Life is not a novel. At least you would like to believe so. Roland Barthes walks up Rue de Bievre. The greatest literary critic of the twentieth century has every reason to feel anxious and upset. His mother, with whom he had a highly Proustian relationship, is dead. And his course on "The Preparation of the Novel" at the College de France is such a conspicuous failure it can no longer be ignored; all year he has talked to his students about Japanese haikus, photography, the signifier and the signified, Pascalian diversions, cafe waiters, dressing gowns, and lecture-hall seating - about everything but the novel. And this has been going on for three years. He knows, of course, that the course is simply a delaying tactic designed to push back the moment when he must start a truly literary work....Page 56:
Standing behind his massive desk, Giscard points to one representing a beautiful, severe-looking woman, arms outspread, dressed in a fine white dress....Publisher:
What new books are you reading this weekend?
Memes: The Friday 56. Grab a book, turn to page 56 or 56% of your eReader. Find any sentence that grabs you. Post it, and add your URL post in Linky at Freda's Voice. Also visit Book Beginning at Rose City Reader