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emileeandherbooks's review against another edition
3.5
This is a very personal diary of the French philosopher, theorist, and critic Roland Barthes about the loss of his mother and the mourning and grief that followed.
I bought this on a whim and then 2 weeks later, lost my mother-in-law tragically. I was a bit afraid to read it after that. But I decided to give it a go, and it was quite nice.
Barthes’ thoughts and feelings so closely reflected my own and my spouse’s during our own grief. His desire to be alone and stay in one place, yet his knowledge that he needs to be productive to stay alive, was very relatable to me.
His maman sounds merveilleuse to moi, and I’m interested to read Barthes’ other works!
I bought this on a whim and then 2 weeks later, lost my mother-in-law tragically. I was a bit afraid to read it after that. But I decided to give it a go, and it was quite nice.
Barthes’ thoughts and feelings so closely reflected my own and my spouse’s during our own grief. His desire to be alone and stay in one place, yet his knowledge that he needs to be productive to stay alive, was very relatable to me.
His maman sounds merveilleuse to moi, and I’m interested to read Barthes’ other works!
alisontyne's review against another edition
5.0
A lovely, quiet meditation on death, specifically the death of Barthes's mother. I found myself dog-earing many pages in this book.
sangeethat's review against another edition
4.0
This is one of those books that cannot be read at any emotional place. When you're happy and you read this, you think 'what an emotionally overwrought pansy of a Frenchman u are.' But to read it when ur sad, is to have Barthes verbalize your despair for you. He wrote this about the death of his mother but it could very well be about the loss of a lover, a child, anyone to whom there has been an absolute, desperate attachment. It is a stream of consciousness at times, repetitive at times, which is echoing truthfully what grief is.
fodderonherwings's review against another edition
4.0
So many beautiful thoughts, ‘Emotion (emotivity) passes, suffering remains’, ‘I ask for nothing but to live in my suffering’, ‘…my taste for writing gives me this apotropaic or integrative power: I integrate, by language…the very fact that language affords me the word “intolerable” immediately achieves a certain tolerance’.