Foucault, Michel - Speech Begins After Death (Minnesota, 2013)

Michel Foucault, Speech Begins after Death.
In Conversation with Claude Bonnefoy. Edited by

Philippe Artières. Translated by Robert Bononno.
S P E E C H B E G I N S A F T E R D E AT H
Michel Foucault, Speech Begins after
Death. In Conversation with Claude
Bonnefoy. Edited by Philippe Artières.
Translated by Robert Bononno. Uni-
versity of Minnesota Press, Minneapo-
lis and London.
Cet ouvrage a bénéficié du soutien des Programmes
d’aide à la publication de l’Institut Français.
This work, published as part of a program of aid for
publication, received support from the Institut Français.
Originally published in French as Le beau danger: Entretien avec

Claude Bonnefoy, by Michel Foucault. Copyright 2011 by
Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales.
English translation copyright 2013 by Robert Bononno
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

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otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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      ’   
VII
Introduction: Foucault
and Audiography
              
1
Interview between
Michel Foucault and
Claude Bonnefoy, 1968
23
           
             
           
83
Editor’s Note
This interview was conducted in the spring and au-

tumn of 1968 and was to be published in book form
by Éditions Belfond. For some reason, the project was
abandoned. We do not know how the text was pre-
pared, but it is likely that Claude Bonnefoy is the au-
thor of the transcription. Errors and inaccuracies in
the typed manuscript have been corrected.
We thank the Foucault family, Madame Bonnefoy,
and Daniel Defert for their generosity.

Foucault and Audiography
PHILIPPE ARTIÈRES
In memory of Alain Crombecque
In considering the reception of Foucault’s thought,

several events have occurred that, to a lesser extent
than in the case of Louis Althusser and the publication
of The Future Lasts a Long Time,1 have permanently
altered the way in which we read Foucault and, more
generally, respond to his ideas. For one thing, the pub-
lication in 1995 of the several volumes of The Essential
Works of Foucault 1954–1984 2 revealed an oral Fou-
cault. Now, readers had access to a complete collection
of his statements, gathered from previous publica-
tions, which he had prepared for conferences, inter-
views, and other public events. This act of collecting,
INTRODUCTION
translating, and compiling contributed to the produc-

tion of a figure largely unknown to many, forgotten or
repressed by others—that of an engaged thinker, in-
venting forms of speech in public spaces, who was also
an enduring critic of his own thought. Another Fou-
cault had existed in parallel to the author: a man en-
gaged in more ephemeral activities. The revelation of
these two sides of the philosopher’s activity was met
with a particularly interesting response, namely, the
specific notion of the intellectual (which many would
claim began with Pierre Bourdieu) was updated.3
Through the publication of roundtables and inter-
views, contemporary militants—those engaged in
global social forums, for example, or concerned with
issues of sexual identity—were given indirect access
to the principal components of Foucault’s thought.
The subsequent publication of his lectures at the
Collège de France (1971–84) beginning in 1997, and
their translation throughout the world, gradually dou-
bled the Foucauldian corpus following the philoso-
pher’s death in 1984. Until then, those lectures had
3
been circulated in the form of audiocassettes or un-

edited transcriptions; Foucault’s teaching was misun-
derstood, ignored, or became the privilege of a hand-
ful of initiates who had little interest in sharing this
work with outsiders. The publication of his lectures
peremptorily disrupted this state of a‡airs. It provided
access to anyone who did not attend his lectures, in
fact, to any early-twenty-first-century reader, not only
to an individual lecture or course but, with the comple-
tion of the publication, the entirety of his teaching as
it developed. To the question “What does it mean to
get involved?” was added a new question: “What does
it mean to teach?”
Furthermore, this two-sided editorial event sud-
denly revealed the extraordinary range of speech reg-
isters mobilized by Foucault throughout his career and
the strength of his investment in oral discourse. In
other words, it not only shows the extent to which a
speaking strategy existed for Foucault but also, and es-
pecially, reveals an ethical quest for speech, a search
that was ongoing for him. The finest indication of this
INTRODUCTION
strategy is that he was able to turn the final subject he

addressed as a teacher into a philosophical question,
that of “speaking truthfully.” His interview with the
critic Claude Bonnefoy is part of this same matrix;
shortly after The Order of Things was published, he be-
gan to experiment with language.
This practice of oral speech resembles what Claude
Mauriac brilliantly chronicled in his journal, in which
he incorporated phone and dinner conversations, dia-
logues, and meetings.4 For Foucault, this practice was
both unique and—as it was so often—highly con-
trolled. The philosopher had incised a geography of
his language gestures, one quite di‡erent from that
of Jean-Paul Sartre,5 Emmanuel Levinas, or Jacques
Derrida. Not the kind of philosopher to stand on a bar-
rel pointing out the road forward to workers, Foucault
used speech in a way that, although it sometimes inter-
sected practices characteristic of French intellectuals
during the 1960s, shared, above all, in his specific ac-
tivity as a philosopher. For Foucault, speaking meant
possibly being inscribed within an order of discourse,
5
but it was also a way of problematizing this practice

through the gesture of speech itself. We can under-
stand, then, why contemporary playwrights and actors
have taken an interest in Foucault.6 For him, speaking
meant continuously reinventing a new theater, a pro-
foundly political theater.
This geography of the voice, this “audiography,” is
composed of very di‡erent public speech acts that
can be assigned a succinct typology according to their
relative proportion. There is, first of all, the impos-
ing mass of educational material (seminars, lectures,
letters, conferences), the scientific and political discus-
sions (roundtables, dialogues, interviews, conversa-
tions), presentations of various kinds (public gather-
ings, demonstrations, meetings, but not the kind of
polemical exchange Foucault was emphatically op-
posed to), and finally the obligatory speech statements
(inaugural addresses, oral exams, hearings before
committees, invitations, cross-examinations).
This audiography is also associated with a number
of physical locations. Some are institutional and ex-
INTRODUCTION
pected—the university auditorium or radio studio—

others are more incongruous. For example, the ex-
change on intellectuals and power took place in the
kitchen of Gilles and Fanny Deleuze in Paris, and Fou-
cault’s discussion with Maurice Clavel occurred in
Vézelay. He spoke on the streets of Nancy after the up-
rising at the Charles-III prison and in Paris, on the
hilly streets of la Goutte d’Or. For the text presented
here, Foucault met with Claude Bonnefoy, a literary
critic with the journal Arts. The interviews took place
over the course of several days during the summer–
autumn of 1968. They were held, most likely, at Fou-
cault’s home on the Rue du Docteur-Finlay, before he
had moved into the apartment on the Rue de Vaugi-
rard, which he didn’t purchase until his return from
Tunisia. The first of those interviews—and the only
one to survive—is published here.
This geography has left its imprint in the archives.
There are bootleg recordings on magnetic tape (for ex-
ample, his lectures in Brazil, Japan, and Canada, and,
especially, his lectures at the Collège de France), texts
7
prepared by Foucault (several interviews collected in

The Essential Works of Foucault), a transcription of
him speaking, notes taken by bystanders, often a stu-
dent (Foucault was a teaching assistant at the École
normale supérieure on the Rue d’Ulm), or, finally, a
single photograph of Foucault speaking but forever
silent—the celebrated picture of the philosopher on a
street in the Goutte d’Or in 1971, a megaphone in his
hand, surrounded by Claude Mauriac, Jean Genet, and
André Glucksmann. Sometimes there is no record at
all, speech has returned to silence, as in Bucharest in
the 1960s or the Sorbonne in 1969.7 What was Foucault
saying that day before the crowd? No one knows any
longer. From the archival point of view, the interview
with Bonnefoy is of considerable interest. A typed
manuscript of the interview is stored in the archives of
the Association pour le Centre Michel Foucault. This
transcription, most likely the work of Claude Bonne-
foy, contains no corrections or additions by Foucault.
The tapes have disappeared, the voices have been si-
lenced. In 2004, for the twenty-year anniversary of
INTRODUCTION
Foucault’s death, over the course of two evenings,

Radio-France broadcast a reading of the interview as
part of the Atelier Foucault, which had been conceived
with the help of Alain Crombecque and Daniel De-
fert. Éric Ruf of the Comédie française served as the
voice of Foucault and Pierre Lamendé that of Bon-
nefoy. A recording of the reading was published by
Gallimard that same year on CD. In a supplement to
the daily newspaper Le Monde devoted to the Festi-
val d’Automne, 2004, the first pages of this transcrip-
tion were published along with photographs of the
philosopher.
These very heterogeneous, often lapidary, archives
describe a map that is not circumstantial but closely
connected to the Foucauldian project. Within Fou-
cault’s intellectual development, it goes without say-
ing that many of these language events are associated
with the trajectory of his life and are part of a historical
context that illuminates that same trajectory. In this
light, we would do well to remember that the years
bracketing 1968 represent an unusual moment of in-
9
tense discourse by students and workers, as well as in-

tellectuals.8
Two practices associated with this Foucauldian pos-
ture are exemplary: the press conference and the inter-
view. Much could be said about the way in which Fou-
cault, in some of his books, breaks the stream of
univocal discourse by introducing a dialogue, as he
does, for example, at the end of The Archaeology of
Knowledge. But to do so we would have to analyze how
he conducted his lectures at the Collège de France, ges-
turing, reading aloud from his sources—not without
pleasure—or working on the radio monologues he
prepared for France-Culture in the 1960s.9 If we have
focused on the interview and the press conference, it is
because these two practices have clearly defined rules
and help clarify the experiment undertaken with
Claude Bonnefoy. Foucault did not invent these forms
of speech, he subverted them.
The press conferences began a few years after the
interview published here, during the years 1971–72,
when Foucault worked with the Groupe Informations
INTRODUCTION
Prisons (GIP). Embedded in this concern to turn in-

