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In a detailed analysis, Kristeva presents the work of Céline as a long and tortuous confrontation with the abjectal dimension; t'''his this is what ''Jour'''''<nowiki/>''­'''ney to the End of the Night '''''<nowiki/>'''alludes to; the night is the night of the abject that suspends not only reason but the universe of meaning as such, not only at the level of content (describing the extreme states of dissolution) but also at the level of form (fragmented syntax) and others, as if some pre-linguistic rhythm—"the 'entirely other' of signifiance"—is invading and undermining language:'''

Céline carefully walks on the edge of this vortex of ecstatic negativity like the hero of edgar Allan Poe's "A Descent into the Maelström" (1841), flirting with it but avoiding complete immersion into it, which would mean a descent into madness. Here, of course, Kristeva confronts the big problem. One would have expected that such a confrontation with the ab­ject and its libidinal vortex, allowing it to penetrate our universe of meaning, would have a liberating effect, allowing us to break out of the constraints of symbolic rules and to recharge ourselves with a more primordial libid­inal energy; however, as is well­-known, Céline turned into a fully pledged fascist, supporting Nazis to their very defeat. So what went wrong? At a general level, Kristeva's reply is to avoid both extremes; not only is the to­tal exclusion of the abject mortifying, cutting us off from the source of our vitality (when the abject is excluded, "the borderline patient, even though he may be a fortified castle, is nevertheless an empty castle" [''P,'' p. 49]), but the opposite also holds. every attempt to escape the patriarchal/rational symbolic order and enact a return to the pre-patriarchal feminine rhythm of drives necessarily ends up in anti-­Semitic fascism: "Do not all attempts, in our own cultural sphere at least, at escaping from the Judeo­-Christian compound by means of a unilateral call to return to what it has repressed (rhythm, drive, the feminine, etc.), converge on the same Célinian anti­ -Semitic fantasy?" (''P,'' p. 180).

One has to admit that out of such logical oscillations there emerge a few striking words of truth. Such words present us with harsh X-­rays of given ''areas ''of social and political experience; they turn into fantasies or deliriums only from the moment when reason attempts to ''globalize, unify, ''or ''totalize. ''Then the crushing anarchy or nihilism of discourse topples over and, as if it were the reverse of that nega­ tivismnega­tivism, an ''object ''appears—an object of hatred and desire, of threat and aggressivity, of envy and abomination. That object, the Jew, gives thought a focus where all contradictions are explained and satisfied. [''P, ''pp. 177–78] The limitation of Kristeva's theory of the abject resides in the fact that she conceives the symbolic order and abjection as the two extremes between which one has to negotiate a middle way. What she neglects to do is to inquire into ''what the symbolic order itself is in terms of the abject''. The symbolic order is not just always already embedded in the feminine ''chora'' (or what Kristeva in her earlier work referred to as the semiotic), pene­trated by the materiality of its immanent libidinal rhythms that distort the purity of the symbolic articulations. If it is here, it had to emerge out of ''chora'' through a violent act of self­-differentiation or splitting. Consequently, insofar as we accept Kristeva's term ''abjection ''for this self-differentiation, then we should distinguish between ''chora'' and abjection; abjection points towards the very movement of withdrawal from ''chora,'' which is constitutive of subjectivity. This is why we had to further specify Kristeva's diagnosis: every "unilateral call to return to what [the Judeo­-Christian compound] has repressed (rhythm, drive, the feminine, etc.)" generates fascism (as in Céline's work) not because it regresses from the symbolic but because it obfuscates abjection itself, the primordial repression that gives rise to the symbolic. The dream of such attempts is not to suspend the symbolic but to have the (symbolic) cake and eat it—in other words'', '''to dwell in the''' '''symbolic without the price we have to pay for it '''''<nowiki/>'''(primordial repression, the subject's ontological derailment, antagonism, out­-of-­joint, the violent gap of differentiation from natural substance), the ancient dream of a mas­culine universe of meaning, which remains harmonically rooted in the maternal substance of ''chora''. In short, what fascism obfuscates (forecloses even) is not the symbolic as such but the gap that separates the symbolic from the real. This is why a figure like that of the Jew is needed; if the gap between the symbolic and the real is not constitutive of the symbolic, if a symbolic at home in the real is possible, then their antagonism has to be caused by a contingent external intruder—and what better candidate for this role than Judaism, with its violent monotheist assertion of the symbolic law and rejection of the earth­-bound paganism?''' 

The Jew as the enemy allows the anti­-Semitic subject to avoid the choice between working class and capital: by blaming the Jew whose plotting foments class warfare, he can advocate the vision of a harmonious society in which work and capital collaborate. This is also why Julia Kristeva is right in linking the phobic object (the Jew whose plots anti­-Semites fear) to the avoidance of a choice: 'The phobic object is precisely avoidance of choice, it tries as long as possible to maintain the subject far from a decision.' Does this proposition not hold especially for political phobia? Does the phobic object/abject, on the fear of which the rightist-­populist ideology mobilizes its partisans (the Jew, the immigrant, today in europe Europe the refugee), not embody a re­fusal to choose? Choose what? A position in class struggle. (20)

From here follows another crucial consequence with regard to Kriste­va's theoretical edifice: ''hora chora ''(the semiotic) is not more primordial than the symbolic but strictly a secondary phenomenon, the return of the presymbolic mimicry (echoes, resemblances, imitations) within the field of symbolic differentiality. Roman Jakobson drew attention to the fact that we can discern in our language traces of direct resemblance between signifier and signified (some words signifying vocal phenomena seem to sound like what they signify, sometimes even the external form of a word resembles the form of the signified object, like the word ''locomotive, ''which resembles the old­-fashioned steam locomotive with the elevated cabin and chim­ neychim­ney). This, however, in no way undermines the priority and ontological primacy of the differential character of linguistic signifiers (the identity and meaning of a signifier depends on its difference from other signifiers, not on its resemblance to its signified). What we are dealing with in the case of phenomena like these are the secondary mimetic echoes within a field that is already, in its basic constitution, radically different (contin­gent, composed of differential relations). And the same holds for ''horachora, ''for the immanent rhythm of pre-symbolic materiality that pervades the symbolic: what happens first is the violent cut of abjection that gives birth to the symbolic, and what Kristeva describes as ''hora chora ''is a strictly secondary phenomenon of pre-symbolic mimetic echoes within the symbolic field.

