Colloquy, Issue 7, W. Tregoning, It Feels Like Home

Issue Seven

It Feels Like Home

Hospitality in a Postcolonial Space

William Tregoning, University of Sydney

The idea of community makes me claustrophobic. When I think of community, like Derrida, I think of defence, of walls and of exclusion. I think of words like 'un-Australian' and phrases like "threat to the community." I am sceptical about the usefulness of community as a model for 'being-with-others' because it seems to perpetuate rather than address the conditions from which its apparent necessity arises.

As part of the project of constructing an inside&emdash; a place of belonging and identity&emdash;community also involves the delineation of boundaries which mark it off from a space 'outside.' It creates 'un-belonging' in the same movement as it creates belonging; the entry of those who do not belong is inhibited in the name of the community identity. I am fascinated by the prospect that Derrida's model of hospitality might offer a way out of community. This is far more than the simple substitution of one word or concept for another. The radical difference is that hospitality is founded on an ideal of welcoming the other, while community is founded on the other's exclusion in the name of unity. This does not mean, as Derrida is fully aware, that hospitality is unproblematic and endlessly 'good.' But it does mean that there are possibilities in hospitality for ways of being-with-others which are inaccessible through community.

Thinking about community, I thought of Margaret Somerville's Body/LandscapeJournals , [1] which I had encountered in the past and 'remembered' as being all 'about' communities. It is difficult to briefly describe Body/Landscape Journals, but perhaps it can be called a collection of stories about Somerville's anxiously negotiated sense of belonging as a settler in an Australian postcolonial space. When I went back to Body/Landscape Journals, I was surprised to realise that it is not 'about' communities, in that community is almost never explicitly addressed. But it is consciously, critically, anxiously about being-with-others and about negotiating difference. In my remembering of the text I forgot, I suppose, that Somerville's project was to negotiate difference rather than to solidify sameness as "community."

I am interested in how hospitality might be used as an optic for a particular reading of Somerville's account of 'living-with-others.' I ask: what is the home for Somerville, and what might that suggest about hospitality in a postcolonial space? I explore what Somerville's work might 'say back' to Derrida about the complexities of hospitality and the difficulties of acting it out. I am particularly interested in Somerville's ideas about the making or performing of a home (physically and metaphorically) into which the other might be welcomed. Somerville offers crucial observations both about how gender might work in homemaking and hospitality and about how hospitality might operate in a space where a settler culture has displaced prior belongings.

I will begin by addressing the question: why not community? I will proceed from this to an outline of Derrida's idea of hospitality. At that point it will be necessary to directly address the issues involved in drawing together the work of Derrida and Somerville, and to consider how an alliance between the two might be made to work. Following from that, I will look at what issues concerning hospitality are raised in Body/Landscape Journals ; how hospitality might work in an Australian postcolonial space; and how hospitality relates to gender. I will read Somerville particularly for her ideas about burial, relation to place and practices of home. For this reason I will focus on the chapters 'Emily and the Queen,' [2] and 'Houses: and the performance of home.' [3]

Derrida's repudiation of community is rooted in an antipathy towards what he sees as the inseparability of community from consensus, that is, from a privileging of similarity and unity over difference. John Caputo, describing Derrida's dislike of community, is incisive in explaining the etymology: "to have a communio is to be fortified on all sides, to build a "common" (com)"defense" (munis) as when a wall is put up around the city to keep the stranger or foreigner out." [4] For Derrida, it is impossible to conceive of community independently of a process of exclusion, of an inward-orientation that excludes the other. This exclusion of the other, the stranger, the foreigner, is the exclusion of precisely those to whom the deconstructive stance is orientated and to whom Derrida would suggest the greatest responsibility is due. Caputo writes that, for Derrida,"one must watch out for the ways tradition and community become excuses for conservatism, for the exclusion of the incoming of the other, and hence constitute "as much threat as promise," as much a trap as a tap." [5]

Somerville, on the other hand, does not explicitly reject community in Body/Landscape Journals. I do not think it is accidental, however, that community almost only ever appears as an absence in the text. Somerville describes a model in which identity is indissociable from responsibility to the other, including a responsibility to preserve the 'other-ness' of the other. It is not Somerville's project to create a community which might reinforce or defend her own identity. Instead, her concern is with the possibility that her own identity and sense of belonging might efface other identities and belongings. Listen for the anxiety with which Somerville approaches the question of effacement in the following passage from Body/Landscape Journals:

What stories does mine make space for and which ones does it displace? There is still an overarching sense that all the landscape is marked by Aboriginal stories and there has been no resolution to the question whose land? And whose story can be told?... I have been educated in the privileges of the world of writing. Does my story write out another story? Does it make room for multiple stories? Can your story be written here? Is it a postcolonial space? [6]

The concern here is not with finding points of commonality which might afford a unity. Instead, there is an urgency to acknowledge how privileged positions write over other positions, inventing a unity by obscuring difference. This acknowledgement in turn makes necessary the search for other ways of 'writing belonging' which are not reliant on this violent effacement.