formation into a form of struggle, they take place in
the repressive context of post-68 France, when the
principal far-left political organizations were being
dissolved by the government.10 Foucault did not hide
his concern, he went to the prisons to speak with the
families and appeared with actors from the Théâtre du
Soleil in sketches performed in front of housing proj-
ects on the outskirts of Paris. In doing so, Foucault en-
gaged in speech practices that were novel for him. It
was a question of using those practices to challenge
philosophy.11
The press conference is not part of those experi-
mental practices; the process is extremely codified and
serves as a form of public speaking most often used by
the power structure to orchestrate the transmission of
its discourse. Journalists are convened to attend the
press conference of a minister or president. This meet-
ing, during which one or more publicly recognized in-
dividuals addresses those assembled to inform them of
an event or a position, most often unfolds in two stages:
11
a statement by the speaker followed by a question-and-

answer period. The physical equipment used is ex-
tremely standardized and resembles that used in edu-
cational settings. The speaker stands behind a desk or
lectern, often raised, while the audience is seated. The
power of speech is here doubled by a form of physical
domination. It is precisely this mechanism that Fou-
cault used during the years 1971–72, that is, at the time
he obtained his chair at the Collège de France. The
philosopher subverted this manifestation of the power
of speech in at least three ways.
The first press conference in which he participated
took place on February 8, 1971, in the company of
Jean-Marie Domenach and Pierre Vidal-Naquet,
when they announced the creation of the GIP. The
group’s manifesto was read and subsequently widely
reproduced in the French press. The announcement
was made during a press conference organized at the
Chapelle Saint-Bernard, in the Gare Montparnasse
railway station, by the lawyers for a group of impris-
oned Maoist militants. Having struggled for weeks to
INTRODUCTION
obtain the status of political prisoners, they now an-

nounced that their demands had been met and their
hunger strike ended. It was a form of victorious speech
directed at the minister of justice, René Pleven, at a
nonneutral location, a chapel, the site of another kind
of power, that of religious speech. So, what did Fou-
cault do? He attended the press conference not to ap-
propriate or co-opt it, but to prolong it. He did not use
it as an exhibition space, or a space in which to make a
statement, but as an opportunity to draw attention. He
stated that an investigation had been launched in the
prisons to determine what had happened, who was
there, and so on. To their victorious words he attached
a questionnaire, to the exclamatory he added an inter-
rogative. The press conference was thereby inverted,
the speaker asked questions in place of the audience.
The person speaking did not state any truth, he ques-
tioned the evidence.
The press conference that was held in a university
auditorium a few months later, on June 21, 1971, was
entirely di‡erent in kind. This time Foucault was not
13
invited to the dais, he was among those assembled. The

subject was what came to be known as the Jaubert
A‡air, after the name of a journalist for Le Nouvel Ob-
servateur, Alain Jaubert, who was badly beaten by the
police after a demonstration in Paris by French West
Indians in the spring of 1971 as he was trying to help
an injured man who had not been in the march. Upon
his release from custody, an uno·cial commission was
formed to find out what had happened. The minister
of the interior claimed that Jaubert had attacked and
insulted the police o·cers. Journalists from publica-
tions as di‡erent as Le Figaro, Le Monde, and Le Nouvel
Observateur, lawyers and several intellectuals, includ-
ing Foucault, participated. During the press confer-
ence of June 21, which followed one held a few weeks
earlier at the home of Jacques Lacan and which an-
nounced the creation of the commission, there were
four speakers: Claude Mauriac, Denis Langlois, an at-
torney for the Ligue des droits de l’Homme, Gilles
Deleuze, and Michel Foucault. A brochure was pub-
lished for the occasion and serves, aside from a handful
INTRODUCTION
of photographs, as the only record of the event. The

speakers did not simply denounce a campaign of mis-
information, they analyzed the way in which the
power of speech was exercised through an o·cial com-
muniqué of the minister of the interior. With irony,
and through a rigorous analysis of the text, the four
men undid the mechanisms of this arbitrary use of
speech. They countered it with the collective speech of
the witnesses.
Approximately six months after the event, a series
of uprisings shook prisons in France. They began at
the Ney Prison in Toul in early December 1971, then
spread to twenty French penal institutions; inmates
mutinied and for several hours occupied the roofs of
the prisons, yelling slogans denouncing the conditions
inside. The prisoners talked about their situation, mo-
bilized, wrote requests, publicized eyewitness ac-
counts. They assumed the power of speech. An unan-
nounced press conference organized by the GIP was
held at the ministry of justice on the Place Vendôme in
Paris during the late afternoon of February 17, 1972.
15
This became the setting for a new and unexpected

event. Foucault spoke but read aloud from a text writ-
ten by the inmates of Melun prison. In other words, in
the very space were the law is decreed, the ministry of
justice, the philosopher gave a voice to those who until
then had been deprived of the power of speech. He did
not speak on their behalf or for them, he served as a
transmitter.
In interviews, Foucault again experimented with
the exercise of speech. We know that following his re-
turn to France in the late 1960s, after a lengthy exile in
Sweden, Poland, Germany, and Tunisia, Foucault had
numerous requests for interviews in France and
abroad.12 Most often he accepted and explained his ac-
tions, his positions, his work in various journals and
reviews. Yet, among those many interviews, four stand
out, for they serve as genuine speech experiments, in
which Foucault attempts to disengage from the posi-
tion of power he occupied.
The interview that follows is the first. When Fou-
cault completed The Archaeology of Knowledge, Claude
INTRODUCTION
Bonnefoy suggested he publish a book of dialogues for

Éditions Belfond. At the time, Foucault wanted to ex-
plain his way of working and agreed. But from the very
first sessions, Bonnefoy framed the interviews in a way
that made Foucault extremely reticent. Bonnefoy
wanted to discuss the “wrong side of the carpet,” to ad-
dress Foucault’s relationship to writing. Over the
course of the ten meetings that took place, Foucault
engaged in a new kind of speech, autobiographical
speech. The author’s intimate comments about himself
led to an alteration in the oral exchanges between the
two men, a modification of what had initially been a
conventional interview. In discussing the way he
worked, in expressing his di·culties as a writer, Fou-
cault adopted a novel register, a new language. At the
conclusion of the interviews, he said he had been trans-
formed and was pleased to have succeeded in inventing
a type of discourse that was neither a conversation nor
a “kind of lyrical monologue.”
Then, Gilles Deleuze, to whom the review L’Arc
wanted to devote an issue in the early 1970s, suggested
17
to Foucault that they have a discussion.13 It was Fou-

cault’s only dialogue with a contemporary philoso-
pher—if we exclude the debate with Noam Chomsky
that took place on Dutch television, but which failed,
turning into two parallel monologues. The dialogue
with Deleuze is interesting because it is a genuine ex-
ercise in thinking. Deleuze and Foucault are thinking
aloud, not about a text, not about a painting, but about
their respective experiences with the GIP and during
other actions. Although either of them could have ar-
ticulated his work at the time of their intervention in
the public space, together they defined, based on their
experience, a new link between theory and practice.
Their discussion is not a simple presentation of con-
trasting viewpoints, it results in a diagnosis of what
was happening at that time; the interview evolves into
a dialogue capable of producing new concepts.
Several years later, Foucault experimented with an-
other type of interview, as reported by Claude Mauriac
in Mauriac et fils, one related to the Platonic dialogue
and which remains unknown to this day. Yet, those in-
INTRODUCTION
terviews did appear, in 1978, under the name Thierry

Voeltzel, with a preface by that same Claude Mau-
riac.14 But Foucault’s name is absent: the philosopher
is the one questioning Thierry Voeltzel about his per-
sonal experiences, as a young man of twenty in 1976,
when the recording was made. Asking some very di-
rect questions, Foucault engages in a dialogue with this
young homosexual about his background, his activi-
ties, and his sexuality. Here, Foucault reversed the
process; he became the questioner, and he found the
experience to be extremely positive, for it resulted in
speech “of great freedom.”
No doubt the experience of anonymity should be
compared with Foucault’s decision in February 1980
when, after agreeing to Christian Delacampagne’s re-
quest for an interview for Le Monde, he made it a con-
dition that there be no mention of his name. Daniel
Defert has indicated that the philosopher’s identity
during the interview, which appeared in the issue of
April 6, 1980, would remain unknown until Foucault’s
death. By this gesture, which neutralized the e‡ects of
19
celebrity, he wished to avoid publicity and allow more

room for the discussion of ideas. He was rebelling
against the concealment of the author’s thought by his
name and the problems such a situation creates. Fou-
cault, as he stated on several occasions, wrote so he
would no longer have a face. Yet he found, by the late
1970s, that this goal had become impossible not only in
his lectures at the Collège de France but during his var-
ious activities: his face had become that of an influen-
tial thinker. He became the victim of what he so often
struggled against. Anonymity and the use of pseudo-
nyms are one of the ways the philosopher can respond
to celebrity. Thus, during the roundtable organized by
the review Esprit on the struggles involving the pris-
ons,15 Foucault used the pseudonym “Louis Appert,”
after a nineteenth-century philanthropist by the name
of Benjamin Nicolas Marie Appert, the author of a re-
markable survey of French prisons in 1836. His desire
to leave France followed from this. It was as if Foucault
sought, through this pseudonymous interview, to re-
discover something like a form of intact speech and the
INTRODUCTION
intensity he had experienced with Claude Bonnefoy

nearly twelve years earlier.
For there should be little doubt, during this ex-
change between the philosopher and the critic, some-
thing completely original took place. It was a unique
event: Foucault putting himself in danger.
NOTES
1. Louis Althusser, The Future Lasts a Long Time and The