''an ontology finally taking into account, as previous orientations have not yet done, explosive events of indigestible, meaningless traumas in which destructive plasticity goes so far as to destroy plasticity itself, in which plasticity is exposed, thanks to itself, to its own disruption. . . . The massive cerebro­lesions of catastrophic neuro­traumas produce the bodies of human organisms living on but not, as it were, living for, that is, not Inclining toward future plans, projects. Plasticity (including neuroplasticity) stands permanently under the shadow of the virtual danger of its liquidation. '' (22)

''[Dickens] was a dreamy child, thinking mostly of his own dreary prospects. Yet he saw and remembered much of the streets and squares he passed. Indeed, as a matter of fact, he went the right way to work unconsciously to do so. He did not go in for 'observation,' a priggish habit; he did not look at Charing Cross to improve his mind or count the lampposts in Holborn to practice his arithmetic. But unconsciously he made all these places the scenes of the monstrous drama in his miserable little soul. He walked in darkness under the lamps of Holborn, and was crucified at Charing Cross. So for him ever afterwards these places had the beauty that only belongs to bat­tlefields. For our memory never fixes the facts which we have merely observed. The only way to remember a place for ever is to live in the place for an hour; and the only way to live in the place for an hour is to forget the place for an hour. The undying scenes we can all see if we shut our eyes are not the scenes that we have stared at under the direc­tion of guide­books; the scenes we see are the scenes at which we did not look at all—the scenes in which we walked when we were thinking about something else—about a sin, or a love affair, or some childish sorrow. We can see the background now because we did not see it then. So Dickens did not stamp these places on his mind; he stamped his mind on these places. For him ever afterwards these streets were mortally romantic; they were dipped in the purple dyes of youth and its tragedy, and rich with irrevocable sunsets.''

Herein is the whole secret of that eerie realism with which Dickens could always vitalize some dark or dull corner of London. There are details in the Dickens descriptions—a window, or a railing, or the keyhole of a door—which he endows with demoniac life. Things seem more actual than they really are. Indeed, that degree of realism does not exist in reality; it is the unbearable realism of a dream. And this kind of realism can only be gained by walking dreamily in a place; it cannot be gained by walking observantly. Dickens himself has given a perfect instance of how these nightmare minutiæ grew upon him in his trance of abstraction. He mentions among the coffee­shops into which he crept in those wretched days one in St. Martin's Lane, 'of which I only recollect it stood near the church, and that in the door there was an oval glass plate with "COFFee COFFEE ROOM" painted on it, addressed towards the street. If I ever find myself in a very different kind of coffee­room now, but where there is an inscription on glass, and read it backwards on the wrong side, MOOR eeFFOC EEFFOC (as I often used to do then in a dismal reverie), a shock goes through my blood.' That wild word, 'Moor eeffoc', is the motto of all effective realism; it is the masterpiece of the good realistic principle—the principle that the most fantastic thing of all is often the precise fact. And that elvish kind of realism Dickens adopted everywhere. His world was alive with inanimate objects. (23)

Strange realism whose exemplary case—"the motto of all effective realism" —is a ''signifier ''MOOR eeFFOCEEFFOC, whose lack of meaning (signified) is more than supplemented by a rich condensation of unconscious obscene libidinal echoes (fears, horrors, obscene imaginations) so that it effectively functions as a direct signifier (or, rather, cypher) of ''jouissance, ''signaling a point at which meaning breaks down! So if we are looking for the traces of ''das Ding ''in all this, they are not to be found in external reality the way it operates independently of our investments into it—say, the way oval glass plates on the doors of coffee rooms really are—but at those myste­ rious points within the universe of meaning where meaning breaks down and is overshadowed by a nameless abyss of ''jouissance''. This is why when he stumbles upon the meaningless signifier MOOR eeFFOC, "a shock goes through [his] blood." It may appear that Chesterton is here simply asserting the key role of inner psychic traumas, desires, obsessions, and fears: "Dickens did not stamp these places on his mind; he stamped his mind on these places." That is, certain places impressed him deeply not because of their inherent qualities but because of the intense inner experiences (concerning sin and love) they served as a pretext for and gave birth to. One can easily imagine here a critic of psychoanalysis like Malabou sarcastically asking if a devastating catastrophe in ''external reality ''like a gigantic tsunami or being exposed to brutal torture also acquires weight only if a previous psychic trauma resonates in it. But are things as simple as that? What makes inanimate objects alive is the way they are enveloped by dreams; this is not the same as the famous Freudian dream where the burning cloth on the son's coffin triggers in the sleeping father the terrifying dream image of his dread son approaching him with "Father, can't you see I'm burning!" In Freud's case, the dreamer (father) escapes from reality into a dream where he encounters an even more terrifying real. In Dickens, there is no escape from ordinary reality; a detail of reality itself gets spectralized, is experienced as a moment from a nightmarish dream. Something similar takes place continuously in Franz Kafka's work; Kafka is also a master of "effective realism." But let us rather take an unexpected example from cinema.