Somerville only addresses the idea of community directly once, and briefly, when writing about the Pine Gap Women's Peace Camp [7] (in the chapter of the same name). But this is a transient, strategic community. On viewing photographs from Pine Gap, Somerville writes:

I recall the original experience, but they do not finally name for me an individual, or even a shared group experience, although that is one reading. The presence I see is a collective or community of women who decided to join together in the same place, at the same time, to make an alternative set of practices visible in the landscape. The photographs show only women… but they also immediately suggest difference, the presence of a great diversity of women whose only commonality may be that they decided to be present at the same time and place, to protest together. [8]

What Somerville tentatively names here as a community is not a mechanism for the generation of a singular identity, but is a particular strategic tool; an effective but ephemeral creation which, like the tents in which the women sleep, never solidifies around its inhabitants; Somerville writes:

The membrane that divides our inside from outside is not only permeable but fragile. As we lie in our makeshift camp one night, a gust of wind springs up… The tent balloons and shrinks … until finally, despite our trying to hold down our world, it puffs off and away. We laugh, exposed in sheet bags to the pale green morning light, and Lenore puts on her lipstick to greet the new day. [9]

Somerville's concern is not so much to generate common identity as it is to find a way to live in the spaces between those types of identities. For this reason, it is less important to her to separate inside and outside spaces than it is to look for what sort of spaces might be able to exist without requiring clearly demarcated insides and outsides. In avoiding community, Somerville is seeking to negotiate the divergence between different racial and cultural identities without making either the solidification or the effacement of difference the basis for disparate positions to relate to one another. This inspires a model based on webs of relation rather than on incorporation of the other, including incorporation through structures of oppositional difference. In this there are echoes of Derrida's project of seeking a stance toward the other based on a model of hospitality that would welcome the other unconditionally, maintaining the other's other-ness.

But there is a difference of emphasis in the projects of the two authors, and this gets them to different places. The making of home is not as problematic for Derrida as it is for Somerville, who anxiously contemplates the very conditions of possibility for becoming a host: a home and the ability and desire to invite a guest. This is not to suggest that hospitality is unproblematic for Derrida (it is far from being so), but simply to note that for each writer the emphasis is differently placed with regard to what is problematic. It is in this difference of emphasis that the value of reading Somerville alongside Derrida lies, especially in the context of an Australian cultural history in which settler practices of home have effaced indigenous belongings. But I want to leave that thread for a moment while I map out Derrida's idea of hospitality and how it moves away from the idea of community.

For Derrida, hospitality requires welcoming the other, the foreigner, the stranger. In this sense, hospitality is a deconstructive practice (and deconstruction is a practice of hospitality) in that the welcoming of the other is at the heart of both. But as Derrida is aware, the possibility of hospitality rests on an imbalance of ownership; even while admitting the guest, the owner remains in control of the home. This is what Derrida identifies as the conditional nature of hospitality&emdash; conditional in that it does not require the host to surrender property or identity; the host remains master. As Caputo writes:

When the host says to the guest, "Make yourself at home," this is a self-limiting invitation. "Make yourself at home" means: please feel at home, act as if you were at home, but, remember, that is not true, this is not your home but mine... [10]

This is the hostility inherent in hosting; the hostility which limits the freedoms of the guest in order to preserve the state of the home and the status of the master.

Hospitality without limits&emdash;"unconditional hospitality"&emdash;would be that which made no demand on the other. This would involve a willingness to cede mastery of the home and would require welcoming the other without knowing in advance who or what the other might be. Hospitality without conditions would be pure hospitality but Derrida realises that this could be a terrible thing. He writes:

For unconditional hospitality to take place, you have to accept the risk of the other coming and destroying the place, initiating a revolution, stealing everything, or killing everyone. That is the risk of pure hospitality[;]… without …conditions hospitality could turn into wild war, terrible aggression. [11]

The risks of pure hospitality preclude its existence. Indeed, it is only by way of the conditions of hospitality, the conditions which seek to minimise the risks, that hospitality is possible. In this sense, the 'Law' of hospitality (of pure hospitality) is contradicted by the laws by which it might be realised. But even so, Derrida suggests that conditional hospitality requires having in mind what pure hospitality might be. For the guest to feel truly welcomed, it is necessary that "the host must, in a moment of madness, tear up the understanding between him and the guest, act with "excess", make an absolute gift of his property, which is of course impossible." [12] Even while impossible, the gesture toward pure hospitality is the promise of a hospitality made in its image.

