I’m beginning my last two blog series on Jacques Derrida.  Previously I looked at his book The Gift of Death and essay Sauf le nom, and now I will be looking at his essay khora, which looks at Plato’s Timaeus.  In my last series I will look at Derrida’s reading of Heidegger in “Aporias.”

In Plato’s Timaeus, the demiurge is depicted as a benevolent craftsman or divine artisan who organizes the pre-existing chaotic matter into an ordered cosmos, modeling it after the eternal, perfect Forms (or Ideas). The creation process is not ex nihilo (out of nothing) but rather a shaping and ordering of what already exists.

Khora (often translated as “receptacle,” “space,” “place,” or “chora”) plays a crucial, passive role in this cosmogony as the third fundamental element, alongside the Forms (the model) and the sensible world (the copy). It is described as an eternal, formless, and invisible substrate or matrix that provides the necessary “space” or medium for becoming and change. Plato likens khora to a nurse, mother, or womb that receives the impressions of the Forms, allowing the demiurge to impose order and generate the visible universe.

Khora is neutral and indeterminate, lacking any inherent qualities of its own, which enables it to accept all forms without bias or resistance.

It serves as the underlying “stuff” or locus where the demiurge introduces structure, such as the four elements (earth, air, fire, water), by persuading or arranging the chaotic traces within it.

Without khora, there would be no place for the mutable, physical world to emerge; it bridges the gap between the immutable realm of Being (Forms) and the flux of Becoming (the sensible world).

This concept has influenced later philosophy, including discussions in postmodern thought (e.g., Derrida’s interpretations), but in the Timaeus, it underscores Plato’s emphasis on the cosmos as a harmonious, intelligent design rather than pure randomness.

Jacques Derrida engages deeply with the concept of khôra from Plato’s Timaeus in his 1993 essay “Khôra” (part of the collection On the Name), where he sees it as a radically undecidable and aporetic figure that disrupts traditional metaphysical oppositions.

For Derrida, khôra is not merely the passive receptacle or “third kind” (triton genos) that Plato describes as a formless matrix or space enabling the demiurge’s creation—neither sensible nor intelligible, neither being nor becoming—but rather a “non-concept” or “radical otherness” that “gives place” to being without itself participating in ontology or presence.

It resists binary structures like mythos/logos, matter/form, or presence/absence, functioning as a pre-ontological spacing or interval that Plato’s text both invokes and represses.

Derrida highlights how khôra poses a translation problem, carrying multiple meanings (e.g., space, place, receptacle, nurse, mother) while evading fixed signification, much like a dream or bastard reasoning (as Plato puts it).

He draws parallels to his own notions of différance—an originary differencing and deferral that conditions meaning and presence but can never be presented as such—arguing that khôra subverts the logic of identity and essence, hovering on the edge of nothingness as a trace that makes the cosmos possible yet remains irreducible to it.

In this way, Derrida uses khôra to critique logocentrism and the Western philosophical tradition’s reliance on stable foundations, portraying it as a site of infinite oscillation and undecidability rather than a metaphor or metaphorical entity.

This interpretation has influenced postmodern thought, emphasizing khôra’s role in opening up possibilities for thinking beyond Platonic hierarchies.

Regarding khora as a “third” that I mentioned above, I’m always thinking about the problem of the third.  For example, in teaching we might have an “example” of student work, the rubric to grade it with, and “exemplar” level papers at the 4 levels to compare it with.  There’s a lot more to it than that, but that’s the general idea.  Derrida in particular sets his sights on the philosophy of “example/exemplar (Derrida, Sauf le nom, 76;84).”  We are so quick to provide an example or analogy to prove our case, and though scoff when an opposing position does the same (e.g., a political debate with a liberal using liberal examples and analogies to support liberal doctrine, and a conservative responding with conservative examples and analogies to support conservative doctrine). 

For example, regarding the third Kant has in his philosophy the faculty of rules that allows us to “encounter as,” for example having the rule of enclosed three sided figure allows us to encounter the shape “as a triangle,” or the rule of irreversibility allows to encounter an event “as causal.”  Kant saw a threefold causality of ball hitting ball as physical change, watering boiling but then cooling as temporary change of form, and cooking an egg that can’t be uncooked as exemplary irreversibility.  Kant ran into a problem that cause is in the understanding and yet we only experience permanent irreversibility in cases like the egg and so he had to posit a third, The Imagination, to mediate understanding and sense.

With the Greeks, we have a general idea like “house,” the various examples of houses, and third the exemplary house: a mansion.  Now that’s a house!  Being here means presence and so the mansion is houseness incarnate, houseness being merely present in the average house, and deficient in the dilapidated shack.  For Plato, the idea of the beautiful is the medium through which these various grades of Being appear.  Of course, the next person might find the mansion gawdy or the shack quaint.  Homer explains that the gods don’t appear to everyone enargeis.  And so, Niagara Falls may appear as a wonder of the world to a tourist, but as noise pollution to the local resident.