Facts, edited by Olivier Corpet and Yann Moulier Boutang,
translated by Richard Veasey (London: Chatto & Windus,
1993).
2. Michel Foucault, The Essential Works of Foucault 1954–
1984, edited by Paul Rabinow, translated by Robert Hurley
and others: vol. 1, Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth (New York:
New Press, 2006); vol. 2, Aesthetics, Method, and Epistemology
(New York: New Press, 2006); vol. 3, Power (New York: New
Press, 2001).
3. Foucault’s influence on Bourdieu, in particular his polit-
ical project “Raison d’agir,” was pointed out by the sociologist
himself on several occasions. See Pierre Bourdieu, “La philo-
sophie, la science, l’engagement,” in L’infréquentable Michel
21
Foucault: Renouveaux de la pensée critique, edited by Didier

Eribon, Actes du colloque au Centre–Georges Pompidou,
June 21–22, 2000 (Paris: EPEL, 2001), 189–94.
4. Claude Mauriac, Le temps immobile, III: Et comme l’espé-
rance est violente (Paris: Gallimard, 1976).
5. Jeannette Colombel, “Contrepoints poetiques,” Critique
(August–September 1986): 471–72, and Michel Foucault
(Paris: Odile Jacob, 1994).
6. For example, in 2009 the F71 collective was awarded Le
prix Odéon-Télérama du meilleur spectacle by the Théâtre de
l’Odéon for a play about Foucault and his political statements.
7. See Michel Foucault, une journée particulière, photo-
graphs by Élie Kagan, text by Alain Jaubert and Philippe Ar-
tières (Lyon: Æedelsa Éditions, 2004). See also http://www
.michel-foucault-archives.org.
8. Michel de Certeau, The Capture of Speech and Other Po-
litical Writings, edited and with an introduction by Luce Gi-
ard, translated and with an afterword by Tom Conley (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998).
9. See, for example, Utopie et hétérotopies, edited by Daniel
Defort, CD (Paris: INA, 2004).
10. Philippe Artieres, Laurent Quero, and Michelle Zan-
carini-Fournel, Le Groupe d’information sur les prisons: Archives
d’une lutte, 1970–1972 (Paris: Éditions de l’IMEC, 2003).
INTRODUCTION
11. Francois Boullant, Michel Foucault et les prisons (Paris:

PUF, 2003).
12. Philippe Artières, “Des espèces d’échafaudage,” La Re-
vue des revues (2001): 30.
13. “Intellectuals and Power,” in Language, Counter-Mem-
ory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews by Michel Foucault,
edited by Donald F. Bouchard (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univer-
sity Press, 1980).
14. Thierry Voeltzel, Vingt ans et après (Paris: Grasset,
1978).
15. “Luttes autour des prisons,” Toujours les prisons: Esprit
(November 1979): 102–11, reprinted in Dits et écrits, edited by
Daniel Defert, François Ewald, and Jean Lagrange (Paris:
Gallimard, 1995), 4 vols., text no. 273.
            
M I C H E L F O U C A U LT
  

Claude Bonnefoy: During these interviews, Michel Foucault, I
don’t want to ask you to repeat differently what you’ve expressed
so well in your books or comment on them one more time. I would
prefer that these interviews position themselves, if not entirely,
then to a great extent, on the margin of your books, that they pro-
vide a way for us to reveal the hidden pattern, their secret tex-
ture. What I’m principally interested in is your relationship to
writing. But there is already something paradoxical about this.
We’re supposed to be talking, and I’m asking you about writing.
But I have to ask a preliminary question before we start: how will
you approach these interviews, which you were kind enough to
agree to; rather, how do you conceive, before we even get into
it, the interview genre itself?
Michel Foucault: I’ll begin by saying that I have stage

fright. At bottom, I don’t really know why I’m appre-
hensive about these interviews, why I’m afraid of not
being able to get through them. Upon further consid-
eration, I wonder whether it’s not because I’m an aca-
I N T E R V I E W : F O U C A U LT A N D B O N N E F O Y
demic, I have access to a certain number of forms of

speech, in some sense statutory. There are the things I
write, which are intended for articles, for books, in any
case, for discursive and explanatory texts. There is an-
other form of statutory speech, which is associated
with teaching: the fact of speaking before an audience,
of trying to teach it something. Finally, another kind
of statutory speech is that of the public talk, the con-
ference we give in public or among our peers to try to
explain our work, our research.
As for the interview genre, well, I admit I’m not fa-
miliar with it. I think that people who move more eas-
ily than I do in the world of speech, for whom the uni-
verse of speech is an unrestricted universe, without
barriers, without preexisting institutions, without bor-
ders, without limits, are completely at ease with the
interview format and don’t dwell on the problem of
knowing what it’s about or what they’re going to
say. I imagine them as being permeated by language
and that the presence of a microphone, the presence
of a questioner, the presence of a future book made
27
from the very words they’re in the process of uttering

doesn’t impress them very much and that in this space
of speech that is open to them, they feel completely
free. Not me! And I wonder what sort of things I’m go-
ing to be able to say.
That’s what we’re going to find out together.
You said to me that, during these interviews, it wasn’t

a question of repeating what I’ve said elsewhere. I
think I’d be strictly incapable of doing so. Yet, you’re
not asking me to share my secrets, or my life, or what
I feel. We’re both going to have to find a kind of lin-
guistic register, a register of speech, exchange, com-
munication that is not entirely that of the written work,
or that of the explanatory process, or something told
in confidence, for that matter. So let’s try. You were
speaking of my relationship to writing.
When we read The History of Madness or Words and Things,
what strikes me is the presence of this extremely precise and

penetrating analytic thought supported by writing whose vibra-
tions aren’t uniquely those of a philosopher but reveal a writer.
In commentaries on your work, we indeed find your ideas, your
concepts, your analyses, but it lacks this tremor that gives your
texts a greater dimension, an openness to a domain that is not
merely that of discursive writing but of literary writing. In reading
your work, one gets the impression that your thought is insepa-
rable from a formulation that is both rigorous and modulated, that
thought would be less accurate if the sentence hadn’t also found
its cadence, if it hadn’t been carried along and developed by that
cadence. So I’d like to know what the act of writing represents
for you.
I’d first like to clarify something. I’m not, personally,

very fascinated with the sacred side of writing. I know
that currently it is experienced that way by the major-
ity of those who devote themselves to literature or phi-
losophy. What the West has no doubt learned since
Mallarmé is that writing has a sacred dimension, that
it is a kind of activity in itself, intransitive. Writing is
built on itself, not so much to say something, to show
29
something, or to teach something, but to be there. That

writing is, at present, in some way the very monument
of the being of language. In terms of my own lived ex-
perience, I have to admit that writing hasn’t presented
itself that way at all. I’ve always had an almost moral
suspicion of writing.
Can you explain that, can you illustrate how you’ve approached
writing? Once again, what interests me here is Michel Foucault
when he’s writing.
My answer may surprise you somewhat. I know how

to conduct with myself—and I’m pleased to do so here
with you—an exercise that is very di‡erent from what
I’ve done with others. Whenever I’ve spoken about an
author, I’ve always tried to ignore biographical factors
and the social and cultural context, the field of knowl-
edge in which the author was born and educated. I’ve
always tried to approach what we would ordinarily call
his psychology as an abstraction and treat him as a pure
speaking subject.
Well, I’m going to take advantage of this opportu-

nity by asking myself those questions and doing ex-
actly the opposite with myself. I’m going to change my
mind. I’m going to turn the sense of the discourse I had
directed at others against myself. I’m going to try to
tell you what writing has been for me throughout the
course of my life. One of my most constant memo-
ries—certainly not the oldest, but the most stubborn
—is of the di·culties I had in writing well. Writing
well in the sense understood in primary school, that is,
to produce very legible pages of writing. I believe—
in fact I’m sure—that I was the one in my class and in
my school who was the most illegible. That went on
for a long time, until the first years of secondary edu-
cation. In junior high school, I had so much trouble
holding my pen the right way and tracing written signs
correctly that I was made to do these special pages of
writing.
So, that’s a relationship to writing that’s somewhat
complicated, slightly overdetermined. But there’s an-
other memory, much more recent. This is the fact that
31
at bottom, I’ve never taken writing very seriously, the

act of writing. The desire to write took hold of me only
when I was around thirty. Of course, I had been in-
volved in what are called literary studies. But those lit-
erary studies—the habit of explicating a text, of writ-
ing papers, taking tests—you can well imagine that
they in no way made me want to write. Quite the con-
trary.
In order to discover the possible pleasure of writ-
ing, I had to be out of the country. I was in Sweden at
the time and forced to speak either Swedish, which I
was very bad at, or English, which I speak with con-
siderable di·culty. My poor knowledge of languages
prevented me, for weeks on end, for months, and
sometimes years, from expressing what I really wanted
to say. I saw the words I wanted to speak become dis-
torted, simplified, like small, derisive marionettes
standing before me the moment I pronounced them.
Given this impossibility of using my own language,
I noticed, first of all, that it had a thickness, a consis-
tency, that it wasn’t simply like the air we breathe, an
absolutely imperceptible transparency, and then that it

had its own laws, its corridors, its paths of facility,
lines, slopes, coasts, asperities; in other words, it had a
physiognomy and it formed a landscape where one
could walk around and discover in the flow of words,
around sentences, unexpectedly, points of view that
hadn’t appeared previously. In Sweden, where I was
forced to speak a language that was foreign to me, I un-
derstood that I could inhabit my language, with its
sudden, particular physiognomy, as the most secret but
the most secure residence in that place without place
that is the foreign country in which one finds oneself.
Finally, the only real homeland, the only soil on which
we can walk, the only house where we can stop and
take shelter, is language, the one we learned from in-
fancy. For me it was a question of reanimating that lan-
guage, of constructing for myself a kind of small house
of language where I would be the master and whose
nooks and crannies I was familiar with. I think that’s
what made me want to write. Because the possibility of
speaking had been denied me, I discovered the pleasure
33
of writing. Between the pleasure of writing and the

