After the death of the author, what remains? For Roland Barthes, who pronounced him dead in 1968, there was a hand: the faceless, voiceless hand of the anonymous scripteur. This hand performs the task of burying the author and then, detachee de toute voix, portee par un pur geste d'inscription (et non d'expression), trace un champ origine. (1) Like the hands from the Encyclopedie plates (also analyzed by Barthes), the hand of the scripteur is not connected to any particular body, to any voice or mind. (2) It does not come from anywhere, is not preceded by anything, but simply comes into being through the act of inscribing a text. What would Denis Diderot have thought about this hand? And how useful is Barthes's essay La Mort de l'auteur today for thinking about authorship in eighteenth-century France? If we accept Barthes's historical framework (as thin as it may be), the eighteenth century belongs to a period marked by the prestige of the individual and the reign of the Auteur-Dieu. This period (from the close of the Middle Ages to the poetry of Stephane Mallarme) was a product of English empiricism, French rationalism, and the personal faith of the Reformation. (3) It ended with Mallarme, who, sans doute le premier, a vu et prevu dans toute son ampleur la necessite de substituer le langage lui-meme a celui qui jusque-la etait cense en etre le proprietaire; pour lui, comme pour nous, c'est le langage qui parle, ce n'est pas l'auteur. (4) What Mallarme freed us from, according to Barthes, was the illusion that authors possess their words. But as Michel Foucault pointed out the following year in Qu'est-ce qu'un auteur?, those critics who heralded the death of the author had perhaps not fully measured the consequences of his disappearance. For they continued to rely on the equally problematic category of the work, failing to grasp that the logic of this category disintegrates once we have done away with the author. (5) Indeed, the lingering hand in Barthes's essay seemed to symbolize the difficulty of banishing all vestiges of the author from our understanding of literature. Language cannot quite seem to write itself, for it still needs a hand, however disconnected from any particular body that hand may be. For Diderot, too, writing Le Reve de d'Alembert two centuries before Barthes's essay, there was a hand. This was not the hand of the anonymous scripteur but the hand of a living, breathing, desiring woman: Mlle de Lespinasse. She certainly does not think of herself as an isolated hand (even if she and the doctor Bordeu fancifully imagine people evolving into isolated heads because of excessive intellectual activity, along with other more risque scenarios along the same lines). On the contrary, if there is one thing she is convinced of, it is the unity of her self. To Bordeu, who asks which philosophical questions seem to her in need of no further examination, she answers confidently: Celle de mon unite, de mon moi, par exemple. Pardi, il me semble qu'il ne faut pas tant verbiager pour savoir que je suis moi, que j'ai toujours ete moi, et que je ne serai jamais une autre. (6) And when further asked to account for how isolated molecules can come to constitute a unified self, she answers that mere contact suffices, taking the example of her hand resting on her thigh to illustrate her point: Lorsque je pose ma main sur ma cuisse, je sens bien d'abord que ma main n'est pas ma cuisse, mais quelque temps apres, lorsque la chaleur est egale dans l'une et l'autre, je ne les distingue plus. Les limites de deux parties se confondent, et elles n'en font plus qu'une (100). Although this argument is quickly refuted by Bordeu--a single pinprick and she will realize her hand is separate from her thigh--it is more important philosophically than it might initially appear. For it begs the question--crucial to the dialogue as a whole--of how the contact (sexual or otherwise) between the various interlocutors in Le Reve de d'Alembert affects the unity of their selves. …