This famous phrase from the Phenomenology of Spirit, which was interpreted in the twentieth century as an

expression of Hegels logocentrism, could well know a new destiny. Particularly because of scientific discoveries
concerning the importance of stem cells, the phrase allows one to examine the question of regeneration in regard
to scarring. Such reworking leads to a new questioning of the trace.

Again: The wounds of

the Spirit heal, and
leave no scars behind
CATHERINE MALABOU

o recover: this verb alone can tie together all the questions that Derrida asked me
the day of my thesis defence on 15 December 1994, and that now appear in his
beautiful text A Time for Farewells (Le temps des adieux). I would like to pay
homage to these questions and to the decisive dialogue that we had that day. The discussion revolved around the signification and range of several gestures or movements
that are contained within the English verb to recover: to heal, to return, to relocate a
lost object or return to a normal state. It involved the characterization of a modality
of philosophical invention that consists not in creating a language or a conceptuality
from nothing, but in relocating, in causing to return that which is already there but
which one does not see. The discussion interrogated the paradoxical possibility of a
philosophical event that situates itself between to recover and to discover. Something
like a rediscovering. Recovering, rediscovering: is there, between these two verbs, a possible future for philosophy?

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My thesis centred on Hegel and the role that the concept of plasticity plays in
Hegelian thought. You are attempting to invent Hegel in causing him to return,
Derrida told me, in making a word return that, to some extent, was asleep in language,
awaiting its status as a concept: plasticity. But is it possible to invent Hegel in causing
him to return, in rediscovering him, in healing him with a word, plasticity, that designates, precisely, according to one of its principal meanings, the capacity to cure, to
recoup health? Can such a return, such a plastic surgery, such a lifting, as Derrida
said, be compatible with new thought?
We spoke thus of the mode of thought that consists in awakening that which is
already found there, lying low and hidden in language like a sleeping animal:
To invent, and most particularly understanding invention as an event, means here to rediscover what was there without being there, both in language and in philosophy; it is a question of finding, yes, but of finding for the first time what was always there and what had
always been there, to find again. [. . .] Such words, which seemed lost, hidden away in language, almost asleep in language, but asleep with one eye open, here they appear leaping
into the center of the stage, organizing and playing a lively and vigilant role. These words
are almost like animals. (Derrida, Time xvixvii)

The focus of this discussion did not and does not only apply to the motifs of
invention and recovery in general. The conceptual animals that are in question here
come from not just any forest and are ready to pounce onto not just any scene. They
claim to exceed two limits, and it is certainly this claim that Derrida questions. The first
limit, that which Heidegger, in The Principle of Reason (Der Satz vom Grund), compares
to the ring of fire through which the tiger must jump, is the limit of metaphysics. If a
philosopher is susceptible to returning (to recovering and to being rediscovered), it is
necessary that he be able to do so after the end of metaphysics; it is necessary that he
be able to pass through the ring. The second limit is the limit of deconstruction. If
Hegel is susceptible to returning, in the name of, or in accordance with, his plasticity,
he must be able to cross the circle of fire of his deconstruction. To invent in causing to
return is to cross this double limit, to jump beyond this duality.
Invention as rediscovery consists not only in reawakening authors and categories
that were thought achieved, accomplished, used, but again to revive them after their
deconstruction. The question asked by Derrida is therefore that of knowing what
chance a philosopher like Hegel or a word like plasticity have to return, after their
deconstruction, after metaphysics, and beyond the deconstruction of metaphysics.
Which is the scene of this goodbye to which, without even having said farewell, we are