Somerville is also acutely aware of the hostility that is involved in hospitality. For her, the hostility begins long before the guest has arrived. It begins with the very act of marking out a space as home; as 'my home.' This is why it is critical for her to ask: "Does my story write out another story? Does it make room for multiple stories?" [13] For Somerville, the question is: how can I inhabit a space without colonising it? Or if that is impossible, then: how can I colonise the space of "home" in the least oppressive or invasive way?

This is a question that has different motivations within Australian settler culture, where colonisation has displaced indigenous inhabitants, than it might have for Derrida in France. It is consequently a question that Somerville addresses with greater anxiety and in greater depth than Derrida, raising and investigating crucial issues that are marginal in his writing. Somerville's search is for the possibility of making a home that from its very beginning does not set out to exclude the other; a home that is sensitive to the claims of the guest before that home is even built. This would mean making a home without losing sight of the violence involved in making the other into a 'guest-at-best'; an action which is the unavoidable corollary of the process of becoming master.

When writing about houses and homes, Somerville is often writing about the actual concrete structures but she is also never not writing metaphorically. Hence the title, 'Houses: and the performance of home,' signifies that what goes on in making homes is not bounded by actual walls but extends to become a metaphor for a type of belonging in the outside world. This mirrors Derrida's idea of hospitality regarding what is at stake in hosting in my own home, and what is at stake in being part of a larger social 'group-which-hosts.' At the beginning of 'Houses…,' Somerville makes clear her desire to make the feeling of being at home the basis for a sense of identity in the 'outside' world:

For as long as I can remember, I was mother when I was inside. In the bush I was unbounded self, at home I was bounded mother. My work in the landscape has been a quest for belonging, searching for a sense of home in the outside world through connection with Aboriginal women's stories and then through white women engaged in environmental work. [14]

One of the interesting things in this passage is the idea of 'a sense of home in the outside world through connection.' This sense of home requires an ease of movement between inside and outside, between guest and master. The truly hospitable postcolonial house would always let in the outside; let you in, as Derrida has said: "whoever you are and whatever your name, your language, your sex, your species may be, be you human, animal or divine..."[15] This is the type of home that is suggested in the following passage, which Somerville quotes from Caputo:

Is there another way of getting in? Below us someone has stuck four sticks in the sand and, tying the corners of a tablecloth to their points, made a shelter from the sun. This is not a primitive enclosure: it has no walls, being composed entirely of windows and doors… It is late afternoon and the square of shadow it casts has moved a little way eastwards down the beach: to inhabit this dwelling, it is necessary to sit down outside it… [16]

Perhaps a house without walls&emdash; effectively all open doors&emdash; is the only structure which the other is always free to enter. And perhaps then it is the condition of possibility for unconditional hospitality.

But homes on a beach made of four poles and piece of cloth are rare. Anyway, it's hardly a home at all: if you invited me to stay, I wouldn't come. If it feels like the possibility of pure hospitality&emdash; this structure which is all doors&emdash; then it is also its impossibility. It is not a home because it is neither a place to belong nor a place into which guests may be welcomed. So for Somerville, it is necessary to worry out the issues of how this promise of pure hospitality might relate to and inform her actual practices of home. In this worrying, even her pleasures are anxiously interrogated with an awareness that even practices of love are not unproblematic:

Everyday I love this garden but it is, I often think, a mark of colonisation. It uses up water from fast diminishing pools where water rats and turtles live; the food that grows there is imported with our European origins. If we really knew how to tread lightly on this land we would eat kangaroo, and goomeyii, five corners and fiery hogs, the eggs of the turtle and perhaps echidna and possum. [17]

Somerville suggests here the necessity of constantly looking beyond what her home might 'do' for her, and toward what her home might 'do' to others by the very fact and processes of its existence. She is acutely aware of how her ability to host relies on being hosted by, rather than hostile toward, others; never just a master but also always a guest.

