Album

by Roland Barthes

  * * *

  Urt, Friday, July 16, 1976

  I’ve just finished the first revision of the hundred Figures, and you have been too linked to the (sometimes tiresome?) confession of this labor for me not to signal the end of it by writing you this short note: the desire to talk to you, to see you, to extend by this gesture the three exquisite days (see the etymology) that I spent with you (right after you left, there was a huge thunderstorm and the weather turned cloudy).

  I miss you (pothos)158 and send you love. R.

  I began this very afternoon on Lettura; I’m a bit encouraged, since I’ll be sending it to you.

  * * *

  Urt, July 18, 1976

  My dear Antoine,

  So I have “mounted” our fragments together, and here is the result.159 Anticipating that the Einaudi scribes would remove our subtitles, I did away with them—arranging only the “parts.” But I’ll make sure they always leave a sizable gap between our old fragments (I’ve indicated our old titles in the margin, but that’s just for you, in case you would like to make corrections to the montage; we can remove them afterward). I didn’t change a thing in your text—which seems to me so much better than mine. I truly love what you write: something inimitable and nevertheless untheatrical; a simplicity and a power, a simple power that is, in the end, a kind of delicacy—atopic, not hysteric! that’s the squaring of the circle, in writing. And you really make me jealous—so, no changes, except one or two transitions that I inserted between your fragments and my own. It seems to me that the whole thing has class, but I don’t really know what will happen, because I’ve decided not to accept the rejection of the first article, even if it means terminating the whole contract.160 That’s what I’m going to write to Romano (at Einuadi’s); I’ll keep you posted.

  It was quite a help to me, the whole day that I worked on this montage, to think that I was doing it a bit for you, with you. Alas, it doesn’t have a written inscription, but perhaps there are continued gestures, and it makes me happy, at the end of one of your fragments, to continue—as in polyphony—and that polyphony I would be very happy to resume with you on another occasion, free of the irritating constraints of this commission.

  I am now going to take up my “cross” again, a less sweet because more solitary one—more solipsistic one, the Figures. Now comes the moment of truth; I must decide: what this is worth.

  Your friend R.

  I think you’ll have to send the text back to me (careful: I haven’t made a duplicate) here in Urt. I’ll arrange to have a photocopy made.

  Naturally, you can correct, reorder, all you like, including my own text.

  * * *

  Urt, Tuesday, July 20, 1976

  When you write to me (I received your note this morning), I’m always very pleased. It makes the day warmer for me. I love to feel your work progressing alongside mine (I could reverse the terms of the sentence), with the same problems. You tell me about your fear of rereading; I’ve begun mine (the second, which begins to be a true reading, because I stop less for corrections, already mostly made, the “first rinse” all finished).161 I have a less bad impression; but I’m not rejoicing too much yet because I haven’t reached the middle of the Figures, which left me with a very bad memory. The lesson that I’m drawing from this is that after the “first rinse,” you have to read a second time, without getting discouraged, very slowly and very attentively, sentence by sentence, in a very critical fashion at the detailed level. To keep a slightly fresh perspective, I only do this work in the morning; in the afternoon I began to organize my file cards for the introduction (and what’s more, new problems in sight there).

  I’m really thrilled about that evening, Sunday, August 1, when we’ll see each other. Isn’t that right?

  Good mid-day, dear Antoine, with love, until very soon, R.

  * * *

  Collège de France, Paris, July 28, 1976

  Maybe to try out new stationery—surely to send you greetings and say until Sunday.162

  R.

  I’ll arrive in Paris Friday evening. I’ll leave Tuesday morning.

  * * *

  Bayreuth, August 5, 1976163

  I miss you very much; I think I know what you wouldn’t have liked here: the city, heavy and comfortable, that kind of German stone that, for me at least, still has the stench of Nazism—and what you would have liked: in the end, the festival itself: its folklore, so close, actually, to the bullfight (infirmary in the wings, cushions brought along for the too-hard seats, brio, the excitement of the ceremony, its danger as well) and its spectacle: a kind of essence of spectacle, through the accumulation of feats, of options, of fascinations—first and second (I was very close to the stage, you understand). As for me, I’ll say it again, I bitterly regret not being here with you; I’ve told you why, the long chain of events.164 But I can’t get used to this contretemps, because, except for the city, this was made for you—for us.

  I’m working a bit, on that initial “argument” we discussed our last evening.165 I imagine you’re making better progress in your writing than I am in mine. I truly can’t wait to see you again. I’ll get in touch as soon as I return to Paris—Wednesday or Thursday—if you’re still in Paris—which I hope for my own sake.

  Your friend R.

  * * *

  Urt, Monday, August 16, 1976

  My dear Antoine,

  As if by magic, my fear in leaving you came true to some extent: once again I’m behind in finishing my manuscript because the day after I arrived, getting ready to go down to work (finally, without interruption), I was stricken with a violent backache (at the level of the kidneysa). It isn’t rheumatic, rather its mechanical (says the doctor); the result is that I’m almost completely immobilized, in bed, obviously. All the same, I can do a little work there, although I’m very badly set up for writing and my mind is really not alert, dazed by the aspirin and the reinforced austerity of the stay: Urt + bed + bad weather! Well, this manuscript, if it’s ever finished, will be proof at least of stubbornness; but there’s still much to do and I’m getting impatient.

