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gerhard's review
5.0
I see on Amazon.com that a hardcover of Bringing Out Roland Barthes by DA Miller is going for a cool $851.90 (R15 650.85), while the paperback of Incidents is a more palatable $17.67. At a mere 70-odd pages, this is a slim yet curiously weighty volume in terms of its themes and the insight it gives the casual reader into Barthes as a human being.
Consisting of four vastly different essays, this collection was published posthumously in 1987 by François Wahl, Roland Barthes’s literary executor. Three of the essays collated herein were published previously: ‘La Lumiere du Sud-Ouest’, a rather random musing on the South West of France, the Adour and Bayonne regions; ‘Au Palace Ce Soir’, an amusing description of a fashionable theatre-house in Paris and how it frames its occupants; and ‘Soirées de Paris’, a rather eye-opening diary from August to September 1979.
The latter is particularly sad and dark as it sees Barthes starkly confronting his “insatiable cruising”, and the fact that “… one of these days I’ll have to explain myself about the rejected aspects of my sexuality (in this case, sadomasochism) …”
Barthes also comments that an “excellent method to erase desire” is “a long-term contract; it drops of its own accord”, and concludes that: “Nothing will be left for me but hustlers.” This diary ties in with the essay ‘Incidents’, an account of the author’s travails (as opposed to travels) in Morocco.
One gets the feeling that Barthes is perhaps the happiest in this environment, despite having to deal constantly with hustlers, con artists and an array of disappointments. He later reflects on his own despair at “not feeling at home either in Paris or here or traveling: no real refuge …”
There are some delightfully droll moments, as when Barthes comments that ultramodern music sounds like rabbit turds, or on a new book recommended to him: “… wondering what I could say and finding – though it was nicely written and sympathetic – no more than ‘yeah, yeah’ …” Ouch. We also get to see a side of Barthes that seems light years away from his rightful place as intellectual bastion: “Always this notion: suppose the Moderns were wrong? What if they had no talent?”
I wonder if the fact that ‘Incidents’ was not published meant that Barthes intended for it to be kept private. On the other hand, given his growing status, he must have realised that everything he wrote would ultimately see the light of day. Or is this presumptuous on the part of the modern reader?
I think anyone who has read Barthes – and, indeed, struggled to come to grips with his sinuous thinking – will enjoy this much more vulnerable and private look at the great man “… eager to clear my life of all these messes.” Or does it detract from that intellectual achievement?
I suppose there will be a handful of literary critics who will raise an eyebrow in horror at the high jinks described in ‘Incidents’ in particular. Shouldn’t the Master have been devoting all of his time and energy to his inner intellectual life, rather than chasing random sexual encounters?
And shouldn’t that life’s work stand and be judged on its own, instead of having books like these thrown into the mix? I honestly think that both Barthes the scholar and the man should be celebrated equally, and that books like these play a vital role in bringing him to life as a fully-rounded figure.
Consisting of four vastly different essays, this collection was published posthumously in 1987 by François Wahl, Roland Barthes’s literary executor. Three of the essays collated herein were published previously: ‘La Lumiere du Sud-Ouest’, a rather random musing on the South West of France, the Adour and Bayonne regions; ‘Au Palace Ce Soir’, an amusing description of a fashionable theatre-house in Paris and how it frames its occupants; and ‘Soirées de Paris’, a rather eye-opening diary from August to September 1979.
The latter is particularly sad and dark as it sees Barthes starkly confronting his “insatiable cruising”, and the fact that “… one of these days I’ll have to explain myself about the rejected aspects of my sexuality (in this case, sadomasochism) …”
Barthes also comments that an “excellent method to erase desire” is “a long-term contract; it drops of its own accord”, and concludes that: “Nothing will be left for me but hustlers.” This diary ties in with the essay ‘Incidents’, an account of the author’s travails (as opposed to travels) in Morocco.
One gets the feeling that Barthes is perhaps the happiest in this environment, despite having to deal constantly with hustlers, con artists and an array of disappointments. He later reflects on his own despair at “not feeling at home either in Paris or here or traveling: no real refuge …”
There are some delightfully droll moments, as when Barthes comments that ultramodern music sounds like rabbit turds, or on a new book recommended to him: “… wondering what I could say and finding – though it was nicely written and sympathetic – no more than ‘yeah, yeah’ …” Ouch. We also get to see a side of Barthes that seems light years away from his rightful place as intellectual bastion: “Always this notion: suppose the Moderns were wrong? What if they had no talent?”
I wonder if the fact that ‘Incidents’ was not published meant that Barthes intended for it to be kept private. On the other hand, given his growing status, he must have realised that everything he wrote would ultimately see the light of day. Or is this presumptuous on the part of the modern reader?
I think anyone who has read Barthes – and, indeed, struggled to come to grips with his sinuous thinking – will enjoy this much more vulnerable and private look at the great man “… eager to clear my life of all these messes.” Or does it detract from that intellectual achievement?
I suppose there will be a handful of literary critics who will raise an eyebrow in horror at the high jinks described in ‘Incidents’ in particular. Shouldn’t the Master have been devoting all of his time and energy to his inner intellectual life, rather than chasing random sexual encounters?
And shouldn’t that life’s work stand and be judged on its own, instead of having books like these thrown into the mix? I honestly think that both Barthes the scholar and the man should be celebrated equally, and that books like these play a vital role in bringing him to life as a fully-rounded figure.
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