A READER'S GUIDE TO "PLATO'S PHARMACY" by Tim Spurgin Overview and outline "Plato's Pharmacy," one of Derrida's most influential

and amusing early essays, was first published in 1972 and translated into English in 1981. The English translation, which was done by Barbara Johnson, is available in Dissemination, a collection of Derrida's essays published by the University of Chicago Press. What is "Plato's Pharmacy" about? Hoo boy. What is it not about? Perhaps the best way to answer that one is by saying that the essay offers a close--no, make that a very close--reading of the Phaedrus, a dialogue by Plato. One of Derrida's goals in this essay is to show that although Plato tries to construct a number of hard and fast distinctions--such as the distinction between philosophy and mythology--those distinctions are actually undermined by his own logic and rhetoric. For helpful discussions of "Plato's Pharmacy," you might consult Johnson's introduction to Dissemination or the third chapter of Chrisopher Norris's Derrida (Harvard UP, 1987). Like all students of Derrida, I'm indebted to both Johnson and Norris, but in this guide I'm not trying to build on their interpretations so much as to offer a running commentary on each section of Derrida's essay. My guide is designed mainly for people who are unfamiliar with Derrida, but I'm hoping that others (especially fellow teachers) will also find it useful. To get started, I'll offer a very sketchy outline of "Plato's Pharmacy," with live links so that you can hop to any section of the guide that interests you. In the preface, Derrida indicates his differences with the structuralists. He's very playful--and in the eyes of many, very irritating. In the first major section of the essay, I.1, he turns his attention to the Phaedrus, explaining that although the essay has often been regarded as incoherent, its form is actually "rigorous, sure, and subtle" (67). Along the way, he also begins his extended riff on the Greek word "pharmakon," which means both "cure" or "medicine" and "poison." In section I.2, he begins to attack the Platonic preference for speech over writing, which he views as a manifestation of what he elsewhere calls "logocentrism." In I.3, he shows that the logic of Egyptian mythology is not, despite Plato's own claims, contrary to that of Platonic philosophy. In I.4, he continues his attack on the binary oppositions constructed by Plato, using the ambiguity of the word "pharmakon" as an example of the kind of thing that cannot be contained within Platonic categories. In I.5, he passes ahead with his efforts to undermine the crucial Platonic distinction between philosophy and sophistry.

In the untitled introduction to the second half of the essay, he considers how the word "pharmakon" is employed in other Platonic dialogues, building on Saussure's notion that meaning is created though a play of differences between and among various signs. In II.6, he's mostly trying to dismantle the distinction between "inside" and "outside." In II.7, he turns to the problem of imtiation and the distinction between "originals" and "copies." In II.8, he shows how Plato's original distinction between speech and writing gives way to a distinction between two different kinds of writing. And in II.9, he takes up one of his favorite topics, "play," ending with a playful and perhaps poignant scene in which Plato struggles not only to "isolate the good from the bad, the true from the false," but also to block out a "stammering buzz of voices," many of them his own. To review, then, you've got Preface | I.1 | I.2 | I.3 | I.4 | I.5 | Intro | II.6 | II.7 | II.8 | II.9 Untitled preface (63-4) Derrida begins by mocking the confidence and arrogance of the structuralists, who tended to suggest that they had discovered the laws or rules governing the production of myths. Derrida insists, by contrast, that texts not only hide their "laws" and "rules" from a "first comer," but actually remain "forever imperceptible" (63). In addition, Derrida takes up the notion, associated with writers like Roland Barthes, that reading is a kind of writing or rewriting. According to this notion, the reader does not simply process the words on the page, but actively constructs--through a number of associations with other words, other texts, and other events and experiences--a text of her own. This notion does not provoke hostility in Derrida, mind you, but it does raise several questions for him. It's not enough, he suggests, just to assert that reading is writing; it's important to go on and figure out what kind of writing reading is. The most arresting feature of this preface, though, is not its attacks on other theories or theorists, but rather its style. Derrida's style is deliberately playful. He likes to use lots of different metaphors (text as weaving, text as organism). And he isn't afraid to bring those metaphors into conflict, to show how they eventually complicate and perhaps even undermine each other. Yet even as Derrida plays around with metaphors, insisting on the importance of play and of gaming (64), he upholds the traditional values of rigor and logic (see 64, where he speaks of the "logic of play"). What he may want in the end, then, is a style that is both logical and playful, rigorous and exuberant. I.1 Pharmakia (65-75) Here, Derrida announces his decision to do a close reading of Plato's Phaedrus. He notes that the Phaedrus has always been regarded as a "badly composed" dialogue (66), largely because of the inclusion of that strange Egyptian myth about the invention of writing (see

