Mourning Diary

Mourning Diary

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by Roland Barthes

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A major discovery: The lost diary of a great mind—and an intimate, deeply moving study of grief

The day after his mother's death in October 1977, the influential philosopher Roland Barthes began a diary of mourning. Taking notes on index cards as was his habit, he reflected on a new solitude, on the ebb and flow of sadness, and on modern


A major discovery: The lost diary of a great mind—and an intimate, deeply moving study of grief

The day after his mother's death in October 1977, the influential philosopher Roland Barthes began a diary of mourning. Taking notes on index cards as was his habit, he reflected on a new solitude, on the ebb and flow of sadness, and on modern society's dismissal of grief. These 330 cards, published here for the first time, prove a skeleton key to the themes he tackled throughout his work. Behind the unflagging mind, "the most consistently intelligent, important, and useful literary critic to have emerged anywhere" (Susan Sontag), lay a deeply sensitive man who cherished his mother with a devotion unknown even to his closest friends.

Editorial Reviews

Dwight Garner
Mourning Diary feels like a first draft: it has repetitions, ambiguous passages and even (as Barthes admits) emotional banalities. But this book's unvarnished quality is the source of its wrecking cumulative power. Barthes's ironic intellect, apparent everywhere in his many books, is wrapped here around his sore and nakedly beating heart…not his finest work, but it is his most ardent and approachable. Barthes for Beginners, cynics may label it. I prefer to think of it as something else: the literary equivalent of an acoustic recording, a welcome, belated, stripped-down addition to his oeuvre…a slender volume that one wants to linger over, to devour slowly.
—The New York Times
Lori Soderlind
This volume will provide fresh insight into Barthes's work and theories. But the diary also has power of its own: it is a stirring mosaic of loss as the author grasps at the void.
—The New York Times Book Review
Publishers Weekly
These pensées on the process of grieving the loss of a mother are an invitation to eavesdrop on a densely qualified (in the finest sense) rational mind touched by eternal loss. While continuing his life work, the great French cultural critic Barthes (Mythologies) kept notes of sadness and selfreflection on slips of paper. This fragmentary book begins the night after his mother's death; informing it all is the presence of absence. Although conflicted by the very process of making literature from grief, Barthes (1915-1980) contemplates such day-to-day, unexpected spells of sadness as living in an empty apartment; how the role reversal of caring for a dying parent affected him; the larger mysteries of time; and his own generalized mental state ("Not even the desire to commit suicide"). Compiler and annotator Léger is to be commended, as is redoubtable translator Howard, who, in a nostalgic afterword, describes both his experience with Barthes's mother, Henriette, and the relative merits of the craft of rendering any book into another language. This volume is both a window into the soul of a philosopher and a unique contribution to the inspirational literature of the adult child left behind. 8 pages of b&w illus. (Oct. 19)
From the Publisher

“A revelation to readers of the great Barthes.” —Judith Thurman, The New Yorker podcast

“This book's unvarnished quality is the source of its wrecking cumulative power. Barthes's ironic intellect is here wrapped around his nakedly beating heart.” —Dwight Garner, The New York Times

“Precise and touching memories intersect with spare and at times desperate notes on time, death and grief, written despite ‘the fear of making literature out of it.'” —Julian Barnes, The Times Literary Supplement

“A collection of aphorisms, sadnesses, self-analysis: a journal of savage intimacy.” —Adam Thirlwell, The New Republic

“A beautiful, lapidary portrait of mourning.” —Meghan O'Rourke, Slate

Though Barthes left behind disciples, there can be no replacing him; his brilliance has a wavelength all its own.

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Mourning Diary

October 26, 1977â"September 15, 1979

By Roland Barthes, Richard Howard

Hill and Wang

Copyright © 2009 Éditions du Seuil/Imec
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-7707-4



October 26, 1977–June 21, 1978

October 26, 1977

First wedding night.

But first mourning night?

October 27

— You have never known a Woman's body!

— I have known the body of my mother, sick and then dying.

October 27

Every morning, around 6:30, in the darkness outside, the metallic racket of the garbage cans.

She would say with relief: the night is finally over (she suffered during the night, alone, a cruel business).

As soon as someone dies, frenzied construction of the future (shifting furniture, etc.): futuromania.

October 27

Who knows? Maybe something valuable in these notes?