This network of hosting and being hosted is exemplified in that the passage quoted above is followed by a written record of aboriginal women telling Somerville about some of the indigenous food sources that she mentions. A partial schematic: the aboriginal women talk about being hosted by the land; Somerville is being hosted by the aboriginal women in that they share their stories and; the women are Somerville's "guests" in Body/Landscape Journals. Somerville's experience is of complex and overlapping hostings, where she is sometimes host, sometimes guest, and where neither position is ever fixed.

This flow between the positions of host and guest is critical, because it liberates Somerville from the hostility involved in always being 'master.' Somerville is aware of the limits of the subject who refuses to host and be hosted. She is aware, for example, of how limited her text about being-with-others would be if she retained tight control of a single authorial position. Derrida is also sensitive to this issue. Consider the following passage:

Strange logic…, that of an impatient master waiting his guest as liberator… It's as if… the stranger could save the master and liberate the power of his host; it's as if the master, qua master, were prisoner of his place and his power, of his ipseity, of his subjectivity… So it is indeed the master, the one who invites, the inviting host, who becomes the hostage&emdash;and really always has been. And the guest, the invited hostage, becomes the one who invites the one who invites, the master of the host. [18]

A home well defended against the other is one which makes the master's place and power into a prison. The master is made prisoner of the subject position "master." Such a home would be a violent, 'heavy' colonisation of space, precluding hospitality to the other because its walls would turn the outside space, the space of the other, into an enemy space. The space outside would be inhospitable. While refusing to be hospitable, the master would never be "at home" because that refusal involves the turning away of the guest who could host the master as a host. This is this refusal which Somerville, seeking belonging to place, is eager to avoid.

In a sense, Somerville has taken a step beyond Derrida by extrapolating this idea about the liberatory power of the guest into a model for generating a sense of belonging to place. For Somerville, belonging&emdash; the sense of being 'at home'&emdash; is only possible when it is not reliant on the exclusion of other belongings. Perhaps this is the impossible perfectibility of belonging but even so, it does suggest a way toward a richer kind of belonging. This would be a way of belonging aware of the necessity of being hospitable in order to open the possibility that the home, real or metaphorical, might itself be hosted rather than imposed. Here is a visceral example: Somerville writes of a 'performance' by Gay Bilson in which Bilson "planned to make blood sausages from her own body for a dinner party, 'the ultimate symbolic gesture of generosity.'" [19] In doing so, Bilson seems to say: host my body (eat part of me) as my gesture of hosting you as guests, you who host me as a friend. This exemplifies the way that webs of connection, flows between guesting and hosting, create a sense of belonging, of being at home.

This talk of cooking is part of Somerville's wondering about the gendered nature of the performance of home and about what it might be to be a woman who invites. She recalls a dream in which her desire to write is thwarted because she has "many visitors and many mouths to feed" [20] ; it is as if she has partly lost herself under a mountain of laundry and dirty dishes. I am fascinated by Somerville's dream image and its suggestion of a hospitality made impossible because the endless burden of its practices have worked to obscure the hospitable subject, making her a servant rather than a host.

Somerville traces a gender association, present in Gaston Bachelard's writing about the home, through which she sees her identity subsumed through identification, as woman, with the interior of the house. This is an identification in which the interior is figured as a maternal space; Somerville quotes Bachelard:

Before he is 'cast into the world'…man is laid in the cradle of the house… Life begins well, it begins enclosed, protected, all warm in the bosom of the house. [21]

If the woman is tied to the interior of the home, indeed is the interior, then that makes the house like a prison, marked by "the isolation of closed walls that represent neither connection to outside world of bush or sea, nor to other people." [22] So for Somerville, to be a host is problematic both because of the difficulty of isolating the practices of hospitality as hospitality, and because of a gendered script which would deny her, as a woman, a subjecthood sufficiently independent of the space of the home to make meaningful a gesture of invitation.

Somerville is here engaging Bachelard in a dialogue about the act of inhabitation, rejecting the idea of the home as a necessarily 'felicitous' space and at the same time searching for the distinction between home as protecting shell and home as prison. She is eager to find a way of inhabitation which would not be an imprisonment of the self, an imprisonment which would preclude an identity outside the space of the home. Somerville is by no means seeking a home without walls. Indeed, she is attentive to the necessity of a boundary for the self, writing: "a body needs a shell around it, an outer skin extruded from its membranes, like the snail's, to protect its softness and vulnerability from the world." [23] But while the shell is necessary, it is necessary that it not be the characteristic which defines that which is within. Walls are not to be wholly constituent of the home nor is fortification to define the inhabitant as prisoner.