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29

now returning? Derrida asks (Time x). Can plasticity provide such a scene? Can it
allow philosophy to recover from metaphysics and to muffle the sound of its toll (glas)?
To recover, how does this movement, active and passive at the same time, this displacement, this jump beyond the wound, beyond loss, beyond farewell, this passing of
a double history, inscribe itself in the mobility of diffrance, if it claims to overflow
and proceed beyond this mobility? To cause to return, to differ (diffrer), do these two
movements really follow the same trace, or do they separate from one another due
precisely to this very question of the trace?
Today, the time has come to respond and to explain myself. To cause to return is
not to repeat; it is not to mimic; it is not to reproduce. In causing Hegel and the concept of plasticity to return, one obviously does not obey the fantasy of finding them
again intact, untouched by deconstruction. On the contrary, one must consider the
manner in which they can rebound after their double adhesion to tradition and deconstruction. That is to say, and Derrida understood it perfectly, that such a manner of
philosophizing brings the future of deconstruction into play. When it is a question of
interrogating oneself about Derridas legacy, when it is a question of causing Derrida
to return, of recovering Derrida, it is not about repeating, mimicking, or reproducing
him. It is to invent him after the scene in which he said goodbye to himself as well, after
the scene of an internal dissidence, the announcement of a separation of diffrance
with itself, which at the same time will engage diffrance in its future.
n order to tie together all these questions, I chose to interpret a sentence, one sole
sentence, taken from the Phenomenology of Spirit (Phnomenologie des Geistes):
The wounds of the Spirit heal, and leave no scars behind (407). In this sentence,
Hegel is speaking of the beautiful soul that, always ready to pardon and to forget
mistakes, returns perpetually to itself, relocates itself, reconstitutes itself. Quite often,
this sentence is taken out of context to be used as the very definition of the labour of
the spirit or the movement of the absolute. You can understand why, in my turn, I
have chosen to isolate this sentence. It speaks of recovery, of healing, of the return,
of the reconstitution of the skin after a wound, that is, of plasticity. However, according to Hegel, a true healing is that in which the wound leaves no scars, that is, traces.
The spiritual recovery is a process of erasing the trace.
I would like to suggest that three readings of this sentence are possible: a dialectical
reading, a deconstructive reading, and a third reading that I will call post-deconstructive.
Between the first and the second reading stands the first ring of fire, between the second and the third is the second ring of fire. These three readings come from three
ways of understanding recovery, healing, reconstitution, return, or regeneration. I will

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present these readings via three paradigms of recovery: the paradigm of the phoenix,
the paradigm of tissue, and the paradigm of the salamander.
In the first reading of the phrase, regeneration merges with the process of sublation (Aufhebung, la relve). The spirit returns constantly to itself after its rending and
without exhibiting a trace. As Hegel maintains in the Lectures on the Philosophy of
History (Vorlesungen ber die Philosophie der Geschichte), the spirit is comparable to
the phoenix, the legendary bird that is reborn from its own ashes. Hegel says that, as
the phoenix, spirit comes forth exalted, glorified, a purer spirit (76). In accordance
with the phoenix paradigm, true recovery is resurrection. The second reading tends
to deconstruct the first in affirming that there are only scars. If Derrida affirms that a
trace attains only self-erasure, this erasure is simultaneously and necessarily a mark.
A trace attains only self-erasure, but the erasure in its turn succeeds only in leaving a
trace. For Derrida, the process of recovery, in all senses of the word, is understood
through the text as tissue. Tissue is at the same time a textile or a web (toile) and a living tissue. To read, to understand, is to make wounds everywhere, first cuts, gashes, in
the textile or web and the flesh. The text always reconstitutes itself, but it keeps imprints
or traits of all readings and all acts of the spirit. In Dissemination (La Dissmination),
Derrida writes: the text reconstitut[es] it[self] too as an organism, indefinitely regenerating its own tissue behind the cutting trace, the decision of each reading (63). But
here, the regeneration of living tissue coincides with the process of scarring and the
inscription of the memory of the wound. Therefore it is in the name of such a device of
multiple inscriptions, both erased and unerasable, that Derrida writes Glas, for and
against the Hegelian phoenix. Glas is writing against resurrection.
The third reading of the phrase, which is beyond the dialectical and diffrantial
or textual signification of recovery, evokes the paradigm of the salamander. What is it
about? The response to this question accounts for all the risks of my lecture. My interest in plasticity has driven me, these last few years, to an interest in what is today called
regenerative medicine, which consists in providing organs and tissues the means to
mend themselves, to heal themselves through self-regeneration or regrowth. For this,
regenerative medicine develops the potential of those surprising cells called stem cells.
Regenerative medicine works with either embryonic stem cells, cells that are totipotent, and that can differentiate themselves by giving rise to all the cell types of an
organism; or it works with adult stem cells, non specialized cells that are found in specialized tissue (brain, bone marrow, blood, blood-vessels, retina, liver, and so on). The
largest part of these stem cells generate, at the time of regeneration, the same kind of
cells as the tissue from which they come, but it has been discovered that certain of