  I hope that, in contrast, yours has unfolded calmly and sweetly right to the anticipated end and that you’re free, with only the concern of having to rewrite it. Leave, break off the year with a true emblem of vacation; there must be signs in a year. If you see the painting, don’t forget to pick out some image (or some detail) that could serve as the “mark” for this book on Love.

  I’m already very anxious to see you again. I hope that you can telephone me from Paris—and that when we do see each other again (early September), we will celebrate—with expensive champagne in an elegant place—our two manuscripts completed, my back healed, and our reunion.

  With love. R.

  * * *

  Urt, August 19, 1976

  Having you on the phone always gives me a kind of peace and balance; that comes from the “Zen” side of the relationship, I think, but as it is the nature of Zen to stop (suspend) reflexiveness, verbalization, self-commentary, well, I’ll stop. I’m working at my table now, constantly trying to find a good position (because my back is still very painful, there’s hardly any improvement) and good inspiration. There too, the manuscript is running out of steam; endless new difficulties, new stumbling blocks arise. Nevertheless I’m moving forward, still without knowing when I’ll be finished. You already know that, beyond the manuscript, nothing is happening. The weather is mild, a bit hazy, already autumnal; every time I perceive this euphoria of light and atmosphere, I wish that you were here. I eagerly await your return phone call, as you know.

  Enjoy Italy,

  Your friend R.

  * * *

  Urt, Wednesday, September 1, 1976

  I received two letters from you that made me happy—because I missed you, and I was disappointed—maybe even a bit worried—that you didn’t telephone me from Paris, as you said you would. Everything was alright, wasn’t it? I’m awaiting your return call or letter. As far as I’m
concerned, you only have to say the word and I can return to Paris toward the middle or end of next week (about the 10th). Because the madness of the manuscript (finished) was immediately succeeded by the madness of typing it up. It became clear to me that unless I almost completely finish the typing before returning to Paris, the editing will be delayed much too long. So I’m in the process of typing it, without a break: at a mad pace, almost Stakhanovist. But the book is hysterical enough an object that it doesn’t exist if it doesn’t appear. In this frenzied work, in which each hour counts, with the rain, outside (it’s raining), I feel a certain solitude and it would be sweet to see you. I feel a bit alone with this strange manuscript on my hands, the very material of which isolates me from the world. I await your news—news of your trip. I really can’t wait to see you again.

  With love. R.

  * * *

  Urt, Thursday, September 9, 1976

  My dear Antoine,

  I’m sending this note—although I will certainly call you today or tomorrow and see you again Saturday or Sunday—because I really want to write to you, because I received your card from Venice (the image would only go on Discours amoureux through great metaphorical contortions, but it will go very well on “Tenir un discours”—as a launch),166 and because yesterday evening I finished typing my entire book. That was a bit crazy, since, all told, I typed the whole thing in just over two weeks. I am really very tired—and very depleted—and perhaps all the same, despite the Zen rule! it would do me good to talk to you about it. We will see how that transpires—I’m going to call you and we can then arrange for our next meeting. I am anxious to see you again, with love. R.

  12. With Hervé Guibert

  In a certain way, the meeting between Hervé Guibert (1955–91) and Roland Barthes is the stuff of literary legend. Barthes was the first great influence on Guibert, but the tie that binds them together was more complex and more ambiguous than that of disciple and master. The legendary part essentially involves the posthumous publication by Hervé Guibert of the now famous “Fragment pour H.”167 that Roland Barthes sent to him following an encounter cut short by Guibert. It is a kind of supplement to Fragments d’un discours amoureux, but it seals both the impossibility and the inevitability of the non-voulour-saisir (non-will-to-possess), the last figure in the book that makes the nonpossession of the other’s body (“not to possess the other”) a form of inscription of the Neutral at the heart of amorous discourse. The letters from Barthes to Guibert, like those Guibert sent to Barthes, without ever contradicting the legend—the exchange of a text for a body, and the rejection of that exchange—nevertheless color it with affects, delicacy, friendship, admiration, and a kind of reciprocity we can glimpse from this rediscovered epistolary writing.

  Roland Barthes to Hervé Guibert

  January 25, 1977

  I thank you for your book.168 I read it all in one sitting, carried along by the writing, which is true writing. I would love to talk with you about the relationship (in your case) of writing to fantasy; it’s difficult by letter, and at the moment I’m a bit sick. Maybe you’d like to call me again for us to arrange a meeting—for when I’m no longer ill.

  Thanks again,

  R. B.

  326 95 85

  Hervé Guibert to Roland Barthes

  Paris, February 1, 1977

  So here is the text that I wrote for you, beginning with your question on the relationship between writing and fantasy. First of all, it’s an attempt. I consider it a starting point to prompt a conversation, a response, an exchange of letters, or a discussion.

  I wrote it quickly and there are things you can take or leave. Most of all there are things to develop.