Somerville uncurls these ideas when writing of her experiences in a women's refuge; she writes:

There are bars on the windows and the doors are always locked and I learn to carry keys everywhere for the first time… Am I in gaol? But then I lock myself into my room with daughter and dog, two mice and a few belongings and I think maybe I have with me everything I want. [24]

In this heavily fortified space, the walls that protect her allow a sense of home even while they do not in themselves constitute home. Somerville also later recognises the need to extend out beyond the boundaries of the home and for those boundaries to be at least partially permeable to the outside. She recounts her Bachelardian 'dreams of a garment house' which suggests a home space moulded to the contours of the inhabitant, providing protection without precluding movement or establishing exclusive fortification:

I think about the layers of insides and the desire to make a house for myself out of fabric, perhaps starting with knitting because then I can spin the wool too. A large tubular curly extrusion of reds, oranges and yellows like the curls of body tubes, moulded to body shapes. [25]

This suggests a boundary which protects but which is not impermeable; it is an imagining of a home space which is defined by, rather than defining its interior. Crucially, it also suggests the prior necessity of identifying and protecting the self before hospitality becomes a possibility.

Somerville's wondering about the nature of inhabitation and about the home reflects a distinctly different way of coming to hospitality from that of Derrida. Somerville suggests the necessity of responsibility to the self before a responsibility to the other. The ability to invite relies on a subject who is free to invite; free even to see the guest where that seeing is not overburdened by the requirements of being seen. Somerville takes this from Drusilla Modjeska:

When a woman writes 'I' she must reconcile seeing with being seen, and negotiate the transposition of the first term to her own use. How is she, the object who is seen, to see herself, both seen and seeing? [26]

Modjeska and Somerville might ask Derrida: how might I, the object who is seen, see the guest? And if I cannot see myself, how can I see myself inviting the guest? For Somerville, the answer is that it is first necessary to retreat into solitude, that is, to "escape the burden of visibility and expectation; it is the refusal of performance for others." [27] It is this refusal which is necessary to make visible the otherwise obscured performances of the self for the self. So, paradoxically, solitude is what enables the extension of an invitation to the world; an "expansion through retreat." [28]

To trace another path: in 'Emily and the Queen,' Somerville investigates the significance that burial in the land might have for connection to place. This opens up crucial ideas of home and of hospitality in a postcolonial space.'Emily and the Queen' describes a 'performance' in which Somerville arranges for her friend Emily O'Connor to visit the burial site of Queen Maryanne Sullivan, the Queen of the aboriginal settlement in which O'Conner had grown up. After lengthy negotiation with those who now owned the land, Somerville helped O'Conner make the journey. They found the graves overgrown and almost erased from the landscape; as O'Conner says: "[the] graves have not been swept clean." [29]

The story in this chapter has much of the metaphorical force of Derrida's description of the mourning of Oedipus, buried in a foreign land. [30] The difference is that Somerville's story is painfully real, painful because it is incisive example of how Australian settler culture has made aboriginal people "foreign." The ideas of the two authors are sympathetic but Somerville extends far more deeply into issues important to her particular cultural location. Some years after the 'performance,' soon after which O'Conner had died, Somerville wrote this:

Emily's mountain rises tall above the old homestead on a property called Mooki… about eighty kilometres from where I now sit. But I cannot revisit it; it is fenced (in, out?) by layers of fences, on private property, three properties in from the public road. And I have heard that the landowners are busy denying that there is a burial site there at all; they don't allow visitors. [31]

The landowners seem to recognise the powerful connection to a particular place which comes from having ancestors buried there. This echoes Derrida:

the last resting place of family… situates the ethos, the key habitation for defining home, the city or country where relatives, father, mother, grandparents are at rest in a rest that is the place of immobility from which to measure all the journeys and all the distancings. [32]

The landowners' denial of the existence of the graves, of the 'place of immobility,' serves to make invisible a belonging which would render problematic their own sense of home. The latter is a singular type of belonging in which land is owned and where ownership effaces other claims, making the other claimants 'foreign.' But this 'unproblematic' belonging, predicated on forcing the invisibility of the other by refusing the other's presence (the other who is already there), is no belonging at all. To refuse the other as guest is to refuse to be hosted as a host. To make that refusal is to make a home as a defense against an inhospitable space rather than a home as a practice of hospitality&emdash; rather than a 'home in the outside world through connection.'

