I cannot classify the other, for the other is, precisely, Unique, the singular Image which has miraculously come to correspond to the speciality of my desire. The other is the figure of my truth, and cannot be imprisoned in any stereotype (which is the truth of others).
ROLAND BARTHESIsn’t desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn’t the object always absent? -This isn’t the same languor: there are two words: Pothos, desire for the absent being, and Himéros, the more burning desire for the present being.
More Roland Barthes Quotes
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Pleasure is continually disappointed, reduced, deflated, in favor of strong, noble values: Truth, Death, Progress, Struggle, Joy, etc. Its victorious rival is Desire: we are always being told about Desire, never about Pleasure.
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Those who fail to reread are obliged to read the same story everywhere.
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What the Photograph reproduces to infinity has occurred only once: the Photograph mechanically repeats what could never be repeated existentially.
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To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
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Through the mythology of Einstein, the world blissfully regained the image of knowledge reduced to a formula.
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I call the discourse of power any discourse that engenders blame, hence guilt, in its recipient.
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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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The new is not a fashion, it is a value.
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As Spectator I wanted to explore photography not as a question (a theme) but as a wound.
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Touch is the most demystifying of all senses, different from sight which is the most magical.
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We know that the war against intelligence is always waged in the name of common sense.
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Language 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.
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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 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?
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I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.
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It is no longer the sexual which is indecent, it is the sentimental.
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We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us.
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The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.
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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’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
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The haiku reproduces the designating gesture of the child pointing at whatever it is (the haiku shows no partiality for the subject), merely saying: that!
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Language is neither reactionary nor progressive; it is quite simply fascist; for fascism does not prevent speech, it compels speech.
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The author enters into his own death, writing begins.
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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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I love you is unsubtle. It removes explanations, facilities, degrees, scruples.
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Isn’t the most sensitive point of this mourning the fact that I must lose a language – the amorous language? No more ‘I love you’s.
ROLAND BARTHES