Abstract

A hand, perhaps yours or mine, hers or his, extends itself or is ex- tended, and reaches out. In that selfsame gesture, or shortly after, it withdraws, retreats, and resists. Not given, not taken: the hand, it seems, has always already eluded our grip. But what is at stake in this meeting or missed encounter, this contact or loss of contact between one hand and another? In other words, what is the reach – the extent, import, and address – of the gesture described and enacted by Blanchot’s fragmentary words? And what is it that Blanchot hands on to us, his readers, or down to us, who are last to speak? But who are we?