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31

these adult stem cells (notably dermis stem cells) can transform into other types of cells
(for example, nervous or muscular cells). They are said to transdifferentiate themselves. It is therefore possible, from these cells, to make skin, muscle, and neurons, to
regenerate the sick organ without the help of outside contribution. Such medicine is
called regenerative in reference to the capacity that certain animals have to reproduce
one or several damaged or amputated parts. The salamander is the most well known
and most spectacular example. It is capable of regenerating limbs (legs, tail) and portions of organs, such as the eye or the heart. Today, regenerative medicine, with the
use of stem cells, aims to recover this self-restoring faculty inscribed in the memory of
the species. Regeneration is brought into play more and more often in the treatment
of myocardial infarction, burns, or Parkinsons disease.
These totally new therapeutic possibilitieswhich came into being only at the
end of the 1990selicit philosophical thought in many ways. In particular, they
prompt me to understand the sentence from Hegel in a new way. When the tail of a
salamander or lizard regrows, we have a healing process without scars. The limb identically reconstitutes itself without leaving a trace. But this phenomenon of recovery
does not appear to me to be readable in dialectical terms, nor in the terms of diffrance or textual logic. Such recovery is not a sublation; nor is it a weaving. Without
resurrection, but also without a graft, without a pharmakon, without an intruder:
what comes or returns after dialectics and after the text, proceeding from an ancient
memory, more ancient still than that of metaphysics? What is this plasticity that
invents itself in returning? I would like to confront here these three structures of
recovery, of inscription, and of the erasure of the trace. On this path one can see the
animalsphoenix, spider or silk-worm, salamanderalways ready to pounce. They
will faithfully accompany me and help me to rephrase the question: Again: The
wounds of the Spirit heal, and leave no scars behind.

he confrontation of presence and diffrance is played out between the two paradigms of the phoenix and tissue.
The paradigm of the phoenix, the legendary bird to which Hegel compares the
spirit, corresponds to the movement of presence that constantly reconstitutes itself
from its wounds. The immortal phoenix symbolizes, as such, the parousia or the work
of the spirit that returns to itself from extreme rending. According to this paradigm,
to recover necessarily signifies a modality of presentation. To heal, for example,
implies a reconstitution of presence from that which lacks, a cancellation of defects or
of absence. It is as such that Hegel turns to the metaphor of skin that regenerates itself

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without leaving a scar. The image of the return to the self appears also, at the end of
Phenomenology of Spirit, in the form of the liquid that, overflowing the chalice,
rebounds simultaneously back into it to fill itself anew.
Derrida shows several times that Aufhebung, the process of sublation or of dialectical recovery, is deeply dependent on what he calls, in the lecture Diffrance, the value
of presence (la valeur de prsence) (16). For Hegel, the trace, the wound, and its erasure, the healing, are still subjected to the authority of presence. The disappearance of
the scar coincides with the appearance of the spirit. Recovery is a disappearance that
presents itself, a phenomenology. Derrida shows very early, in Diffrance,The Pit and
the Pyramid (Le Puits et la pyramide), and Glas, that wounds in Hegels estimation
are only privileged means for the spirit to return to itself from separation, suffering,
and doubling. The negative is fundamentally the work of presence. As such, the spirit,
in the still abstract form of the beautiful soul or in the completed form of absolute
knowledge, always sublates itself after extreme rending. As Hegel himself declares:
Spirit is its own restless process of superseding itself, or negativity (Phenomenology
491). Dialectical plasticity is the constant regeneration of presence, which each time
finds the resources of its youth or health in the form of a superior life.
In one sense, the tissue paradigm also corresponds well to a structure of the erasure of the trace and therefore also the scar. But such an erasure, far from permitting
the completion of presence, corresponds to the originary impossibility of presence to
be anything other than a trace. In Diffrance, Derrida affirms:
Since the trace is not a presence but the simulacrum of a presence that dislocates itself, displaces itself, refers itself, it properly has no site [na proprement pas lieu]. Erasure belongs
to its structure [leffacement appartient sa structure]. And not only the erasure which
must always be able to overtake it (without which it would not be a trace but an indestructible and monumental substance), but also the erasure which constitutes it from the outset
as a trace, which situates it as the change of site, and makes it disappear in its appearance,
makes it emerge from itself in its production. (25)