possibility of speaking, there exists a certain relation-
ship of incompatibility. When it is no longer possible
to speak, we discover the secret, di·cult, somewhat
dangerous charm of writing.
For a long time you said that writing didn’t seem to you to be a
serious activity. Why?
Yes. Before this interview, I didn’t take writing very

seriously. You could even say it was something rather
frivolous. Writing was a waste of time. I’m wondering
if it wasn’t the system of values of my childhood that
was being expressed in this depreciation of writing. I
come from a medical family, one of those provincial
medical families that provides, when compared to the
somewhat placid life of a small town, a relatively ac-
commodating or, as they say, progressive milieu.
Nonetheless, the medical milieu in general, especially
in the provinces, remains profoundly conservative. It
still belongs to the nineteenth century. There’s a fine
sociological study to be done of the medical milieu in

provincial France. We would find that, in the nine-
teenth century, medicine—specifically, the medical
doctor—had become middle class. In the nineteenth
century, the bourgeoisie found in medical science, in
the concern with the body and health, a form of day-
to-day rationalism. In that sense, we can say that med-
ical rationalism was substituted for religious ethics. It
was a nineteenth-century physician who said, rather
profoundly, “In the nineteenth century, health has re-
placed salvation.”
I believe that the figure of the doctor, as it was
formed and somewhat sacralized in the nineteenth cen-
tury, which took over from the priest, and gathered
around itself and rationalized all the old beliefs and
credulities of provincial life, the peasantry, the French
petty bourgeoisie of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries—I believe that this figure has remained
fixed, immobile, unchanged since that time. I grew up
in that milieu, where rationality is cloaked in a kind of
35
magical prestige, a milieu whose values were con-

trasted to those of writing.
The physician—and especially the surgeon, I’m the
son of a surgeon—isn’t someone who speaks, he’s
someone who listens. He listens to other people’s
words, not because he takes them seriously, not to un-
derstand what they say, but to track down through
them the signs of a serious disease, which is to say, a
physical disease, an organic disease. The physician lis-
tens, but does so to cut through the speech of the other
and reach the silent truth of the body. The physician
doesn’t speak, he acts, that is, he feels, he intervenes.
The surgeon discovers the lesion in the sleeping body,
opens the body and sews it back up again, he operates;
all this is done in silence, the absolute reduction of
words. The only words he utters are those few words
of diagnosis and therapy. The physician speaks only to
utter the truth, briefly, and prescribe medicine. He
names and he orders, that’s all. In that sense, it’s ex-
traordinarily rare for the physician to speak. No doubt
it’s this profound functional devaluation of speech in

the old practice of clinical medicine that has weighed
on me for so long and has meant that up until ten or
twelve years ago, speech, for me, remained just so
much hot air.
So, when you began to write, there was a reversal of your initial,
disparaging conception of writing.
Obviously, the reversal came from further away. But,

here, we’d get into an autobiography that’s both too
anecdotal and too banal for it to be interesting enough
to dwell on. Let’s say that after extensive work I finally
gave that deeply devalued speech a certain value and a
certain mode of existence. The problem that concerns
me now—in fact, it has not stopped preoccupying me
for ten years—is the following: in a culture such as
ours, in a society, what do we mean by the existence of
words, of writing, of discourse? It seemed to me that
we had never attached much importance to the fact
that, after all, speech exists. Speech isn’t only a kind of
37
transparent film through which we see things, not sim-

ply the mirror of what is and what we think. Speech has
its own consistency, its own thickness and density, its
way of functioning. The laws of speech exist the way
economic laws exist. Speech exists the way a monu-
ment does, the way a technique does, the way a system
of social relationships does, and so on.
It’s this density characteristic of speech that I’m try-
ing to interrogate. Naturally, this marks a complete
conversion compared to what was for me the absolute
devaluation of speech when I was a child. It seems to
me—I think this is an illusion shared by all those who
believe they’ve discovered something—that my con-
temporaries are victims of the same mirages as my
childhood. They too believe, and too easily, as I once
did, as my family once did, that speech, that language,
doesn’t add up to all that much in the end. I realize that
linguists discovered that language was very important
because it obeyed certain laws, but most of all they in-
sisted on the structure of language, that is, on the struc-
ture of possible speech. But what I want to investigate
is the mode of appearance of actual speech and how it

functions, the things that are actually said. It involves
an analysis of things said to the extent that they are
things. The very opposite of what I thought when I
was a child.
In spite of everything, and regardless of my conver-
sion, I must have retained from my childhood, and
even in my writing, a certain number of connections
that we should be able to rediscover. For example, I’m
greatly struck by the fact that my readers easily imag-
ine that there’s something aggressive about my writ-
ing. Personally, I don’t experience it that way, ab-
solutely not. I don’t think I’ve ever really attacked
anyone, not by name. For me, writing is an extremely
gentle activity, hushed. I get the impression of velvet
when I write. For me, the idea of a velvety writing is a
familiar theme, at the limit of the a‡ective and the per-
ceptive, which continues to haunt my writing project,
to guide my writing when I’m writing, and that allows
me, at every moment, to choose the expressions I want
to use. This velvetiness, as far as my writing is con-
39
cerned, is a kind of normative impression. So, I’m very

surprised to find that people find my writing to be dry
and mordant. Upon reflection, I think they’re right. I
imagine that there’s an old memory of the scalpel in my
pen. Maybe, after all, I trace on the whiteness of the pa-
per the same aggressive signs that my father traced on
the bodies of others when he was operating? I’ve
transformed the scalpel into a pen. I’ve gone from the
e·cacy of healing to the ine·cacy of free speech; for
the scar on the body I’ve substituted gra·ti on paper;
for the ineradicability of the scar I’ve substituted the
perfectly eradicable and expungeable sign of writing.
Maybe I should go further. For me the sheet of paper
may be the body of the other.
What’s certain, what I immediately experienced,
when, around the age of thirty, I began to enjoy writ-
ing, was that this pleasure always communicated
somewhat with the death of others, with death in gen-
eral. This relationship between writing and death, I’m
almost afraid to talk about it because I know that some-
one like Blanchot has said things about it that are much
more essential, general, profound, decisive, than what

I can say now. Here, I’m speaking of impressions that
are like the back of the tapestry I’m trying to follow,
and it seems that the other side of the tapestry is as log-
ical and, after all, as well drawn—in any case, not more
badly drawn—than the front that I show to others.
With you, I’d like to linger for a while on the back
of the tapestry. I’d say that writing, for me, is associ-
ated with death, maybe essentially the death of others,
but this doesn’t mean that writing would be like killing
others and carrying out against them, against their ex-
istence, a definitively lethal gesture that would hunt
them from presence, that would open a sovereign and
free space before me. Not at all. For me, writing means
having to deal with the death of others, but it basically
means having to deal with others to the extent that
they’re already dead. In one sense, I’m speaking over
the corpse of the others. I have to admit that I’m pos-
tulating their death to some extent. In speaking about
them, I’m in the situation of the anatomist who per-
forms an autopsy. With my writing I survey the body
41
of others, I incise it, I lift the integuments and skin, I

try to find the organs and, in exposing the organs, re-
veal the site of the lesion, the seat of pain, that some-
thing that has characterized their life, their thought,
and which, in its negativity, has finally organized
everything they’ve been. The venomous heart of
things and men is, at bottom, what I’ve always tried to
expose. I also understand why people experience my
writing as a form of aggression. They feel there is
something in it that condemns them to death. In fact,
I’m much more naive than that. I don’t condemn them
to death. I simply assume they’re already dead. That’s
why I’m so surprised when I hear them cry out. I’m as
astonished as the anatomist who becomes suddenly
aware that the man on whom he was intending to
demonstrate has woken up beneath his scalpel. Sud-
denly his eyes open, his mouth starts to scream, his
body twists, and the anatomist expresses his shock:
“Hey, he wasn’t dead!” I think that’s what happens
when people criticize me or complain about my writ-
ing. It’s always hard for me to respond to them, except
by using an excuse, an excuse they might see as a mark

of irony but which is really the expression of my aston-
ishment: “Hey, they weren’t dead!”
I’m wondering what the relationship to death might be for a writer
like Genet. When he writes for the dead, when he wants to ani-
mate the theater of death, become the minister of that theater of
shadow, he deliberately situates himself on the other side, the
back of our world, both to attack it and to get beyond it. There’s
also a certain intent on his part to make crime attractive, to put
the reader in the victim’s place. His attitude is both poetic and
passionate. In your work, it seems that this relationship is ex-
tremely different to the extent that your attitude toward death is
clinical, neutral.
Yes, I don’t claim to kill others with my writing. I only

write on the basis of the others’ already present death.
It’s because the others are dead that I can write as if
their lives had, in a way, while they were around, as
long as they smiled and spoke, prevented me from
writing. At the same time, the only recognition my
43
writing can a‡ord them is the discovery of the truth of

their life and their death, the unhealthy secret that ex-
plains their transition from life to death. This point of
view about others, when their life has turned into
death, is, at bottom, for me, the place where writing is
possible.
Does this explain why most of your texts are about systems of
knowledge and modes of speech in the past?
Yes, I think that, from that starting point, we should be

able to explain certain things. And first of all the fact
that, for me, it’s always very di·cult to speak of the
present. Naturally, it seems to me that I could talk
about the things that are quite close to us, but on con-
dition that there exists, between those very close things
and the moment in which I’m writing, an infinitesimal
shift, a thin film through which death has entered. In
any case, the topic we frequently find in all justifica-
tions of writing—that we write to bring something to
life again, that we write to rediscover the secret of life,
or to actualize this living speech that is simultaneously