Phaedrus 95-9). After reviewing two common yet conflicting explanations for the flaws in the dialogue (see 66- 7), Derrida goes on to argue that the myth is not an afterthought. He argues, in fact, that earlier parts of the dialogue demand or "call for" the appearance of the myth at the end (67). To support his point--and show that the form of the dialogue is not incoherent, but "rigorous, sure, and subtle" (67)--Derrida turns to the center of the dialogue (68). Specifically, he looks at the passage in which Socrates and Phaedrus talk about speeches and speechwriting, remarking that the passage identifies writing with sophistry and distinguishes writing from the truth (68). Next Derrida turns to the opening pages of the dialogue, and in particular to the characters' discussion of the myth of Boreas and Orithyia (69). After observing that Orithyia was led astray while playing with a friend named Pharmacia, Derrida remarks that the Greek word "Pharmacia" refers not only to Orithyia's friend, but also to the administration of something called a "pharmakon." What's a "pharmakon"? That's a hard question, Derrida explains, since the Greek word "pharmakon" can name either a medicine or a poison, a cure or its exact opposite. Two things to note here: first, Derrida titles this section of his essay "Pharmacia"--so if you had been wondering about the title, you can stop; second, even at this very early point in the essay, Derrida is trying to reveal the contradictory meanings of words. The rest of his essay will grow out of the contradiction associated with the word "pharmakon"--that is, the contradiction between pharmakon as poison and pharmakon as cure--so pay close attention to Derrida's comments on that subject. On pages 70 and 71, Derrida explains that Socrates actually likens writing to a pharmakon. Like a pharmakon, and indeed like Pharmacia herself, writings make you stray from your usual path. (And here it might be important to note, as Derrida does, that at the beginning of the dialogue Socrates is led away from his usual haunts--led away from the city and into the country--by the lure of the written texts that Phaedrus is carrying.) Derrida goes on to show that this association of writing with the pharmakon is not merely "artificial" or "coincidental" (72). And in closing the section, he reviews a number of similar associations: writing is associated with myth, he explains, and also distinguished from knowledge, truth, and Socratic dialectic (see 73-4). Pay very close attention here. For in tracing these associations, Derrida is laying out some of the distinctions--the famous "binary oppositions"--that will occupy so much of his own attention in later pages. I.2 The Father of Logos (75-84) Derrida begins by quoting and analyzing a passage from Socrates's account of the Egyptian myth of writing (75-6). In the course of his analysis, he observes that two figures in the myth--Theuth, the inventor of writing, and Thamus, the king-god of all Egypt--resemble a son and his father. Having made that observation, he turns to the notion that words must themselves have fathers. (This is the notion that he is discussing at the top of page 77.) Before long, he returns to Socrates, noting Socrates's claim that the relationship between spoken words and their

"fathers" is more direct, more immediate, than the "miserable" relationship between written texts and their authors (77). (To see Socrates is getting at, just consider the differences between a lecture and a handout like this one. See why Socrates might liken the handout to an orphan? Its "father" is nowhere to be found. While it's struggling to be understood, he's home watching SportsCenter.) On page 78, Derrida begins to question some of Socrates's metaphors--and indeed, the entire logic of the Socratic/Platonic distinction between "dead" writing and "living" speech. On pages 79 and 80, he explores the implications of the Socratic/Platonic analogy between words and living organisms. And on page 80, in an effort to show how Plato's logic might be undone, he unpacks and problematizes the metaphor that gives this section its title: that is, the metaphor of "the father of logos." (Here, I should note that Derrida's critique of this metaphor rests on his notion that the relationship between father and child is not something that lies outside the realm of language, as the metaphor implies, but rather a thing created through uses of language. This is a very tricky point, so don't worry if you don't get it right off. Just remember that this is what Derrida is up to when he asks and pursues the question of what a father is.) In the middle of page 