It is therefore necessary to distinguish two concepts of the scar. If, on the one hand, the
scar is that which bears witness to the presence of the wound, to the presence of the
past, then one must consider that diffrance also does not leave a scar. As Derrida
again affirms: The concept of trace is incompatible with the concept of retention, of
the becoming-past of what have been present. The conclusion is clear: One cannot
think the traceand therefore differenceon the basis of the present, or of the presence of the present [on ne peut penser la traceet donc la difference partir du
prsent, ou de la prsence du prsent] (22). On the other hand, if one thinks of the

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33

scar as the movement of the originary mourning of presence, as witness to the impossibility of self-presence, that which designates writing, then the medium of sense is
full of marks, of first cuts, of scratches.
Thus, the spelling mistake that leads to writing diffrance with an a is surely
an injury made to language, which leaves in it a scar of this infraction. However, this
fault remains silent, secret and discreet as a tomb (4). The scar bears witness to
nothing, actualizes no past. The a in diffrance hides nothing, promises neither revelation nor truth, reserving itself, not exposing itself, in regular fashion it exceeds the
order of truth at a certain and precise point, but without dissimulating itself [. . .]. In
every exposition it would be exposed to disappearing as a disappearance. It would risk
appearing: disappearing [En tout exposition elle serait expose disparatre comme
disparition. Elle risquerait dapparatre : de disparatre] (6).
Diffrance has no essence, it is not. That is why its paradigm is the tissue of the
text, and it is impossible to get out of this in order to attain a nontextual presence.
There is nothing but the text, the tissue. If one cuts into it, the section creates text
again. Textiles or webs are rewoven out of their torn pieces, creating a network, an
entanglement of veils. But in this constant regeneration, it is not the skin that regrows
in an identical way; no increase in presence closes the wound nor corrects the mistakes. The tissue of the text spreads itself out, becomes more complex and ramifies
without ever achieving the clarity of a form. Regeneration here is not the repetition
of the eternal youth of the phoenix, but the indefinite mending of the textiles or webs.
This explains why the recovery model remains, for Derrida, that of the graft.
The question, then, is to know if the concept of plasticity is susceptible to the
characterization of the two modalities of recovery that I have just distinguished. Can
plasticity, a concept that appears for the first time in Hegel, have a signification outside of the value of presence? According to Derrida, it seems not: in A Time for
Farewells, he shows that the reconstitution of tissue or of textiles resists plastic regeneration, which is always attached, in his opinion, to salvation or redemption. The
graphic diffrance, he says, abandons the assurance of repetition or of redemption
and refuses all the assurances of salvation (xxxii).
Derrida rediscovers the concepts buried in a language. He also causes philosophers to return. But the modality of return that he implements is not plastic.
Plasticity, Derrida declares, is always interiorizing, incorporating, sublating, idealizing, spiritualizing that which [it cures] (xxxix). In this sense, plasticity would always
be dialectical. Metaphysics leaves scars, folds, marks. It would seem that neither plasticity nor Hegel can truly get over it (that is, heal, recover). It would seem that they do
not self-regenerate, do not pass through the ring of fire. How, then, is it possible to
cause them to return in any way other than as ghosts?