October 27

— SS: I'll take care of you, I'll prescribe some calm.

— RH: You've been depressed for six months because you knew. Bereavement, depression, work, etc. — But said discreetly, as always.

Irritation. No, bereavement (depression) is different from sickness. What should I be cured of? To find what condition, what life? If someone is to be born, that person will not be blank, but a moral being, a subject of value — not of integration.

October 27

Immortality. I've never understood that strange, Pyrrhonic position; I just don't know.

October 27

Everyone guesses — I feel this — the degree of a bereavement's intensity. But it's impossible (meaningless, contradictory signs) to measure how much someone is afflicted.

October 27

— "Never again, never again!"

— And yet there's a contradiction: "never again" isn't eternal, since you yourself will die one day.

"Never again" is the expression of an immortal.

October 27

Overcrowded gathering. Inevitable, increasing futility. I think of her, in the next room. Everything collapses.

It is, here, the formal beginning of the big, long bereavement.

For the first time in two days, the acceptable notion of my own death.

October 28

Bringing maman's body from Paris to Urt (with JL and the undertaker): stopping for lunch in a tiny trucker's dive, at Sorigny (after Tours). The undertaker meets a "colleague" there (taking a body to Haute-Vienne) and joins him for lunch. I walk a few steps with Jean-Louis on one side of the square (with its hideous monument to the dead), bare ground, the smell of rain, the sticks. And yet, something like a savor of life (because of the sweet smell of the rain), the very first discharge, like a momentary palpitation.

October 29

How strange: her voice, which I knew so well, and which is said to be the very texture of memory ("the dear inflection ..."), I no longer hear. Like a localized deafness ...

October 29

In the sentence "She's no longer suffering," to what, to whom does "she" refer? What does that present tense mean?

October 29

A stupefying, though not distressing notion — that she has not been "everything" for me. If she had, I wouldn't have written my work. Since I've been taking care of her, the last six months in fact, she was "everything" for me, and I've completely forgotten that I'd written. I was no longer anything but desperately hers. Before, she had made herself transparent so that I could write.

October 29

In taking these notes, I'm trusting myself to the banality that is in me.

October 29

The desires I had before her death (while she was sick) can no longer be fulfilled, for that would mean it is her death that allows me to fulfill them — her death might be a liberation in some sense with regard to my desires. But her death has changed me, I no longer desire what I used to desire. I must wait — supposing that such a thing could happen — for a new desire to form, a desire following her death.

October 29

The measurement of mourning.

(Dictionary, Memorandum): eighteen months for mourning a father, a mother.

October 30

At Urt: sad, gentle, deep (relaxed).

October 30

... that this death fails to destroy me altogether means that I want to live wildly, madly, and that therefore the fear of my own death is always there, not displaced by a single inch.

October 30

Many others still love me, but from now on my death would kill no one.

— which is what's new.

(But Michel?)

October 31

I don't want to talk about it, for fear of making literature out of it — or without being sure of not doing so — although as a matter of fact literature originates within these truths.

October 31

Monday, 3:00 p.m. — Back alone for the first time in the apartment. How am I going to manage to live here all alone? And at the same time, it's clear there's no other place.

October 31

Part of me keeps a sort of despairing vigil; and at the same time another part struggles to put my most trivial affairs into some kind of order. I experience this as a sickness.

October 31

Sometimes, very briefly, a blank moment — a kind of numbness — which is not a moment of forgetfulness. This terrifies me.

October 31

A strange new acuity, seeing (in the street) people's ugliness or their beauty.

November 1

What affects me most powerfully: mourning in layers — a kind of sclerosis.

[Which means: no depth. Layers of surface — or rather, each layer: a totality. Units]

November 1

Moments when I'm "distracted" (speaking, even having to joke) — and somehow going dry — followed by sudden cruel passages of feeling, to the point of tears.

Indeterminacy of the senses: one could just as well say that I have no feelings or that I'm given over to a sort of external, feminine ("superficial") emotivity, contrary to the serious image of "true" grief — or else that I'm deeply hopeless, struggling to hide it, not to darken everything around me, but at certain moments not able to stand it any longer and "collapsing."

November 2

What's remarkable about these notes is a devastated subject being the victim of presence of mind.

November 2

(Evening with Marco)

I know now that my mourning will be chaotic.

