jective (e.g., Johnson, according tonBoswell, on Rousseau: “Rousseau, Sir, isna very bad man. I would sooner sign ansentence for his transportation, than thatnof any felon who has gone from the OldnBailey these many years. Yes, 1 should likento have him work in the plantations”).nJohnson is a support of the structure ofnWestern civilization. Writes Racevskis,n”Foucault . . . intends to disrupt thenpower mechanisms that obtain in Westemnsocieties.” Such power mechanismsn—things like humanistic and scientificndiscourses, which Racevskis calls “thenprincipal modes of domination and subjectionnin Western societies”—^are usednto claim that certain things are good andnothers bad, some things diseased andnothers healthy. All of this is inverted innFoucault’s approach. He seems to havenan attachment for all of those outside ofnthe structure: the mad, the criminal, thensexually deviant. Thus, in his terms, Sadenwould be a more appropriate referentnfrom the 18th century. Foucault grantsnSade a great deal of respect, which is curious,ngiven Foucault’s comment aboutnthe “writer” in “Language to Infinity”: “Ifnwe asked to whom the words of Sadenwere addressed (and address themselvesntoday), there is only one answer: no one.”nGiven Foucault’s answer and the notionnthat literature is supposed to convey atnleast a modicum of meaning to anothernperson (the old Jakobsonian author tonreader), Foucault’s iconoclastic allusivenessnbegins to appear in another guise:nas pseudosophisticated nonsense.nJohnson and that particular episodenwere selected for the first paragraph fornone reason: to make the point that certainnintellectuals deserve a well-placed,nphysical or metaphysical, kick instead ofnfawning adulation.nWhile such blows would undoubtedlynbe an unexpected disruption, therenis a more ominous threat looming. To bena French intellectual in the late 20thncentury means to risk the enmity ofnmotor vehicles. Think of Camus. NotesnJonathan Culler in his workmanlike, succinct,nvaluable introduction to RolandnBarthes, “in February 1980, coming outn8 H^H^^HiiiiinChronicles of Culturenof a luncheon with socialist politiciansnand intellectuals, Barthes was knockedndown by a laundry truck while crossingnthe street in front of the College denFrance.” Barthes died one month later.nIs it tasteless to be so flippant about men,nin Tennyson’s phrase, “crossing the bar,”nor in Foucault’s, “transgressing the limit”?nYes and no. Yes for most civilized people.nNo for French (and now American)nintellectuals who, in Blanchot’s formulation,nare concerned with “death’snspace.”nMaurice Blanchot is a French writernwho is little known in this country,nthough he made minor waves in France:nBarthes, for example, used him in WritingnDegree Zero, a book in which, as Cullerndescribes, Barthes takes on the old guard:nSartre. The recent once-swelling tidalnwave of interest in all things French thatnengulfed select American academicsncaused Blanchot to be hoisted in essaysnby the likes of Edward Said (a man whonis very obsequious to Foucault in hisnOrientalism [Pantheon, 1978]). ThenSpace of Literature was originally publishednin 1955 by GsJiixaatdasL’Espacenlitteraire. The translation should cause anWaiting for LocustsnWilliam Kennedy: Ironweed; VikingnPress; New York.nby Stephen L. TannernWilliam Kennedy is putting Albanynon the literary map. Irontveed is the thirdnin a cycle of novels treating his homentown, a trilogy Saul Bellow has calledn”memorable” and “distinguished.” ThenMay issue of The Atlantic containsnKennedy’s article on Nelson Rockefeller’snAlbany Mall. That is the ostensible subject;nthe article is really about the kind ofncity history and colorful characters thatngo into his novels. His work of nonfic-nDr. Tanner is a frequent contributor tonChronicles.nnnripple around those who, like Lemertnand Gillan, have fallen “into the strangenessnof [Foucault’s] language andnthought.” For example, the first sentencenof Foucault’s “Language to Infinity” is:n”Writing so as not to die, as Blanchot said,nor perhaps even speaking so as not tondie is a task undoubtedly as old as thenword.” “Writing so as not to die” is a majornconcern for Blanchot; his essays—^to definenthem in a generous manner—nbecome rather funereal as he presentsnKafka, Rilke, and others vigorously, sullenly,nscribbling away so that they willntransgress death’s limit, leave a monumentnbeyond their corporeal existence.nHowever, this isn’t exactly the same thingnas drawing up a will; those involved innthe task, if Blanchot is correct, are terminalnadherents to something along thenlines of Sacher-Masoch. That is, Blanchotnrhetorically queries: “For isn’t the writerndead as soon as the work exists?” Work,nof course, means completewoTk: no onenis done until he is done. That is a rathernbanal observation, yet it seems thatncryptically clothed banality is in voguennowadays and is to be accepted a bouchenbee. nntion O Albany! is scheduled for fall.nIt is the underside of Albany life duringnthe 1930’s that most interests Kennedy.nHis novels are peopled with gangsters,nwhores, show girls, pool hustlers,ngamblers, bookmakers, bartenders, barflies,nbums, cogs in the corrupt politicalnmachine, and newspapermen at home innsuch company. More respectable membersnof the Irish Catholic community appear,nthough only on the fringes. Familynrelationships, particularly betweennfathers and sons, are central to the psychologicalnconflicts, but the main charactersnare seldom presented with theirnfamilies. Instead, they are exhibited innbars, poolrooms, cafes, and the haunts ofnvagrants.nKennedy makes this unsavory milieun