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 (by the limitless expansion of the ego, by emotive submersion) and impoverished (by the codes on which love diminishes and levels it).
To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other); to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not– this is the beginning of writing.
Roland Barthes
A. said,
September 20, 2009 at 12:46 am
Whoa. Thank you.
Where’s this from? I think I know, but just in case.
Untitled | Oleoptene said,
September 21, 2009 at 5:12 am
[...] opened the computer — there in my blog feeds pops out, from a friend of a friend’s blog Barthes again, lovely, copied into my journal. And I remember another Barthes link from a friend’s Facebook [...]