I’m not convinced that there’s not the slightest possibility that Barthes is not simply full of ..it.
I have finally finished this. What surprises me is that for a book about finding the pleasure–nay, not mere pleasure, but bliss–of reading, these words were the dryest, least inspiring I’ve read; a few steps short of a psychology textbook. Nor have I ever read a book so sexually-oriented with such big words.
I did manage to glean some ideas from it, but it will have to be picked up another time when I’m a bit more experienced, more open and Barthes is more accessible to me. These closing words are ones that I do understand, and I consider them foreplay:
(…)to succeed in shifting the signified a great distance and in throwing, so to speak, the anonymous body of the actor into my ear: it granulates, it crackles, it caresses, it grates, it cuts, it comes; that is bliss.
So back on the shelf Roland goes, to be pulled out and read again with a serious approach and intent to fully comprehend and absorb and attain bliss.