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Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes
First published in 1977, Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes is the great literary theorist's most original work―a brilliant and playful text, gracefully combining the personal and the theoretical to reveal Roland Barthes's tastes, his childhood, his education, his passions and regrets.
204 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
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About the author
Roland Barthes
404 books2,606 followersRoland Barthes of France applied semiology, the study of signs and symbols, to literary and social criticism.
Ideas of Roland Gérard Barthes, a theorist, philosopher, and linguist, explored a diverse range of fields. He influenced the development of schools of theory, including design, anthropology, and poststructuralism.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roland_...
Ideas of Roland Gérard Barthes, a theorist, philosopher, and linguist, explored a diverse range of fields. He influenced the development of schools of theory, including design, anthropology, and poststructuralism.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roland_...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 116 reviews
January 14, 2025
The guy whose most infamous essay is entitled The Death of the Author authors a book about himself - you have to admire the audacity! :-) Employing photographs, drawings, a music sheet, scribbled notes, and, of course, short texts, Barthes deconstructs himself. It's an experiment of language and genre that starts with the body (an imminent topic for Barthes, as his tuberculosis has marked his whole life) and ponders how signs and structures make a person (hello, semiotics and (post-)structuralism).
Is this a daring extravaganza of applied literary theory? Clearly, but frankly, it's not fun to read. The short texts that make up the main corpus are like pieces of a mosaic that were never intended to turn into a coherent image, no matter how the reader arranges them. Flashbacks to his childhood, thoughts about life and language, tidbits and ramblings: An example for the joy of storytelling this is not. The most fun book starring Barthes is still The Seventh Function of Language.
But when you try to find out what makes an autobiography, this is a worthwhile read, mainly because it will complicate your quest, but in an interesting way.
Is this a daring extravaganza of applied literary theory? Clearly, but frankly, it's not fun to read. The short texts that make up the main corpus are like pieces of a mosaic that were never intended to turn into a coherent image, no matter how the reader arranges them. Flashbacks to his childhood, thoughts about life and language, tidbits and ramblings: An example for the joy of storytelling this is not. The most fun book starring Barthes is still The Seventh Function of Language.
But when you try to find out what makes an autobiography, this is a worthwhile read, mainly because it will complicate your quest, but in an interesting way.
December 9, 2012
Read an 1977 version of this book, bought for 1 cent on Amazon, and it crumbled in my hands as I read it(something I found oddly satisfying). This is the part that made me laugh on the train:
La côtelette ~ The rib chop
Here is what I did with my body one day:
At Leysin, in 1945, in order to perform an extrapleural pneumothorax operation, a piece of one of my ribs was removed, and subsequently given back to me, quite formally, wrapped up in a piece of medical gauze (the physicians, who were Swiss, as it happened, thereby professed that my body belongs to me, in whatever dismembered state they restored it to me: I am the owner of my bones, in life as in death). For a long time I kept this fragment of myself in a drawer, a kind of body penis analogous to the end of a rib chop, not knowing quite what to do with it, not daring to get rid of it lest I do some harm to my person, though it was utterly useless to me shut up in a desk among such "precious" objects as old keys, a schoolboy report card, my grandmother B.'s mother-of-pearl dance program and pink taffeta card case. And then, one day, realizing that the function of any drawer is to ease, to acclimate the death of objects by causing them to pass through a sort of pious site, a dusty chapel where, in the guise of keeping them alive, we allow them a decent interval of dim agony, but not going so far as to dare cast this bit of myself into the common refuse bin of my building, I flung the rib chop and its gauze from my balcony, as if I were romantically scattering my own ashes, into the rue Servandoni, where some dog would come and sniff them out.