November 3

On the one hand, she wants everything, total mourning, its absolute (but then it's not her, it's I who is investing her with the demand for such a thing). And on the other (being then truly herself), she offers me lightness, life, as if she were still saying: "but go on, go out, have a good time ..."

November 4

The idea, the sensation I had this morning, of the offer of lightness in mourning, Eric tells me today he's just reread it in Proust (the grandmother's offer to the narrator).

November 4

Last night, for the first time, dreamed of her; she was lying down, but not ill, in her pink Uniprix nightgown ...

November 4

Today, around 5:00 in the afternoon, everything is just about settled: a definitive solitude, having no other conclusion but my own death.

Lump in my throat. My distress results in making a cup of tea, starting to write a letter, putting something away — as if, horribly enough, I enjoyed the now quite orderly apartment, "all to myself," but this enjoyment adheres to my despair.

All of which defines the lapse of any sort of work.

November 4

Around 6 p.m.: the apartment is warm, clean, well-lit, pleasant. I make it that way, energetically, devotedly (enjoying it bitterly): henceforth and forever I am my own mother.

November 5

Sad afternoon. Shopping. Purchase (frivolity) of a tea cake at the bakery. Taking care of the customer ahead of me, the girl behind the counter says Voilà. The expression I used when I brought maman something, when I was taking care of her. Once, toward the end, half-conscious, she repeated, faintly, Voilà (I'm here, a word we used to each other all our lives).

The word spoken by the girl at the bakery brought tears to my eyes. I kept on crying quite a while back in the silent apartment.

That's how I can grasp my mourning.

Not directly in solitude, empirically, etc.; I seem to have a kind of ease, of control that makes people think I'm suffering less than they would have imagined. But it comes over me when our love for each other is torn apart once again. The most painful point at the most abstract moment ...

November 6

The comfort of Sunday morning. Alone. First Sunday morning without her. I undergo the week's daily cycle. I confront the long series of times without her.

November 6

I understood (yesterday) so many things: the unimportance of what was bothering me (settling in, comfort of the apartment, gossip and even sometimes laughter with friends, making plans, etc.).

My mourning is that of the loving relation, not that of an organization of life. It occurs in the words (words of love) that come to mind ...

November 9

I limp along through my mourning.

Constantly recurring, the painful point: the words she spoke to me in the breath of her agony, the abstract and infernal crux of pain that overwhelms me ("My R, my R" — "I'm here" — "You're not comfortable there").

— Pure mourning, which has nothing to do with a change of life, with solitude, etc. The mark, the void of love's relation.

— Less and less to write, to say, except this (which I can tell no one).

November 10

People tell you to keep your "courage" up. But the time for courage is when she was sick, when I took care of her and saw her suffering, her sadness, and when I had to conceal my tears. Constantly one had to make a decision, put on a mask, and that was courage.

— Now, courage means the will to live and there's all too much of that.

November 10

Struck by the abstract nature of absence; yet it's so painful, lacerating. Which allows me to understand abstraction somewhat better: it is absence and pain, the pain of absence — perhaps therefore love?

November 10

Embarrassed and almost guilty because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion.

But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?

November 11

Solitude = having no one at home to whom you can say: I'll be back at a specific time or who you can call to say (or to whom you can just say): voilà, I'm home now.

November 11

Horrible day. More and more wretched. Crying.

November 12

Today — my birthday — I'm feeling sick and I can no longer — I no longer need to tell her so.

November 12

[Stupid]: listening to Souzay sing: "My heart is full of a terrible sadness," I burst into tears.

November 14

In a sense I resist the Invocation to the Status of the Mother in order to explain my distress.

November 14

One comfort is to see (in letters I've received) that many readers had realized what she was, what we were, by her mode of presence in "RB." Hence I had succeeded in that, which becomes a present achievement.

November 15

There is a time when death is an event, an ad-venture, and as such mobilizes, interests, activates, tetanizes. And then one day it is no longer an event, it is another duration, compressed, insignificant, not narrated, grim, without recourse: true mourning not susceptible to any narrative dialectic.

November 15

I am either lacerated or ill at ease and occasionally subject to gusts of life

November 16

Now, everywhere, in the street, the café, I see each individual under the aspect of ineluctably having-to-die, which is exactly what it means to be mortal. — And no less obviously, I see them as not knowing this to be so.

