his childhood by living in a world of fantasies. When he first saw a movie he was greatly moved.

''Sixty years have passed, nothing has changed, it's still the same fever,'' he wrote of his passion for film in the 1987 autobiography.

But he said the escape into another world went so far that it took him years to tell reality from fantasy, and Bergman repeatedly described his life as a constant fight against demons, also reflected in his work.

The demons sometimes drove him to great art -- as in ''Cries and Whispers,'' the deathbed drama that climaxes when the dying woman cries ''I am dead, but I can't leave you.'' Sometimes they drove him over the top, as in ''Hour of the Wolf,'' where a nightmare-plagued artist meets real-life demons on a lonely island.

Bergman also waged a fight against real-life tormentors: Sweden's powerful tax authorities.

In 1976, during a rehearsal at the Royal Dramatic Theater, police came to take Bergman away for interrogation about tax evasion. The director, who had left all finances to be handled by a lawyer, was questioned for hours while his home was searched. When released, he was forbidden to leave the country.

The case caused an enormous uproar in the media and Bergman had a mental breakdown that sent him to hospital for over a month. He later was absolved of all accusations and in the end only had to pay some extra taxes.

In his autobiography he admitted to guilt in only one aspect: ''I signed papers that I didn't read, even less understood.''

The experience made him go into voluntary exile in Germany, to the embarrassment of the Swedish authorities. After nine years, he returned to Stockholm, his longtime base.

It was in the Swedish capital that Bergman broke into the world of drama, starting with a menial job at the Royal Opera House after dropping out of college.

Bergman was hired by the script department of Swedish Film Industry, the country's main production company, as an assistant script writer in 1942.

In 1944, his first original screenplay was filmed by Alf Sjoeberg, the dominant Swedish film director of the time. ''Torment'' won several awards including the Grand Prize of the 1946 Cannes Film Festival, and soon Bergman was directing an average of two films a year as well as working with stage production.

After the acclaimed ''The Seventh Seal,'' he quickly came up with another success in ''Wild Strawberries,'' in which an elderly professor's car trip to pick up an award is interspersed with dreams.

Other noted films include ''Persona,'' about an actress and her nurse whose identities seem to merge, and ''The Autumn Sonata,'' about a concert pianist and her two daughters, one severely handicapped and the other burdened by her child's drowning.

The date of the funeral has not yet been set, but will be attended by a close group of friends and family, the TT news agency reported.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Veggie Overdose

So -- yesterday was day 2 of the veggie soup diet -- the hardest day for me cause you don't eat fruit on day 2. We (yes, Edna's doing it with me even though she has no weight to lose and she's never lost anything on the diet when we've tried it out in the past) ended up eating a nice salad for lunch (Baby Arugula and Spinach, with balsamic vinegar and olive oil) and stir frying some bitter-gourd and brinjal for dinner. In effect, it didn't look all that different from a regular day's menu except that there was no carbo.

In place of carbo -- vegetable soup. Edna's convinced that I hate the soup because 1. I eat it really slowly (it's the only thing that she finishes before I do), 2. never go for seconds and according to her, 3. have a look of intense agony on my face as I slurp each painful spoonful. Strangely, I think the soup reminds of home cause it tastes exactly like the thing I used to make back in Singapore, down to the same brand of chicken broth. We're almost out of soup -- so I'll probably have to cook up another batch today. I'm thinking of pureeing it all (with the slurpie blender) and see what it's like.

So -- it's day 3 of the diet -- and I'm allowed fruit AND veggies today. Thank God for fruit.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Back to the Soup

I'm trying to lose some weight (what's new) and have resorted to the only diet that has ever worked for me: the Vegetable Soup Diet. It's day two of the Diet -- the hardest day for me cause you can't eat fruit on this day (and I'm not so hot about the Veggie Soup, though by most accounts it's a really yummy soup). Anyway, I've got a whole stock pot worth of Veggie soup and lots of green leaves to work through today.