of men and, probably, of God—is deeply foreign to
me. For me, speech begins after death and once that
break has been established. For me, writing is a wan-
dering after death and not a path to the source of life.
It is in this sense that my language is profoundly anti-
Christian, probably more so than the themes I con-
tinue to evoke.
In one sense, I’m probably interested in the past be-
cause of this. I’m not at all interested in the past to try
to bring it back to life but because it’s dead. There’s no
teleology of resurrection there, but rather the realiza-
tion that the past is dead. Starting from that death, we
can say absolutely serene things, completely analytic
and anatomical, not directed toward a possible repeti-
tion or resurrection. And for that reason as well, noth-
ing is of less interest to me than the desire to rediscover
in the past the secret of origin.
For me, this leads to another problem. When I
write, I couldn’t tell you if I’m doing history or philos-
ophy. I’ve often been asked what it meant to me to
45
write what I wrote, what I spoke about, what I was try-

ing to say, why one thing and not another, if I was a
philosopher or a historian or a sociologist, and so on.
I had a hard time answering. Had I been given as much
latitude in responding as you’re giving me today, I
think I would have simply answered, quite frankly: I’m
neither one nor the other, I’m a doctor, let’s say I’m a
diagnostician. I want to make a diagnosis and my work
consists in revealing, through the incision of writing,
something that might be the truth of what is dead. To
that extent, the axis of my writing does not run from
death to life or from life to death, but rather from death
to truth and from truth to death. I think that the alter-
native to death isn’t life but truth. What we have to
rediscover through the whiteness and inertia of death
isn’t the lost shudder of life, it’s the meticulous deploy-
ment of truth. In that sense I would call myself a diag-
nostician. But is diagnosis the work of the historian, of
the philosopher, of someone involved in politics? I
don’t know. In any event, it involves an activity of lan-
guage that is extremely profound for me. Ultimately, I
don’t write because I have something in mind, I don’t

write to show what I have already demonstrated and
analyzed for myself. Writing consists essentially of
doing something that allows me to discover something
I hadn’t seen initially. When I begin to write an essay
or a book, or anything, I don’t really know where it’s
going to lead or where it’ll end up or what I’m going
to show. I only discover what I have to show in the ac-
tual movement of writing, as if writing specifically
meant diagnosing what I had wanted to say at the very
moment I begin to write. I think that in this I’m being
completely faithful to my heredity because, like my fa-
ther and my grandparents, I want to o‡er a diagnosis.
Only, unlike them—and it is in this sense that I dis-
tanced myself from them and turned against them—
this diagnosis, I want to do it through writing, I want
to do it with the part of speech that physicians ordinar-
ily reduce to silence.
I apologize for invoking another crushing relation-
ship. I think that my continued interest in Nietzsche,
the fact that I’ve never been able to position him ab-
solutely as an object we can talk about, that I’ve always
47
tried to frame my writing in relation to this slightly

timeless, important, paternal figure of Nietzsche, is
very closely related to this: for Nietzsche, philosophy
was above all else a diagnosis, it had to do with man to
the extent that he was sick. For him, it was both a di-
agnosis and a kind of violent therapy for the diseases
of culture.
There are two interrelated questions here that should help us to
continue to analyze your approach. Isn’t it to better control this
diagnostic instrument, which in your case is writing, that the first
books you wrote were about medicine or included it in their field
of view? I’m thinking of The History of Madness and The Birth of
the Clinic. In choosing those subjects—validated by their rela-
tion to the world of medicine—wasn’t this a more or less con-
scious attempt to minimize your guilt as a writer?
From my current perspective, pursuing this quasi nar-

rative, I think we need to strongly di‡erentiate be-
tween what I was able to say about madness and what
I was able to say about medicine.
If I return to my childhood stories, to that subter-
ranean world of my writing, I strongly recall that in

the medical environment in which I lived, not only
madness but psychiatry had a very specific status, in
truth, a highly pejorative status. Why? Because for a
real physician, for a doctor who heals bodies, even
more so for a surgeon who opens them up, it’s obvious
that madness is a bad disease. It’s a disease that, overall,
has no organic substrate or, in any case, none in which
a good physician can recognize a specific organic sub-
strate. To that extent, it’s an illness that plays a trick on
a real physician, that escapes normal truth, the patho-
logical. As a result, it’s a false illness and close to not
being an illness at all. To reach this last conclusion—
that madness is a disease that claims to be a disease but
isn’t—is only a small step. I’m not at all certain that, in
the milieu in which I grew up, this step wasn’t crossed
rather easily in day-to-day conversation, or at least in
the impression those conversations were able to leave
on a child’s mind.
If madness is a false illness, then what can we say
about the physician who treats it and who believes that
49
it’s an illness? That physician, the psychiatrist, is of ne-

cessity a deluded physician, who is unable to recognize
that the thing he’s dealing with isn’t a real illness, there-
fore, he’s a bad doctor and, ultimately, a sham physi-
cian. From this—still in terms of the implicit signifi-
cations that are inscribed more deeply than others in
the mind of a child—follows the idea that madness is
a sham illness cured by sham doctors. I think the good
country doctor of the twentieth century, whose values
go back to the middle of the preceding century, is even
more estranged from madness and psychiatry than
from philosophy and literature. By taking an interest
in madness, I obviously enacted a two-part conversion
because I took an interest in it and in the physicians
who had treated it, but I didn’t do so as a physician.
In fact, The History of Madness is something of an
accident in my life. I wrote it when I hadn’t yet discov-
ered the pleasure of writing. I had simply agreed to
write a short history of psychiatry for an author, a
short text, quick and easy, that would have been about
psychiatric knowledge, medicine, and doctors. But
faced with the dearth of similar histories, I asked my-

self the following, slightly di‡erent question: what has
been the mode of coexistence, of correlation and com-
plicity, between psychiatry and the insane? How have
madness and psychiatry been formed in parallel to one
another, one against the other, opposite one another,
one capturing the other? I feel that only someone who
had, like me, a nearly hereditary suspicion, in any case
one deeply embedded in my past when it came to psy-
chiatry, could see this as a problem. On the contrary, I
had never asked the question of how medicine in gen-
eral and illness in general had been formed in relation
to one another. I was too deeply, too insistently embed-
ded in a medical milieu not to know that the physician
is fully protected against disease and that the disease
and the patient are, for the physician, objects that are
always kept at a distance. I have a distinct memory
that, when I was a child, none of us in the family could
be sick: to be sick was something that happened to oth-
ers, but not to us.
The idea that there could be a type of medicine like
51
psychiatry that isn’t directly connected to its object,

the idea that such a field of medicine might have been,
from its origin, once it was possible, and in all its de-
velopments and branches, complicit with the illness it
treats, and consequently with its object, is an idea that
the traditional physician could easily have formulated.
I think it’s at the basis of this devaluation of madness
and psychiatry by traditional medicine that I decided
to describe both psychiatry and madness, in a kind of
network of perpetual interaction. I know that several
psychiatrists were quite shocked by my book, that they
saw it as a mean-spirited attack on their field. Maybe
that’s true. And no doubt the devaluation I spoke of
was the origin of The History of Madness. But, after
all—and I apologize for choosing such an elevated ex-
ample of such lofty patronage—we have known ever
since Nietzsche that devaluation is an instrument of
knowledge and that if we don’t shake up the customary
order of hierarchies of value, the secrets of knowledge
run no risk of being revealed. So, it’s possible that my
contempt, this very archaic contempt, very infantile,
and that further reflection quickly dissolved but could

not entirely suppress, enabled me to discover a number
of relations that I would otherwise probably have not
seen. What strikes me now is that in the renewed ques-
tioning of their field by a number of psychiatrists, of
psycho-pathological science, the psychiatric institu-
tion, the hospital, I find in many of them, better devel-
oped and argued, a number of topics I had encountered
historically. They too, no doubt, felt obligated, from
within their profession, to devalue, or in any case to
dredge up and shake up a little, the system of values to
which they had been accustomed and which the ap-
proach of their predecessors calmly relied on.
In The Birth of the Clinic, I assume you didn’t encounter similar
problems. You returned to the sources.
I said earlier that my medical heredity was present for

me in the act of writing. In that respect, choosing med-
icine as a subject of study was something secondary
and correlative. In The Birth of the Clinic it was specifi-
53
cally anatomy, autopsy, diagnosis, medical under-

standing that was in question. But if this mode of med-
ical knowledge has been my obsession, it’s because it
came from within the gesture of writing.
So, in writing about madness, on the contrary, the fact of writing
and examining madness meant breaking with this mode of
knowledge and taking a leap into the unknown. At the same time,
your talent as a writer was revealed in your work on madness.
I couldn’t tell you why writing and madness commu-

nicated with one another for me. Most likely, what
brought them together is their nonexistence, their non-
being, the fact that they are sham activities, lacking
consistency or foundation, like clouds that have no re-
ality. But I’m sure there are other reasons as well. In
any case, compared to the medical world in which I
lived, I placed myself directly in a world of unreality,
of appearances, of lies—you could almost call it a be-
trayal of trust—by devoting myself to writing and
speculating about mental illness and medicine. I think
that given the guilt I felt about writing, in my stub-

bornness to extinguish that guilt by continuing to
write, there was always an element of this.
I’m well aware that I shouldn’t be telling you these
things; rather, I want to tell you these things, but I’m
not certain they’re worth publishing. I’m a bit terrified
at the idea that one day they’ll be discovered.
Are you worried about revealing too much of the secret side, the
nocturnal side of your work?
Does someone whose work is, overall and in spite of

everything, historical, someone who claims to speak
relatively objectively, who believes that his words have
a certain relationship to truth, does he really have the
right to talk this way about the history of his writing,
to engage the truth he claims to access in this way, in a
series of impressions, memories, experiences that are
profoundly subjective? I understand that in doing so
I’m undoing all the seriousness in which I’ve tried to
wrap myself while writing. But what can I say? If I’ve
55
willingly agreed to this type of interview, it was pre-

cisely to undo my customary language, to try to undo
the threads, to present it in a way other than it’s ordi-
narily presented. Is it worth the trouble to repeat in a
simpler form what I’ve said elsewhere? It’s harder for
me, I think, but more interesting to return to its initial
fragmentary state, its disorder, its somewhat impalpa-
ble flux, the language I’ve tried to control and present
as a monument both voluminous and unbroken.
I’m pleased that you’ve accepted this adventure, that you’ve
defined both the contours and the risks. To continue this explo-
ration of the back of the tapestry, there’s a question I’d like to
ask. You’ve already discussed the heritage that produced the di-
agnostic attitude you apply to things and the reversal of that her-
itage, which you displayed by your interest in madness. But
what’s striking is that in your work, even when you speak of mad-
ness and medicine, writers who are neither physicians nor
philosophers, and painters as well, continuously enter your
work. The intuitions, the truths transmitted to us by the writers
and painters you have chosen—I’m thinking of Sade, Roussel,