La côtelette ~ The rib chop
Here is what I did with my body one day:
At Leysin, in 1945, in order to perform an extrapleural pneumothorax operation, a piece of one of my ribs was removed, and subsequently given back to me, quite formally, wrapped up in a piece of medical gauze (the physicians, who were Swiss, as it happened, thereby professed that my body belongs to me, in whatever dismembered state they restored it to me: I am the owner of my bones, in life as in death). For a long time I kept this fragment of myself in a drawer, a kind of body penis analogous to the end of a rib chop, not knowing quite what to do with it, not daring to get rid of it lest I do some harm to my person, though it was utterly useless to me shut up in a desk among such "precious" objects as old keys, a schoolboy report card, my grandmother B.'s mother-of-pearl dance program and pink taffeta card case. And then, one day, realizing that the function of any drawer is to ease, to acclimate the death of objects by causing them to pass through a sort of pious site, a dusty chapel where, in the guise of keeping them alive, we allow them a decent interval of dim agony, but not going so far as to dare cast this bit of myself into the common refuse bin of my building, I flung the rib chop and its gauze from my balcony, as if I were romantically scattering my own ashes, into the rue Servandoni, where some dog would come and sniff them out.
May 3, 2021
To write by fragments: the fragments are then so many stones on the perimeter of a circle: I spread myself around: my whole little universe in crumbs; at the center, what?
This is Roland Barthes. And Barthes' idea of writing an autobiography differs a lot from what most people would come to expect from an autobiography. I've read loads of him before, so it comes as little surprise he chose a different approach. Had I not read him I'd be like - 'what the hell?'
One thing that is familiar like other autobiographies is photographs. Here, there is a good collection, ranging from childhood to older age. In the description it says 'post modern', and that just about nails it on the head.
This is Roland Barthes. And Barthes' idea of writing an autobiography differs a lot from what most people would come to expect from an autobiography. I've read loads of him before, so it comes as little surprise he chose a different approach. Had I not read him I'd be like - 'what the hell?'
One thing that is familiar like other autobiographies is photographs. Here, there is a good collection, ranging from childhood to older age. In the description it says 'post modern', and that just about nails it on the head.
February 21, 2021
Evo šta sam jednog dana učinio od svoga tela:
U Lejzinu (Leysin) 1945. godine, da bi mi napravili jedan vanplućni pneumotoraks, izvadili su mi komad rebra, koji su mi zatim svečano uručili, umotan u malo medicinskog zavoja (švajcarski lekari su, istina, propovedali tako da mi moje telo pripada, ma kako iskomadano da mi ga vraćaju: ja sam gospodar svojih kostiju za života i u smrti). Dugo sam čuvao, posle, taj komadić sebe u fioci, kao neku vrstu koštanog penisa sličnog jagnećoj rebrenoj kosti, ne znajući šta bi s njom, ne usuđujući se da ga se oslobodim iz straha da ne nasrnem na svoju osobu, iako mi je bilo dosta bezvezno da budem tako zatvoren u pisaćem stolu, pomešan sa "dragocenim" predmetima poput starih ključeva, školskih knjižica, karte za balove u sedefu i torbice za karte od roze tafta ostale od bake B. A onda, jednoga dana, shvativši jednoga dana, da je funkcija svake fioke da ublaži i aklimatizuje smrt predmeta provodeći ih kroz neku vrstu pobožnih mesta, prašnjave kapele u kojoj ih pod prividom održavanja u životu pošteđujemo jedno pristojno vreme od nevesele agonije, no nemajući hrabrosti da bacim taj komadić sebe u zajedničku kantu za smeće, zavitlao sam sa balkona i rebarce i zavoj, kao dam sam romantično razvejao vlastiti pepeo, na ulicu Servandoni gde je neki pas morao doći da je onjuši. (71-72)
...
U Lejzinu (Leysin) 1945. godine, da bi mi napravili jedan vanplućni pneumotoraks, izvadili su mi komad rebra, koji su mi zatim svečano uručili, umotan u malo medicinskog zavoja (švajcarski lekari su, istina, propovedali tako da mi moje telo pripada, ma kako iskomadano da mi ga vraćaju: ja sam gospodar svojih kostiju za života i u smrti). Dugo sam čuvao, posle, taj komadić sebe u fioci, kao neku vrstu koštanog penisa sličnog jagnećoj rebrenoj kosti, ne znajući šta bi s njom, ne usuđujući se da ga se oslobodim iz straha da ne nasrnem na svoju osobu, iako mi je bilo dosta bezvezno da budem tako zatvoren u pisaćem stolu, pomešan sa "dragocenim" predmetima poput starih ključeva, školskih knjižica, karte za balove u sedefu i torbice za karte od roze tafta ostale od bake B. A onda, jednoga dana, shvativši jednoga dana, da je funkcija svake fioke da ublaži i aklimatizuje smrt predmeta provodeći ih kroz neku vrstu pobožnih mesta, prašnjave kapele u kojoj ih pod prividom održavanja u životu pošteđujemo jedno pristojno vreme od nevesele agonije, no nemajući hrabrosti da bacim taj komadić sebe u zajedničku kantu za smeće, zavitlao sam sa balkona i rebarce i zavoj, kao dam sam romantično razvejao vlastiti pepeo, na ulicu Servandoni gde je neki pas morao doći da je onjuši. (71-72)
...