Day One -- wasn't too bad. Partly because it's berry season here and I was stuffing my face with strawberries and cherries. I like apples also (they're the potatoes of fruit), so not being hungry isn't a challenge. But I was thinking about food constantly yesterday -- about Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and Dinosaur BBQ Ribs -- and I haven't even eaten these things for a really long time. Shoot this entry is causing me to salivate and all I have in front of me is this bowl of soup ...


The diet worked really well back in 2000/1 when I lost quite a lot of weight going on it. Of course, I tell people that the diet just gives you a kick start and motivates you to work out. But I'm sure that in some secret compartment of my grease-loving soul the diet represents both penance and a quick-fix for all those meals made up of Popeye's Fried Chicken (the best in the world in my book ... and available on just about every major street in New York, on MLB Blvd in Lansing and at Changi Terminal 2 ...)

Anyway, I've been working out (moderately -- I'm doing the Couch to 5k running program) and hopefully weight loss will help me up the intensity of the work outs.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

How about a recipe?

Edna had a friend over for dinner two weeks ago -- right about when I was furiously experimenting with smoothies. I still am, but this smoothie was particularly memorable. I've decided to christen the following recipe "Blakely's Blush", cause of the effect it had!

You take
  • a carton of frozen youghurt
  • five to six cubes of ice
  • a few pieces of frozen banana
  • three nice sized strawberries
  • some orange juice
AND here's the blush
  • Two shots of Bacardi Rum

and slush it all together! "Blakely's Blush" should be served in those cute stemless red-wine glasses (ok they're the only ones we have ...)

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Bad Argumentation

It struck me, as I watched the argument between Michael Moore and Sanjay Gupta, that this is a superb example of the bad argumentation that goes on all the time in American media.

Watch the intro:



Then watch the exchange between Moore and Gupta:

Part One


Part Two


Part Three


What is interesting is how the arguments run down to "I'm right because I have the best facts" versus "No you cherry-pick the facts". I think where the argument needs to go is to interrogate a key assumption: why is it necessary to be consistent with one's sources of fact for a position to be valid? Michael Moore skips over this entirely and Sanjay Gupta keeps insisting on this criteria -"consistency of sources" - as the measure of what's honest or effective argumentation.

What is required is an inquiry into the faith we hold in wholes.

"Guaranteed translatability, given homogeneity, systematic coherence in their absolute forms, this is surely what renders the injunction, the inheritance, and the future - in a word the other - impossible. There must be disjunction, interruption, the heterogeneous if at least there must be, if there must be a chance given to any "there must be" whatsoever ...." (Derrida, Specters of Marx)

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Summer Smoothies

It's getting really hot here in Lansing and we've been consuming many a smoothie. Edna decided that it would be a good way to beat the heat and satisfy our sweet tooth without being too unhealthy. Anyway, quite a while ago, she got a few bags of frozen fruit and left the smoothie making to me ...

1. The Naive Smoothie:
Three handfuls of assorted frozen berries.
One carton of yoghurt
Some Orange juice.

This was ok and would have been our staple except for ...

2. The Gary-Takes-the-Suggestion-that-Everything-can-Go-into-a-Smoothie-Literally Smoothie:
A handful of frozen berries
Some Orange juice
Some Honey
A Handful of Crushed Quaker Oat Squares
A Banana
Some Milk
And a splash of Pinot Grigio

Gary later notices a cup containing this experiment quietly sitting in the fridge .... This was just never made again.

3. Gary-Belatedly-Discovers(In an "Aha!" moment that reveals his ignorance regarding important life skills such as smoothie making)-that-the-Key-to-Nice-Smoothies-is-Ice Smoothie:
A few pieces of FROZEN banana
A carton of FROZEN yoghurt
Some Really Old Chocolate coated coffee beans from Trader Joe's
Some Milk
A few cubes of FROZEN water

We're getting there, though Edna requests for a spoon to consume this one ...