81, Derrida seems to turn from this emerging critique of Socratic and Platonic logic back towards a description of that logic. He now asks how, according to Plato, words are indebted to their fathers; and in order to address that question he takes up a text near and dear to our hearts--Book VII of the Republic. Noting that Book VII is chock full of metaphors and images, Derrida considers Socrates's uses of words associated with agriculture and finance as well as with the family (see 82). Yet in the middle of 82, Derrida moves on to a more important and interesting point, reminding us that Plato must resort to imagery and metaphor because it's impossible to speak directly about the Form of the Good. See what's up here? The relationship between the Form of the Good and the image of the sun, like that between a father and child, turns out to be much more complicated that we first imagined. For although the images, like all words, descend from their "fathers" or originals, they are necessary supplements to the originals, which can't be understood without them (see 83- 4). Images and words are thus resources as well as byproducts, as Derrida points out near the end of the section. His main aim here, though, is not to dismantle the logic of Plato's writings on writing--there will be time for that--but rather to expose and explain it. If you think you see how Plato links writing to such things as orphans and supplements, you're in very good shape for now. I.3 The Filial Inscription (84-94) At this point, a skeptical reader might argue that Derrida is blowing things out of proportion. "Okay, okay," such a reader might claim, "so Plato retells an Egyptian myth. Big deal. The myth is not really crucial to the arguments of the Phaedrus; and besides, it's Egyptian and Plato is Greek." Derrida has anticipated this kind of skeptical reading, and he responds in two different ways. First, he repeats his earlier claim that the myth is not something Plato throws in at the last minute, explaining that the appearance of the myth is "supervised and limited by rigorous necessities" (85). Second, he goes on to argue that the "structural laws" governing the myth are identical to those governing Platonic philosophy (85-6).

This, as Derrida suggests on page 86, is a major statement, since Platonic philosophy defines itself in opposition to myth of all kinds. Indeed, the statement threatens to undo the familiar Platonic distinction between "mythos" and "logos." (Just a word here about "logos," a term employed at several crucial points in this essay. As Derrida's translator, Barbara Johnson, explains, the word "logos" means "speech, logic, reason," and especially in the Christian tradition, "the Word of God" [see the "Translator's Introduction," ix]. It's easy to see why the word "logos" might be associated with Platonic philosophy; for a better sense of how "logos" figures into the Bible, look at the opening verse of the Gospel of John.) In an effort to show how the logic of Egyptian mythology resembles that of Platonic philosophy, Derrida devotes the rest of this section to a consideration of Theuth, the Egyptian god of writing. He shows that Theuth is not only the god of writing but also the god of death (91), and he explains that Theuth is often described as the polar opposite of his father, Ra: Whereas Ra is associated with life, the sun, and the East, Theuth is associated with death, the moon, and the West (92). Yet even as Derrida describes the opposition between Theuth and Ra, he also notes an interesting paradox: although Theuth is the mirror image of his father, he also serves as a substitute or supplement for his father (see 89 and 93). As Derrida puts it on pages 92 and 93: "the figure of [Theuth] is opposed to its other (father, sun, life, speech, origin, . . . etc.) but as that which at once supplements and supplants it." What that means, Derrida reckons, is that "the god of writing is . . . at once his father, his son, and himself" (93). If you don't follow that, don't worry. Just reflect on the fact that when Derrida describes Theuth, he describes writing as well. So, although you might not be able to follow everything he says about the "process of substitution" (89), you should be okay if you just try to see how the relationship between Theuth and Ra is like that between writing and speech (or, perhaps, writing and truth). Why might writing be described as "slippery," as "never present," as both "other than [speech] and the same" (93)? Those are the big questions, the ones you'll really need to consider. I.4 The Pharmakon (94-117) Before moving on to specifics, I'll just note that in this section Derrida makes at least two important moves. First, he continues his effort to show how often Plato relies on sharp and inflexible distinctions; such distinctions include the following: good/evil; true/false; inside/outside; original/copy; father/son; speech/writing; philosopher/sophist; and so on. (For nifty lists of important Platonic oppositions, see pages 85 and 103.) In addition, and perhaps even more importantly, he begins to argue that Plato does not and cannot succeed in maintaining these oppositions. Why is Plato doomed to failure? Because, like all of us who use language, he's forced to work with a tool that both composes meanings and decomposes them at the very same time. If you don't follow just yet, don't worry. For now, just stand back and watch as Derrida attempts to demonstrate the inescapable and inevitable instability of Plato's most cherished distinctions. At the start of this section, Derrida returns from Egyptian mythology to Platonic philosophy, the Phaedrus, and the pharmakon (94). After discussing translations of the word "pharmakon," he insists that the two meanings of the word ("remedy" and "poison") are