Artaud, Bataille, Bosch, Goya—appear to have been torn from a
secret, mysterious domain that is limited to the domain of mad-
ness and death. In that sense, your interest in them seems en-
tirely justified based on what you’ve just told me. But isn’t there
something more? Don’t your frequent references to these writers
and painters reveal a temptation for writing and artistic expres-
sion, an interrogation of their power? Isn’t there something fas-
cinating about writing that, by virtue of its self-reflexiveness, its
self-investigation, its self-involvement, and its self-undoing,
achieves a profound truth and in so doing threatens—threatens
whoever employs it, whoever makes use of it—to give way to
madness or death?
You’ve just formulated the question I’ve been asking

myself for a long time. It’s true that I’ve maintained a
very continuous, very stubborn interest in the work of
people like Roussel and Artaud, or Goya for that mat-
ter. But the way in which I question those works isn’t
entirely traditional. In general, the problem is the fol-
lowing: how is it that a man who is mentally ill or
judged as such by society and by contemporary medi-
57
cine, can write a work that immediately or years,

decades, centuries later is recognized as a true work of
art and one of the major works of literature or culture?
In other words, the question becomes one of knowing
how madness or mental illness can become creative.
That’s not exactly my problem. I never ask myself
about the nature of the illness that may have a‡ected
men like Raymond Roussel or Antonin Artaud. Nor
am I asking about the expressive relationship that
might exist between their work and their madness, or
how through their work we recognize or rediscover
the more or less traditional, more or less codified face
of a specific mental illness. Finding out whether Ray-
mond Roussel was an obsessive neurotic or a schizo-
phrenic doesn’t interest me. What interests me is the
following problem: men like Roussel and Artaud write
texts that, even when they gave them to someone to
read, whether that person was a critic, or a doctor, or
an ordinary reader, are immediately recognized as be-
ing related to mental illness. Moreover, they them-
selves established, at the level of their everyday expe-
rience, a very deep, ongoing relationship between their

writing and their mental illness. Neither Roussel nor
Artaud ever denied that their work evolved within
them from a place that was also that of their unique-
ness, their particularity, their symptom, their anxiety,
and finally, their illness. What astonishes me, what I
keep wondering about, is how is it that a work like this,
which comes from an individual that society has clas-
sified—and consequently excluded—as ill, can func-
tion, and function in a way that’s absolutely positive,
within a culture? We may very well claim that Rous-
sel’s work wasn’t recognized or invoke Rivière’s reti-
cence, discomfort, and refusal in the presence of Ar-
taud’s early poems; nonetheless, the work of Roussel
and Artaud began to function positively within our
culture very, very quickly. It immediately, or almost
immediately, became part of our universe of speech.
We see, then, that within a given culture, there’s always
a margin of tolerance for the suspicion that something
that is medically treated with suspicion can play a role
and assume an importance within our culture, within a
culture. It’s this positive function of the negative that
59
has never ceased to interest me. I’m not asking about

the problem of the relationship between the work and
the illness, but the relationship of exclusion and inclu-
sion: the exclusion of the individual, of his gestures, his
behavior, his character, of what he is, and the very
rapid, and ultimately rather straightforward, inclusion
of his language.
Here, I’m entering a world that you can call what-
ever you want, the world of my hypotheses or my ob-
sessions. I’d suggest the following: at a given time, in
a given culture, given a certain type of discursive prac-
tice, speech and the rules of possibility are such that an
individual can be psychologically and, in a way, anec-
dotally mad, but his language, which is indeed that of
a madman—by virtue of the rules of speech at the time
in question—can function positively. In other words,
the position of madness is reserved and as if indicated
at a certain point in the possible universe of speech at
a given time. It is this possible place of madness, the
function of madness in the universe of speech that I’ve
tried to identify.
Let’s take a concrete example. For Roussel, my
problem was as follows: what had to have been the

state, the mode of operation, the internal system of
regulation of literature for Roussel’s incredibly naive
and perfectly pathological exercises—the decomposi-
tion of words, the recomposition of syllables, his cir-
cular narratives, his fantastical tales, which he in-
vented from a particular sentence that he worked over
and whose sounds served as a guide, as a thread in com-
posing new stories—to become part of literature? Not
only become a part of the literature of the first half of
the twentieth century, but play a very specific role, a
very powerful role, even to the point of anticipating
the literature of the second half of the twentieth cen-
tury. Considering the positive function of the lan-
guage of madness in a universe of speech and in a cul-
ture that excludes the insane, we can formulate the
following hypothesis: shouldn’t we dissociate the
function of madness as prescribed and defined by lit-
erature or generally by the speech of a given time,
from the madman himself? Ultimately, what di‡er-
ence does it make whether Roussel was mad or not, a
61
schizophrenic or an obsessional neurotic? What di‡er-

ence does it make whether he was Roussel or not?
What’s interesting is that the system for regulating and
transforming literature in the early twentieth century
was such that exercises like his were able to assume a
real, positive value, were able to function e‡ectively as
works of literature.
So, you see that my problem, which isn’t at all a psy-
chological problem but one that is much more ab-
stract—and also much less interesting—is that of the
position and function of the language of the insane
within regular, normative language.
We’ve deviated a little from the initial problem and I’d like to re-
turn to it now, namely, your relationship to literature. I think we
can do this by starting with the discrepancy that enabled you to
clarify some of your research. A moment ago you were speaking
of the naive, and extremely complicated, writing exercises that
Raymond Roussel imposed on himself. Can’t we see in the com-
plexity of those exercises a kind of hypertrophy of the love of
language, of the practice of writing for writing’s sake that, in a

normal writer, one who is simply concerned with writing things
that can be adequately conceptualized in a language that’s ele-
gant and efficient, would be referred to as the “pleasure of writ-
ing”? You yourself, at one point, spoke of your discovery of the
“pleasure of writing.” How can this pleasure manifest itself in a
practice of writing whose goal is not primarily to become en-
chanted with itself, even if yours requires us to do so and, also,
enchants us, but to bring forward, to reveal the truth, to be more
of a diagnosis than a lyric song?
You’re giving me a lot of problems with that question.
Maybe too many. We can break them down.
I’ll try to answer the ones that seemed most salient.

You spoke about the pleasure of writing and you took
Roussel as an example. To me that seems like some-
thing of a special case. Just as Roussel magnified the
micro-procedures of writing with an extremely pow-
erful microscope—while reducing, in terms of his sub-
ject matter, the enormity of the world to absolutely
63
Lilliputian mechanisms—his own situation has mag-

nified that of writing, the relationship of the writer to
writing.
But we were talking about the pleasure of writing.
Is writing really all that much fun? Roussel, in How I
Wrote Certain of My Books, never stops reminding us
of the struggle, the various trance states, the di·culty
and anxiety that accompanied him in writing what he
had to write; the only significant moments of happi-
ness he talks about involve the enthusiasm, the illumi-
nations he experienced once he’d finished his first
book. Practically, except for this experience, which it
seems to me is almost unique in his biography, every-
thing else was one long, extraordinarily dark road, like
a tunnel. The very fact that when he traveled, he drew
the curtains in his compartment so he wouldn’t see
anyone, not even the landscape, because he was so con-
sumed by his work, demonstrates that Roussel didn’t
write in a kind of enchanted state, one of astonishment,
of a general welcoming of things and being.
Having said this, does the pleasure of writing exist?
I don’t know. One thing I feel certain of is that there’s

a tremendous obligation to write. This obligation to
write, I don’t really know where it comes from. As
long as we haven’t started writing, it seems to be the
most gratuitous, the most improbable thing, almost the
most impossible, and one to which, in any case, we’ll
never feel bound. Then, at some point—is it the first
page, the thousandth, the middle of the first book, or
later? I have no idea—we realize that we’re absolutely
obligated to write. This obligation is revealed to you,
indicated in various ways. For example, by the fact that
we experience so much anxiety, so much tension if we
haven’t finished that little page of writing, as we do
each day. By writing that page, you give yourself, you
give to your existence, a form of absolution. That ab-
solution is essential for the day’s happiness. It’s not the
writing that’s happy, it’s the joy of existing that’s at-
tached to writing, which is slightly di‡erent. This is
very paradoxical, very enigmatic, because how is it
that the gesture—so vain, so fictive, so narcissistic, so
self-involved—of sitting down at a table in the morn-
65
ing and covering a certain number of blank pages can