  Until Saturday then,

  Looking forward to meeting you,

  Hervé Guibert

  Roland Barthes to Hervé Guibert

  Paris, Friday, [March] 4, 1977169

  Hervé, your text is very good. Something that belongs only to you: very modern, very obscure feelings, with very clear writing, a clarity that reinforces them. Talent, talent, talent … to be published, that’s for sure (do you want to send it to a review?).

  Until soon,

  (Pardon me for being so unavailable, you know the reason, don’t underestimate it.)170

  R. B.

  * * *

  June 4, 1977

  My dear little Hervé,

  I so desire to please you, to respond to your impatience, that I tried today, between two tasks, to begin a short text that I want to do on you. But you see, I’m too tired, too pressured, and I didn’t get very far. I like what you write too sincerely to do something quickly. I must ask you to accept that I will not be able to do this text until I’ve finished with all my other commitments, that is, practically speaking, not before the month of July. I think that you could clear it with Régine Deforges that your text (with mine) won’t appear until the fall.171 I promise to write something on you—and of course, without a contract (this was only a fantasy, a mental caress!). And what would help me, to write this text, is to have access to the one that you redid and that clearly you must get published. I’m quite sad about disappointing your impatience, because your impatience is part of what I like in you, what links us, what marked our meeting. But all the same, it’s only your impatience I’m disappointing, not your request, because I will write this text, without fail. It will be brief, I can’t write any other way, but at least it won’t be hasty.—You can telephone me without misgivings, I like hearing your news.

  Work well, write,

  With love,

  R. B.

  * * *

  [Urt,] August 9, 1977

  Forgive me, Hervé, for having let your letters go unanswered, letters that please me so much nevertheless, as well as the package with your manuscript that I have not yet been able to look at. I haven’t written one letter since I’ve been here; first because of my mother’s health, which, upon our arrival, presented problems (doing better now), and then continuing to be a bit depressed, unable to connect with the world, even the world of dear friends. You must never read into my silence; I think of you with much tenderness—and always a lively, real admiration for all your writing (I’m thinking of your letters). I still can’t work on my text for you; I can hardly write, and only read a little. Don’t be impatient, and above all, don’t misinterpret.

  With love, my Hervé,

  R. B.

  * * *

  October 17, 1977

  My dear Hervé,

  Forgive me for not getting in touch with you. My mother’s health is once again (since summer) very bad and I’m going through a very difficult period, entirely caught up by this concern, this occupation, incapable of attending to anything else and arranging a meeting. I wouldn’t want you to think by that, foolishly, that I’ve turned away from you; but it’s as though my life is suspended.

  With love,

  Roland

  * * *

  Paris, December 7, 1977

  Hervé, you are adorable because … innocent. Because I found our evening atrocious.172 I resented you for planting yourself five meters from me in my room and walking out on me after five minutes! You questioned me about my friends, with a certain envy, it seemed to me; well, I would characterize them this way: none of them would ever have done that. But, as I think that, like everyone else, you must not be very at ease with yourself, I can’t hold it against you. I simply believe, in fact, that the ties between us must be strengthened no further; one of them remains very strong: the unfailing admiration I have for the charm of your writing.

  With love—tenderly—from a distance,

  R. B.

  * * *

  Paris, December 14, [1977]

  My dear Hervé,

  Your letter is full of delicacy (so, no doubt, you wrote it!) and I thank you for it. There is nothing more between us, except a little history, eliminated (catharsis!) by this exchange. We will see each other, if you really want to, after the vacation, in January.<
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  With love,

  R.

  * * *

  Paris, January 12, 1978

  Hervé, I’ll mention your wish to André T. when I see him.173 But the question seems complicated, to say the least. I already know of two fellows who put in for the part, passionately and stubbornly.

  —I’m going to Morocco for a few days to do a seminar. Will we get together, as planned, when I return in February?

  Your friend,

  R. B.

  * * *

  Paris, March 14, 1978

  But no, Hervé, it was absolutely nothing. It’s only because you were with someone and I tend to be unsociable when introduced to a stranger under the gaze of one I know, with whom I can basically only make small talk since the third party is there: in short, truly Nathalie Sarraute! (But why wouldn’t I be a character in a novel?)

  With love (kisses on the cheek) and will see you when you wish.

  R. B.

  * * *

  January 21, 1980

  My dear Hervé,

  Your note is very sweet and I thank you for it, but also there’s a little bitterness, and that must not be. Often I’m so overwhelmed, so panic-stricken over tasks that I have to sacrifice the simplest acts of friendship; as for your opening, I thought that it didn’t matter since I had seen and liked your photos.174 If there are additional texts, why not send them to me? That would make me happy. Maybe we could see each other one day in February as well? Do you want to call me some morning?

  With faithful affection, my dear Hervé, love,

  Roland Barthes

  633 92 92

  Hervé Guibert to Roland Barthes

  Tuesday, February 19, 1980

  My dear Roland,

  I found your book yesterday in my box at the newspaper, and I thank you for it.175 Your flattering dedication made me happy. I just closed it again, on this mild, sunny morning, which goes very well with your voice. At a first, quick, skimming read, I found it good; that’s all I will say for the moment, because I want to reread it, and write an article on it, if they will let me.176