inseparable: because the pharmakon is artificial, because it comes from outside rather than from within, he explains, it "can never be simply beneficial" (99). After noting how the word "pharmakon" is treated in another Platonic dialogue, the Timaeus, Derrida explains that writing is treated in the same way, discussed in the same terms, by Thamus in the Phaedrus (100-2). It's at this point that Derrida begins to assert that although Plato tries to master the "ambiguity" of the word "pharmakon," his efforts prove futile (102-3). A few pages later, Derrida points out that although Plato associates writing with the sophists, he also borrows many of his complaints about writing from the sophists (106-8). Why does he make the point? Largely because the distinction between sophists (if you've read The Republic, you might think of Thrasymachus) and philosophers like Socrates is one of the cornerstones of Platonic thought. Derrida wants to show, in short, that this crucial distinction--one essential to the self-definition of Platonism--can't really be maintained. Towards such ends, Derrida explores the implications of the fact that Plato and the sophists agree about writing's bad effect on the memory. Derrida argues that in dealing with writing, both Plato and the sophists distinguish between two different kinds of memory: "living memory" and "mere repetition," which depends on mnemonic devices (108-9). You can probably guess what happens next: Derrida tries to show that this distinction can't be maintained. More specifically, he says that because "living memory" and "mere repetition" both rely on repetition, it is impossible to view them as complete and total opposites (111). After a few more remarks about repetition--and here it might help to think about the distinction between (good) originals and (bad) copies--Derrida returns to the distinction between sophists and philosophers, rhetoricians and dialectians, showing that both groups rely on writing. He closes this section by going over the sophists' own statements about writing (115-7), and then showing that the sophists described speech (i.e., the logos) as--are you ready?--a pharmakon (117). I.5 The Pharmakeus (117-9) A brief section, concluding and summarizing the first four sections of the essay, "The Pharmakeus" contains some very nice statements, including the assertion that Plato is the "spitting image" of the sophists (117). More obscure, but no less crucial, is Derrida's claim that Plato's "pharmakon" (which is writing) is inextricably linked to the sophists' "pharmakon" (which, as we've just seen, is speech). By insisting that the two pharmakons are inseparable, Derrida is wrapping up this section of his essay by suggesting that familiar distinctions--like speech vs. writing; philosophers vs. sophists; and remedy vs. cure--are starting to unravel. Thus, his wrap-up depends on his repetition of the inescapability of unravelling or unwrapping. Another interesting paradox, no? II [Introduction] (120-8) Even more than other sections, this one may seem to ramble. It starts by reminding us that

Socrates is famous for renouncing power and pleasure. And then it notes that renunciation can be a mask for pleasure- and power-seeking. Then it tells how Socrates and Plato cope with their fear of death (see 120-3). Eventually, however, Derrida does find a groove. This time, his main subject is the "dialectical inversion of the pharmakon" (123). What does he mean by that? Well, for starters, he means to suggest that when philosophers begin to feel threatened by the pharmakon of writing, they respond by devising (or prescribing) a remedy or antidote to that poison--a "counterpharmakon," if you will. The remedy is philosophy--and in particular, philosophical dialectic. Once he's established that point (121), Derrida shows how the remedy is actually prescribed, considering passages from other Platonic dialogues, including the Laws (121-2), Statesman (122), Crito (123-4), and Critias (124). Through his discussions of these passages, Derrida reveals that Plato uses the very same word ("pharmakon"--what else?) to describe both his likes and his dislikes. In the Laws, the "good judge" needs a pharmakon as an antidote to bad discourses (121); and in the Critias, Critias is in need of a pharmakon or cure for his splitting headache (124). Yet in the Phaedrus, as you'll surely recall, Socrates describes the rolled-up speech as a pharmakon, one