Somerville suggests another approach. She describes O'Conner's performance as a reading of almost-erased signs of O'Conner's own cultural belonging in the landscape. This reading restores the visibility of those signs. Somerville writes:

A highly complex image, this sweeping the graves clean…activities I associate with remembering, nurturing the memories of the person concerned and the network of interrelationships represented by the women involved… And yet Emily's graves had not been swept clean, the Queen's grave is not visible. As she made this statement, Emily felt through the grass with her walking stick to find the pattern of fist-sized round stones outlining the elliptical shape of each grave. It was the reading of the signs in the landscape that was critical to Emily…Emily's metaphor is not only about the in/visibility of the Queen's grave but the in/visibility of a whole set of spatial practices counterposed to hegemonic white spatial practices of land tenure and land usage. [33]

O'Conner is 'remembering' that there are belongings on that mountain other than that conferred by ownership. The mountain has, for example, hosted the indigenous inhabitants: Maryanne O'Sullivan's community of Aborigines displaced from their own lands; O'Conner's performance; O'Conner and Somerville's performance together and; the current 'owners.' In relation to hegemonic practices of land ownership, O'Conner's reading herself back on to the landscape represents 'an-other' reading. In establishing this other reading, O'Conner opens a space between those practices and her own. This is the space that allows otherness to exist as otherness, rather than being effaced by dominant practices. This is the space which the owners sought to close down by forcing into invisibility other belongings to the land.

What is raised here is the possibility that Derrida's idea of hospitality might model a valuable postcolonial practice. Lines of connectivity mapping out contact would be what joined multiple others across the space kept open between them. This is counter to the idea of connections based on unity either through shared sameness or oppositional difference. Pure hospitality might be in the lines of connection that exist in spaces kept open, or opened up, between multiple others. These are spaces which are not mine alone, but in which I may be at home in that I host and am hosted within that mapping of lines. This could be a home, but it is not community because unity is not its aim. It is not community because it does not make the effacement of difference the basis for connection between multiple others.

O'Conner asks that her story be hosted by the landowners, and while this raises the possibility of re-establishing her own connection to that place, it also raises the possibility that their ownership might not efface other belongings. In this sense, what might seem threatening for the landowners also contains the potential, through contact with O'Conner's story, to deepen their own connection to place in ways not currently open to them. This is a sort of belonging that a model of community could not generate. O'Conner and Somerville's performance suggests that hospitality offers a way both of being-with-others and being-in-place not predicated on effacing difference or on refusing different claims to belonging.

It is in these careful and anxious negotiations of ways of being-with-others that the value of Somerville's work lies, opening as it does new possibilities for being 'at home' through both hosting and being hosted. This is a positive alternative approach which resists the unbelonging inherent to community. In expressing the necessity and usefulness of hospitality as a model for belonging in a postcolonial space, Somerville points a way toward the generation of 'a sense of home through connection.' When your common munis blows away in the pale green morning light, instead of provoking terror, it might instead be possible simply to farewell it with laughter and apply your lipstick to greet the new day.

[1] Somerville, Margaret,Body/Landscape Journals, (Melbourne: Spinifex Press, 1999).

[2] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, pp 76-106.

[3] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, pp 180-217.

[4] Caputo, John,Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida,(New York: Fordham University Press, 1997), p. 108.

[5] Caputo,Deconstruction , p. 109.

[6] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 5.

[7] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, pp. 18-43.

[8] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 30.

[9] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 33.

[10] Caputo,Deconstruction , p. 111.

[11] Derrida, Jacques,'Hospitality, Justice, Responsibility,' in Kearney, Richard and Dooley, Mark,(eds),Questioning Ethics: Contemporary debates in philosophy, (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 71.

[12] Caputo,Deconstruction , p. 111.

[13] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 5.

[14] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 180.

[15] Derrida, 'Hospitality, Justice, Responsibility,' pp. 137-9.

[16] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 182.

[17] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 201.

[18] Derrida, Jacques,Of Hospitality, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), pp. 123-5.

[19] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 204.

[20] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 200.

[21] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 191.

[22] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 205.

[23] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 198.

[24] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 195.

[25] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 199.

[26] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 207.

[27] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 206.

[28] Trinh T. Minh-ha in Sommerville, Body/Landscape Journals, p. 208.

[29] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 89.

[30] Derrida, Of Hospitality, pp. 85-121.

[31] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 78.

[32] Derrida, Of Hospitality , p. 87.

[33] Sommerville,Body/Landscape Journals, p. 102.