It is no longer the sexual which is indecent, it is the sentimental.
ROLAND BARTHESIt is no longer the sexual which is indecent, it is the sentimental.
ROLAND BARTHESThe best principals are not heroes; they are hero makers.
ROLAND BARTHESThe new is not a fashion, it is a value.
ROLAND BARTHESA light without shadow generates an emotion without reserve.
ROLAND BARTHESWhereas the work is understood to be traceable to a source (through a process of derivation or “filiation”), the Text is without a source – the “author” a mere “guest” at the reading of the Text.
ROLAND BARTHESPhysically, the Ventoux is dreadful. Bald, it’s the spirit of Dry: Its climate (it is much more an essence of climate than a geographic place) makes it a damned terrain, a testing place for heroes, something like a higher hell.
ROLAND BARTHESTo whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought?
ROLAND BARTHESLanguage is never innocent.
ROLAND BARTHESI love you is unsubtle. It removes explanations, facilities, degrees, scruples.
ROLAND BARTHESWho speaks is not who writes, and who writes is not who is.
ROLAND BARTHESAll official institutions of language are repeating machines: school, sports, advertising, popular songs, news, all continually repeat the same structure, the same meaning, often the same words: the stereotype is a political fact, the major figure of ideology.
ROLAND BARTHESTouch is the most demystifying of all senses, different from sight which is the most magical.
ROLAND BARTHESAll those young photographers who are at work in the world, determined upon the capture of actuality, do not know that they are agents of Death.
ROLAND BARTHESThis endured absence is nothing more or less than forgetfulness. I am, intermittently, unfaithful. This is the condition of my survival.
ROLAND BARTHESLanguage is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.
ROLAND BARTHESWe can never know, for the good reason that writing is the destruction of every voice, every origin. Writing is that neuter, that composite, that obliquity into which our subject flees, the black-and-white where all identity is lost, beginning with the very identity of the body that writes.
ROLAND BARTHES