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That is just what I want to do here, in announcing Again: The wounds of the
Spirit heal, and leave no scars behind. If plasticity has a future, it is necessary to show
that it can be dissociated from the value of presence, and consequently also from resurrection or redemption. Today, cellular biology proves the possibility of this dissociation, which is why I turn to it. As I have said, the salamander regenerates its limbs, tail,
or other organs. The hydra, when cut in two, proves to be capable of regenerating an
entire animal from each of the separated parts. If one truncates certain worms, each
piece produces a new organism that is identical to the original. Regeneration is, therefore, a cloning. The animal is susceptible to finding within itself, at the margins of the
process of reproduction, the possibility of repairing itself in replicating itself.
One first remark is necessary. In all of these cases of healing, of recovery, the
wounds leave no scars. When the tail of a lizard regrows, there is no longer any trace
of the amputation. But this phenomenon does not correspond to dialectical sublation
in the way I have begun to define it. The organ reconstitutes itself without scarring,
but this healing does not elevate life to a superior form. This is the difference between
the salamander and the phoenix. The phoenix is eternally reborn from its ashes. The
salamander is mortal. Regeneration is not a reconstitution of presence, which, by definition, implies infinity and eternity. Recovery, here, is a finite survival, a momentary
resource. The regrowth does not void finitude, it is an expression of it. In this sense,
regeneration is therefore of the order Derrida calls a supplement, stranger to the value
of presence. The problem is that this supplement exceeds or displaces the logic of diffrance as well and at the same time questions the second understanding of the sentence with which I started, that which invokes the tissue paradigm.
et us examine the biological research. With humans, as with all mammals, regeneration is practically extinct. Only a few rare memories of the regenerative capacities
of the salamander or the hydra persist naturally: the epidermis and the blood vessels
tend to reconstitute themselves when they are damaged. The liver can in some cases
self-regenerate. The last phalanx is susceptible to regrowth in children or adolescents.
But these possibilities are extremely limited and appear to be vestiges of an archaic
past. Why? Why is regeneration extinct? This point is particularly interesting for my
subject: it is the scarring that replaces it. In superior animals, it is less advantageous to
remain for a long time with an open wound than to scar over. Evolution would have
deviated from regeneration in complex animals, in the sense that it takes more time
than scarring. The scar is therefore a late means of healing in the history of species.
The scar is a physical obstacle to regeneration; it forms a crust or a fibrous shell that
prevents the very reconstitution of the limb or the damaged part.

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35

For example, what happens if one cuts off a limb of a salamander? The epidermic
cells migrate rapidly to the surface of the stump and cover it entirely in a sort of envelope. When the amputated surface is totally covered, a second phase begins, which is
called dedifferentiation. Under this envelope, the stem cells that differentiated themselves as nervous, muscle, or vascular cells, lose their specialization. They dedifferentiate themselves and form a kind of bud, the regeneration blastema, from which, in
transdifferentiating, they are going to regenerate all of the amputated structure. No
scar forms. The wound heals, and leaves no scar behind. In contrast, in mammals this
blastema does not form; in its place the scar appears.
Today, regenerative medicine, in essence, rests on the possibility of reactivating
these lost functions, which signifies the need to inhibit the process of scarring, to erase
the scar. This is possible in two waysby the activation of dedifferentiation and of
transdifferentiation of stem cellswhich is therapeutic cloningor by the neutralization of scarring geneswhich is a function of genetic therapy. Biologists today
work to relocate the trace of the very process of erasure of the trace or of the scar. We
are therefore facing a double operation of erasure. With the contemporary exploitation of the paradigm of the salamander, we are therefore facing a double process of
erasure of the trace; the first is the erasure linked to natural regeneration: the limb or
the tissue reconstitutes itself, there is no scar, the mark of the wound erases itself.
Second is the erasure of the scarring, caused by medical technique. It is a question of
erasing the mark that obliterates an ancient process of erasure of the mark.
As I have said, natural regeneration and artificial or technical regeneration do
not implement the value of presence. One could say that stem cells are present in
the organism, in the manner of a potential that is always susceptible to being active,
like the sleeping animals, ready to pounce, that I evoked as a starting point. But, like
these animals, precisely, they can at the same time surprise by pouncing, passing
through the ring of fire, transgressing the limit. Stem cells are only present in the
forms of reserves of presence ready to explode, which can profoundly disrupt teleology, destination, and meaning. But the paradigm of the salamander is not only irreducible to dialectical sublation, it is also irreducible to the paradigm of tissue. The
salamander does not allow itself to be entirely taken into the folds of the text. The
salamander heals in erasing writing.
In Of Grammatology (De la Grammatologie), Derrida declares: Now we tend to
say writing [. . .] to designate not only the physical gestures of literal pictographic or
ideographic inscription, but also the totality of what makes it possible; and also,
beyond the signifying face, the signified face itself. And thus we say writing for all
that gives rise to an inscription in general, whether it is literal or not [. . .]. It is also in

