As the play opens, we see Derrida, writing. He is obviously frustrated, crumpling up paper and cursing to himself. He is joined by Bakhtin.
Derrida: Oh, I can't write a thing.
Bakhtin: Of course you can't. Neither can I.
Der: How can I write if I don't know if I'm a writer? What if I'm an author?
Bak: What if you're an author and I'm a writer?
Der: And What if you're a writer and I'm an author?
Bak: Right.
Der: Write? But how?
Bak (angrily): I said "right" as in "correct," not "write."
Der: We've been here for hours.
Bak: Days.
Der: Years. (sighs) Let's go.
Bak: We can't.
Der: Why not?
Bak: We're waiting for Foucault.
Der: Why are we waiting for him?
Bak: Because he can tell us what an author is.
Der: He knows?
Bak: He might. He did ask the question. When he defines the author-function, we should know what an author is, and then....well, then we'll know.
Der (confused): I don't understand you.
Bak: That's good!!
Der: Why?
Bak: Because if you understood me, we wouldn't be talking.
Der: I don't understand.
Bak: That's good!
Der: Why?
Bak: Because if you understood me, we wouldn't be talking.