In ancient Greek, the terms mythos (μῦθος) and logos (λόγος) both originally stemmed from concepts related to speech or word, but they evolved to represent distinct modes of thought, explanation, and understanding, particularly in the context of philosophy, rhetoric, and cultural narratives.

Mythos is derived from the verb muein (to speak or tell), it primarily referred to a spoken word, tale, or story. In early usage (e.g., in Homer and Hesiod), it denoted traditional narratives, legends, or myths often involving gods, heroes, and supernatural elements to explain natural phenomena, human origins, morality, or cosmic order.

These were imaginative, symbolic, and often poetic accounts that conveyed truths through allegory or metaphor rather than empirical evidence. Mythos was seen as involuntary and rooted in the collective unconscious or cultural tradition, emphasizing emotional, existential, or spiritual dimensions like meaning, loss, or human experience.

Logos is from the verb legein (to speak or gather), it meant word, speech, account, or reason. It encompassed rational discourse, logical argumentation, and systematic explanation.  In philosophical contexts, logos implied a structured, intentional approach to knowledge, involving analysis, synthesis, and evidence-based inquiry to uncover objective truths about the world.

The primary distinction lies in their approaches to truth and reality.  Mythos relied on supernatural, narrative-driven explanations that were malleable and interpretive, often passed down through oral tradition or poetry. It was effective for addressing ambiguities, tragedies, or the “why” of existence in a way that fostered psychological or spiritual alignment.

In contrast, logos emphasized empirical observation, logic, and rationality to provide factual, practical insights, focusing on “how” things work and enabling control over the environment.

Ancient Greek thought is often described as shifting from mythos (dominant in archaic poets like Homer) to logos (emerging with pre-Socratic philosophers like Thales and Anaximander, and culminating in Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle).  This “from myth to reason” narrative highlights a move from uncritical acceptance of myths to critical, philosophical inquiry.

However, some scholars argue they were not strictly oppositional but complementary: mythos for creative, existential guidance, and logos for pragmatic problem-solving, with neither inherently superior. In Plato’s works, for instance, mythos is sometimes used for allegorical stories (e.g., the Myth of Er), while logos denotes dialectical reasoning. Sophists like Gorgias employed logos (words and arguments) to challenge traditional mythos and reshape societal norms (nomos). Mythos could contain truths but was subjective and adaptable, whereas logos was grounded in unchanging reality.

This dichotomy influenced Western philosophy, though modern interpretations (e.g., by thinkers like Karen Armstrong) view mythos as a valid, non-literal way of knowing that remains relevant today.

An allegory is something like a mix between logos and mythos.  Aristotle says some things are known only through a touching/thigein.  We participate in Plato’s cave when we encounter justice, e.g., when we are living our lives in agreement with the traditional definition of marriage when we encounter how this beloved institution tramples LGBTQ+ rights, and so I must deconstruct my disposition toward marriage and reconstruct it in a more inclusive way.  Derrida might say prior to my binary opposite of justice/inequity, a participation in allegory must first have put me in contact with justice and set those opposites both apart and in relation to one another.  Plato thus talks of a third thing khora giving place for oppositions eg., sensible/intelligible.

 Allegory can indeed be understood as a hybrid or intermediary form that bridges mythos (narrative, imaginative storytelling) and logos (rational discourse, reasoned explanation), though it’s not a simple “mix” but often a strategic fusion where one serves the other. In ancient Greek thought, mythos provided poetic, symbolic tales to convey deeper truths about the human condition, ethics, or the cosmos—think of Homer’s epics or Hesiod’s theogony, which weren’t meant to be taken literally but as vehicles for insight. Logos, by contrast, aimed for clarity through logic, argument, and evidence, as seen in the shift toward philosophy with the pre-Socratics.

Plato exemplifies this interplay in works like The Republic, where he employs allegories (e.g., the Cave, the Divided Line, or the Myth of Er) as a form of “mythos-in-service-to-logos.” These aren’t mere fables; they’re narrative devices that encode philosophical truths, making abstract ideas accessible and memorable. The allegory of the Cave, for instance, uses a story (mythos) to illustrate the journey from illusion to knowledge (a logos-driven epistemology). Aristotle, in his Poetics, critiques and refines this by treating allegory and metaphor as tools of rhetoric and poetry, where they reveal similarities through imaginative comparison, blending emotional resonance (mythos) with intellectual clarity (logos). In this sense, allegory acts as a “third way”—not purely irrational storytelling nor dry syllogism, but a dialectical tool that invites participation and interpretation.