And finally ...

4. The Can-You-Make-Another-One Smoothie:
A few pieces of FROZEN banana
A carton of FROZEN yoghurt
Some Ice
And half a glass of Cabernet

This was actually not too bad.

In sum, freezing everything helps.

And yes, Sourdough was not forgotten. She just loves crunching on ice-cubes.

Monday, July 09, 2007

GeoTagging

I've been messing around with the Geotag function in Flickr. I'm strangely fascinated by the fact that pictures can be traced to points of abstract representation on a map:

Anyway: MAP

Saturday, July 07, 2007

Strange Brew

"... Bryþen was ongunnen
þætte Adame Eve gebyrmde æt fruman worulde"

I came across this interesting account of the Fall while reading an Old English poem on St. Guthlac, and English saint this week. I've never read a figuration of the Fall in these terms, so the novelty of the image struck me. The line translates: "The brew was in the making that Eve fermented for Adam at the beginning of the world". It goes on to discuss sin and death as a potion that is first made in the Fall and remains to be drunk by all of humanity. I suppose this would have been one attempt to explain that age old conundrum of the transmission of "original sin".

I guess I was reminded by it because of that creamy Black and Tan I had last night at Claddagh, an Irish Pub/Restaurant that's one of the few places for food that's not bad around here.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

One for the lawyers

[I read Derrida's Gift of Death last week and was immensely moved by some of the meditations on the relationship between responsibility, death and ethics. (Yes, I work in a field where being moved by something is legitimate motivation for thought ...) Anyway, here's a piece I wrote for another member of my Committee. It's a reading of two versions of the tale of Lycurgus and the founding of Athenian law. I summarize the story within the essay but here's a the link to the Wiki entry on Lycurgus of Sparta, who is the mythological figure the tales refer to.]

Founding the Law Through the Gift of Death

Derrida's The Gift of Death offers some provocative meditations on the notion of "responsibility" and how it is tied with the absolutely unique sense of one's own mortality. In a section that comes close to a summary of his thoughts on the subject, Derrida writes:
The gift of infinite love comes from someone and is addressed to someone; responsibility demands irreplaceable singularity. Yet only death or rather the apprehension of death can give this irreplaceablity, and it is only on the basis of it that one can speak of a responsible subject, of the soul as conscience of self, of myself, etc. We have thus deduced the possibility of a mortal's accession to responsibility through the experience of his irreplaceability, that which an approaching death or the approach of death gives him. But the mortal thus deduced is someone whose very responsibility requires that he concern himself not only with an objective Good but with a gift of infinite love, a goodness that is forgetful of itself. (51)
Responsibility is possible, and constitutes the subject when the individual acts in a way that is non substitutable, in a manner that either causes the singular experience of my own death or reminds me of my impending death. In acting as this singular individual, the subject is able to face the absolute other (person) and respond to the Other (God), without the supporting or masking elements of ethics or the law.

The law (the Platonic Good or ethics) is problematic as a foundation of the "responsible subject" for Derrida. Contrary to common sense, when we think that a responsible person is one who abides by rules and obeys the law, who makes decisions rationally, Derrida sees behavior governed by the law as "the technical deployment of a cognitive apparatus, the simple mechanistic deployment of a theorem" (24). Merely acting in an ethical manner shrugs off the absolute burden of responding to the Other without question or justification. To speak the justifications of the law denies the singularity of being and reduces the subject into an egocentric entity:

The ethical can therefore end up making us irresponsible. It is a temptation, a tendency or a facility that would sometimes have to be refused in the name of a responsibility that doesn't keep account or given an account, neither to man, to humans, to society, to one's fellows, or to one's own. Such a responsibility keeps its secret, it cannot and need not present itself .... It declines the autobiography that is always auto-justification, egodicy. (61-2)

