After closing the pharmacy, Plato went to retire, to get out of the sun. He took a few steps in the darkness toward the back of his reserves, found himself leaning over the pharmakon, decided to analyze.
Within the thick, cloudy liquid, trembling deep inside the drug, the whole pharmacy stood reflected, repeating the abyss of the Platonic phantasm.
The analyst cocks his ears, tries to distinguish between two repetitions.
He would like to isolate the good from the bad, the true from the false.
He leans over further: they repeat each other.
Holding the pharmakon in one hand, the calamus in the other, Plato mutters as he transcribes the play of formulas. In the enclosed space of the pharmacy, the reverberations of the monologue are immeasurably amplified. The walled-in voice strikes against the rafters, the words come apart, bits and pieces of sentences are separated, disarticulated parts begin to circulate through the corridors, become fixed for a round or two, translate each other, become rejoined, bounce off each other, contradict each other, make trouble, tell on each other, come back like answers, organize their exchanges, protect each other, institute an internal commerce, take themselves for a dialogue. Full of meaning. A whole story. An entire history. All of philosophy.
“. . . . the sound of these arguments rings so loudly in my head that I cannot hear the other side.”
— Jacques Derrida, from “Plato’s Pharmacy,” from Dissemination [translated by Barbara Johnson]