CindersMore than fifteen years ago, Jacques Derrida writes in the prologue to this remarkable and uniquely revealing book, a phrase came to me, as though in spite of me. . . . It imposed itself upon me with the authority, so discreet and simple it was, of a judgment: cinders there are (il y a l cendre). . . . I had to explain myself to it, respond to itor for it. In Cinders Derrida ranges across his work from the previous twenty years and discerns a