December 21, 2020
AY, ROLAND ♥️🔥
July 29, 2013
Autobiography/memoir is a strange genre in the literary universe. It is at once a piece of fiction and non-fiction, a chronicle of one's memories, and a perversion of history in favor of art. In Proust, who blends the lines of autobiography, fiction, and essay in his À la recherche du temps perdu, admonishes his readers: "Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were." This is certainly true, our memories are not perfect accounts. We have only one perspective by which we can really view our personal histories, and with time those perspectives are corrupted by what we come to know of the "future" which follows, by the warm glow of nostalgia, by the distance of interceding time and the blurry faculties of our memory. An admirer of Proust, and perhaps the closest true successor of him stylistically who I have read, Barthes is expertly aware of the relative "truths" of history and art. Though Roland Barthes is ostensibly an autobiography, it is at the same time against autobiography, combative and resistant to it:
Though Roland Barthes is presumably about its author, you will limn from its pages very little about him. This is not his story, not a "portrait of the artist as a young man" - no, it is Barthes' very essence. You are not informed of his youth's scraped knees, failed entanglements of first love, nor even much of friends or family, but rather you become immersed in the fishbowl of his memory, a slideshow purveyance of his image-repertoire:
What right does my present have to speak of my past? Has my present some advantage over my past? What "grace" might have enlightened me? except that of passing time, or of a good cause, encountered on my way?Pursuant to his own philosophy on semiology, Roland Barthes is both doxa, the status-quo, the obvious, and the paradoxa, or the nuance sign which opposes it.
Though Roland Barthes is presumably about its author, you will limn from its pages very little about him. This is not his story, not a "portrait of the artist as a young man" - no, it is Barthes' very essence. You are not informed of his youth's scraped knees, failed entanglements of first love, nor even much of friends or family, but rather you become immersed in the fishbowl of his memory, a slideshow purveyance of his image-repertoire:
Coming home in the evening, a frequent detour along the Adour, the Allées marines: tall trees, abandoned boats, unspecified strollers, boredom's drift: here floated the sexuality of public gardens, of parks.As in all of Barthes' works, there is an apotheosis of language as both sacrosanct ritual and also a profane, sensual pleasure. As in Proust, there is an intermingling of the present Self and the childhood Self, which instead of complementing into a blend, become a layered portrait - one of innocence and one of adulthood: sexualized, self-awareness, bias, disillusion. But Barthes' approaches his memory with both a longing for closeness and a respect for distance: he views his childhood self, his young-adult self, his yesterday self, more liek a series of divergent individuals, like many ancestors' portraits hung on the enfilade of his life - ancestors which inform him, but withhold something from him. He feels a warm nostalgia and affinity with his former selves, but also a remoteness, something which is both impossible to regain and also impossible to fully grasp.
From the past, it is my childhood which fascinates me most; thee images alone, upon inspection, fail to make me regret the time which has vanished. For it is not the irreversible I discover in my childhood, it is the irreducible: everything which is still in me, by fits and starts; in the child, I read quite openly the dark underside of myself - boredom, vulnerability, disposition to despairs (in the plural, fortunately), inward excitement, cut off (unfortunately) from all expression.The ceaseless evasion of the past, revealing itself only in fits and starts like an atavistic quirk, a borrowed gesture, a facial tick. The memory is both a removal from the present, but it is also alive in us. And it is alive in the fullest sense: it is changing, it is waxing and waning, corrupting and ameliorating ever. And to anesthetize memory, to pin it down, to write it out, is to ultimately let it escape.
To write the body.
