I wrote some bad poetry that I published in North African

Hear the confession of Jacques Derrida, philosopher of deconstruction and restless seeker of truth: “I wrote some bad poetry that I published in North African journals, but even as I withdrew into this reading, I also led the life of a kind of young hooligan.” Within these words is no arrogance, but humility, and within that humility lies wisdom. For Derrida speaks to the tension within the soul of the youth: the pull toward reflection and learning, and the pull toward recklessness and rebellion. He admits his bad poetry, his clumsy beginnings, even as he remembers the wildness of his early life. In this confession lies the story of every soul that grows through struggle.

The meaning of this confession rests in the paradox of withdrawal and hooliganism. On the one hand, Derrida retreated into the life of books, immersing himself in philosophy, literature, and verse. On the other, he embraced the chaos of youth, the restless need to push boundaries, to test limits, to live fiercely and sometimes foolishly. This is not hypocrisy, but balance. It is the nature of becoming: we are at once students of silence and servants of passion. To deny one side is to cut short the fullness of human growth.

The ancients knew this paradox well. Socrates, before becoming the great philosopher, was mocked for wandering barefoot and engaging in mischief with the young men of Athens. St. Augustine, in his Confessions, recalls how he once stole pears for no reason but the thrill of transgression, even as his heart already longed for truth. In both cases, the “hooligan” youth was not wasted, but became part of the path toward wisdom. Derrida’s admission is the modern echo of this timeless journey: we are not born wise—we stumble, we err, we rage, and only through this do we grow.

History also offers the example of Arthur Rimbaud, the French poet-prodigy. As a teenager, he wrote some of the most brilliant verse of his century, yet he was also a rebel, a wanderer, a breaker of rules. His genius and his hooligan spirit were inseparable. The fire that made him reckless also made him visionary. Derrida, in his bad poetry and unruly youth, mirrors this truth: the seeds of greatness often lie hidden in the soil of folly.

Yet Derrida’s words also reveal another kind of wisdom: the courage to admit one’s imperfections. Many would hide their bad poetry, ashamed of their first attempts. Derrida, instead, names them openly, showing that failure is part of the path. The clumsy lines of youth prepared him for the profound insights of his maturity. In the same way, the wildness of his younger years became part of his philosophy, for deconstruction itself is a kind of rebellion—a hooliganism of the intellect, tearing down rigid structures to discover hidden meanings.

The lesson here is clear: do not despise your beginnings, nor deny your mistakes. The bad poetry of youth is not wasted; it is the soil from which the later harvest comes. The mischief, the rebellion, even the folly—all of it can be transformed into wisdom, if one reflects, if one learns. What matters is not that you begin perfect, but that you begin at all, that you dare to create, to live, to test the edges of life. From such beginnings, greatness can arise.

Practical wisdom flows from this. If you are young, write even if the lines are poor; live, even if your steps falter. Your failures are not chains but teachers. If you are older, look back with kindness on your youthful errors, for they shaped the person you became. Encourage others to create without fear of imperfection, to live fully without shame of stumbling. For the true path of wisdom is not the path of flawless beginnings, but of bold attempts and humbled growth.

Thus, Derrida’s words endure as both confession and guidance: youth is made of bad poetry and hooliganism, and both are necessary steps toward wisdom. Let us remember this truth and pass it on—that the soul matures not by denying its unruly beginnings, but by transforming them into strength, humility, and vision. For only he who has stumbled greatly may one day walk with steady steps.