The example of encountering justice through the institution of marriage fits here: Traditional marriage might be seen as a “mythos” (a cultural narrative of stability, love, and societal order), but when confronted with how it marginalizes LGBTQ+ rights, it demands a logos-infused critique. The allegory emerges in the tension—marriage as a “cave” of shadows—prompting a deconstructive reconstruction toward inclusivity. This isn’t just intellectual; it’s experiential, which leads to Aristotle’s notion of “thigein.

Aristotle indeed speaks of certain knowledge arising through “thigein” (θιγεῖν, “to touch” or “to make contact with”), particularly in contexts like the Metaphysics (e.g., Book Theta) and Posterior Analytics. This isn’t literal physical touch but an intellectual or noetic “touching”—a direct, intuitive grasp of first principles or indivisible truths that can’t be demonstrated through syllogistic reasoning (logos in its deductive form). For Aristotle, complex knowledge builds on demonstration, but the foundational axioms—like the principle of non-contradiction—are known immediately, as if by a momentary “contact” of the intellect (nous) with reality.

This “thigein” is akin to an encounter or participation: You don’t argue your way to it; you touch it in experience, much like sensing an object without mediation. In ethics (Nicomachean Ethics), this extends to practical wisdom (phronesis), where moral truths like justice are grasped through lived habituation and perception, not just abstract theory. The point about participating in Plato’s Cave when encountering justice resonates here—Aristotle, Plato’s student, adapts Platonic ideas but grounds them in the empirical. We “touch” justice not in isolation but in the messiness of life: The traditional marriage ideal (a shadow on the wall) clashes (aporia – a block in the path that elicits thaumazein or wonder at the failure of the guiding perspective) with real inequities, forcing a direct contact that disrupts and reforms our understanding. This isn’t passive; it’s an active, participatory knowing that echoes the ascent from the Cave, where turning toward the light involves pain and reorientation.  The unjust death of Socrates and Jesus are meant by the writers to elicit such transformation.

Plato’s allegory of the Cave (Republic Book VII) is precisely about this participatory encounter: Prisoners chained in the Cave mistake shadows (opinions, doxa) for reality, but liberation involves turning toward the Forms (true knowledge, episteme). Applying this to justice and marriage is apt—we often live immersed in cultural “caves” (e.g., heteronormative traditions), where marriage appears as a benevolent institution. Encountering its “trampling” of LGBTQ+ rights is like being dragged into the light: It reveals the shadows as constructs, demanding deconstruction (questioning binary assumptions like “traditional vs. modern” or “just vs. unjust”) and reconstruction (reimagining marriage inclusively, perhaps through legal reforms or personal ethics).

This process isn’t just Platonic ascent; it’s Derridean in flavor. Derrida would critique the binary of justice/inequity as a hierarchical opposition where one term (justice-as-tradition) privileges itself while suppressing the other (inequity toward marginalized groups). But prior to this binary, there’s a pre-ontological “spacing” or differance—a trace that both separates and relates the opposites. Allegory, for Derrida, could function as this intermediary: It’s not a stable representation but a slippery signifier that puts us “in contact” (thigein-like) with justice without fully capturing it. In texts like Plato’s Pharmacy, Derrida deconstructs Platonic myths, showing how they undecide boundaries between mythos and logos, presence (e.g., beauty is “present” in the beautiful thing) and absence.

This ties directly to Plato’s khora in the Timaeus, as a “third thing” (triton genos) that enables oppositions like sensible/intelligible. Khora is the formless receptacle—neither being nor becoming—that provides the “place” for the demiurge to impose order, allowing Forms to imprint on matter. It’s passive yet essential, a matrix that holds contradictions without resolving them.

Derrida radicalizes this in his essay “Khôra,” portraying it as a non-place of radical alterity that disrupts binaries (e.g., mythos/logos, justice/inequity). Before we can even posit opposites like sensible/intelligible or traditional/inclusive marriage, khora “gives place” to their emergence—it’s the allegorical space where contact (thigein) happens, setting terms apart while relating them. Khora might be the undecidable ground of justice itself: Not a fixed essence, but a spacing that allows the deconstruction of marriage norms, opening room for LGBTQ-inclusive reconstructions. It’s allegorical in that it evades direct logos (can’t be rationally pinned down) yet invites mythic participation (as a “nurse” or “womb” birthing new possibilities).

In sum, allegory does blend mythos and logos and first gives them sense, but in a participatory, contact-driven way that Aristotle’s thigein and Plato’s Cave exemplify—especially when ethics like justice demand deconstruction. Derrida’s lens, via khora, reminds us that such encounters rest on a “third” that precedes and unsettles binaries, fostering ongoing reconstruction. This framework applies powerfully to social issues like LGBTQ+ rights, where “touching” injustice propels ethical evolution.  We often forget the experiential nature of our opposites, e.g., love/hate, as a six-year-old could memorize the meaning of romantic love though the concept is still opaque to him.