Neither the skin, nor the muscles, nor the bones, nor the nerves, but the rest: an awkward, fibrous, shaggy, reveled thing, a clown's coat
October 22, 2023
على شكل شذرات يقدم رولان بارت ذكرياته و تصورته عن قضايا حياتية بلغة سيميائي عتيد .
March 17, 2025
segurament aquest llibre és el més proper a estar dins del cap de roland barthes que estaré mai: ha estat tot un honor, però alhora un esgotament
October 8, 2022
El *Fragmento* de Barthes 🤍
October 6, 2023
Se escribe con el deseo, y yo no termino de desear.
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October 16, 2024literally no idea what happened here
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September 8, 2018في عام 2008 كانت بداية معرفتي برولان بارت عن طريق منتدى وموقع الامبراطور الثقافي اللي كان مترجم مقتطفات من بارت بقلم بارت. ومن حوالي أربع سنين-ومن إعجابي ببعض الطبعات اللي بلغة معرفهاش- إشتريت الكتاب صدفة من معرض للكتب المستعملة بجمعية الشبان المسلمين بالمنصورة باللغة الفرنسية، طبعة جميلة ورق جميل صور جميلة إخراج قطع صغير هايل من دار سيول الفرنسية وسلسلتهم اكريفان دو توجور. من سنتين سمعت إن فيه مترجم مصري هيترجمه وانتظرت الترجمة اللي أنا واثق من جودتها لتجربة قراءة سابقة مع المترجم ده، بس ما نزلتش لغاية الآن.
الترجمة دي حاولت بقدر الامكان إني أوفق بين فهمي للسياق مع ترجمة المترجم لكن ما قدرتش أكمل الكتاب بعد ما وصلت لتلته وعدم قدرة على الفهم للغة اللي هوا مترجم بيها واللي هي أزبل ترجمة اعترضتني على الإطلاق. المفروض إن دي دار نشر كبيرة ، يعني بتتعامل مع مترجمين ومدققين ومصححين كفاءة، إلا لو كانت سياستها من المترجم للمطبعة عدل يبقى دي حاجة تانية، يا إما هما منتظرين اللي يقرا الكتاب ده بقر متفلسف
الترجمة دي حاولت بقدر الامكان إني أوفق بين فهمي للسياق مع ترجمة المترجم لكن ما قدرتش أكمل الكتاب بعد ما وصلت لتلته وعدم قدرة على الفهم للغة اللي هوا مترجم بيها واللي هي أزبل ترجمة اعترضتني على الإطلاق. المفروض إن دي دار نشر كبيرة ، يعني بتتعامل مع مترجمين ومدققين ومصححين كفاءة، إلا لو كانت سياستها من المترجم للمطبعة عدل يبقى دي حاجة تانية، يا إما هما منتظرين اللي يقرا الكتاب ده بقر متفلسف
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December 28, 2020I am not contradictory, I am dispersed.
March 10, 2025
Video review to follow
April 26, 2020
I picked out this book thinking it would serve as an open-to-a-random-page skimmer when I'm between narrative fictions and I'd say that's it's best role (Dali's Diary of a Genius is another character that fills this role for me), but I accidentally skimmed too carefully and continuously and surrendered to reading the whole of it 🥴
Barthes’s writing is an acquired taste, and it seems I’ve acquired that taste.
Recommend this to anyone else who's acquired this taste or is looking to force-feed themselves words like signifier and image-repetoire.
Reading this book is like watching Barthes write it. He's constantly self-commentarying about the experience of writing it. The start of the book is a baby camera lucida, a show-and-tell of photographs he likes, put in after he'd finished writing the book. Barthes can have a lil photo-book moment, as a treat ;)
It's less of an autobiography than a collection of these-are-some-of-the-things-that-i-think-about (although I think he denies this at some point) and uuh-its-pretty-weird-to-write-about-yourself-but-heyyy-look-at-me-im-doin-it. He writes about himself in all three -persons, compares everything to death, managing to come across as more pretentious than me.
Buuut I liked it. I like being able to see the way a character thinks and Barthes has a very particular voice as he *tries to* communicate his thoughts. This is esp made obvious when he presents letters that were sent to him, reminding us that not everyone writes like him, some people write readably, and with charisma 🙃
If you apply semiotic language to every single thought of your life, think of yourself as a signifier of yourself, and love the smell of new-cut hay, you’ll find you have lots in common with lil’ ole Rolly B.
