Barthes, Roland. The rustle of language. Translation of: Le bruissement de la langue. 1. Philology. 2. Discourse analysis. 3. Semiotics. I. Title. PB P The Rustle of Language is a collection of forty-five essays, written between and , on language, literature, and teaching–the pleasure of the text–in an. “The Rustle of Language” is a collection of forty-five essays, written between and , on language, literature, and teaching–the pleasure of the text–in .
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In the present collection, Barthes and translator Howard are well met, with Barthes’ own density reining in Howard’s usual galloping abstractions.
The Rustle of Language by Roland Barthes – Paperback – University of California Press
This is the second to appear of three posthumous sheafs of Barthes’ half-scientific, half-charlatanesque word-arias on art, history, science, literature, and the study of signs. What is the rustle of language?
To rustle is to make audible the very evaporation of sound; the blurred, the tenuous, the fluctuating are perceived as signs ruwtle a sonic erasure. And language–can language rustle? As speech, it seems doomed to stuttering; as writing, to silence and to the distinction of signs; in any case, there is always too much meaning for language to afford a delight appropriate to its substance.
Yet what is impossible is not inconceivable. The rustle of language forms a utopia. The utopia of meaning’s music.
It is the shudder of meaning that I want to interrogate here, as I listen to the rustle of language–of that language which is my nature as a modern man.
The Rustle of Language
Perhaps the two outstanding essays herein are “The Death of the Author,” about the breakdown of the authorial voice into several voices in a text, which are subsequently reconstituted into a Single voice by the reader; and “Leaving the Movie Theatre,” about the hypnosis of cinema halls, the dancing beam of the projector, Barthes’ distancing himself from the image, and his becoming unglued from the screen in “backing out” onto the street.
Even these pleasures, as do the most ripely reachable of Barthes’ thoughts, deliquesce into the kind of muggy clarity following a triple cognac. But one reads on, forever intrigued by Barthes’ stripping off of stickum tape from one’s rhe appliances.
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