capable of leading him astray (70-1), while the Egyptian King dismisses the invention of writing as another bad pharmakon, saying that it was a detriment, not an aid, to memory (102). It seems, then, that the pharmakon always harbors within it the "complicity of contrary values": it has no "ideal," stable, or fixed identity. To give one more example of how a word like "pharmakon" changes meanings, or carries contradictory meanings, Derrida (in a brilliant move) turns to the most famous pharmakon in Plato: the hemlock drunk by Socrates after he was sentenced to death (126-7). In the final paragraphs of this section, Derrida suggests that "pharmakon" may not be such an unusual word after all. His suggestion may become clearer when he says that the pharmakon is not the sum of its different parts--but rather the "prior medium in which differentiation in general is produced" (126), and "the medium in which opposites are opposed" (127). In thinking about these two statements, remember what Saussure said about language: its meanings are produced through an endless play of differences, differences between signs, and differences within signs. Despite his own differences with Saussure, Derrida accepts the notion of meaning as a product of differences--and that notion seems to be a part of what he has in mind here. (One note here on Derrida's language: in this section of the essay, he often around plays with the word "eidos." "Eidos" refers to appearances, and indeed to anything seen or intuited, but in the context of Platonism, it can also refer to an "idea" or "form," as in "the theory of forms.") II.6 The Pharmakos (128-34) Derrida's main concern in this section is with oppositions between interior and exterior, inside and outside. Although he doesn't announce that concern right away, talking instead about philosophy's desire to stop the play and eliminate the excess of the pharmakon, he does talk about the way in which philosophy has tended to describe the pharmakon as an

external threat to its own internal purity (128). The action really picks up when Derrida begins to consider the question of whether or not Plato's text has clear boundaries, an inside that's unambiguously distinct from everything outside of it. Not surprisingly, Derrida insists that there are no such borders around the Platonic text (129-30); and in order to prove his point, he boldly asserts that the meaning of the Phaedrus is constituted not only by words that appear in the text but also by a word that doesn't appear there. The crucial missing word is "pharmakos." It's related to "pharmakon," obviously, and it means "wizard" or "sorcerer"; and it also has another meaning, which Derrida delights in observing: "scapegoat" (130). Scapegoats are useful things to consider when discussing the problem of outsides and insides, as Derrida points out, since they are both outsiders and insiders (131-4). Further complications emerge when we recall the name of perhaps the best- known scapegoat or "pharmakos": Socrates (134). II.7 The Ingredients (134-42) Here, Derrida turns to the problem of imitation--and with it, the distinction between originals and copies. (You can see, I hope, how the original/copy distinction resembles the insider/ outsider distinction.) Returning to the Phaedrus and in particular to its attacks on writing, Derrida also returns to a number of other familiar topics: the distinction between logos and mythos (134), between memory and "rememoration" (135). Eventually, he finds his way to the passage in the Phaedrus in which Socrates identifies writing with painting (136-42). He concludes, however, that "writing's case is a good deal more serious," since "writing more seriously denatures what it claims to imitate" (142). To explain what he means by this, he turns to passages from The Republic (137-8). You'll get a better idea of what he means if you recall the part of The Republic in which Socrates asserts that the poet is three removes from the truth. Derrida says that if the poet were to write down her words, she'd place herself at a fourth remove from the truth--and thereby place herself beneath the painter (138). In what remains, Derrida makes some important general points about imitation: "a perfect imitation is never an imitation," he states, adding that imitation "is only good insofar as it is not good" (139). To process this one, consider the fact that a truly perfect imitation of me would be, and could only be, me. So, for an imitator to be an imitator, she would have to not be me. See how that works? If so, you're ready for the next section. II.8 The Heritage of the Pharmakon: The Family Scene (142-55) In this section, Derrida's focuses on the "family metaphors" employed in Plato's attacks on writing. He's already touched on a few of those metaphors--see section two, "The Father of Logos," for example--and here he shows how writing is described as a bad birth, a bastard son, a parricide, and an orphan. Here, too, he returns to the question of paternity, noting that in the Apology, the dialogue describing Socrates's death, Socrates appears as a kind of father (146).