Bonus points if you like reading about writing about writing ✨
*Barthesian groupie reacts only*
Barthes’s writing is an acquired taste, and it seems I’ve acquired that taste.
Recommend this to anyone else who's acquired this taste or is looking to force-feed themselves words like signifier and image-repetoire.
Reading this book is like watching Barthes write it. He's constantly self-commentarying about the experience of writing it. The start of the book is a baby camera lucida, a show-and-tell of photographs he likes, put in after he'd finished writing the book. Barthes can have a lil photo-book moment, as a treat ;)
It's less of an autobiography than a collection of these-are-some-of-the-things-that-i-think-about (although I think he denies this at some point) and uuh-its-pretty-weird-to-write-about-yourself-but-heyyy-look-at-me-im-doin-it. He writes about himself in all three -persons, compares everything to death, managing to come across as more pretentious than me.
Buuut I liked it. I like being able to see the way a character thinks and Barthes has a very particular voice as he *tries to* communicate his thoughts. This is esp made obvious when he presents letters that were sent to him, reminding us that not everyone writes like him, some people write readably, and with charisma 🙃
If you apply semiotic language to every single thought of your life, think of yourself as a signifier of yourself, and love the smell of new-cut hay, you’ll find you have lots in common with lil’ ole Rolly B.
Bonus points if you like reading about writing about writing ✨
*Barthesian groupie reacts only*
August 19, 2010
skimmed the hell out of this but it's the best I could do. I love this guy and really wanted the book to be more personal, RB's own themes & image-repertoire, but shoulda known: he's too recursive for that! instead of writing a semiotics of himself, he wrote a semiotics of the autobiography format. I mean it's relentlessly evasive. I love thinking about the process, too, but here it's not insightful; it's boring, straying, elitist, and lazy. all his brilliant analyzing is an interference, like the nervous, self-despising paralysis of being way too self conscious (which is, at least, finally, a glimpse of personality).
pourquoi cet air si sériouuuux, Roland?
pourquoi cet air si sériouuuux, Roland?
March 29, 2008
Whenever I put my pen onto paper or I type on a computer, I often think of Roland Barthes. For the sole reason he's a very entertaining writer and a great thinker as well. This book is his autobiography or memoir. But it goes off the subject and comes back freely. Right now working on my own memoir and i often think about this book as a role model for my own work. The thing is I am not that good or brilliant as him. But the key is to find the 'voice' that is your voice. And I learned that from this particular book. Nice photos as well.
July 29, 2014
رولان بارت توی این کتاب روایت می کنه که یه روز عملی رو از سر می گذرونه و دکترها یه تیکه از استخون دنده اش رو در میارن و توی یه باند استریل شده بهش برمی گردونن. بارت ادامه میده که بعد از گرفتن اون تیکه از تن تا مدت ها اون رو تو یه کشو نگه می داره. چرا؟ چون نه واقعا می دونه چیکار کنه باهاش و نه جرات دور انداختنش رو داره. و کشوها؛ بارت ادامه میده که کشوها مرگ اشیا رو آسون می کنه. کشوها اشیا رو به مرگ آشناتر می کنه. بهتر از این چیزی هست؟
تیکه تیکهی جاهای قابل فهم کتاب دوسداشتنیه
.
تیکه تیکهی جاهای قابل فهم کتاب دوسداشتنیه
.
February 8, 2016
Certain that I encountered insightful thoughts in this (non)memoir. Not really sure what I read though.
March 22, 2023
un’autobiografia organizzata in ordine alfabetico, nel tentativo di decostruirsi, anche in maniera ironica e in pieno stile strutturalista. L’ordine alfabetico viene a volte interrotto da alcune associazioni tra i frammenti. Ispirato dal frammento, dalle teorie psicanalitiche, dagli haiku giapponesi, l’immagine complessiva è quella di un testo con un lessico specifico, caotico e di difficile lettura, che a volte mi ha dato l’impressione di non essere un testo di se stesso, ma un testo scritto per (e solo per) se stesso.
