I am not the first French writer to venture into the heart of the American interior. It was de Tocqueville, an inspector of prisons, who became distracted by the American character, finding at its heart a stability for the time, crafted by an obsession with equality and its jettisoning of rank, title, primogenitor and the other trappings of the aristocratic landed elites. Beneath such skins, in other words, were other words. Take this "sandwich" for instance. It is an amalgam of the "raw" and the "cooked."
"Jacques Derrida Writes Postcards to Himself from a Diner in Winesburg, Indiana,"
1, Article 5.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol2/iss1/5