I found that these thoughts illuminated the tale of Lycurgus and the founding of Athenian law that is found in both Book VII of Confessio Amantis (VII.2917— 3025) and Hoccleve's The Regiment of Princes (2950—89). The outline of both versions of the story is similar. In order to ensure that the Athenians will abide by the laws that Lycurgus has instituted during his reign even after his death, he strikes a deal with them. He says that he has an appointment to keep with a god (Mercury in Gower's version, Apollo in Hoccleve's) and that Athens must keep the laws while he is gone. After having obtained their vows that they will do so, Lycurgus then goes into self-imposed exile, and never returns to Athens. In doing this, he secures the future of Athenian law.

Insofar that it is an origins myth, what is interesting is the way that absence grounds the law. The pledge to keep the law until Lycurgas returns also guarantees that absence is not figured by loss but by the expectation of return. Held up against Derrida's thoughts on the nature of responsibility, and the way that absolute responsibility cannot be defined as ethical behavior or actions bound by law, the myth seems to further suggest that what grounds the law, on the other hand, is perhaps an act by the irreplaceable subject, a gift of death on Lycurgas' part.

Each version of the tale demonstrates this notion more fully, if differently, while raising questions about the efficacy of such an act when it is performed not in the face to face confrontation between one individual and another absolute individual, but when an individual acts for an entire society.

In Confessio Amantis, the law is already founded on the person of Lycurgus when the tale begins. It works to protect the conservative interests of a carefully ordered society:
Richesse upon the comun good
And nought upon the singuler
Ordeigned was, and the pouer
Of hem that weren in astat
Was sauf: wherof upon debat
Ther stod nothing, so that in reste
Mihte every man his herte reste (VII.2930-6).
Lycurgus' challenge then, is to wean the people off his presence, as it were. His desire is to move from the specific to the general because their allegiance to him governs their adherence to the law.

The excuse Lycurgus offers for his departure is that the true author of the law, Mercury, wants to speak to him about how to further improve life in Athens. It is at this juncture that two questions emerge. Why is attributing the law to a god not enough to secure its survival? And if the name of a god is not efficacious in this way, why invoke the gods at all? While 'Mercury' is a convenient excuse in Lycurgus' own narrative for him to tell the people that he is going "into a place / Which is forein out in an yle" (VII.2974-5), this fails to account for the tension between faith and doubt in the name of a god that arises in Lycurgus' actions.

Perhaps this instability clarifies Derrida's suggestions about the interaction between the Other and the one who is about to become a responsible subject. Lycurgus needs to use the name of a god in order to convince not the people but himself that his act of grounding the law with his disappearance is indeed a responsible act that responds to some absolute Other. For he does take a risk in grounding the law with his absence: the people could easily go back on their word and not abide by the law anyway. Given the stable hierarchical society that is presented in this version of the tale, with Lycurgus at the apex, his disappearance might prompt a power struggle, upsetting the social balance. In fact, the emphasis on the carefully ordered society in the lines quoted earlier suggests that the "comun good" may really rest on a fragile balance of power that could easily slide into disequilibrium. The name of God, in this instance, grounds the law only as an after-effect: its primary function seems to be to account for absence, to transform loss into a productive phenomenon.