March 22, 2023
Un’autobiografia che decostruisce tutti i canoni del genere per rimontarli in maniera propria, completamente diversa, creando un’autobiografia sui generis in cui talvolta viene usata la prima persona, talvolta la terza.
L’intento di Barthes è quello di giocare con l’autobiografia, ma il risultato, a mio avviso, è abbastanza confusionario. Inoltre il lessico e lo stile rendono il testo di difficile comprensione e restituiscono al lettore un Barthes criptico che personalmente non ho amato.
L’intento di Barthes è quello di giocare con l’autobiografia, ma il risultato, a mio avviso, è abbastanza confusionario. Inoltre il lessico e lo stile rendono il testo di difficile comprensione e restituiscono al lettore un Barthes criptico che personalmente non ho amato.
January 22, 2021
the rustle of language, perversion makes happy, aphorisms and vibrational text, vengeful and tender autobiography
January 31, 2021
لنا موعد آخر يا سيد بارت.
September 22, 2025
“se da cuenta entonces de que tales enunciados, tan claros para él, pueden resultar oscuros para muchos”
December 24, 2025
Barthes que mono eres te amo
February 25, 2024
fuuuuck this shit
January 14, 2025
Major crush on another gay man
July 29, 2023
The parts I could understand were very cool and insightful !! Very reflective on the nature of life, language and where we derive meaning
May 4, 2022
J'ai lu ce livre dans le cadre de mes études surtout dans une matière autour de la notion de l'encyclopédie. Quand on est étudiant en lettres, Barthes est un des auteurs à connaître pour ses nombreux essais autour de l'écriture. Je dois dire que j'étais curieuse de voir comment il allait faire son autoportrait. J'étais très curieuse surtout que ce livre est dans la bibliographie de ce séminaire.
Comment dire ? Je n'ai pas compris grand chose de ce livre car j'essayais de voir en quoi c'était une encyclopédie et comment des éléments. Barthes brouille tout, il n'y a du désordre partout. On n'arrive pas à comprendre la structure même du livre. J'ai beau me triturer la tête, je n'ai pas su déchiffrer le travail de l'auteur. Puis, cela a eu des répercussions sur mes envies de le lire car j'ai pris du temps pour le lire et je ne prenais aucun plaisir.
C'est dommage mais je pense le relire très rapidement pour déchiffrer le mystère autour de cet autoportrait très original et surprenant. Néanmoins, j'apprécie de découvrir Barthes différemment et on a une petite impression d'ordre dans le désordre.
Pour conclure, je ne peux pas dire que j'ai aimé ma lecture, ni détesté car je n'ai pas réussi à comprendre l'univers de ce livre. Il est très surprenant et sort clairement des sentiers battus de l'autoportrait et de l'encyclopédie.
Comment dire ? Je n'ai pas compris grand chose de ce livre car j'essayais de voir en quoi c'était une encyclopédie et comment des éléments. Barthes brouille tout, il n'y a du désordre partout. On n'arrive pas à comprendre la structure même du livre. J'ai beau me triturer la tête, je n'ai pas su déchiffrer le travail de l'auteur. Puis, cela a eu des répercussions sur mes envies de le lire car j'ai pris du temps pour le lire et je ne prenais aucun plaisir.
C'est dommage mais je pense le relire très rapidement pour déchiffrer le mystère autour de cet autoportrait très original et surprenant. Néanmoins, j'apprécie de découvrir Barthes différemment et on a une petite impression d'ordre dans le désordre.
Pour conclure, je ne peux pas dire que j'ai aimé ma lecture, ni détesté car je n'ai pas réussi à comprendre l'univers de ce livre. Il est très surprenant et sort clairement des sentiers battus de l'autoportrait et de l'encyclopédie.
August 19, 2008
This isn't Barthes' best work, but it is always interesting reading him and seeing how his criticism continually evolves. The problem with this meta-autobiography is, like he says near the conclusion, "an aphoristic tone hangs" about it. His reading/interest base is so broad that it lacks focus much of the time. And since his "aphorisms" are quite humorless, unlike the ones by his "model" for this book, Nietzsche's, they can be a slough. While this is no "The Plesure of the Text" or the infinitely enjoyable "S/Z," it is yet another fun read by Roland Barthes ... by Roland Barthes :)
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