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this sense that the contemporary biologist speaks of writing and pro-gram in relation
to the most elementary processes of information within the living cell. (9).
Today, certainly, the salamander reminds us that regeneration is a deprogramming, a de-writing if you prefer. Stem cells can change difference, change inscription.
Regenerative medicine proves the lapsed character of what was until a very recent
period believed to be, namely the irreversibility of cellular differentiation and of
genetic programming. But the concept of plasticity is employed today by biologists to
designate this capacity of cells to modify their program, to break away from their text.
The therapeutic and ontological work of plasticity disturbs the dialectical work
of auto-reparation of the absolute, as well as the motifs of writing and of textuality in
general. Reparation here comes neither from the same nor from the other. Because of
this complexity, it appears not only as the supplement of the supplement, a simple
replacement for writing. It no longer belongs to the era of metaphysics, but it likewise
announces a change of system of the supplement itself.
The fact that a scheme like writing, or plasticity, would be pregnant in culture at a
given moment indicates still that this scheme has an ontological expression too, which
it is up to the philosopher to decipher, as Derrida also shows in Of Grammatology.
Plasticity takes over from the regeneration of the spirit for Hegel, from the displacement of the letter for Derrida. I call plasticity the resistance of diffrance to its graphic
reduction. Or, if you prefer, that which is not present in diffrance but that also does
not write itself. That which is not present, is not absent, is not written.
The deconstruction of presence is today a completed procedure. Consequently, if
deconstruction can return, recover, it must change paradigms. Derrida says it himself
in Diffrance: I wish to underline that the efficacy of the thematic of diffrance may
very well, indeed must, one day be superseded, lending itself if not to its own replacement, at least to enmeshing itself in a chain that in truth it never will have governed
(7). And, to a certain extent, Derrida himself progressively abandoned, at least transformed, the imperative of the deconstruction of presence. Deconstructive readings of
the great philosophers of the tradition are becoming less frequent and are increasingly
rare in books. The opposition of the phoenix and tissue is becoming less insistent.
Derridas guiding question transforms itself and regenerates itself with time. Proof is
in the emergence of the problem of the un-deconstructible, which merges belatedly
with justice and democracy. That there are un-deconstructible instances signifies that
they can return, that they traverse to a certain extent the two rings of fire of the history of metaphysics and the era of deconstruction. The un-deconstructible is not of
the order of presence, but it is also certainly a form of resistance to the text. Derrida
must therefore admit that a type of substance exists that, without being a parousia, is

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37

no longer confused with the incessant mobility of graphic difference. But, due to a
lack of time, it seems to me that Derrida did not sufficiently interrogate this ontological consistency of the un-deconstructible. Would he have accepted the possibility of
seeing in it the secret of the salamander?
In my opinion, this is the essential question he has handed down to me. But who
is to say that Hegel did not ask it? The philosophical texts return today as one has never
before seen them. They reconstitute themselves from their deconstruction. They have
no scars; however they are not the same, and they are not different either. They are neither the same nor different: clones of themselves that open up new means for thought.
But is cloning not one of the possible significations of absolute knowledge?
The wounds of the Spirit heal, and leave no scars behind: what is, in the end, the
signification of recovery contained in this phrase? Presence? Writing? Regeneration?
What does the departed leave in me: a presence, a trace, or another diffrance? It is up
to me to decide among these three what a time for farewells means.
Text translated by Annjeanette Wiese.

WORKS CITED
Derrida, Jacques. Diffrance. Margins of Philosophy. Trans. Alan Bass. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1982.
327.
____ . Dissemination. Trans. Barbara Johnson. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1981.
____ . Of Grammatology. 1976. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP,
1998.
____ . A Time for Farewells: Heidegger (read by) Hegel (read by) Malabou. Preface. The Future of Hegel,
Plasticity, Temporality and Dialectic. By Catherine Malabou. Trans. Joseph D. Cohen and Lisabeth
During. London: Routledge, 2005.
Hegel, G.W.F. Lectures on the Philosophy of History. Trans. J. Sibree. London: George Bell and Sons, 1881.
____ . Phenomenology of Spirit. Trans. A.V. Miller. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1977.

CATHERINE MALABOU is Professor in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Paris 10

Nanterre. She completed her Ph.D. under the guidance of Jacques Derrida, with whom she subsequently collaborated to write La Contre-alle (1999). Professor Malabou has written extensively on
Derrida, Hegel, Heidegger, and Butler, as well as on the topics of dialectics, deconstruction, and the
concept of plasticity. Her books include Le Change Heidegger (2004); La plasticit au soir de lcriture. Dialectique, destruction, deconstruction (2004); Que faire notre cerveau? (2004); and Lavenir de
Hegel (1996), translated into English as The Future of Hegel: Plasticity, Temporality, and Dialectic
(2004).

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