have this e‡ect of benediction for the remainder of the
day? How is the reality of things—our concerns,
hunger, desire, love, sexuality, work—transfigured
because we did that in the morning, or because we were
able to do it during the day? That’s very enigmatic.
For me, in any case, it’s one of the ways the obligation
to write is manifested.
This obligation is also indicated by something else.
Ultimately, we always write not only to write the last
book we will write, but, in some truly frenzied way—
and this frenzy is present even in the most minimal ges-
ture of writing—to write the last book in the world. In
truth, what we write at the moment of writing, the final
sentence of the work we’re completing, is also the final
sentence of the world, in that, afterward, there’s noth-
ing more to say. There’s a paroxysmal intent to exhaust
language in the most insignificant sentence. No doubt
this is associated with the disequilibrium that exists be-
tween speech and language. Language is what we use
to construct an absolutely infinite number of sentences
and utterances. Speech, on the contrary, no matter how

long or how di‡use, how supple, how atmospheric,
how protoplasmic, how tethered to its future, is always
finite, always limited. We can never reach the end of
language through speech, no matter how long we
imagine it to be. This inexhaustibility of language,
which always holds speech in suspense in terms of a fu-
ture that will never be completed, is another way of ex-
periencing the obligation to write. We write to reach
the end of language, to reach the end of any possible
language, to finally encompass the empty infinity of
language through the plenitude of speech.
Another reason why writing is di‡erent from
speaking is that we write to hide our face, to bury our-
selves in our own writing. We write so that the life
around us, alongside us, outside, far from the sheet of
paper, this life that’s not very funny but tiresome and
filled with worry, exposed to others, is absorbed in that
small rectangle of paper before our eyes and which we
control. Writing is a way of trying to evacuate,
through the mysterious channels of pen and ink, the
67
substance, not just of existence, but of the body, in

those minuscule marks we make on paper. To be noth-
ing more, in terms of life, than this dead and jabbering
scribbling that we’ve put on the white sheet of paper is
what we dream about when we write. But we never suc-
ceed in absorbing all that teeming life in the motionless
swarm of letters. Life always goes on outside the sheet
of paper, continues to proliferate, keeps going, and is
never pinned down to that small rectangle; the heavy
volume of the body never succeeds in spreading itself
across the surface of the paper, we can never pass into
that two-dimensional universe, that pure line of
speech; we never succeed in becoming thin enough or
adroit enough to be nothing more than the linearity of
a text, and yet that’s what we hope to achieve. So we
keep trying, we continue to restrain ourselves, to take
control of ourselves, to slip into the funnel of pen and
ink, an infinite task, but the task to which we’ve dedi-
cated ourselves. We would feel justified if we no longer
existed except in that minuscule shudder, that infinites-
imal scratching that grows still and becomes, between
the tip of the pen and the white surface of the paper,
the point, the fragile site, the immediately vanished
moment when a stationary mark appears once and for
all, definitively established, legible only for others and
which has lost any possibility of being aware of itself.
This type of suppression, of self-mortification in the
transition to signs, is, I believe, what also gives writing
its character of obligation. It’s an obligation without
pleasure, you see, but, after all, when escaping an ob-
ligation leads to anxiety, when breaking the law leaves
you so apprehensive and in such great disarray, isn’t
obeying the law the greatest form of pleasure? To obey
an obligation whose origin is unknown, and the source
of whose authority over us is equally unknown, to
obey that—certainly narcissistic—law that weighs
down on you, that hangs over you wherever you are,
that, I think, is the pleasure of writing.
I was wondering if you would clarify an idea that you sketched
out previously in your concept of diagnostic writing. In the
process of writing, isn’t there another obligation for the writer,

69
that of discovering something, possibly discovering a truth he
suspected but hadn’t yet formulated? And in a similar vein, don’t
we always have the impression, when we write, that if we had
written at a different time, the page, the book would have been
different, would have taken a different turn, that the writing might
have led us to the same thing, the same thing we anticipated,
that we were looking for, that we had established as our goal,
but by other paths, other sentences. Do you get the impression
that you always dominate this method of writing or, at times, are
being led by it?
That’s why for me the obligation of writing isn’t what

one would ordinarily call the vocation of the writer. I
strongly believe in the distinction, now quite well
known, that Roland Barthes made between authors
[écrivains] and writers [écrivants]. I’m not an author.
First of all, I have no imagination. I’m completely
uninventive. I’ve never even been able to conceive of
something like the subject of a novel. Of course, at
times, I’ve sometimes wanted to write short stories, al-
most in the journalistic sense of the term: to narrate
micro-events, to talk about someone’s life, but in five

lines, ten lines, no more. So, I’m not an author. I place
myself resolutely on the side of the writers, those for
whom writing is transitive. By that I mean those for
whom writing is intended to designate, to show, to
manifest outside itself something that, without it,
would have remained if not hidden at least invisible.
For me, that’s where, in spite of everything, the en-
chantment of writing lies.
I’m not an author because writing, the way I do it,
the little bit of work I do every morning, isn’t a mo-
ment that’s been set on a pedestal and that remains up-
right through its own prestige. I don’t get the impres-
sion at all, or even have the intention, of creating a
body of work. I want to say things.
Nor am I an interpreter. By that I mean that I’m not
trying to reveal things that have been deeply buried,
hidden, forgotten for centuries or millennia, nor of dis-
covering, behind what’s been said by others, the secret
they wished to hide. I’m not trying to discover another
71
meaning that might be dissimulated in things or

speech. No, I’m simply trying to make apparent what
is very immediately present and at the same time invis-
ible. My speech project is more farsighted. I’d like to
reveal something that’s too close to us for us to see,
something right here, alongside us, but which we look
through to see something else. To give density to this
atmosphere that surrounds us and allows us to see
things that are far away, to give density and thickness
to what we don’t experience as transparency, that’s one
of the projects, one of the topics that remains constant
for me, always. Also, to try to surround, to draw, to
point out that blind spot through which we speak and
see, to grasp what makes it possible for us to see into
the distance, to define the proximity around us that ori-
ents the general field of our gaze and our knowledge.
To grasp that invisibility, that invisible of the too visi-
ble, that distancing of what is too close, that unknown
familiarity is for me the important operation of my
language and my speech.
Your books suggest analyses of past modes of knowledge or
speech. That leaves us to assume that prior to their being writ-
ten, there was considerable reading, confrontations, compar-
isons, choices, an initial development of the material. Is this
something that was done before writing them or is it the writing
that plays a determining role in the way you observe and sketch
the landscape in which, for example, classical thought or the in-
stitution of psychiatry is revealed?
You’re right to ask the question because I get the im-

pression that I’ve been far too abstract. If you like, I
enjoy . . . well, that’s how I read, I enjoy reading, partly
out of curiosity, in any case through a series of associ-
ations that there would be little point in explaining
here, books on seventeenth-century botany, eigh-
teenth-century grammar, political economy at the
time of Ricardo, or Adam Smith. My problem—and
for me, the task of writing—doesn’t consist in rewrit-
ing those books in a vocabulary we’re familiar with.
Nor is it to try to discover what we commonly refer to
as the imprecision of speech, to identify what it is in the
73
very text of Ricardo, Adam Smith, Bu‡on, Linnaeus,

that’s in some way present—but hasn’t been expressed
—in the interstices, the lacunae, the internal contra-
dictions. In reading those texts, I disrupt any sense of
familiarity we might have with them, avoid the e‡ects
of recognition. I try to focus on their singularity, on
their greatest foreignness, so that the distance that sep-
arates us from them becomes prominent, so that I can
introduce my language, my speech, into that very dis-
tance, into that di‡erence in which we find ourselves
and that we are in relation to them. Conversely, my
speech must be the place where that di‡erence appears.
In other words, when I take an interest in objects that
are somewhat distant and heteroclite, what I want to
expose isn’t the secret beyond their reach, which they
conceal by their manifest presence; rather, it’s the at-
mosphere, the transparency that separates us from
them and, at the same time, binds us to them and en-
ables us to talk about them, but to talk about them as
objects that aren’t exactly our own thoughts, our own
representations, our own knowledge. So, for me, the
role of writing is essentially one of distancing and of

measuring distance. To write is to position oneself in
that distance that separates us from death and from
what is dead. At the same time, this is where death un-
folds in its truth, not in its hidden, secret truth, not in
the truth of what it’s been, but in the truth that sepa-
rates us from it and means that we’re not dead, that I’m
not dead at the moment I’m writing about those dead
things. For me, this is the relationship that writing
needs to establish.
In that sense, I can say that I’m neither an author nor
engaged in hermeneutics. If I were, I’d try to get be-
hind the object I’m describing, behind the speech of the
past, in order to discover its point of origin and the se-
cret of its birth. If I were an author, I would speak only
from the vantage point of my own language and in the
enchantment of its existence today. I’m neither one nor
the other; I’m in the distance between the speech of
others and my own. And my speech is nothing other
than the distance I assume, that I measure, that I wel-
come, between the speech of others and my own. In
75
that sense, my speech doesn’t exist, and that’s why I

have neither the intention nor the pretense of creating
a body of work. I’m fully aware that I’m not creating a
body of work. I’m the surveyor of those distances and
my speech is merely the absolutely relative and precar-
ious yardstick by which I measure that system of dis-
tancing and di‡erence. In exercising my language, I’m
measuring the di‡erence with what we are not, and
that’s why I said to you earlier that writing means los-
ing one’s own face, one’s own existence. I don’t write
to give my existence the solidity of a monument. I’m
trying to absorb my own existence into the distance
that separates it from death and, probably, by that same
gesture, guides it toward death.
You were saying that you’re not creating a body of work and you
do a remarkable job of explaining why. But in response I would
point out that your speech possesses a unique resonance today
to the extent that not only does it allow us to mark the distance
that separates us from past speech, and in doing so achieves its
goal admirably, but it also illuminates the present, frees it of the

