Bernard Pivot: “Because to be in love is to be childish, silly?” (Deleuze rolls his eyes. Mitterrand thinks he should call his daughter, Mazarine.)
Roland Barthes: “Uh … yes, in a way, that’s what the world does believe. The world attributes two qualities, or rather two faults, to the subject who is in love: the first is that they are often stupid—there is a silliness to being in love that the subject feels—and there is also the madness of people in love—and this is a very popular observation these days!—except that it is a polite madness, isn’t it, a madness lacking the glory of a great, transgressive madness.” (Foucault lowers his eyes and smiles.)
The clip ends. PPDA says: “So, we’ve seen, er, Jean-Fran?ois Kahn, er, Roland Barthes was fascinated by everything, he talked about everything, er, we saw him, er, in films … playing roles … recently, er, but would you describe him as a Renaissance man?” (It’s true: he played Thackeray in Téchiné’s Bront? Sisters, a small role that he did not besmirch with his talent, Simon remembers.)
J.-F. Kahn (very excited): “Well, yes, apparently he is a Renaissance man! Yes, he dealt with, er, er, he wrote about fashion, about ties, or I don’t know what, he wrote about wrestling!… He wrote about Racine, about Michelet, about photography, about cinema, he wrote about Japan, so, yes, he was a Renaissance man! [Sollers chuckles. Kristeva glares at him.] But in fact, it does all fit together. Take his last book! On lovers’ discourses … on the language of love … well, in truth, Roland Barthes always wrote about language! But he found that … his tie … our tie … is a way of speaking. [Sollers, indignantly: “A way of speaking … Oh, come on!”] It’s a way of expressing oneself, fashion. The motorbike: it’s the way a society expressed itself. The cinema: obviously! Photography, too. So that’s to say that Roland Barthes is, at heart, a man who spent his time tracking signs!… The signs a society, a community, uses to express itself. Expresses vague, confused feelings, even if it’s not aware of it! In this sense, he was a very great journalist. He was the master of a science called semiology. That is, the science of signs.
“And then, of course, he was a very great literary critic! Because, the same thing applies: What is a literary work? A literary work is what a writer writes to express himself. And what Roland Barthes showed is that, essentially, in a literary work, there are three levels: there is the language—Racine wrote in French, Shakespeare wrote in English, that’s the language. There is the style: this is the result of their technique, their talent. But between the style—which is a choice, you know, it’s controlled by the author—and the language, there is a third level, which is the writing. And the writing, he said, is the place … of politics, in every sense of the word. In other words, even if the writer is not aware of it the writing is the thing through which he expresses what he is socially, his culture, his origins, his social class, the society around him … and even if he sometimes writes something because it seems self-evident—I don’t know, in a Racine play, say: ‘Let us retire to our rooms’ or something that seems self-evident—ah, but it’s not! It’s not self-evident, says Barthes. Even if he says it’s self-evident, don’t believe it, because there’s something being expressed beneath it.”
PPDA (who has not been listening, or has not understood, or simply doesn’t care), earnestly: “Because every word is dissected!”
J.-F. Kahn (who doesn’t notice): “So, so, as well as that … what’s great with Barthes is that this is a man who has written things that are very … mathematical, very cold in style, and who, at the same time, has produced veritable hymns to the beauty of style. But to conclude, let’s say that he is a very important man. Who I think expresses the spirit of our age. And I’m going to tell you why. Because there are ages that are expressed through the theater, you know, really. [Here, Kahn makes an untranslatable gurgling sound.] Others through the novel: the 1950s, for example, Mauriac, er, Camus, er, et cetera. But I think the 1960s … in France … France’s cultural spirit is expressed through the discourse on the discourse. On the marginal discourse. We’re probably aware that we haven’t produced any truly great novels … maybe not, or great plays; the best thing we have produced is a way of explaining what others have said or have done and, by better explaining what they’ve done or said or other things, revitalizing an ancient discourse.”
PPDA: “In a few moments, soccer. At the Parc des Princes, France will play the Netherlands [Hamed leaves his apartment, slamming the door and hurtling down the stairs]: a friendly match that is much more important than you might think [Simon turns off his television], because the Dutch were the losing finalists, as we know, in the last two World Cups [Foucault turns off his television], and also, crucially, because France and the Netherlands are in the same qualifying group for the next World Cup, in 1982, in Spain. [Giscard starts signing documents again. Mitterrand picks up his phone to call Jack Lang.] You can watch a recording of that match after tonight’s late news, which will be presented by Hervé Claude, at around ten fifty p.m.” (Sollers and Kristeva sit down to eat. Kristeva pretends to wipe away a tear and says: “Rrreal life goes on.” In two hours, Bayard and Deleuze will both watch the match.)
25
It is Thursday, March 27, 1980, and Simon Herzog is reading the newspaper in a bar full of young people sitting at tables with cups of coffee they finished hours ago. I would situate the café on Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, but, again, you can put him wherever you like, it doesn’t really matter. It’s probably more practical and logical to put him in the Latin Quarter, though, to explain all the young people. There’s a pool table, and the sound of the balls colliding clicks like a pulse beneath the hubbub of late-afternoon conversations. Simon Herzog is also drinking coffee, because it still seems a bit early—given the expectations of his social class and individual personality—to order a beer.
The main headlines on the front page of Le Monde dated Friday, March 28, 1980 (it is always already tomorrow with Le Monde), concern Thatcher’s “anti-inflationary” budget (setting out—surprise, surprise—a “reduction in public spending”) and the civil war in Chad, but in the bottom of the right-hand column there is also a small mention of Barthes’s death. The famous journalist Bertrand Poirot-Delpech’s obituary begins with these words: “Just twenty years after Camus breathed his last in a glove box, literature has paid the chrome goddess a rather harsh price!” Simon rereads the phrase several times, and glances around the room.