While complex in the extreme, Derrida’s work has proven to be a particularly influential approach to the analysis of the ways in which language structures our understanding of ourselves and the world we inhabit, an approach he termed deconstruction. In its simplest formulation, deconstruction can be taken to refer to a methodological strategy which seeks to uncover layers of hidden meaning in a text that have been denied or suppressed. The term ‘text’, in this respect, does not refer simply to a written form of communication, however.
Rather, texts are something we all produce and reproduce constantly in our everyday social relations, be they spoken, written or embedded in the construction of material artifacts. At the heart of Derrida’s deconstructive approach is his critique of what he perceives to be the totalitarian impulse of the Enlightenment pursuit to bring all that exists in the world under the domain of representative language, a pursuit he refers to as logocentrism.
Logocentrism is the search for a rational language that is able to know and represent the world and all its aspects perfectly and accurately. Its totalitarian dimension, for Derrida at least, lies primarily in its tendency to marginalize or dismiss all that does not neatly comply with its particular linguistic representations, a tendency that, throughout history, has all too frequently been manifested in the form of authoritarian institutions. Thus logocentrism has, in its search for the truth of absolute representation, subsumed difference and oppressed that which it designates as its alien ‘other’. For Derrida, western civilization has been built upon such a systematic assault on alien cultures and ways of life, typically in the name of reason and progress.
In response to logocentrism, deconstruction posits the idea that the mechanism by which this process of marginalization and the ordering of truth occurs is through establishing systems of binary opposition. Oppositional linguistic dualisms, such as rational/irrational, culture/nature and good/bad are not, however, construed as equal partners as they are in, say, the semiological structuralism of Saussure. Rather, they exist, for Derrida, in a series of hierarchical relationships with the first term normally occupying a superior position. Derrida defines the relationship between such oppositional terms using the neologism differance. This refers to the realization that in any statement, oppositional terms differ from each other (for instance, the difference between rationality and irrationality is constructed through oppositional usage), and at the same time, a hierarchical relationship is maintained by the deference of one term to the other (in the case of rationality over irrationality, for instance). It is this latter point which is perhaps the key to understanding Derrida’s approach to deconstruction.
For the fact that at any given time one term must defer to its oppositional ‘other’, means that the two terms are constantly in a state of interdependence. The presence of one is dependent upon the absence or ‘absent-presence’ of the ‘other’, such as in the case of good and evil, whereby to understand the nature of one, we must constantly relate it to the absent term in order to grasp its meaning. That is, to do good, we must understand that our act is not evil, for without that comparison the term becomes meaningless. Put simply, deconstruction represents an attempt to demonstrate the absent-presence of this oppositional ‘other’, to show that what we say or write is in itself not expressive simply of what is present, but also of what is absent.
Thus, deconstruction seeks to reveal the interdependence of apparently dichotomous terms and their meanings relative to their textual context; that is, within the linguistic power relations which structure dichotomous terms hierarchically. In Derrida’s own words, a deconstructive reading “must always aim at a certain relationship, unperceived by the writer, between what he commands and what he does not command of the patterns of a language that he uses. ...[It] attempts to make the not-seen accessible to sight.”
Meaning, then, is never fixed or stable, whatever the intention of the author of a text. For Derrida, language is a system of relations that are dynamic, in that all meanings we ascribe to the world are dependent not only on what we believe to be present but also on what is absent. Thus, any act of interpretation must refer not only to what the author of a text intends, but also to what is absent from his or her intention. This insight leads, once again, to Derrida’s further rejection of the idea of the definitive authority of the intentional agent or subject. The subject is decentered; it is conceived as the outcome of relations of difference. As author of its own biography, the subject thus becomes the ideological fiction of modernity and its logocentric philosophy, one that depends upon the formation of hierarchical dualisms, which repress and deny the presence of the absent ‘other’. No meaning can, therefore, even be definitive, but is merely an outcome of a particular interpretation.
The State of Food Security and Nutrition in the World report (2024) revealed that 733 million people faced malnutrition in 2023—an increase of 152 million since 2019. This trend is linked to food price dynamics. In 2022, the World Bank estimated that a 1% rise in global food prices could push 10 million people into extreme poverty. Rising food costs and inequality have intensified “hidden hunger,” affecting at least 2.8 billion people in 2022 alone.
Hidden hunger is a deficiency of essential micronutrients like zinc, iodine, and iron. The signs of this form of malnutrition are “hidden” as individuals may appear healthy while suffering severe health impacts. Clinical signs emerge only in extreme cases. Traditionally linked to caloric deficiency, hunger is now recognized to include micronutrient inadequacy, which can harm health even without overt signs of disease.
The Food Security and Nutrition report highlights that while it may seem intuitive that food-insecure individuals are less likely to maintain a healthy diet, the relationship is complex, shaped by factors like food environments, consumer behaviour, and the affordability of nutritious foods.
In some cases, food insecurity is linked to lower consumption of all food types and a higher reliance on staple foods for dietary energy. In others, it can be associated with reduced intake of nutritious foods and increased consumption of energy-dense foods high in unhealthy fats, sugars, and salt. As a result, food insecurity and “hidden hunger” can result not only in undernutrition but can also lead to overweight and obesity.
If my younger self could see me now, she would be incredulous. That I work in the field of dance or decipher and translate dance for my own comprehension, call it choreography if you wish, would have been unbelievable. In this respect, I am particularly envious of dancers who claim that they are ’born to dance’, implying that it was clearly laid out for them from the beginning. I must say, I find this assertion dubious; it is rarely that easy. ’To dance’ means ’to struggle’.
In all truth, as a child, I never did want to dance; it was forced upon me by a doting mother and a silent father. My father probably kept his peace to avoid argument. From the beginning, my lessons took place under trying conditions, though I believe that the conditions were more trying for my mother than for me. She travelled in local, over-crowded trains to the dance class with an unwilling child, tired from a whole day at school. Interestingly, when I was seven, we went to see a movie starring Mumtaz Ali, who did a dance number in the film. When we arrived home, I began prancing around the house imitating the film actor and my mother, who was quietly watching, was the one who said, ’Kumudini, you are born to dance.’ Ironically, I have no recollection of this story; it was my mother who saw this innate ability in me.
The next stage of the visit began as Mrs. Broadwith brought in a cup of tea and the rest of the animals were let out of the kitchen. It was the usual scenario for the many cups of tea I had drunk with Miss Stubbs under the little card which dangled above her bed.
”How are you today?” I asked.
’Oh! much better,’ she replied and immediately changed the subject.
Mostly she liked to talk about her pets and the ones she had known right back to her girlhood. She spoke a lot too, about the days her family was alive. She loved to describe the escapades of her three brothers and today she showed me a photograph which Mrs. Broadwith had found.
’Oh, they were young rips!’ she exclaimed. She laughed and for a moment her face was radiant, by her memories.
The things I had heard in the village came back to me; about the prosperous father and his family who lived in the big house once. Then the foreign investments crashed and the sudden circumstances. ’When the old father died, he was almost penniless,’ one old man said. ’There is not much brass there now.’
Probably just enough brass to keep Miss Stubbs and her animals alive and pay Mrs. Broadwith. And, sitting there, I felt as I had often– a bit afraid of the responsibility I had. The one thing which brought some light into the life of the brave old woman was the devotion of this shaggy bunch whose eyes were never far from her face.
When $10^{100}$ is divided by 7, the remainder is ?