The most crucial passages in this section, however, are the ones telling how some of Plato's original distinctions (like the distinctions between speech and writing, or seriousness and play) become transformed during the course of his texts. By returning to the Phaedrus, for example, Derrida memorably shows how speech gets described as a kind of writing (150)--thereby substantiating his claim that the speech/writing distinction gives way to a new distinction between different kinds of writing (150). Why bother with this? Well, for one thing, it shows that Plato can't really manage to dwell within the realm of the logos: even he is forced to rely on metaphors or images borrowed from the realm of mythos; even he is forced to administer--and administer to himself--that nasty old pharmakon. In the last five pages of the section, Derrida will explore the differences between "good" writing and "bad" writing, noting their relations to (among other things) sperm, liquid, water, and homosexuality. Near the end of all this, Derrida returns to one of his most cryptic claims: that transgression, like difference and differentiation, is only possible, only thinkable, within the domain or realm of writing, mythos, the pharmakon (153). Derrida is soon diverted into a discussion of "good" and "bad" forms of play, but we should pause to consider the cryptic claim. Why is it only possible to have difference or transgression in the realm of the pharmakon? Why, conversely, is it impossible to have such things in the realm of logos? And what might all of this tell us about which came first--and which really had to have come first-- logos or mythos, speech or writing? II.9 Play . . . (156-71) This section grows directly out of the last one, building on Derrida's comments about play. After considering some of Plato's remarks on play, Derrida turns to a vexing paradox--the fact that while Plato condemns play and writing, he offers his condemnation in writing (158). How can he do that? What is he up to? These are the sorts of questions that Derrida goes on to explore in the next few pages. After noting that Plato frequently illustrates his points by referring to the letters of the alphabet (159), Derrida analyzes passages from The Republic (159) and the Timaeus, a text in which Plato tries to explain the origins of the universe (159-61). (In the long quotation on 160-1, Plato admits the need to consider a third class of things, a third form of reality. He explains that in addition to patterns and imitations of patterns, the forms he has discussed before, there must also be a receptacle or space in which imitations of patterns can occur. Perhaps predictably, the space or receptacle is gendered female and likened to a mother-yet at the very same time, the powers and functions of the female space are severely limited. Interesting. Derrida doesn't remark on much of this, however. Very interesting.) After he's done with the passages from the Timaeus, Derrida turns to a passage from the Philebus, in which Theuth's invention is described (get this) as a boon to humanity (162-3). His final quotation comes from the Sophist (164-6), and it needs to be set up in some detail. The main subject of the Sophist is the nature of the sophist himself. What exactly is a sophist, and what does he know? How can the sophists be defeated in argument--and how, in particular, can they be prevented from drawing good, honest philosophers into contradictions? In pursuit of answers to such questions, Plato's characters explore lots of other issues: the nature or status of falsehoods, appearances, and imitations; the question of whether or not it's possible to speak about things that don't exist; and so on. They decide

that they may not be able to defeat the nasty old sophists until they get rid of an argument they've inherited from one of their philosophical forbears, Parmenides. The point at which the characters decide to make an assault on Parmenides's argument is the point at which Derrida comes in. By the way, the decision to make the assault is announced not by Socrates, but by another character, the Stranger. But don't worry: the Stranger is still speaking for Plato. Got all that? Now, the quotation itself--with its imagery of assault on a father figure--hints that philosophical discourse can't begin until parricide has been committed. The passage thus reinforces Derrida's own idea that differentiation, distinction, and discourse can take only place within the realm or domain of writing--which is, of course, the realm of the pharmakon as well. Here's how Derrida puts it: the parricide in the Sophist establishes . . . not only that any full, absolute presence of what is . . . is impossible; . . . but that the very condition of discourse--true or false--is the diacritical principle of the sumploke" (166) What, you ask, is a "sumploke"? According to some of the biggest dictionaries in the Lawrence library, it's a term that refers to a kind of interweaving or intertwining, which may help to explain why it's being linked with "diacritical principles." In the closing pages, Derrida offers a number of very juicy statements, including the classic "nontruth is the truth" (168). His last three pages are devoted to a myth or story or fable, in which we find Plato in the pharmacy, trying to "isolate the good from the bad, the true from the false" (169). By now, we should know why he's likely to fail. One more point here--a supplementary point, if you will: many people are baffled by this last section of the essay, and some are truly annoyed, concluding that Derrida has simply gone off the deep end. Yet many of Derrida's most insightful readers (including some of my own students) have actually been moved by his image of a flustered, sputtering Plato. These readers would say that in this image we see our own frustrations and fears, our own unwillingness to let go of all the things we never really had in the first place. I think that's exactly right myself, and so I suppose I'll try to let go of you now . . .