While Hoccleve's version of the tale is similar in outline, there are crucial differences. To begin with, Hoccleve's protagonist is not named or established as the respected ruler of Athens: "Ther was a knyght, I not what men him calle / A just man and a treewe in all his deede". (To distinguish between the two, I'll refer to Hoccleve's version of Lycurgus as "the knight"). Further, the motivation for the knight to establish the law with his absence is very different. Unlike the ordered and happy Athenian society that Gower presents, the knight's "sharp lawes" cause the people to become angry and contentious:
And whan they [the laws] weren byfore hem [the people] yrad
They made hem wondir wrooth, and seiden alle,
They weren nat so nyce ne so made
To hem assente for aght may befalle;
They wolden nat hem to tho lawes thralle;
And wolde hand artid this knyght hem repele,
Makyng ageyn him an haynous querele. (2955-61)
Unlike the picture of stability that Gower's Lycurgus presides over, the laws cause social unrest in this case. In effect, by proposing the laws the knight participates in action that is more radical than Lycurgus', for the latter just wants to preserve the status quo. Yet this in itself cannot be the responsible action that Derrida discusses, despite defying social convention and thus possibly answering an absolute call of duty, his actions seem to stem from his own disposition (he is a "just man" and "treewe") rather than from an encounter with the absolute Other. Further, his immediate actions in response to the pressure of the crowd delay the assumption of responsibility. Instead of assuming authorship for the laws (and thus assuming the guilt that must follow on the heels of the social disruption that he has caused), he defers that responsibility, transferring the authorship of the laws of the god Apollo:
Whan he sy this, he blyve to hem seide
He made hem nat, it was god Apollo.
'And on my back,' quod he,'the charge he leide
To keepe hem ... (2962-5)
Not only does he deflect responsibility onto a god, he simultaneously places himself between the god and the people. This allows him to assume another position, another duty – "dever" (2975) – that appears as a responsible act in the eyes of the people: he will go to the god and ask Apollo to repeal the laws. These movements of shrugging off responsibility and then re-inscribing a new role as intermediary for himself, illustrate Derrida's contention that the notion of responsibility can indeed be deployed in an ungrounded, yet politically strategic manner.

Yet ultimately, in both versions of the story, I think there is an assumption of responsibility that approximates to what occurs in Kierkegaard's reading of Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac. Like Abraham, Lycurgus and the knight hold on to a secret. They know that there is no god and they know that they will never return. To justify their leaving may have jeopardized their responsibility but the very structure of their absence ensures that they can never speak of the secret that binds the people to obedience to the law. While Gower's Lycurgus just never returns and dies, Hoccleve's knight goes further to ensure that his body will not betray the secret even after his death:
And whan his laste day gan to appeere,
He bad men throw his body in the see
Lest, if upon the lond maad were his beere,
The peple mighten unto hir citee
His bones carie, and at hir large be,
Qwyt of hir ooth, as to hir jugement. (2983- 8)
In both cases, the self-imposed exile is a moment that immediately becomes mindful of this point of death, when their return to Athens, willed or accidental, can no longer occur. Because of the singularity of their deaths – no one else can authentically claim to be them after they have died – the generality of the law, over time and a nation and distinct from their identities, becomes assured. Yet does this act of sacrifice ironically institute the law as a generality that is itself at odds with the further possibility of responsibility for others? Does the law generalize and order behavior such that it eradicates the encounter with an Other, even if it is the imagined encounter of Lycurgus and the knight? Further, Derrida's responsible subject seems to act in a face-to-face moment when confronting a human other, an individual recipient of the gift, not on behalf of the social order. Does sacrifice, when it becomes the focal point of a group identity (even if it is unconscious, as is the case in the tale), necessarily lose its meaning as an act of responsibility precisely because it falls into the realm of making human others general entities rather than particular subjects?

Both Gower and Hoccleve place this tale in sections of their work that insist on the impersonality of the law. Princes themselves cannot be above the law and the ostensible moral of the tale is that the law itself can never be founded on a personality but must be assented to by the people. However, the way that this myth of origins gains this assent, through acts that problematically devolve and then assume responsibility, suggests that the relationship between the law and the singular act of personal sacrifice might be much more intimate than those who trust the law's transcendence would like to admit.

Works Cited:
Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death. Trans. David Wills. Chicago: University of Chicago Press: 1995.
Gower, John. Confessio Amantis Volume 3. Ed. Russell A. Peck. Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications: 2004.
Hoccleve, Thomas. The Regiment of Princes. Ed. Charles R. Blyth. Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications: 1999.