The art of living has no history: it does not evolve: the pleasure which vanishes vanishes for good, there is no substitute for it. Other pleasures come, which replace nothing. No progress in pleasures, nothing but mutations.
ROLAND BARTHESIn an initial period, Photography, in order to surprise, photographs the notable; but soon, by a familiar reversal, it decrees notable whatever it photographs. The ‘anything whatever’ then becomes the sophisticated acme of value.
More Roland Barthes Quotes
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How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond?
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All 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.
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All 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.
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The book creates meaning, the meaning creates life.
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Literature is the question minus the answer.
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The realists do not take the photograph for a ‘copy’ of reality, but for an emanation of past reality, a magic, not an art.
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To eat steak rare represents both a nature and a morality.
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Every object in the world can pass from a closed, silent existence to an oral state, open to appropriation by society, for there is no law, whether natural or not, which forbids talking about things
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I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds; but of these hundreds, I love only one.
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If I had to create a god, I would lend him a “slow understanding”: a kind of drip-by-drip understanding of problems. People who understand quickly frighten me.
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To make someone wait: the constant prerogative of all power.
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To eat, to speak, to sing (need we add: to kiss?) are operations which have the same site of the body for origin.
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The lover who does not forget sometimes dies from excess, fatigue, and the strain of memory (like Werther).
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A photograph is always invisible, it is not it that we see.
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The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
ROLAND BARTHES