old shadows that weighed upon it. But that’s not my question.
When you say that you disappear into speech, it reminds me of
another statement about disappearance that appears at the
end of The Order of Things, the disappearance of man. After re-
searching the makeup and development of the humanities, you
show that at the very moment of their expansion, their triumph,
their very fulfillment, mankind is in the process of disappearing,
of being erased in the uninterrupted fabric of speech. Excuse me
for asking what may seem like an impolite question, perhaps it’s
too personal and involves obvious similarities, but isn’t there
some relationship between those two disappearances—your
own in writing and that of mankind?
You’re right to bring up the question. If you like, we

could discuss it during another interview or consign to
oblivion the problem I tried to express very clearly at
the end of The Order of Things. Certainly, between this
theme of man’s disappearance and my sense of the ob-
ligation to write, the work of writing, there’s a rela-
tionship. I’m well aware of the risk I take in saying this,
for I can already see before me the grotesque shadow
77
of the psychiatrist, who will find in what I say the signs

first of my schizophrenia, then of the delusional and
therefore nonobjective, untrue, irrational, unscientific
nature of what I’ve said in my books.
I know I’m taking this risk, but I do so with ab-
solutely no second thoughts. These interviews, which
you were kind enough to request, have been so enjoy-
able for me because I’m not trying to use them to ex-
plain myself better and at greater length about what
I’ve said in my books. I don’t think that would be pos-
sible during these interviews, especially in this room,
which I feel is already populated with thousands of
copies of the future book, thousands of faces that will
read it, where this third presence—the book and its fu-
ture readers—is extraordinarily weighty. I’m very
pleased that we don’t know where we’re going. What
we’re doing here is a kind of experiment. I’m trying to
delineate for the first time, in the first person, this neu-
tral, objective discourse in which I’ve never stopped
trying to erase myself when I write my books. Conse-
quently, the relationship you mentioned between the
disappearance of man and my experience of writing is

obvious. People will make of that what they will. No
doubt, they’ll criticize the chimerical nature of what
I’ve wanted to assert. Maybe others will find that what
I’m telling you isn’t really sincere, but a projection of
the more or less theoretical and ideological themes I’ve
tried to formulate in my books. It doesn’t really matter
how they read this relationship or the book’s connec-
tion to me or mine to the book. In any case, I know that
my books will be compromised by what I say, and me
as well. So, let’s show that relationship, let’s show that
communication.
How do you experience the activity of writing, this disappear-
ance in writing at the moment of writing?
When I write, I always have something in mind. At the

same time, I always address something that’s outside
myself, an object, a domain that can be described,
grammar or seventeenth-century political economy,
or the experience of madness throughout the classical
79
period. And yet, that object, that domain, I don’t get

the impression that I’m describing it at all, of placing
myself in a position of receptivity to what it says, of
translating with words on paper and with a certain
style a certain representation I’ve created of what I’m
trying to describe. Earlier, I said that I’m trying to re-
veal the distance I have, that we have to these things;
my writing is the discovery of that distance. I’d add
that, in one sense, my head is empty when I begin to
write, even though my mind is always directed toward
a specific object. Obviously, that means that, for me,
writing is an exhausting activity, very di·cult, filled
with anxiety. I’m always afraid of messing up; natu-
rally, I mess up, I fail all the time. This means that what
encourages me to write isn’t so much the discovery or
certainty of a certain relationship, of a certain truth,
but rather the feeling I have of a certain kind of writ-
ing, a certain mode of operation of my writing, a cer-
tain style that will bring that distance into focus.
For example, one day in Madrid, I had been fasci-
nated by Velázquez’s Las Meninas. I’d been looking at
the painting for a long time, just like that, without

thinking about talking about it someday, much less of
describing it—which at the time would have seemed
derisive and ridiculous. And then one day, I don’t re-
call how, without having looked at it since, without
even having looked at a reproduction, I had this urge
to write about the painting from memory, to describe
what was in it. As soon as I tried to describe it, a certain
coloration of language, a certain rhythm, a certain
form of analysis, especially, gave me the impression,
the near certainty—false, perhaps—that I had found
exactly the right language by which the distance be-
tween ourselves and the classical philosophy of repre-
sentation and classical ideas of order and resemblance
could come into focus and be evaluated. That’s how
I began to write The Order of Things. For that book I
used material I had gathered in the preceding years al-
most at random, without knowing what I would do
with it, with no certainty about the possibility of ever
writing an essay. In a way it was like examining a kind
of inert material, an abandoned garden of some sort,
81
an unusable expanse, which I surveyed the way I imag-

ine the sculptor of old, the sculptor of the seventeenth
or eighteenth century, might contemplate, might touch
the block of marble he didn’t yet know what to do with.
[The transcript breaks o‡ here.]

C H R O N O L O G I E S O F M I C H E L F O U C A U LT
AND CLAUDE BONNEFOY
             (  ‒ )
1926: Born in Poitiers, France

1946: Enters the École Normale Supérieure. Studies philos-
ophy and psychology.
1957: Is sent to Sweden, Poland, and Germany by the Min-
istry of Foreign A‡airs.
1961: History of Madness
1963: The Birth of the Clinic
1966: The Order of Things
1968: Interviews with Claude Bonnefoy
1969: The Archaeology of Knowledge
1970: Appointed professor at Collège de France
1971–72: Works with Groupe d’Information sur les Pri-
sons (GIP), which he founded with Pierre Vidal-Naquet and
Jean-Marie Domenach.
1976–84: The History of Sexuality (three volumes)
1984: Died in Paris
CHRONOLOGIES
1995: The Essential Works of Foucault, 1954–1984 (Volume

1, Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth; Volume 2, Aesthetics, Method,
and Epistemology; Volume 3, Power).
1997: Initial publication of his lectures at Collège de France
              (1 92 9 – 1 97 9)
1929: Born in Clermont-Ferrand, France

1948: Paul Valéry prize for poetry
1964: Literary critic for Arts, then for Nouvel Observateur
and La Quinzaine littéraire
1966: Interviews with Eugène Ionesco; republished in 1977
as Entre la vie et le rêve.
1968: Interviews with Michel Foucault
1975: La poésie française des origines à nos jours (anthology)
   (1926–1984) was a French historian and
philosopher associated with the structuralist and poststruc-
turalist movements. He is often considered the most influential
social theorist of the second half of the twentieth century, not
only in philosophy but in a wide range of disciplines in the
humanities and social sciences. Among his most notable books
are Madness and Civilization, Discipline and Punish, and The
History of Sexuality.
    is a French historian at Le Centre

national de la recherche scientifique in Paris. He is president
of Centre Michel Foucault.
  is a translator based in New York City.

His translations include Cosmopolitics I and II by Isabelle
Stengers (Minnesota, 2010 and 2011) and The Singular Objects
of Architecture by Jean Baudrillard and Jean Nouvel (Min-
nesota, 2005).

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Michel Foucault, Speech Begins after Death.

In Conversation with Claude Bonnefoy. Edited by

Originally published in French as Le beau danger: Entretien avec

English translation copyright 2013 by Robert Bononno

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

Published by the University of Minnesota Press

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

The University of Minnesota is an

This interview was conducted in the spring and au-

Foucault and Audiography

In memory of Alain Crombecque

In considering the reception of Foucault’s thought,

translating, and compiling contributed to the produc-

been circulated in the form of audiocassettes or un-

strategy is that he was able to turn the final subject he

but it was also a way of problematizing this practice

pected—the university auditorium or radio studio—

prepared by Foucault (several interviews collected in

Foucault’s death, over the course of two evenings,

tense discourse by students and workers, as well as in-

Prisons (GIP). Embedded in this concern to turn in-

a statement by the speaker followed by a question-and-

obtain the status of political prisoners, they now an-

invited to the dais, he was among those assembled. The

of photographs, as the only record of the event. The

This became the setting for a new and unexpected

Bonnefoy suggested he publish a book of dialogues for

to Foucault that they have a discussion.13 It was Fou-

terviews did appear, in 1978, under the name Thierry

celebrity, he wished to avoid publicity and allow more

intensity he had experienced with Claude Bonnefoy

1. Louis Althusser, The Future Lasts a Long Time and The

Foucault: Renouveaux de la pensée critique, edited by Didier

11. Francois Boullant, Michel Foucault et les prisons (Paris:

  

don’t want to ask you to repeat differently what you’ve expressed

so well in your books or comment on them one more time. I would

prefer that these interviews position themselves, if not entirely,

ture. What I’m principally interested in is your relationship to

writing. But there is already something paradoxical about this.

We’re supposed to be talking, and I’m asking you about writing.

But I have to ask a preliminary question before we start: how will

you approach these interviews, which you were kind enough to

it, the interview genre itself?

Michel Foucault: I’ll begin by saying that I have stage

demic, I have access to a certain number of forms of

from the very words they’re in the process of uttering

That’s what we’re going to find out together.

You said to me that, during these interviews, it wasn’t

When we read The History of Madness or Words and Things,

what strikes me is the presence of this extremely precise and

penetrating analytic thought supported by writing whose vibra-

tions aren’t uniquely those of a philosopher but reveal a writer.

In commentaries on your work, we indeed find your ideas, your

texts a greater dimension, an openness to a domain that is not

merely that of discursive writing but of literary writing. In reading

rable from a formulation that is both rigorous and modulated, that

thought would be less accurate if the sentence hadn’t also found

its cadence, if it hadn’t been carried along and developed by that

cadence. So I’d like to know what the act of writing represents