November 16

Sometimes roused by desires (say, the trip to Tunisia); but they're desires of before — somehow anachronistic; they come from another shore, another country, the country of before. — Today it is a flat, dreary country — virtually without water — and paltry.

November 17

(Fit of depression)

(because V. writes me that she still sees maman, in Rueil, dressed in gray)

Mourning: a cruel country where I am no longer afraid.

November 18

Not to manifest mourning (or at least to be indifferent to it) but to impose the public right to the loving relation it implies.

November 19

[Status confusion]. For months, I have been her mother. It is as if I had lost my daughter (a greater grief than that? It had never occurred to me.)

November 19

To see with horror as quite simply possible the moment when the memory of those words she spoke to me would no longer make me cry ...

November 19

A trip from Paris to Tunis. A series of airplane breakdowns. Endless sojourns in airports among crowds of Tunisians coming home for Aïd Kebir. Why does the ominous effect of this day of breakdowns suit mourning so well?

November 21

Confusion, defection, apathy: only, in snatches, the image of writing as "something desirable," haven, "salvation," hope, in short "love," joy. I imagine a sincerely devout woman has the same impulses toward her "God."

November 21

Always that painful (because enigmatic, incomprehensible) wrench between my ease in talking, in taking an interest, in observing, in living as before, and the impulses of despair. Additional suffering: not to be more "disorganized." But perhaps then I'm just suffering from a preconception.

November 21

Since maman's death, a sort of digestive weakness — as if I were suffering precisely where she took the greatest care of me: food (though for months she no longer prepared it herself).

November 21

Now I know where Depression comes from: rereading my diary of this summer, I am both "charmed" (lured) and disappointed; hence writing at its best is merely a mockery. Depression comes when, in the depths of despair, I cannot manage to save myself by my attachment to writing.

November 21 evening

"I'm bored wherever I am"

November 23

Grim evening at Gabès (windy, black clouds, hideous bungalows, "folklore" performance in the Hotel Chems bar): I can no longer take refuge in my thoughts: neither in Paris nor traveling. No escape.

November 24

My astonishment — and what is really my anxiety (my indisposition) comes from what, in fact, is not a lack (I can't describe this as a lack, my life is not disorganized), but a wound, something that has harmed love's very heart.

November 25, 1977

+ spontaneity

What I'm calling spontaneity: merely that extreme state in which maman, from the depths of her weakened consciousness, ignoring her own suffering, tells me, "You're not comfortable there, the way you're sitting" (because I'm sitting on a stool to fan her).

November 26

What I find utterly terrifying is mourning's discontinuous character.

November 28

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 ...?

November 28

A cold winter night. I'm warm enough, yet I'm alone. And I realize that I'll have to get used to existing quite naturally within this solitude, functioning there, working there, accompanied by, fastened to the "presence of absence."

November 29

Review my notes for The Neutral. Oscillation (The Neutral and the Present).

November 29

-> "Mourning"

Explained to AC, in a monologue, how my distress is chaotic, erratic, whereby it resists the accepted — and psychoanalytic — notion of a mourning subject to time, becoming dialectical, wearing out, "adapting." Initially this mourning of mine has taken nothing away — on the other hand, it doesn't wear out in the slightest.

— To which AC responds: that's what mourning is. (He thereby constitutes it as a subject of Knowledge, of Reduction) — "That's what bothers me most. I can't endure seeing my suffering being reduced — being generalized — (à la Kierkegaard): it's as if it were being stolen from me.


Excerpted from Mourning Diary by Roland Barthes, Richard Howard. Copyright © 2009 Éditions du Seuil/Imec. Excerpted by permission of Hill and Wang.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

ROLAND BARTHES was born in 1915. A French literary theorist, philosopher, and critic, he influenced the development of schools of theory, including structuralism, semiotics, existentialism, social theory, Marxism, and post-structuralism. He died in 1980.

Roland Barthes (1915-1980) was a French cultural and literary critic, whose clever and lyrical writings on semiotics made structuralism one of the leading movements of the twentieth century. Barthes had a cult following and published seventeen books, including Camera Lucida, Mythologies, and A Lover's Discourse.
Richard Howard is a poet, scholar, teacher, critic, and translator. Paper Trail is published simultaneously by FSG with Howard's Inner Voices: Selected Poems, 1963-2003. He teaches at Columbia University and is poetry editor of The Paris Review.

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